#this is kind of self indulgent and makes no sense but it does to me. maybe. Sort of

[nvskyprospekt]

golden slumbers / carry that weight ☆

[blujayonthewing]

ugh it's so cringe and lame that I ship my own OCs from separate dnd campaigns with each other, unlike the multiple popular artists I follow whose entire brand is OC x canon, which is a normal and cool way to be self indulgent

[ittybittyfanblog]

Only You, Darling (Only You, Babe)

Summary: There were orders for your abduction. You were made to be the bait by a rival gang to get to the elusive head of Onychinus. Sylus doesn’t take it too well. Word Count: 4.8k Tags: mc x sylus, fem!reader x sylus (use of she/her pronouns), depictions of violence (it gets a little graphic), reader gets abducted and injured, strong language, protective!sylus, he’s a little unhinged here, self-indulgent! A/N: I can’t believe this game pulled me out of a three-year creative rut LMAO. I’ve been doing fanarts, now I’m writing again?? The power these pixelated men hold over me, man.  Anyway, enjoy!  This version of Sylus is probably a little OOC idk idk ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

It was close to midnight, and you're being followed.

On your six, a stocky man in an unassuming dark suit has been tailing you since you left the dingy bodega a little over a mile away from your apartment for about, three? five minutes– no, maybe even longer.

Shit, you mouth silently. Sloppy. You should’ve noticed him sooner, and the two other lackeys now closing in from up ahead. They’re armed too, if the hands hidden inside their jackets were any indication.

As if things aren't looking bad enough, you’ve decided tonight would be the perfect night to go weaponless, deciding against bringing your handgun with you since it was supposed to just be a quick run to the store for supplies. Namely, the late-night cravings sort of supply.

You clutch the wrinkled paper bag containing your coveted jalapeño Cheetos tightly.

This is what greed does to you, a mocking voice echoes in your head. Since when did your inner voice of reason sound masculine and oh-so-familiar? 

Exhaling quietly, you try to calm the rising beat of your heart and appear to be clueless of your surroundings. Walk at a normal pace. Look unaware of the men with the intention to… What even was this? An ambush? Good, old, regular robbery? No, it doesn’t seem like they were in it for something that insignificant. They wouldn’t even bother to be this cautious if it were. 

But then, what were they here for? The dangers you were more familiar with are of the monstrous kind in the literal sense of the word; entities that you face on a daily basis as a Deepspace hunter. Not the regular threats posed by mankind – which in this particular situation, suddenly feels more foreboding.

While racking your brain for ideas on how to slip away from their sight without escalating the situation, you fail to notice a fourth person hidden behind the dumpster inside the narrow alleyway on your left until you feel the cold, hard edge of a pistol gun hit your temple.  

With a shout, your hand shoots up in an attempt to yank the gun away from the hand holding it but the sudden burst of pain from the impact has left you feeling dizzy and off-kilter. The moment you throw your fists up to block your face, heavy fists strike you directly in a flurry of hits, colliding with your forearm and your unguarded ribs.

You let out a pained grunt as you stagger backwards, trying your hardest to keep yourself from falling back on your ass and ward off the next incoming attack. 

A sinister laugh alerts you of the others, now surrounding you in a circle. Shit!

You hastily shift your legs into a crouching position, bracing yourself as you attempt to sidestep the one in front of you before making a run for it. You spring into action, but before you can even take another step, an arm shoots out and coils tightly around your neck like a noose. A cloth that reeks of something distinct is slapped over your mouth and nose, rendering you unable to do anything but struggle. 

“Now, now– the boss wants her in one piece, John,” The stocky man, who’s apparently larger and more jacked up-close, pipes up. John tightens the limb circling your throat, preventing you from breathing, before slightly loosening his grip. 

 “I’d advise you from struggling too much, sweetheart. But if you insist on making this harder for yourself,” the man talking suddenly grins, revealing rows of crooked, silver teeth. “He ain’t said nothin’ about a couple of bruises.” 

You give him your dirtiest glare, trying to pull away from the death grip the burly man called John had on you, but you feel your muscles slowly becoming heavier and your vision starting to blur. 

Ch-chloroform?

You make a muffled shout, a scurry that earns you a heavy hit on the stomach, one last futile move to free yourself, but the inevitable effect of the potent substance starts to overpower you. 

“After all, we need to make sure that the big bad boss of Onychinus actually comes for his bitch, don’t we?”

Rendered completely useless, the men start to make quick work to restrain your arms and legs in a hogtie before carrying you down the street, to a shaded corner where a large, gray van is parked.

The barn doors open, and you’re tossed in carelessly to the back, landing painfully on the cold, hard floor. An involuntary whimper escapes your lips, feeling like one big bruise; splotches of red and blue start to form like a violent watercolor on your skin. 

The engine revs. Before completely losing consciousness, you think you hear a faint caw.

The car drives off the beaten path, into the night, leaving not a trace of evidence of what transpired mere minutes ago aside from a discarded brown paper bag and a deflated bag of chips. 

-

-

-

From a distance, flying towards the hazy skyline, a mechanical bird crows a bad omen. 

_____

In the dead of the night, the head of Onychinus sits as a spectator; a towering presence at the head of a table inside a private room, obscured in plain sight, in an unremarkable establishment far east of Linkon City. 

Unassuming as it may be, the room’s occupants are men of great renown, both in influence and notoriety. The CEO of a chain business in Azure Square, a regional manager of a well-known bank in Linkon, the head of a weapons trade representing a faction in the N109 zone… All held significant power, all held ulterior motives.

A meeting of minds; the type held only in the secrecy of the night, gone in the break of dawn. 

Sylus has half the mind to listen in on the droning exchange of fake pleasantries and plastic smiles as the men deal trades in nature that of weapons and favors. A number of hungry, beady eyes cast him furtive glances, fearful yet devout. Some cautious in the hope of earning his approval. 

“–the package will be en route to the agreed-upon address by the end of the week,” a stout man in spectacles finishes off, clearing his throat. Beads of sweat start to form at the back of his neck as red eyes bore into his, assessing. Deliberating. “O-or if Richard’s able to give me the go-ahead in advance, I’ll make sure it arrives by Friday,” a gulp–then, “sir.” 

All in reverence. 

He hums, his switchblade dancing idly in his hand, deliberately stretching the tension that hangs heavy in the air. He delights in this power to unsettle, savoring the authority that his mere presence commands—a demand for absolute deference. 

“Make it half that time, will you, Raymond?” Sylus responds amicably, not as a question. The man, Raymond, sputters. 

“That won’t be pos–” Sylus tilts his head, eyes shifting into something more dangerous. “Please, I’ll try to cut the time shorter but there won’t be any assurances.” 

The pale-haired man sighs in acquiescence. “I guess that will have to do.” Raymond lets out an exhale of relief, but catches his breath as Sylus continues, “Any later than Wednesday, and I’ll come to claim it personally.” 

Raymond, more nerves than man, starts to blabber something in response–but stops when something black suddenly appears in a blaze of dark energy, near the shoulder of the intimidating man he’s trying to appeal to. 

Sylus raises a hand, and a large crow lands on his pointer finger. 

He caws, once. Twice. And shows a projection. 

The inhospitably cold room suddenly went glacial. 

All conversation halts to a stop as an overwhelmingly suffocating aura starts to emanate from the man–no, the being at the head of the table, making all that are in the vicinity freeze in fear. 

The devil posing as the leader of Onychinus abruptly stands up, and Raymond thinks, Oh I’m going to die here.

Without a word, the man disappears in a Stygian haze.

_

Five minutes later, only after they felt like death was no longer looming over their heads, did anyone dare to move a muscle.

_____

Your head hurts, and your mouth tastes of rust. 

Having been awake for longer than your captors were aware of – two (?) of which bickering near a barred slate of metal that you assume is the door after taking a quick peek from beneath the mess of hair concealing your face – you try to get your bearings together without arousing the suspicion of your present audience. 

“–bet it’s gonna take a while ‘fore that guy arrives. You think she’s enough to get him to show his face?” 

“Damned if I know. In any case, we got a pretty, li’l plaything on our hands,” a snort. “Make her worth the effort.” 

Where were you? From what it looks like, you’ve been transported into a nondescript underground bunker of sorts, dank with a hint of mildew and rot in the air; a rumbling air vent on your left masking any noise that escaped your mouth when you woke up. The area is poorly lit, save for the flickering bulb hanging precariously above your head as your main source of light – good for casting shadows to hide your bruised face, bad for the pounding headache you’re pretty sure is a concussion. And with your back seemingly close to a wall, you arrive at the conclusion that there are no other entryways, no way to leave, but the guarded door in front of you. 

In short, you have no idea where you are. 

Fuck–this is bad, you swear to yourself internally, trying to control the rising panic swelling up your chest. You never thought your nightcap would lead to this mess. Nobody knows about your current predicament, and it’ll take more than a day before your absence raises any alarms, so right now, you’re on your own. 

Think, think! What can you do?

What can you do? You have nothing on you, nothing you can use as a makeshift weapon to defend yourself with, and your hands are tightly bound behind your back by a thick, heavily twined rope with no give. The situation is slowly turning bleaker by the second, and it isn’t even your fault that you’re here in the first place! You were made a pawn, a mere bait in this messed-up dick-measuring contest between a crazy, sadistic, self-proclaimed head honcho and Onychinus’s own crazy, sadistic–

Wait a minute. Sylus. 

You send a strong prayer to anyone above that’s listening, and an angry telepathic shout for good measure to the one who’s unaware of his involvement – but nonetheless the source of your ruined night – in this attempt at kidnapping a perfectly law-abiding citizen of Linkon.

Sylus, as much as I hate your unfortunate tendency to stalk me through means that, honestly? Eludes the hell out of me, I really, REALLY hope that you’ve been keeping tabs toni–

“Hey, boss! I think this one’s awake!”

Fuck. No use pretending anymore. 

