#not just the one Sidestep looks like (and has memories of) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kaiyunsim · 24 days ago

Text

after the storm —

pairing : bully!ni-ki x student!reader (no pronouns used)

summary : you run into the infamous bully, nishimura riki and eventually get partnered with him as well.

warnings : fluff, enemies-to-lovers, angst if you squint hard enough, featuring boynextdoor’s myung jaehyun, aespa’s karina, jay, jake, and heeseung.

a/n : first ‘long’ fic. i hope you guys enjoy it !! i love enemies to lovers so much :] (my gift to you guys during finals season)

queueing : after the storm - kali uchis, tyler the creator, bootsy collins

— wc : 5.4k — not proof read —

you don’t mean for it to happen. really, you don’t. but monday mornings are the worst, and the crowded hallways of your school aren’t much better. your arms are weighed down with textbooks, and you’re running late to class because karina begged you to grab coffee with her before school.

the chaos of the hallway hits you like a wave as you round the corner—students yelling, slamming lockers, rushing to class. you’re too focused on navigating the crowd to notice the tall figure directly in your path until it’s too late.

your shoulder collides with someone’s arm, and there’s a sudden, sharp gasp followed by the unmistakable sound of liquid spilling. you freeze, looking down to see a large coffee stain spreading across pristine white sneakers.

"you’ve got to be kidding me," comes the irritated voice, sharp and cutting. you look up to find yourself face-to-face with nishimura riki—or ni-ki, as everyone calls him.

he’s infamous. the type of guy who can get away with murder just by flashing his signature smirk. tall, broad-shouldered, and perpetually annoying, ni-ki has a reputation for making people’s lives just a little harder than they need to be.

"what, no apology?" he snaps, glaring down at you. it felt like it was piercing a hole into you with how intimidating it felt.

"sorry," you mutter, trying to sidestep him, but he moves to block your way.

"sorry doesn’t clean my shoes," he says, lifting one foot to inspect the damage. his tone is sharp, but there’s something about the way his lips quirk up that makes it clear he’s enjoying this.

but you’re not in the mood to deal with his shit right now, "maybe if you weren’t standing in the middle of the hallway like you own the place, this wouldn’t have happened," you snap back, your irritation getting the better of you.

his smirk widens, and he tilts his head, clearly amused. "oh, so you do have a spine. didn’t think you’d bite back."

the comment makes your blood boil, but you force yourself to stay calm. "are you done? i’m late for class."

he steps aside with a mock bow, sweeping his arm dramatically. "by all means, don’t let me stop you. but maybe try walking without causing a disaster next time." he says, the last few words more teasing than the others

you glare at him, giving him a side-eye and refusing to let him get the last word. "maybe next time, you can stop being a walking inconvenience."

you don’t wait for his response, pushing past him and disappearing into the crowd. even as you walk away, you can feel his eyes on you, that smug smirk of his practically burned into your memory.

later that morning, you’re venting to jaehyun and karina at lunch.

"he’s such an ass," you complain, stabbing your fork into your salad. "he acted like i spilled coffee on him on purpose."

karina raises an eyebrow, sipping her iced tea. "ni-ki? yeah, he’s like that. he likes messing with people, especially if they react."

"and you definitely reacted," jaehyun adds with a laugh. "i mean, come on, you basically called him a walking inconvenience."

"because he is," you argue. "i swear, i don’t know how anyone puts up with him."

karina shrugs. "jake, jay, and heeseung seem to like him well enough. maybe he’s different around his friends."

you roll your eyes. "or maybe they’re just as bad as he is."

jaehyun chuckles, but karina gives you a knowing look. "just be careful. he’s the type to hold grudges, and i’ve seen him turn teasing into a full-blown hobby."

"great," you mutter, already regretting your choice to snap at him.

—

it’s the next day, and you’ve successfully avoided ni-ki all morning. you’re starting to think you’ve dodged a bullet… until english class rolls around.

you’re barely settled in your seat when the teacher announces a new group project. the groans from your classmates echo through the room as she begins listing the pairs.

"let’s see... y/n, you’ll be with nishimura riki."

you freeze, your eyes widening in disbelief. you whip your head around just in time to see ni-ki’s face light up with a smug grin.

“you’ve got to be fucking kidding with me,” you mutter quietly to yourself

"looks like we’re partners," he says, sliding into the seat next to you.

"this has to be a joke," you mutter under your breath.

"nope, pretty sure it’s fate," he says, leaning back in his chair. "guess you’ll have to get used to me."

you shoot him a glare. "you’re insufferable."

"and you’re stuck with me," he says, unbothered.

later that afternoon, you’re sitting in the library, waiting for ni-ki to show up for your first project meeting. you’re determined to keep things professional—finish the project and avoid him as much as possible.

but of course, he shows up fifteen minutes late, strolling in like he owns the place.

"you’re late," you say, not bothering to hide your annoyance.

"fashionably late," he corrects, dropping into the seat across from you. "besides, you’re so eager. it’s kind of cute."

you ignore the comment, pulling out your notes. "let’s just get this over with."

he raises an eyebrow, leaning forward. "wow, you’re really fun to work with, huh?" he says sarcastically.

"if you actually helped instead of wasting time, maybe i would be," you snap.

he laughs, shaking his head. "relax. i’ll help. what do you need me to do?"

you narrow your eyes at him, suspicious of his sudden cooperation. but you hand him a set of notes anyway, deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt… for now.

as you work, you can’t help but notice the occasional glances he throws your way, the way his smirk softens when he thinks you’re not looking. it’s almost enough to make you question your first impression of him.

keyword: almost.

—

you tell yourself you can survive this project. a few study sessions, a presentation, and then you’ll never have to deal with nishimura riki again. but as the days pass, you realize it’s not going to be that simple.

the second study session doesn’t start off any better than the first. you’re sitting at the same library table, waiting for ni-ki, who, predictably, is late again. you’ve just started debating whether or not to text him when he finally strolls in, looking completely unbothered.

"you really need to work on your time management," you say as he drops into the chair across from you.

"and you need to work on your patience," he fires back, flashing that infuriating grin.

you groan, pulling out the project materials. "can we just get this done? the sooner we finish, the sooner i can stop seeing your face."

he pretends to clutch his chest. "ouch. and here i thought we were bonding."

"bonding?" you repeat, raising an eyebrow. "you’ve done nothing but annoy me since day one."

"exactly," he says, leaning back in his chair. "it’s called building rapport."

you roll your eyes, choosing to ignore him and focus on the task at hand.

despite the rocky start, you manage to get some work done. to your surprise, ni-ki actually contributes… when he’s not cracking jokes or making sarcastic comments, anyway.

"so, about this section," he says, gesturing to the notes in front of you. "do you think we should focus more on the analysis or the context?"

you blink, caught off guard by the seriousness in his tone. for a moment, he actually seems... focused.

"uh, the analysis, probably," you say, regaining your composure. "it ties everything together better."

he nods, scribbling something down in his notebook.

you study him for a moment, curious despite yourself. "you actually care about this?"

he looks up, smirking. "what, surprised i have a brain?"

"a little," you admit, earning a laugh from him.

"guess i’ll just have to keep impressing you," he says, and while his tone is teasing, there’s something in his expression that feels almost genuine.

the cracks in his facade start showing during the third study session. it’s late, and the library is quiet except for the soft rustling of papers and the occasional sigh from ni-ki.

"you’re awfully quiet," you say, glancing at him. "what’s wrong? run out of sarcastic comments?"

he snorts, but his usual grin doesn’t reach his eyes. "just tired, i guess."

you hesitate, not used to this version of him. "long day?"

he shrugs, tapping his pen against the table. "something like that."

the mood shifts, and for a brief moment, you see past the cocky exterior. the ni-ki who’s not always so sure of himself, who might actually have a soft side buried somewhere deep.

but just as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone. he flashes you a smirk and says, "don’t worry, though. i’m still smarter than you."

"and just like that, you ruined it," you say, rolling your eyes.

he laughs, the tension broken, but the moment lingers in the back of your mind.

—

the night before the project is due, you and ni-ki are sitting in the living room of your dorm, putting the final touches on your presentation. your friends are busy, leaving just the two of you to finish everything.

"we actually make a decent team," ni-ki says, leaning back on the couch.

you glance at him, surprised. "that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me."

"don’t get used to it," he says with a grin, but there’s a softness to his tone that makes you pause.

"why do you do that?" you ask suddenly, the question slipping out before you can stop yourself.

"do what?"

"act like... this," you say, gesturing vaguely. "like you don’t care about anything."

he blinks, clearly caught off guard. "what makes you think i don’t care?"

"because you never take anything seriously," you say. "you’re always joking or teasing people, like it’s all just a game to you."

he’s quiet for a moment, his usual smirk replaced by something more thoughtful. "maybe it’s easier that way," he says finally.

"easier than what?"

he shrugs, avoiding your gaze. "easier than letting people see the parts of you they can use against you."

his words hit you harder than you expect. you’d never considered that there might be a reason behind his behavior. that his teasing and sarcasm might be a shield instead of just his personality.

"that sounds lonely," you say softly.

he looks at you then, his eyes meeting yours in a way that feels too intense, too vulnerable. "maybe it is."

the silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken words. for the first time, you see ni-ki not as the cocky, infuriating guy who spilled coffee on his shoes, but as someone who’s more complex than he lets on.

"you don’t have to do that with me," you say quietly, the words surprising even yourself.

he stares at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. then he smiles. small and genuine, without a hint of sarcasm. "thanks," he says, and you can tell he means it.

the next day, the two of you present your project in class. it goes off without a hitch, and for once, ni-ki actually seems serious and focused.

"we did pretty good," he says afterward as you’re packing up your things.

"we did," you agree, and for the first time, you smile at him without any sarcasm or annoyance.

he grins back, but there’s something different in the way he looks at you now—something warmer, softer.

"guess i’ll see you around," he says, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

"yeah," you say, watching as he walks away.

you’re not sure what’s changed between you, but you know one thing for certain: this is only the beginning.

—

the weekend has finally arrived, and after a long week of school, you’re more than ready for some peace and quiet. your dorm room is a sanctuary of calm, with soft lighting, cozy blankets, and a pile of books waiting to be read. jaehyun and karina are out with their own plans, leaving you alone to unwind.

you’ve just made yourself a cup of tea and are settling in with a book when you hear a soft knock on your door.

"coming!" you call, setting your tea down and pushing yourself up from the couch. you open the door, expecting to find one of your friends—or maybe a neighbor—but instead, you’re met with a familiar face.

ni-ki stands in the doorway, looking far too pleased with himself.

"ni-ki?" you say, blinking in surprise. "what are you doing here?"

"well, i was just walking by," he says casually, although you can tell by the way his eyes sparkle that he has an ulterior motive. "and i thought, hey, maybe i could hang out."

you stare at him for a moment, unsure whether to laugh or roll your eyes. "how did you even know where i live?"

"oh, that was easy," he says, grinning. "i just asked karina for your address."

you can’t help but stare at him. "you bribed karina for my address?"

"not bribed," he says, feigning innocence. "i just asked really nicely."

"she gave it to you?" you ask, incredulous.

"yeah," he shrugs. "she said it was no big deal. something about ‘you two are friends now,’ i don’t know."

you lean against the doorframe, still processing. she probably just decided to give it to annoy you, "and you thought i’d just let you in?"

"well, yeah," he says, flashing you that signature cocky smile. "why not? i’m charming."

"you’re insufferable," you mutter, but you step aside anyway, gesturing for him to come in.

"thanks," he says, stepping into your room and looking around as if he owns the place. "this is nice. much cozier than i expected."

you can’t help but chuckle. "yeah, well, i like it simple."

"simple, huh?" he says, raising an eyebrow. "i thought you’d have some crazy expensive decor or something."

"i’m not exactly the ‘luxury’ type," you reply dryly.

"good to know," he says, sitting on your couch without asking. "so, what are we doing today?"

you blink, caught off guard by the question. "what do you mean ‘what are we doing’? i was planning on having a relaxing day. just me, my book, and my tea."

"boring," he says, groaning as he flops back into the cushions. "you need to live a little."

"i’m living just fine," you reply, rolling your eyes. "now get off my couch."

"come on, just for a little while," he says, grinning up at you. "let me hang out. i swear i’ll be quiet."

you stare at him, considering for a moment. "you’re not exactly known for being quiet."

he shrugs, looking unbothered. "fine, i’ll be your idea of ‘peaceful.’"

you sigh, sitting back down on the other side of the couch. despite yourself, you can’t help but feel a little amused. ni-ki’s presence is annoying, sure, but there’s something oddly comfortable about it too.

—

it’s around late afternoon when you start to hear the telltale sound of your phone buzzing on the coffee table. you reach over and glance at the screen, seeing a text from jaehyun.

jaehyun: "hey, you up for dinner tonight? karina and i were thinking of grabbing some food."

you frown, glancing over at ni-ki. "i already had plans with jaehyun and karina," you explain. "we were going to grab dinner."

ni-ki raises an eyebrow, his usual grin appears. "let me go with you"

you stare at ni-ki in disbelief. he stands there with that cocky grin of his, arms crossed, as if he’s just asked the most casual thing in the world.

"invite you to dinner with jaehyun and karina?" you repeat slowly, as though you can’t quite process what he’s saying.

"yeah, why not?" he shrugs nonchalantly, a playful glint in his eyes. "i’m not doing anything anyway, and it’d be more fun with me there."

you raise an eyebrow, considering the idea. "you want to crash our dinner plans? you’re really bold, you know that?"

"hey, it’s not crashing if you invite me," he says with a smirk, stepping closer. "besides, i’m fun. i’ll make it interesting."

you glance at your phone, seeing jaehyun’s text still sitting there. ‘are you coming or what?’

you look back at ni-ki. "i don’t know..."

"come on," he insists, giving you a look that makes you feel like you’re being peer-pressured in the most annoying but strangely convincing way possible. "it’ll be fun. jaehyun and karina will love me."

you frown. "do you even know how to act in front of my friends? they don’t exactly have the best impressions of you” you admit.

"how hard can it be?" he grins. "besides, it’s jaehyun and karina. they’ll get me. and if they don’t, i’ll just charm them."

you’re about to protest, but then you realize he’s not going to back down. and, for whatever reason, the thought of spending time with ni-ki, jaehyun, and karina all together suddenly seems oddly appealing.

you sigh, giving in. "fine, but don’t make it weird."

ni-ki beams. "deal. i’m going to be the perfect guest."

when you arrive at the restaurant with ni-ki in tow, jaehyun and karina are already waiting by the entrance. the look on jaehyun’s face when he spots you, and then ni-ki, could only be described as a mix of surprise and mild confusion.

"uh, what’s going on here?" jaehyun asks, blinking rapidly as he looks between you and ni-ki.

"what, you didn’t think i could bring my new ‘friend’ along?" you ask, feigning innocence. "he’s harmless."

"new friend?" karina raises an eyebrow. "that’s ni-ki, right?"

"yep, that’s the one," you say, nudging ni-ki with your elbow. "don’t let the attitude fool you, he’s alright."

ni-ki smirks and waves at them nonchalantly. "hey, guys. don’t mind me. just here to steal your food."

"you’re going to steal our food?" jaehyun asks, laughing as he steps forward to greet you both. "i should’ve known. ni-ki’s always up to something."

"i’m really not," ni-ki says, shrugging casually. "but i might steal your fries if you’re not careful."

karina eyes him with mild amusement. "alright, let’s just sit down before you scare us off."

the four of you sit down, with ni-ki taking the seat next to you, of course. jaehyun and karina sit across from you both, watching the dynamic between you and ni-ki with growing curiosity.

"so," karina starts after a few moments of awkward silence, "what exactly made you invite ni-ki to dinner?"

you glance at ni-ki, who looks entirely too pleased with himself. "he insisted," you say dryly. "he wouldn’t let up about it."

jaehyun chuckles. "that sounds about right. ni-ki can be pretty persistent."

"persistent, huh?" ni-ki smirks, clearly enjoying the attention. "i like to think of it as… persuasive."

"persuasive?" karina repeats, raising an eyebrow. "are we talking about the same ni-ki here? the one who bullies everyone he meets?"

ni-ki looks over at her and grins. "bullying? me? i prefer to call it ‘challenging.’"

you can’t help but laugh at his confident response. "yeah, he definitely challenges everyone. whether they want to or not."

jaehyun laughs. "i think we’re going to get along just fine tonight."

as the dinner progresses, it’s clear that the initial tension has dissipated. ni-ki’s usual teasing doesn’t feel as sharp when he’s around jaehyun and karina. he’s surprisingly… well, charming, in his own way. he cracks jokes, makes sarcastic remarks, and even joins in on the conversation when karina and jaehyun talk about their plans for the upcoming break.

you find yourself watching him more than you intend to, surprised by how easily he fits into the dynamic. there’s no tension between him and your friends, just a playful back-and-forth that somehow feels natural.

"so," jaehyun says, after a long stretch of conversation, "ni-ki, what’s your deal? you don’t really seem like the type to hang out with this lot." he gestures toward you and karina, giving you both a teasing smile.

"hey," you protest, "we’re cool."

"oh, i know," ni-ki says, grinning at jaehyun. "i just like to make things interesting. gotta keep them on their toes."

karina laughs. "that much is obvious. i’m surprised you didn’t try to make everyone do push-ups or something."

"who says i didn’t?" ni-ki winks, clearly enjoying himself.

you roll your eyes. "i’m going to regret this, aren’t i?"

"probably," karina says with a knowing grin. "but i have to admit, i wasn’t expecting him to be so… entertaining."

the rest of the dinner passes by in a blur of laughter, playful banter, and way too much food. by the time the check arrives, you’re not sure whether you’ve just had a fun night with your friends, or a chaotic, slightly ridiculous one.

as you step outside the restaurant with jaehyun, karina, and ni-ki, you feel an unexpected sense of contentment. ni-ki might have started as your enemy, but somewhere along the way, he’s shifted into something else. and now, with him standing next to you, joking around with your friends, you’re not so sure what to make of it all.

"thanks for inviting me," ni-ki says, glancing at you as you all walk to the parking lot. "i had a good time."

you glance over at him and shrug. "you weren’t as unbearable as usual."

he grins, a genuine, soft smile tugging at his lips. "i’ll take that as a compliment."

"you should," you say with a smile of your own. "because it’s the nicest thing i’ll say to you all week."

he chuckles, the sound warm and easy. "fair enough. i’ll take what i can get."

as you make your way home, you can’t help but think that this unexpected dinner with ni-ki might be one of the most fun nights you’ve had in a while.

—

you’re sprawled out on karina’s bed, watching as she types furiously on her laptop. jaehyun is sitting cross-legged on the floor, flipping through his notes from last week’s lecture, though he’s clearly not paying attention. it’s one of those easy afternoons where nothing seems particularly urgent, except for the thoughts swirling in your head.

you’d been trying to ignore them all day, hoping they’d go away on their own. but every time you close your eyes or let your mind wander, ni-ki’s face pops up, that stupid grin of his haunting your thoughts.

"alright," jaehyun says, breaking the silence. "spill."

"spill what?" you ask, trying to sound casual.

"whatever’s going on with you," he says, gesturing vaguely at you. "you’ve been weirdly quiet today. it’s creeping me out."

karina glances up from her laptop, narrowing her eyes. "yeah, now that he mentions it… you’ve been off. something on your mind?"

you groan, sitting up and burying your face in your hands. "why do you guys have to be so observant?"

"because we’re your friends," karina says simply, closing her laptop. "now, out with it. what’s going on?"

you hesitate, chewing on your lip as you try to figure out how to phrase it. "it’s… it’s about ni-ki."

jaehyun lets out a low whistle. "oh, this should be good."

karina leans forward, her expression instantly intrigued. "what about him? did he do something?"

"no," you say quickly, shaking your head. "he didn’t do anything. it’s just… he’s been hanging around a lot lately, and… i don’t know."

"you don’t know?" jaehyun repeats, raising an eyebrow. "that’s not very convincing."

you groan again, flopping back onto the bed. "okay, fine. i think… i think i might have feelings for him."

karina gasps, clapping her hands together like she’s just uncovered the juiciest piece of gossip ever. "i knew it!"

"you knew nothing," you mutter, covering your face with a pillow.

"are you kidding me?" she says, yanking the pillow away. "it was so obvious! the way you look at him, the way he teases you… i’ve been waiting for this moment."

jaehyun nods, smirking. "yeah, i kind of saw it coming too. you two have this weird energy whenever you’re together."

"weird energy?" you repeat, sitting up. "what does that even mean?"

"it means," jaehyun says, "that you two act like you’re in a rom-com. all the banter, the teasing, the lingering looks. it’s textbook ‘we’re pretending to hate each other but actually we’re into each other’ vibes."

karina nods enthusiastically. "exactly! and ni-ki? oh, he’s so into you."

"he’s not into me," you say quickly, shaking your head.

"he absolutely is," karina insists. "the way he looks at you? please. he’s head over heels, even if he’s too proud to admit it."

you frown, playing with the hem of your sleeve. "i don’t know… what if you’re wrong? what if he’s just messing around, and i’m reading too much into it?"

"we’re not wrong," jaehyun says confidently. "trust us. if ni-ki didn’t like you, he wouldn’t be spending all his free time with you."

"he literally shows up at your dorm uninvited," karina adds. "that’s not just friendly behavior. that’s ‘i like you and don’t know how to say it’ behavior."

you let their words sink in, your heart racing as you try to make sense of your feelings. maybe they’re right. maybe ni-ki’s teasing and constant presence mean something more.

but the thought of confronting those feelings, of admitting them to yourself, let alone to ni-ki, feels terrifying.

"what if i just… ignore it?" you suggest weakly.

karina groans. "you’re impossible. just talk to him, okay? or better yet, wait for him to confess. he’s bound to crack eventually."

jaehyun smirks. "and when he does, we’re going to say ‘we told you so.’"

you roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

—

it’s a typical afternoon after school, and you’re sitting on the low wall near the campus courtyard, scrolling through your phone as you wait for karina and jaehyun to finish up their club activities. the sun hangs lazily in the sky, and most students have already scattered to their dorms or headed home. the courtyard is unusually quiet, except for the faint rustle of leaves and the occasional distant laugh.

you’re about to text karina and ask how long she’ll be when you hear footsteps approaching. without even looking up, you know who it is.

"what are you still doing here?" ni-ki’s familiar voice cuts through the silence, his tone casual, almost bored.

you glance up to see him standing a few feet away, his bag slung over one shoulder and his hands stuffed into his pockets. his hair’s a little messy, probably from running his fingers through it all day, and there’s that usual smirk on his face, the one that makes you want to roll your eyes.

"waiting for karina and jaehyun," you reply, tucking your phone into your pocket. "what about you? i thought you left already."

he shrugs, stepping closer and dropping his bag onto the ground next to you. "thought i’d stick around and see what you were up to."

"oh, how generous of you," you say dryly, swinging your legs idly as you look at him. "and here i was thinking you had better things to do."

"believe it or not," he says, plopping down on the wall beside you, "you’re pretty entertaining."

you snort. "wow. i’m honored."

he grins, leaning back on his hands as he looks up at the sky. for a moment, neither of you says anything, the comfortable silence settling between you. it’s strange how natural it feels to be around ni-ki now, how his teasing doesn’t grate on you the way it used to.

"you’ve been hanging out with me a lot lately," you say, breaking the silence. "what’s up with that?"

