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navybrat817 · 10 hours

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Hold You Tight: Part 9

Pairing: Club Owner!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Fic Summary: The owner of The 107th wants you to be his girl whether you like it or not.

Part 8 | Series Masterlist | Part 10

Chapter Summary: Bucky takes you home, but will he keep his hands to himself?

Chapter Word Count: Over 3.7k

Chapter Warnings: DARK AU, tension, dirty talk, unease, possessiveness, inner turmoil, slight feels, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?), more warnings to come.

A/N: More Hold You Tight and thank you for your patience! Hope you lovelies continue to enjoy. Bucky edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo . ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You thought you heard the men wish you well once more when Bucky led you out of the office. You weren’t completely sure since you tried to block everything out, but attempting to disassociate wouldn’t exactly do you any good. The night wasn’t over yet and you had to stay sharp. You didn’t know what Bucky had planned for when he got you home. Were you prepared at all?

Not in the least.

You half expected to walk back through the front of the club to leave, but Ray directed you to a door near the back once he gave Bucky a nod. The car was waiting in the alley and you took a moment to glance up at the sky. You could only make out one star and you wished in that moment you could grow wings and fly away. But when did wishing upon a star do you any good?

“Let’s get you back to your place,” Bucky said, helping you into the car.

You had to give him credit for trying to keep up his end of the bargain by getting you home on time. Your body refused to relax though once he sat beside you and took your hand. Was he trying to get you accustomed to his touch? Make you crave him? It bothered you that in spite of your determination he drew you in to a certain degree. But you wouldn’t let him take you to bed tonight. You weren’t ready to cross that inevitable line.

Maybe, just maybe, if your performance in bed disappointed him, he’d get bored and walk away. The thought almost made you laugh. That wasn’t happening. If anything, he’d probably love teaching you how to be his perfect lover.

“I think tonight went well,” Bucky smiled.

“Which part exactly?” You mumbled, pulling your hand away. The part where he forced you to go, how his men all but admitted they knew Bucky stalked you, or how they beat the hell out of a man?

“Just the night in general. I knew everyone would love you, but I really think Thor wants to be your big brother now,” Bucky replied. You wanted it so badly to be endearing, but Thor was dangerous. He mentioned a father-in-law. How exactly did he find his wife? And bringing up the flower donations to the hospital. Bucky seemed upset. Why? “Which he’ll have to fight Steve for.”

“Fighting. You guys seem to excel in that arena,” you said, remembering how they all took turns beating up John. “But I guess Steve does have a bit of that ‘big brother’ vibe, helping you take total control of my life and whatnot.”

“Not total control. I’m still letting you work, but maybe I can buy the shop.” He chuckled at your thunderous expression. The light threat had you seeing red. “I probably shouldn't joke about that, should I?”

“Letting me work? Like it’s your decision? And don’t you dare buy the shop.” You pushed at him to keep from slapping him when he chuckled again. Not with enough force to get him far away from you, but you needed some sort of space in the vehicle. He also needed a good hit over the head. “You’re a bully, do you know that? So are your friends.”

His laughter died off quickly when he reached out and gently took your hand again, prying your fingers away from your palm. You didn’t notice it stung from your nails until he brought your hand to his mouth and kissed it. “You think we’re bullies?” He asked against your skin.

“Yes. Besides nearly beating that jerk to death, you do realize that you use force and threats to dominate and intimidate. That’s a form of bullying, Bucky,” you said. Was he deliberately being obtuse or was he lost in his delusion that this was all normal?

“I wouldn’t say we’re bullies. I call it protecting and keeping what’s mine,” he said. There was no shame on his end.

“Right. Because I’m a possession and not a person,” you said, your face scrunching up as you tried not to cry. You needed rest. If part of Bucky’s plan was to wear you down by overwhelming you, mission accomplished. “I’m so tired. I just want to go to bed.”

“You’re a person, not a possession, Kotyonok. And not just a person, a good person who gives so much of herself to others. And probably one of the only people who rightfully calls me out on my shit.” His response drew you up short. “Outside of my friends, no one else does that.”

“Maybe because they’re afraid of you and what you can do,” you said after a moment. Fear could make anyone say what they thought people wanted to hear. “Either that or they want your approval,” you added, which you could also understand to a point. People wanted a sense of belonging, especially with those who had influence and power.

“Maybe they are afraid,” he agreed, brushing his lips against your palm again with a sigh. “What is it about me that scares you most?”

“I’m not really sure exactly,” you admitted. There was so much about the situation that terrified you. What he was capable of. How he inserted himself into various aspects of your life and so quickly. How far he was willing to go to keep you. “But I think it’s your conviction. That you’re so sure that I’m your other half and no one can convince you otherwise, not even me.”

You could scream until your lungs gave out that you didn’t belong with him and you knew in your heart he’d argue until his last breath that you did. He was steadfast in that belief that you were soulmates. That conviction was so strong that what you really feared was that he would somehow convince you that he was right: that you belonged together.

Those steel blue eyes of his met yours and mesmerized you for a heartbeat before you looked away. “Love is scary. It’s natural to be afraid of it.” His lips brushed your ear, making you shiver. “But giving someone the most fragile parts of yourself is one of the bravest things a person can do.”

There was truth in his words, but it felt like he moved another chess piece into place. He was trying to disarm you and you couldn’t let him. “Who painted that black dahlia in your office?” You asked suddenly, feeling him move back enough that you could turn your head toward him. “And why display that flower?” You didn’t believe for a second that he chose it for aesthetic purposes.

“Beautiful, isn't it? Steve painted it,” he replied with an odd mixture of affection and bitterness. “It’s for my parents.”

“Steve is a gifted artist.” You hoped your voice stayed even enough that Bucky wouldn’t get jealous of you complimenting another man’s talent. “I don't know if the symbolism of flowers mean anything to you, but the black dahlia-”

“Betrayal. Sadness. Darkness,” he ticked off, his voice cold enough that another shiver moved through your body. “It was the last flower my dad ever got my mom and it serves as a reminder.”

You swallowed as warning bells sounded in your mind to tread carefully. “And what's that?”

He moved close, your eyes shutting as his hand wrapped around the nape of your neck. “That I'll never do to you what he did to her.”

There was suppressed rage within him. Sorrow. It rolled off him in waves strong enough that they could drown you. He said earlier that his dad got what he deserved. What had he done to his mom?

“You’re in pain,” you whispered. He was hurting and you logically shouldn’t care. So why did you want to know the cause of that hurt? “You have to tell me why.”

It wasn’t for you to use to your advantage. You weren’t sure if you could manipulate someone else. If you knew what happened though, it would at least give you more answers to who Bucky was and why he was the way he was. It could help you gain some sort of understanding.

“I’m not in pain when I’m with you,” he whispered, bringing your hand on his chest. Was he relying on you to chase away whatever haunted him? “Later. I’ve overwhelmed you enough for one evening.”

You let out a breath. You swore he was doing this on purpose, giving you just enough information that you’d wait around until he gave you more. “I can’t argue with you there,” you said, his heart racing under your touch. “Just answer one thing for me, please.”

“What’s that?”

“Marc from the bookstore,” you began, the man’s kind face shimmering in your mind. “Did anything happen to him?”

“I’d question another man being on your mind, but I know you’re just concerned about his well-being.” An easy smile crossed Bucky’s face as you bit your tongue. You could think about anyone you wanted to. “I can’t speak for him right this second, but he was perfectly fine when you and I left. He was just having a chat with one of my associates.”

You exhaled, thankful Marc wasn't hurt. “What kind of chat?” You asked. He was a nice guy, though he did seem to know a bit about Bucky. What exactly was he involved in?

“He just got a warning to be careful about what he does or doesn’t say to his customers.” You tensed before he kissed your forehead. Did he know about the conversation you two had? “And I don’t think the two of you should be alone with each other in the bookstore going forward.”

Just when Bucky had you feeling some sort of sympathy for him moments ago he shocked you right out of it. “Another decision that isn’t yours to make,” you stated, the car coming to a stop. “And you really don’t have to walk me up. I think we’ve had enough of each other’s company tonight.”

“I said I’m tucking you into bed and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” The smile he gave you was nothing short of cocky when he added, “And you owe me a photo. I’m going to get it.”

He was a dog with a bone. He wouldn’t let that go. “Why don’t you just take a photo of me giving you the finger?” You suggested as he helped you out of the car.

“Only if you do it with a smile. I’ll even set it as the background on my phone,” he winked. Your reluctance and defiance of him didn’t phase him in the slightest. “And if you give me the finger, I’ll take it as an invitation that you want to fuck me.”

“Let’s go, please.”

You said nothing else as you went into the building, your anxiety mounting by the second. The slow rise of the elevator didn’t help, Bucky’s hip pressed against yours like he couldn’t stand to have space between you. You figure he’d shove you against the wall and claim your mouth, but he didn’t make a move. It impressed you that he behaved until you got to your floor. It didn’t stop your hand from shaking when you got your keys out.

“Still don’t want to say good night now?”

“I don’t want to say good night at all,” he answered, following you into the apartment and turning on the light. The welcoming feeling you expected when you got home wasn't there. There was a chill in the usual warmth.

“Well, you’ll have to sooner or later,” you said, swallowing when you faced Bucky. He shut the door and watched intently as you set your keys and bag down. You were quiet as you stared back, tension thick as you tried to predict what he was going to do. Once again, he managed to hold all the power in your home.

“Have I told you how beautiful you are?” He asked, heat and hunger in his stare as he slowly advanced.

Your throat went dry as you stepped back. “You have.”

“So beautiful and so good.” You made another move to retreat when he stepped forward, his manner confident and compelling as he reached out and prevented you from moving back further. “It’s driving me crazy not having you yet.”

“Please, you don’t…” you trailed off when he sank to his knees, unexpected heat flowing from your core. He guided one of your hands to his shoulder to brace yourself, his eyes soft as he helped remove one of your shoes. You found it difficult to breathe as he removed the other, his hand brushing your ankle with infinite tenderness. Like it was an honor to touch and be on his knees for you.

“I know the first time I taste you I’ll never want to stop. I’ll have to wake up every day between your thighs. Fall asleep that way, too.” His hand slid up your calf and his eyes darkened when your other hand found its way to his thick locks. Wetness gathered between your legs when his touch moved to your thigh. “Your pussy is hungry for me, isn’t it? My fingers, my tongue, my cock. I’ll feed her well.”

His voice was like velvet. Seductive. Aching. “Bucky…” Your breath rushed out swiftly when he kissed your mound through your clothes, tormenting you with arousal you didn’t ask for. It frightened you.

“I can smell you,” he murmured, nosing along where his lips had been before he sat back. “Smell so fucking good.”

Moving your shoes out of the way, he rose to his full height again as you willed your legs not to shake. You weren’t used to anyone looking at you, let alone speak to you, the way he did. Stark desire. Possessiveness. His form of love. Your heart pounded and you refused to answer him or glance down. If you looked at the front of his pants…

He took your hand and pulled you in the direction of the bedroom. Your heart pounded with mounting speed, your heels digging into the floor. “You still haven't kissed me,” you blurted out, hoping it would prevent him from taking you to bed. Or would he take that as an invitation to kiss your lips?

“No, I haven't.” You tried to keep some distance between you as he went to your bed, his hand moving along the blanket. You couldn't breathe. “It scares you how much your body wants mine, doesn’t it?”

“Is that what you think?” You asked, forcing air back into your lungs. It did scare you. It also scared you that you didn’t push him away or scream when he dropped to his knees to remove your shoes. Where was your fighting instinct?

“It is what I think.” The ease in which he moved away from the bed to your dresser to find your pajamas frightened you, too. Like he belonged in your room. You thought back to the night he broke in and left your gift on your bed. How much time did he take to look around? “Like love, giving your body to someone can be scary. You have to trust that you won't get hurt when you’re physically vulnerable.”

“You swore you wouldn't hurt me,” you reminded him.

“And I won't. But you know what else I think?” His magnetic gaze stayed on you as he brought a nightgown over. “That no guy has ever really taken care of you and you’re apprehensive to let me try.”

If you were apprehensive, it was because he was a walking red flag. “What makes you…” Your words stopped when he grasped the bottom of your shirt and pulled it up. Your arms instinctively went up before you realized what you were doing. Removing your shirt, you didn’t get a chance to cover your breasts before he slipped the nightgown on you.

“Your past boyfriends never did anything for you. Emotionally, physically,” he stated, sliding his hands under the nightgown to your hips. Grasping the hem of your pants, he pushed them down as far as he could. “I’ll bet they didn’t even buy you flowers and used the excuse that they didn’t because you’re a florist.”

The words were tiny cuts on old wounds, but you wouldn't give him the satisfaction. “And you will?”

“I will. I’ll give you the life and love you deserve, making you forget any other man out there existed before me.” His eyes raked over you as you stepped out of your pants, your panties still soaked. “But I’m not gonna fuck you.”

Exhaling slowly, relief flooded you. Though you couldn’t help but wonder why he wasn’t trying to take what he wanted. “You won’t?”

“Not tonight.” He shook his head even as his fingers moved along your waist. “Like I said, I’ve overwhelmed you enough. Sleeping with you might really put you over the edge.”

“Thanks.” He desired you, but continued to hold it at bay for your sake. How long would that last? “I appreciate that.”

“And we both know the moment I take you to bed, you’ll be begging for more.” His voice dropped as he toyed with the soft fabric. “And as much as I want to stay in bed with you all night and morning and give us what we both crave, I still need to get things in place at the penthouse and you need rest. You understand.”

You tried not to smile and failed. He acted as if he was doing you a favor. Cocky bastard. “I guess we’ll just have to suffer until then.” Sarcasm continued to be a good way to deflect.

He exhaled at your light teasing, his body still a bit tense. Being close to you and not having you was probably driving him mad. “Maybe we'll have to have another private call and finish what we started. Give us both some relief.” He turned you toward the door and gave you a light swat on your ass. “Go wash your face and brush your teeth before I change my mind.”

You made it to the bathroom in record time, not having to be told twice. You didn’t want to risk staying there in case he lost his resolve. Looking in the mirror as you went through the rest of your nighttime routine, you expected to look more exhausted from the whirlwind of the day. You somehow looked wide awake. Was the experience giving you thicker skin? Or did his desire for you somehow give you a bit of a twisted spark? You’d still be billing him for your future therapy bills either way.

A couple of deep breaths and you made your way back to your bedroom. You paused when you saw Bucky holding a framed photo of you and your friends, longing in his eyes when he lifted his gaze. “You look so happy,” he murmured, carefully setting the frame down on the nightstand before he pulled the blankets back for you. “Can you do me one favor and I’ll go?”

“I was happy. It was a fun day.” You slipped into bed when he gave you space to do so, but his body was still close to yours. Firm. Hard. He really could pin you down and do what he wanted if he wished. “What’s the favor?”

He tucked the blanket around you, his hair falling into his face. You almost reached up to brush it back, but refrained. Who knew what your touch would do? “Look at me like you love me. Please.”

You stiffened as you stared up at his face, your heart simultaneously racing and breaking for him. Love was something that provided a sense of connection, fulfillment. It was a way to show you that you weren’t alone in the world. You wanted to believe you were worthy of love, that you could build a life with someone. Bucky believed he was that someone.

Why?

You weren’t sure if it was his yearning gaze or if you were ready for the night to end, but your expression softened as you imagined meeting him in another life. Going on fun dates, talking about books, making each other laugh as you cooked together, snuggling under a blanket as you talked about your future. You found yourself smiling at the images that went through your mind. What could’ve been. What could be if he lessened his hold a bit on you.

He audibly exhaled when he snapped a photo on his phone, making you blink. “Thank you. Now I can look at this whenever I’m not near you and need to feel your love.”

Words escaped you, the invisible collar around your throat getting tighter. You could only nod and wonder how you kept throwing fuel on the fire of his want for you. Which one of you would burn first?

“Get some sleep. Dream sweet dreams.” You felt featherlight kisses on each eyelid when you shut them. “You know, I’ll sleep a lot easier once you’re in my bed.”

“If you get me into your bed,” you mumbled, refusing to look at him.

“Stubborn kitten.” He chuckled and gave each eyelid one more kiss. Why were his lips so soft? “Maybe I’ll stop by the shop tomorrow so I can take you to lunch. You can tell Addison all about it.”

“Maybe.” You yawned and snuggled more into your pillows. “Good night, Bucky.”

A finger moved along your cheek before it stopped abruptly. “Good night, Kotyonok.”

Bucky still hadn't kissed your mouth.

You didn’t open your eyes as he left, but you didn’t fall asleep right away either. Your body was too wound up. Too many questions went through your mind. Like what happened with his parents and how exactly he’d move you out of your place.

The man was a step ahead in everything. You’d be in his penthouse before the month was over. He’d get his way, but maybe it didn't have to be his way completely. He could give you an area in the place for you and you alone. It wouldn’t hurt to ask. After all, he did say he’d make it up to you by dragging you out tonight.

And if he cared the way he said he did, he could give you that one small thing.

Is our poor Kotyonok starting to accept the inevitable? Will Bucky stop by the shop? And how much longer until he really takes you to bed?Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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tinytinyblogs · 3 days

Note

Can you please do Stray kids members how they would act around the female 9th member

Welcome To The Team!

Skz has a new member and they trying to get close to you, too.

Hyung line, Maknae line (Coming soon)

💬I apologize for the delay in fulfilling this request—I’ve been quite overwhelmed with a lot on my plate and feeling exhausted. However, I’m here now and ready to assist. I genuinely appreciate receiving feedback and requests from all of you, and it always makes me happy to help. Wishing you all a wonderful day!

Stray kids masterlist

Your insights and reactions make these posts come alive. Love reblogs, comments, and all the good vibes welcome ✨

Chan

Meeting Chan for the first time feels effortless and comfortable. As the leader of the group, it’s only natural for Chan to take on the role of being the bridge between you and the rest of the members. True to his gentle nature, he has an uncanny ability to dissolve any awkwardness right from the start. There's something about the way he carries himself—calm and approachable—that instantly puts you at ease. Even if you tend to feel nervous around new people, his presence reassures you. It's as if he knows exactly how you're feeling, intuitively recognizing any discomfort you might have. What stands out most is how he helps you connect with others, easing you into the group dynamic without making it feel forced. He doesn't just leave you to fend for yourself but subtly helps guide the conversation, making sure you don't feel left out. It's his attentiveness that truly makes a difference. He’s always checking in with you, making sure you're comfortable, and adjusting the interaction to suit your pace. Chan’s genuine care and effortless charm create a space where meeting new people no longer feels daunting but enjoyable and even fun.