You hear heavy footsteps from outside the room before the corroded metal door swings open to reveal a large man, easily standing above six feet, sporting a neatly trimmed beard and an unsettling smile. His arms are covered in tattoos– overlapping, almost undecipherable. A gnarly scar runs from the side of his mouth to just above his brow bone; his right eye a cloudy gray, most likely a morbid souvenir from the sustained injury.

His functional eye zeroes in on your pitiful form, and his smile widens into a hostile grin. 

“Well, well. It seems like our esteemed guest is finally ready to join in the fun,” His voice sounds like gravel, with a mocking intonation. “I hope my men weren't too rough with you on the way here.” 

You let out a breath through your teeth, blinking a few times to try and rid the blurring in your vision. You have to bide your time– “Why am I here? What do you want from me?” 

The man cocks his head to the side, smile still in place. “I assume you already know. But I’ll indulge you your little questions, why not?”

He crosses the space separating the two of you with just a few, languid steps before he’s in front of you. He leans forward, brushing the messy locks of hair – dried with blood – away from your face in a deceptively calm manner. “The devil needs to pay his dues, but it’s been rather difficult to get a hold of him, you see,” he sighs in exaggerated disappointment. ”I intend to collect, so I waited patiently for the right moment, for an opening. For an opportunity. 

And here, the opportunity presents herself.” 

You sneer, moving your head back to let your hair fall from his creepy hold. “I’ve no clue what you’re talking about, mister, but I’m pretty sure you’ve got the wrong idea.”

He barks out a laugh before gripping your chin tightly between his fingers. “You’ve got a smart mouth on you. Maybe we can find a better use for it.” 

You feel it before you hear it. 

“Perhaps not.” 

Something vicious saturates the air, something intense and terrifying and wrong. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and some sort of primordial response deep within your brain is telling you to get away from it.

But then, the paralyzing fear melts away to something akin to hope when you realize the source of this new disturbance.

Relief washes over you when familiar ink-and-red tendrils materialize behind the man in front of you. The dark wisps dissipate like smoke as soon as it comes and in place, your savior – sporting an expression that could only be described as downright murderous – stands before you, all six feet of unadulterated rage.

Several things happened so fast, it was almost simultaneous.

A cacophony of shouts came loudest from the two men who had been on guard duty but screams also echoed from outside the room. You saw flashes of red, twin laughter, and blood spurting from the necks of the now headless guards, and then a symphony of bullets and a lot of things breaking rang across the room. 

Suddenly– 

Deafening silence. As if something has put an abrupt stop to the noise. 

Amidst all the chaos, the scarred man in front of you had no time to make a move before savage whips of crackling energy engulfed him, leaving only his head free from the smothering darkness. 

His expression betrays something wild and manic as he tries twisting around to look at the figure behind him. “You–”

Sylus pays no mind to the breathing, dead fool – lower than dirt on his feet, with the nerve to harm what is most precious to him – as he keeps his gaze solely on you; his eyes darting up and down as if taking inventory of all the bruises and scrapes you sustained from the abduction. 

You meet his eyes. “You came.” 

An indecipherable look passes his face, gone as quickly as it came. “A little too late. I apologize.” 

You weakly huff out a chuckle, wanting to shake your head but decide against it lest it aggravates your concussion. A prickling sensation, then the rope around your wrists falls off with a quiet thud. 

“Luke. Kieran.” 

“Everything’s all accounted for, boss,” Kieran announces, suddenly appearing beside your right, along with Luke who’s on your left. Both look no worse for wear.

 The latter gives you a sympathetic look. “Oh, man. They got you good, little crow.” 

“Caught me off-guard, s’all,” you insist half-heartedly. 

A sigh. “Transport her directly back to base. Attend to her critical injuries once you arrive, and keep her awake. I’ll handle the rest once I get back,” Sylus instructs the twins in a tone that brooks no argument.

They nod in sync and start making a move to carry you out, but you protest.

“Wait, you’re staying behind?” For some reason, the thought of being separated from him, even for a short amount of time, makes you feel ill. Well, worse than your current state at least. 

Sanguine eyes soften when he hears the tremble in your voice. The offending man in front of you, reduced into something less threatening than a cowering dog in comparison to your rescuer, is forcibly pushed aside to make room for Sylus as he steps closer. 

He crouches low so that you’re looking down on him instead of up. One large hand covers both of yours, mindfully avoiding the fresh rope burns on your wrists, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the unmarred part of your skin. 

“This will be quick, sweetie. I’ll be back by your side before you know it,” he exhales, closing his eyes for a moment. “I swear to you.”

You swallow, but nodded reluctantly. “Come home soon.” 

“I will.”

With that, you let yourself be carried out of the claustrophobic space you were confined to, into a larger room littered with unmoving bodies that you're frankly too tired to care about at the moment, up three (rickety) flights of stairs where you exit into what looks like the inside of an empty shipping container, before finally, finally getting out. 

A gust of salty wind hits you and you ask, “Are we near the docks?” 

“Yeah,” Kieran answers, carefully putting you down on the backseat of Sylus’ car. “Mephisto trailed after the van they stuffed you in before reporting back to the boss. We followed soon after.” 

Luke frowns as he inserts the key in the ignition. “We weren’t aware that they had eyes on you for a while now. An oversight on our part, won’t happen again,” he assures you. “Gotta give them props for that, at least.” 

Kieran, now getting in the passenger side of the vehicle, shoots him a look. 

“Anyway, we’re glad we got to you before they did anything… worse,” Kieran continues, then winces in a show of mock sympathy. “Can’t say the same to that fucker back inside. Haven’t felt Sylus’ bloodlust this strong in a long while.” 

You try to focus on their words, but you feel yourself nodding off as the remaining adrenaline slowly leaves your body. You know you should feel more worried about what the two were insinuating, but your mouth still tastes like you swallowed a bunch of coins and you just want a soft bed to sleep in for an entire day. Or three. 

“Oi, no sleeping. Doctor’s orders,” A snapping finger in front of your face forces you awake. 

You blink your tired eyes open in an attempt to stay lucid, the pulsing pain in your head becoming more prominent as soon as the threat of danger has passed. 

“This is gonna be a long night,” you sigh, wishing that Sylus will keep his word and be quick about… whatever he’s planning to do with your abductor. 

–––––

There hasn’t been much left of the man who proclaims to be the new head of an arms syndicate Sylus had dealt with in the past. He recalls the history of his relationship with the cartel being less than cordial, but nothing that would warrant his ire. Except for tonight.

He usually doesn’t leave a trace when doling out punishments; no, not anymore. Not in recent years. He prefers to be efficient about his killings, dissipating any evidence in thin air after reducing them into fine paste, rather than make a big show out of it. Quick and precise.

Except today… Someone had the arrogance, the absolute audacity to steal directly from the dragon’s nest.

The contents of which have always been kept in strict confidentiality. What is known, only chosen individuals bound to secrecy are privy to, and a lot of people would kill for. 

But unbeknownst to anyone else but its owner, only one thing in this hoard of secrets truly matters to the dragon. One solitary treasure alone he would burn planets for – and someone has tried to steal it.

Harm. the treasure. To get to him. 

It seems as if the new bloods needed a reminder of who, exactly, they’re stealing from. 

One who dwells deep within the underbelly of the cities both monster and men inhabit, that even the most heinous of sinners seeking solace in the dark, are afraid of. 

And what retribution tastes like to those who are foolish enough to bite more than what they can chew.

The poor soul unfortunate enough to be the first one to discover the carnage will witness that what was left of the man that had wronged the Onychinus kingpin is stuck on the walls, the floor, and the ceiling of a basement where the treasure was held captive. They will find that the man’s innards are deliberately hung in a haphazard fashion, in all corners of the room like bloody, sinewy tinsel. 

And the centerpiece of this bloodbath is none other than the man’s decapitated head, forcibly attached to the hanging light in the middle of the room. A bulb crudely drilled past his cranium, while blood dripped down the floor in slow, ominous rivulets. 

They will understand in dawning horror that the one responsible for this... gross butchery, has left the head swinging. That the man’s mouth will forever remain agape in an eternal scream to immortalize the exact moment he realizes the gravity of his sin.   

Yes, Sylus is more than glad to remind them. 

_____

You arrive a quarter past four AM. 

Barely taking a step past the foyer, the twins immediately whisk you inside to perform an ‘emergency patch-up.’ Luke’s words, not yours.

“We’re your personal CNA while waiting for the head nurse to take over,” he explains cheerfully, wrapping another layer of gauze around your wrist. You hiss when Kieran dabs a cotton ball on the gash on your temple, peroxide fizzing as it comes in contact with the dried-up blood. Muttering out a “sorry!” Kieran does quick work in cleaning the injury and covering the affected area.

In no time at all, all visible wounds are bandaged and disinfected. The worst of your head wound had to be stitched up, but other than that, nothing seems to require immediate medical attention. There’s nothing left for you to do but to bear the aches that came along with the bruises – especially on your tender midriff – and to pop a tylenol for your throbbing headache.

You offer them a sincere, “Thanks. No, really.” before they leave you in Sylus’ room, after multiple reminders to “not sleep before the attending nurse arrives for the final diagnosis.” 

(You think they might have enjoyed playing caretaker a little too much.) 

With a lot more effort than you care to admit, you painstakingly remove your bloodstained clothes until you're down to your underwear, before draping yourself in a large, red, silk robe. A hot shower sounds heavenly to your sore muscles, but the soft mattress is calling to you more so you head straight to bed. 

With nothing else to occupy yourself with, you prop your head on a mountain of pillows – to keep yourself relatively upright – and let out a sigh. 

Tonight had been a shitshow. All you wanted was something to snack on while you binge through the last season of the show you were watching back at your apartment; you never thought a late-night run to the store just a few blocks away would result in… this. If not for Sylus’ intervention, you’re sure you'd be leaving with a lot more than a couple of scrapes. If not worse.