"what, you don’t enjoy my company?" he quips, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

"not what i said," you reply, giving him a look. "i’m just curious."

he shrugs again, a nonchalant gesture that seems almost rehearsed. "maybe i just like spending time with you."

your heart skips a beat at his words, but you brush it off, chalking it up to his usual teasing. "you’re terrible at answering questions, you know that?"

"i know," he says, smirking. "but you still put up with me, so i must be doing something right."

you roll your eyes, but a small smile tugs at your lips. before you can retort, ni-ki speaks again, his voice softer this time.

"it’s because i like you."

the words slip out so casually, so easily, that it takes a second for you to register them. when you do, you freeze, your brain scrambling to process what he just said.

"what?" you ask, turning to look at him.

he blinks, like he didn’t even realize he said it out loud, and for the first time, you see a flicker of uncertainty in his expression. "uh…"

"did you just say you like me?" you press, your heart pounding.

he scratches the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you. "maybe."

"maybe?" you repeat, staring at him in disbelief. "ni-ki, you just said you like me. like, like me like me."

he sighs, finally meeting your gaze. "okay, fine. yeah, i said it. i like you. happy now?"

you’re not sure how to respond. your mind is a whirlwind of emotions. shock, confusion, and, if you’re being honest with yourself, a little bit of excitement.

"you’re kidding," you say after a moment, your voice barely above a whisper.

"do i look like i’m kidding?" he says, raising an eyebrow. "look, i wasn’t planning to say anything, but it kind of just… slipped out. so there you go. now you know."

you stare at him, trying to gauge if he’s being serious. but the way he’s looking at you, half-defiant, half-nervous, makes it clear that he’s not joking.

"why didn’t you say anything before?" you ask, your voice softer now.

"because," he says, running a hand through his hair, "i didn’t want to make things weird. we have this… thing, you know? the teasing, the banter. i didn’t want to mess it up."

"but you like me," you say again, like you’re trying to make sense of the words.

"yeah," he says simply, leaning back on his hands again. "i do. and it’s fine if you don’t feel the same way. i just… figured you should know."

you’re quiet for a moment, your thoughts racing. you think about all the times ni-ki’s teased you, all the times he’s gone out of his way to spend time with you. maybe he’s been trying to tell you this all along, in his own roundabout way.

"you’re such an idiot," you finally say, shaking your head.

his eyes widen, and he sits up straight. "wait, what? why am i an idiot?"

"because," you say, a smile tugging at your lips, "you could’ve just told me instead of being all weird about it."

he frowns. "i wasn’t being weird."

"you’ve been weird," you insist, laughing softly.

"okay, fine," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. "maybe i’ve been a little weird."

"just a little," you tease, your smile growing.

he looks at you then, his expression softer, more open than you’ve ever seen it. "so… what now?"

"well," you say, pretending to think, "i guess you’ll just have to deal with the fact that i like you too."

his eyes widen again, and for a moment, he looks genuinely surprised. "wait, you do?"

"yeah," you say, laughing at the look on his face. "what, did you think i was going to reject you?"

"maybe," he admits, his lips curving into a sheepish grin. "i mean, you’re kind of out of my league."

"don’t push it," you say, swatting at his arm.

he laughs, the sound light and carefree, and you can’t help but join in. for once, there’s no teasing, no pretense. just the two of you, being honest with each other.

in the distance, you hear a loud whistle, followed by familiar voices calling out.

"oh my god, did they just confess?"

you whip your head around to see jake, jay, and heeseung standing a few feet away, clearly having eavesdropped on the entire conversation.

"i told you it was going to happen today," jay says, nudging jake.

"this is better than a drama," jake adds, grinning from ear to ear.

ni-ki groans, burying his face in his hands. "can you guys not?"

"what? we’re just here to support you," heeseung says, giving him a thumbs-up.

you laugh, the sound bubbling out of you uncontrollably, and ni-ki glances at you, his own smile breaking through despite his embarrassment.

"i hate them," he mutters, but there’s no real malice in his voice.

"you love them," you say, nudging him playfully.

"yeah, yeah," he grumbles, but he’s still smiling.

and for the first time, everything feels exactly as it should be.

#kaiyunsim #kpop x reader #kpop x gn reader #enhypen fluff #enhypen niki #enhypen x reader #enhypen x gn reader #enha x reader #enha x gn reader #ni ki x reader #ni ki enhypen #ni ki #ni ki fluff #niki x reader #riki nishimura x reader #nishimura riki #nishimura riki x reader #niki x gn reader #nishimura riki x gn reader

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synvil · 1 month ago

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Inked Up // Tattoo Artists! Bullies! Rafe Cameron & JJ Maybank

a/n: hope you guys enjoy this! <3 i decided to mix up the top voted and the runner up together :33 it’s not fully bully! esque but it’s kinda.

synopsis : when bullies! tattoo artists! rafe and jj trap you while at a party and tease you, where they finish the night admiring their handiwork.

warning : nsfw content ahead! choking, handjob, oral, double pounding, no protection, etc.

porn without plot basically

“And where does the princess think she’s going?”

The jump you make when you’re startled by JJ’s presence has him grinning in amusement. And even more so when you go to turn around to leave, and Rafe stands there, blocking your exit with a smirk.

Rafe’s gaze is full of hunger and desire, his tongue drags along his lower lip slowly as he takes in your appearance, the way the slit of your dress exposes your mid thigh and down.

“Excuse me..” You murmur, attempting to sidestep him but he merely blocks your path once again, a devilish smile on his lips. “Y’know, we’re surprised to see you here. Thought you’d be hiding away from us after what we did.”

You purse your lips and look down at the ground, avoiding their eyes as you shift your footing.

“Why don’t you show us how it’s healing?”

Your head snaps up at Rafe’s suggestion and JJ chuckles. “What are you scared about? No one’s comin’ in here.” Just for good measure, the blonde peeks out the window of the kitchen and sees all the party guests focused on their small talk outside.

“Come on, sweetheart, we won’t bite.” Rafe reassures, a sweet yet cunning smile on his lips while JJ winks. “Unless you want us to.”

“I think i’m good.. look, Sarah and Kie are looking for me, so—“

“Sorry, babe, but it wasn’t really a question.” JJ swoops in from behind, picking your body up with ease bridal style, and bringing you over to the kitchen counter, placing you on top.

Rafe locks the door to the entrance and moves to shut the curtains on all the windows.

JJ bites his lip as he takes in your body, the way your thighs press together and your arm that holds to your chest to express your anxiety and afraid thoughts. He gently brings his hand to your leg and slowly drags his fingers up until it caresses your wrist and he wraps his own around it, carefully pulling it away.

“No need to hide from us, babe, we’ve already seen all of you, haven’t we?”

Rafe grins when he recalls yesterday’s session at work. “Let us admire you and the handiwork we did on your body, baby.”

“Leave me alone.”

Rafe tilts his head as his large hand grasps your throat with ease, forcing your head up to look into your eyes as you gasp. “That’s no way to talk to us after we took care of you and made some pretty markings on your skin.”

“I didn’t ask you to do it, you forced me.” You spat and Rafe’s eyes darken, looking unamused at your attitude as his grip tightens a bit. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it, sweetheart. I specifically remember how much you begged us to continue once we started.”

A pink flush spreads on your cheeks at the memory, because as much as you hate it, he was right.. You did beg them, because it felt so fucking good, having the two of them take care of you and mark you theirs. You even remember looking in the mirror at their work when you finished.

“So don’t hold back, angel,” JJ carefully pulls Rafe’s hand away from your throat, who reluctantly lets go, and cups your cheeks with his hand. “Let us take care of you again. It’s not like you were really enjoying this party, right?” He smirks and you purse your lips.

You push his hand away, adamant about not wanting this, despite the arousal your body was building at the thought. “No, Kie and Sarah are waiting for me and—“

Rafe interrupts you by turning your head for a deep kiss, while JJ spreads your thighs wide and moves your dress away, seeing the wetness that was soaking your panties.

“Oh, it seems like you do want this..” JJ teases as he pulls you closer to the edge while he falls to his knees. He dives his head in and gives you a little lick over the cotton of your panties.

The action causes you to squeak and tuck your thighs together, effectively trapping JJ’s head between them and he chuckles below you. Meanwhile, Rafe uses that opportunity to slide his tongue in and explores your mouth. JJ brings his hands up and wraps around your thighs and pulls them apart once again.

Rafe starts to slide the straps of your dress down your shoulders, letting his hands roam your body before stopping to fondle your breasts, squeezing each mound desperately.

You whimper as the man below you continues to give tiny kitten licks onto your clothed cunt and JJ grins at that. He pulls back and looks up at you. “Does the princess want me to eat her pretty pussy out?” He coos and you blush, shyly nodding your head. “Y-yes..”

Rafe chuckles when he pulls back to let you speak and motions for JJ to move. He then helps you off the counter for a moment, just to help you fully slide off your dress, leaving you in just your panties.

“Oh, look at that..” Rafe eyes the ink between your breasts and JJ smirks before his eyes glance to your thighs. “And this seems to be doing well too..”

You don’t say anything, too embarrassed to admit you were taking care of it well.

“So pretty..” JJ murmurs as he licks his lips.

“JJ?” Rafe hums, letting him do the pleasure of pulling off your bottoms. The blonde does so eagerly, still on his knees as he pulls at the hem before sliding it down, watching at your pussy glistens in your arousal. “So pretty and wet for us~”

JJ gets a little more underneath you, leaning against the side of the counter before he slides your hips towards him and then as you hover over him, he pulls you down so you’re sitting on his face. Your eyes widen and gasp as his tongue dives in, and you illicit a loud mewl in ecstasy. “Oh god—“

Rafe licks his lip as he watches you tug at JJ’s hair, his own hand palming himself through his restrictive slacks, before starting to strip of his clothes.

His lips curl into a smirk when he sees your eyes on him, trailing over his chiseled, muscular body while your lips are parted, strings of moans slipping out from how much JJ is pleasuring you.

His tongue flicks at your clit multiple times, making you cry out. “Oh, fuck, JJ-!” JJ feels some of your juices dribble down his chin and he hums, licking every inch of you before fucking you with his tongue. “Please, don’t stop! Yes-yes, right there!”

You can’t hold back any longer as a coil in you snaps and you moan out loudly, your legs trembling and your juices come gushing out, over JJ’s face. The blonde laps it all up, loving every second of it as he swallows every drop he could before slowly lifting your hips away.

Rafe helps you up and off of him, your legs shaking as he slowly helps you the ground, whilst tossing a towel he found towards JJ, who cleans his face.

“It felt good didn’t it, baby? You like it when JJ devours that cunt?” Rafe smirks as he cups your cheek, his fingers delicate on your skin as you’re still dazed from the orgasm.

“But it’s our turn now, sweetheart.” He hums as he stands straight and his hardened length is inches away from your lips. You flush at how erect he is, seeing the red tip of it already leaking with precum as you hesitantly wrap your hands around it.

“Don’t be shy now, darling.” Rafe purrs, leaning forward and tapping his tip against your lips. You swallow thickly before parting your lips and he slides right in. “Oh..fuck..” Rafe groans out low, his hips moving in slowly.

You can barely manage halfway before you start to feel overwhelmed and you press a hand to his thighs and he laughs. “Is that all you can do, sweetheart? Such a shame.” Rafe bites his lips as he forces more of his length in, and you choke.

“S-shit, do that again, baby.” He almost whimpers at the way your tongue tries to please him while your head bobs his cock.

Behind you, JJ has cleaned his face off and was stripped of his clothing, pumping his own member while he watches with lustful eyes.

“My turn, angel.” He says, desperately to feel you and you pull back from Rafe with a gasp. But JJ doesn’t let you catch a breath as he turns your head to face his cock instead, and shoves it in without a second to waste. “Mmph-!”

Your hand travels to Rafe’s member and begins to pump it, to satisfy him, while JJ thrusts into your mouth, his hand on the back of your head.

It goes for a minute or two, JJ’s and Rafe’s groans mixing together as you please both of them on either side of you.

“You’re doing so well, princess..” JJ coos, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. Even with his praise, tears brim your eyes as your air slowly collapses, the more he thrusts his hips towards your throat.

“Shit, i’m gonna cum-“

His hands clutch a fistful of your hair and pushes your head further towards him, the tip of him hitting the back of your throat with a choke.

“Hey, don’t just pay attention to him, baby.” Rafe takes your hand that’s wrapped around his member and guides you to pump him, stroking him back and forth until you do it yourself and pick up the pace.

The movement causes his head to toss back as he groans out in the pleasure, bucking his hips into your fists, nearly using it as a fleshlight. “Fuck, baby, just like that.”

You feel like you could pass out from lack of oxygen at any second, but fortunately one last swirl of your tongue sends JJ over the edge and he shoots his sperm straight down your throat, a roaring moan gutted from him.

That seems to do it for Rafe as well as he finds himself rutting faster into your hand before his own cum spills over your hand.

“Fuck, princess, you did so well.” JJ laughs with a pant, slowly pulling out of your mouth as you choke on his cum, spitting some of it out as you gasp for air.

You don’t say anything, too busy trying to catch your breath again but as soon as he hears you seem okay again, Rafe pulls you to your feet. “Don’t think we’re done yet, honey.”

“W-what-“

Rafe goes to the floor, laying on his back and JJ helps you over him, atop of him. Rafe lines himself up at your entrance, rubbing between your lips gently making you whimper in need. He chuckles at your pleading eyes and carefully slides in, your voice erupting a soft moan as he fills you up inside.

JJ bites his lip at the sound as he falls to his knees and lines himself up behind you. You feel him poking at your entrance as well and your eyes widen. “W-wait don’t tell me you’re—“

The blonde grunts a bit as he pushes his hips forward and manages his tip in, sliding in right beside Rafe’s cock. You sputter a choked gasp as you fall forward onto Rafe’s chest, Rafe hissing at how tight it was when JJ slips in.

The intense pressure is nearly enough to make you cum right then and there, a loud cry from you as your hands clench into fists into the ground beside Rafe’s torso. “F-fuck- ‘s too much- can’t..”

You’re becoming breathless, JJ having been able to slide all the way in as the two guys begin to thrust slowly in sync, letting you adjust.

“You can do it for us, baby, it’ll feel good real soon, won’t it, J?”

“That’s right, princess, you’re doing amazing… don’t even think about it, just let it go.”

Their praises makes you whimper again and it slowly melts into a deep-rooted pleasure and the two men relax, starting to thrust into you at a more consistent pace.

“Oh, fuck.. You’re so fucking tight, sweetheart.” Rafe strains a chuckle as JJ moans from behind you; one hand on your hips while the other fondles your right breast from behind. “You feel so good, princess.”

You can’t even register what they’re saying to you as you hold yourself up, feeling your climax approaching once more, each of their thrusts dwelling deeper, hitting your cervix.

“Rafe! JJ!” Your cries of their names make them moan as they pick up the pace, unable to contain themselves any longer. Rafe leans up to kiss you, messy breathy kisses all over your chin and neck while JJ grunts and twists the buds of your breasts.

“I’m gonna cum— too much.. it’s too much.. it feels so good!”

“That’s right, angel,” JJ reaches to pull some of your hair back for Rafe as he feels his own release coming. “Say our names, tell us who’s making you feel so fucking good.”

“Y-You, you are!” You squeal as you cry out in pure ecstasy, jumping upwards and letting them both slip out of you as you squirt all over Rafe’s body. “Fuck- that’s so fucking hot, baby.” He grunts as he moves you to the side carefully, your body collapsed on the floor and panting.

Both men began to pump themselves, JJ still on his knees while Rafe stood and they move their hands quick, desperate to cum.

The two break into mixed grunts and moans, panting as their release spurts all over you, painting over your inked skin.

Your legs tremble in the aftershock of overstimulating for so long, your breath heavy and your arms raised to rest over your face, blocking your view of them.

“Shit, that was amazing.” JJ pants, sweat glistening on his skin as he looks down at you.

Rafe chuckles at the sight, his hand brushing over his initials marked on your inner thigh, while JJ relishes at the sight of his own between your breasts. He watches as your chest rises and falls into a steady pattern and he smirks. “You look so pretty for us, princess.”

“We really marked you up good..” Rafe murmurs as he traces the outline of the letters. “I think you could use another ink or two here.” He teases, fingers brushing over near your clit and making you shiver.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, princess. I’m pretty sure I heard Rose pounding on the door outside.” JJ sighs, glancing over at the locked door and covered windows.

Rafe rolls his eyes as he finds some towels. “She’ll live. This party is boring anyway.” And JJ grins as he turns back to you.

“It was until now anyways. Why don’t we leave this party and continue this at our place?”

Rafe smirks with a glint in his eyes as he trails over your body. “Sounds like a plan.”

a/n: hope you guys enjoyed ! <3 this basically really is porn without plot, this has nothing to do with tattoo artists lmao

i was originally going to do like a tattoo session butttt idk what happened. :’) if you guys want a redo, i wouldn’t mind 😭

synvil™️ do not copy my work.

this is very rushed and unedited.

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dusterbishop · 5 months ago

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i hear you call my name (and it feels like home)

summary. || three timelines, you have watched remy lebeau die. you didn't believe you would earn a fourth chance to save him until you find a variant with no memory of his past, lost in a void of existence.

pairing. || gambit x f!reader (past relationship with current enemies-to-lovers)

count. || 6.4k

notes. || posted on ao3 here. warning for character death and violence. this is the end! thank you all for the lovely words of support, it means so much that you all loved this duo as much as i do. i have ideas of oneshots for the future, but for now, i leave you all with this!

part one. || part two. || part three. || part four.

Your ears are ringing.

Awareness floods you in slow, uneven strokes. You can hear the roar of battle buzzing through the fog in your mind, guttural screams of pain cutting through in sharp starbursts. There’s a staff in your right hand, and you spasm your grip on it, testing its weight.

It is Remy’s.

Once, that staff had been too heavy for you to properly swing around. He had watched you practice with a pained grimace for a week before he surprised you with your own to train with. The two of you were nothing more than colleagues at that point, simply two mismatched X-Men crossing paths by sheer fate. Until he had handed you your own staff, its weight balanced with delicate perfection in the palm of your hand, and showed you how to use it.

You had never told him that you only used the staff because you could see it in every timeline, a slow conversion of your fighting style across lifetimes. Not every life you lived shared Remy, but his influence still lingered at the edges, seeping in like ink. Fighting with a staff, learning to pick locks, using sleight of hand to swap items from timelines with ease. It was all an extension of your life with Remy. Just echoes, over and over, spreading out in rippling waves.

Echoes, which could never replace the thrill that sparks your attention when a blazing playing card whizzes past your ear. There’s a muffled explosion as the card makes contact with the enemy swinging for your head, and you gracefully sidestep the half-dead man that staggers into a collapsed pile at your feet.

“Watch where you goin’, mon coeur,” Gambit calls. Another whistling hum of kinetic energy, another flash of blazing purple as he throws another card and cuts down another blank faced enemy. The base that Nova commands has a strangely illusive layout, and the war-starved bodies seem like an endless, writhing thing to overcome.

Time is a limited resource, after all. You can taste it just as surely as the blood in the back of your mouth.

“Maybe I’m too distracted watching something else,” you call back. You don’t take the time to see the expression on his face, but you hear his delighted laugh before he starts slinging explosives again. It’s easy to fall into battle. Even easier while you’re wearing your old suit, and the fabric is soft and well-worn just as you remember it. The clothes you wore in the Void were fine for travel, but you felt strangely out of place last night watching Remy adjusting his coat for the upcoming battle.

You are one of the X-Men, technically. It’s been more than a lifetime since you felt like one, but you know their colors and their mission. The suit always did feel more like a formality. There is nothing that could prevent you from fighting for people who cannot protect themselves. Everyone else only has one life, and you have an infinity of them. The gold and blue of your suit is meant to inspire hope for the people you are defending, not to boast about your position, and yet Remy had stuttered mid-sentence when he turned to see you suddenly dressed in your original suit, prepared for battle.

Been a’while since Gambit seen you wit’ those colors. Though, Gambit t’inks you look better out of ‘em, too...

“Pot callin’ the kettle black,” Gambit says. He’s closer, now, as if magnetized to the orbit of your battleground. You smash the skull of a man trying to catch a cheapshot to Gambit’s ribs, and Gambit slips an explosive card into the pocket of the man’s coat for good measure. Briefly, his hand catches the curve of your elbow, brushing his fingers over the pulse-point. Even through the sleeve of your suit, you can almost feel the heat of his skin, searing bone-deep.

“Just calling it as I see it, Cajun,” you say. It doesn’t sound as breathless as you feel. Gambit still has that infuriatingly pleased look on his face, though, so you give him a half-hearted shove with a raised brow. “Save the world, remember?”

“Mais la, all bluff no play,” he complains. “S’il vous plait, mon coeur —”

Time slips.

One moment, you take the chance to catch your breath, falling all-too-easy to the lure of sparring with Remy. The next moment, you’re on the ground. There’s blood beneath you, pooling under your head, dripping from your nose and down to the hard-packed soil.

“Remy,” you choke out. Your ears are ringing with echoes of voices, though you assume it’s across timelines based on the range of emotions. You can hear crying as soul-wrenching as fresh grief, and laughing as bright as bells. It’s like picking up a landline and hearing a conversation you’re only privy to as a passing voyeur.

You blink away some of the dirt and sweat stinging your eyes. You’re still on the ground. Something weighty and warm is settled over your back, tucked into the curve of your sides. The scent of smoke and cologne curls around you as familiar as the back of your hand.

Remy draped his coat over you. You spit a wad of bloodied saliva onto the ground, grimacing at the dark thickness. How long have you been out? You don’t remember charging up to leave the timeline.

Even worse, you don’t remember going anywhere. Time may change around you, but your mind keeps itself sharp with a constant awareness. Even when you would travel time in your sleep, you knew you were moving based on the pressure changing in the air. There had been no pressure change, this time. Only standing with Gambit, teasing him in the way that blazed adrenaline through your veins. Then, it is you laying on the ground, curled up underneath his coat, tasting blood.

You blink again. You think you’re shivering, or maybe you’re trembling, because you aren’t cold. That hazy, all-consuming fever pulses across your skin in waves, burning across your every nerve. It takes effort to turn your head just a fraction, searching the scattered battlefield. You’re still in Nova’s compound. You can see Blade and Elektra distracting any enemy seeking the weaker prey, luring them away from where you lay.

It had taken two more days before you and Gambit had met back up with the resistance. Initially, you had been wary of the strange collection of mutants, reflecting their own suspicion of you back like a mirror image. Yet they had seemed relieved that Gambit was back unharmed.

Now, far past the initial skepticism of your arrival, they treat you with the same consideration they give Gambit.

Though Gambit is… the same, and yet he’s more. The way he fights is far different than the way he did during the days when you both worked with the X-Men. He doesn’t linger near the boundaries of the fight anymore. You used to breathe easier knowing he had been prowling the edges of a fight with his cards at the ready, always protecting your back.

Now, when he fights in the Void, he storms the battlefield as a raging violet-blaze tempest. You find him easily through the crowded clusters of skirmishes, his staff humming with kinetic charge. He wields a handful of cards with careful scarcity, and you know it’s because you have his coat draped over you, holding all of his extra ammo.

He is going to get himself killed.