As you grow closer to Chan, his care and affection become more evident with each passing day. What started as a gentle and considerate friendship blossoms into something even more meaningful as he lets his affectionate side shine through. He enjoys being at the heart of the group, craving connection not just with the other members but with you in particular. It’s subtle at first—small gestures like sitting closer to you or casually brushing against your arm—but soon, he becomes more open with his warmth. Out of nowhere, he’ll wrap you in a hug, a gesture that feels both comforting and familiar. His eyes often linger on you, not in an intrusive way, but in a way that makes you feel truly seen. There’s an unspoken admiration in the way he watches you, as if he’s quietly appreciating every little habit and detail about you that makes you unique. Whether you’re laughing at a joke or lost in thought, Chan’s attention is always there, taking it all in. Sometimes, he would gently caress your hair, a soft, caring gesture that immediately made you feel more at home. His tone was always soft and considerate, and he'd ask questions to make sure you were okay: “Are you feeling alright? Are you comfortable? Is there anything bothering you?”

And while he’s affectionate, his care goes deeper than just hugs and soft looks. Chan isn't afraid to speak up when something’s wrong, giving you a playful scolding or a serious talk when he feels it’s necessary. His gentle reprimands come from a place of genuine concern, always with the intention of helping you grow or stay on the right path. But no matter the situation, he’s never far when you’re in need. If you're feeling down or overwhelmed, Chan is there in an instant, offering support and encouragement, making sure you know that you don’t have to face anything alone. Through it all, his affection and care create a sense of security, making you feel valued, protected, and understood. His gentle encouragement helped you find your place within the team, and he made it clear that you belonged. With Chan by your side, you never felt out of place or like an outsider; instead, he created an environment where you could flourish and grow, surrounded by the unwavering support of someone who genuinely cared. His thoughtful presence helped smooth out any initial awkwardness, allowing you to build a strong connection with the group and become part of the family.

Minho

Minho, being naturally the most reserved person in the group, approaches new situations and people with quiet caution. During your first meeting, he doesn’t say much beyond a polite, brief self-introduction. He tends to stay on the outskirts of conversations, observing everything around him with his sharp, thoughtful eyes. It's clear that he prefers to take his time, watching and absorbing the energy of new people before diving in. With you, it's no different—he doesn’t rush to interact, opting instead to silently evaluate and adjust to your presence. In those early moments, you may notice him sitting quietly or exchanging a few words when necessary, but his true nature lies in how carefully he observes everything. He’s taking note of the dynamics and your habits, making sense of the situation before he fully steps in. Minho’s approach to connecting is slow and deliberate. It’s his way of giving himself time to feel comfortable.

After some time, you’ll start to notice subtle changes. Slowly but surely, he begins to make his way into your world. At first, it’s small—he’ll join in on a group conversation where you’re involved, adding a comment or two, enough to make his presence felt but without drawing too much attention. Little by little, these moments grow more frequent. You start seeing him join in on light small talk, his words carefully chosen but meaningful. Over time, the walls he had built around himself start to lower. What began as casual contributions to group discussions evolves into more personal interactions. One day, you realize he’s seeking you out on his own, initiating conversations that aren’t just polite but thoughtful and genuine. As you grow closer to Minho, his reserved nature starts to melt away, revealing a more playful, talkative side. He begins to open up, often filling the space with his teasing and lighthearted jokes. He loves to mess with you, whether it's by cracking jokes or poking fun at you just to get a reaction.

He has a way of spotting you from across the room and coming over to talk, even if it's about something completely random—he doesn't mind, as long as he has your attention. When it comes to helping you with dance practice, Minho’s patience and focus shine through. He’s always ready to offer guidance, paying extra attention to your steps and making sure you’re on the right track. He’s supportive but never misses an opportunity to play around, and with a mischievous glint in his eye, he’ll warn you, “One more wrong step, and I’ll tickle you,” his playful glare letting you know he’s only half-serious. His combination of care and teasing makes the time spent with him both productive and fun, and it’s clear that he enjoys every moment of being around you. Even though he claims not to be a fan of physical touch, it's obvious that when it comes to you, that's far from the truth. His hands always seem to find their way around you—whether it’s a casual arm over your shoulder or a playful nudge. His actions speak louder than his words, and it’s clear that he enjoys being close to you, even if he won’t admit it.

Changbin

When you first meet Changbin, he greets you with a wide, infectious grin that instantly sets the tone for your interaction. It's clear from the start that he’s the most enthusiastic about meeting you, his excitement practically buzzing through the air. With his high-energy personality, he makes you feel immediately welcome, creating a warm atmosphere where it’s impossible to feel out of place. His positivity is contagious, and you quickly realize that with Changbin, there’s no room for awkwardness or hesitation. From that very first moment, you feel like you can lean on him. He has an effortless way of breaking the ice, making you feel comfortable despite the newness of it all. His easygoing nature shines through as he pulls you into conversations, introduces you to others, and helps you find your footing in the group. It's like he’s taking you under his wing, ensuring that you don’t feel like a stranger for long. His knack for building connections isn’t just limited to himself—he goes out of his way to help you become friends with the others, acting as the bridge that brings everyone together.

Changbin’s energy and enthusiasm create a space where you feel seen, appreciated, and instantly part of the group dynamic. Even during your first meeting, he makes you feel like you belong, as if being around him is the most natural thing in the world. Changbin had a genuine warmth about him, and though he was incredibly talkative, he was also incredibly thoughtful. He knew exactly where to draw the line, never pushing you too far outside your comfort zone. While he loved engaging with you and pulling you into conversations, he also had a strong sense of awareness about when to step back. If he noticed you growing tired or if the conversation began to lose its flow, he’d gracefully shift gears or allow you the space to take a break. As your bond with Changbin deepens, your interactions become a blend of playful mischief and genuine affection. You both find yourselves constantly teasing each other, exchanging nicknames, and engaging in spirited play fights.

Changbin often jokes about your height, laughingly declaring, “We’re definitely the shorty duo—don’t even try to deny it!” His light-hearted teasing and the friendly banter become a hallmark of your relationship, creating a dynamic where fun and laughter are always just around the corner. But beneath all the playful antics, Changbin's true nature shines through. When you’re feeling down or going through a tough time, he’s quick to shift his focus from fun to support. His primary goal becomes making you smile and bringing joy back into your day, no matter what it takes. Whether it’s through a silly joke, a heartfelt gesture, or just being there to listen, Changbin demonstrates that his care goes beyond just playful interactions. It’s this balance—between the fun, carefree side and the thoughtful, caring side—that makes your friendship with Changbin so special. No matter how much teasing or play-fighting there is, you know that when it really matters, he’s someone you can count on to brighten your day and be there for you, offering both laughter and support.

Hyunjin

When you first meet Hyunjin, he may come across as somewhat shy and reserved. He tends to keep his conversations brief and polite, not wanting to intrude or make a fuss. This initial reticence is part of his nature, and while he may not be very talkative at the beginning, he remains courteous and respectful. Hyunjin’s sensitivity can sometimes lead to misunderstandings, especially when you're still getting to know each other. This might result in a few minor disagreements or awkward moments as you both navigate the nuances of your interactions. These initial conflicts are often a result of miscommunications rather than any real friction. However, as you both spend more time together and become more familiar with each other, these early misunderstandings will gradually dissipate. Hyunjin’s true, warmer side will begin to emerge, revealing his more open and engaging personality. As you both get to know each other better, the initial shyness gives way to a deeper connection, allowing for a more comfortable and genuine friendship to develop.

Once you've had the chance to warm up and move past the initial awkwardness or silly disagreements with Hyunjin, he’s quick to make amends by engaging with you on a more personal level. He’ll start asking about your hobbies, interests, and what you enjoy doing in your free time. This genuine curiosity helps bridge the gap between you, and as you discover common interests and shared passions, you’ll find that your connection deepens. As you both open up to each other, Hyunjin becomes more expressive and involved. He’s eager to share his creative thoughts and ideas with you, enjoying the process of exploring and learning together. Whether it’s working on a project, diving into a new hobby, or just discussing your favorite topics, he takes pleasure in collaborating and spending time with you. His enthusiasm for sharing his new discoveries means that you become his go-to person for exciting news or fresh ideas.

Hyunjin’s approach to friendship is rooted in a desire to connect and grow together. He loves finding new ways to explore and learn, and he values having someone to share these experiences with. When he comes across something new or inspiring, you’re always the first person he wants to tell. This constant sharing and collaborative spirit make your relationship with him not only more meaningful but also filled with creativity and mutual support. "Don’t be silly—I told you to wear mine,” he says with a playful smile, tossing his hat in your direction. Sharing is something he truly enjoys, and he’s always happy to offer advice or lend a helping hand whenever you need it. His willingness to share extends beyond just material things; he also values open communication and turns to you whenever he needs someone to talk to. Whether he's seeking guidance, sharing a personal thought, or just needing a listening ear, he feels comfortable confiding in you, appreciating the support and understanding you provide.

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gluion · 2 days

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between steel and velvet ➵ park gunwook

knight!park gunwook x ruler!reader

although you and gunwook knew your respective duties to rule and protect the adrestian empire, the reality is that you two are only kids forced into such responsibilities.

general genre/warnings ➵ friends to lovers, royalty au, hurt/comfort, angst, gender neutral reader, theo of p1h & seungcheol of svt mention, use of names from fe3h because im unoriginal to be thinking of new names

word count ➵ 1.7k words

playlist ➵ the lakes by taylor swift // die with a smile by lady gaga & bruno mars

a/n ➵ this drabble is connected to my upcoming fic "prayers for a garden" :]] this can be read alone for the time being but it would be good if you check it out once it releases! for @shegotthewoobies who survived the gluion drought. thank you real yearner for supporting me. if you enjoyed reading, please do reblog & leave feedback!

want to be part of my taglist? send me an ask! masterlist

gunwook is all too familiar with the weight of steel; rattling with every step and causing his shoulders to ache. the coolness of a silver hilt doesn’t faze him. his balance rarely falters with every jab and his arms are accustomed to every swing. still, he finds himself muttering complaints when he retreats to the quarters after a long day of training.

maybe it helps that he grew up surrounded by knights. with his father leading them, gunwook always found his home filled with men in armor who swung their tankards as they sung out sorrows of what it means to be one. on most nights, they’d tell gunwook to find another job (like he had a choice). they’d joke to him about running away from the life of a knight, but all he would do was smile as he shook his head.

because if gunwook had to be honest, he always found himself gravitating towards steel and chain—the only thing he hates is the idea of fitting into his father’s shoes; a well-respected commander who has known of sacrifice from the start, even going as far as having his own portrait on a wall filled with a lineage of rulers. after all, every king and commander is marked into the adrestian empire’s history—a pair from every tenure.

the reality is that gunwook lacks the skills of what it takes to be a commander. he has yet to learn what it means to lead an army, let alone know how to strategize, but his father had expectations that gunwook had to fulfill before he retires (or much worse, dies on the battlefield).

gunwook can bear the weight of steel on his shoulders—not the title of a commander.

but his world shifted when he learned of who would be his partner—the one who he would be going down in history with—and he found himself constantly faced with the question his father would throw at him: does he have what it takes to serve you?

perhaps gunwook has time to level his expectations on what it means to take over his father’s role. because when he comes across you, he realizes that you two are in the same boat.

the only difference is that he seemed to have more time; more days to train and more hours to study battle plans.

your life, however, turned upside down in one day.

gunwook was going to call it a day. something about today’s training drained him until his legs were cramping. whenever he had to move his arms, he muttered profanities over the soreness. he already denied theo’s invitation for a night out at the saloon, to which he received an earful of complaints for. it didn’t help that seungcheol was making use of his superiority over him, going as far as ridiculing him for his lack of endurance.

but gunwook is all too familiar with his comrades; he wasn’t going to fall for the same tricks.

regardless of the objections, gunwook managed to escape the barracks. he didn’t even think to strip off his heavy armor. but the breeze of the night hit his cheeks—that was enough to give him the last ounce of energy for him to march back to the quarters.

he takes the same path from the barracks to his room; through the garden of different-colored hydrangeas, past the entrance of the chapel where he offers reverence, all the way to the hall filled with portraits. every time gunwook passes through this hall, his steps always slow down as he takes in the same paintings.

tonight shouldn’t be different.

as gunwook’s eyes grace through the portraits, paint strokes capturing commanders’ similar stern expressions, he recalls their history: their journey into the royal army, the sweat it took to become commander, and the sacrifices they made as they led the knights.

and similar to other nights, he makes the same comment: despite the bloodshed, they stood tall—will gunwook be able to say the same for himself?

yet, tonight presents its first difference.

from a distance, gunwook spots someone sitting on a velvet bench. his eyes squint as he continues to walk through the hall, only to make out that it’s you

it’s not unusual to spot you outside of your chambers but you were always accompanied, either by gunwook or a maid. yet, your lonely figure has their eyes peeled to a portrait.

his steps hasten—his majesty cannot be left unattended. no one would allow it—until he hears your sniffles. gunwook watches you wipe away your tears, only for more to stream down your cheeks, and he understands why you’re alone tonight.

you were never the type to cry in front of others. gunwook first learned that when you were scolded by the king. and while he can’t recall for what reason, he remembers the tremble in your voice as you asked him to wait outside your door for a few minutes. you came out of the room with a red, runny rose.

and it’s during these moments where gunwook curses the rattling of his armor because the next steps he takes draws your attention. you glance at him before blinking back the tears. “gunwook, i didn’t know you were here,” you say as you clear your throat in between words.

“your majesty, i didn’t mean to intrude. i was only on my way back to my quarters.”

you wave your hand in reassurance. “it’s okay.” another cough. “did your training finish just now?” you ask without sparing him a glance.

“yes, your majesty.”

with one nod, you say, “okay. i don’t want to keep you from resting. i’m sure you’ve had a long day.”

but gunwook doesn’t care for the lack of sleep he got today or the countless hours he spent in the barracks. “your majesty, there is no trouble with me staying.” you look at him, and he takes in your bloodshot eyes and red nose. “i’ll accompany you until the very end.”

all it takes is one smile from you before he stations himself beside you. as he looks straight ahead, he realizes what you’ve been looking at this whole time: a portrait of the king. your father.

“why don’t you sit down beside me?”

“your majesty, i don’t think it would be proper for me to do so. i’m only allowed to—”

“gunwook.” as your tone shifts from curiosity into agony, he peers over towards you. your eyes are glossy once more. “would you sit down beside me? just this once?”

and gunwook realizes that you didn’t need your commander right now—so, he follows.

he looks at the same painting you’re staring at, respecting and offering your last ounces of privacy. regardless of your request for him to stay by your side, he knows to not look should you shed any more tears.

but then you ask, “do you think you’re ready to be commander?”

gunwook thinks this is a test. if he lies, he might find himself poorly delivering his duties—but to be honest would mean to be removed from his job. away from you.

so, he settles for an answer that held a bit of both. “i don’t know.”

a soft hum leaves you, then silence follows.

gunwook thinks he might’ve failed to give the answer you were looking for. he shouldn’t have kept his guard down. he’s meant to serve you, after all—

“you have time.” his heart beats twice. “time to train. time to learn.” he exhales. “time to figure out if you want to be commander or not.”

gunwook can’t find the right words to say, so he opts for no response.

“i wish i had the same amount of time as you.”

your voice crack causes gunwook to glance at you, only to see you hiding your face behind your hands, and he looks away as he scolds himself for not respecting your privacy.

he remains frozen in his seat. he didn’t know what to act as: your right-hand man or your counselor. at this moment, the boundaries are blurred.

gunwook doesn’t know how to serve you—until your hand reaches out for his.

he looks down to your linked hands that rest on his thigh; his callous-covered fingers in between yours. you grip onto his hand like it’s the first and last thing you can reach for in this hall, like how you were taught to hold a scepter, and gunwook figures out what you need him to be: your comfort.

as he laces his fingers with yours, your sobs turn into wails.

“gunwook, i can’t be the ruler. i can’t.” he looks at you whose eyes remain stuck to the painting. “i’m not fit for it, and i can’t be the ruler the empire wants. i can’t be what the people need.”

for a second, gunwook thinks he should interject. out of all the commoners and royalty within this castle, he’s certain about you. after all the time you’ve spent together, sharing to him in secrecy about your own plans for reformations, he knows where your heart lies—and that’s enough to prove your entitlement to the throne.

but it’s one sentence that changes his way of thinking, and he mourns with you.

“i’m only but a child.”

because like you, gunwook thinks the same of himself. maybe his hesitation doesn’t only come from his lack of skills and experience.

maybe it stems from the fact that he is still a kid, too.

and like every kid who cries, they long for a hug—and he does that for you.

as he wraps his arms around you, your face finds its spot by the crevice of his collar. the steel armor against your cheek is cold, and you try to chase his warmth by nuzzling into his neck, but his suit prevents you from doing so.

the last thing gunwook wants is to make you feel any lonelier, so he holds you close. his hand rubs your back in circles as you continue to sob, hoping that its warmth is enough to suffice. without thinking, his free hand reaches for the back of your head.

he freezes. he should be more careful with you. it’s not right for a knight to hold you—

you nuzzle your face closer to his neck.

gunwook realizes that this is what you need.

even if it meant going against the king. going against the commander. going against the world.

he’ll do anything if it means to remain by your side.

(gunwook would never expect the same thing from you.)

(but you would give up the world for him.)

networks: @kflixnet @k-labels @blankjournal @zumblrnet

zb1 permanent tag list: @deinsleeps

#works of moni #kflixnet #bjnet #k-labels #kstrucknet #zerobaseone #zb1 #zb1 x reader #zb1 imagines #zb1 fluff #park gunwook #park gunwook x reader #park gunwook imagines #zb1 angst #park gunwook angst #gunwook x reader

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kaisangelgirl · 19 hours

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HIHIIII if your rqs are still open then can i ask for p1harmony pussy eating hc’s? specifically jongseob hehe tysm beautiful

swim - p1harmony pussy eating hcs

warnings: pussy eating, cum eating, edging, overstimulating, somnophilia, spit, squirt, reader is referred to as “girl” (i might be projecting), degrading if you squint?? any feedback is appreciated (as well as reblogs, i’m just getting started!)

##keeho ᡣ𐭩

- he teases you before getting into it, caressing your thighs and rubbing his head against them.

- spreads your folds with his fingers before blowing on your needy cunt.

- edges you until you really can’t take it anymore, not without making you beg when he sees your pretty eyes filled with tears.

“keeho…” you whisper, feeling his teeth against your thigh, just to look down and see all the hickeys he had left on your skin. (…)

“baby, please! i need to cum” you sob, feeling desperate after all the times he had denied your orgasm. “mmh, should i let you? my good little girl wants to cum on my mouth?”

##theo ᡣ𐭩

- has you look at him at every moment, looking up from in between your legs while you run your fingers through his hair.

- moans just from eating you out, is literally rutting against whatever he can find to relieve the heat.

- will do it for fun, even if he doesn’t get anything in return (although if he does, he doesn’t complain).