You're lost in your own thoughts when short, successive raps on the door catch your attention. It swings open before you have the chance to pipe out a, “come in!”

Speak of the devil.

Sylus enters the room, not a hair out of place. You notice that he’s changed into a casual, brown sweater and a pair of dark-washed jeans. His eyes meet yours, tightly-controlled expression relaxing as he crosses the room towards the side of your bed, wasting no time. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Still pretty sore, but Luke and Kieran already handled the worst of my injuries,” you answer, making a move to sit up. Sylus tuts disapprovingly, gentle as he puts a hand on your chest to prevent you from moving any further. He sits gingerly on the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle you. Once fully settled, he let out a deep sigh.

“You had me worried for a moment there, kitten.” He admits, a slightly rough edge to his voice as emotion seeps into it. He regards you intently, like he’s trying to convince himself that you’re here, safe. 

Your hand reaches out towards his face. Without missing a beat, he leans in to nuzzle your palm, eyes closing shut. He reminds you of a big wolf, unbridled fire simmering beneath the surface, yet tame in the presence of his handler. 

“I’m fine now, thanks to you,” you assure him with a lopsided smile. “Give my thanks to Mephisto, as well. Tell him he gets a pass on the stalking this time.” 

Sylus opens his eyes, a hint of amusement and something else you can’t identify flickering through. “Oh, sweetie. You’ll be lucky if that bird gives you the privacy to bathe alone after tonight,” he jokes. 

He’s joking. Right?

You eye him for a moment before deciding to let it go. You're too tired to argue.

Instead, you cautiously ask a question you aren’t sure you even want the answer to. “What happened after we left?” 

Sylus expression doesn’t change except for the upward tick on the corner of his mouth; the same peculiar glint in his eyes coming across a little stronger. “They won’t be bothering you anymore. You don’t need to worry about anyone coming for you.”

“That’s not what I asked.” 

He hums. “Do you really want to know?”

You stare at him, and he stares back at you placidly. 

You purse your lips and look away. “Maybe not.” 

Sylus breathes out a laugh. He gently grasps your chin between his forefinger and thumb, guiding your head to meet his gaze once more. A softer look on his face, inching closer to yours.

Your heartbeat slightly picks up. In your vulnerable state, you feel a welling desire to bare your feelings to the man in front of you. You want to tell him how relieved you felt when you saw him in that cursed basement, how he was able to quell your fears with just his presence alone the moment he appeared in a familiar haze of black and red. Like your own, personal, vindictive guardian. 

Instead, you close the distance between the two of you, your lips meeting his. 

Sylus groans quietly, a hand cupping your face as he leans closer to deepen the kiss. Your eyes flutter shut, savoring the feeling of contentment from being this close to him. You feel, more than you see, how his taut body loses the remaining tension from the events that transpired just mere hours ago, how he finally relaxes as he loses himself in you.

Very carefully, he eases you further down, cradling your head with one hand until it rests on a pillow. His lips drift to the corner of your mouth, trailing soft kisses up to the apples of your cheeks, your forehead, then to your nose. 

He pulls back slightly, chuckling when you make a sound of discontent. When you open your eyes, you see him looking at you– half-lidded and tender. 

In a low voice, he instructs, “Rest. You need it.”

The feeling of exhaustion pulls you in, but before you surrender to it, you remind Sylus, “I’m not that fragile, you know. You don’t have to worry too much.” You poke his cheek and he catches the offending digit to bite it affectionately. “I’ll be up and running in no time.”

He doesn't speak for a minute, considering your words. His mouth sets into a thin line before letting out a sigh.

“And if you get hurt again? What then?" He whispers so quietly, seeming as if he's talking to himself.

"I'll get hurt again, that's for sure," You tell him, matter-of-factly. "But really, that’s just an occupational hazard. I’m sure you realize."

“Love — what a terrible, little thing,” he muses, half-forlornly, half in jest. "I’d rip this cold heart out and throw it in flames if I could.”

While speaking, his hand finds its way into the tangles of your hair, gently running his fingers through the strands in a lulling manner. His lips landing on the crown of your head softly. Reverently.

You hum sleepily.

“Of course you would, Sy.”

_____

“You’ll be glad to know that the artifact you had your eye on back at the auction will be arriving this Wednesday.” 

“Huh? But I thought it was already sold to someone else?”

Sylus shrugs. “I made a counteroffer.” 

“You didn’t have to. I told you it was fine.” 

“I know. But I also recall a certain someone telling me how much they wished they had placed a bid on it on our way back,” he pinches your cheek fondly. “Don’t worry about it, kitten. It’s yours.”

“Oh. Well– thank you,” you yawn in response, leaning your head to rest against his palm.

His thumb strokes your cheek. “Anything for you.”

[hailsatanacab]

Family Dinners - dpxdc

"Holy shit, you're Bruce Wayne!" Danny gaped, jabbing a finger at the man sitting at the head of the table.

The bustling dining room goes silent as everyone turns to look at him.

"Danny, who did you think was going to be here?" Tim asks, disbelief plain in his voice and Danny feels his face flush red.

"Sorry, I, uh, I guess I just never put it together. Tim Drake-Wayne. Wayne Manor. It, uh, makes sense now." He laughs sheepishly and scrubs at his neck before slumping back down into his chair.

"Well," Tim says with an indulgent sigh, "at least I know you're not just friends with me for my connections."

"Yeah, I'm really sorry, I just never thought about it, I guess."

Danny sinks lower as everyone around him laughs. Come to dinner, he said, the food is the best, he said, ignore the family, he said. Danny really wishes he'd listened to Tim and just ignored them—almost as much as he's regretting accepting the offer in the first place—but... he's having dinner with Batman.

Ancients, that's so weird!

The last time he saw Batman was in the future and, suffice it to say, it was not going well. There hadn't really been time for family dinners there.

Wait. Family dinners?

He peers around the table, openly gawking at everyone as it all clicks into place.

"Everything alright, Danny? Now realising who everyone else is?" Tim asks with a roll of his eyes.

"Uh... something like that..." Danny mumbles as everyone laughs again.

From further down the table, the smallest Wayne scoffs and clicks his tongue.

"I thought you said he was smart, Drake?"

"So, you all do it, too, then?" he asks, ignoring the jibe. Danny's only a little bit jealous as he thinks of how much easier they must have it, how much easier it'd be if his family had been on his side, too. "You all work together?"

"Nah," Dick says from across the table with a brilliant grin. "Tim's the only one that works with Bruce, we all have different jobs. I'm a police officer in Bludhaven."

"Disgusting." Danny blurts out without thinking—because seriously, what kind of self-respecting vigilante would also be a police officer?—before clapping a hand over his mouth. "Sorry."

The whole table laughs again, the loudest being the blonde girl a few spaces down from Dick. Look, Danny wasn't really paying attention to names when they were all paraded in front of him. Dick only gets remembered because his name is a joke.

Come on, Danny, recover!

"That's, uh, not what I meant, though."

"Oh?" Dick asks, cocking his head slightly to the side. Is it Danny's imagination or does his smile tense slightly?

"Yeah, I mean like, you know, in costume. It must make it so much easier to have everyone together like this."

"Costume? What do you mean?"

Yeah, Danny's not imagining it, everyone tenses up at that. It's really only now that he's realising that this probably isn't how he should bring up that he knows about their... night time activities. In fact, he probably shouldn't be bringing it up at all.

"Uuhhh..." Danny looks wildly around the table as he continues making his stupid noise. Think, think, think! There must be a way out of this!

"Danny?" Tim asks, looking concerned.

"Oh, Ancients, this isn't how I wanted it to go at all," he mutters, slipping even further into his chair. He's almost on the floor now and he so, so wishes it could just swallow him up.

His real first meeting with Batman was meant to be cool! He had planned to be Phantom, maybe save them from a tight spot, prove his worth as a mysterious and powerful ally as thanks for the help Batman gave him in the future.

"Danny, what are you talking about?" Tim starts tugging on his sleeve in an attempt to pull him back up from his pit of despair.

Eventually, Danny relents and sits up straighter, hiding his face in his hands and whining all the while.

"I'm sorry, I just didn't expect him to be here and it threw me off so now I look stupid and it's so embarrassing!" he wails, flailing his arms wide. "Why wouldn't you warn me that Batman was your adopted dad, Tim? Couldn't you have let me know?"

"I'm sorry, what? Danny are you alright? There's no way Bruce can be Batman, look at him!"

"Yeah," the blonde girl laughs from the bottom of the table, "look at him! That's a wet noodle of a man! Batman can actually do things, B is incapable of pretty much everything."

"Thank you, Stephanie," Bruce sighs, massaging his forehead.

It's... Those are the first words Danny's heard Batman say since everything went down and it's enough to knock him out of his embarrassment.

It's really good to hear his voice again. Especially now, when it's strong and healthy and full of personality—even if that personality is little more than a tired father right now—far better than how it had been, at the end.

Danny sits up, back straight, and grins. He's got this. He remembers it perfectly. Some people count sheep to fall asleep, Danny repeats his mantra to be certain that he'll never forget it.

"Gamma alpha upsilon tau iota mu epsilon, 42, 63, 28, 1 colon 65 dash 9."

Once again, the whole table falls into silence.

"Holy shit..." breathes the other D name (Duke? Danny's pretty sure he's Signal) from opposite Stephanie. "Isn't that...?"

"The time travelling code." The littlest Wayne says stiffly. "We have met in the future?"

"That's not just the time travelling code, Dami." Dick says, looking between Danny and Bruce. "That's the family time travelling code."

Danny's grin freezes in place.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"1 colon 65 dash 9." Dick explains, still flicking between him and Bruce. "It means you've been adopted into the family and we should all treat you as such, no questions asked."

"Tell you what, I'm about to ask a question." Danny says, dumbstruck. "You just told me it was a code to identify time travellers, not anything about being adopted! What the hell, B?"