That thought propels you into motion. Your arms tremble as you push yourself to sit up, the back of your mouth filling with blood and nauseating saliva. It hurts to breathe. It feels like there is a shard of glass lodged in your ribs, cutting up your insides. The only blood you can sense is the slow drip from your lips, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t damage you can’t see yet. Something in your being is dismantling in slow, even strokes, cast adrift from the timelines and stranded in the Void.

One of Nova’s henchmen gets too close to Remy and sideswipes him. The soft-muted grunt of pain from Remy sends a chilling lance of fear through your gut, though before you can move, Remy is already turning and taking down the enemy with a swift twirl of his staff.

They are going to kill him if you don’t get him out. You know it, and it hurts so much to move, but you push yourself to your feet with a strangled whine of frustration. Of all the times for your body to fail you, it has to be now, when Remy is exposed to an entire base of people trying to kill him.

His coat is a familiar weight over your shoulders, but that doesn’t quell the violent shiver that runs through you. Neither does it stop the sudden rush of dizzying pain, or the way you have to hunch over and spit out blood onto the dirt. No time. You don’t have any time.

“Remy,” you call out. You fumble to wipe away the blood dripping down your chin just as he turns at the sound of your voice, his face bright with relief. He doesn’t notice the blood. He moves quickly through the battlefield nonetheless, wrapping an arm over the shuddering arch of your shoulders.

“ Mon coeur,” he says, and he must see something in your face that makes him hesitate. “Enjoy your nap, chér ?”

You suck in a sharp breath. It’s always ‘chér ’ when he doesn’t know which version you are.

“Still with you, LeBeau,” you tell him. Your hand reaches up to cradle the curve of his jaw. He’s buzzing with energy beneath your touch, but it’s the simmering fire in his eyes as he gazes back at you that makes you feel set alight.

“Wanna play?” He says softly. One arm is still slung protectively over your back, but he uses his free hand to fasten his coat tighter over your shoulders, his hand lingering at the vulnerable curve of your throat. “I deal you in, mon coeur.”

You’re reluctant to let him go, so you pull him in and press a chaste kiss to his mouth. You don’t let him go deeper than that so he doesn’t taste the blood, even if there’s a savage wanting in your gut to sink deep into his embrace and never resurface. It’s not fair, you think, that you finally found him only to lose him all over again.

“Deal me in, Cajun,” you whisper to him. His fingers drop from the hollow of your collarbone to the seam of his coat sleeve, drawing a card. He flickers it between his fingers to show you his dealt hand — the ace of hearts — before it disappears into the nothingness of time. You let Remy press another kiss to your mouth, and you have to close your eyes to fight back the burn of tears. Even with your eyes closed, you can hear the hoarseness in his voice when he pulls back.

"You an' me, chér, couple'a aces, non?"

You have to turn your head to hide a sad smile. "A matched pair."

Like that, the two of you separate. He goes into the fray of battle, the air whirring violently with charged energy, and you step back into the shadow, pulling your ace of hearts from the timeline. You have caught nothing but glimpses of Nova since you arrived, but you can feel her presence at the edges of your mind, probing for weakness.

So you look weak. It’s easy to slouch against the wall, your breathing coming in labored pants, the sleeve of your X-Men suit streaked red with the blood you keep wiping from your chin. Hurt prey is weaker, after all. You know what she must see when she sees you so far from Remy’s orbit: an injured fawn ripened for the kill.

“Don’ ya leave now, the fun just startin’,” Remy laughs. He sweeps his staff in a wide arc, warding off the enemies crowding closer to his position, but he only has eyes for you. He’s watching you, and you know the moment she arrives by the way his eyes harden with venomous hatred.

“Indeed,” Nova says. Her presence is a sudden, harsh strike to your mind. You have to grit your teeth to muffle your shocked gasp. Her hand is lax around your throat, but you are all too aware of the hand gently caressing the back of your skull. You can hear the smile in her voice when she whispers in your ear, “I’ve never seen something like you.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” you say. The air whirs in quiet contention around you, but you’re more focused on the card still clutched in your hand. Come on, come on...

“You’re a little wanderer, aren’t you,” she muses. She runs her fingers through the locks of your hair with gentle fingertips, and it takes all of your self control not to spasm and jolt out of her touch. You clench your empty hands tightly, instead, and try not to stare at Remy when he suddenly tucks his hand into a tight fist, purple light buzzing ravenously through the tight clench of his fingers.

“What are you doing running with the swamp rats, hm?” Nova strokes your head again. “You don’t seem like one of their merry band of misfits.”

Remy makes an indignant sound at that, and just as Nova looks to him, the light in his hand dies to nothingness.

“His name is Gambit,” you say. The playing card in your hand whirs with pitched fervor. Almost there. “Make sure you remember that.”

Time condenses to your will, and you’re looking right at Remy when the ace of hearts detonates, rippling a shockwave through you and Nova. Kinetic energy consumes you in a wildfire, burning through the flesh of your body with fervent hunger. You see the ache of distraught cross his face, and then there is only the movement of timelines shifting in place, carrying you through lifetimes, blurring the world around you into a wash of muddled watercolors.

When you blink, the world rights itself.

When you breathe in, settling back into a body escaped unharmed, you see Remy fall.

“No!” You shout. Or perhaps it is a whisper. Or perhaps it is spread across every timeline, every particle of your being spread thin and calling out in pained fury. You aren’t sure of anything except the way Remy twists, losing grip of his staff, and collapsing to the ground.

A wordless scream of rage tears through you. You can hear its echo filling the air as you yank time into a heel, drawing yourself across the expanse of the field in moments. You aren’t sure where the others are, or if Nova truly perished in the kinetic explosion as you intended. All you can see is Remy, lying in motionless rigor, and the man that took the shot that put him down.

Time scrambles in your mind, but you reach your destination faster than the man can draw his weapon at you. Your hands take his head in a vice grip, the tips of your gloved fingers digging harshly into his dirt-streaked skin.

“How dare you,” you snarl. If you had the chance, you would tear him through time until he disintegrated. You break his neck instead, the sickening crack of his bone fading from your attention the moment you feel his body slip from your grasp. You don’t manipulate time to fall to your knees by Remy’s side, but the space between movements is a blur you don’t care to investigate.

“Remy,” you half-sob. You reach out and grasp his shoulder, turning him over onto his back, and nearly sob again in relief when you see him squinting back at you with dazed annoyance.

“Lucky strike,” he mutters. Your hand flutters down to brush against his side, your heart seizing at the grimace on his face. The warmth of blood against your fingers spreads a numbness through your gut. You only press your hand firmly to the wound, gritting your teeth against the roaring fury building in your throat.

“What happened to ‘the house always wins’?” You snap at him instead. The blood is sticky and warm, and it won’t be staunched by the pressure of your hand alone. He’s going to bleed out.

“Raising the bet,” Remy grunts. There’s a sheen of sweat across his brow, but it’s the ashen pallor of his skin that makes your chest tighten with panic. God, you’re going to lose him.

“I hate you,” you whisper. You hate the Void. You hate Nova, and her violent-driven henchmen. You hate yourself, most of all, for doing this to him. For not being able to do more.

“Tha’ sounds more like love than hate, mon coeur.”

“Just playing the odds,” you bite out. He blinks at you, sluggish, and you realize exactly what you have to do. It’s the only thing you can do for him. You draw your hand back from his side and try not to gag on the smell of it permeating the air. There’s a steady puddle beneath him, soaking the knees of your suit, but you hardly feel it. You can’t feel anything at all, in fact.

Just that whirring buzz of time, and the slowly approaching footsteps of Cassandra Nova coming up behind you.

“Go ahead, Remy,” you breathe. The timeline whirs to life beneath your palms, a composed symphony to the crackling buzz of kinetic energy. You cup his face, thumbs smoothing away the dust beneath his blackened eyes, and you will him to live.

He reaches up to try and catch your wrists. There’s that furrow in his brow, again, like he’s preparing to curse you out for this. He’s a pulsing livewire of humming energy in your hands, simmering with an explosive potential. If he stays here, he will be nothing more than a husk. Dying like a goddamn hero, slaughtered like a martyr upon the altar, just to give you the chance to take down Nova.

So you imagine him at your apartment, in your bed, instead. Tucked under the blankets, his hair mussed from sleep. Figaro curled up on his chest, purring his strange rattling hum, the other two boys stretched out beside him. The world is quiet, and safe. Nothing is there to hurt him.

The timeline sings in your hands. You want to kiss him, but you don’t. Kissing him will feel like goodbye, and you don’t think you could bear the thought of it, not right now. Not before you finish taking down Nova.

Your gaze locks with his. You can see the moment he realizes that you aren’t going with him. The annoyance at being forced to take the retreat cracks out of his expression with sharp, desperate panic. His hands nearly catch you at the wrist, his fingertips brushing against the sleeve of your coat, but then he’s gone. You stare down at the dirt where he once was, fighting to keep your breathing steady. He’s safe.

At least, you tell yourself, one of you made it home.

Yet it still feels like a gaping wound in your side. You betrayed him to save him.

“Touching,” Nova remarks. You can’t bring yourself to move. You’re still kneeling in the remains of Remy’s blood when she strikes you.

The world flickers in and out of focus, spinning in rampant circles. Distantly, you’re aware of your legs kicking weakly in the air, your hands scrabbling desperately at your throat to ease the choking grip she has you in. Except she isn’t touching you, not with her hands.

No, she’s standing just out of arm's reach, smiling like a sphynx.

“I have seen so many variants,” she says idly. You’re choking on nothing, fighting the headache rending through your temples. “There’s been some Jean Grays, a few Rogues. More than a few Gambits. Many, many Deadpools.”

“And yet,” she continues. “I have never found more than one of you.”

The release of the grip she has on your throat makes you gasp out a cry, sucking in air with deep, hoarse wheezing. You hardly feel the impact of your body collapsing to the ground, too relieved in the taste of air. You rub at your throat with shaking fingers, trying to erase the feeling of her grip crushing your windpipe.

“That isn’t the strangest part, however.”

You know where this is going. You close your eyes.

“I could feel you,” she shifts closer to you, but you don’t have the energy to flinch and create distance between the two of you. “In your mind, you are nothing but fragments.”

“Wayfarer,” you whisper. It comes out in a croak, but you are far beyond caring. “I am everywhere and everything.”

“Broken,” she agrees. You open your eyes at that. She looks vindicated, as if admitting your ability has only made you weaker. You suppose, hunched over and wheezing, you don’t look as threatening as you used to during your X-Men days. You must look like nothing but bleeding prey.

Good, you think. You smile at her with bloodied teeth. “Broken things are meant to hurt, you know.”

Like shuffling a deck of cards, you let time flutter through your hands, staggering into a timeline version of yourself where you can breathe without choking. Your body follows the commands of your mind with elegant obedience.

Your hands meet their mark, and latch onto Nova tight enough to turn your knuckles pale. The pair of playing cards pressed against each of your palms sizzle with hunger where they make contact with her body.

Pain lances through your skull, exploding into brilliant light behind your eyes. You think your hands are still clutching onto Nova, but you cannot feel them. The world is bright violet, time shuffling with a charged whir. The kinetic energy ripples down your hands in great, staggering waves, a faint prickle of pain among the agony of time rendering itself apart around you.

Nova is screaming. Distantly, you feel her hands pulling at you, yanking at the lapels of Remy’s coat, hitting your face. She must be trying to delve into your mind. She cannot catch you, though. You are plummeting through every timeline, shuffling from one version of yourself to the next, then the next, then the next. Over and over. Over, and over, and over.

Shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull —

You think you let go of her.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull —

No, it’s not your hands that have let go. Your arms are shuddering through time, but your hands keep locked onto her, holding her steady, burning violet. You haven’t let her go, but your body is being torn into pieces.

Nova isn’t screaming anymore.

You are.

You can’t hear it over the roaring of time rushing through you, but you can feel your throat blazing, screaming through every timeline, every version of yourself. This must be what dying feels like. It is infinite across all time. There is no other way out.

Her body dissolves with slow tendrils of violet light creeping beneath the exposed flesh, tracing whirls with the lines of her veins and arteries. It consumes her from the inside, spreading out with a meticulous, parasitic intensity.

Remy’s power consumes you, too. You see the light creep up your wrists, then your arms, then your shoulders. You can feel its warmth down to your bones. It almost feels, strangely, like it’s him hugging you. It feels like it did last night, tangled in his arms beneath the sheets, your ear pressed to his chest to listen to the rhythm of his heart.

You wonder, distantly, if his power is trying to keep your body together. The charge of kinetic energy is concentrated in your hands, but you can still feel the heat of it pooling in the pit of your stomach and scorching the back of your mouth. Remy had been dismissive when you asked him what it felt like to charge something, though you figure he had been exasperated by your own explanation of your ability. You doubt he would have known what it felt like to be torn asunder with only the kinetic lightning crackling through him.

You think about Remy, for a moment. You think about the apartment that you both signed the lease on, furnished with a thief’s eye of luxury, cluttered with the little bits of memorabilia and creature comforts you curated over the years. You think about the cats that Remy dotes on, your own cats by marriage, all curled up in their favorite spots around the two of you. You think about the couch that you had teased Remy about for the price, only for him to turn around and gloat about the amount of naps you took on it. You think about the movie nights with you two intertwined on that couch, the cats pressed into your sides, the room dim-lit and safe.

You think about how you would like to do that, again. To be able to sit on the couch with your husband and watch a movie. To be with Remy, and not be caught in this web of unraveling agony.

Like a loose thread, you unravel.

Shuffle.

It starts in your hands, with your fingertips, and it spreads from there.

Draw.

Your eyesight goes last.

Pull.

You see Remy in every lifetime, looking at you, his outline glimmering with that kinetic violet light. His mouth is moving. It almost looks like your name.

Shuffle…

Nothing comes to your mind. Everything comes into pitch black.

Shuffle…

Your hands are empty.

Shuffle…

Time is empty, now absent when it once was vast. You had been infinite, once. Like time, you had been endless.

Shuffle…

You had been lost before you knew what it felt like to be seen. You could never be sure what timeline was originally yours before you switched them. Even the smallest of details could escape your attention if you weren’t looking for it. At a certain point, you realized you had to choose a life to claim as yours and stop wandering. Even a Wayfarer needed an anchor to call home for when it was time to rest.

Draw.

You had wandered for a long time. Years, perhaps, though your physical bodies changed shape and form in ways you couldn’t predict. The face in the mirror had never been home, anyway. There were too many genetic variables to each timeline to preserve the way you looked. Your body was merely a temporary housing for your time-stepping mind. A body was not an anchor. It was simply a tool to be used and discarded.

Pull.

An anchor needs to be constant. It needs to be something that will not retreat when time grows teeth and begins to hurt. It needs to be loyal to the cause. It needs to be kind, deep down, even if the surface is skin-deep careless. It needs to make you feel safe.

It’s… warm. Soft.

You bury your face deeper into the pillow with a long, blissful sigh. You will never regret insisting that you splurge and spend the extra money on a memory foam mattress. It feels like floating in the clouds.

A soft, questioning mmrph rumbles next to your ear. It’s your only warning before a small, wet nose presses to your temple. You know it’s Oliver by the way he starts to knead at the pillow next to your head, purring a roaring chorus. There’s another weight on your legs, pinning them down, and a third is nestled into your side. Remy must be up, already, if they’re all stuck to you for warmth.

“Did your father abandon us again, boys?” You mumble sleepily. Oliver purrs louder at the sound of your voice. You can feel the weight on your legs shift, no doubt being that it’s Lucifer standing up to stretch before he starts to walk up the length of your body. He’s purring, too, though he resettles on the spot between your shoulder blades, the hum of his purr radiating across your back. Figaro doesn’t grace you with an acknowledgement, but neither does he unfurl himself from his spot next to your side.

Warm, soft, and safely nestled amongst your cats. It’s nearly heaven. You end up half-dozing back off, lulled to sleep by the purring next to your ear. You feel like you haven’t slept in a lifetime.

You don’t hear the door open, though you know something is wrong by the way Figaro leaps to attention and Oliver’s purr stutters to a stop.

When you open your eyes, it’s half-lit by the morning sun. It must be closer to noon than the time that you usually wake to train. Any trace of lingering sleep drifts away when the bedroom door creeps open with its usual squall of hinges.

You smile and twist to look over your shoulder, dislodging Lucifer despite his soft sound of discontent, and yawn, “Morning. I think.”

Remy is posed in the doorway. Your next words die in your throat as you see the look on his face, the staff still gripped tightly in his hand. He’s dressed in his usual armor, not his civilian clothing like you expected. His hair is longer, tied back carelessly from his face, flyaway strands curling around his temples. His eyes are near-black, both through his irises and the dark shadows collecting beneath them.

He looks like he has spent years surviving an apocalypse.

“Jesus, Remy,” you breathe. You’re sitting up in an instant, one hand out reaching towards him. His armor is dust-streaked and worn from battle. “Are you hurt?”

“Where’d you go, chér?” He rasps. His face is still utterly, terrifyingly still. You have never seen him at the brink of collapse like this, before. He looks like he wants to step further in the room, his hand twitching with a nervous tic of adrenaline, but he stays stock-still. Waiting for you.

“Nowhere,” you say softly. “I’ve been in bed with the boys, love.”

You have to resist the urge to spring out of bed and run your hands along his body to look for any sign of injury. You aren’t entirely sure what’s gotten into him, but if he’s hallucinating or delirious, you should probably reach out to the other X-Men. Maybe the professor would know why Remy’s in full gear and looking battle-worn at this hour. Why would he go without waking you first?

Remy wavers. He looks heartsick. “Don’ lie t’me, chér.”

“Never,” you agree. You offer the spot next to you in bed with a half-pleading, half-alluring gesture. “Come here. You look like hell, Remy.”

“You…” he starts, then stops. Abruptly, he drops his staff with a rattling thud. Within three strides, he’s in your arms, melting into your embrace. You clutch at him just as fiercely, burying your nose into the crown of his hair. He smells like smoke and dust, but there’s no indication of blood and pain. He simply sags in your grip, his breathing quick and unsteady against your collarbone. His fingers curl weakly into the back of your nightshirt, as if that’s all the strength he can muster.

He’s mumbling, even with his face pressed tightly to the curve of your throat, but you can’t make out much more than your name, over and over.

“Shh, Remy, I’m right here with you,” you whisper against his crown. With a free hand, you reach up to pull out the elastic band holding up his hair, letting it fall in uneven waves. When was the last time he took care of himself? Your Remy loved to indulge in fine-smelling soaps and lavish hair routines, surrounding himself in a luxury he earned himself. His appearance was just as much armor as his coat was. You had never been fooled by his demeanor: his weapon of charm was just as sharply honed as his weapon of playing cards.

Yet it’s the length of his hair that sours the back of your throat with nausea. You run your fingers through it, slowly massaging his scalp in the way that makes him pliant and sleepy. It’s not that you haven’t seen Remy with long hair before; it’s simply the fact that you haven’t seen him with long hair in years. Just last night, his hair had been just long enough to curl at the nape of his neck. You had run your fingers through it and mentioned a haircut, and he had been a deadweight in your lap, humming sleepily in acknowledgement.

You swallow thickly. Either this is not the same Remy you went to sleep next to the night before… or you are missing time.

“You should take a bath, love,” you murmur, gently scratching his scalp. You can feel smudged wetness on the collar of your nightshirt from tears, though he hasn’t made a sound other than a few deep, unsteady breaths. Back when you first got together during missions, the shower was the first place you two could unwind and start to sort through your fading adrenaline rush.

He pulls back from your embrace, just a little, and every word of encouragement dies in your throat at the look on his face. Rage. Betrayal.

Heartbreak.

“You been gon’ awhile, chér,” he says. It’s not an accusation, but there’s a simmering anger beneath that matter-of-fact tone. It’s always ‘chér’ when he doesn’t know which version you are. His eyes burn through you, intent on stripping you raw. You wonder what answers he could possibly expect from you. If it’s answers he wants at all, or rather an apology.

You have to offer him something.

“I —”

“Gambit go lookin’ for you,” he laughs, mirthless. “Got him spending two years lookin’ and you jus’ show up in bed. Like nothin’ happen.”

Two years. There’s a small itch in the back of your mind, like the whisper of a memory raking its claws down your back. There had been an unraveling. Utter destruction. Then it had been you here, you waking up in bed as if nothing had happened.

You blink back at him, struck speechless. You don’t have to offer a word, though, because there’s true anger in his eyes, now.

“I go to de Void,” he says. “I t’ink that’s what it was. Nothin’ left there. Dere’s no life around, hein? Mais, non, not even my wife, only the dead. Ev’rybody dead.”

His eyes close as if he can ward away the images tormenting his memories. You’re grateful that he can’t see the way your face crumples at that. He went back for you. He had survived the wound, and he found a way back to come for you.

And he had found nothing but death.

“You’re such an idiot,” you choke out. His eyes snap open at that, but you merely cup his face in your hands and draw him in to bump your forehead against his, sucking in a shuddering breath. He is warm and alive under your touch. You didn’t think you could touch him like this again when Nova had been standing above you, prepared to tear you in shreds. “I sent you ahead, but I was coming with you.”

“We stay together,” he tells you. There’s a strain in his voice just as painful as yours, but the way he reaches up to swipe away a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb is careful. As if he’s marveling that he has the chance to touch you at all. “Mais la, don’ tell Gambit he wrote up those vows for nothin’, Mrs. LeBeau.”

“Matched pair,” you whisper back.

“Couple’a aces,” he agrees, and he kisses you just as gently as he wiped away your tears, as if you have all the time in the world.

#remy lebeau #gambit #dp3 #gambit x reader #remy lebeau x reader #gambit x y/n #remy lebeau x y/n #d&w #gambit fic #gambit imagine

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magnificentmiraclenacho · 15 days ago

Text

The sister of the winner

Part 7 = secrets shared

Summary: When gi hun wants to take down the games he faces a lot of problems. But one problem he also has is his relationship with his sister minji ( reader ). Gi hun dosent want to tell her about the games do to her innocent. But what happends when the salesman lores her into the games, and the siblings finds them self fighting for their lifes

---

You kept struggling, your body thrashing against Player 230’s hold, but it was no use. He was too strong, his weight keeping you pinned to the cold, hard ground. Your vision blurred with tears as your strength began to wane, your frantic kicks and clawing becoming weaker and weaker.

In your mind, memories started to flash like a fragmented slideshow: moments of laughter, the warmth of sunlight on your face, the sound of your favorite song playing in the background of a carefree day. "Is this really how it ends?" The thought sent a cold wave of dread through you. "Am I really going to die here? Like this"

Player 230 chuckled darkly above you, his voice dripping with amusement. “Oh, sweetheart,” he sneered, leaning in close enough that his breath brushed your cheek. “Can’t keep fighting anymore, huh?” He threw his head back and laughed while looking at his friend, the sound cruel and unrelenting.

Your vision started to tunnel, your chest heaving as you fought for air. The edges of the room seemed to blur, darkness creeping into your peripheral vision. Just as your eyes began to close, just as you were giving up accepting the reality a voice rang out from somewhere behind Player 230.

“Let her go”

The voice cut through the haze, sharp and commanding. Player 230 froze for a split second before slowly turning his head, irritation flashing in his eyes. “Mind your own f# business,” he snarled, his voice laced with menace.

You tried to twist your head to see who had spoken, but your body was too weak, your energy drained from the relentless fight for survival. You were barely aware of the ongoing confrontation, too focused on trying to breathe, trying to stay conscious.