“keep your eyes on me, love” he mumbles against your core, making you moan once again.

“taeyangie- let me do something, please?” you say, pulling on his hair to stop your movements.

he wasn’t too sure at first, but having you sit on his face while you suck his cock, he doesn’t think you could have had a better idea.

##jiung ᡣ𐭩

- does it to prepare you or as the main thing if he’s too tired to fuck you dumb.

- for the first case, he’ll use his mouth to harshly suck on your clit while he fingers you open, stretching you out to take his cock.

- if not, he’ll have you sit on his face, hands spreading your cheeks and nose against your nub. he pull you down onto him.

“does that feel good, baby? d’you like my fingers inside of you?” when you nod, trying to answer in between cries, he goes back to sucking on your clit.

“ji, please, want your cock” you pout, already craving him after he’s teased you for long.

##intak ᡣ𐭩

- this man is DEDICATED. i can only picture him as a soft dom or sub, but either way he’s a puppy who just wants to please you. he doesn’t care if he gets to cum or not (because he could climax just from giving you head…)

- digs his nails into your thighs and has you rubbing your cunt against his face. he buries his head there and rubs it, getting his entire lower face soaked in your juice.

- he gets so into it he wouldn’t notice you’re past your limit (but enjoying it ofc! he would realise if you’re really trying to stop). overstimulates you until you pull on his hair to make him stop.

“intak, baby, wait!” you whimper “‘s too much”. he pulls away at your tug on his locks, resting on your thigh with dizzy eyes.

when you make him lay on the bed and reach for his boxers, you see a wet patch of precum covering his hard cock.

##soul ᡣ𐭩

- he thinks you’re so cute. but he finds your pretty cunt even cuter. he goes crazy when he notices your light cotton panties allow him to see the outline of it; what can he do if not eat you out through them?

- it will take him a while to take them off, and will just stare at your spread folds for a few seconds, already pussy drunk, before spitting on it and rubbing his drool all over your cunt.

- if you let him, he’ll wake you up every morning with his head in between your legs, eyes closed when he licks you and pulling back every few minutes to admire the sight.

“sho…?” you say, still half asleep. the wet feeling on your core wakes you up, just to see him under the sheets, leaving your white panties covered with his drool before pulling them to the side.

“you look so pretty, baby. pull your shirt up for me?” he says, moving his hands to play with your nipples and ordering you to do so yourself when he’s too invested in eating you out.

##jongseob ᡣ𐭩

- he is INTO IT. will put your legs on his shoulders and pull you as close to him as he can, not without making you beg for it first.

- he might get a little dirty and teasing, but not mean (unless you’re into that…). i’m talking fingering you and eating you out until he finally makes you squirt all over his face, leaking you clean.

- and he might make you kiss him afterwards, tongues intertwined and your taste being shared. most of the time he will rub his cock on your folds (the tip hitting your clit), and fuck you dumb, hoping he’ll make you squirt again.

“seobie, i’m gonna cum- seob wait!” you scream, feeling closer to the edge, knowing it wasn’t just a normal orgasm. he hums against your clit, moving his fingers at an impressive speed, curling them against that one sensitive spot.

after licking your juices clean, he towers over you, his chin dripping, getting closer to your face. “such a dirty girl for me, mmh? making it all messy” he says before kissing you deeply.

#p1harmony x reader #p1harmony smut #p1harmony fanfic #keeho smut #theo smut #jiung smut #intak smut #soul smut #jongseob smut #p1harmony imagines #kpop smut

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seokka0o · 2 days

Text

Koga Yudai ♡ Reader

──┈ׄ─𐨿─┈ࠜ╼Contain: Smut, humping, cockwarming, breeding, pet names, sub! Reader and dom!Kei, unprotected sex (please use protection)

Author: I was on my way to work and this popped into my mind, I'm a slut for this man I swear and I don't regret it, hope enjoy and please leave a feedback ♡

──┈ׄ─𐨿─┈ࠜ╼ this is +18 content and purely fictional, not intended to offend anyone. read with descriptions. Minors do not interact.

The sounds you made were specific, low, and desperate. The feeling was like suffocating, the heat came from your abdomen and rose until it made you dizzy, which made you reconsider all your decisions since then. it was terrible, you consider yourself a good tease, but then your boyfriend who has known you for so long knows more about your limits than you do. Who is smiling, every now and then looking at your face as a kind of entertainment. His cock is growing and growing inside you, throbbing showing how satisfying it seemed to him just to be there watching you try so hard not to move for the sake of your own self-control, because if it were up to him you could have just fucked at the first sign that it would lead nowhere.

Kei smiles and then you are close to falling apart, trapped in his embrace now, he caresses you, inside your shirt, on your warm and sensitive back, he goes down to your ass and squeezes to feel the flesh, taking advantage of the opportunity to move his cock so uniquely to slide a little deeper inside you. You moan so painfully that it seems to really hurt, but you are just trying to contain everything that is inside since the moment you put yourself in this desperate situation, all you could do was regret, Kei with his simple touches did all the work of making you forget the reason why you started this game. You just wanted to bet that they could stay like this without you trying to lose all your control. But you were failing so miserably.

“Come on baby, you can't take it anymore. Did you notice the pool that has already formed... it's just a fuck” he dictated close to your ear, with acidic affection, arms wrapping around your waist as he barely heard your answer before starting to move very slowly, you felt him so slowly tearing you apart, just like his words, Kei was rough in the most subtle way possible, making you moan so delicately and sink into the curve of his neck as if you needed it desperately, like a sulking animal. You lost yourself for a good few thrusts, and when Kei was already starting to pant when you leaned on his chest to sit up and stay still.

“No,” you said breathlessly, your hot, wet, pulsating insides giving away your lie so he could make fun of you in front of your boyfriend once again. He laughed in disbelief and laid his head on the pillow, a little nervous because his body had already entered a state of feeling pleasure corroding him. “We need to be stronger than this.”

“Just because you want to? My love, look at you, I can feel your pussy contracting around my cock… so desperate, you can’t mistreat yourself like that,” Kei commented subtly, with endless naturalness. He ran his fingers over your exposed thighs and up your inner thigh where he caressed you, you trembling under his touch, it was like falling into a sea of endless temptation. “I could make you cum at least three times in the next five minutes and you’re denying me that.”

He complained beforehand, moving his hips so slowly that you hadn't even noticed too much to protest, letting the moans escape so slyly, letting yourself be carried away and moving your own as if you were escaping, but entering into his game like easy prey.

You moaned, slyly, as if you had been waiting for this for a long time, desperate for the sensation of the flesh, your fingers marking themselves on his white shirt, while his hands made more trips than necessary, ass, thighs, back, breasts that he squeezed so lovingly so he could play with the rigid and negligent nipples, in his ears you making the most beautiful sounds, with your body starting to ride lightly.

“Mhm…baby” you sighed and he grunted back.

“Yes, you do it so well, just keep going” he dictated in a sweet tone, feeling his skin burn, they weren’t aggressive moans, it was something so intrinsic that Kei could often only sigh and gasp as you kept that slow and tortuous, a slow and engaging fuck, the two of you dancing, moving your hips towards each other and then in moments your leg was losing strength, without any strength in your voice to express any words, or anything other than a continuous moan.

“So sweet..” he begged for you knowing what was coming, your fingers pushing, your head fell as the air began to run out. Kei let you take your time, watching you lose control, coming and going, letting your voice say what you were feeling, he felt like he could destroy you, but he should let you delight in his cock alone, looking for your own pleasure after denying it for maybe an hour. There was no way he could know. It was magnificent to see.

You lost the air in your lungs, treating your boyfriend like a toy for seconds to spill yourself over him, reaching the limit that took so long to conquer , you lost all your temper, you wanted more and he would give it to you without mercy and without thinking twice.

“Give me everything, everything you have, baby” he encouraged, feeling his body lose a little in this condition too, his wide and firm fingers held you tightly, Kei was tense, in the middle of your orgasm his arrived and Kei's hips rose so quickly inside that you lingered in the sensation, whispered curses between the muffled sound of his hips hitting against you in a fuck that escalated quickly from something so subtle and sweet to an unprecedented aggressiveness.

Your lips made a synchronicity of sounds to each other, you syllable each other's name so desperately, you held yourself to keep yourself, falling on your boyfriend's body so he could have perfect precision, feeling overstimulated, tired, and he finished with you in an instant, filling all your walls with his pleasure, rolling his eyes so full of that breathtaking feeling, and in the end you were both destroyed and panting, feeling your body so tired from the effort to get there.

#&team smut #&team hard hours #k smut #k hard hours #kei smut #kei hard hours #koga yudai smut #koga yudai hard hours #kpop smut #kpop hard hours

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pichiru · 12 hours

Text

The Sun Also Smiles - Chapter 1

Chapters - [1] [2]

Summary - With Mabel and Dipper's 16th birthday party on the horizon, Grunkle Stan takes to online dating to find a date for the party. But who he meets isn't who she thinks she is. Things start to get weird.