Bruce looks about as shellshocked as Danny feels.

"We must have been close," he says finally, after opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water a few times.

"No! Not that close!" Danny reels back, taking a deep breath ready to refute it all, but... "Well, I mean, you found me when I first got stuck, and you helped me get better despite being... And then we fought together against the, uh, bad guy, before he, um, he... before you couldn't."

An uncomfortable beat passes while they all pick up on what Danny tried so hard not to say.

"So, you're not from the future, then, you travelled there and came back?" Tim asks, breaking the tension and leaning forward with a glint in his eye.

"Yeah, it was a whole end of the world thing, but don't worry about it," Danny says with a hand wave, "It's all kosher now, won't ever happen."

"What did happen?"

"Seriously, don't worry about it, we cool."

"How long in the future was it?"

"About ten years? You were pretty spry for an old man, B," Danny laughs, wishing they'd get off the topic of what happened and get back to the adoption bit.

Everyone shares degrees of a cautious smile as they relax out of the shock, and Dick—whose grin is the biggest—says, "No wonder you got the family code, you're already riffing on him like one of us. How long were you there for?"

"A week, before I managed to get back to my present and stop him then."

"A week? Jeez, B, that has to set some kind of record, seriously."

"Oh!" Danny says, sitting bolt upright and blinking in surprise before pointing at Dick and bouncing in his seat. "You're Nightwing!"

"What?"

"That's exactly what Nightwing said when Batman told me the code! Makes so much more sense now."

Dick laughs and claps his hands, delighted.

"You were not formally adopted?" The grumpy small one—Dami?—asks, his face pinched.

"I didn't even know I was informally adopted."

"And your parents? Are they alive or dead?"

"Damian, stop—"

"They were dead in the future, but they're alive now." Danny says, looking down. He fiddles with the tablecloth, twisting the fabric around his fingers as he fights down the pang of sadness that he always feels when he thinks of them now. He forces a bright smile on his face and hopes it doesn’t look too strained. "I just, uh, can't talk to them much, anymore."

"Damian," Dick warns, "1 colon 65 dash 9. Treat them as family, no questions asked."

"This is Damian treating him as family, the little turd has no manners." Tim scoffs, rolling his eyes, but he gently bumps shoulders with Danny to knock him out of his funk. Danny can't help but send him a watery smile.

"I have the most exemplary manners, Drake, unlike some people." Damian spits, crossing his arms with a pout. "I was merely ascertaining his status to see how he could possibly fit into the family."

"I know this is all a bit sudden, Danny," Bruce smiles, ignoring Damian and reaching out to lay a warm hand on his arm, "for all of us. But if I felt strongly enough to give you that code after spending a week with you in the future, then you are more than welcome in this family, if you so choose it. I think I can speak for all of us when I say we'd like to get to know you a bit more."

"I know a threat when I hear it, Bruce." Danny snorts. "But, yeah, I get it. I'm sorry this is all so weird, it really wasn't how I wanted to find you again, but... I'm glad I did."

"So are we, Danny." Dick says, with a warm smile. "And formally or not, 1 colon 65 dash 9 means you're family. Welcome to the fun house! No take backs or refunds, sorry. You're stuck with us."

[astrotruther]

Rising Signs Observations

Unserious =͟͟͞♡

➶ Aries Ascendant is a very rare placement. The most identifiable trait of these natives is their innocent faces. The sign of Aries brings a child-like quality. These people are often told that they look way younger than their age. They also often don't indulge in cosmetic procedures because they like their youthful/ natural look. E.g. Penélope Cruz, Joseph Gordon-Levitt.

➶ Taurus Ascendants (both men & women) are some of the most on-paper/ conventionally beautiful people that I've never looked at twice. I'm sorry, you all are amazing, I've just never been attracted to a Taurus Rising. E.g. Miley Cyrus, Austin Butler. With Gemini in their 2nd House, they can be very successful writers. E.g. Toni Morrison, George R. R. Martin, Salman Rushdie.

➶ Gemini Ascendant women have some of the most unforgettable faces. They also have a youthful look but their beauty is more unconventional than Aries Ascendant. E.g. Julianne Moore, Kristen Stewart, Amy Winehouse, Priyanka Chopra, Drew Barrymore. Men with this placement are also popular but there's nothing jaw dropping about their looks (or maybe it's just me lol). E.g. Matthew McConaughey, Armie Hammer, Ashton Kutcher.

➶ Cancer Rising men are so chill and have a knack for comedy. E.g. Paul Rudd, Matt LeBlanc, Hasan Minhaj. Their talking voice can be a little goofy; E.g. The Weeknd lol. Women are usually sweet but can be problematic/ drama queens if unevolved. E.g. Chrissy Teigen, Tyra Banks.

➶ The placement that's hands down most likely to gain massive fame is Leo Ascendant. An issue most of them seem to face is of longevity. Often they're associated with a certain project or stereotyped in some way that people can't see them as a versatile individual. Blake Lively - Gossip Girl, Lucy Hale - Pretty Little Liars, Matthew Perry - F.R.I.E.N.D.S, Selena Gomez - Justin Bieber, lol sorry!

➶ Virgo Risings have the most boy/ girl next door aura about them. They have a similar charming wit as Gemini Risings which makes them likable and popular. However, these people may have skeletons in their closet. They are ordinary enough that nobody suspects them of any wrong-doing. This is the placement that can get away with murder. Even if controversies come to light, they're much later in their careers after they've amassed fame, wealth and success. E.g. Steve Jobs, Chris Noth.

➶ Libra Ascendants don't necessarily have the best fashion sense but they always look good. They're very likeable and often down to earth people. Very loyal. Some of them gain a lot of attention for the people they choose to date. E.g. Jennifer Aniston, Britney Spears, Yoko Ono.

➶ I've seen people say Capricorn Risings are a lot like Scorpio Risings due to dark aesthetic/ piercings etc. While Saturn does influence the aesthetic but it is still a very surface level observation based on celebs that often just put on a persona. The essence of these two is quite different: Scorpio risings are charmers. They look you in the eye while you talk to them. And the eyes are the most obvious identifying factor. Rather than having a specific shape, a Scorpio rising's eyes have a depth to them that makes you feel 'seen', and has an underlying promise of understanding/ accepting your true self. Also, it is THE bollywood IT boy placement. E.g. Shah Rukh Khan, Hritik Roshan, Arjun Rampal. On the other hand, Cap. Risings are charming in a less personal way. They are the lookers, the ones on the stage, the center of attention; they radiate their charm to the hoards of awestruck admirers. There's no reading between the lines for unsaid promises, just a very attractive person. E.g. Zac Efron, Ariana Grande.

➶ Sagittarius Risings have a natural talent in acting. The musicians with this placement don't really standout to me tbh. Some may look intimidating from afar but they're very kind people once you talk to them. Their fashion sense depends on whether or not they have a good stylist. E.g. Jennifer Lawrence, Kim Kardashian, Brad Pitt, Jada Pinkett-Smith, Winona Ryder, Jodie Foster, Elizabeth Taylor.

➶ Aquarius Risings - popular & widely talked about on the internet, no matter if the career is prolific or not. These are the celebs whom most people have a crush on. E.g. Ian Somerhalder, Zendaya, Aaliyah, Audrey Hepburn, George Clooney, Orlando Bloom.

➶ Pisces Risings - Something very distinct about their look or the way they speak/ sing etc. Sometimes the eyes have an intimidating look to them but they're the least intimidating people ever. E.g. Billie Eilish, Adam Driver, Peter Dinklage, Morgan Freeman, Ellen DeGeneres, Kajol.

Click daily to help Palestinians🍉🙏🏽: https://arab.org/click-to-help/palestine/

[dancingbirdie]

Okay so on Astarion, I was reading this fic about him not knowing Tavs true intentions with him and it bothering Astarion a lot, so what if he goes to some mage or magic user and asks them to show Tavs true intentions to him, when he does the vision he sees is just... being snuggled. It's Tav on top of him and the both of you are falling asleep, his hands are under your shirt softly petting your skin as your sleepy self is contently snuggled up to him. I just start crying about him finding out that Tavs DASTARDLY and EVIL plan with him, their greatest desire from him... is to simply be held. 🥺

Hi @goblin-creatcher! Thank you so much for this BEAUTIFUL prompt. I, uhh, kind of took it and went a million miles an hour with it. This is honestly one of my favorite things I've ever written. I hope you enjoy it as well! xoxoxo

Something Imagined / Something Real

Word Count: 3.9K

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Astarion x f!Tav

Warnings/Tags: Brief but detailed description of rough consensual sex, descriptions and references to Astarion's trauma/trauma responses, minor Act 1 and Act 2 spoilers, FLUFF, angst

Suggested Song Pairing: Slow Dancing in A Burning Room (Stripped) - cover by ST LUNA

Summary: Astarion has been suspicious of Tav’s true intentions toward him. He persuades Gale to cast a spell and reveal her motivations. ANGST and FLUFF ensue. A rewriting of Astarion’s confession scene from Act 2.

The sun had just begun to set on the campsite when Astarion decided to put his plan into action. He had waited until Tav departed with some of the other party members before making his way over to the wizard. Gale was too busy reassembling the bookshelf inside his tent to notice Astarion’s approach. It wasn’t until he gave a polite cough that Gale jumped and whirled to face him. 

“No, no, no,” he began all at once, hands raised in a sort of shooing motion. Astarion stared at him in confusion. “I can respect Tav’s indulging in your need for blood, but as I’ve said before: I taste terrible.” 

Astarion scoffed. “Charming. Actually, wizard, I was coming to request your aid in a different, though somewhat related, matter.”

“Really? Care to elaborate?” Gale responded, still somewhat wary. It wasn’t often he found himself alone with the vampire. 

“Testy, I see,” Astarion crooned teasingly. His knee-jerk response to people treating him like a monster, to behave in the most false saccharine sort of way. 