Then, without warning, Player 230 was ripped off of you. The sudden release of pressure sent a rush of air back into your lungs, and you coughed violently, gasping for breath as your body convulsed. The cold floor beneath you was a cruel reminder that you were still alive, but every inhale felt like fire in your throat.

As you lay there, your breaths coming in ragged gulps, you could hear the scuffle nearby—the sound of fists meeting flesh, a grunt of pain, and then silence. You didn’t have the strength to look up.

Your body trembled as you turned your head, struggling to focus through the haze of fear and exhaustion. That’s when you saw him—Young-Il, standing between you and your attackers. His broad frame blocked their path to you, and his fists were raised, ready to strike again.

Player 230 and Player 124 squared off against him, but it was clear from the outset that they were outmatched. Young-Il’s movements were swift and precise, each punch and block delivered with practiced confidence. Player 230 lunged at him, but Young-Il sidestepped effortlessly, slamming an elbow into his side and sending him staggering back.

“Fight someone your own size,” Young-Il barked, his voice low and commanding. His words carried a weight that silenced even the whispers of the other players watching from the shadows. “You think it makes you strong, ganging up on someone who can’t fight back? Pathetic.”

Player 124 hesitated, glancing nervously at his companion, but before he could make a move, Young-Il shot him a glare so fierce it rooted him in place.

“And don’t ever lay a hand on a woman again,” Young-Il growled, his tone like ice. “You hear me?”

As you struggled to push yourself up, your arms trembling beneath you, the two players exchanged a brief look before turning and running off into the darkness without another word. Their footsteps faded quickly, leaving only the sound of your ragged breathing and the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights.

Young-Il turned toward you then, his expression softening as he stepped closer. His eyes met yours, concern etched into his features as he took in your shaken state.

He stepped closer, kneeling beside you, his face lined with concern. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice gentler now, the anger from earlier replaced with genuine worry.

You shakily raised your hand to your throat, wincing as your fingers brushed the tender, reddened skin. Your voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I… I guess. Maybe.”

Tears began to blur your vision as the weight of what just happened hit you fully. You lowered your hand, looking down as the first sob escaped. “Thank you,” you said quietly, your voice trembling.

Young-Il hesitated for a moment, then gave a small shrug. “It’s nothing,” he replied, his tone casual, but his expression was firm. “People like them? Trash like that? They deserve what they get.”

You managed a weak nod, wiping at your tears as you tried to steady yourself. “How… how did you know?” you asked, your voice still uneven. “That I was in trouble?”

He exhaled softly, running a hand through his dark hair. “You were taking too long. I thought I’d come check on you,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Good thing I did.”

Tears welled up again, but this time they were tears of gratitude. “Thank you,” you said again, the words spilling from your lips like a mantra. “Thank you.”

Young-Il offered a faint smile, though his gaze was still sharp, scanning the room to ensure the two players were truly gone. “It’s fine,” he said, his voice softer now. “But we should get back to the others. It’s not safe out here. Take your pillow and lets go"

You nodded slowly, your legs still shaky as you tried to get up grabbing your pillow. Young-Il extended a hand, helping you to your feet. Together, you made your way back toward the safety of the bunks, his presence a reassuring shield against the dangers lurking in the shadows.

---

As you and Young-Il walked back to the bunks, the silence between you was broken by your quiet question. “How… how do you know how to fight so well?” Your voice was still hoarse, but curiosity outweighed your lingering fear.

Young-Il glanced at you, his expression softening slightly. “When I was younger, I was really into fighting,” he said casually. “Street fights, gyms, you name it. It was just… something I was good at.” He shrugged, as if it wasn’t a big deal.

You managed a small smile, despite the tension still clinging to your body. “Well, I guess all that practice paid off. You were amazing back there.”

He gave a faint chuckle. “Yeah, well. Sometimes it’s useful to know how to handle yourself.” His tone was light, but there was an underlying seriousness in his words.

Before you could say more, the bunks came into view, and the familiar faces of your team came into focus. Gi-Hun was the first to spot you, his eyes widening when he saw the tears streaking your face and the red marks on your throat.

“Y/N!” he called, rushing over. His hands hovered near you, unsure whether to touch you or not. “What happened?”

You hesitated, glancing at Young-Il before answering. “It’s okay,” you said, your voice shaky but earnest. “I just… I ran into some trouble, but Young-Il saved me.”

Gi-Hun’s gaze snapped to Young-Il, his expression a mix of gratitude and concern. Without hesitation, he pulled you into a protective hug, his arms wrapping tightly around you. “Thank God you’re okay,” he murmured.

As he released you, Gi-Hun turned to Young-Il, bowing his head slightly. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “Thank you for protecting her.”

Young-Il gave a small nod, his usual cool demeanor intact, but you could tell the gratitude meant something to him. “It’s nothing,” he said simply.

Gi-Hun’s trust in Young-Il was cemented in that moment. He gently guided you to one of the mattresses, sitting you down as he carefully examined your injuries. His touch was gentle, his brow furrowed in worry as he traced the red marks on your neck.

The commotion had drawn the attention of your other teammates. Jung-Bae and Ho-Deo hurried over, their faces filled with concern.

“What happened?” Jung-Bae asked, his eyes darting between you and Young-Il.

Ho-Deo frowned deeply. “Are you okay?”

You took a deep breath, your voice still shaky but steadier now. “It’s okay,” you assured them. “Just… ran into some bad people. But Young-Il handled it.”

The tension in the group began to ease slightly, but their concern remained evident as they gathered around you, their protective presence reassuring.

---

As the night wore on, the room fell into an uneasy quiet, broken only by the occasional shuffle of bodies shifting on their mattresses. But for you, again there was no peace. Your mind spiraled darker and darker, replaying the events of the day over and over again. The moments when you could have died weighed heavily on your chest, each one pressing down like a stone.

You lay on one of the mattresses, turned away from everyone else, hoping no one could see the tears silently streaming down your face. Your breathing hitched as the tears grew heavier, small whimpers escaping your lips despite your best efforts to stay quiet. It was too much—the fear, the regret, the overwhelming guilt.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. The weight was unbearable. You sat up slowly, wiping at your cheeks, though the tears wouldn’t stop. Quietly, you stood and made your way to the entrance of the bunks, where Gi-Hun sat, his shoulders slightly slumped as he kept watch.

He noticed you approaching and turned to look at you, concern flickering in his eyes when he saw your tear-streaked face. Before he could say anything, you bent down and wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his shoulder as the sobs you’d been holding back poured out.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, your voice muffled against him. “I’m so sorry.”

Gi-Hun froze for a moment, clearly taken aback, but then his arms came up to hold you gently, his hand resting lightly on the back of your head. “Y/N… what are you talking about?”

“I’m sorry for coming to the games,” you cried, your words tumbling out between sobs. “I should have told you everything. I should have—” Your voice broke, and you clung to him tighter. “And I’m sorry for going off alone. For being so reckless and getting hurt.…”

You tried to continue, but Gi-Hun interrupted you, pulling you closer and resting his chin on your head. “It’s okay,” he murmured softly, his voice steady and reassuring. “It’s okay, Y/N. You don’t have to apologize.”

“But—”

“Shh,” he whispered, his hand rubbing gentle circles on your back. “You’re here. You’re safe now. That’s all that matters.”

His calm, soothing words slowly began to break through the storm in your mind. The steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his embrace—it all grounded you in the moment, easing the chaos in your chest.

Gi-hun held Y/N close, her sobs muffled against his chest as he whispered soothingly, “It’s okay, Y/N. It’s okay. You’re okey. Just breathe.” His hand gently stroked her back in slow, calming motions.

She clung to him, her body trembling as the weight of everything came pouring out. Slowly, her sobs softened, and she pulled back slightly, her tear-streaked face full of guilt and shame.

“I’m so sorry, Gi-hun,” she began again, her voice cracking. “I shouldn’t have joined. I should’ve told you, but I didn’t. I lied, and I just—”

“I didn’t tell you why I was here,” the words tumbling out in a frantic rush. “I put my life at risk. I didn’t think. I didn’t stop to think about what this would do to you, how worried you’d be. I was just so desperate—”

“desperate? Y/N, stop for a second—”

But she couldn’t stop, her emotions spilling out like a flood. “I didn’t know what else to do, Gi-hun. I thought if I could just win, everything would be fine. But it was stupid—so, so stupid—and I lied to you. I lied about why I was here, I lied about the debt, I lied about everything!”

Gi-hun reached out, gently gripping her shoulders to steady her. “Y/N. Stop. Stop, stop, stop,” he said firmly, his voice calm but carrying a note of urgency. “You need to slow down, okay? Just breathe. It’s okay. I forgive you. Whatever happened, it’s okay. I just... I need you to relax for a second.”

She took a shaky breath, her hands trembling as she wiped at her eyes. “I just... I’m sooo sorry,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Gi-hun sighed, his hands still on her shoulders as he looked her in the eyes. “Okay, I hear you. You’re sorry. I get that. But, Y/N... What debt. Why did you come here becouse of debt? What are you talking about? I thought I paid off your school debt.”

At his words, she froze, her shoulders tensing under his grip. Slowly, she looked down, her fingers fidgeting nervously.

“You did,” she admitted softly, not meeting his eyes. “But... there’s another debt. A big one. I didn’t tell you because... because I didn’t want to burden you, Gi-hun. You already did so much for me with the school debt. You paid everything, and I couldn’t... I couldn’t ask for more.”

Gi-hun’s brows furrowed deeper, his heart sinking at the pain in her voice. “Y/N...” he started, but she shook her head quickly.

“I thought I could fix it on my own,” she continued, her voice shaking. “I thought if I came here and won, I could make it all go away without you ever knowing. But I messed up. I shouldn’t have lied to you. I shouldn’t have come here. I put my life at risk for this, and I didn’t even—”

“Y/N, enough,” Gi-hun interrupted gently, pulling her into a hug again. “It’s okay. Just... stop for a second."

She hesitated in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder as a heavy silence settled between them. For a moment, it felt like the world had paused, the weight of their unspoken words lingering in the air. Y/N stayed in Gi-hun's embrace for a moment, gathering the courage to speak. Her voice was soft and trembling when she finally began. “Gi-hun… when you were gone, when no one knew where you were…”

Gi-hun tensed slightly, sensing the pain in her tone. “Yeah?” he asked gently, encouraging her to continue.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes filled with guilt and sorrow. “When you were… wherever you were… and Mom was so sick in the hospital, I had to take care of everything. You weren’t there, and I didn’t know what to do.”

Gi-hun’s expression softened as he listened, though a flicker of guilt crossed his face.

“She couldn’t get admitted anymore,” Y/N continued, her voice breaking. “The hospital wouldn’t take her without payment upfront. But I… I couldn’t just let her go. I had to try, Gi-hun. I had to do something. So I put everything—*all of it*—on my name. Every single hospital bill. Every treatment, every medicine, every test... it was all under me.”

Gi-hun’s eyes widened, the weight of her words sinking in. “Y/N...” he started, but she shook her head, pressing forward.

“When you came back,” she said, her voice trembling, “you paid off the debt in Mom’s name. But you didn’t know there was more. You didn’t know I took on everything to try to save her. I didn’t tell you because… because you’d already done so much. You already gave up so much for me, for us. I couldn’t put that on you too.”

Gi-hun’s grip on her shoulders tightened slightly as his jaw clenched. “Why didn’t you tell me, Y/N?” he asked, his voice low and filled with emotion.

“Because I was scared,” she admitted, tears welling in her eyes again. “I didn’t want you to feel like you failed us. I didn’t want you to think you had to fix everything. I thought… I thought I could handle it on my own. But I couldn’t.”

Gi-hun exhaled sharply, his heart heavy with guilt and concern. He reached out, cupping her face in his hands. “Y/N, listen to me,” he said firmly, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions in his chest. “You didn’t have to do this alone. You didn’t have to carry all of that by yourself. You should’ve told me.”

She looked down, her tears spilling over. “I didn’t want to make things harder for you, Gi-hun. I didn’t want you to feel like you had to take care of me too.”

Gi-hun shook his head, his heart aching at the sight of her pain. “You’re my sister,” he said softly. “It’s not about making things harder. It’s about being there for each other. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. But I’m here now, okay? We’ll figure this out. Together.”

Y/N nodded slowly, though the guilt in her eyes lingered. For the first time in a long while, she felt a small sliver of relief, knowing she didn’t have to carry the burden alone anymore.

Gi-hun gently held Y/N’s shoulders, looking her in the eyes with a seriousness that made her pause. “Listen, Y/N. How about When we get out of here, we’re going to pay off your debt, okay? Together. And we’re going to talk about *everything*. No more lies, no more secrets. If something’s wrong, you have to tell me. Even if some strange guy offers to pay you cash to play ddakji.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head at the absurdity of it.

Y/N blinked, confused. A small smile played on her lips as she tilted her head. “yeah sure. But money for ddakji? What do you mean?”

Gi-hun looked at her, his brow furrowing slightly. “You know, the guy who gave you the card to join this,” he said, motioning vaguely as if it should be obvious. “After the game of ddakji?” giving her clues.

“Game of ddakji?” Y/N repeated, her confusion growing.

Gi-hun leaned forward, his hands gesturing as he explained slowly, “You know, the slap if you lose, the money if you win—”

Y/N stared at him blankly, her confusion only deepening. “What?”

Gi-hun paused, looking at her as though she were missing something obvious. “Wait... you didn’t play a game with the salesman?”

She shook her head, her brows furrowing in bewilderment. “No. What are you even talking about?”

Now it was Gi-hun’s turn to look baffled. “The salesman! The guy who gives you the card! He shows up, plays ddakji with you, and if you win, he gives you cash. If you lose, he slaps you. That’s how it works. That’s how they recruit you!”

Y/N just stared at him, her expression deadpan. “Gi-hun… are you crazy? Why would anyone play a game like that?” laughing straight to his face.

Gi-hun leaned back, a mix of confusion and disbelief on his face. “Wait, you’re telling me you didn’t play ddakji? At all?”

“No!” Y/N exclaimed, throwing her hands up smiling like crazy “He didn’t say anything about a game. He just… he saw me crying, okay? I was outside in the park after i found your gu.... i mean when i needed some air. He came up to me and asked why I was upset. We talked for a while, and then… he gave me the card.”

Gi-hun stared at her, his mouth slightly open, trying to process what she was saying. “So... no ddakji?” he asked again, almost as if he couldn’t believe it.

“No ddakji!” Y/N repeated firmly. “Why does that even matter?”

Gi-hun rubbed the back of his neck, his confusion giving way to unease. “It’s just... that’s how they got me. That’s how they get literally *everyone*. It’s like… their whole thing you know”

“Well, not for me,” Y/N said, crossing her arms. “The guy just… talked to me. No slapping, no money, no weird games. Just comford and talking”

Gi-hun frowned, the pieces not quite fitting together in his mind. Something about her story felt… off. But he decided not to push it—at least, not yet. Instead, he sighed and shook his head. “Alright, fine. No ddakji. But next time, Y/N, if someone random starts talking to you and then hands you a card, maybe *don’t* take it?”

Y/N cracked a small smile. “Yeah, noted,” she said softly. But as she glanced at Gi-hun, she could see the lingering worry in his eyes, and for a moment, the strange encounter with the salesman didn’t seem so harmless anymore.

-----

Ps: if you want to t@gged say it in the comments.

Oh and it will take a little hwile to write the next chapter because its the mingle one and i just want to make it the best it can be❤️

Masterlist:

Tag list:

@ashtrosstuff

@sorilyae

@space1crow

@marsyay78

@shadow-tumbler

#gi hun x reader #gihunxsisterreader #squid game x reader #squidgame

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thewertsearch · 7 months ago

Text

One can make either true statements or false statements about reality. All of the statements I make are true.

One can make true or false statements about reality, but those aren’t the only options. ‘This sentence is false’ and 'lies are not funny' are examples of statements which are neither.

You proceeded to question me believing you understood the purpose of the Scratch. You received your information about it from trolls. I assure you that in most ways, the trolls are as confused about everything as you are.

Confused she may have been, but Aradia got her Scratch lore from Sburb's own NPCs. Doc's plans run deep, but he can't have been manipulating every Consort on LOQAM.

Maybe the Sburb NPCs she was talking to are simply mistaken in their understanding of the Scratch. It might be a phenomenon which looks like a spacetime rift, but functions completely differently.

TT: What exactly does the Scratch do, then? It resets the game.

It resets the game.

...like, completely? Are we going to Groundhog Day right back to John's original entry, with all our memories intact? I have no idea what that'd mean for the trolls, interwoven as they are into the kids' session - but either way, the possibility of a full reset for John & co. is amazing news.

It would be fascinating to see the kids taking another shot at Sburb, armed with all their accumulated knowledge. They'd be starting from a much better position, and we could sidestep mistakes like Jack's ascension before they happen. We'd be seeing new prototypings, new alchemy, and potentially more God Tier ascensions. Terezi did say that Dave was only locked out of God Tier before the Scratch, and I think I'm beginning to understand what she means. A lot of possibilities we've long since given up on have just been placed back on the table.

The elephant in the room, of course, is the Alpha Timeline. Changing the past should doom us all, so what's our loophole? I guess we could just transport the Players to a freshly generated session, without any time travel - but I personally don't think that's what's happening here. The Scratch is Time-themed for a reason.

TT: We all start from the beginning again? When John entered? No.

...oh.

Welp, that's another theory that didn't survive the brooding caverns.

The release of temporal energy will be quite massive. This is a hard reset. It will reboot the conditions in your universe well before you began playing the game. You will have lived different lives after the reset. The different initial conditions will ideally lead to a more favourable scenario in the new session.

I guess Scratch has a point. The kids' prior lives were heavily influenced by events in their session. Hell, Jade killed her Grandpa with a gun that wouldn't even exist if John's Veil trip had gone differently. Even the Frog Tem-

...oh, no.

Even Bec could be Scratched.

Now. If I'm an omniscient, malevolent First Guardian, and I'm making some edits to a universe, what's the most effective change I could make? What's the best way to ensure that it serves my purposes?

Well, it would be pretty useful if I were in the universe, shaping it as I did Alternia - but my impending death might put a damper on that plan.

Alright, then. If I can't the the one to shape this universe, the next best thing would be an entity of comparable power - one who is as loyal to my master as I am.

And I know exactly how to make that happen.

Even Bec could be Scratched.

Literally.

#homestuck liveblog #full liveblog #act 5.2 #3629 #s142

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azurevi · 2 years ago

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sopping wet cat & love confessions

pairing: leona x gn!reader

summary: where leona has had a long day, and you have the power to make everything bad go away.

note: this is basically just 1.8k of domestic fluff

It had been an agonizingly long day for Leona.

He’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed, and thus carried this dark cloud over his head the whole day. The second lesson had barely started when he was called to stop a dumb fight over an omelet between his dorm members. During his wait for the lunch delivery, Trein made a personal visit and warned him about his ghastly attendance record. While he’d taken it with a pinch of salt, the fact that his rest was disturbed dragged his mood even further down.

Then Ruggie came with a vegetarian sandwich because the canteen was already filled to the brim with students when he’d arrived. Needless to say, Leona didn’t get anything in his stomach in the end.

Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, Kifaji messaged him a reminder of Farena’s birthday party next month, assuring him that he had more phone numbers ready in case he planned to block him.

What really took the cake, though, was the fact that you weren’t around to chase the gloom away. You were so preoccupied with the schoolwork on hand that you’d missed his call, which you later made up for by texting him three consecutive messages.

‘busy rn, ttyl, love u <3’

Joyous.

It was barely four, but the sky was already dimmed by the rain that’d been brewing the whole day. After the last school bell of the day, Leona walked out into the courtyard, hands stuffed in his pockets, donning a ‘don’t touch me if you want to live’ look. He’d take a nap to get his mind off things, but they were supposed to have a club practice today.

If only it could be canceled due to bad weather...

For once, the world seemed to have heard his wish. Scarce raindrops dotted his shirt and bruised the flowers. It was a mere drizzle, but enough of an excuse.

However, he could only make a few steps before it got heavier at an alarming speed, assaulting his face. Picking up pace, he hoped to get under a roof before it could turn into a downpour, but the sky was quicker as it tore a hole in itself. The rain poured down on him in showers, dousing him in a matter of seconds before he could make it back into the hallway.

So fate really was hellbent on dampening his mood. He was pretty darn close to turning the whole campus into sand.

As he made his way to the mirror chamber, the passing students casted bewildered yet timid looks at his permanent scowl. The uniform was suffocating him, clinging to his body like a second skin. His hair stuck to his neck. If one more person dared breathe in his direction, he wasn’t going to be the only one having a bad day.

Head clouded with thousands of ways to cuss the world out, he let his legs lead him through the mirror. He navigated the turns and corners, swung open doors in his way, and walked through corridors with muscle memory alone, until he came to a stop in front of his room, and realized that it wasn’t his room.

It was yours. Somehow, in his mindlessness, he’d ended up right at your doorstep, hand raised in the middle of a knock. And somehow, he completed the action.

“Coming!” You yelled. Footsteps chased towards the door, and then he was face to face with you. Your jaw dropped open as you took in his soaked state.

“Hey.” He said. You sidestepped to let him in, not so subtly eyeing the puddle on the floor. “Sevens, you’re drenched.”

“What a keen observation.” he couldn’t help the sarcasm slipping through his tongue.

Stepping forward, you observed the tight knit of his brows and the downturn of his mouth, and asked, “Bad day?”

He only grumbled, finding it a bit embarrassing to admit. Instead, he leaned forward with outstretched arms, trying to pull you into one very damp hug.

“Woah, stop there,” you clasped his elbows, keeping him at arm’s length. A look of betrayal dawned on his face. “How about we get you out of those clothes first? You could get a cold like this.”

“And then what, wear yours?” He gave you a once-over, emphasizing on your height.

You made a look before heading towards the wardrobe, where you pulled out a shirt that was way too big for you.

“...So it’s you,” he took the shirt, noting the way it was bathed in your scent. “Ruggie berated me for weeks about this missing shirt, you know.”

“Yea, got it. Now go change,” you pushed him toward the bathroom. He gripped the doorframe, snapping his head toward you.

“Would you happen to have my pants too?”

“Haha. No.” You rushed to grab your pajama pants, rolling your eyes at his grimace. “It’s either this or fish skin around your legs.”

It looked like arguments were brewing in his head, but he bit down on them and closed the door. While you waited, you grabbed a few sheets of paper towels and cleaned up the wet footprints on the ground, shaking your head when he tried to suppress a few sneezes.

The giggles that came out of you when he emerged was almost enough to make him change back into the wet clothes. He tugged at the cloud-printed trousers that reached all the way above his ankle. “Not a word about this.”

“Pity. I know a few people who would get a kick out of this.”

Shoulders slouched, he headed over to where you were seated on the bed, a towel resting on your lap. Just as he thought he was finally getting the recharging hug, you pulled his hands away and grabbed the towel. “Your hair is dripping.”

“Are you just doing this on purpose now?”

“If you mean purposefully safeguarding your health, then yes, I am.”

“It’s just wet hair, you go to bed like this all the time.”

“Rainwater's different,” you snatched your phone from the nightstand, thumbs gliding across screen quickly. “Okay. You know what you looked like just now? This."

On the screen were a few photos of doe-eyed cats in the shower that you’d searched up by typing ‘sopping wet cat’.