Word Count - 1,782

Pairing(s) - Stan Pines x OC

Genre(s): Romance, Comedy, Mystery

A/N: Hi everyone! This is the first fanfic I've written in about 10 years! This is my first time posting my writing on Tumblr and I'm very, very nervous. The Grunkle Stan curse has consumed me whole… I'm not sure at the moment exactly how long this fic will be but it'll be a fun ride for us all! :3 I really hope you enjoy! Please feel free to leave feedback about how you feel about the story! I looooooove reading what everyone has to say and how you feel about stuff! It makes me so happy :D

~~~~~~~

“So…”

“Uh huh…”

“What you’re saying is…”

“Uhhhh huuuhhhh.” There was smiling, almost downright giggling, in her voice.

“You…”

“Uh huh!”

“Wanna…”

“EEEEEE!!!” She screeched quietly behind her prayer positioned hands while jumping in place.

“Start your own weird earring business?”

Mabel let out a loud ear piercing scream, causing Dipper to cover his ears quickly. Even at 15, almost 16, Mabel was still so excitable and bubbly. She never lost that part of her personality and she never would if she had anything to say about it.

“Mabel, is there even a market for that kind of thing?” Dipper asked his sister after she finally calmed down enough to have a conversation.

“Dipper…” Mabel started, her tone serious. “You have no frickin idea!” She squealed, jumping some more in place.

“Okay, say for instance I believe you and this is something you’re actually gonna commit to this time, how are you gonna get the materials?” He asked, folding his arms across his chest.

“Oh you know…” She said with a wide grin, nudging her brother in his ribs with her elbow. Dipper let out a groan, unfolding his arms to rub where she practically stabbed him.

“He’s not gonna go for it, Mabel. Him or Ford. Grunkle Ford would probably have war flashbacks if you even said the word ‘weird’ around him. Even if you whispered it,” Dipper said matter of factly.

“That’s what you think. You just don’t have the Mabel Pines charm. Or the puppy dog eyes. You’ve lost your edge. You’re too emo now,” Mabel sighed as she started reminiscing how cute and cuddly Dipper used to be. Now he’s just like Robbie. But somehow cooler? Somehow.

“Emo?! It’s called goth!” Dipper said, his voice cracking very slightly. His cheeks flushed, hoping Mabel wouldn’t notice. Her lack of reaction led him to believe she didn’t. But he figured she was just doing him a favor by not embarrassing him about it anymore. It got boring, he figured.

“Anyway,” Dipper started after clearing his throat a little. “I’d like to see you try to convince Stan to foot the bill for this. There’s no amount of 15 year old puppy dog face that’ll get him to do it.”

“Oh ye of little faith, my brother,” Mabel sighed, shaking her head as she started unpacking her luggage.

The twins begged and pleaded to stay with their grunkles for the summer. It was a big summer! Their 16th birthday. Ford and Stan agreed to return from their Stan o War II expeditions on the condition that they could plan a huge party for them before sending them back home. They thought it would be nice to do for the kids. Especially since they haven't really seen them since they turned 13. Dipper, however, has been keeping correspondence with Ford every week.

Mabel pulled a blazer out of her largest suitcase and held it up to Dipper with a wide, metal filled, grin. "I brought this just for the pitch! Hopefully it'll make Grunkle Stan take me seriously since all he does is wear a blazer in the shack. And dress pants. Come to think of it, he wears a full suit to work in a tourist trap," she said mostly to herself at the end.

"Did you get the blazer because you think it'll make you more grown up?" Dipper asked, rolling his eyes slightly.

"Uh, duh, Dipper. Why else would I just have a blazer laying around as a teenager?" Mabel asked, rolling her eyes back.

Dipper had his back turned to Mabel but he smiled at her comment. He loved that his sister was so sarcastic and funny. It was one of his favorite things about her.

After about 15 minutes passed, they were both unpacked and settled into their old room. Ford had even convinced Stan to get the kids their own full sized beds, instead of the smaller twin sized beds. He thought it would make them feel more comfortable. He wasn't wrong though.

Dipper trudged down the stairs first, wanting to be witness to this disaster of a business pitch his sister was about to initiate. He looked around for a moment. It was eerily quiet. The only thing that could be heard was the clicking of a keyboard from the kitchen and hushed arguing. They obviously didn't want to be heard but they sucked at it, frankly.

He sighed and flattened his fingers against his hips to stick them into his pockets. He took a step towards the kitchen before jumping at a loud yell that startled him from head to toe. Of course it was Grunkle Stan's voice. Dipper rushed into the kitchen to see what was going on.

"Grunkle Stan?!" Dipper yelled, his hands gripping the doorway in terror. "Are you okay?!"

Ford and Stan looked to their nephew, confused about why he was so startled. They were huddled around a laptop on the kitchen table. Stan was sitting in front of the computer and Ford standing but leaned down to read what was on the screen.

"Are you okay, kid?" Stan asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

Dipper slowed his breathing to a normal pace before laughing it off. "Y-Yeah. I'm A-OK! I just..." He trailed off.

"Dipper, it's alright," Ford said as he walked up to his nephew and placed a solid hand on his shoulder. "We're just..." He looked back at his brother, who shook his head slowly, his mouth a hard line and his eyebrows flat. Ford turned his attention back to Dipper.

"Stan's trying online dating. He says he wants to have a date to your birthday party. I don't care about that sort of thing personally but..."

"SIXER!" Stan blurted as he started blushing furiously, hunching over the computer. "Always openin your mouth..." he grumbled to himself, knowing full well they both could hear him. "I just wanted to make a FRIEND that's not my brother, you kids, or Soos. Can't an old coot want that for himself?"

Ford and Dipper looked at each other with the same intrigued expression. Dipper straightened himself up and nodded.

"Yeah. You can definitely want that for yourself," he answered. "Have you...had any luck?" Dipper asked cautiously.

"Not really," Stan said curtly. He knew online dating at his age would be tedious but not _this_ bad.

"Actually, Dipper," Ford interjected. "Someone just messaged him back. Eagerly," he said, shooting a grin at Stan.

"Shut your trap! We don't even know if she's a real person," Stan grumbled as he typed on the laptop on front of them. "Or if she's a...what is it? Dogwhale?"

"Catfish," Ford and Dipper corrected in unison.

Stan looked at his brother and nephew, squinting his eyes at them. "Sometimes I wonder who's Sixer's twin here. Me or you, kid. Aside from the fact you look like The Cure meets Marilyn Manson these days." He turned back to the computer and continued typing.

"How do you know who Marilyn Manson is?" Dipper asked with much confusion in his voice.

"Don't worry about it, kid," Stan dismissed. "It's a good look on you."

Dipper blushed and rubbed the back of his neck shyly. "Oh! Thanks," he said quietly, looking around the room nervously. "It's a new thing."

"Some of the smartest people I knew in college were goths," Ford added. "Keep up the good work...er...look...Yeah." Ford looked between the other two and left the room quickly out of embarrassment.

"GRRUUNNKKKLLLEEE STAANNNNNN!!!" Mabel squealed as she rushed past Dipper into the kitchen with her blazer on haphazardly. She very obviously didn't know how to put it on to fit her correctly but that didn't stop her from trying.

Stan turned to look at Mabel who was standing there eagerly with a book under her right arm. He couldn't help but smile at his niece still being the same silly person she always has been. It always warmed every corner of his heart. Even though he'd never admit it.

"What's up, kid?" He asked as he leaned back in the chair and crossed his left ankle over his right knee.

ding!

"So! I have a proposition for you!" Mabel said as she pulled her book out and opened it.

ding!

"What is that?" Mabel asked curiously as she stepped forward towards Stan and the laptop.

"Nothing!!" Stan said as he slammed the laptop closed.

"Stan's doing online dating," Dipper said without thinking. He made a small noise then covered his mouth quickly.

There was an unsettling silence at first followed by a loud shriek of excitement followed by Mabel jumping up and down with the book still in her hands. "GRUNKLE STAN NO WAY! NOOOOO WAAAAYYY!! AH, I'M SO EXCITED FOR YOU!"

Stan and Dipper both covered their ears.

"Alright, alright, kid. That's enough. It's no big deal."

"IT IS SO A BIG DEAL!!! Have you met anyone yet? Did you ask anyone on a date?" Mabel asked rapidly.

"No and no," Stan said simply.

Mabel's entire disposition changed when he answered. "Oh... Well those dings from the computer sound promising! There was a lot of them too. Maybe it's multiple women trying to get your attention?"

"No. It's...It's one woman. I just met her," Stan said as he opened the laptop back up and went to the woman's profile. "Says here she's an artist, she loves period pieces, and loves all things Halloween. Don't really get the last part but the first two things? It makes her the dame of my dreams," he sighed with a smile. He quickly reigned himself back in and cleared his throat.

"Anyways, we're just...chattin right now. That's all. It probably won't even last a day. She's too good to be true. She's probably a...wazzit called, Dip?"

"Catfish," Dipper answered quickly.

"Yeah that. She's probably a catfish," Stan said sadly.

"Grunkle Stan," Mabel said softly as she walked over to him and sat her book down on the table. "I know you've led a hard life but you deserve happiness. So don't shoot it down before it's even had the chance to take flight," she advised wisely, placing her hand on his shoulder.

"Wise words, kid," Stan said, accepting her advice. "I'll...give it a chance."

"YAY!!" Mabel squealed as she clapped her hands happily.

Stan's gaze snapped to the book in front of them. "Wazzat?" he asked, pointing with his chin. "And why the hell are you wearing a blazer? And wearin it like...that?"

A huge grin slowly spread across Mabel's face, showing every single color in her braces, at Stan's sudden interest. "Grunkle Stan...do I have a proposition for you!"

#gravity falls #gravity falls fandom #stanley pines #original character #Stan Pines x OC #online dating #Mabel Pines #Dipper Pines #stanford pines #fanfiction #fanfic #romance #ocs #oc insert #self insert #self indulgent #bill cipher

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yourssincerely-mimi · 16 hours

Text

The Car's Outside.

𐙚 - he's not going in his Addison Lee.

PAIRINGS - bf!heeseung X reader

MIMI'S NOTE: Hii! I have awakend from my eternal writers block!! i'm sorry i haven't posted a lot.. so here's a little blurb about he(e) and you! I wanted to experiment with some things, so it might feel off or weird :) I made this in de dead of night. so it's bound to have mistakes, typos, etc :) Please, do enjoy and don't hold back on feedback!

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Your hands trembled as you zipped up your suitcase. The soft hum of an engine outside your window made your heart skip a beat. You knew it was him. Taking a deep breath, you walked to the window. There it was- Heeseung's Acura RDX, parked under the streetlight. Just like it had been countless times before. But this time was different. This time was goodbye.

You grabbed your bag and made your way downstairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. You opened the front door, their eyes met. His face was a mixture of hope and resignation.

"Hey," he said softly, leaning against the car.

"Hi," You replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them. Finally, Heeseung opened the passenger door.

"One last drive?" he asked.

You nodded, sliding into the familiar seat. As they drove through the quiet streets of their hometown, memories flooded back - first dates, late-night adventures, whispered promises of forever.

But forever had run its course.

Heeseung drove aimlessly, neither of them wanting the journey to end. They passed by the diner where they had their first date and the little bookstore where they spent countless Sundays browsing together.

"Remember when we got caught in that thunderstorm at the beach?" Heeseung asked, breaking the silence.

You couldn't help but smile. "How could I forget? We were soaked to the bone, but you still insisted on finishing our picnic under that tiny umbrella."

They both laughed, the sound bittersweet in the confines of the car.

As they approached the airport, the laughter faded, replaced by the heavy reality of what was to come. He pulled into the parking lot, killing the engine. The silence was deafening.

"I guess this is it," You said, your voice cracking.

Heeseung's hand reached for yours hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I'll always love you, you know that, right?"

You nodded, tears streaming down your face. "I know. I'll always love you too."

They sat there for a moment, neither wanting to be the first to let go. Finally, you took a deep breath and reached for the door handle.

"Wait," Heeseung said, his voice urgent. He leaned over and kissed you softly, one last time. It was a kiss filled with all the words they couldn't say, all the memories they'd shared, and all the dreams they were letting go. "I don't wanna leave you anymore.."

When they parted, you saw tears in his eyes too. You never saw him this emotional, it broke your heart more than it needed to be. You carefully went over his cheek with your thumb.

"I promise, I'll come back.. Just.. we met at a wrong time, and you deserve more than I can offer.." Tears slowly started swelling in your eyes.

Both of you let go, knowing you couldn't turn back anymore. You opened his car door one last time, and took out your suitcase out his trunk, one final time.

Both of you couldn't stand the thought of seeing each other like this. Yet, you kept looking inside those tear-filled eyes. One final time, before leaving. Leaving him and his car, staying outside.

masterlist !!

perm taglist : dm me, send an ask, or leave a comment under my masterlist !!

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lorelune · 1 year

Text

part iv

|| diluc ragnvindr x f! reader || E/18+ || hurt/comfort, fluff, post-trauma || wc: 13.3k || ao3 || masterlist || ← PREVIOUS + NEXT → ||

As much as you allow yourself to, you 'settle' in.

❁ my heart, your song - @firein-thesky ❁

minors & ageless blogs dni

a/n: a!!! chunk!!! AHHHH!!! i'm so excited to finally share more of this piece :'^) thank you endlessly to mao (@itoshisoup) and collab-partner cielo (@firein-thesky) for beta-reading and riffing throughout this piece. their input and edits have been vital to polishing this story and getting it all the way here!! to posting!!! thank you both!!!!! check out the masterlist above to read cielo's piece for this collab <3 leave them and kaeya some love 💓 please enjoy this next chapter, with all its sharp-teeth and softness (and some oral 😎😎!!!!) ENJOY loves!!! <333

...

tags: smoking, vague descriptions of dissociation, references to reader's past, almost-wife (an unnamed oc), some smut (as a treat), soggy soggy soggggy!!!

PART iv: the thaw

Adelinde comes to your door the next day and takes your measurements. Circling you with a sewer’s tape here and there, she records numbers on a little notepad.

“The Wind’s Breath dance is in a few days.” She tells you. Days have been blurring together. “Master Diluc has requested that an outfit be fetched for you for it.”

You should be upset, it seems like an overstep. It is. But, for ‘staying for Windblume’, you haven’t been back to Mond proper since you’ve settled down in the Winery. The Wind’s Breath dance, or rather night of fucking debauchery does have somewhat of a dress code. There’s a traditional style of Mondstadan clothing that most wear, aside from perhaps knights and some merchants. The colors align with Windblume’s yellow, soft teal and creamy ivory.

Certainly clothing you don’t have now, and a night of drinking and dancing sounds absolutely lovely. You remember enjoying the ceremony of it, in your youth.

“... Did you hear Diluc and I last night?” You ask Adelinde when she has the tape around your bust.

Adelinde chooses her words carefully, more interested in the measurements than your question, “I heard shouting by the hearth, but nothing after. Should I have heard more after?”

You flush at her insinuation, “Adelinde—”

“Sorry, sorry,” She laughs without a bite, going to your inseam. “It’s a little too easy to tease you, dear. Forgive me.”

You narrow your eyes at her in jest, rolling them a moment later and let her prod you for the length of your wingspan.

“I did shout at him though.” You admit. “I could’ve chewed him out more. He deserved more, maybe. I don’t know. It feels confusing.”

“Why confusing?”

“Because—” You rub a hand over your face and your balance wobbles. “It’s Diluc. There’s just so much there, good and bad. I don’t know how or if I should broach it.”

Adelinde thinks for a moment, gives a thoughtful hum, and rises, “That’s entirely up to you, whether you choose to examine or confront your history with Diluc, and I’d say the winery, as well. I know that he has caused you a great deal of suffering and grief.”

You laugh, “It sounds like there’s a ‘but’ coming.”

“But,” She smiles. Smooths your collar down. “You also loved him, didn’t you?”

You stew for a moment.

Of course you loved him. Love, still. You’ve buried it so deep in you, but it won’t suffocate. You haven’t fed it in years, starved it from light and air, but it still knows yearning and want better than any other part of you.

You lie, “Once. Maybe.”

“And he loved you too, yes?”

(Oh, he did. He told you so, showed you so, over and over again. In the little gestures of childhood, to firsts that you shared, to the way his eyes shone so brightly for no one other than you. He had always been such a caring boy, and you were the subject of his greatest attentions.)

(Such knowledge has tormented you. To be loved in such a way, and have it ripped away in the way he did—)

“You know this already, Adelinde.” You side-step her question and go the vanity. Fidget with a bottle of perfume left by a previous guest. The glass bottle is small and amber, half-full. It smells floral with a hint of musk; you can tell even before you uncork it.

Adelinde watches you as you do. You can feel her gaze on you. When you dare to look— she keeps a soft expression. Wizened, and perhaps a bit sad. It aches to see her that way. She was there. She had taken care of Kaeya, Diluc and you in your youth. She’d been a fixture. Seen the lot of you through it all.

You wonder how she has beared it.

“Such care does not go away easily.” She says gently. “Even if we would like it to. Even if living would be easier if they did. I think both you and the master of the house know this well.”

You pop the cork on the perfume. It’s oily, and sticks to the tips of your fingers. You grimace. “It is... difficult to imagine Diluc caring about me, even residually, after his departure.”

“I imagine so.” Adelinde says so kindly. “But, I know the Master well enough to say he wouldn’t have invited you back to the manor so openly if he didn’t care for you. He’s not the type of man to do things he doesn’t want to do.”

(She’s right.)

(You remember Diluc dragging his feet and bemoaning having to wash up after days on the riverbank, covered in sand and dirt. How his hair would snarl and get so knotted— he hated brushing it, his scalp too tender and Crepus was, respectfully, a bit clueless on how to manage Diluc’s hair. You wonder—)

You rub your forehead, then your cheeks. “Even still. It’s hard—”

(Because you simply cannot fathom Diluc loving you still. Such a reality cannot exist. If it did— if that’s true—)

Adelinde must see your panic and redirects. “I think it would serve you well to try and remember where you are. Stay grounded in the good things you can find in the present, here, rather than a past that hasn’t been kind to you.”

“... I don’t have to forgive him, do I?”

“No. Not unless you want to.” Adelinde grabs your shoulders and squeezes. “Enjoy the fields. Visit your friends. Catch up with Elzer, if you can too. Maybe Kaeya—”

“Not Kaeya.” You don’t mean to snap, but you do.

“No Kaeya, then.” Adelinde seems unaffected. She smooths your collar and tucks your hair behind your ear. “Lisa, then. I’m sure there are folks who will continue to need your healing, too. Not to mention I do think Diluc will give you as much wine as you’d like.”

“Please, I’d rather he didn’t think of me as a drunk.” You paw at your cheeks as Adelinde pulls your ear with a cheeky smile.

“Does that mean we can’t share a bottle by the hearth? That’s a shame.”

“Oh, I never said that. We’ll just have to wait until Diluc goes to bed.”

“That’s not necessary.” Your statement gives Adelinde pause. You catch it, how Adelinde schools her expression and straightens herself. “I’ll be sure the master doesn’t give us any grief.”

You could pry. There’s something there. You know how to smell out a secret— half of being a physician traveling from citadels to isolated villages is picking out people’s hidden aches and pains. Ones they come accustomed to hiding or have become used to. It’s a learned skill, one you did not have in your naivete and youth, but you’ve honed it now. You see Adelinde falter.

Diluc has always been dawn— the insinuation of Diluc and the night causes her to stumble.

You do not pry. You school yourself. Because you are here for Windblume. And to find this damn healer. And if Diluc hadn’t invited you to his (not your) home, you’d be happily sleeping in your tent just outside of Mondstadt proper.

You do not need to entangle yourself more than necessary.

(You’ve already stepped too close to a chasm that you’ve avoided for far too long. You do not realize how steep its edges are or how fragile its cliffs.)

You laugh to yourself, “As if I’d let him.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t.” Adelinde softens once more. You can see the wrinkles around her eyes and in the center of her forehead. Thick patches of freckles on her nose. “ You, though. Take your time. Rest. Be good to yourself. I’m always here to talk, if you would need or like... and if I may?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve given the Master similar advice. He’s more affected than he lets on.” Adelinde reveals and presses her lips to your forehead. “You are both dear to me, and I don’t wish to watch either of you suffer in the ways you have. Though, I won’t mettle more than this.”

You sit with the knowledge she’s presented.

“Thank you, Adelinde.” And you hug her hard like you’re trying to suck the wisdom from her body into your own. “May I ask you one other thing?”

“Of course, dear.”

(You feel unsteady. You don’t want to think about this. But, perhaps, it’ll provide you some stability. Assuredness.)

“Did you ever end up telling Diluc about what happened while he was gone?” You can’t look at her. Even if you were, your gaze would be elsewhere. Even acknowledging ‘it’ (forget, forget, forget) has you feeling untethered.

Adelinde grabs your hands in hers and intertwines your fingers. They’re worn, calloused from washing and carrying burdens she shouldn’t have to.