But he drew up short, censoring himself before saying anything else he might regret. He knew he needed to get on the wizard’s good side if he had any chance of getting the answers he sought. 

“I was hoping you knew a spell to reveal someone’s true intentions. Their… motivations for behaving in a certain way, so to speak,” he finished more seriously. 

Gale pondered the question for a moment before answering. 

“Hmm… yes, there is magic to determine that sort of thing… Although it’s been some time since I practiced it…” He trailed off, rubbing his chin in thought. 

“Why are you asking for such a thing?” he asked suddenly. 

Astarion had been prepared for this question, of course. No one did anything for free, no questions asked. He delivered his explanation perfectly, as he’d been rehearsing in his mind.

“One might say our dear sweet Tav and I have been growing a bit… closer these days, but I can sense a master manipulator when I see one. I just simply want to ensure their intentions toward me - toward the party - are true,” he replied with mock innocence. 

“Ah, yes,” Gale nodded. “I gathered as much when the two of you slipped away from the tiefling’s party a few nights ago.” 

“But,” he continued on,”I needn’t think you should worry when it comes to Tav. She seems about as transparent as they come. I’m sure any intentions she has toward you are true.”

Yes, but the best actors always mask their motivations behind innocence and transparency, Astarion thought to himself. I should know. I’ve been doing it for centuries.

After the party’s unfortunate meeting with that Gur in the Sunlit Wetlands, Astarion realized he would have to take potential threats from Cazador even more seriously. He wasn’t about to lose his freedom, not now that he finally had some small taste of it. 

It didn’t hurt to be more suspicious of everyone he encountered, even the sweetling Tav. Anyone could be an operative sent by Cazador, and the best ones would be as skilled as he was in the art of manipulation. It was well-known at this point that the person he’d grown the closest to on their journey was their brave party leader, Tav. Unlikely as it may be that she was scheming for his master, Astarion’s paranoia wouldn’t let him indulge in interactions with her a second longer unless he knew how she truly felt. 

Given Gale’s hesitation, Astarion knew he would have to kick his acting up a notch. Press on that wizard’s heartstrings. Touch the one nerve he knew he was sensitive to.

“Gale, darling, from one literally damaged soul to another, indulge me just this once,” Astarion beseeched him. 

The wizard glared at him a moment, before finally relenting with a heavy sigh. “Fine. Fine. But I want it known that I don’t agree with this so-called solution one whit,” he grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Yes, yes, noted and formally documented, on my word as a former Baldurian magistrate,” Astarion replied cheerily. “So, let’s hop to it then, shall we?”

“What, right now?” Gale asked, shocked. “Shouldn’t we be, I don’t know, a little less conspicuous?” 

“What better time than now?” Astarion responded. “Tav’s out gathering firewood with Wyll and Karlach. They won’t be back for some time. As for Lae’zel and Shadowheart, well…” he paused, gesturing over his shoulder. 

Said two were engaged in a heated sparring session on the outskirts of the camp. Snarls and curses could be heard emanating from both warriors as they tried, and failed, to gain the upper hand against their opponent.

“That lovers’ dance could go on until morning,” Astarion finished. 

“Fair point,” Gale admitted begrudgingly, grimacing at the sound of swords clashing violently. “Very well. Let’s get started.” 

Clearing his throat, Gale began to utter a series of phrases completely foreign to Astarion. He watched as the wizard began moving his hands in a wavelike pattern, forming a circle before them. Suddenly, a mist began to form from seemingly thin air, taking shape according to the boundaries Gale’s hands were creating. The mist grew more and more opaque until it appeared before them like a clouded mirror. 

As the fogginess of the ethereal magic began to clear, the “mirror” became a confusing blur of scenes whipping by, too fast for Astarion or Gale to really comprehend. There were flashes of Tav and Astarion, together and separate, but they disappeared too quickly to ascertain their context. It was as though the spell was shuffling through the entirety of Tav’s thoughts, assessing each one at breakneck speed. 

Finally, the spell slowed to a halt, stopping on one scene in particular. Astarion was struck speechless by what began playing out in the foggy portal before them. So distracted, he didn’t even notice Gale’s tight cough, or how the wizard suddenly became intensely interested in a copse of trees nearby, rather than the revelation the spell was revealing.

Not that the scene was especially profound, objectively speaking. In fact, to anyone else, it might be viewed as the least revelatory thing possible that the spell could have shown. Boring. Inconsequential, even. But to Astarion, it was almost earth shattering. 

He saw himself - he could see his face! - with Tav, lying tangled together in some immaculate four-poster bed. 

That was the first shock that coursed through him, nearly causing his knees to buckle. He was seeing himself for the first time in over 200 years. Or at least, he was seeing himself as Tav saw him. And… the person he saw… Well, he was gorgeous. White blonde locks, curled and tousled in a devil-may-care sort of way. A strong, patrician nose that suggested good breeding. High, sharp cheekbones. Full lips, upturned in a thoughtless grin. Red eyes bordered by long, sweeping lashes. Delicately pointed elven ears. Smooth alabaster skin, without blemish or spot. 

Astarion could scarcely believe his own eyes. 

The second shock to his system was the nature of their activities. He would have been less surprised had the vision shown them fucking. Him taking her roughly from behind perhaps. His name a cry of ecstasy from her lips as he pistoned in and out of her with a feral sort of determination. 

Fantasies of lust, of total domination, now those were things he was familiar with inspiring in the minds of the victims he had taken as lovers. It was what he strove for, in all honesty. Desire like that all but ensured he would capture his prey and live to serve another day for his master. 

But nothing of the sort was occurring between vision-Tav and himself. Instead, they were just… embracing? What in sweet hells was this?

She lay halfway on top of him. Her hair was mussed, perhaps from sleep or perhaps from previous lovemaking. One hand was drawing absentminded shapes across his chest, her lips trailing behind, leaving kisses in their wake. He watched as vision-Astarion chuckled softly, as his hands slipped beneath her sleepshirt to caress her waist, as he placed an innocent kiss on the top of Tav’s head. Eventually, she reached for his hand. They both watched their fingers intertwine, blissfully content.

It was the purest, unadulterated expression of affection that Astarion had ever seen. Something in his heart quaked at the sight of it. He wanted that moment. He envied, he hated, vision-Astarion for enjoying such apparent happiness.

So absorbed in the vision and its implications, Astarion failed to notice the soft padding of feet that indicated someone’s re-entry into the camp. 

“If the two of you are quite finished poking around in my head,” an angry voice suddenly spat from behind them, “I’d appreciate you preserving what little privacy I have left and shutting that damn spell off.”

Mortified, Astarion and Gale turned to see Tav, arms crossed and visibly seething with rage. Gale quickly dispelled the magic with a flick of his wrist. A blush was slowly but surely rising up Tav’s neck to reach her cheeks. Whether from rage or embarrassment, Astarion couldn’t be certain. 

“Tav, let us explain-” Astarion started.

“It was his idea-” Gale blurted at the same time, pointing at Astarion. 

Both paused, glaring at one another. But Tav would have none of their feeble attempts at backpedaling. 

“The explanation doesn’t matter. Whose idea it was doesn’t matter. The fact is that both of you violated the privacy of my mind, which I’ll remind you, has ALREADY been violated by having a bloody tadpole forced inside of it!” Tav shouted. At their words, the camp became enveloped in a heavy silence. Even the crickets ceased their chirping.

Astarion cringed inwardly, knowing the other party members could plainly hear this altercation and had likely stopped whatever it was that they had been doing to listen in. He noted the sounds of swords clanging together had ceased. He was certain Lae’zel and Shadowheart at least were aware of what was happening. Nosy bastards, all of them.

But what disturbed him even more was the realization that Tav’s eyes were welling with tears. She was too proud to acknowledge them or wipe them away. Such was her nature. But they were there nonetheless, and the knowledge that Astarion had brought her to the point of tears was enough to spur a rush of utter self-loathing inside him.

Without another word, Tav turned on her heel and marched stiffly out of camp, toward the direction of a nearby creek they’d identified as a water source earlier in the day.

“I can’t believe I let you convince me to perform that spell,” Gale said as she disappeared between the trees. He dragged his hands down his face. 

“How could we have been so doltish, forgetting that all of our privacies have already been violated with this tadpole business?”

Astarion didn’t have an answer to that. At least, not one the wizard could possibly understand. 

The thought hadn’t occurred to Astarion, he realized, because violations of privacy had been something so intrinsic to his being for over 200 years. He didn’t even recognize it as something abnormal. Like a fish unaware that the water surrounding it is, in fact, water. 

Violations of privacy were a part of life, at least for him. So much so that his request for Gale to perform that magic hadn’t even occurred to him as an overstepping of boundaries. To Astarion, it had simply been a matter of survival. He had needed to know another potentially manipulative person’s true intentions, and so he had found a means to uncover it and maintain the upper hand. 

Belatedly, he also realized that Gale’s hesitation to cast the spell had had nothing to do with being inconvenienced for the evening, but because the wizard had known that it was improper to do to another person. If he had misread that, Astarion wondered, then what other truly benevolent behaviors had he mistaken as pragmatic manipulation?

“I need to go find her,” Astarion murmured, clenching and unclenching his fists in an uncharacteristic fit of uncertainty. 

“Yes, you do,” Gale asserted. “We both owe her a sincere apology… if she’ll even accept it.”

“I’ll see if I can convince her to come back to camp,” Astarion replied, making to leave in the direction Tav had stormed off. 

“Wait,” Gale said, a hand on his shoulder. Astarion turned to meet his gaze. 

“Look, well, I’m obviously not an expert in healthy demonstrations of affection. But I do think it’s obvious from what you saw in that spell that Tav well and truly cares about you. In perhaps the purest way possible. Treat that carefully.”