“I did not -”

“You did!” You scrolled further down, and suddenly a chortle erupted out of you, which you immediately hid by shielding your face. It didn’t stop the laughs spilling out of you though. “Oh my- Oh my goodness. Look at this cat,”

He squinted at the photo of a kitty, face covered in milk, with the resemblance of an old, weak man. Meanwhile you were still struggling, flopping onto your back as you laughed wildly. Despite the roll of his eyes, the corner of his mouth quivered. Not at the cat, obviously, but at your poor, absurd humor.

“Fine, whatever. Do what you want.”

You sat up immediately, still trembling at the memory of the cat drowned in milk. After wrapping the towel around his head, you started ruffle his hair, pursing your lips when his ears twitched at the brushes of your fingers. You pulled the towel toward his jaw so that only his face was visible, and burst into laughter again. Who knew what you were imagining in your head.

“Stop it,” he grabbed your wrist, but the chuckle that escaped him at the end of the sentence was indisputable.

“Ok, sorry.” You carried on, undoing his twin braids and tousling his hair into a birdnest. On your face were remnants of a grin, gracing your features. He would very much like to see them bloom into a smile again.

Closing his eyes, he willed his senses to focus on your fingers as they untangled the stubborn knots in his mane. From left to right, you dedicated meticulous attention to each collected strand. He couldn’t help but shiver when you moved on to his ears, wiping the water that’d collected there. The tension in his muscles relaxed along with the tightness that’d strained his face the whole day, and soon he felt his chest rumble in satisfaction.

“You’re glad I love you,” he opened his eyes at your words. “Or else I’d never spoil you like this.”

You got off the bed with the damp towel while he stayed frozen in his spot.

Right. Love. That thing.

How in the world were you able to utter that word all the time without batting an eye anyway? Anytime he tried to tell you how much he adored you, it felt like spitting his whole heart out onto a plate. It felt like pushing something spiky out of his throat. It felt like admitting that he was very, very vulnerable, and he couldn't stomach that. Not yet.

"Do you want to talk about your day?" You said from the bathroom, voice overlapping with the running tap.

"There were these pups who only knew how to use their brawn. Trein spent a whole 30 minutes bugging me. Skipped lunch. Kifaji texted."

"Yikes," you returned and climbed back onto the mattress, leaning against the bed frame. "Alright, let's make it better then."

He half expected you to block him again as he dived in, but you welcomed him with open arms. He lay his weight on you at first, reaching around your waist, before shuffling closer. Despite just having been soaked to the bones, he was as warm as a bowl of hot soup. Sleep crept on him almost instantly, he couldn't help it. Everything around him was way too soft– your bed, your torso encircled by his arms, his shirt around his body smelled nothing like him and everything like you, your hands buried in his hair. He took a greedy breath as he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, then exhaled, hot air fanning your skin.

God forbid that anyone should see him in this state.

"By the way. That thing you said earlier," his words slurred. "I feel the same."

"What thing?" You replied innocently.

He shifted. "Y'know. The thing I'm lucky for."

"I'm afraid I'm clueless."

His head snapped up in annoyance. You weren't fooling anyone with your tone, but if you wanted to act oblivious, two could play this game

"I mean this," He moved in to press his lips to your forehead. "And this…" Another kiss fell on your left eyelid. "And this," The top of your nose. "And also this." He moved on to your cheeks, lastly sealing the spell by burying his head against your neck again. They were like stamps, his own way of showing you the evidence of his love.

Instead of responding, you gave him a stamp of your own, sure and gentle on the crown of his head. Outside the storm was still wrecking havoc, but he was inside now, not just under a shelter, but especially in your embrace.

Leona wasn't sure how or when, but your presence in his life had made his dreams a bit more bearable, a bit more attainable. And perhaps, in this very moment when he was able to forget the world around him, they had already come true.

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #leona kingscholar #leona kingscholar x reader #sie writes

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rashoumon-homo · 1 year ago

Text

No Such Tastes In Men pt.2 (Dazai x Reader)

Dazai x Male Reader, NSFW

-> Content Warnings: oral (m!reader receiving), dom/sub undertones, dom!reader

-> 1.4k words

NSFW CONTENT AHEAD - READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

<- Previous Part

Author Note: This accidentally ended up being twice the length of the first one, oops

You expected that sucking Dazai off in an alleyway would make things weird between the two of you. You’d mentally prepared yourself for him to avoid you, but the next day things are… normal. Whenever you spot him on your usual spy routes, he looks fine; well-adjusted. Not at all like someone who’s in the midst of a sexuality crisis.

Maybe he really is straight after all.

After a week of uncomfortable normalcy, you’re beginning to wonder if you imagined the whole thing. Not only has Dazai not mentioned the incident at all, he gives every impression it’s not even on his mind. Your weekly one-on-one update meeting with him is in an hour and somehow you’re the one who’s nervous.

You’re too anxious to drink your usual coffee beforehand, so you decide to head to the meeting location early instead. This time it’s at an abandoned warehouse you haven’t been to before, so it’ll be good to scope out the spot anyway.

When you arrive, a whole 45 minutes early, you’re surprised to see Dazai sitting on a crate reading that book he carries everywhere with him.

When he hears you coming, he glances up, looking a little surprised. “You’re early.”

“So are you,” you say defensively.

He hops down from the crate and dusts himself off. “The mission I was on ended early and I had time to kill, so I thought I might as well wait here,” he explains, even though you didn’t ask. “Are you okay? You seem nervous.”

“M’not,” you insist, sidestepping him when he inches closer.

“You don’t need to be,” he presses further. “I don’t want things between us to be weird just because you sucked my dick once.”

Your heart skips a beat. “So you do remember it!”

Dazai flashes one of his flirty smiles at you. “Couldn’t stop thinking about it.” He leans back against the crates, arms crossed loosely over his chest. His gaze is on the rafters above, rather than your face as he continues. “I’d heard the myth that men give better blow jobs, since they’re more familiar with the equipment so to speak, but I admit I was surprised to find that it’s true. And when I think back on that night, I’m not just thinking about the feel of a mouth around me - I’m thinking about everything. Your hands on my thighs, the feeling of my fingers running through your hair… it’s YOUR mouth I’m turned on by.” Dazai rakes his fingers through his hair in frustration. “And I guess by extension, it’s you.”

His cheeks are pink when he fixes his gaze on you again. You’re playing with your hands nervously, running the pad of your thumb over your bitten nail beds. You feel like a deer in the headlights with him looking at you so intensely. There’s no doubt in your mind he can see your anxiety written on your face.

“So I decided,” he says, more softly, “I want to do it to you too.”

You gape at him. “Me?” you ask. “You want to… suck my dick?”

“Yeah,” he says casually. “Maybe I have more of a taste for it than I originally thought. And besides, I feel like I should pay you back somehow for all the orgasms you’ve given me.”

“Orgasms, plural?” you ask. You feel like your knees are gonna give out so you sit on one of the crates nearby.

Dazai smirks. “The one in the alley, and all the times I’ve jerked off to the memory of it.”

He moves to stand in front of you, slotting himself between your legs. He fiddles with the shoulder of your shirt and asks, “So, can I?”

You grip his forearms and gently push him to his knees in response. He looks up at you with those adorably eager eyes, obediently waiting for instructions.

“Ever given a blow job before?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “I’m a quick learner,” he offers.

You don’t doubt it. Your fingers trace along his jaw, pushing gently at his lower lip. “Open for me,” you say, pressing against the seam of his lips. He does, allowing you to slip your thumb inside. You feel along the ridges of his teeth, mapping out the inside of his mouth by touch. When you press lightly against his tongue, he pushes back against you.

“So good,” you murmur. You remove your thumb and replace it with your index and middle finger. You press along his tongue, further to the back of his mouth, until you hit his gag reflex and he makes a choking sound.

“You okay?” you ask, quickly taking out your fingers.

“I want the real thing,” Dazai whines when he recovers. “Stop teasing me!”

A brat, hmm? you think to yourself. You’ll be nice to him today, but if this arrangement continues, you’ll have fun breaking him.

“Take it out then,” you say, leaning back.

Dazai eagerly unbuttons your pants and takes your cock in his hand. He looks like he’s about to just go at it, but you stop him.

“Don’t try to deepthroat, okay?” you warn. “That’s too much for your first time. I want you to take your time learning how to use your tongue and your hand to make me feel good. I’ll give you tips here and there but for the most part you should be able to tell what’s working from my reactions. Got it?”

He nods. “Good boy,” you say quietly.

Dazai looks at the cock in his hand for a minute, running his thumb along the veins before gently stroking it. He tests out a couple different speeds, settling with a slow, firm pace when he notices how it makes your breathing go shallow. A bead of precum wells at the tip, which, after a second of hesitation, he laps up.

You laugh at the way he tries to hide his grossed-out expression. “Cum tastes better,” you assure him.

He licks your cockhead again, and this time takes it into his mouth. His eyes are trained on you as he runs his tongue over it. Your hips stutter when his tongue flicks over the slit. He sinks a little lower, but his hand has stilled completely.

“Try using them at the same time,” you groan, tapping on the back of his hand to remind him it’s still wrapped around your shaft.

Dazai resumes pumping you, now pairing it with little licks and bobs of his head. You groan, hand moving to stroke the back of his head.

“That’s it, just like that,” you sigh. “Think you can take me a little deeper?”

Dazai can’t nod, but he increases how much he takes into his mouth on the next bob. You know you’re probably right against his gag reflex now, so you’re careful not to push his head.

“Fuck, Dazai,” you moan. “Your mouth… so fucking good…”

You can see him palming himself through his pants out of the corner of your eye. He lets out a little whimper at your praise, and the vibration feels incredible.

“Ngh, gonna come soon,” you warn him. “Pull off… if you want… or you can keep going.”

Dazai doesn’t change his motions, and within a few seconds you’re spilling into his mouth. “Dazai…” you moan, abs clenching hard.

When the orgasm fades out, you carefully drag your softening cock out of his mouth. His mouth is still full of your cum, like he’s not sure what to do with it.

“You can swallow or spit, I won’t be offended,” you say quickly.

He thinks about it for a second, then spits it on the ground beside him. There’s a thoughtful look in his eye as he runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth, tasting you.

“It’s not bad,” he says finally.

You tuck yourself back into your pants. “You’re right that you’re a quick learner. That was pretty good.”

“Eh, it was just my first try. I know I’ll get better with practice.” A playful look makes its way across his face. “Wanna be my tutor?”

“More than anything,” you say with a smile. You raise an eyebrow. “Does this mean you do have a taste for men after all?”

Dazai pouts. “I have a taste for you,” he clarifies. “I’m not ready to label myself yet anyway.”

You nod knowingly. “I understand! There’s no rush.”

Before you get the chance to continue the conversation, your phone pings with a reminder.

“Time for our weekly meeting, apparently,” you say, grinning. “Shall we get to it?”

Dazai grins back and stands up. “Now, where were we?”

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haztory · 1 year ago

Text

[seagirl]

⤷ kuroo tetsurou x f!reader; spider-man!au, mentions of violence, brief gore mention, exes to lovers arc, p in v smut, fingering, praise, a lot of descriptive language

⤷ summary: her underwater ecstasy, you could easily be the death of me, i swim through/ he comes to me, stuck on his knees, asking for better days

(w.c: 9.5k)

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He stands in your living room like an ill-timed memory.

Whole and vivid, he’s a flash of overdue colors and a crashing tide that overwhelms you. You blink a few times in hope that this may still be a dream; That his image will turn bleary and you’ll close your eyes enough times to realize they were never really open. That you’re in your bed waiting for the alarm to ring and the day to start as it always does.

It doesn’t happen.

The person ambling around the room is not a figment of sheepish delusions, or the product of late night fantasies, but him— a heart-wrenching familiarity in a room that has been home to him so many times before.

It’s been three months since a hue of red has disturbed your home.

He’s lit only by the warm lowlight of your lamps as the sun returns to its place of rest. The dark bruise on his face looks gaunt, and his cheekbones arch higher in the shadows. He’s hauntingly beautiful, always has been, and yet, this beauty is unfamiliar to you. He looks nothing like you remember.

Kuroo walks slowly in your living room, his trained steps light and deft on tile as he practically tiptoes around the room. As though a guard dog were sleeping in the corner of the room and one slight misstep would awaken the beast, disturb the peace and replace it with snarling roars and gnashing teeth. Force him out of the apartment entirely.

Maybe there is one—a silent protector lying in wait for the chance to jump out and bite; Chains wrapped tightly around its neck, made bloodied and raw from how tightly it’s leashed. It watches with focused eyes ready to ring the alarm at any second. It must sit largely in the corner, its presence so unmistakable that Kuroo must see it otherwise he wouldn’t be so diligent in trying to avoid the furniture. He circumvents the rug underneath your coffee table, hunches his shoulders and makes his body smaller as he sidesteps the loveseat to look quickly out the balcony sliding doors. He briefly pushes the curtains aside with one finger, surveying the darkening city with little more than a nod of acknowledgment before he returns his attention back to the room, looking around once more to see if anything has awoken by his doing.

He stills— amber eyes meet yours and he waits. Watching and waiting, waiting and watching. Stilling his movements as the predator watches its prey. Hoping for the acceptance in your space yet preparing for the barking.

It’s only when you break the gaze that he breathes. The dog rests its head on the floor.

The walls of your apartment have seen and felt Kuroo Tetsurou many times before; They have tasted his spilled blood, remain stained from it, and know of him in whole and scattered fragments—and yet he stands as a man seeing it for the first time. Perusing trinkets he knows too well, and focusing a little harder at the ones that have found their place during his absence. Acting as a stranger in the garden he helped grow.

Do you—can we do this someplace more… private?

N-no, I can’t do this—

Please? You can ask me anything, yell at me, whatever, I swear. I want to explain things, just… not here.

He had begged in the pharmacy.

All reservations you had leading up to this moment crumbled alongside the shopping basket laid abandoned by your feet—much like everything else belonging to him and you. He’s in your home and it feels like both the violation of a boundary that you have rigidly put up for safety and the final piece to a puzzle. You try not to choke around a lump in your throat.

You fight to ignore the whine of the dog and the ache that pulses your fingertips with the remembrance of him beneath your touch. A tired and worn body held tightly by lithe and lean muscles adorned with the kisses of blue and purple. Valleys and bumps, heartbeats pulsing beneath skin, it shouldn’t have changed that much in such a time— it couldn’t have. But, he looks so different in the passage of such a brief time.

Maybe his heart beats differently now, but you suppose yours does too. You hardly feel like the same person that held him close on a thundering night. Was it even you who held a warm hand under violet flowers? You wouldn’t know.

(It was you. There’s no way you could ever forget, no matter how hard you try.)

He’s standing by the coffee table when he reaches out to pick up an item on the glass surface; Some coasters lying stacked on top of each other, well loved and stained with drink. They’re recent additions to your home, hand painted and gifted by a friend from work after the success of one of your reports, but you suppose he must know that they’re new with the way he fixates.

He looks at them intently, fingers gently brushing over the acrylic surface. Tracing over the painted image with reverence, holding it tightly with a look in his eye that you can’t quite make out. But, he’s thinking— maybe too much as a minute, then two, passes. And still, he stares.

It is only after he speaks that you remember the coasters have wisteria painted on the surface.

“These are pretty.” He says, quietly.

It’s a decoy—a false coercion to ease. A knock on your door with a whisper behind its asking sound, a quiet plea to join him. You’ve already let him in, isn’t that enough? What more could he want? It’s bait.

You take it anyway. “Aoi made them.”

He nods, impressed. He holds the coaster up, waving the handiwork of your coworker gently in the air between his pointer and thumb. “Compliments to the chef.” He says, before setting it back down on the table. A gentleness in the action as though an actual flower were between his fingers, threatening to rupture at any sudden movement. “How is she?”

“Good.” You supply, simply.

He nods again. “And the job?”

“Good, too.” Even simpler.

Silence encumbers the space once more. Red, scabbed knuckles make a flash appearance that you stare at, swallow a little too thickly at. Words live and die on your tongue, the urge to break fickle silence seemingly impossible.

What could you ask him that you didn’t already know? What answers could you beg for that you weren’t already sure of? Spoken in the thick of his betrayal, truth settled on the guilt that hunches his shoulders. You don’t want to know about his life and the things he’s been up to because then it needs to be discussed.

But it ravages within you; the glaringly obvious, the bleeding heart of truth. The whining dog foams at the mouth as it barks for the taste of spilled ichor, the feel of the bone cracking between jagged teeth, and the savor of the split marrow. The dark, apoplectic fit of a yearning so deep that it tears the seams of you, screams to be held. Your want of knowing is equal if not more to the anger that has simmered within you for so long.

You could demand an apology. It would be the appropriate thing to do.

(It wouldn’t solve anything. Because he still left, and you still know why even if you lie to yourself and say that you don’t, and you both end up in the same place that you started. The hideous silence drowning you in the sanctity of your own home; Two familiar strangers trapped on a deflating raft wondering what there even was to say.)

“I read your articles.” He says, after a moment. Eyes flicker to yours, a slanted smile pulling at the corner of his lips. Genuity etched into the cracks. “The one about the wisteria tunnels was good. Really good.”

Hook pierces through you and tears through skin. Bait, bait, bait—

“Not too cheesy?” You offer quietly, eyes following red knuckles down to their place beside his body. If only to avoid his gaze.

“No.” He says earnestly. “The right amount of cheese. It was amazing. You’re amazing.”

Your body stills, rigid. You sigh and he knows. The barking commences.

“Kuroo—”

Lolling his head forward, shaking the mess of his black hair as he tries to roll the discomfort off of his body, he meets your gaze with a grimace of his own. “No, c’mon. Don’t—don’t do that. Please.” His lips are drawn in a tight line, some kind of debate playing over his features as he weighs the pros and cons of this—whatever this is. It’s infuriating, it’s misery, it puts you right back into the hole of devastation that you just finally started to see a way out of.

Eyes of deep sorrow meet your angry ones.

“That’s not my name,” Tetsurou breathes out in the empty space of your living room. He’s quiet with his words, convinced in them despite how gentle he says it. “Not with you.”

You shake your head bitterly, “You don’t get to do that anymore.”

His face furrows with a register of injury, but he doesn’t fight it. He does not mean to challenge you. He did not come with the intention to wage a war and emerge victorious— he didn’t really have much of an intentioned plan at all. Only knew that his mind froze at the sight of you and his heart lurched in a need long left unsatisfied.

The frigid cold of your stare meets the charged electric of the tense room, the atmosphere turning white and hot as it bolsters through the already fraught room, unspoken words feeding the collision of the two forces. Your breath draws more ragged, the floods rising to your neck; Kuroo stands still, certain that his next step forward will be on the wire to the ticking bomb in the room—the cause of the implosion.

(Kuroo thought he knew what the aftermath of an imploded life looked like— capitulating anger molding with deprived sleep left him a hollowed mess; Locked knee-deep in an endless vortex of must-do’s and must-be’s that resulted in nothing but a blank wall to stare at as fingers attempted to clean a mess that had no resolve. A fool tethering the same wounds, with the same tools, with the same outcome.

This is a different kind of hurt. Where home spits a poisonous rejection and burns through the still raw stitchings of patched skin. Comfort turned caustic, the remnants of good intentions showing him just how well they turned out to be. His name is no longer the reason for an amorous love, but instead the code to a blaring, bright red warning.

Bloodied and broken fingers inch forward, doing as they always do and try to fix. Like a fool.)

“Okay.” He nods in acquiescence, placating but still firm. Determined, even in the threat of your gaze that tears him apart, to mend this. He hasn’t been imagining this day for three months now to fuck it up at the slightest sense of your anger. No, he’s handled worse than this. He would handle much worse if it guaranteed him this moment, this chance. Straightening his shoulders and standing tall before you, he readies himself for impact. Bracing himself for the explosion.

He takes the step forward.

“How do you want to do this?” He says, staring a kind of serious in you that is unsettling. As though something snapped into place within the brief second, a resolve solidified. This isn’t the Tetsurou you once knew, the one who made a fool of himself in his youth; This is the one you had the unpleasant encounter with—where lightning cast a sharp silhouette around with blood pouring from gaping wounds and fear filled the room with an impenetrable stink.

That Tetsurou stands before you. Your bitterness settles like a pill stuck in your throat. “Hm, I don’t know. Maybe you should start with an apology?”

“An apology won’t fix this.” He says succinctly, a knowing within him that he has deemed unnecessary to expand on, and it infuriates you.

“Well then maybe you should have thought of that before you left.” Rage stirs your appetite. Teeth growing, snarl rising, bite less of an inhibition and much more of a possibility as you thrash against rising waters. The taste of the marrow is thick on your tongue, its source right in sight. “No phone calls, no texts, nothing. You threw me away—”

He seems affronted, as though that insinuation were an insulting one, but he has no right. It only drives your anger further the more he seems to hunker down. “I was trying to protect you.”

“You don’t protect someone by leaving them in the dark about something. By abandoning them.”

“I don’t expect you to forgive me, but you need to understand—”

“No, you need to understand what you did. The last time I saw you I thought you were going to die.”

It’s the opening of the Pandora’s Box; Hurt and all of its tendrils that you tried to shove so deep within the confines of hiding crawl up your throat, wrapping around vocal chords and choking. They weave the familiar narrative and it is as vivid as you remember it to be. The pains and aches of an abandonment that dug into the depths of your soul, the heartbreak that comes when your great love has removed himself from it entirely. Rage tainting all that you have known, a rage that you were just starting to overcome. It’s hard to tap into the person you were earlier, the one that sat at lunch smiling and light-hearted and somewhat healed from the atrocities of lost love.

Your guard has risen before the man you’ve entrusted the entirety of yourself to, its fortified walls shaking with each knock of hurt he brings to your door. “And then you left. You swore Kenma to secrecy. He wouldn’t tell me more than if you were alive or not. You could’ve given me something, anything. But you decided to act as if I didn’t exist—how could you do that to me?”

His jaw clenches, the skin above pulsing with the movement. Darkness seems to swirl around him as he says, “I told you. I put you in danger.” But you hardly notice; Hardly care to. You plow forward.

“And I told you I was safer with you. You had no right to make a choice for me, especially not one that I didn’t want. And what’s worse is that you didn’t even have to think twice about leaving me behind.”

Kuroo takes another step forward, truly insulted as he crosses the expanse of your living room in quick steps— the speed in his movements still an alarming sight even after all of this time. He’s an arm’s distance away suddenly, intensity in his stare as he defends against your jabbing strikes, defense webbed against your venom.

“That’s not even remotely true. It hurt me to let you go, more than you could ever know.”

“Did it? More than not knowing anything? You had no problem staying away.”

“I did it to save your life.” He says, firmness beneath his in the tone, his own ire rising to match yours and you roll your eyes.

“From someone who was already in police custody. Don’t say it like I should be grateful to you for it. Maybe if you involved me in the first place, maybe if I knew a little more than just you bleeding out on my couch, I’d have a little bit more sympathy for you right now.”

The explosion happens, then— the bomb sets off. Only, it was you who stepped on the wire.

Series of images that only he knows intimately flash through his mind in quick succession—hideouts, trails of blood, dirty men with dirty intentions that filled Tetsurou with a vengeance that broke Hell and lit every fiber of his being aflame. It bursts from him at that moment.