“No, I didn’t,” Adelinde says, softly. “Both Elzer and I have kept true to what we promised you when you left for Snezhnaya. Though Diluc has... asked, we’ve been vague about it over the years.”

You’re grateful. Endlessly.

(It means that something is still sealed, well-bottled and shoved away, and hidden. It was the only request you made of them upon your departure.)

“Thank you.” You hug her, but Adelinde is already moving to pull you close. She strokes the back of your head like a mother would.

“Always, dear.” Adelinde assures you. You scrunch the fabric of her dress in your fists and bite your tongue.

(Lest you reveal too much, or break something that should stay fractured but whole.)

...

The Winery gets pleasantly warm during the spring afternoons. The sun slants just right, and the light that spills in heats the manor better than any of its many hearths could. You leave your window open, soaking in the bird songs and petrichor from the morning drizzles. You’re half-tempted to wander in the vining fields, but abstain.

You’ve spent the afternoon mulling over Adelinde’s advice. You trust her and her sagely wisdom. Without her guidance, you surely would’ve crumbled during your tenure as the winery’s unofficial master. You had no reason to doubt her, or think that she was leading you astray with her words—

And yet.

(How could Diluc care about you? How, how, how—)

You fist into your own skull, as if you could quiet your thoughts with nothing more than brute force.

The day lazily slinks by, and you meander to the kitchens for a meal as the sun goes gold with the evening.

You’re surprised to find Diluc there.

The kitchen is an organized mess, notably. Bowls and latched boxes of dry ingredients lay out on the countertops, and the center prep station is dusted in flour with several round balls of dough at the ready. You see a bottle of milk and bright yellow dust in a jar.

Diluc’s jacket has been discarded, hung on a hook near the back door entry to shield it from any potential mess. He’s left in his trousers and waistcoat, any of the more ornamental gold bits have had their sheen dulled by baking dust. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. He kneads a ball of dough with a motion that looks far too practiced for someone who was once a knight, and now a businessman. Strong, worn hands, ducking into the dough, then out, smearing it on the butcherblock. His forearms bulge. It’s obscene.

He must notice you, but he doesn’t stop. You side-step him to the icebox, fish out a handful of berries and a wedge of cheese. You perch on one of the counters and fold your legs under you, stretching to grab a knife from a block.

“... Are you going to spectate?” Diluc asks, pausing, only to look at you for a brief moment before continuing his kneading.

You hum, combining a bite of berry and cheese and speaking through it, “I suppose. What are you making?”

“Sweetbread.”

“When did you learn to make bread?” You ask, a bit baffled. He’d always been a rather poor cook, and an even worse baker.

“Sometime back. I was forced to, while I was away.”

“... Oh?”

Diluc doesn’t look at you, “A comrade’s wife taught me how to. She said it was an important life skill.”

“That sounds about right.” You’d never mastered sweetbreads, but you feel quite adept at making flatbreads on round stones.

“These were supposed to be a bit of a surprise,” He grumbles under his breath. Almost pouting. “A gift... And perhaps, an apology— for you. For yesterday.”

“... Oh?”

“... ‘Oh’?”

You trip over your words, shoving a berry into your mouth to try and disguise your stumbling, “I didn’t expect you to apologize.”

“I’m not yet, the bread isn’t done.” Diluc sets the finished ball into another bowl, greased with oil and butter.

“I see.” You raise an eyebrow and take another bite. The berries stain your fingertips wine red. “Why are you apologizing?”

“I overstepped,” Diluc says simply, adjusting his sleeves and going to work the next dough ball.

“No— I. That’s not—” You groan, and throw your face in your hands. It feels warm. “It’s fine, Diluc.”

“Denying it won’t stop me from apologizing.” He shoots back. “You have every reason to be angry with me. Besides, this bread will go to waste otherwise.”

You shoot him a half-baked smile. A distraction, for both you and him. Hopefully, it’s enough to disguise the way your shoulders go rigid and the way you white-knuckle the lip of the corner of the counter. His words bounce around in your skull, like a mocking echo that just won’t shut up—

(How long had you waited for that admission from Diluc? How many star-filled nights have you toiled, once, craving that validation from him? You wanted him to balm the wound that he left, even if you knew it was impossible.)

(At some point you asphyxiated the want. Crushed it down into something that could be swallowed but never digested. Hope can’t be killed, but archons, did you try.)

Diluc’s words unearth the dormant thing. You don't think Diluc understands the gravity of what he’s said to you, and you hope he doesn’t put it together.

(It feels raw. He’s cut you and bared your insides without regard.)

“… Fine.” You concede to him (hopefully he doesn’t prod you further. Bear your neck to him and perhaps the action will be enough to keep him interested and tempted but not to bite down.)

You refuse to look at him. You smash the last bits of a raspberry between your forefinger and thumb and watch the juices drip down your skin. It’s a pretty red that you suck off when it reaches the knuckle.

Diluc sighs, and perhaps scoffs, before the sound and motion of dough kneading resumes in your periphery.

“I’m sorry too,” you say, breaking the fragile reverie.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Diluc speaks quickly. He’s not wrong, but you feel inclined to anyway.

(Your rage is more than justified. The thing bubbling under your skin— guilt, regret, topped with dread— is as well.)

You hop off the counter and teeter to bear your weight on your good foot. A hiss of pain gets caught behind your teeth and you chew the inside of your teeth. Diluc regards you, expectantly, hair spilling over his shoulders, half-hunched over his last ball of dough.

“I should give you the benefit of the doubt, at least a little.” You sigh. “I jumped for your throat, and that perhaps, wasn’t fair. You had a point, it was a long time ago—“

“Stop diminishing yourself. It’s painful.” Diluc interrupts you for once. “I deserve your ire. My reaction to your anger wasn’t justified or appropriate.”

“You stop being self-deprecating.” Guilt-ridden bastard. “Regardless of what you deserve, which I won’t be debating with you, I still care about you.”

(Love, probably. Most certainly.)

It’s an admission you don’t mean to give him. You instantly feel too vulnerable with the feelings; you wish you had kept it close to your chest and hidden. You watch your words cut him, and Diluc freezes. He’s so plain with his reaction that it’s almost comical. His eyes go wide and he goes stiff as a board. You don’t fare any better. You feel as though you’ve revealed a card in your hand that you shouldn’t have.

(You trade blows. One for one, flayed flesh for a split spine.)

You chew the inside of your cheek. You taste blood. Diluc clears his throat and collects himself. You leer away, laughing under your breath.

(A younger Diluc would’ve jumped at your words. Shown so brightly he could rival any hearth, become a human sun, if only for a moment. He would’ve gleamed. It’s difficult to admit that he’s darkened.)

He doesn’t return the sentiment— not directly. Not the same way.

Diluc finishes his dough and leaves it to rest before exiting the room without a word. You don’t get a chance to protest, he’s back so quickly, with a —staff— cane in his hand. A metal-caste owl sits at the top while the wood is stained a rich burgundy.

Diluc hands it to you.

“I don’t know if it’s sized correctly. I based it on the measurements Adelinde provided me.”

“… Thank you.”

You swallow and accept the gift. It is sized correctly, perfectly even, and it takes some adjusting to re-remember how to bear your weight on it. The ache in your foot lessens almost instantly, quelled.

“It surprised me, when you didn’t have a cane with a limp that severe,” Diluc says, watching you take a few test steps.

“I did have one— several. Previously.” You examine the metal owl with a frown. “Where did you get this?”

“My father’s study.”

“Diluc.” You freeze. “I can’t possibly accept a Ragnvindr family heirloom.”

“Nonsense.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s been collecting dust for decades. Make good use of it.”

“Diluc—”

“Take it. Don’t be so stubborn. You can hardly walk.” Diluc huffs, though the blush on his cheeks hasn’t waned. “What happened to your previous canes?

“Uhhh—” You drawl, clicking your tongue and examining the floor. “One was surely stolen. At least two broke? I definitely lost one at a pub— in Fontaine? I never got a chance to go back for it.” There was a village victim to a particularly bad flood that needed tending to. Canes can be replaced.

It takes you a moment to place the look on his face. His brows pinch. Mouth set in a line. Creases under his eyes—

Disapproving?

It snaps to something more neutral, a moment later. Unreadable and guarded, entirely expected and perhaps welcome. He returns to his baking, tidying up the kitchen with his back to you. You open your mouth, then close it a moment later.

(Later, there’s a knock on your door accompanied by a tray of steaming sweetbread, the rounds decorated with edible flowers and dusted with sweet flower pollen. Diluc apologizes, barely able to meet your eye. It should be insulting, but it’s cute, in a boyish way. You let it be cute. It doesn’t silence the pangs and pains in your chest, but it makes them easier to bear.)

(The sweetbread is delicious, and you half-wonder about the star map that led him to learn a skill so foreign to a lord like him.)

…

You aren’t sleeping well. Maybe it’s penance, for how well you slept your first days at the winery. Your body is, overall, less fatigued than before. The sleep debt you’d run up was somewhat satiated, which apparently meant not fucking sleeping—

(You could fall asleep, mind you. You just couldn’t stay that way. Dreams woke you each night, of memories and flashes, rib-breaking sensations, and the crunching of bone. Rain-soaked silk clinging to your arms and legs. A bloody nose. A hangover so bad you vomit red and black. A garnet red stone, set in black leather, round as low-set sun.)

(Fragments, really. Twisted and mangled together.)

You shoot up in bed, again, sweat dripping down your sternum, sticky on your forehead. The throb in your chest hardly wanes as you struggle to catch your breath. You clutch at the fabric over your collarbones, breathing through your mouth in light pants.

Your thoughts spin and tumble. It takes you a moment to distinguish moment from moment. Where you are. What you are. When you are.

Shifting for a sip of water, a shot of pain tangles around your foot and ankle. The muscle is drawn too tight with your fear, panic tugging the tendons wrong. You muffle your own pained wince, keeping it just a wince, and bite down on your lip.

You try to settle, after a while, praying that a few deep breaths release enough tension for a proper sleep. The electric zing that eats at your ankle keeps you awake, uncomfortable to the point of being unbearable. Your heart won’t stop racing with it.

You give up trying to sleep, instead wandering from your room with your new cane, and situate yourself in front of the great room’s dim hearth. You fuss with it, tossing another log and a bit of Pyro starter on the spitting embers. It catches, lights the room soft amber and you collapse on the lounge closest to it. You face your right foot toward the heat of the fire, hoping the heat loosens some of the bound-up muscle.

You splay out. Veg. Keep your eyes half-lidded and watch the fire lazily. Fixate on the licking flames and let the heat burn away your dream and hope it chases the physical pains too.

There’s a slam, when you’re beginning to nod off. Wood on wood— a door near the back of the manor. There are a few more bumps and thuds, ones you can’t place or recognize. You straighten up and listen to the heavy steps that follow. No one would be stupid enough to just break into Dawn Winery, not when Diluc’s fighting prowess is somewhat legendary in Mondstadt.

You don’t see Diluc enter, only hear him. His stride is wrong.

“You smell like blood.” You say with the tempo of the crackling flame. “Is it yours?”

Diluc freezes, just behind the lounge. Caught.

“Why are you awake?” He asks, unmoving.

You crane your neck and assess his condition as quickly as you can, “Couldn’t sleep. Are you injured?”

He sighs, “Not severely, it’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“Oh no, nuh-uh, let me see.” You reach for him around the lounge. “You can’t board a physician and then expect them to ignore you when you come back in the early hours of the morning blood-soaked. Besides, I’d be breaking oath.”

Diluc grumbles something under his breath but regardless comes around to you.

He’s not really bloodsoaked. Not entirely. He’s missing a glove and there’s a slice through the sleeve of his jacket, burnt at the edges. Dried blood coats his palm. You ask him to move his jacket, and you see a red stain blooming over his abdomen.

“Can you take off your jacket?”

“That’s not necessary.” He straightens his lapels and takes a step back. “My injuries are minor. Don’t strain yourself.”

“Diluc.” You narrow your eyes. “Let. Me. Help. This is literally my job.”

“You’re sleep-deprived.”

“Healing a flesh wound takes as much effort for me as it would take you to lift your sword.” You scoot forward on the couch, resisting tugging him closer. “It’s really no trouble. Please, Diluc.”

It must be your begging, maybe. You’re too engrossed in Diluc’s condition to notice how his cheeks pink. He shrugs off his overcoat, and you cajole him into peeling off his waistcoat as well. It sticks to his undershirt and you wince.

It’s easy to slip into your role as a healer. It’s a clinical way of thought, you’re presented with a problem and the way to fix it is apparent and well within your abilities. Seeing Diluc as a patient rather than… Diluc is a cheap trick, and perhaps if you were well-rested and less dissociative, you’d feel guilty.

“Were you burned?”

“Only singed.”

You hum thoughtfully, “I need to touch you to heal you. Is that alright?”

He nods, slowly, deliberately, “That’s fine.”

He’s not fully bare, so you need to do some exploratory touching. You’re not sure which is more vulnerable— for Diluc to be shirtless in front of you in the firelight or the way you lay your hands gently over his sides (ticklish, you recall. You watch him suppress a jump.) Your fingertips skim over his ribs, flares of Dendro wiggling into his skin. It bounces around, then back to you.

Three bruised ribs on his left side. Four-inch laceration on his right side.

“This will only take a moment.” You send a strong thread of Dendro through him. Liquid and lengthy, and carefully stitch the wound closed. The skin knits back together easily, clean and free of infection.

You move on to his next wound and Diluc moves a step closer.

“Your hand, please?” You ask, soft. The heat of the room has lulled you.

(The contact is weakening you.)

Diluc offers it to you, and you take it, as gently as you can. This wound has more burning, but nothing too severe.

Second-degree burns affecting seven inches of cumulative skin.

“Who the hell were you fighting?” You ask, brows furrowing as you cleansed and balmed the wound. You wince as your Dendro eats away the burn. “ What were you fighting?”

“Unimportant.”

“I hardly think so.”

“Drop it.”

“ Diluc—”

“Something that deserved it.”

You huff. “Fine, keep your secrets.”

We all have them.

The wound has healed, but you find it... hard let go of Diluc’s hand. It hits you how close he is. You sit with your legs spread and splayed, and he stands between them. He’s inches away, and you’re level to his navel.

You look up at him, swallowing the heat in your cheeks.

Diluc has always been pretty. Since he was little, just a cherubian boy running about the prairie grasses. He grew into it well, though he has gotten a bit more rugged over the time you were apart. You recognized scars littering his forearms, and felt scar tissue buried in new flesh. His hair has grown obscenely long, tied back with a ribbon into a bow. It's only half-up, now, spilling over his shoulder as he looks down at you.

Your breath catches in your throat. He swallows and you fixate on the bob of his throat.

(You haven’t been close to him like this in so long. Since you were young, having so many firsts together in his too-big bed. His hands look bigger, warmer. How many times did you crave him, the comfort and heat of him? How many times did you wish the stars were twisted and angled just a little differently, so that you never lost him in such a way?)

(To be so close— it’s an unavoidable thought.)

You squeeze his hand, “Do you want to be farther away?”

“No.” He squeezes yours back— harder. Longer. Like he’s afraid. It makes a fragile thing buried in your shake and fracture. “Do you?”

“No.” You swallow, but it’s late. And you’re weak. All crushed bones and scar tissue. “This might even be nice.”

‘This’ is loaded. Bigger than the word, bigger than the distance your traveled while crisscrossing Teyvat. Maybe bigger than the distance between the stars you scorn.

Diluc rubs a thumb over the back of your hand. It shakes. The heat of the fire and Diluc are making something warm and tender rise up from the base of your spine to the back of your skull. You shake with it.

“It is,” Diluc admits, voice thick and sticky. “Thank you.”

“Of course. It’s my job.”

“Not just that.” Diluc squeezes your hand again. Harder. Searing. “For allowing me this. You shouldn’t.”

“Don’t tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.” You frown. “You’re being silly. And self-loathing. Lord Ragnvindr, I wouldn’t ever expect such a thing from you.”

Diluc sputters a half-laugh, and for a moment, he sounds like the knight you first held hands with when you were young.

“I only mean to say that you have every reason to be upset and keep me at arm's length. I wouldn’t hold it against you if you did.”

“It’s not like I’m not upset with you.” You worry the fraying skin around his cuticle. “I’m indulging myself too, you know.”

(You dance around what this means so well. When did you both learn the steps, as aptly as you twirl now?)

“That’s comforting.” Diluc pulls his hand from yours and it flexes into a fist. He surprises you then— kneels, lowering onto his knees between your legs. You’re at eye level. You feel pleasantly faint. “You must tell me if I misstep.”

“Oh, you know I will.” You give a warbling laugh and your stomach flips.

So much of Diluc is unfamiliar, but proximity with him isn’t. The heat he radiates is the same as you remember, even if he’s a bit rougher and far more wilted. He hovers close, tentative, but not in the boyish, inexperienced way you once knew. He’s not expectant, he’s not taking and tugging and searching— he lingers but only comes so close, giving you the ability to make the first move.

He sets up the pieces but doesn’t force your hand to play. It’s wretched. It’s thoughtful, or it’s cowardice— either way, it's to your benefit.

Diluc licks his lips, throat bobbing. You can’t meet his eyes for too long— there, you see searching. He’s lost his way with words, and you can see the way he grapples for the right ones now.

“I missed you.”

(‘Right ones’. Subjective. The ones he gives you are objectively the wrong ones. Only because they force another fissure into you.)

(You’ve spent so long swallowing your own desires and convincing yourself that there was no possible way for Diluc to feel that way about you. You created any number of mental theses as to why Diluc discarded you. Anything to make it bearable.)

(Anything to make the past palatable and controllable.)

(Forget, forget, forget—)

You tense with the thought. Your wound pulls wrong and you yip. Shooting away from Diluc, you double over to your right side. You wrap your hand around your foot (wishing praying cursing that your Vision doesn’t allow you to touch your own wounds) and slap a hand over your mouth. The pain brings nausea and the last thing you want to do is vomit on Diluc.

Diluc immediately fusses, hands hovering over your shoulders and neck, but never touching. His Vision must be alight— you swear you can feel the lick of imaginary flames off his skin.

“You’re unwell.” Diluc kneels lower, hands apparently alright to touch, and he tries to shoo yours away from your ankle.

You hold fast, “It’s just a temperamental wound.” Your voice wavers and you rest your forehead on your knee. “I’m sorry for ruining the moment.”

“Hush, nothing’s ruined.” He idles his hand over your own. Your vision blurs and you really think you might throw up. “Let me see.”

“No.”

He says your name, like a cut.

“It’s already healed, Diluc. Just wrong. This happens. There’s no use poking at it.”

“Satiate my curiosity, then.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m asking honestly.”

You hesitate. Think if this is going to unearth something that you’d rather have stayed buried. Perhaps it was the distance, the heat from the hearth and Diluc in tandem making you melt into the couch—

“Fine. Only because of those sweetbreads the other day.”

You attempt to peel off your stocking, trembling, but Diluc stops you. His palm (so, so warm. Like the kindest flame) wrap around your wrist and places it back on your lap.

“Let me.”

Your mouth dries, tongue going heavy and useless. Tentatively, you scoot back on the couch and adjust so your right leg is fully extended. Your belly feels exposed, the softest parts of you bared in a way that feels foreign and uncomfortable.

Diluc waits until you situate yourself, resting patiently on folded knees. Palms on his thighs.

(He looks like he’s praying, like you’re the altar. This is both an indulgence and a rite.)

One of his wide hands hooks under your knees and lifts your injured foot from the ground. Diluc pushes your night clothes aside, finding the top edge of your stocking and slips his fingertips just below its edge. You jolt with the contact (what’s beyond touch starvation?) and hiss under your breath.

He pauses, flame licking in the reflection of his eyes, “Is this alright?”

You nod, his touch sears you.

He peels your stocking away. His touch drifts to the arch of your foot, wrapping his fingers around with enough force to be comfortable, secure. It almost burns— but in the good way. Open flame on nearly-frost-bitten fingers. The hot springs in Inazuma or the hot stone massages they favor in Natlan. It seeps into you.

The heat goes cold when Diluc stills, eyes widening and shoulders drawing up. You watch his jaw lock and you nearly rip your foot from his grip. Gruesome—

“How did this happen?” There are visible ridges of shattered bone, prominent enough to catch the shadows the fire throws. Two toes with mutilated nails, still. A scar or two.

“I fell.”

“Don’t lie.” snaps Diluc. “This is not the kind of injury you obtain from a ‘fall’.”

You start to sigh his name, but he cuts you off—

“How.”

“I. Fell.” You grit out. Your chest hurts again.

Diluc traces the worst of it— a diagonal scar on the bottom of your foot, from the ball of it to your big toe. (You don’t remember the moment, only the sensations. The feeling of the knife slicing, hitting things it shouldn’t—)