Part of Astarion wanted to laugh aloud in utter hopelessness at the wizard’s advice. Someone cared for him? Truly and purely? No hidden games, no strings attached? Oh certainly, that wouldn’t be a problem for Astarion at all. Obviously, his 200-year existence as a master-manipulator-fetch-hound for a power-hungry vampire lord had perfectly prepared him to respond to this situation in a healthy manner. Obviously.

But all that was too much to reveal to someone he barely knew and too heavy to say aloud. Rather than giving some smarmy retort, Astarion opted instead to give a stiff nod and continue walking toward the edge of camp. He had no idea how he could make things right with Tav, but at the very least he could try. 

***

He found Tav sitting on a fallen tree near the edge of the creek bed. Her legs were drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them as she rested a cheek to her knees. In the waning twilight, she reminded Astarion of some misbegotten gargoyle perched on the roof of a temple, solitary and so very sad. 

Her ears twitched as she noted his arrival. Astarion wasn’t trying to be stealthy. On top of everything else, the last thing he needed to do was scare her. 

“Can I join you?” he asked softly, wincing to himself at the awkwardness of the question. 

The reality was that there was no way to broach this conversation without some stilted beginning, and he hated it. Navigating tricky conversations was normally something he excelled at. But as he was quickly finding, when it related to Tav, nothing in his past life had prepared him to respond to her well. 

“If you’d like,” Tav answered tonelessly. 

Knowing it was probably the best response he was going to get, Astarion swallowed thickly and moved to sit down on the log next to her. 

“I… wanted to… apologize for what you saw, back at camp,” he began.

“Apologize for doing it, or apologize for getting caught?” Tav asked as she turned her head to look at him, resting her other cheek on her knees. 

Astarion balked at the question. Her piercing gaze unnerved him. He hadn’t really thought that far. 

“Both, I suppose?” he answered honestly, although it sounded more like a question to Tav. She huffed a laugh.

“You know, part of me really wants to yell at you. Scream in your face. Tell you off proper,” she mused.

“So why don’t you?” Astarion asked, perplexed. 

Tav didn’t respond at first, just sat there studying him. As if by staring at him long enough, she could project the answer into his mind. 

Astarion didn’t interrupt her, much as he would have liked to. Part of him always bristled when people gazed at him for too long. It was unfair that they could study him, when he hadn’t been able to so much as glance at his reflection in over 200 years. 

Finally, Tav released a heavy sigh, her body curling further in on itself. She closed her eyes as she spoke.

“Because then I would be just like every other bastard in your life who’s mistreated you.”

Astarion flinched in surprise. Those had not been the sort of words he’d been expecting. The truth of them cut deeper than had she raged at him like she wanted to. It left him feeling even more vulnerable, and that in turn made him want to retreat into the comfort of viciousness.

“I don’t need you to pull any punches,” he scoffed, glaring at her. “Go ahead and say what you will.”

She straightened up at his tone, opening her eyes and returning his glare. 

“No. I don’t want to,” she said testily.

“I don’t need your pity,” he hissed. “It’s insulting.”

“Gods damn it all, Astarion!” Tav exclaimed suddenly, causing him to jump in surprise. She threw her hands up in defeat. “I’m not doing anything out of pity! I don’t want to rage at you, because I know that whatever I say right now, I won’t mean it come the morning!”

Astarion blinked. Once again he was left feeling flat footed by the turn of the conversation. Sensing his surprise, Tav continued on with her deluge of words.

“You hurt me tonight, and I’m angry at you - and at Gale, for that matter - for what you did. But you’ve shared enough of your… history… with me, that I realize your behavior is just… just a byproduct of centuries of abuse and manipulation you’ve endured! And I won’t be another abuser in your life. I won’t,” she asserted. 

Astarion continued staring at her, as if she were some otherworldly creature that had just wandered across his path. He watched as Tav inhaled a deep breath, releasing it shakily. She turned away from him to peer out into the forest, uncertain. She opened and closed her mouth several times before actually speaking. As if whatever she was about to say was more intimidating to her than anything else she’d said tonight. 

“I… care deeply for you, Astarion,” she said quietly. “You obviously saw that in the vision. I’m not playing any games. There’s no hidden motive. I’m not trying to manipulate you.”

She turned to look at him again before continuing, her breathing a bit unsteady. 

“I didn’t sleep with you that night of the tiefling party as some sort of maneuver to gain your trust. Although I understand if that was your motivation for doing so.” 

Astarion’s expression morphed into one of guilt. But Tav nodded soberly, as if she had already expected it, before continuing on. 

“It’s okay. I’m not angry. But I’m putting all my cards on the table now, so to speak. Actually, your decision tonight forced my hand, but I had been planning on telling you soon anyway. So, there you have it. The truth of my intentions. What you do with that information is up to you.”

She turned back to gaze out at their surroundings. Like she was giving him the opportunity to bolt away without her watching him. As if she expected him to flee from her confession. 

But Astarion didn’t flee. He remained seated, staring at her in complete wonderment. 

“Why?” he asked quietly.

She looked back at him again, confusion evident on her face. 

“Why what?”

“Why do you care for me? You’re so… well-adjusted. And I’m well… this,” he finished lamely, placing a hand on his chest. 

Tav pursed her lips. “It would be a mistake to misconstrue my empathy for you as me being well-adjusted. Everyone has their own demons, Astarion,” she murmured. “Mine just look different from yours.”

Astarion mulled her words over in his mind, considering them. He leaned forward to brace his forearms on his knees, his head drooping slightly. 

“I…,” he started, unsure. “That vision… what it implied… You deserve something real, Tav. You’re incredible… truly.” 

Tav closed her eyes, bracing for the fallout. Even though she would accept his decision, whatever it was, she didn’t think she could bear to watch him deny her. It would hurt too much. 

“Look. When we met, I had a plan. A nice, simple plan,” he blurted all at once. Rising swiftly to his feet, Tav watched as he began to pace before her, near to bursting with frenetic energy. 

“Seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your feelings so you’d never turn on me,” he counted off, laughing half-heartedly. “It was… easy - instinctive. Habits from two hundred years of charming people kicked in. All you had to do was fall for it. And all I had to do… was not fall for you… which is where my nice, simple plan fell apart,” he finished, stopping to stand before her. 

She held his gaze, speechless. 

“I want you,” he whispered fervently. “I want what was in that vision… I want us to be something real.”

Never in a million years had she thought he would respond to her like this. She opened her mouth to speak, but Astarion cut her off with another sudden exclamation. 

“I just don’t know what real is,” he confessed, his tone a touch hysterical. Tav knew from his body language that being this transparent was completely out of Astarion’s comfort zone. 

“Being… close to someone - any kind of intimacy - was something I performed to lure people back. For him. Even though I know things between us are different, being with someone still feels… tainted. Still brings up those feelings of disgust, and loathing. I… I don’t know how else to be with someone. No matter how much I’d like to,” he finished, staring at her with beseeching eyes, willing her to understand.

Tav rose to her feet, coming to stand before him. 

“I don’t want you for your body,” she whispered. “Or to perform any acts of intimacy. We can be together, without sleeping together, for as long as you need.”

“Really,” he asked softly, his voice pitched low, rough with emotion.

“Really,” Tav asserted, giving him a small smile. “Would it be all right if…” she paused, conflicted. He eyed her curiously.

“Could I hug you?” she whispered.

The fact that she asked before doing so caused a well of emotion to spring up inside him. Eyes watering, Astarion nodded. 

Slowly, Tav moved forward to wrap her arms around his waist. Her head nestled into the crook of his neck and shoulder. A perfect fit. He felt her exhale a deep sigh.

Tav hugging him was a sensation unlike any he had ever felt. At least, any he could remember feeling. The act of being touched, embraced, without any desire for something more. She just wanted to hold him, feel him close to her. It was incomprehensible to him, but utterly enjoyable, at the same time. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, Astarion raised his arms to return Tav’s embrace. Drawing her even closer, he bowed his head to rest his cheek against her hair. It was soft, like the finest silk. He closed his eyes as he inhaled deeply, appreciating her sweet, floral scent.   

She made to pull away after a moment, not wishing to overwhelm him. But Astarion gripped her more firmly, a silent urge for them to stay that way a little longer. 

“This… this is nice,” he whispered. 

He both felt and heard Tav hum contentedly in response. 

It wasn’t identical to the vision from Tav’s mind that he had seen, but Astarion reveled in their embrace nonetheless. It felt like the beginning of something new. And for the first time in his very, very long life, Astarion felt excited at the prospects of what would come next. 

[monstersflashlight]

As per @myrunawaysweets request and my own indulgence, here it is part 2 of Misunderstanding your werewolf boyfriend (can be found here). Enjoy!

“Why are you peeing on my petunias?”

Werewolf x gn!reader || sfw || tw: pee

“Doesn’t it smell like piss around the garden?” He looks at you with big eyes, surprised by your question. “I think we might have some wild cats living outside or something,” you tell him, munching on your snacks.

“Su- sure. That must be it,” he stutters out a response, but you don’t pay much attention, already forming a plan to look for the cats so you can at least bring them to the shelter.

That conversation registers in your brain lightly, not giving it much thought after that. You believe it’s the cats, but when you let some food outside and it’s left untouched overnight, you start suspecting it might be another kind of problem, maybe parasites. Maybe some kind of fungus is eating your plants… You don’t know what, but you start researching, and bring it up to your werewolf boyfriend a couple times. He acts nonchalantly every time, and you believe he doesn’t know anything about it, how could he?

But you are wrong. So, so wrong.

You come home early one day, your hands full of snacks and groceries, and you step onto the back porch to say hi to him. Your groceries hit the floor when you catch him peeing on your flowers at the edge of your garden.

“Dude! What the fuck?” You scream, mad as hell at him and at the fact that you just dropped your bags and your eggs probably broke. Fucking hell.

“I- I’m sorry,” he says, but continues peeing. His eyes never leaving you as he does so. You are so mad you can almost feel smoke coming out of your ears.