“He knew where you lived. He knew your schedule, he had a whole fucking hideout with photos of you on the walls! I was compromised and because of that, you were a target. So yeah, I made a choice for you. I cut all ties and made it clear that you and I were done so that I could make sure he and anyone else he was working with were off of your scent. So that I could protect you.”

His lived nightmare—the one he worked so hard to shield you from for the past three months— spills from his lips in a frenzied shout. There is no hesitation to his tone, conviction bleeds through and you are taken aback. He is pulled taut, a rope fraying at the edges, unraveling right before your eyes.

Tetsurou continues, “I didn’t know who was involved or how long I had so I— I panicked. I should have told you, I know that. I’ve spent the past three months knowing I did it wrong but, I’m outside your window most nights just so I can make sure that you’re safe. And you are, so far as I can tell. So that means I did what I was supposed to do and I did a good fucking job at it.”

You stare at him, wide eyed and silent. It’s all you can think to do.

It was always a possibility. One you ran through in your mind, held quietly when Kuroo’s own worries about his other job came to the forefront. Someone knowing you, knowing about your ties to him and using that against him; But a year had passed with him as Spider-Man and for all of its ups and downs, Kuroo was careful. Nothing ever came of it.

But, a hideout? Enemies, plural, knowing who you were and seeking you out?

Even if doubt wanted to wiggle within the expanse of your mind at the admission, disbelief and all of its synonymous cousins working overtime to protect you from an unfathomable reality, it’s quickly squashed at the sight of Tetsurou’s haunted eyes. Caged fear and all of its tattered belongings veiled within his gaze. And while this transgression of his is large and looming, you believe it’s cause entirely; Because Kuroo may have broken your heart, but he’s never lied to you before. He couldn’t even think to lie to you about the symptoms of a spider bite, he certainly wouldn’t lie to you now about this.

You believe him, unquestioningly. And it clicks then, like a light switch flicking, that as you have been wallowing in the ache of your loneliness, he has been navigating a world that has threatened him and you all on his own. That your life was in more danger than he had initially let on when he stumbled into your apartment, worried and frantic for your safety and he knew nothing more in his injured state other than the fact that he had to fix it.

His stupid senses of righteousness, his assumed burden to protect; Taking on the world at the tender age of twenty-three. Atlas, with his dark eyes and bruised skin, believes the threat of your safety to be his sin. One that he has exiled himself for, that has him stepping tentatively closer to you, until he’s right in front of you. And he doesn’t want to tell you these things that have kept him up at night, he hardly wanted to tell them to himself, but he knows if there is any way for him to win this—to make you see— then he’ll have to concede something.

“I’m not— I’m smart but I’m not—I’m not good at this stuff. Okay? I don't know how to be him and also be yours. But, he knew your name.” Tetsurou’s voice cracks with desperation. “And yeah, I could’ve done a hundred things differently, but it wouldn’t have mattered because of how scared I was. I was willing to do anything to make sure you were safe.”

The first piece to your cracked walls falls.

His fingertips lift up, padded fingers tracing your jaw, and it’s exactly as you remember. Heavy and sweet, the familiar touch satiating a dormant urge that has awoken only at his doing. You lean into it without realizing, the feel of his comfort sticking to you like caramel. The sticky sugar of him pulls in closer no matter how hard your mind tries to chew your way out of it. You're stuck in the tar, mouth closed, voice silent, heart fluttering.

His thumb sweeps across your cheek, his hand fitting against your skin like it never left. Warmth seeping in, blending the eternally blurred lines. A gentle force has your chin pulling upward, amber eyes meeting yours, like they always do. Finding you in a crowd of hundreds just as they do in the darkness of your living room. Meeting your gaze with little effort and boring into you, giving you ample opportunity to witness the throes of the brewing hurricane in his irises.

Its hurtling towards you, the arms of its winds already wrapping around your wrists, your neck, your lungs. You’re inhaling its scent—musky and warm, the fading smell of a well-loved aftershave and damned latex. Tetsurou stares at you, and you stare at him, and it’s a fool’s game to think you’re anywhere but knee-deep in the eye of the storm.

“I will do anything to keep you safe.” He says, determination and all of its implications weigh on you.

His stare trails. Skirts across the features of your face as though he’s studying. It’s a quick flicker down to your lips and your heart leaps emphatically. He hears it, he must, because he’s then looking back to you and stops there. Parks his wandering gaze right into you and waits. He’s unconstrained, open, pleading for you to look and see; Find the answer in the ways that only you can find within him.

“I couldn’t lose you.” Tetsurou brushes the underside of your lip with his thumb. His voice is low, low enough to rumble through his chest and into you. “I can’t lose you.”

You knew the moment he left why he did. Remember his words like a repeating lullabye as you run over them in your mind before bed, the desperation in his tone withering away the stone walls of your heart, the begging crumblings of letting him back in. Forgiving him is excusing the pain and the anger that tore through you, that left you cracked open and raw. You try to insist that within you, hammer that truth in with rusty nails in hopes that it will stick.

But you're drowning in the deep waters of anguish that he has flooded your apartment with, fighting life and limb against the beatings of caged desire that begs to reach out to him. Maybe, if you close your eyes hard enough you can shield yourself from the certainty of his gaze that the whimsies of romance try to convince you of and you can stand firm. You can open them and realize that this is all a dream that you had hoped it was at the beginning of this whole thing.

Maybe you could believe in that harrowed truth enough to have it buoy you to safety. A life preserver that whisks you away from the familiar touch of his hands that meld into your skin and drag you into the depths of his waters.

You can remember his wrongs and try to do right by the girl that sat hurt and alone for three months. (Not alone, never alone. He was there; Watching, waiting. Ensuring your safety from a distance, checking through a widow.

Loving you from afar in the only way that he could.)

“I wish you trusted me.” You whisper, and it’s not an invitation for forgiveness, but he shifts closer anyway. Lowlights of the room dance across his features, the shadows suiting him as they blend him half into the light and half into the darkness. What isn’t spoken is the hearty truth that lingers in the air. I wish I trusted you now.

Suddenly, his nose bumps into yours. Lips brush against yours and they part on instinct, puzzle pieces inching to find their unity once more. Mouths dancing, breaths mingling, one push and it would be the reunion of a past that is held up only by the misery of yearning.

You want it, know deep within the parts that belong to him that he does too. He’s chasing it, looking for what once was his. His alter-ego isn’t one of the past, not one that he intends to give up anytime soon. Kuroo has never been a quitter, and you doubt as he pushes past blurring lines and unspoken boundaries that this is the indication that he’s willing to turn over a new leaf.

He still wants both, still wants to be in the light and the dark, wants the normalcy of a life with you with the suit of red and blue. (And maybe, just maybe, a compromise could be struck; Balance could be found, with the growing pains. He could do both, don the mask and make time for you. You could enjoy the moments with him without pouring so much of yourself into him, the tiny voice of your heart whispers in your ear.

Maybe.)

“You should go.” You say, lips brushing his as your mouth moves to draw the line in the sand. The shattered pieces that were begging to finally be glued together drop to the floor.

It’s hard to convince yourself that this is what you want, especially when he feels like sweet release in your hands, your mind finally feeling quiet in the warmth of his touch. It’s a betrayal against the deepest parts of your romantic self to deny this homecoming, but you do it anyway. Pulling away from his touch just slightly to stay firm.

It’s a minute before he finally nods. It’s absent of surety, instinctual almost, as he collects himself amidst the swarming tides of his thoughts. He parts, feet taking slow and heavy steps away from you. His thumb rubs across scabbed knuckles, hardly minding the pangs of pain that accompany as he picks and prods at his peeling skin. The jabs of sharp hurt macabrely steadying him as he wades through the sea of his own longing— intently hoping to push it to the side for this, for you.

“Yeah. Okay.” He says quietly, like he too has forgotten himself and is trying to piece himself together once more.

His departure is slow moving, the disentangling of an entwined tar removing itself from the tether, an even harder fest the second time around— but he manages. Gathering himself, he steps towards your apartment door, opening it before halting and sparing one more glance towards you. Searching for something, trying to find it in your apartment, in you.

But you steel yourself, hold firm on this. Forgiveness is not given, it is earned—even for him.

“I want—” He begins before grimacing and shaking his head, “I would like to explain more. If you want. I know we’re not— I have to put the work in to get you to trust me again, and I want to do it.”

He shuffles in place, door adjusting with his movement, “Can I take you out for dinner? Try to do this the right way?”

And you should say no, should slam the door in his face for coming into your home, touching your things, yelling at you and crossing boundaries all within the same night. But even as your anger has risen at the confrontation of the past, at the poor attempts of mending, he has equally placated them. And you hate him for it, hate the fact that even though you haven’t seen him for three months, you’re still just as in tune with him as you were when he left.

This is a fine line between healing and dangerous territory— it could be the closure you need, the step forward to clarity. Or a warning. You fold your arms into yourself, deciding on the boundary at that moment, as shaky as it may be within your mind.

This cannot happen again; He cannot come into your home, touching you, breathing life into you when you have been wasted for so long. Pieces of the past cannot be picked up after they have laid abandoned for so long. For as long as you continue to look at Kuroo and see the wreckage that lies between you, things cannot be as they once were. Where you were a silly girl in head over heels for a stupid boy, reactionary to the ebbs and flows of a relationship that hadn’t known what steady ground was since the bite of the spider. It wasn’t a way to live, it wasn’t the way to be with someone.

Things need to be rewritten, dismantled and put back together. Etched anew. You are not who you once were three months ago, you look at him with too much distrust to be. He is not who he once was, his eyes are too sad to be.

“I won’t promise you that I’ll trust you again.” You tell him and a deep breath racks his shoulders, “But I want to hear you out. As a friend.”

Tetsurou stares for a moment, understanding the words written between the lines of your statement. The line drawn in the sand. He weighs the options for a moment before eventually nodding, seemingly satisfied with that answer. Better to have you than not at all. “Yeah, that’s… that’s good. I’ll text you, we can figure out the details later.”

“As friends.” You repeat, unsure if it was meant to be a convincing reminder to him or yourself.

“As friends.” He confirms. He gives you one last long look before he leaves your home. The water that choked you all evening receding with his exit.

You had hoped in the crevices and cruxes of your mind as your entire world was tilted on its axis the moment that Tetsurou made his appearance, that you would be able to find your footing once he left. That your breath would come back to you in a way that it was pointedly thinned from your lungs— that peace could be found in the same way that you were just starting to become acquainted with it without your ex. This does not happen; As the apartment is submerged in silence, leaving only you in its embrace, you find that air doesn’t come back to you. If anything, you choke even more. Stand achingly still as your apartment becomes as it once was and settles emptily.

Even with the fire that he dredged forth, even the hurt that beat against the cages of your chest, even as you found the urge to yell and yell and never stop yelling at him—you can’t deny the truth that remains and rattles in the hollows of your mind.

You missed him. The way he spoke, how he filled your room, how his eyes found yours and stared an eternity into them. And maybe that’s the problem with first loves— the ghosts of them will always haunt the space of your heart, phantoms entwining around arteries and veins, infusing in your blood. But this is more than a rose-tinged ardor and a childish squabble; This is life and death, his and your own. And it cannot be regarded as anything but that, even if you want nothing more than to run out into the hallway and call after him.

You put that desire down, leaving it in the cage with all the other locked up hurts you hold of he and you, deciding it is a problem for another day. You force yourself to shift gear, turning to your bathroom in need of a shower to wash away all of the strain of the day, all of its exhaustion—

A knock resounds throughout the apartment. A beat passes, then two as its echo rings throughout the space.

You stare at it, wondering for a moment if it is your brain playing with you. If somehow you hadn’t locked that desire up tight enough and it was now at your door, toying with your hearing. A shadow filters underneath the door, a shuffling of feet.

You know what’s on the other side without having to look.

There’s a million reasons not to do something, pages and pages of entries in your castaway diary that depict the woes of your heart in the time that Kuroo had abandoned it—all of it’s waxing poetry serving as a poignant explanation as to why you should not open the door. But something tells you to open it, something smaller and sanguine—plumes of billowing hope that curdle in your stomach and float through you like an intoxicating smoke. Filling your lungs on the inhale, decadent exhaust that burns the nicotine, spreading the burning high.

Your hand is on the knob before you have much of a realization.

And he’s there.

Eyes inked with a steady fortitude, filled with an intensity saved for moments where you imagine the other guy comes to play, saved for the moments when he’s hellbent on getting you to see him. He stands at your doorway, lit under the harshness of the fluorescent hallway lights, chest rising and falling with the heaviness of his breaths.

And it calls to you—that craving for the marrow, the barking that rings throughout your ears. It isn’t for the truth of words—it’s for him.

Really, he should be a better person and commit to the drive that led him to leave for three months, his need to keep you safe; Commit to the boundary that you have placed, the one that says I’m not ready to forgive you, the one that dresses you in caution tape and blinks in flashing red lights to avoid lest he do as he’s done before and try to fix things like a fool.

(A fool in love.)

But it tugs at him, pulls him to his knees when you meet him with your eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed. Confusion, curiosity, and something pouring into you. He’s neck deep in the throes of longing just at the sight of you and that third element, that fickle something that he knows better than anyone else. He should be a better person and walk away, do as you have asked and respect boundaries. But then you say his name, a whisper on your tongue, like how you used to speak to him. And he realizes that he’s already done his time in being a better person. Three months of denying all he has wanted for the sake of protection.

He’ll indulge in selfishness, just this once.

Greedy with his intentions, desperate for you; Ready to drown.

His hand is on the wood veneered door pushing it wider. His heart races in his chest as he realizes you put up no resistance in his doing so. A decision is made, absent of logic, truant of any remorse.

“We will never be just friends.” He says, voice laden and heavy with that third thing that sparks a glint in your own eyes—want.

His lips are pressing to yours, rushing forward and slamming the door closed behind him in quick succession. A muffled whimper escapes your lips as you fall into old habit. The rough parting of plushness for a ravenous taste that stokes the embers of a desire hardly contained. And suddenly, his waters are rising around your ankles again, his own feet dragging against the force of its push and pull. Salty spray splattering against him, his clothes heavy with the damp and he’s sinking.

(Even if you hate him, even if you push him away, at least you’re there—alive.

He should fight and climb his way to survival, it’s the one thing he’s good at after all. But he doesn’t. This could easily be his death, headstone laid at your feet, the key to his coffin in your palm.

There is no part of him that hasn’t been tethered to you in the formations of love and remained resilient in the absence of you; He is and has been yours, entirely. And that was precisely the issue; For where he ended, you began. There was no better danger to him than you. And now, there is no greater danger to you than him.

The taste of you is just as he remembered.)

Kuroo kisses as if this is how he could explain things.

He pours all of his ferocity into the action, eagerly laps up the savory of the needing touches and the sweetness of bared soul, as it pours out and in. Joined into one, lines blurred, delineation a fool’s game. When wrapped in the throes of your embrace, the parting of your lips is all too addicting, and submission isn’t a threat but a promise of more.

He digs his teeth into the plump and pulls, losing the fight with his feelings when a whimper erupts from your mouth and even more lost when you push into him with equal fervor. Your hands are rushing up to his hair and tugging on the strands, pulling him closer into you if that were even possible. His hands find their place on your waist, finding solace when you fit against him in the exact way that he remembers. Joy coursing through the rushing blood when his fingers dig into plush skin, craving hardly satiated but instead, amplified.

It’s desperate, and mean, and hard, and consuming and it's the greatest thing he’s ever had. Flurried limbs pulling each other together, gripping on skin in calloused moans and tugging movements. Your tongues taste one another, licking into the open in wet fervor. A whine is exhaled when your mouths pull apart that is quickly replaced with bliss when his teeth sink into your neck, lapping over your tender pulse point in the way he knows your body responds best. Your nails dig into his biceps, the fabric of his shirt tugging upward.

This dance is familiar and that makes it that much more exciting, like an inactive muscle being stretched out. He’s pushing you both further into the room, fingertips trailing at your waistband, silently asking as he sucks another mark into your neck. You beat him to it, pulling pants and underwear down in one quick movement, your heart pumping erratically as you fall on the couch, onto the buoy keeping you above the rising tide. He’s moving in tandem, your own shirt falling to your floor in abandon.

Revealed to you is a pantheon of scars that decorate the lean and lithe muscle of his chest as you settle on the sofa. Some old, faded to the color of his skin, others new, pink and raw. Your fingers are drawn to them, running over the numerous marks that bisected skin, that make constellations against his ribcages.

Atlas stares down at you, deep breaths racking his chest. “What happened to you?” You ask quietly, fingers finding a particularly jagged mark that runs from the right side of his ribcage down to his belly button. Two pale pink scars lining either side of its division— claws. His stomach tenses beneath your touch.

The worry seen in your eyes ignites a heated passion in him, the held suppression that you still care driving him forward once more.

“Later. We can talk about it later.” Invigorated, he leans back down, capturing your lips in another kiss and running his tongue on the curl of them. His hands move on their own accord, long fingers gripping beneath your knees and hiking your legs upward, exposing the wet and slickened part of your sex to the eager grind of his hard length poking through his jeans. Denim meets your sex and the rough fabric pulls a broken moan from your occupied lips as it grinds against the wet of your folds. Rubbing coarsely into your sensitive bud. His fingers find their place there soon after, splitting your seam and gathering enough wetness at your entrance to roll it over your clit, swirling his finger around the pearl in the way he knows you like it best.

There comes great advantage to being with a man for as long as you were with Kuroo. His expertise ignites the beginning rapture with a speed unlike any other. Fingers playing with your sex in ways that you’ve never been able to replicate on your own, driving your want higher, tightening the coil that burns with delectable heat in your stomach as his tongue licks into your mouth. Your breaths are heavy, lips disconnecting with him as you find yourself distracted in pleasure, a trail of spit stretching between you.

It’s when he slips a long skilled finger inside of you that you throw your head back. He makes quick work, attaching with eagerness to the column of your throat, suckling marks into the juncture of your jaw and neck. He knows where the spot lies, knows how to have your mind fogging up and your mouth opening in stupor.

And you hate it; You hate that he knows what to do and how to do it to get you so malleable underneath him. You’re putty in his hands and it's the essence of everything that you have been warning yourself of. He could ask you anything, tell you anything, and in the embrace that has been yearned for, it wouldn’t take much for you to do whatever it is that he asked.

You would do more to stop this were you not locked in the throes of pleasure—but he feeds the beaten dog so well.

A second finger enters you and you moan.

“That’s it. I wanna hear it, baby.” The huskiness of his voice pants a hot breath against the side of your neck. “Please let me hear it.”

“Tetsurou—” You manage to bite out just as his fingers curl upward, stroking against the spongy spot of your front wall. A dull fuzzy pressure begins to fill your body.

“You gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” He asks, his thumb working in tandem with his two pumping fingers to rub hard circles against your clit. “You gonna let me taste it?”

His nose presses into your cheek, lips placing a loving kiss against the surface as you nod, emphatically. He breathes, enamored with the feel of your walls clenching around his fingers, drunk off of the faint smell of your perfume, and the salt of your skin. He knows an orgasm is hardly the way to fixing things, but he’ll be damned if he won’t try. Rising on his unoccupied arm, he hovers himself above you, studying the contortion of your face. Your face, gorgeous as it scrunches in response to his ministrations; Beyond beautiful in all of its existence, when you're smiling, skin pushing on the apples of your cheek; In sleep, resting and relaxed; In your fury, furrowed and gritted as you yell at him, give him your poison and vexation, deliver an acrimony that he can only kneel before— entrenched in all of your holy.

Your eyes remain closed, sealed in bliss as he strums the familiar crescendo and as satisfying as it is to see, he wants more. Wants to see you.

He says your name in reverence, “Look at me.”

Blown pupils meet his own and it's the final stretch. Heart escalating, fingers clenching, your thighs closing around his forearm to stave off the impending blow and all of its glory. He doesn’t stop, instead he keeps your gaze, dropping his mouth to your chest and sucking a nipple into it. Laving over the sensitive skin, setting nerves tender as he maintains his steady pace with his fingers.

And it comes; The sharp inhale of breath, the tumbling of his name, the peak of the long awaited happiness. Your fingers find home in gripping his arms, the one beside your head and the other between your thighs, still stroking an even stride through the pulsing of your gummy walls and the gush of wetness from you.

It's convulsing and dizzying, you almost don’t believe that it's happening as euphoria washes over you. Tetsurou hovers over you, sliding his fingers from you and immediately putting them in his mouth, sucking the taste of you off of the digits.

Were you not already pulsing with the aftershocks of an orgasm, the sight of his eagerness would have pushed you over the ledge. It's pathetic really how Kuroo does to you what no other person can. Set you aflame with the paradoxical sisters of lust and anger. The emotions of Mars, emboldened in intensity by his doing, are further impassioned as he stands on his knees, stare blown wide as he pushes your thighs apart once more. His gaze transfixed on the mess he’s made of your sex, the length of his cock twitching in arousal the longer that he looks.

“There she is,” he says to himself, adjusting your knees further up until they’re hitting your chest. His hands grab underneath you, pulling your exposed pussy closer to him. He fists himself, a pearly bead of precum smearing over the red and leaking tip, pushing it forward so that the head of his cock bumps into the sensitive nub of you with each swipe against his length. Shocking you into the desire, building the anticipation once more. “This perfect pussy.”

He’s lost, stuck in the reverie as he stares at you and it eats you alive. To be so desired, so wanted by a man you were convinced hadn’t wanted you anymore.

“Tetsu,” Your voice is ragged and broken, propriety abandoned in the glow of the coital haze. You breathe and he seems reminded of where he is, a glaze in his own eyes. Kuroo leans down after a moment, reminding himself of what he’s meant to do. His lips find yours in a gentle peck as he breathes in your exhale.

“Tell me. Please.” He swirls the head of his cock at your entrance, gathering your slick on him but waiting. “Tell me what you want. Tell me you want this.”

It feels like you're floating in the waters, no longer drowning or at risk of sinking, but instead light and loose on its surface. No longer made an enemy of its tides but the lover, kissed with each lap of its waves. If you close your eyes you can hear the water crashing against the shore. The waves that crumble the high rise of your stone walls, their wreckage falling into the sea. You can feel that it's Kuroo’s hands underneath you keeping you afloat, holding you still. Can pretend that everything is right once more.

Your eyes shut in hope, the promise of tomorrow within reach. The words are spoken before you have any sense otherwise. Sober wants and the repressed truth voiced in a split second.

“I want it so bad. I want you. Please, please—”

It’s all he needs, all he wants. Not the sex, forget the sex, but you—wanting him, asking for him. A revival of the shredded beating threads of a tender heart. He pushes into you, the hefty weight of his member filling you in the ways that are so familiar yet need the most adjustment. The burning stretch, the feeling of being whole as he moves forward, inch by aching inch. Slowly letting you adjust, slowly giving himself the time to fit.

He pauses his movement, a grunt, heavy and man, releases from his mouth. The wet heat of your walls choking him, wrapping around him like a vice that sets every neuron, every pathway alight. He digs his fingers into the soft of you tugging you closer in search of the home he knows, the one that will bring him to his death. In your embrace, it would be kind, long-awaited, the better alternative to the threat that he faces every night on the street.

He stills his hips, letting you acclimate to the feel of him inside of you. Conversely, he tries to catch his breath, tries to not burst at the first feel of your tightness around him.

Tetsurou looks down at you, his hands smoothing up and down the expanse of your spread thighs as he watches the quick flicks of emotion on your face. Waiting for the signal, the green light to roll into you.