You jolt, squirm, protest under your breath but Diluc tightens his grip, firm and unyielding.

“P-Please—” Your voice breaks and you lurch and grab his shoulders without thinking. Steadying yourself, grounding yourself on the bulk of him. “Please, don’t pry on this one, Diluc. Not tonight.”

(Perhaps you’ll muddle through the memory of it to give to Diluc. One day. Not now, when you feel like the gooey center of you shifts a little too close to seeping out of the spaces between your ribs. If you fall apart, will you ever collect yourself back up again?)

Diluc stills and stares at you. Into you. A little wrinkle appears between his brows, a half-scowl formed in the curve of his pretty lips. It makes your heart pound. You nearly backpedal, tell him the whole truth, the one you’ve shoved down your throat like chrysanthemum petals. The garden you’d throw up—

He relents. Allows you respite. You take it greedily.

Diluc coaxes you to lie back down on the couch, touch hovering most of the time. His contact ginger, “You don’t have to give me anything you don’t want to.”

The assurance hits you in the chest. Like a crack that bludgeons your sternum in three.

“‘Kay. Thanks.” You say. Two words is all you can get out around the threads that bind you upright and together.

Diluc sits back on his haunches, going back to your foot. The pads of his thumbs massage at your ankle, slow and light at first as he gauges your reaction. You swallow thick, watching him with darkening pupils. His touch moves higher, up your calf, shifting your bed clothes aside.

He’s more worn. Calluses make the skin of his thumbs just a bit rougher than you expect. The vision on his waist thrums and throws light as he touches you. Pressing his heat into you. His touch makes you goopy. You slouch into the couch.

He never ventures higher than your knee, but it’s enough. Maybe it’s too much. The lack of sleep and the fucking heat put you in a state just above sleep. He’s horribly gentle with you, pausing and noting every twitch and jolt you shake out. Asks low and quiet if a certain touch is too much. It’s all overwhelming— decadent. You glut yourself on it, just a bit. The pain of the injury dissolves and all that you’re left with is Diluc. Dutifully petting you and soaking you in something rich and spiced.

You only feel warm. It spreads up your body— cows the shaking little thing between your ribs. Diluc relaxes you into a slump that has you sleepily blinking, perhaps keening once or twice— you can’t recall. Perhaps Diluc slides back on your stocking and helps you up. Perhaps he guides you up the stairs and back to your guest room.

(You think about inviting him in. You think about dragging him down and in to bring him closer to that thing in your chest that festers, balm it.)

(You think better of it.)

(You’re too tired to notice the way he lingers on you. His hands, holding you a moment too long. The squeezes to your sides and arms as he walks with you up the stairs. Even when your own breath stutters, you’re unaware. Blissfully ignorant to the effect you have on Diluc.)

You dream of it, maybe. Warmth and heat and familiarity that isn’t wretched. You dream of favorable stars and a warm bed.

...

Something shifts between the two of you after that. Even if the moment of vulnerability was brief, it's like a rift has opened up in your chest. Split. Cleaved. Archons.

You feel the inexplicable urge to be near Diluc, despite all of the unsettled anger that burns in your belly. The memory of the heat of him is an intoxicant in and of itself. The way Diluc touched you like you were something fragile— cherished.

(Archons, you’re fucked, aren’t you?)

You avoid Diluc, somewhat. You take to watching him instead. Perching in your bay window, you watch him work in the fields during the mornings and evenings, and listen to him thump around in his office during the midday when the sun is high. He receives a guest or two, maybe, there’s always activity in the main foyer of the winery. You suppose, given that the manor functions as both a home and a business, and it’s the busiest season for Dawn Winery, it makes sense.

Elzer, actually, is the one who gives you a bit of grief for it.

“He doesn’t bite, you know,” Elzer tells you when you perch on his desk, early one morning while Diluc is out. “You may even enjoy talking to him.”

“We have talked.” You clear your throat, pounding your chest. “Just. It’s complicated.”

“I’m aware.”

Elzer was around, during your tenure as ‘master’ of Dawn Winery. Though Adelinde grew closer to you, Elzer was still a reliable and kind confidant. More-versed in the business end of things than either of you were, and from him you learned a great deal. He, in turn, learned a great deal about you. Adelinde too. Gods, how many nights did you sit at this same desk, organizing mislabeled paperwork over goblets of wine and teacakes?

“Does your wrist still bother you?” you ask.

“You’re deflecting,” deadpans Elzer.

“You’re not answering my question, either.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes. It does. I take a tincture for it sometimes.”

“... Can I see it— your wrist? Let me have a look.”

He holds out his arm and you shift around the desk to prop yourself up on the same side he sits on. Your cane lays idle against the matching mahogany. There’s a reluctant pull at his brow, but he still scoots forward on his seat, rolling up his sleeve.

Taking his arm in a gentle, practiced grip, you send sparks of Dendro through him. Elzer’s brow scrunches with the feeling— you’ve been told it can be jarring if you’ve never experienced Vision healing before. You tighten your grip.

You smooth a finger over the meat of his thumb. “Tendonitis, still?”

“You always said that’s what it was, but never gave me anything conclusive back then.”

“Well, it certainly is,” you huff. Inflammation crawls around the tendons of his hand and wrist, stretching into his shoulder.

You sink a balm of Dendro into him, rather than sparks, more like a sheet. Elzer visibly relaxes, hand going a bit more slack and loose in your grip. Sagging forward, like a ragdoll with half-cut string. Your other hand rises to steady him, firm and solid against his shoulder.

“Does Diluc work you too hard?” You send another wave of it through. “I’ll chew him out, if you want. I have nothing to lose.”

“He doesn’t.”

“Oh, so it’s just the bad posture?”

Elzer snorts and you can’t help but laugh with him. It’s easy to rib him, like a little brother. He was practically your same age, but he always kept the aura of someone your junior. As adept as he was at everything he did, there’s a boyish charm to him that hasn’t faded with time.

You barely see him out of the corner of your eye— Diluc. Rounding a corner with an armful of papers. His grip goes tight and his steps stutter as he enters the little atrium. Elzer tenses behind you. The Dendro lingering in him bounces back to you.

Diluc clears his throat, fist over his mouth. He looks at Elzer, then you, and clears his throat again—

“Ah, I suppose I’m interrupting working hours. Apologies.” You shrug and hop off the desk. Wobbling past Diluc, you disappear into the shadows of the house.

It’s intentional, really. You don’t want to give Diluc any more of an opening than he already had and fuck— you saw him, didn’t you? The way he drew up, the fire that ignited in his eyes at the closeness—

Archons, Diluc, jealous?

The thought is too sticky to cope with. You retire for a nap early in the afternoon.

...

Nightmares come for you again, and you busy yourself wandering the halls of Dawn Winery. It’s a moonless night, and far too dark to be wandering without a lantern or candle, but you do so anyway. Adelinde and Elzer are surely asleep, as with the rest of the staff. You assume that Diluc is out, as he tends to be late at night. The tap of your cane against the wooden floors echoes against the silence of the rest of the winery.

Your latest nightmare felt repetitive. The same images, the same feeling of being untethered against an unstoppable swell. Drowning but without water. Asphyxiating on something that crawls up from your lungs.

(Red, rotten memories. Rotten.)

(Forget, Forget, Forget.)

You pause in front of a particular door in the south wing. Ambient light from the manor bounces off its brass handle, polished by clearly tarnished with time. Its design is different from the crystal doorknobs Diluc has replaced around the rest of Dawn Winery. Its original, untouched— a relic.

You pause in front of a particular door in the south wing. You know this door. The wood, unlike most of the rest of the manor, hasn’t been re-stained or replaced. It’s the same dark tone you remember from your youth, and the knob shines the same brassy gold. It appears unchanged.

You wonder if you’re still dreaming.

Clearly, you aren’t, as you enter the room. Your nose burns as you do. A layer of dust covers everything— the table that cuts the room in two, the stacks of discarded books, and old, dry quill. An untouched pile of blankets and pillows in the corner appears to be lightened, sun-bleached.

You kick the pile and laugh, something low and a little defeated.

The Small Study hasn’t been touched. Never redone, not even cleaned. It’s entirely preserved and more painful to see because of it.

(So much tied up in a simple room. You had avoided it at first, didn’t you? You knew everything that happened here. A love that bloomed, a betrayal, your own decay.)

All that’s left is the skeleton of the room. Flesh eaten by time and memory, consumed to this point where there’s nothing further to rot. Just a vague shape to mourn.

Based on the absolute state of neglect and disuse, you assume that Diluc hasn’t poked around this room much, or at all, in the time since he returned. You’re grateful that— you hid a secret or two here that now feel too dangerous to have in the open.

(Despite the fact that it’s clear this place is too painful for Diluc to touch, too. He’d never find the bits of you that you buried here.)

You tug down a leather-bound book from a shelf, eye-level (still), and rub dust off the spine. Over the cover is embossed some type of Fontainisian design, swirls of gold concentric circles and feathering blots of blue and purple over the leather. It was a gift, back then. Something artisanal that a craftsperson brought to Mond’s market— One of the many gifts Crepus gave to you in the months before his passing.

You curse under your breath, pressing your fingertips in the cover. There’s a ring of teeth marks on one corner— your teeth. Had you really bitten the cover in a fit of frustration?

(Probably. Your memory feels fuzzy and fragmented. Broken glass— you can’t pick them up without risking slicing your hand wide and bloody.)

A door shuts, a heavy one, somewhere else in the manor. Diluc has returned. Part of you itches to seek him out, survey him for injuries and help where you can. It takes you nothing to stitch and sew him up. Healing a wound for Diluc feels like a twisted debt paid, maybe. He isn’t aware of it.

Being in the Small Study makes you horribly aware of it.

The pages of your old journal feel brittle and dry against your fingers. Some stick together, even now, with dried ink that you spilled over the pages. Some of the script is illegible, your pen having muddled into something beyond understanding. What you are able to read, you try not to absorb. It’s only morbid curiosity that has you peeking at it, at all.

(You should probably burn the thing. It has far too many secrets written in it.)

Diluc calls your name from the door, and you freeze. The journal is easily tucked back in place.

“Yes?” You don’t look at him, but twirl on your heel to the middle of the room. As if you should be there.

(Maybe you should be, for him. All you are is a relic to him, maybe. Something from the past that should stay that way. Aren’t you just a skeletal remain?)

(The thought persists.)

“What are you doing in here?” Diluc asks, lacking any edge. He rests his hip on the long table.

You consider the question, mull over it and roll your answer around on your tongue.

“Reminiscing, I guess,” you say, it’s too late to be dishonest. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“That seems to be a pattern.”

“Reminiscing?”

“I meant your inability to sleep through the night.” Diluc sees through your diversion. You let him, cow your barely there instinct to fight him.

You sigh and laugh, weak, “I suppose.”

Diluc’s gaze is on you— you can feel it. You kick at the floorboards, counting the swirls and irregular notches. It’s easy to imagine the look he must be wearing. Pity, maybe. You feel like a stray cat, cornered and hungry, but ever-wary.

“May I ask why?”

You click your tongue, “Guess, and if you’re right, I’ll tell you.”

“Isn’t it a bit late for a game like this?”

“Call me a night owl.” You clamor on top of the table and sit semi-cross-legged, with your injured ankle extended.

“... Your injury?” Diluc asks.

You shake your head.

“... You always ran cooler. Are you cold?”

“Maybe a bit, but not really.”

Diluc stalls, and you can see him sort out the correct answer. He’s known it since the beginning of this conversation, but you’re both so fluent in denial, you might as well dance together in it for a while.

“Dreams?”

You nod.

Diluc opens his pretty, petal lips to speak, then thinks better of it. Instead, he removes his jacket and lays it over his arm. You expect him to prod you.

“Would you like some tea?” Diluc asks. “It may settle you, allow you a proper rest.”

Tea sounds nice, you think. Something warm and someone warm. You know better than to walk so close to him when you’re so shredded at the ribs and tummy. Vulnerable. You know better.

(Then why is the idea of closeness with him so intoxicating? You don’t care about the potential consequences, not really. Your tangle of emotions feels superseded by desire, and you’re barely holding onto self-control.)

(Archons, you want to let go, just a little.)

The threads loosen, just a fraction.

“I’ll take tea,” you admit. “I think there’s some of the sweet bread rounds left too.”

When you look up, Diluc has a simple smile painting the edges of his lips. It’s small, nearly uncatchable, but you recognize it immediately. You resist the urge to go to him and press into the dimple that carves his right cheek.

It’s awful, the way your heart seizes in your chest, nearly breaking you down your center. You twin him with your own smile, a small one— lest you burst in the middle of the Small Study.

(Where everything began to fall apart.)

(Forget, forget, forget.)

...

You both sip cups of tea and pass a packed, cherrywood pipe back and forth on Diluc’s balcony. It’s sizable, enough room for you to curl up against the railing, far enough from Diluc to not feel crowded, but still accept the pipe each time he passes it to you. The tobacco smoke feels thick and rich in your mouth, and you resist the urge to draw it too far back into your throat. You instead distract yourself with the smoke that lazily curls from your lips with each exhale.

(You catch Diluc entranced by it as well, the way your lips fall open.)

The sky feels starless; heavy clouds cover the cosmos low. You imagine it’ll rain again in the next few days, especially with the ache in your injury. The air bears down on you, just like the clouds do. You crave a moon or single star to fixate on, rather than proximity or the inevitability of an interaction.

You’ve become truly versed in avoidance.

Diluc looks... perplexed. Perhaps lighter than he did in the study. His shoulders sag more than they did before, and he almost looks to be melting into the chair he sits in. His heavy coat had been left behind in his room as you passed through, leaving him more bare. You can see blood seep up from flesh wounds, staining the white of his shirt, but he’d already brushed off your concern that evening. You didn’t have it in you to fight him on it— you vow to patch him up in the morning if you can catch him before he starts his daily business.

You must, really.

The quirk between his brows bothers you. The draw of his lips and the way he’s purely staring at you.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You frown. Prodding seems like a bad idea, given your exhaustion and the maw that’s cracked open between your ribs.

Diluc seems to stare harder. If that is possible. He sits before, elbows on his knees, and folds his hands. Covers his mouth with them. They’re thick and worn, unfamiliar to you. You can’t stop looking at them. You recall him having beautiful pianist’s hands, slender and sure-fingered. It’s easier to fixate on some trivial, physical difference rather than his expression. It’s verging on vulnerable. He withdraws to take a drag.

“I don’t know how to put you together,” Diluc admits. He snaps his teeth around the smoke.

You tilt your head quizzically.

Diluc chews on his words, looks at you, and then away. He takes another draw from the pipe and sighs. “You confuse me. You never used to confuse me.”

There’s a pressure behind your eyes that wasn’t there before. “How do I confuse you now?”

Diluc exhales. He smells like fresh smoke, ash, and the heat from a flame. And he looks at you and his gaze is soft. The pull of his lip and brow, the shine to his eyes— he looks hopelessly fond and sad. Heartbroken, even. There’s a smear of soot under his eye and you resist the buried impulse to wipe it away as something in your cracks. Threads snap.

“I’m not sure I know you anymore.”

(It hurts, it hurts, it hurts to hear— no one knew you better than Diluc. You’ve made yourself a stranger, and you must now reap what you’ve sewn. You’re just a vagrant in his home, fit for healing and burden and nothing more—)

Your eyes burn and you tear your gaze to the fields, “What a surprise. It’s not as if I’ve been around for your to be familiar with.”

“I understand why you left Mondstadt,” Diluc tells you, hushed like he is speaking to a frightened cat. Maybe that’s what you are. “I know it must’ve been very lonely.”

You almost snap at him. You almost scream—

(“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you for knowing me and knowing how I felt and being gone and leaving me here to ache all alone. I hate that you know me so well and forgot.”)

You don’t.

“I had Elzer and Adelinde,” you say. “Dawn Winery was hardly empty. I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity.” Diluc doesn’t sound offended. “Never pity.”

“Sure.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Not entirely.” You wish the stars were out. You’d have something tangible to direct your ire toward. “What else would it be?”

Diluc sighs, not resigned, but you can hear the exhaustion in it. He’s wounded, he needs rest. You both do.

(You both need so much rest.)

Your nose burns and you sniffle.

“I still care for you, even if you are unfamiliar to me.” He says quietly, low, sweet, and gentle because it's only meant for the two of you to hear.

You meet his gaze violently. Your neck nearly snaps turning to him, and you have to bite your bottom lip to keep from crying. You feel fragile, so close to crumbling.

“Don’t toy with me.” Your voice wobbles, your conviction does not.

“I’m not.” He assures you. “I wouldn’t.”

“You’re a wretched man.” You tell him. There’s no bite to your words.

“For you, I’d be better.”

“No— that’s—” You rub your eyes. “ Stop it.”

“Stop what? I’m not sure I can.”

(You don’t say: “Please stop being so kind. If you keep being kind to me, I’ll never leave. I’ll take every scrap you feed me and pretend it makes me a king. I’ll open myself up for heartbreak to be by your side. If you keep being kind to me—”)

(You don’t say: “I’ll think that you love me still.”)

Diluc cups your jaw and says your name, soft and slow and easy.

You’re sedated, because Diluc looks just as frightened as you feel, and speaks as earnestly as he did when he was young. When you used to lay over his chest and count the summer freckles he was blessed with. When he used to hold your cheeks, pressing your lips together, overzealous and honest, like how young lovers do. Like the young lovers you were.

Would this be easier, if you really were two strangers, sharing a pipe and tea? If there really was an ocean and deep sea more than changes of appearance or the way you hold yourself. You know it’s you— that you’ve changed since Diluc saw you. Last saw you— the day of his eighteenth birthday—

The feeling in your chest is violent. Shreds you. Tears you open. You ball the fabric of your sleep clothes in your fist, over your heart, and almost wince.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing you think to say. You don’t know what you’re apologizing for.

“Don’t apologize, you’ve done nothing wrong.” He rubs a thumb over your cheek, and his touch and voice tremble.

“What if I have?” you half-admit, flashing him a withered smile.

(Forget, forget, forget.)

(A red stone like the garnet they tug out of the Chasm’s walls. Rounded. Pulsing. In the left palm of a man who could’ve been your father.)

“Then, I’ll help you fix it if you like.” He can’t. Diluc lets go of you, only to stand and fix a hold on your wrist.

“It’s not that simple.” You’re already saying too much. Forget, forget, forget. Shove it down into your chest, to the back of your mind.

You remain sitting on the cold ground of the balcony. Your leg remains splayed on the cobblestones, splinted and aching. You can’t bear to look up at him. You want to cry. Maybe, in the daylight, past dawn— you’d be better at facing this. You want tea. You want to sleep. You want to weep—

(into Diluc’s lap. To beg him for things that feel unfair to ask.)

“Why did you ask me to have tea with you?” you ask. “If it was to share smoke and try to have this conversation or two when we’re both clearly”— you gesture to yourself, balled up, and Diluc, bloodied— “not our best, I will retire to my room. I don’t want to... I can’t broach this.”

(“Yet.”)

(It’s inevitable, isn’t it? One you feel in the stars, rushing toward you.)

“It was never my intention to push you.” Diluc rushes to assure you. You look out the pitch-black vineyard, and Diluc kneels in front of you. “I didn’t—”

You snap, voice wobbling, “What do you want—?”

“I want to know you again,” Diluc tells you, confesses, breathlessly. He sounds like a (your) lover again. “I want nothing more. Just let me, please.”

(You haven’t heard Diluc beg in so long. You remember how he’d beg you for the extra candies that Teacher would give you after lessons. Diluc would beg you to trace shapes on his arm and the nape of his neck when you’d stay up whispering to each other during Mond’s cruelest winter nights. He’d plead for you to ride on his horse, with him, rather than your own.)

You squirm under your skin and refuse to look at him. If you do, you’ll shatter. You have to hold it together, just a little longer— until the end of Windblume, then you’ll leave, you’ll fucking run—

And Diluc says your name, begs you, “Look at me, please.”

“If I do, I’ll cry.” Your voice wobbles far more than you thought it would.

“That’s okay.”

“It’s not—” You laugh, and barely look at him out of the corner of your eyes. “I can’t start crying, Diluc. I’ll never stop.”

“That’s alright.” Diluc sounds like he might cry. “I’ll take you, however you are.”

He sounds romantic.

You look at him.

He looks soggy— wilted, like the way two-day-old cut flowers do. Still beautiful, because Diluc Ragnvindr is nothing if not attractive. Hair spilling down his shoulders, a fresh scrape over his cheek, eyes that crinkle in between because he looks as gutted as you feel.

And you laugh, something weak and small and feeble. A barely there noise you only let out to distract from the tears that wet your bottom lashes.