You look at him, stomping his way and stopping a couple meters away as he tucks himself back in his pants. “Why were you peeing in my petunias?” You ask, trying to sound rational but failing, your tone murderous.

And he makes it worse when he says: “I- I can’t.”

“You can’t what?” You ask, your patience running very low at that point.

“I can’t control it,” he says, looking at the floor and blushing.

You can’t comprehend what he’s saying so you have to ask: “You can’t control your bladder?” That can’t be it though, you know it can, you’ve seen him pee inside more than once. He acts like a normal adult most of the time even if he has some weird quirks you associate with him being a wolf.

He looks at you like you are stupid, and you almost want to kick him for it. He was the one peeing on your flowers, but you are the stupid one? No way. Before you can verbalize that he says: “What? No! I mean yes. I can control my bladder, but…” He stops mid sentence, looking bashfully at you, like it’s self explanatory.

“But what?” You press.

“But I need to mark my territory,” he finally confesses.

You are even more confused than before. “What territory? We have a fucking house, with toilets. Inside toilets,” you are trying to breathe through your teeth to avoid screaming, but it’s been really hard. Who knows what werewolf pee can do to your flowers, you took care of them for so long…

“But… But… But you live here,” he says, like it explains everything.

And then it clicks, and it only makes you madder. “I am your territory?” You ask, incredulous and angry. “It’s the 21st century!”

“I know. I know,” he looks so pathetic that your anger dissipates instantly. You bet that if he was in his werewolf form his ears would be down and his tail would be twitching in embarrassment. “I just… I can’t stop it. I want everyone around to know you aren’t an unclaimed female.” You arch an eyebrow at him, confused and annoyed by his use of words. “Not in a bad way, my wolf just… I need to mark the territory so any other monster knows you are my mate,” he finally confesses in a soft tone. That makes so much sense you want to coo at him.

“And you have to pee my petunias for that? You could have just asked me to marry you,” you deadpan, surprising both of you at your outburst. You cover your mouth with a hand, trying to bring your words back into your mouth, but obviously unable to.

“What?” He looks hopeful, a spark of something deep and bright shining in his eyes.

“Okay…” You take a deep breath, trying to decide how to deal with this. But a part of your brain already decided what you want to do, what you want him to be in your life. “I guess it’s time then… Would you marry me?” You ask, anxious all of sudden. Everything between you two has been like a dream, but right now you aren’t sure of anything.

But he doesn’t let you overthink it. “I- Yes!” He exclaims, his eyes as big as plates as he looks at you, mesmerized, like you just gave him the best gift of his life.

He closes the distance between you two and rests his forehead against yours, his hands framing your face. You try to forget that he was just peeing and he definitely didn’t wash his hands. Disgusting. “Would you stop peeing on my petunias now?” You ask jokingly, tears in your eyes as your brain fully processes what just happened. You asked him to marry you… and he said yes. You are getting married to your werewolf boyfriend. Oh lord.

“I’ll try,” he whispers before closing the distance between you two and kissing you senseless.

[zara-renata]

Sylus gets a headache | ao3 | other fics in this 'series'

Summary: Sylus has secured the promise from you that he can use your place as a safe house if he's in the area and needs it. Sylus's definition of "need", it turns out, might be different than your own, as illustrated by the first time he shows up unannounced at your door.

Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, no use of y/n. This story contains: fluff, banter, Sylus has a hard time keeping his hands to himself, legal arguments, bad puns, self-indulgent writing, repetitive finger caressing, insomnia that Sylus is determined to vanquish by any means, Xavier is an innocent victim in all this and has no idea, except has Xavier ever been innocent in his entire life? CWs: insomnia, consumption of alcohol, profanity SFW, mostly. With some filthy innuendos at the end. It's Sylus, after all.

It has been a few days since you had the best night’s rest you can remember on the back of a certain miscreant crime lord’s motorcycle, and you’re once again preparing for a long, torturous night of staring at the ceiling and trying to catalogue all the classes of wanderers in an attempt to lull yourself to sleep—Nero’s suggestion. You have your doubts about whether it will work, but he gave the advice so earnestly after overhearing you talking to Tara about your insomnia that you feel obligated to give it a go. Sylus would probably scoff and say something about ‘people pleasing,’—you shake your head. That man does not get to live rent free in your brain, no matter how suspiciously kind he was the last time you saw him.

The kettle squeals, and you pour the boiling water into your chipped “World’s Greatest Hunter” mug that Caleb had gifted you once you were admitted into the Association’s ranks. The hot liquid steams soothingly into your face as it drowns a chamomile teabag, and you try not to think about the last time you saw him, when he was smiling. Patting your head. Whole, and so, so vibrantly alive. You take a deep, shaky breath.

After a suggestion from Tara, you add some honey and then slice a lime and squeeze the juice into the tea, absently stirring the spoon and gazing out your balcony window. You’re home early for once, and the sun is only just setting. You can’t see it through the high rises around you, but dusk filters down into the streets below your flat. The gentle sounds of the city moving into late evening drift up, the traffic like waves crashing on the shore, laughter and shop bells tinkling, a dog barking somewhere.

Suddenly, your doorbell chimes through your apartment and startles you out of your reverie. Did you forget that you had ordered something to be delivered today?

Without thinking too hard about it, you take your still piping-hot tea and pad to the foyer to answer the door.

Only to have your sense of calm shattered as you fling the mug out of sheer, instinctual self-preservation that Zayne accuses you of not having, when you see who is standing on the other side.

Quicker than your brain can actually process Sylus’s presence outside your flat, scarlet-night tendrils have prevented the mug from shattering on the floor, but have failed to stop the liquid from continuing its projectile path right onto his red, standing collar shirt and black vest.

“The fuck, Sylus?”

“You really, and I mean really, need to work on your greetings, kitten,” he tells you calmly, evol delivering the mug into his waiting hand while he holds the suitcase he has in the other hand away from his body to avoid being dripped on by his now soaked torso.

“Sorry, you were the last person I was expecting.” You wince, heart still threatening to beat its way out of your rib cage.

“Oh, expecting someone, are we?” he lifts a dark silver eyebrow.

“No, but least of all… you.” You flap your hand in his general direction. “What are you even doing here?”

“How about,” he drawls, “you let me in, and I’ll tell you. You wouldn’t want your neighbors to get curious and come to inquire about the mess I’m making on your doorstep, would you?”

You stare at him for a moment longer, trying to think of a way out of having him in your space, again, but you’re tired at the end of another long day, another long week, another long month and this whole entire fucking year. Trying to get rid of him will take more energy than just letting him do what he wants so that he’ll go away again. You run a hand down your face and shuffle aside.

He enters, and the scent of him fills the small foyer, warm and mouth-watering. He sets the briefcase and mug on the floor, removes his dress shoes and places them neatly by your own hastily-kicked-off boots next to the step leading into the rest of your flat. He then picks the mug back up and reads what’s written on it.

“World’s best hunter, indeed.” He snorts softly, eyes flicking from your face to your thin tank top and sleep shorts covered in grinning little bounce, bounce planet blobbus, to your bare feet. “Is this how the world’s greatest hunter always answers the door to unknown visitors?”

“It was a gift,” you say defensively, snatching the mug from him and cradling it to your chest. “And the only people who would be at my door this late is Xavier borrowing a cup of sugar for some doomed baking experiment, or a delivery person. I’m sure they’ve seen much worse than this,” you sweep your hand down your body in a dismissive flourish.

“Oh, I’m sure they’ve seen much worse.” Sylus frowns slightly.

“Yeah, so if they don’t like it, they’re welcome to move on to their next delivery.”

“Or buy their own sugar,” Sylus murmurs, reaching out to run a finger along your knuckles as you clutch the mug. “And who gave you this highly accurate mug?”

You hesitate, knowing that his face is going to do something complicated, like it always does, when you mention your family. But fuck it, he asked. If he doesn’t like the answer, he can also move on to whatever his next nefarious errand is. “Someone who was like a brother to me.”

“Brother, huh,” he says softly, still gently stroking your skin. “Well, he wasn’t wrong in this.” His hand falls back to his side. “Invite me all the way in, kitten. With your words,” he commands.

“And why should I do that? The deal was to let you come in. You’re in now. You don’t need to come in any further. Now it’s your turn to honor the deal. Why are you here?” You glare up at him, your foyer feeling minuscule with his big body and presence filling it.

“You offered me your place if I ever needed it,” Sylus narrows his glittering eyes. “I needed it today before you flung steaming liquid all over my clothes. And now I need it even more.” He looks pointedly down at the still-dripping clothes in question.

“What did you originally need it for?” You stall, the guilt of throwing a mug full—half! Half full! of tea at him starting to creep in.

“How about you invite me all the way into your home, with your words, help me take care of this mess you caused,” he waves a lazy finger at his torso, “and I’ll tell you.”

“But you already promised to tell me why you’re here in exchange for the initial value of me letting you in, and I let you in. I already paid. You can’t make me pay twice for the same goods,” you protest.

“Remind me to take you with me the next time I have contract negotiations. You’re more useful than my own legal counsel.” He pauses, considering you. “Circumstances have changed. Force majeure prevents me from fulfilling my original promise without requiring additional time and means to fulfil that promise. You owe me the opportunity to successfully deliver what I owe you.”

“What, exactly, is preventing you from telling me why you originally came to my home right here in my entryway?”

“The consequences of an unforeseeable natural disaster,” he answers with a little helpless shrug. “Namely, the trauma of nearly getting drowned in tea following almost being taken out by a mug launched with your god-like strength. Kitten, your assault is the equivalent of an act of god, and I can’t be responsible for the fact that I now need a dry shirt and a safe place to recover from the shock of almost being murdered by your tableware.”