Your chest heaves with a stuttered breath, your breasts rising and falling and he falls into the impulse to bring his hands to them. Palms cupping the skin, thumbs brushing over peaked and taught nipples. Your skin is dewy with sweat, eyes blown with lust, and hair messy as you lie beneath him. Beautiful, beyond beautiful. He takes a snapshot of you in his mind, folding this image in the file for the late night thoughts, for the reasons to keep living.

Your face contorts into one of shock, eyes darting to his own, disrupting the image of ecstasy you were once so lost in. He mirrors your surprise with a look of confusion, unsure what happened in the split second to cause such a look from you.

“What did you say?” You ask, rising onto your elbows, shifting his place inside of you ever so slightly.

He hisses with the movement, hands rushing down to your hips to hold you still. He can’t think with the jolting, the hot lick of pleasure that burns within him at the slightest of shifting from you, but he tries anyway. Recalling the previous couple of seconds, wondering what could have slipped out of his mouth in the few moments that he was gazing down at you, staring in awe as you writhed underneath him.

“I’m so in love with you.”

It isn’t the most jarring of things to have ever been said by him, this evening alone enough of a reminder of the kinds of outrageous that his occupation can bring, but it’s the breach of a reality. The actualization of something fragile that lies between you two. It is easier to be abhorrently angry at him rather than violently in love with Tetsurou, and yet it remains.

Like a hidden secret, you kept it locked in you. Tried to stampen it out, snuff it with hands around its throat. But here he is, on his knees, just as victimized by the truth, begging for better days.

He rolls into you, then. Energized by his own admission, eager at the locking of your eyes. He pumps a steady rhythm, cock bullying against tight walls and rubbing in all the right ways, revitalized at the moans that spill out of you.

“I said I’m in love with you,” Palms release your breasts and find your own hands, intertwining fingers together and leaning close to you. Chest to chest, mouth hovering above your own, chasing the home of sweet release but making sure you’re right in front of him. “So fucking in love with you.”

It happens in quick succession. Pressure erupting, tide pulling you in and under, his voice the only tether to the surface as your orgasm reached you in record time. Brought asunder by the turmoil, the anticipation of him, and then finally having it. You can’t tell if it's because of the ministrations of his hips that know you so well, that know how to bring you forward— thighs pressing into yours, skin clapping at the repeated meeting of him into you, the tightening of the burning coil— or the confession. Spoken just as he has said everything else to you—

With conviction, firmly believing the words he has uttered. Kuroo has never lied to you, he wouldn’t do it now.

The blooming fire in your core spreads throughout the entirety of you; Your head throws back in a cry and Kuroo takes it as permission to follow you. Drops his head into your neck, thrusting with deep abandon as he finds his own peak. He digs and digs, burying himself to the hilt as he reaches it. His stomach tightening, his body going rigid as the high he seeks renders him still deep within you. A guttural moan leaving his mouth, unintelligible whispers, low muttered honesty that he means for himself.

He holds you close to him in the wake of the decrescendo, all but collapsing on top of you. Limbs gummy and soft, minds sluggish as he keeps you connected to him, for as long as you’ll let him.

Time passes like this, held close to him, sweat gluing you back to him in the way it was always meant to be.

And it's sticky, this mess that you're in, body and mind. Clinging to one another, your hands unthread with his fingers to run through his hair, his lips plant soft kisses to the skin that he can reach, and the fragments of uncertainty between you lay shattered in their great glory on the floor. The tide slowly rises, washing away the scattered pieces, returning it back to its sea, promising to take care of it all with a loving whisper.

You don’t know where to go from here. The abated fear that was put to rest in the heat of his touch slowly inches forward. He knows it must, can probably sense your rising apprehension before you even realize it. Spider senses, and whatnot.

His head rises from laying in the space between the couch and your neck, ambers looking into yours. Honestly, carefully, lovingly.

He brings his hand up, brushing a flyaway from your face. “What are you thinking about?” The quiet plea from before.

Let me in.

“Are you going to leave when I go to sleep?” You ask, and even if you had the energy to muster a kind of bite to your words, you don’t have the desire to.

He wonders for a second, voice soft when he finally questions, “Do you want me to?”

Old habits beat the familiar song, and you fear waking up again to an empty apartment after having him so close. No, you don’t want him to leave; But admitting that is jumping four hundred steps ahead in a wasteland now imploded from your coupling with him. Nothing about this is normal, even as you try to grasp some semblances of it. You shouldn’t have slept with your ex-boyfriend, not when you told yourself things needed to be patched up first, not when you were still hurt inside, but falling into the cycle, the old song and dance of before has thrown a wreck into the healthy attempt at boundaries.

It’s just made everything so much worse. Your head hurts, your heart pounds and all you can do is cover your face with your hands. Hiding the frustration before him.

“Hey,” Tetsurou coos, admonishing you gently from your secreting. His hands pull yours away from your face, voice guiding the quieting din in your mind. “I’d like to stay. We can talk all night or not at all. I just want to be next to you. But only if you want me.”

It’s up to you; All of this is up to you, now.

“And if I say ‘no’?”

“Then I’ll wait until you’re ready. Even if you’re never ready.”

You hum, a means to fill the space. Uncertainty lingering.

He calls your name quietly, the same seriousness that has been following him all evening in his gaze again. The kind that pointedly was not apparent three months ago before the rainy night. “You need to know though, before we start anything, before you make a decision, if it comes down to it—if your safety is on the line—I’ll do it again. I’ll do whatever it takes. And you can’t change my mind on it.”

It’s then that you realize even in the height of your argument, in the consuming of one another, Tetsurou never gave you an apology. Said to your face it wouldn’t fix anything because he wasn’t going to apologize to you. Saying he’s sorry would be a lie, and he doesn’t lie to you. He’ll hurt you both again if he needs to. If it comes to pass, that’s his answer; Wherever you’re concerned, if your safety is at risk, there isn’t much Tetsurou wouldn’t do to protect it—protect you.

A knowing that you are going to have to accept. And quickly.

Your eyes see only but the honorable truth in his. Your heart pumps erratically and your mouth craves the taste of his once more.

“Stay. I want you to stay.”

a/n: its here. two long years later. big thanks to everyone who loves this series and has been interested even after my long ass hiatus. you guys are the reason i kept going through it even through the worst of things. love you all! btw i made a whole ass playlist just for this chapter so let me know if that's something we are interested in

#haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo smut #kuroo tetsurou smut #kuroo tetsurou angst #hq angst #hq smut #spideroo!

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bradleysass · 1 month ago

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ok so this is my original idea for the death prompt for @/black-brothers-microfic. But it expanded too far. Word Count: 2.1k - CW: Panic attack, death, blood

James remembers the three of them in Sirius’s car, speeding down the highway. The faint strains of Travis Scott’s “90210” played in the background, almost drowned out by their chatter. They were planning a trip down the coast the following week. Regulus had always dreamed of seeing the beach. Sirius, ever the free spirit, had been eager to feel the sand between his toes.

It never gets easier thinking about death. Especially if it’s about someone close to you. You imagine someone living a long life filled with adventure or simplicity. You never consider them dying before their dreams or wishes come true.

James learned this the hard way. The memory of that fateful day haunts him, like a ghost that follows him wherever he goes. The smells of burnt rubber and gasoline plague his senses, a vivid reminder of what he lost.

James, Regulus, and Sirius had been returning from a performance by the London Symphony Orchestra. Regulus loved violins; you could see him subtly mimicking the motions of the musicians during the performance. It was one of the many things James loved about him—the way he immersed himself so deeply in the things he cherished. Sirius, on the other hand, had fallen asleep halfway through the concert. Classical music wasn’t his thing, but his love for his younger brother was enough to get him there. His snores during intermission had drawn amused, and sometimes annoyed, glances from the crowd.

James’s thoughts jerk back to the present just in time to see a speeding car hurtling through a crosswalk. He sidesteps instinctively, muttering under his breath, “I may be depressed, but I don’t want to die. Damn people.”

The street is busy, but his mind wanders again.

The performance had ended, and the three of them stood outside the theater among a crowd of well-dressed patrons waiting for their valets. Luckily for them, Sirius had driven and parked a bit down the street, avoiding the chaos.

“Wasn’t that amazing? The way they weaved so much emotion into it,” Regulus had said, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. James had always adored that look, the spark of pure, untainted joy. It was a rarity in someone like Regulus, who’d lost so much of himself to the world’s cruelty.

Sirius had quipped, “Yeah, and one of those performers looked like they were bored to death.”

Regulus had smacked his brother on the shoulder, a soft laugh escaping his lips. James had smiled, watching the brothers bicker playfully.

But that evening…

It became a blur.

James can almost see it now: the brothers running along the shoreline, splashing water at each other like children. He imagines Regulus’s soft laugh as he drenched Sirius, who’d retaliate with mock indignation, hurling clumps of wet sand. But that image is nothing more than a false memory—a fantasy of something that will never be.

He steps into a coffee shop, the familiar chime of the doorbell grounding him momentarily. Remus is behind the counter, his barista apron slightly askew. James makes a beeline for him, knowing there’s a free cup of coffee waiting. Since the accident, Remus has insisted on it, though he often pairs the gesture with concerned remarks about James needing professional help. Today is no different.

“You can’t keep ignoring this,” Remus says, handing over the steaming cup.

James waves him off. The idea of therapy feels like a cruel joke. Instead, he retreats to a table in the back corner, seeking solitude.

As he sits, the memories rush back with cruel precision. One moment, they’re laughing, discussing beach plans. The next, a car slams into them. The impact is a jumbled mess in his mind, an incoherent nightmare. James remembers regaining consciousness slowly, his vision swimming as the smell of blood and gasoline filled the air.

Sirius’s face is the first thing he sees, streaked with blood, shards of glass embedded in his skin. Panic claws at James as he forces his battered body to move. He turns painfully, his broken arm screaming in protest, to see Regulus slumped in the back seat. His velvety black hair is soaked with blood.

James’s breaths come in shallow gasps as he tries to free himself from the seatbelt cutting into his chest. He fumbles with the latch, his hands shaking uncontrollably, and finally manages to release it. He turns his focus to Sirius, gently slapping his face in a desperate attempt to wake him. There’s no response.

“Sirius, please,” James whispers, his voice breaking. He turns to Regulus, trying to rouse him, but it’s no use. The song playing on the radio, “90210,” skips and glitches, repeating the line, “Baby is hooked on feeling low.”

That line stays with James. It’s like a cruel mantra, echoing in his mind when he’s alone.

James grips his coffee cup tightly, staring blankly at the table. The memory is a wound that refuses to heal. He’s alive, but the weight of that night makes him feel like he’s only half a person. The ghosts of Sirius and Regulus haunt him, their laughter and dreams now nothing more than echoes in his mind.

A loud squeak pierces his thoughts. James glances up sharply to see Remus dragging a chair from another table, settling across from him.

The soft strains of "Heartbeats" by Aron Wright play through the coffee shop speakers. The melody stirs something deep within James, and silent tears slip down his cheeks before he can stop them. He doesn’t bother wiping them away.

“Remus...” James’s voice cracks. “I miss them every day.”

“Hanging by a thread Waiting for a hand to pull me up Falling down instead Nowhere left to land,”

The song croons softly, each word piercing James’s already fragile heart.

Remus reaches across the table, his hand warm and steady as it covers James’s trembling one. “James, it’s okay to feel this way. You just need someone to talk to... You can’t deal with this grief alone.”

James scoffs, a bitter, hitching laugh escaping him. “I don’t need therapy, Moony. I just need coffee and to be left alone.” He pulls his hand away, the gesture sharp and dismissive.

Remus’s eyes cloud with disbelief, but he doesn’t press further. Instead, he leans back in his chair, his presence a silent reassurance. He doesn’t leave James alone, even though the latter clearly wants solitude. The two sit in silence, the only sounds the soft music and the hum of the coffee shop around them.

But in the silence, James’s mind betrays him again. He’s back in the car, the scene replaying in vivid, brutal detail. He remembers the adrenaline surging through him as he limped out of the wreckage, his leg dragging awkwardly behind him though he hadn’t yet realized it was broken. His limp, broken arm hung uselessly by his side as he staggered to Regulus’s door.

“Please,” James had whispered hoarsely, his fingers scrabbling at the handle. “Please, God, let him be okay. He’s my everything... he’s only seventeen...”

It took every ounce of strength he had to pry the door open. His eyes scanned Regulus for injuries, desperate to take stock. Shards of glass jutted from Regulus’s arm, and a thin trickle of blood escaped from his mouth. The sight made James’s stomach churn, but he swallowed his panic, forcing himself to remain calm. He reached out with trembling fingers, brushing against Regulus’s arm, then his cheek.

His heart dropped.

Regulus’s skin was cold.

“No,” James whispered, shaking his head as tears stung his eyes. “No, no, no...” He stifled a sob, biting down hard on his lip to keep his composure. He fumbled for his phone, his hands shaking as he dialed 911. The operator’s voice was distant, muffled by the sound of his own frantic breathing and the blood pounding in his ears.

James’s gaze darted back and forth between Regulus and Sirius, his mind racing with panic. He couldn’t lose them both. He clutched the phone to his ear, barking out their location to the operator while his free hand reached to check Regulus’s pulse. It was faint—so faint he wondered if he was imagining it. A flicker of hope sparked in his chest, but it was accompanied by overwhelming dread.

As the sound of distant sirens grew louder, James tried to stay focused. “Hang on,” he whispered to both of them, his voice cracking. “Help’s coming.” But deep down, he felt the crushing weight of helplessness.

The memory dissipates, leaving James staring at the now-empty coffee cup in front of him. His hands tremble slightly as he tries to steady his breathing. Remus is still there, his quiet presence a lifeline James isn’t ready to acknowledge.

As Remus’s break ends, he stands up and gives James a small wave, his gaze lingering with quiet concern. “I’ll be at the counter if you need anything,” he says softly, his tone gentle but firm.

James nods vaguely, his focus turning inward. For a fleeting moment, he feels as though he’s regaining control. He steadies his breathing, grounding himself with the warmth of the coffee cup between his hands.

But then, as if the universe conspired against him, the soft opening chords of “90210” filter through the coffee shop speakers. The sound triggers an immediate, visceral reaction in James. His chest tightens, his breath becomes shallow, and flashes of that harrowing night flood his mind.

The fluorescent lights of a hospital room blind his mental vision. He sees doctors rushing around, shouting terms he doesn’t understand. The sterile, metallic scent of blood and antiseptic fills his nostrils. He can hear the beeping of machines—machines that couldn’t save Sirius, machines that couldn’t save Regulus. The scene plays in fragments, each one more unbearable than the last: the look of grim determination on the doctors’ faces, the lifeless pallor of Regulus’s skin, the moment the sound of the heart monitor flatlining echoes in the room.

James clutches at his chest, trying to suppress the panic clawing its way through him. His vision blurs, and the coffee shop around him seems to tilt and spin. He’s suffocating, drowning in memories he can’t escape.

Through the haze, a figure moves toward him. It’s like slow motion—the sound of footsteps muffled, the hum of the coffee shop fading into the background. Remus is there again, crouching down beside James, his face etched with worry.

“James,” Remus says firmly, his hands reaching out to gently steady James’s trembling ones. “James, look at me. Breathe.”

James tries to focus on him, but the flashes keep coming. “I—” he stammers, his voice breaking. “I can’t— Remus, they’re gone, and I couldn’t— I couldn’t save them.”

Remus shakes his head, his grip firm but comforting. “James, listen to me. You’re here. You’re safe. Just take a deep breath. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Come on, with me.”

James squeezes his eyes shut, tears streaming freely down his face now. He mimics Remus’s breathing, shaky at first, but gradually the tightness in his chest begins to loosen. The vivid memories recede slightly, leaving a raw ache in their place.

The song continues to play softly in the background, its lyrics slicing through the air like a cruel reminder. James hiccups a sob, burying his face in his hands. “I can still hear it,” he whispers. “That stupid song. It was playing when—when it happened.”

Remus doesn’t respond immediately. He just stays there, grounded and unwavering, his presence a steady anchor in James’s turbulent sea of grief. After a moment, he moves to sit beside James in the booth, their shoulders just barely touching.

“You don’t have to face this alone,” Remus says quietly. His voice is steady, but there’s a hint of emotion breaking through. “I know it feels impossible right now, but we’ll get through this. Together.”

James doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t pull away either. For now, that’s enough.

The song fades into the next track, and the world slowly comes back into focus. The other patrons in the coffee shop seem oblivious to the storm that just passed. James exhales shakily, leaning back against the seat, his body still trembling slightly.

Remus places a gentle hand on James’s shoulder before standing up. “I’ll be right here if you need me,” he says, nodding toward the counter. “Take your time.”

As Remus walks away, James watches him go, his breathing now steadier. He’s still broken, still haunted by the ghosts of that night, but in this moment, he feels a glimmer of something he hasn’t felt in a long time: the faintest flicker of hope.

@leeny-leens

#marauders #jegulus #starchaser #sunseeker #sunwater #james potter #regulus black #remus lupin #sirius black #microfic #more like fanfic #whatevs #fanfic

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justdarklr · 6 months ago

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In Stars And Time: Providence

An In Stars And Time x Persona AU

Created and Written by JustDarklr, Co-Created by mizzle-moths

Card I – Providential

Spoilers for In Stars And Time below the cut! Go play the game before reading!

Table Of Contents —

Card I — Providential ( Reading Now )

Card II — Awake

You… have trouble believing this is the end of your journey. You should recap everything in your head real quick. Just to make sure you remember everything, mostly. Your memory’s never been that good, after all.

It was almost a year ago now that The King appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. Possessing immense Craft Power, he did something never heard of before— he spread his Curse across the country of Vaugarde, freezing in time everything in its path. With Dormont’s House of Change under his control, he patiently waits, for he knows his Curse can only be undone if he is defeated.

His victory would be all but determined, if not for The Housemaiden, Mirabelle. She is the only survivor of the House of Dormont, in which the King froze everyone inside in time and locked the gates. Everyone says she was blessed by the Change God themselves with the power to fight back the King’s Curse… which makes her the only one able to save Vaugarde, bound by her destiny.

When you met her, she had already been traveling with The Fighter, Isabeau, and The Researcher, Odile. They were trying to get the orbs necessary to open the House’s gates and defeat the King. You helped them defeat a rather strong Shadow, and, seeing your strength, they asked for your help. You… had nothing better to do, so you decided to accompany them!

Shadows are… a manifestation of grief, or something. You never researched them, but Odile seemed to know a bit about them, so you just took what she’s said at face value. They usually take the shape of figures from old Mythology or works of Fiction, though how they know of those forms is unknown. Some speculate that these Shadows had once been people, and they take the form of whatever they had the most attachment to in life upon their turning, but that theory has never been proven, supposedly. Either way, they’re a bit of a nuisance.

Anyways— a few weeks later, you met The Kid, Bonnie. Meeting them completed your little ragtag team of heroes. Though, Bonnie is mostly just your snack master. That doesn’t make them any less important, however!

You saw a lot of Vaugardian cities during your travels. Some frozen, some not, and you’ve done your best to sidestep the slowly encroaching Curse. Even still, though… you all kept going.

Mirabelle kept going to honor the Change God’s blessing, save her beloved house, and save Vaugarde. She didn’t have any other choice, after all— she is the only one who can.

Isabeau came with her after Vaugarde’s Defenders themselves refused to help. A bunch of cowards, probably.

Odile came to satisfy her curiosity about Vaugarde. She’s from another country, which makes sense, and she’s supposedly here to research… whatever she’s researching. … and because, in her words, “leaving the fate of a country to a bunch of young ones would give me an ulcer”.

Bonnie came to save their sister, frozen by the Curse. You worry about them, sometimes.

… you’re here because there’s nothing else for you to do. What else are you supposed to do except travel with them?

Once… Mirabelle asked if you were okay, following them on a journey to save the country. She felt guilty, like she was forcing everyone to follow her on a hopeless quest.

You wanted to put her at ease, so you said easily and truthfully that traveling with everyone was the happiest you could remember being. She… looked upset.

You cringe just thinking about it, honestly. Probably not the most considerate thing you could’ve said to someone with her problems at that moment!

But… tomorrow, one way or another, your journey will come to an end.

You tell everyone as you arrive that you’re tired, and you’re going to go find someplace to nap. They nod, and you’re off.

But… before you do, you have a stop to make. Just for some peace of mind. So, you head towards the favor tree on the west side of town.

… this tree is said to grant wishes. You’re not too sure about that, but… you may as well, right? You heard everyone else was going to, anyways. And, who knows, maybe it’ll come true?

You try to rack your brain for something to wish for. After a moment, something pops into your head. You’ve heard Isabeau mention something in passing before, haven’t you? That he wants to be a clothing designer, you think. That seems like a good wish to make. And, who knows, maybe it’ll help his dream come true, too.

You take a leaf from the favor tree, and whisper your desire into it three times.

“… I wish to be able to wear clothes Isabeau has made.”

… you pause, for a moment. And then whisper something else into the leaf, in addition to your first wish.

“I want to stay with them.”

This journey has been the most fun you can ever remember having. You… you love them. Your party. You’ve made such good friends on this journey, and you want to stay with them. Who wouldn’t? They’re your friends, after all…

You then fold the leaf over, and let it drift back into the shadow of the tree. You have a good feeling about that!

Afterwards, you get a move on. You find a clearing near the south side of town, slowly crouching down and splaying yourself across the soft grass. Feels just like a soft bed, you think. You haven’t slept in one for who knows how long. It’s just been sleeping bags, mostly. As you close your eyes, you feel yourself drifting off to sleep nearly instantly. You didn’t realize how tired you were…

… you dream of a strange room, covered in strange shades, with a strange man sitting in the middle of it. What is this place? You feel yourself walking forward, standing in front of the strange man’s desk, as he opens his mouth to speak.

“Well, isn’t this surprising? A brand new guest, and one with quite an intriguing fate at that. I wasn’t expecting anyone for some time now.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off.

“Ah-ah. I apologize, but I will have to make this quick. Your nap is going to be rather short, after all.”

The man clears his throat, then places his hands on his desk, interlocking his fingers. You want to ask what he means about attendants, but you can’t get any words in before he starts speaking once more.

“Welcome to the Velvet Room. My name is Igor… I am delighted to make your acquaintance. This is the space between dream and reality, mind and matter. It is a space only those who are bound by a ‘contract’ may enter. And it seems that such a fate has already befallen you, even without your knowledge.”

What? But you don’t remember signing any contract. You… you could have, though. Maybe you’ve just forgotten. Maybe it was that insignificant in your mind.

“Now then… why don’t you introduce yourself?”

Finally, a chance to speak. You open your mouth once again, ready to belt out all the questions you have— but instead, all you’re able to say is your name. “Siffrin.”

“… Siffrin. No middle name, no last name. Is that correct?”

You nod. Stars, that’s annoying. Why can’t you talk? Dream logic, or something?? Ugh, this dream sucks.

“I see. An interesting name, but I suppose it is one befitting of one surrounded by as much mystery as you. Now then… why don’t we take a look into your future?”

A set of tarot cards appear on the man’s desk. He flips one over, and examines it closely.

“Ah… I see. The tower, in the reversed position. This card represents resistance to change, and the delaying of the inevitable…”

He flips another card over. You already don’t like this.

“The star, in the reversed position. A card representative of despair… I see.”