“... What do you want to know?” you ask him. Forcing yourself to settle, bear it, and look at him.

Diluc’s eyes go wide. The barest hints of joy squeeze the skin around his eyes and you see a boyish smile on his lips you’d forgotten he knew how to wear. You want to kiss it, him, because the feeling in your chest is bursting. The craving, need— to kiss him stupid and share it with him is overwhelming.

“Everything.”

You’re damned, surely.

“I don’t think I can give you that yet,” you tell him, honestly. “I’m still mad at you.”

“That’s alright,” he placates you. “I want to know about that, too. Anything you’ll give me.”

It’s an awful admission, really. That he cares to know you.

(Some part of you, festered for so long. Convinced yourself of untrue things because it was easier than facing an uncertain reality. The mere idea of Diluc caring for you breaks a small delusion that you wouldn’t be welcomed. That the boy you’d love and linked pinkies with was dead and gone far from you.)

(He’s here, right in front of you.)

You shift forward without thinking. Onto your knees, with your injured side limp, and you press your forehead into Diluc’s shoulder. It’s stiff, with your arms still tucked to your center, protecting your most soft and vulnerable bits. It’s all you can give him.

Diluc turns tense, then slack, so slack, like he’s been doused in warm water and left to dry in midday sun. You feel the muscle against your cheek go limp and you press your eyes into the smokey fabric. It dampens beneath you and you’re too tired to care.

(You’re being chipped down— It was inevitable, wasn’t it? Returning to Mond meant this. Part of you always knew that.)

His hand cups the back of your skull and you shiver with it. Warm and big, just like he has become with the years. He presses his thumb and ring finger into your scalp, scratching, and something between a sob and a wince gets caught in your throat.

“Is this alright?” Diluc asks.

“More than.” You keep yourself from weeping on him, barely. Instead, you grip the loose fabric against his chest and smother yourself in him.

...

There’s a part of you that you can’t quiet— the fragment that whispers and thrashes “this is an awful idea” and “stop it, before you get sucked so deep into him that you can’t climb out.” It’s the part of you that keeps your arms wrapped around your middle and only lets you drag your lips over Diluc’s throat without rhyme or reason. It’s mindless, never a kiss, because that would cross an invisible gulf you dare not to breach.

Diluc leads you inside, hand in hand. You wonder if he can feel how you’re shaking, beginning to fracture from the inside out. You already have been. You’re pouring out from your seams.

“I’m going to fetch more tea, I’ll be back in a moment.” Diluc steps toward the door and a bolt of panic shoots through you. It hurts, physical, dread-filled pain that has you stumble up, toward him, reaching out desperately for him.

(“Please don’t go, please don’t go, please don’t go. Not again.”)

You grab his sleeve and ball your fist in the fabric.

Diluc attempts to placate you. “Rest, it’s alright. I’m just going to the kitchens.”

You say nothing and tug him tighter. Closer.

(Part of you wants to kick Diluc away and lock the door behind him. There’s another that wants you to fall to your knees, and beg him to stay close. He’s given you a morsel and you should know better than to roll over for scraps but—)

(You’re so scared. So scared you’ll lose his heat all over again.

You listen to the latter part as you drop to your knees in front of Diluc, just steps into his bedroom.

You’re not sure what possesses you—

(You do. You’re distracting Diluc from whatever sticky, honeyed thoughts he is having by replacing them with something more carnal. Physicality is just that— physical. Tangible and touchable and far easier to fixate on the immaterial.)

(... Right?)

Diluc breathes your name, wide-eyed as you brace your palms on his thighs. You can feel how tense he is. The thick rug against the floor cushions your knees.

“What are you doing?” His voice is small.

“I want to make you feel good.” You ask, running your hands up to his waistband and begin to untuck his dirtied shirt, “May I?”

Diluc gives you a look. It’s all apprehension and worry, creasing the lines of his pretty face. He works his jaw as you toy with the leather of his belt.

(You understand it, really.)

(You don’t like the look he gives you, but you don’t know which one you’d rather see him wear. Hatred would perhaps be better. Desire would be the worst.)

(Diluc had always been the sure-footed one. Confident, but never cocky or boisterous. Even in the ways you’ve seen him now, he’s been firm and familiarly stubborn. But, at the sight of you below him, offering, he’s creased over in apprehension.)

Diluc gives you an almost imperceptible nod and tucks his bottom lip between his teeth. You smother your smile into the fabric of his trousers before palming him. He’s soft, though hardening under the layers of fabric. Your hands tremble as you undo his belt— maybe they’re going numb at your fingertips. It’s hard to tell.

It’s easier to pull Diluc’s cock free and stroke idly. You flash him a smile, you don’t know how real it looks.

(You love him.)

He is pretty. It’s not the first time you’ve seen his cock— hardly, but it’s been so long and his body is in so many ways unrecognizable. Even from the sliver of skin visible at his waistline, he has scars. Thick and thin, burns— he’s decorated in them.

(You wonder how many you could’ve prevented.)

The thought rots something in you and your hands tremble.

His cock though— his dick, that’s what you’re focused on. You fixate on the head of him, half-hard, pitching forward to press a kiss to him. Diluc makes an unholy, high noise, and you latch on to the sound of it. You lap at his slit and savor any pearls of precum that you taste.

Pulling away, you spit into your hand, and stroke the length of him. Your ears are ringing.

You look up at him, neck aching, and push the bottom of his shirt up. “You should hold this between your teeth, hm?”

Diluc’s almost trembling, shaking as he nods and puts the hem of the shirt between his teeth. It’s compromising, surely. He’s suddenly so bare, and you’re on his floor, clothed. Mostly. Your robe is slipping, revealing bare shoulders and an unblemished collar. You’re sure it’s doing something to him. It has to, you hope it does.

You stall as he bares his chest to you.

(So many wounds, healed and sealed. Most of these are new. Even with his battle prowess— what has he been doing to himself? To be so battered must mean that he put himself in harm’s way, above his abilities. Or face a foe he hadn’t expected.)

You tremble.

You purse your lips and flatten your tongue. The taste of him is distracting, pleasantly. It’s more musk than smoke, all him in a way that makes you swallow him down more. One of his hands hesitantly rests against the side of your head. He doesn’t push or shove you. The contact is so light, it almost feels like he’s hovering rather than making contact.

(Is he in pain? Does he have old wounds, like yours, that he’s just better at hiding? He was always the type to suffer in silence. Diluc wouldn’t tell you if he was hurting, would he? You’d only been able to goad him into letting you heal him when he was clearly returning home from a brawl, blood-stained, or both.)

You hum around his length and dig your fingertips into his thighs. Corded muscle covered by a layer of fat. Your mouth waters at the thought of taking a bite of him.

(You know he bruises easily.)

It’s hard to breathe— you hadn’t realized Diluc’s size when you endeavored to suck his cock, but you’re feeling it now. You bully him further down, forcing yourself to relax until the head of his cock nudges the back of your throat.

Diluc says your name so breathlessly, pinched around the edges. Your eyes stay shut and you anchor yourself on sensation. The heat of Diluc, radiating into you from the inside, the desperate way he breathes through his teeth and the shirt tucked between them. You hum around him and relish the choked sound that he can’t hold back.

(Like this, whatever is simmering under your skin and behind your eyes feels duller. You can chase sensation, grip it so hard it hurts, and bring pleasure at the same time. Isn’t this—)

You begin to bob your head, shallow, once, twice, and then a third time— And with a broken-sounding groan, Diluc comes down your throat.

It’s fast. It’s unexpected. The only warning you had was the way Diluc’s hand tightened around your skull, not pushing, but firm. Your eyes stretch wide as you try to swallow his release. It’s— a lot, more than you expect, and it spills from the corners of your mouth. Diluc jerks his hips, clearly involuntary, and you properly choke on him.

And then he pulls out of your mouth, dripping and sticky and softening, and you hang your head, swallowing thickly and coughing. The ringing in your ears is worse, and the world feels far away. Even Diluc’s heat feels lukewarm. It’s not peace, nor unsettling, something in the middle that is more unpleasant than pleasant. It’s hard to focus.

It’s easier, when Diluc goes to his knees next to you. He’s hastily tucked his cock away, belt still unbuckled. There’s dirt and singed fabric on his knees— you still haven’t checked his injuries. Foolish.

You reach out a hand (are you really shaking that hard?), Dendro curling around your fingers. Diluc catches your wrist and holds it steady.

The ringing in your ears clears enough to hear him say your name. It’s hard to register. You send the Dendro through his wrist instead— how many fractures has he had on that bone? The scar tissue—

Diluc says your name once more, more sharply, more worried— and he cups your jaw and tilts your face up to his.

“Oh,” you reply softly. Your voice is wrecked. “Hi.”

“Hello.” Diluc’s brow is creased, relief bleeding in his voice. “Are you—”

“I’m fine.” You pat his hand that’s on your jaw. “Peachy. You taste good.”

It’s fun to watch Diluc flush even more— he always has always blushed easily. It spreads down his neck and up to his ears. You mindlessly lay the back of your free hand over the cheek to feel how warm he is. Burning. You swear he’ll scorch you alive.

“I don’t—” Diluc shakes his head, rubbing at your cheeks. It’s intimate. If your ears weren’t ringing, you’d be on the other side of the room by now. Maybe Mond. Maybe Teyvat.

“What’s wrong?” you ask him. You feel breakable beneath your haze. “Is something wrong?”

Diluc looks at you. Really looks at you. Though you look back at him, the world is too fuzzy to take account of details.

(If you could, you’d see concern. Wretched, awful concern and care that he has kept tucked so far away from you since you’ve returned. You closed the distance so swiftly between the two of you, violently, and Diluc is split wide with it.)

“You’re—” Diluc presses a finger down to your pulse point. “Your heart’s beating so fast.”

“Uh-huh.” You nod. “I couldn’t breathe for a moment there.”

“That’s not it.” Diluc counters you, but doesn’t argue. Instead, he strokes over your cheeks, conflicted.

You reach out without thinking and tug the black ribbon from his hair. It spills over his shoulders— the waves are a mess. You see snarls and soot. Maybe even chunks burned together.

“Can I brush your hair?” You ask, running a hand through it and grimacing as your fingers get caught. “No, I should wash it first.”

“No,” Diluc says sharply. It startles you enough that you jump. It makes him wilt even more. “You won’t.”

“But I can—?”

“That doesn’t mean you should,” Diluc says softly, squeezing your shoulder.

Diluc has been so incredibly tentative, almost unsure, about any sort of physical contact with you prior. But, in this moment, he’s so sure.

He presses his lips to your forehead, firm and unyielding. It’s so warm— like a hearth that’s always been lit and rolling. High enough to cook a pot over but not enough to burn you down. You’d forgotten this part of his heat.

(How could you?)

“Indulge me?” he asks, lips soft against your skin.

“... In what way?”

“Sleep in my bed,” he says softly. “With me.”

You frown. “You don’t need to return the gesture.”

“That’s not why I’m asking.” Diluc pulls away and presses his lips to your wrist instead. He must be able to feel your pulse.

You consider.

(You’re not within yourself. You’re floating; it’s not his fault. Circumstance and sleeplessness and the horror of intimacy do such things, you know. It’s a tempting offer when Diluc’s heat is so comforting.)

(When he is so comforting.)

“Are you sure?” you ask.

Diluc nods. “More than.”

(Is it really greed, if he invites you?)

“Okay.”

Diluc makes you tea. Scenes seem to skip before your eyes. One moment, Diluc is gone, then in the en suite bathroom, then beside you with a warm cup. The order of these events changes the longer you think about it.

The tea grows colder in your hands and Diluc coaxes you to drink it.

He’s thrown on some soft linen sleep clothes. You get distracted by the obscenely deep-v of the cut, and it takes Diluc repeating your name a few more times to bring you back, closer to the present moment.

Exhaustion catches you quickly once you’re horizontal. It’s easier to fall into and accept when you’re surrounded by the smell of Diluc and his heat. Him. It’s too daunting to touch him fully like this, but you face him when you lie down. You both grab the other’s hand, and squeeze in tandem.

“Is this alright?” he asks.

You nod, burying your nose in the sheets. “Yeah. Was earlier bad?”

“No,” Diluc says quickly. It’s too dark with the candles blown out, but you imagine him blushing. “Strange, maybe, but not bad. I didn’t expect it. I would prefer some notice, if you’re going to proposition me again.”

There’s something left unsaid after, but you can’t make yourself pry.

You’re so whittled down, really. You’re just bones and cracking flesh and tears burgeoning before falling. The idea of sharing a big, warm bed with Diluc, despite everything unresolved and open and festering, breaks something in you.

(You’ve been so hungry. Starved. Emaciated and just fucking dealing with it. And now you’re offered a feast on a platter and you’re horribly loyal, at your core.)

“I don’t share beds often.” A memory bubbles up to the surface.

Diluc plays with your hair, scratching at your scalp, motions nearly scalding and circular. “It doesn’t seem like you’ve kept much company on your travels.”

“Only a few times.” A melancholy smile twists your lips. A memory drags you down from floating. “I was engaged, once, you know.”

Maybe it’s cruel to say, and part of you revels in the way Diluc squeezes your hand so tightly it almost hurts. “... You were?”

“Yes.”

“Betrothed?”

“Yeah.” You smother a laugh into the buttery sheets. “She was a healer in Fontaine. We met when I stayed in her village to tend to victims of a fungal plague. She asked me to marry her after I’d stayed with her for a while.”

“But, you didn’t go through with it?” Diluc's voice sounds tight. Or, you’re imagining it.

“No.” You bring your legs up, curling around yourself. “I couldn’t. I called things off a few weeks before the wedding.”

“Why?”

You think, think— because it’s been a long time, and the memory has become scattered. The face of the woman who was almost your wife is nearly gone in your memory. You remember the sound of her laugh, the color of her hair, and the way her home smelled when she burned her favorite candles. But— but—

“I couldn’t do it.” You feel withered. “She treated me so well. I could have lived well. The village cared for me and it would’ve been a kind life.”

You choke on the sound of your own laughter. Morose. You wrap your arms around Diluc’s one, burying your face in his bicep like it’ll take the burning away from your chest.

“... Why couldn’t you?” he asks.

(Because it wasn’t here. It wasn’t him.)

“You know, at the Akademiya, there’s a whole Darshan dedicated to studying stars and the alignment of the cosmos.” You tangle a leg with Diluc’s. You’ll give him this much, another admission. “They say that fate’s written up there— for all of us.”

Diluc pulls you closer, under your thighs, slotting you together. It’s like you were made to be that way.

“I guess Celestia didn’t deign for me to stay in that village forever and get married.” You ache, all over.

(But the stars did bring you back here. To Mond. To him.)

Diluc’s breath catches. He holds you tighter.

“They took you away too, though.” You curl the fabric of his shirt in your chest, over his heart. Like you could rip it out— (just like how he ripped out yours.) “ You left. Chasing something, right?”

And you throw your head back and laugh. You turn away from Diluc, something rotten bringing you back into yourself. Not memories, but dread and panic (forget, forget, forget.) You hate the feeling. You shove your face into the sheets and savor the feeling of it. The smell and the heat that you’re sure will be ripped away from you. It’s Diluc’s scent. Cecilia and oat soap and stale cologne. You indulge.

“You said you hate me.” Diluc’s voice is close. You lay on your stomach, twisted at the hips, and Diluc looms over you. His hands bunch in the sheets on either side of your shoulders.

“I do, at least a little,” you admit, awful, wretched— “Maybe a lot.”

(As much as you love him.)

“You have every reason to.”

“So you keep reminding me.”

“I don’t regret it.”

It burns to hear. “I wouldn’t expect you to. A chance to play knight— hero?”

“Did you expect me to not do anything?”

“I expected you to at least say goodbye—!” You turn, sharp, and spit the words in his face even as your voice breaks. He’s closer than you thought, hovering so that you’re nose to nose.

A few tears slip, dripping down to your hairline. It takes every last shred and thread holding you together to keep from shattering. Diluc looks like he’s been slapped, shiny ruby eyes polished. Candlelight flickers in them, flame on flame.

You bite your tongue until you taste blood. Because, Archons, if you say anything else, you’ll regret it.

“I’m sor—”

“Tell me in the morning,” you cut him off with a smile, one that makes him frown. “Please?”

And Diluc is nothing, if not weak for you.

It’s an easy shift, for him to drag you to the center of the bed, close to his chest, and pull the duvet over the two of you.

When Diluc presses you, front to front, with your head wedged under his chin, he says soft and breaking, “You worry me.”

You nearly laugh again. “Don’t.”

He just squeezes you, hard enough that you might break.

(You feel like you’re going to shatter. You don’t know if you’re ready.)

#lore writes #diluc x reader #diluc ragnvindr x reader #diluc x you #diluc reader insert #genshin impact x reader #enjoy enjoy ENJOY!!!!!#AH it's so exciting to get to post more!! and a lil nerve-wracking but asdflkj #please enjoy <3 and feel free to leave predictions or feedback if you'd like too!!

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bisexualbuck · 1 year

Text

excess of it

word count: 5k | tedtrent, mutual pining, Roy pov

[READ ON AO3]

Everywhere Roy goes, he comes across Ted and Trent just stupidly pining, staring adoringly at one another with unconcealed loveful eyes.

And he can't fucking escape it.

OR, Roy needs a break and he can't catch it.

The first time it happens, Roy thinks he’s imagining things.

It’s early one rainy Tuesday morning and he’s woken up two hours before his alarm rang. Suffice to say, he isn’t in a great mood as he walks through the still empty corridors of AFC Richmond. He doesn’t expect anyone to be there but the cleaning staff.

However, there are hushed voices coming from the coaches’ office. Something makes Roy stops in his tracks, though he could not say what. Perhaps it is the soft quality of the voices, the gentle rolling of words spoken in trust and quiet.

As discreet as he can, Roy walks closer, still hidden.

It’s Ted and Trent in the office, both their chairs brought close together and their bodies angled toward one another, yet untouching.

From his viewpoint, Roy can’t see Trent’s face but he can see Ted’s and, well. That’s quite a sight to behold. For all that he wears his heart on his sleeve, Ted has never worn such an open expression of openness in front of Roy.

Ted’s smile, though small, is as bright as the noonday sun in July.

Strangely, Roy feels like he is intruding on something precious and so, instead of barging in the office like he meant to, he turns back, footfalls still quiet, and makes his way out to the pitch, undeterred by the rain.

Roy doesn’t think too hard on it.

It was weird but he caught enough of the conversation to understand they were speaking of their kids, reasons enough for the soft look caught on Ted’s face, Roy figures.

Right.

He gives them ten minutes before he ventures back inside, and, this time, they each sit at their own desk, a respectable distance between them and no indication that they were having an intimate conversation just minutes earlier.

It’s not a one time thing however.

It starts slow at first.

Mostly, it’s looks. Just lingering looks when the other isn’t paying attention. Sometimes they’re just brief glances, stolen snapshots of the other that Roy just happens to notice.

Roy will turn to ask Ted something and find him staring at Trent’s profile as he writes in his notebook. Other times, Roy will want to commiserate with Trent, only to find Trent’s eyes being preoccupied by the sight of Ted telling one of his colourful nonsensical stories.

He can excuse the looks.

Though soon enough, Roy starts witnessing little strange moments between Ted and Trent that have him pause before he shakes himself with a reminder that this is none of his business.

Whatever this is.

Weeks go by.

The looks turn into touches, the touches into long conversations filled with private jokes and references that fly over Roy’s head, every word English and yet still a language uniquely their own.

One time, he finds Ted massaging Trent’s palm for some reason, but he turns back on his tracks and doesn’t ask about it.

Clearly, there is something brewing between Ted Lasso and Trent Crimm, but Roy cares nothing for it. He would have before he got to know Trent, but now that the both of them have made their amends and have become friendly if not yet friends, Roy will just ignore the whole thing until they make it official.

This tentative pining is painful to witness as it is.

This is where it should have stopped.

In an ideal world, Roy would have been able to continue on with days without being inconvenienced by a pining of such epic proportions – but that’s not what happens.

By some sadistic turn of events, it seems that everywhere Roy goes, he comes across Ted and Trent just stupidly pining, staring adoringly at one another with unconcealed loveful eyes. And he can’t fucking escape it.

He tries minimising the amount of time spent in the office but even this proves useless. The Fates are out for Roy Kent and they will make sure that he suffers. Perhaps it is revenge against his breaking up for Keeley that he should bear witness to brewing love when he himself ran away from it, so fearful of how it might end that he ended it before its time.

Fuck, he’s being so dramatic.

Still. He thinks he’s allowed it, as they are definitively making his life hell.

“You know I love our chats.”

Trent’s voice is so open it makes Roy want to punch the wall.

“Your hair is softer than I thought it’d be.”

The pen Roy is holding breaks in half. He doesn’t turn how Ted would know about the softness of Trent’s hair.

“Your neck giving you troubles?”

“It’s nothing, I just fell asleep on the couch last night.”

Before Ted offers, Roy already knows what he is going to say.

“I could massage the knot out for you, I took a class in college and boy, let me tell you, my A was well-deserved. These fingers are quite nimble, I’ll have you all melted like ice cream on a sunny day in no time.”

Trent Crimm flushing bright red isn’t something Roy thought he’d see in his lifetime, and yet here it is is – and it’s his cue to bolt it out of there.

They are laughing, once again standing closer than any just-friends would be. Ted reaches for Trent’s knee, squeezes it before he seems to recall himself and snatches the hand away.

Roy has seen teenagers flirt less awkwardly.

It’s driving him insane.

Roy is tired. His knee has been acting up all day, and the only thing he wants is to go home, get an icepack, and watch a stupid film he will never admit to actually liking.

It’s a struggle not to limp back down to the locker room though, by some miracle, he manages it. He only needs to pick up his phone that he forgot at his desk and then he can lick his wounds in private where no one will offer him sympathetic comments.

If only Roy had it that easy.

When he walks into the coaches’ office, Roy finds Trent fucking Crimm sitting on Ted’s desk, his legs sprawled and chest angled down to Ted. Ted himself is on his chair, gazing up at Trent with adoration and – oh, God – lust in his hooded eyes.

They aren’t doing anything but talking, and yet the air is charged with a tension so thick it threatens to choke him out.

“For fuck’s sake,” Roy barks.

He walks right out, phone be damned.

The three coaches are discussing what new strategy to implement after the West Ham fiasco. Trent is nowhere to be seen just yet, it’s unlike him as he has never once been late, but Roy is too focused on his conversation with Beard and Ted to wonder why that is.

Not that he’d worry about it.

He gets the answer minutes later anyway when Trent speed-walks into the office, glasses askew on his face and his hair tied up in a bun so messy it’s not even attempting to keep the hair away from his face.

Trent drops his messenger bag, yanks his notebook out of his breast pocket, and then he is rushing to join them, trying and failing to appear composed.

“Well, hello there, Sport,” Ted welcomes him with a bright smile. “Everything alright? It’s not like you to be so late.”

“Quite,” Trent replies, slightly out of breath. “There was a bit of a glitter incident this morning, that’s all.”

That’s when Roy notices it. Trent’s cheeks are covered with specks of glitter that catch the light as he talks. It reminds him of Keeley and how she would put golden glitter sometimes, it makes me sparkle, she’d say. Roy regrets never telling her she didn’t need it to be shine brighter than anything he’d ever seen.

“You’ll be finding it everywhere for months,” Ted quips. “One time Henry and I, we were making these Christmas cards to all our friends and family, and we decided to have this glitter fight because Henry didn’t much agree with my choice of color coordination. Now let me tell you, Michelle was right mad at the mess we made, I’m sure she’s still finding glitter all these years after.”

“I’m sure,” Trent replies easily.

Ted’s gaze narrows. Ah, so he’s noticed the glitter as well. Roy feels like swearing all of the sudden.

“You’ve still got some there,” Ted says softly.

And then. Then he brings his thumb to his mouth where his tongue comes out to meet it in a slow, almost sensual gesture, his lips all but kissing it, his eyes never leaving Trent’s.

Trent stands rooted in place, mesmerized, his own eyes wide and unblinking as he stares up at Ted. Ted who brings his thumb to the spot of glitter on Trent’s cheek and starts wiping, conscious and gentle.

Roy is also stunned, though not for the same reasons.

Slowly, he turns to Beard. Are you seeing this shit? he asks without a word. Beard gives a slight nod to confirm that he is, indeed, seeing this shit.

Why is Roy still in the room? He should have left as soon as Trent walked in, honestly he should just walk away any time he sees Ted and Trent in the same vicinity, but for some unfathomable reasons, Roy is still standing there. His attention is returned to the two men who are making his life hell with their longing and rampant sexual tension.

Ted’s hand drops away from Trent’s face.

“Thank you,” Trent whispers, his voice so low Roy barely catches it.

For fuck’s sake. Have they forgotten they aren’t alone in the room? They are lost in their own little world of two, nothing existing around them but each other’s eyes and smiles.

“Sure thing, darling,” Ted tells him, his accent undermining the rhyme.

Trent giggles.

Trent Crimm, the man who’s made many a professional footballer cry with his scathing exposés and sardonic questions, the man who Roy used to think was always so composed and assured, that Trent Crimm giggles.

Roy snaps.

He spins around, grabs Beard by the arm and drags him away from this insanity that they’ve been witnessing.

Of course, neither Ted nor Trent notice their leaving.

“We need to do something about this,” Roy declares.

“Do something about what?” Higgins asks, confused about the brusque intrusion but ready to roll with whatever dilemma his dear Diamond Dogs bring about, and fuck, Roy will never admit that he thinks of himself as a Diamond Dog or he’ll never hear the end of it.

“Ted and Trent,” Beard quips.

“Oh, alright.”

Higgins doesn’t appear to be surprised at this, but of course he wouldn’t be. Roy is sure that half of the club has noticed the tension between the gaffer and the ex-journo, and the other half is sure to follow soon.

“So you agree we need to do something,” Roy says, a tad desperate.

“Well.” Higgins pauses. “No?”

On a good day, Roy Kent has a set amount of patience which is not much admittedly, but still, he has some of it. Today has only just begun and already it hasn’t been a good one. It’s been weeks of this dancing around, these yearning looks and hopeful smiles and broken smiles that only come with assured unrequited feelings.

Roy is sick of it.

He’s sick of this hopeful tentative thing forming before him, this something of magnitude that only reminds him of how alone and stupid he feels. Because he had a something, and he threw it away, and now he stands before Jamie’s door at 4AM everyday and there’s an inkling there, a possibility he won’t let himself acknowledge.

Feelings isn’t something he knows to deal with all that well.

“It’s better not to meddle,” Beard agrees. “They’ll come to their senses at some point.”

“When though?” Roy grunts. “They keep making moon eyes at each other, and I am this close to throw them into a closet and throw away the key.”

Beard’s left eyebrow rises as he thinks it over.

“No,” Higgins says. “We shall do nothing of the sort, I’m sure they’ll act on their feelings soon.”

His expression turns from certitude to doubt.

“I hope so, at least.”

Roy swears.

So they have decided not to intervene. Great, Roy can do that.

Except that he really can’t. He’s tried it, and he can’t.

And this is what breaks him.

It’s late after a match. Richmond has lost because that’s what they’ve been doing since West Ham, even with fucking Zava on their team.

The mood is down, even Roy is too tired to be angry about the loss. He wants to go to bed and forget everything for a few blessed hours before his alarm wakes him up at 3:30, before he has to ignore his own maybe-perhaps-but-surely-not pining and the strange little thrills he gets when Jamie directs a bright smile at him.

The team trickles out, the locker room quiet and subdued, until there is no one left but Roy, as well as Ted and Trent who are sitting side by side, each on the opposite end of their bench in the little corner Trent has all but called his own.

“This is just a bad pass,” he is saying. “This is a great team you have, they will find their footing again, and you will help them get there.”

Trent’s reassurances fall on deaf ears. Ted forces a smile on his lip that’s more of a grimace than anything.

“Just gotta believe, right?”

There’s none of his usual pep in it.

After a short goodbye that’s very telling of his true state of mind, Ted is fast out of the door. Roy turns to Trent to bid him good night as well, but the words die on his lip at the wretched sight he makes.

Standing, hand frozen mid-air in an aborted motion, Trent stares, lost, in the direction Ted went in. carved onto his expressive face is a look of absolute heartbreak, of helplessness too.

This is the face of a man in love who can’t do anything about it. Roy knows this face very well, he sees it every day in the mirror.

“Why don’t you tell him?”

Trent startles out of his staring.

“Beg your pardon?”

Roy doesn’t deign answer that with a sentence, a pointed look will suffice. Trent’s face does something very complicated, several expressions flashing across it at the same time before being replaced by another myriad of unspoken feelings.

It settles on resignation. It looks oddly out of place there.

“I don’t plan on telling him.”

There’s finality in it. Trent goes to their shared office to retrieve his messenger bag as if there is nothing more to say. Really, there shouldn’t be. Roy doesn’t have to say anything to that, what he already said is more than he was planning on. It’s also very clear that Trent doesn’t want to continue this particular conversation.

They should go their separate ways and pretend this conversation never happened.

So why can’t Roy let it go?

“Let’s go for a pint,” he says.

Trent turns to look at him, his eyebrow rising in question.

“Not the Crown and Anchor,” he replies.

“Of course not, who the fuck do you take me for.”

There is a moment’s hesitation in which Roy thinks Trent will say no, and the decision whether to keep on drilling him about Ted will be made for him. But Trent surprises him once again.

“Let me call my father, tell him I’ll be late to pick up my daughter.”

They sit across each other in the booth of a small pub Roy has been going to since he was a teenager. No one cares that he’s Roy Kent here and the beer is good.

“Why are you being a knob about it?” Roy jumps straight at it. “Just tell him and put us out of our misery.”

He’s not used to see Trent look like this – defeated. For as long as he’s known him, Trent Crimm has been assured, always looking for weaknesses in others so that he could write about it. Then Roy got to know the man and not the journalist

To see him with his shoulders down and his eyes tired, it’s wrong.

“I don’t pretend that you can understand,” he says tiredly, “the unique kind of agony that is falling for a straight man.”

Roy’s mind flashes to Jamie Tartt for some bloody reason, and he hastens to bury the thought hard and deep.

“Why are you so sure he is,” Roy replies, so flat it isn’t even pretending to be a question.

He isn’t certain of it, but to him, it does look quite obvious that Ted isn’t straight. No one talks that much about rugby men’s tights without being interested in more than the sport.

“Even if he weren’t, I’d be the last person he would ever be interested in, or have you forgotten the article I wrote disclosing his panic attacks?”

Breathe, babe, you can’t forget to breathe, yeah? That’s what Keeley used to tell him, and he really is trying to breathe but Trent, with his sad, resigned eyes, isn’t making it easy. Once more, Roy wonders why he decided to step in.

Then he thinks about witnessing another bout of pathetic pining and shivers.

“Trent, I’ve never pegged you for a complete imbecile.”

“Why, thank you.”

Roy swears he can feel the white hairs growing upon his head.

“I can’t risk losing everything,” Trent continues. “I was aimless as a journalist, quitting was the best decision I’ve ever made, and being here? This is what I’ve been missing. I’m– well, I’m happy here. I’m writing about something I care about and believe in.”

“So you’re really not going to say anything?” he asks despite already knowing the answer.

“I’m not planning on confessing my misguided feelings to Ted only to be let down no. Though I suspect he would be unbearably kind about it.”

He would be so fucking nice about it. Roy can picture Ted’s big brown eyes shining with regret and apologies as he gently explains that sorry, he isn’t feeling the same way, but Trent is for sure a catch.

Not that Roy thinks that would be Ted’s reaction to a Trent Crimm confession of love.

Love. Because yes, of course Trent is in love with Ted. It’s not about fancying him for a quick shag or two. He’s thought it before but there really is no denying it now.

“Fucking hell,” Roy mutters.

“Cheers,” Trent replies and raises his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

Talking to Trent solved nothing.

Roy could stop there, he tried, it didn’t work, and it’s not his fault if Trent is a pining no-brain two who refuses to see what’s right in front of him.

Still. He can’t exactly blame Trent for it.

He hadn’t thought about it before Trent mentioned falling for a straight man, but it’s true that, if those feelings weren’t reciprocated, Trent had more to lose than Ted did. It mustn’t have been easy being an out journalist, especially reporting on football.

Roy has caught glimpses of some of it, the unkind jokes, the sneering, the hateful looks.

Even then, Roy tried harder than he should have. In fact, he shouldn’t have tried at all and, hell, maybe Keeley is right and he’s got something of a soft heart beneath all his brooding and swearing.

Said heart pangs when he thinks of her still. Idly, he wonders how long it will take to stop missing her.

There is only himself to blame though, so he shoves the longing down, down with the thoughts of Jamie’s earnest smile and floppy hair, down where he can ignore it.

There is nothing to do about all that, but he can help the two pining idiots get over themselves.

It’s for his own peace of mind, nothing else.

Roy doesn’t like Ted’s flat much. It doesn’t feel like Ted at all, it’s empty and subdued and nowhere near as messy as it ought to be.

He knows Ted didn’t have a choice in the colour of the walls or the furniture, but it’s lacking in personal touches.

No matter what Roy’s feelings on it are, this is where he and Ted meet once a month to discuss club matters. At least, that’s what called Ted first called it. In reality, it’s just an excuse for Ted to have some one-on-one time with Roy and make sure that everything is going well with him at AFC Richmond.

Roy allows it because he knows that Ted blames himself for not seeing Nate’s growing resentment.

Also, Ted’s biscuits are very fucking good.

In truth, too, it’s nice. Ever since his break-up with Keeley, Roy has had more time on his time that he knows what to do with it. The early work-out sessions with Jamie have helped. They also make sure Roy is knocked out in bed by 8PM which is an added bonus.

Roy is drinking the tea he’s brought because he doesn’t trust Ted nowhere near a kettle, and Ted is enjoying a cup with so much sugar and milk it has no rights to be called coffee.

Ted’s rambling lulls, and a comfortable silence settles between the two coaches. Some would not think him capable of it, but Ted knows when to stop chattering and appreciate the quiet of a moment.

“I haven’t asked yet,” Ted says to break the silence, his tone gentle, “I think maybe because I’ve been dealing with stuff of my own – which, by the way, I’m finally addressing. But if you want to talk about Keeley with me, I’d listen.”

The urge to tell Ted to shut up, and to change the topic – maybe even straight-up leave. He doesn’t though.

Ted is his friend. Roy is never going to be one of those people who say often what they feel about the people in his life, but he isn’t emotionally stunted. He knows what they mean to him, even if it’s hard to admit it sometimes.

“There’s nothing to say. I broke up with her because I got scared.”

Ted’s eyes widen imperceptibly. It’s clear he wasn’t expecting Roy to open up quite so easily, but he’s quick to smooth his face into an open expression.

“Why were you scared then?” he asks. “It was obvious to anyone looking that you had a good thing going on with her.”

He really did. He loved her, still loves her, and yet he left her because it’s better than being left behind, and Roy has never known to enjoy something without thinking of how it’d end.

“I think because it was too good,” Roy confesses.

“It might not to be too late, you know. You really were a strong couple, and she’d listen to you if you explained the real reasons you broke things off with her. Maybe getting back together won’t be exactly like how you left things, but maybe that’s for the better, too.”

There’s something in the way that Ted says it.

Oh. He knows then, about this Jamie-and-Keeley thing.

“Huh.”

“You may have noticed,” Ted continues, “I haven’t been quite myself lately, or rather I have but not the myself I wanna be. I’ve just been lost in the parts of Ted Lasso that I don’t really like, you know? The parts I don’t like to think about. I think I got lost in it a bit, so much that I thought that was just who I was – but it ain’t. The dark parts are still there but they aren’t all of me, and I know it’s going to get better. I’m already getting better. All those dark thoughts I have, they don’t have the same power over me.”

Roy nods, pensive. He’s glad to hear Ted is doing better after these past few weeks in which he’d dragged this added shadow to his step.

They are men in sports and there’s this prevalent idea of not getting involved, not saying anything even if you see someone struggling. Let them pull themselves up, wait to see if they reach out. Roy thinks it’s all wrong.

Perhaps getting involved, offering insight even when it’s not asked for, is the way to go.

He wasn’t there to offer help when Ted was in the mist of a mental health crisis despite the warning signs. It’s possible he wouldn’t have known how to help then, but he can help him now, with this less tremendous thing.

“So what are you going to do?” Roy asks.

Ted’s eyebrows crease in slight confusion, “What about? The team or life in general?”

“About Trent.”

An expression of absolute bafflement falls upon Ted’s face. It battles with a mix of awe and worry also, a strange combination that should only work for a man as full of contradictions as Ted Lasso.

“What about Trent?” Ted aims for composed and fails miserably.

“You like him.”

“I mean, yes of course I like Trent Crimm, Independent! Who doesn’t? You like him, too, Waterloo, I’ve seen the two of you have several civil conversations. You’re not fooling me.”

Roy’s skin crawls. Having heart to heart isn’t his forte, but he’s started this and he will see it finished.

“Look, perhaps you’ve played for the same team your entire life and you never thought about playing for another team. Hell, I know I haven’t, but now I’m wondering and there’s no shame in that. Perhaps for you this isn’t the first time you’ve wondered, maybe you’ve even played that game before, I don’t fucking know.”

“No, I haven’t,” Ted confesses. “I’ve had moments where I thought– but no, I’ve never done anything about it.”

“Right, well. Maybe you weren’t ready or they weren’t the right team for you.” He pauses then swears. “Fuck, I can’t tell you what to do or feel, I’m just saying you should think about it.”

Ted’s eyes falls to his latte.

Silence stretches again between them, not as easy-going as it was earlier but not suffocating, not pressing. The both of them have some introspection to do.

Roy eats another biscuit, chewing with a bit more force than necessary.

“Sport,” Ted drawls. “What a metaphor.”

The week that follows their conversation, Roy finds Ted quieter than usual though lighter also.

Often now, Roy bears witness to Ted’s silent musing, gaze targeted on Trent who appears wary about this new development.

Trent in return shoots Roy suspicious glances that Roy simply ignores.

The ball is in their court.

It comes to no surprise that Roy, unwilling witness as he is, should be faced with its resolution.

It happens during lunch break. Most of the team is at the cafeteria, including Beard. Roy has finished his meal quickly because to review a few tactics before they are set off to start working again.

Of fucking course, Ted and Trent are in the office, standing close and talking softly.

Roy is ready to turn around and make his exit, yet he’s stopped in his tracks.

Something is happening there.

He could go and leave them to it, but there’s also a part of him that wants to make sure they aren’t being idiots again. So, silent and unnoticed, he walks closer to listen in.

“So there you have it,” Ted is saying. “I think I’ve liked you for a long time but I was too blind to see it. You know what they say about having it right in front of you. But I want to make clear that I don’t expect anything from you, alright? I’m just telling you because I believe in honesty, honesty with yourself and with the people that matter to you. I’ve promised myself I wouldn’t ever keep to myself how I value others.”

“Ted,” Trent sighs and he sounds oh so very besotted. “I’m afraid you’re still blind. I’ve destroyed my decade-long journalism career because it forced me into a position to hurt you. I’m here at Richmond not to write about the club, but to write about you. Ted. Of course I have feelings for you. Don’t be daft.”

Roy can see enough into the room to see the beaming smile of one Ted Lasso and the adoring shine of one Trent Crimm’s eyes.

He’s seen enough, more than enough in fact.

But now, at least, his nightmare has ended, and he won’t have to suffer their pining and flirting any more.

Still quiet, Roy goes away before they can spot him.

As he makes his way back to the cafeteria, Roy ponders about the merits of being brave and facing one’s fears. It may be time to follow his own advice.

There’s this new recipe he wanted to try and make – if he had some guests, it could be the excuse he needed to make it.

Roy arrives at Richmond AFC feeling lighter than he had in weeks. The team is still losing, but his training with Jamie is going great and he has no doubt the prick will outclass Zava soon enough.

More than that, Roy has reached out to Keeley and together and with Jamie too, they are heading somewhere with this something between them. It’s tentative, uncertain, but it’s hopeful.

There’s something to be said about trying, about staying and enjoying it while it lasts because perhaps, if they’re lucky, this thing will last for a long time.

Roy walks into the coaches’ office lost in thoughts.

His musing is soon crushed though as he finds himself staring in horror at Ted tucking Trent’s hair behind his ear, the both of them gazing openly and lovingly at each other.

No.

This was supposed to get better. They were supposed to stop with the lovey-dovey shit.

Oh, fuck.

By helping them get together, Roy has made it worse – out with the pining, and in with the blatant adoration.

“Fucking hell you two,” Roy swears, already turning around. “Get a room.”

“We are in a room,” Trent points you, “you walked in there.”

Roy doesn’t answer, but he does give them the middle finger.

Good thing that he has his back turned to them, he couldn’t let them know that he’s fighting a smile.

#tedtrent #tedependent #tedtrent fic #ted lasso #roy kent #trent crimm #my writing #this is so messy but also i enjoyed writing it so there you have it #please if you read it and you like it do consider leaving a comment and/or reblogging this post #literally i need feedback to live lol #also i haven't posted in a while and i'm like?? so nervous about this for some reason???

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