He flips one last card over. This has to be fake, right? It’s just a dream, without any meaning. You’re sure of it.

“… Judgement, in the upright position, representing reflection, and rebirth.”

The tarot cards disappear, and the man smiles at you. Like he has been, this entire time. Stars, you haven’t really gotten a good look at this guy— you’ve been kind of out of it, but something is off about him. His skin isn’t lightless or darkless, nor a shade inbetween, his smile never seems to falter, and his nose is far too long to be normal. Who is this man? … Well, you suppose you know the answer. ‘Igor’. A strange man, in a strange room, in a strange dream. That sums up this situation rather well, you suppose.

“It seems you will face a great trial in the near future. One in which you resist oncoming time, and face despair and hopelessness because of it.

But fear not. You will overcome this trial through reflection, and in the end, you will face rebirth. A new day to come. Yet, if you fail to overcome this trial, you may be forever lost. My duty is to provide assistance to our guests to ensure that does not happen.”

Your head hurts. This is a lot to take in at once.

“I would like to introduce my assistant to you, but it seems they’re not here as of yet. They’re late. But they will be here soon enough to accompany you throughout this perilous journey.

We shall attend to the finer details another time. Until then, farewell…”

Your vision faces to black, and…

You reawaken in the field to someone calling your name. Your head hurts from that dream. Too many weird shades to take in… but at least you’re back in your lightless and darkless world, now. Normalcy. That’s what you need right now.

… who’s calling your name?

CARD I — END

Next Card ~ Awake

#in stars and time #isat siffrin #isat #isat fanart #ISAT fanfic #ISAT fic #persona #persona series #persona AU #ISAT AU #in stars and time providence #in stars and time: Providence #providence #ISATP

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weretoad-writer · 13 days ago

Text

Half-life

In which Cyrus and Ortega learn that reconciliation is not a linear process and the fallout from the crash has a longer tail than either of them expected.

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

“I thought we could leave the lights on this time? Unless you’re hiding something new under all those layers,” Ortega teases. The playful eyebrow waggle would normally have earned him an eyeroll, but it barely registers.

Your hand freezes on the light switch, panic turning your mind blank. For a moment you consider flipping the switch and making a run for it in the dark. Would he try to stop you? Would you want him to?

Slowly you lower your hand back to your side; your mouth is dry as sawdust and it’s difficult to swallow. You square your shoulders and force yourself to meet his eyes.

“Thought you’d prefer it dark.” You’re proud of how steady your voice sounds. “Easier to pretend I’m human.”

Ortega’s brows knit in confusion. “What?”

“You could even pretend I’m Sidestep.” The words are out before you can stop yourself. A fumbled grenade, landing in the space between you, and all you can do is stand there waiting for it to rip you both to shreds. Why do you keep doing this? Turning everything into a fight. Why can’t you seem to do anything else?

You see Ortega flinch, eyes going wide. “Jesus, Cyrus…. that’s not – Is that what you think I want?”

“No, you’re right. You’re right.” You should stop, but you can’t. “Wasn’t fair to you last time. Tricking you into sleeping with a re-gene. I knew how much things like me creep you out and I still – I let you – we still –” Your hands shake as they fumble for the hem of your undershirt.

“Cyrus, stop. You don’t have to – ” But you’re already tugging the clothes over your head, all the layers at once.

The shirts drop to the floor and your gaze follows them, darting to the side, anywhere but his face. You still catch the movement in your periphery as he reaches for you and you can’t stop the flinch, the choked little sound as your body cringes away.

“Cyrus…” His voice has no right being that soft. “Look at me.”

A twitchy little shake of your head is all you can manage. You know you should look. Safer that way. More time to react. And he keeps trying ot catch your gaze, but you can’t. You just can’t.

So he takes your hand instead. Gentle. Careful. His touch light enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. You keep waiting for his grip to tighten. Keep waiting for it to hurt. You’ve had this nightmare so many times.

The gentle friction of his his thumb tracing circles against the back of your hand feels like a gun to your head. A game of russian roulette. Spin the barrel - click. Spin the barrel - click. Pressure building, crawling on your nerves, and his static makes everything worse. Dragging up memories you really don’t need right now; other faces, other hands, same static, being praised for something one minute and punished for it the next, always off balance, never safe, never certain. Spin the barrel – click.

Who are you to him in this moment? Lover or monster? Real or fake? Person or thing? Spin the barrel. What’s in the chamber? What’s behind the door?

If you look up will you see the lady or the tiger?

“Is that really how you think I see you? See us?”

“I don’t know!” Your voice cracks as you pull your hand away. “I can’t read your mind! I don’t know how you feel! I –”

“I’m telling you how I feel!”

“Yeah – and it keeps changing! I never know what to expect! I can’t be sure. I keep waiting for you to wake up and realize I’m never going to be Sidestep again. I keep waiting for you to look at me like – like – like you did in the hospital!”

There. It’s out. You said it. You’re not blinking back tears. You’re in control. You’re –

“Cyrus…” His breath hitches, a soft, pained little sound. And somehow that’s what makes you look up. Stupid. Involuntary. Old reflexes. Too many years of watching for all his little tells because he’s too damn stubborn to admit he’s hurt. You’d tried so hard excise that part of yourself. Tried so hard not to care. But you look up and oh that’s a mistake because he’s looking back at you, and you weren’t ready. You’d been bracing for disgust, for disappointment; you weren’t ready for the warmth in his eyes, for the pain and longing and the way his hands keep twitching like he wants to pull you close but is afraid of scaring you off. He’s looking at you like you matter, like you’re real.

It hits you like a flashflood. Like a wave knocking you off your feet and tumbling you end over end until you don’t know where the surface is. It aches like drowning and you can’t – you can’t–

You can’t.

You break. Softly, but no less shattering. Tears spilling over and a sob in your throat as he pulls you close and holds you tight. Not like in the nightmares. Not restrained. His hands on your bare skin have no hesitation, no disgust. His arms wrap around you like you’re something precious and you let yourself sag against him. Warm, familiar, safe.

Safe?

No. That’s a lie. But you’ve been starving for so long that even the illusion of it is intoxicating. Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt, white knuckling. Too tight. Not tight enough. It’s an expensive shirt like everything he owns. You’re probably ruining it. You’re probably ruining him. He must know that by now. But he keeps coming back.

You wonder how long that will last.

“There are a lot of things I wish I could go back and change.” His voice is soft, murmuring into your hair. “But that night in my apartment isn’t one of them.”

You can feel his hand on your exposed back, the faint tickle of static as it slides across your skin. A slow, soothing motion, up and down. “I don’t want anyone else.”

It hurts. You want it to be real so badly. But you’ve heard that from him before. It wasn’t true then. You don’t think it’s true now. But he’s here. He knows what you are now. Knows what you’ve done. And he’s still here. Still holding you. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?

“Idiot.” Your voice is a sniffling croak.

His soft snort ruffles your hair. “Asshole.”

You can’t help the laugh that slips out and neither can he. There’s a ring of desperation to it. He pulls back slightly, cupping the side of your face in his hand; his gaze catches and holds yours, and you let it, because you’re an idiot who keeps making the same mistake over and over again. The longing in his eyes hurts like a blade between your ribs. It’s more than you can bear, but you can’t look away. You don’t want him to stop. You don’t want him to stop looking at you like he is now. Looking at you like he –

“I love you.”

You think he means it. Maybe he won’t in the morning, or a week from now, but he means it tonight. And maybe that’s enough. Nothing else is certain, so why should he be any different? It’s going to end. And it’s going to hurt. But not tonight.

#fallen hero #oc: cyrus bell #how are those trust issues bud?#worse you say?#welp #no idea when this theoretically takes place #but not until well into Revelations or possibly post

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comatosebunny09 · 16 days ago

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Girl, someone needs to put me out of my misery 😂. This morning, I woke up absolutely convinced I had read Carpe Noctem Part 5, so I thought, “Let me just re-read it”... and next thing I know, I’m on Tumblr, genuinely spending way too much time searching for it.

The worst part? I literally remember the plot I made up for it—like it’s burned into my brain.

HELP 😭 I’m so obsessed it’s actually getting out of hand now.

P.S. I have to tell you, I love your writing! It makes me feel like a little kid just learning to read again. ❤️

😭😭😭 Obsessed?! I am honored! Because you’re so fucking sweet, here's a sneak peak.

Silly woman. Getting your hopes up for nothing.

He’s probably being polite. Still—

He’s yet to set you down—Sylus. Your enigma of a boss, cradling you in his arms like you’re precious bounty. Has his long fingers crooked under your knees and a possessive arm swept under your back. You’re not hurt. He saw to that when he safely lured you down with his Evol. So why does he insist on carrying you like this?

You try not to get caught up in how he smells—earth and cured leather. How he feels—rigid and strong, toned from years of boxing and a past you know little of. How he breathes—even as his heart thrums a steady tempo against your chest.

You’ve long since traded the cacophony of bullets whizzing by and ricocheting off his Evol—of Nikolai’s men shouting obscenities, bleeding malice and vitriol as they bark orders—for the serenity of the night.

Passersby mill about on the moon-laden street. Couples, laughing, bundling together to ward off the night’s chill. An occasional drunkard stumbling down the sidewalk. Sylus effortlessly sidesteps them, lightly jostling you in his arms.

He’s carried you like this for at least a mile through the city’s heart. Past historic buildings untouched by time, under twinkling string lights that adorn the various shopping centers and outdoor cafes bordering the street. It’s something of a dream. Something like a romantic movie, but you don’t feel like you deserve to be its star.

He’s made no move to set you down. You’ve made no effort to untwine your arms from his neck, studying the flexing tendons in his throat. The bob of his Adam’s apple when he chuckles something throaty after he catches you staring.

For a moment, it feels like old times.

A memory far off when he carried you like this once before after you led him on a wild goose chase through the docks. After you took down one of the most prominent human trafficking rings in the underworld, and after he thought he lost you forever.

You’re sure you were heavy then—he spent half the night searching for you, rendering anyone who got in his way to ash and bone. He was exhausted, violet bangs hanging beneath his eyes, blood speckling his collar.

You’re sure you’re heavy now.

He shouldn’t be holding you like this. Despite how natural it feels, a voice admonishes you from the deepest hulls of your mind. He’s not yours. This isn’t right. She might be gone, but you can’t help feeling like you’re betraying your hunter friend. You’ve already crossed her so many times before in your mind.

You squirm a bit. His gaze slides to you. Scarlet eyes gleam beneath the tawny lights like multifaceted rubies. His brows lift slightly with intrigue, and the beginnings of a smile tug at his lips.

You clear the phlegm from your throat, tamping down the warm flush rising from your chest to stain your neck and cheeks. He’s effortlessly beautiful—something forged from the hands of a Grecian sculptor.

“You can put me down now,” you urge, your voice uncharacteristically soft. “I’m perfectly capable of walking by myself.”

He looks forward, wearing a full-bodied smile. “I know.” He continues pressing on like you didn’t speak, making no effort to let you go.

You give him a deadpan look, an indignant noise dredged from your throat. You try again, a little more insistent this time. “Sylus.”

“Yes?” he returns, humored, patient.

“I said you can put me down.”

“I know.”

You sigh, exasperated after a few moments spent glaring at his side profile. His devastatingly attractive profile. That sloped nose. Those heart-shaped lips. “Aren’t you afraid of someone seeing us like this?” You gesture to your conjoined bodies with your head. “People might get the wrong idea.”

He huffs a laugh. The sound curdles in your belly. “When have I ever been concerned with how others perceive me?” Those softened eyes flick to you, something cold prickling low in your belly at the weight they carry. “Since when have you?”

Your lips twitch. He poses a fair argument. You’ve never cared much for how people view you, save for Sylus and the twins. More recently, Ms. Hunter.

Still, guilt twists in your throat. Burns like the acrid sting of ash. “Sylus—”

“Am I making you uncomfortable? Because if I am, I’d be happy to set you down.” There’s a beguiled edge to his voice.

You blanch. Your argument dies in the back of your throat. Like a haughty child, you look down, the drape of your arms around his shoulders slackening slightly. Still, you don’t let go. She’ll have to be upset with you for now. You’re growing too content with the sharp click of his heels against cobblestone.

After some time spent wordless, Sylus slows to a stop. You look up, having been lost in your ponderings. He graces you with an amused look before finally setting you down. You’re bereft of the warmth and safety his body provides, but he helps settle you with deft hands at your hips. Straightening your dress, you take in your new surroundings.

You turn quizzical eyes to him. “A restaurant?” Come to think of it, you are a little peckish. Killing and running always stir your appetite.

Sylus pushes back the tails of his jacket, shoving his hands into his pockets. The jaundiced lights of the posh restaurant’s entrance highlight his features as he looks up. “Not hungry?”

“A little short notice, isn’t it? Don’t you normally need a reservation to get into places like this? Will they even let us in?”

With a chuckle in his throat, Sylus brushes past you, tugging the door open. A swell of noise rushes outside, sounds associated with fine dining and merriment. The savory scent of cooked meat and vegetables assaults your senses. Your stomach growls. You pat it placatingly.

“They should,” says Sylus with a shrug, patiently waiting for you to enter. “I own the place.”

You scoff. “Wow. That’s awfully Bruce Wayne of you, don’t you think?” You don’t pursue it, stepping into the restaurant with a smirk.

#thank you for being so sweet #also curious to know what plot you came up with #i'm all ears

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shehungers · 2 hours ago

Text

FATHOMLESS

eldritch detective x reader |18+| 2.1k

you'd never noticed detective arsenè in the precinct before, even after a number of years working in the office. when you start to ask around about him, they confirm that he's always been there, but you're more worried that they're not mentioning that he has no face...

story warnings; dark content, dubcon leaning sort of noncon (blackouts and spotty memory), sexual content, grotesque + horrific details, this leans more mystery and uncanny valley than anything else, mentions of mc being a drinker, smoking, roughly proofread.

reposted from my deleted blog: theoxenfree.

please share your thoughts with me + reblog!

this is possibly a concept piece to a much larger supernatural, psychological piece. if you'd like to see that, let me know!!

Everyone at the precinct called him Detective Arsené, but they never said anything about his face.

It was simply that there wasn't one there, not that you were able to discern in any instance you'd seen him wandering the floor. You had blamed the long hours, glowing blue screens, useless eye prescriptions, corporate greed, and mixing alcohol with allergy medicine before you finally accepted what you were seeing was real, yet no one else noticed it apart from you.

“What's wrong with his face?” you'd ask anyone with the time to spare to listen.

“Who? Arsené?” they'd laugh, whether in disbelief that you were speaking about Watt City’s genius detective in such a fashion, or that they thought you were the funniest person in the office. “What are you talking about? He's always looked like that! Lay off the booze, yeah?”

Those responses had never been satisfactory enough, going as far to set you ill at ease for the remainder of your shift, sufficiently distracting you from furthering your workload because your mind always came back to the detective and his non-existent face.

“He looks pretty normal to me,” said a senior member in your division. An older man you'd come to know as forthright and virtuous with a history showing that integrity. He had taken eyes off his computer screen, bifocals aside, and pinched the high-point between his brows. “What's this about, really? I've worked with Arsené for years. You know that. He's been here since before I started. Good guy. Hard worker. Drinks too much, though. Just like someone else I know.”

But, this was the first time you had heard he'd worked with Arsené, let alone acknowledged his existence at all. There was no reason for him to lie; he had spoken without inflection, warily, almost accusatory towards the end when he mentioned the alcohol.

“Detective Arsené? Well, I think he's really handsome. He just has that look about him, y'know?” The next person you questioned was a junior at the precinct. A pretty woman who was all silky black hair and long, blunt nails that never touched a surface where they'd be put in peril.

She always used her knuckles type on the clunky keyboard, and did so as she went on, “I've heard he has a really specific type, though. I've also never seen him take anyone out, or take a partner on cases, now that I think about it. Isn't he just a stand-up guy? I'd say he's the sort to bring home to mom and dad, but I hear he's got a drinking problem. Why do all the hot ones have vices like that?”

She particularly enjoyed her gossip, especially if it involved the detectives at the precinct. You were positive she'd never mentioned Arsené before now. As smart as she was, she didn't look below the surface very often when it came to men, so for her to say nothing at all of the detective’s smooth face was mystifying.

After that, you started paying attention to Arsené in a way you convinced yourself was discreet, which meant slowly peeking your eyes above your computer screen to observe his movements across the floor. Always in motion, he stalked around the place with undaunted familiarity, maneuvering the razored corners of desks and blockades from doors and walls, and languidly sidestepped the oncoming traffic of bodies in such a way that seemed premeditated.

Practiced.

Rinse and repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

This staunch dedication of yours lasted well over a week before anything came of it until one morning you found him waiting in your seat, teetering a bloated manila folder on a thigh while bouncing it impatiently. A very real sensation of unease took hold of the back of your neck, like a cold hand stroking lightly at the downy hairs there until they stood straight.

You thought about pretending you hadn't seen him, swiveling around, and leaving in a burst of urgency. It'd be easy to call in to say you had a personal emergency or became suddenly, very viscously ill and wouldn't be able to handle staring at a screen for twelve hours. No one would ask questions because you were exemplary, always on time, and seldom took time off as you couldn't afford to do so.

Arsené’s head slanting sideways and the waxy, flat face pointing directly towards you prevented you from acting on that impulse, however. He gestured you over with a lethargic wave, though the jitteriness in his leg seemed to worsen from impatience into sheer excitability.

“Clocked in early, aren't you? You have quite the habit of doing that, I've noticed.” He greeted, voice simultaneously undefinable and velvety. It wasn't so deep that you felt like it was gravelly or reverberated in the same way a baritone would, but there was a heftiness to it that weighted in your mind, as if it were possible for someone to reach through all your blood, tissue, and bone and press down directly on your brain. “I've seen you come in a few times, hours before anyone else. And you know what I think? I think, ‘That’s the kind of person who keeps a place like this running. That's the kind of person we want here in this precinct. That's the type of person who believes in the work that we do and who I’d want as my partner’.”

As much as you wanted to get away from the horrid sight before you, the no-face and potent voice wriggling around the wrinkles in your brain, you couldn't bring yourself to do so just yet. Not while you had questions you couldn't find answers to, not while you needed to sedate yourself at night because they ruthlessly endangered your dreams and were thieves of peaceful slumber.

“I've never met you before,” you said, giving a cordial handshake when he had offered it to you. The skin of his palm was warm and humanlike, though his grip was all wrong and entirely too firm. You didn't convey this dissonance to him, though. “I've seen you around, though. Were you transferred from a different department or precinct? Everyone says you've been around for a long time, but I find it hard to believe I've noticed.”

“Oh? Well, they'd be right.” Arsené said, finally releasing your hand to take up the thick folder. “I've always been here, and I'm always here. Now, that aside, I've cleared it with the Chief and I'd like you to help me on a case that I'm stuck on. If I've read right, you're the most recent person who's looked through everything to update the records, correct?”

“Probably.” You didn't move when he rolled up another chair from a desk nearby. “I'm a Recorder. It's my job to go through files and periodically update them. I'm not qualified to help detectives on their cases, though. You'd need to speak to the Chief about getting an Assistant for that.”

“Ah, didn't you hear me? That's all been handled. Sit down. Sit down.” He waved you close, then took you by the arm to sit you in the chair next to him. “We have a lot to cover. I think we should start from the beginning and work our way through the evidence list, and then the interrogation tapes. After that, it'd be a good idea to revisit the site of the crime. Don't worry about clearances, I've got everything we need.”

It wasn't often that you saw the inside of the precinct after that day as Arsené particularly enjoyed his busywork and bringing you along for it.

Most days you simply operated as a Field Recorder by transcribing statements into the handheld device provided by the precinct to maintain a digital trail. The work wasn't especially difficult, but it did take a level of skill and technological literacy to be able to do effectively, more so to be the sort allowed to tail after a detective on his cases and still maintain an overall ninety-eight percent accuracy.

Despite your job dictating it as such, Arsené never allowed you to fade into the background or stand around as a fancy accessory to go with his title. Oftentimes, he utilized you as his sole confidant as he worked through evidence and suspects, waiting in revered silence for you to offer your insight (however weak it actually was), and afterwards only let you bask in a glow of confidence through streams of unending praise.

“Egads! Eureka! Genius! How is it that it never occurred to me that way? Truly, you're spectacular! You're divine! Who knows how long I’d be running around in circles if I didn't have you as my partner.” They were all slightly variating compliments, though essentially all the same at the core and all very untrue.

You'd never forgotten about the things your colleagues had said about him, of his unrivaled prowess and veneration as the best detective Watt City had ever come to witness. He didn't need you. He had never needed you to solve a case, so you had learned to take his praise in the same vein as you did the silky-haired woman’s comments on men: uninspired and shallow.

When your disinterest became palpable, he seemed to only rely on you more as though he couldn't stand to be burdened with the idea of a rift. He had started calling you late at night about cases, going as far to come knocking at your door and walking inside reeking of stale smoke and a haze of booze, neither of which you could comprehend as possible considering he had no face.

“I just don't get it. I just don't get it! Where am I going wrong?!” He said so wretchedly, sides of his head cradled in his hands that were tucked between his legs. “This case, it’s getting to me. It's getting under my skin. I can't figure it out. Have I finally met my match? Have I finally been defeated? You! You’ve got to help me. It can't end like this.”

For all his dramatics, there was something obscenely cruel behind his words. Perhaps he thought you wouldn't have caught onto it because you simply a Field Recorder, just a person at the end of the day.

“Why haven't you mentioned anything about the victim? You're acting like they don't exist, Arsené. Is this about solving the crime so they get justice and the family gets closure, or is this for your reputation?” you asked.

He immediately stopped complaining and jolted upright, taken by surprise like he had realized this oversight and wasn't sure how to navigate around it. On that glossy slate of a face, one you knew was piercing deep into you despite a lack of hollow sockets and rolling gelatinous orbs within, you could tell he was now thinking of an answer.

“Neither,” was what he gave you. “It's neither of those. Come here. Sit down and talk to me for a while. I can't go home like this.”

The pitying part of you usually won in those moments where Arsené presented himself as his weakest. There was a part of you that believed he was taking advantage of your feeble heart, your kindness, your blind generosity because at his worst, he'd find a way to strip you down and fuck you.

At least, that's what you assumed happened. You never really could remember as the memory was pitch black, his body was unfathomable above yours, but you were sure you felt his cock penetrating you, his hands desperately fondling your flesh and fat like there was too much to touch yet too little time to feel it all. He said things to you inside your head, words that you couldn’t seem to piece together yet ignited the tension between your legs, lit your skin on fire, and delivered lewd, high-pitched sounds to his ears that he reveled in.

He never left you a mess and he never spoke about those times after they happened. Since you were never sure of them yourself, they suffered the same indifference as his praise and the days simply moved onward in a similar way.

“Another case solved!” Arsené cheered, lifting a stout mug in the air for you to reciprocate with the long stem of your wine glass. It was a fragile tinkling sound, a gentle vibration up your fingers and into your wrist as you toasted his success. “I couldn't have done it without you, my beloved partner! If it's you and I, I could do this forever.”

You swirled the liquid inside; a light and dry, raspberry and vaguely earthy smell wafted up your nostrils before you tasted it and let your cheeks pucker. As you drank, you watched as Arsené lifted the stout towards the expanse of taut, clear skin that should've been his face, and saw liquid inside empty into nowhere.

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