You can’t help it. It has been so long since you’ve actually laughed out loud, so the noise that comes out of you doesn’t even sound human. You’re laughing, and you can’t stop. The affronted look on Sylus’s face in response to your ugly-snorts, causes you to laugh even more, and you’re suddenly bending over, holding your knees, laughing like you might die if you stop.

After a long moment, when you are finally able to breathe again, you straighten and find Sylus looking at you with a soft expression, one corner of his wide mouth slightly lifted… which is alarming. But you’re too filled with gratitude for the relief of laughing that his absurd exaggeration just gave you, so you refuse to think about anything at all too hard right now. You give in.

“Sylus, would you do me the honor of coming into my home? You can tell me what the hell you’re doing here after I find you a dry shirt.” You sarcastically bow as low as you can, your arms uplifted to gesture him forward.

“I suppose I can’t refuse such a graciously extended offer,” he says, as if resigned to a terrible fate, but his smile is smug and he wastes no time striding into your living room while unbuttoning his vest. He gently lays it over the back of your couch, and begins unbuttoning his shirt. You force yourself to stop staring as the pale skin slowly being revealed with each flick of his long fingers and head to your bedroom.

You paw through your chest of drawers, trying to find a shirt that will fit his broad shoulders and chest, but all you manage to do is make even more of a mess in your barely organized drawers. You stand, remembering the hoodie Xavier leant you after a recent, particularly messy battle on a chilly night. You move to your closet where you had hung it carefully to remind yourself to give it back to him after having washed it. You pull it from the hanger, turn around, and squeal loud enough to shatter glass.

Sylus is standing right behind you, chest bare, black slacks hung low around his narrow hips, and you did not heard him come in.

“I thought we were past the terror stage of our friendship, sweetheart,” he says, cocking his head, the same ruby stud earrings he was wearing at the club flashing in the light. “But that’s twice today that I’ve frightened you to the point of violence. Am I really that scary?”

“You keep… appearing, out of nowhere. A little warning would be appreciated,” you huff, heart pounding. You don’t know why you’re so nervous around him. Really. It has nothing to do with the broad expanse of creamy skin and pillowy man-tits shoved in your face at the moment. “And honestly, considering the fact that our friendship started with you choking me out and keeping me captive for days, it’s a wonder that I’m not more scared of you,” you flare, because yeah, how dare he act like you should be over the absolute shit-show of your first encounter, when you’ve hardly had any time to get to know him. That’s why you’re nervous. There is no other possible explanation. A couple friendly interactions do not make up for how much of an evil bastard he was when you first met him.

“Would you like me to wear a bell when I’m here, then?” he asks, conveniently ignoring the reminder regarding how he treated you not so long ago.

“How about you just stay out of my bedroom and stay where I can see you at other times,” you snap, feeling violent again at the intrusive thought of Sylus wearing a collar around his thick neck, cute little bell dinging every time he moved.

“I’ll do my best,” he says absently, clearly distracted by his thorough inventory of your bedroom as he takes in the tumbling plants in mismatched pots on floating shelves hanging over the unmade bed, the army of plushies scattered over the bunched up mountain of duvet and pillows. Your bed used to be your sanctuary. The place where you could find rest and relaxation after exhausting battles and long days squinting at the computer filing incident reports. Now it just gives you anxiety. You try to pull his attention away from the chaos of your former safe space by holding Xavier’s hoodie out for Sylus to take.

“Here, this might fit you.”

Sylus looks down at your offering, crosses his arms, and takes a step back, as if the hoodie is so offensive that it warrants recoiling physically from it. “That’s quite a big hoodie for you, even for days when you want to be comfortable,” he says evenly.

“It’s not mine, but it’s clean, and I’m pretty sure it’s the only thing I have right now that will fit you,” you say, shaking it a little in the universal, impatient gesture of just take it already for fuck’s sake.

“And who is its actual owner?”

“Xavier.”

“In the habit of wearing your partner’s clothing, are we?” he asks, still staring at it, the disdain now plain in his assessment of the sweatshirt.

“Uh, sometimes? We were on a mission recently and my jacket got torn to the point of uselessness, and it was cold. He let me wear his hoodie so I wouldn't be cold. It's been washed since then, so it's clean. I’ll just wash it again when you’re done using it before I return it. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

After what seems like a ridiculous amount of time for him to apparently make some mental calculations that only he will ever understand, he finally takes the soft hoodie from you, fingertips brushing yours as he grasps the fabric. You can’t figure out why he he suddenly looks more smugly evil than you’ve ever seen, with his lips curved up in a sardonic smirk. “Oh, of course, I’m sure he will not mind at all.” He pulls the hoodie over his head and shimmies a little as he drags it down is body; it’s a little tight around the shoulders, but you don’t think it’s tight enough to permanently stretch the fabric.

After it’s on, he tugs the collar up to his nose and inhales deeply.

“What are you doing?” you ask, as if you can’t see perfectly well what he is doing.

“It smells like you,” he answers, shameless, as if that is a perfectly reasonable answer to your question.

“Well, I did wear it, and wash it with my normal detergent and it has been hanging in my closet for a while, so…” your voice trails off.

“And soon it will smell like me too,” he continues, letting the collar fall with a satisfied flick of his fingers.

What even is this conversation? “Can you just be normal? For once?" A look of boredom is all the response you get, so you continue. "Now get out of my bedroom. Come tell me why you’re here in the first place.” You stride past him, making your way into the living room.

He follows you obediently and plops down on the couch, and just like last time, spreads his legs wide. This time, he is able to rest his arms on either side along the back of the couch, effectively occupying the whole damn thing. He sits quietly, looking at you expectantly.

You stand, arms folded, a safe distance away from the couch near the kitchen island.

“Well?” You prompt.

“It’s customary to offer your guest a refreshing beverage upon receiving them in your home. I believe I offered you wine the first time I hosted you in my own home.”

“Hosted?” He can’t be serious. “What a generous euphemism for ‘unlawfully imprisoned,’” you bite out.

“Po-tae-to,” he says serenely, “Po-tah-to.”

“Sylus,” you warn—about what, you’re not sure. He wants a beverage? Okay, perhaps you’ll fling more hot tea at him if he doesn’t start talking.

“Kitten.” He continues gazing at you, clearly in no hurry to move things along.

“If you don’t tell me, right now, why the hell you showed up at my place unannounced, I will report you as a burglar and have you removed by the authorities.”

“But then how will you explain to Xavier why I’ve been arrested wearing his sweater?” he asks, eyes wide, all concern for what your partner’s thoughts on the matter would be, and what they would mean for you.

“Burglars have been known to be creeps and go rooting through their victims’ closets and wearing their clothes! I’ll just say you were wearing it when I got here. Maybe he’ll be worried that it’s him you’re actually interested in harassing,” you snicker, trying to picture Xavier’s reaction.

As you’re speaking, Sylus pulls out his phone and fiddles with it with a bored expression on his face.  

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I boring you? Perhaps you should go find something more interesting to do and leave me in peace,” you grind out after you’ve finished and notice his complete lack of attention.

Your irritation is interrupted by a notification on your phone. Since Sylus is so busy messing with his, you grab yours from where it has been lying on the counter since before Sylus interrupted your peaceful evening staring out into the city. You see that you have a new message from… the man currently oozing across the entirety of your couch, head lolled to the side and watching you with a hint of amusement curving his mouth.

You open the chat, and your eyes widen at the conversation that never fucking happened currently loading into your chat history, with time stamps corresponding to when Sylus showed up at your door.

You: Oh Sylus, my big, handsome partner in crime, I think there’s an intruder in my flat and I’m so scared!

The Sytuation: What makes you think theres an intruder in your home, kitten? Im on my way.

You: There is sugar missing from my pantry! I just bought a new bag yesterday, and it’s gone! Oh please, my dark knight, come protect me from the sugar thief who should buy his own sugar and stop coming to my place to pilfer mine!

The Sytuation: Of course, sweetie. Go wait by the door, Ill be there in 5.

“What. Is. This. Fuckery,” you demand, thrusting your phone in his face.

He shrugs. “You threatened to lie about why I’m here in a bid to get rid of me. Did you not expect me to counter your move to ensure that no one will believe you?” he pauses, and then narrows his eyes. "Did you really save me in your phone as 'The Situation,' with a Y?"

"Punny, right? My phone doubles as my work phone. You really think I'm going to save your real name in my contacts? I might as well just save you as 'Sylus Qin, leader of Onychinus, most wanted criminal in the N109 zone," you grumble. "And trust me, that's the nicest name I could come up with."

"Punny," he repeats derisively, unimpressed.

“And don't derail. What is this nonsense about a sugar thief?” You wave the phone again.

“Your colleague should learn to stock his own pantry if he wants to engage in… what did you call them? Doomed baking experiments?”

“How did you even… why does it look so real?” You gaze down at the texts that look so authentic that if they hadn’t been filled with such bullshit, you’d be doubting your own sanity about whether the conversation had really happened.

“You’re really surprised that faking evidence, alibis and dirt on my opponents is a part of my vast skill set? I’m hurt that you underestimate me so.” He looks at you like he’s disappointed, a little pout pulling down his stupid beautiful mouth.

“For fuck’s sake.” You’re done. The longer you resist, the longer Sylus will be in your flat, driving you up the wall. “Fine. Fine!” You set your phone down again and throw up your hands. “What do you want to drink, Sylus?”

“Two fingers of gin, if you have it. Or brandy. Or vodka.” He thinks for a moment. “I’m not feeling too picky tonight.”

“I don’t keep hard liquor in my house, you alcoholic. I have a half-open bottle of rosé in the fridge. Will that satisfy his lordship?” You turn resignedly to trod your way to your fridge.

“What vineyard and vintage?” he asks, perking up.

You open the fridge and pull out the bottle. You squint at the label. “I dunno. It has a cute fish on the label, so I bought it.”

He looks at you like you just murdered Mephisto, and you begin pouring the pink liquid into another mug. This one says UNT on the side in big block letters, matching the size of the handle so that when you hold it, the handle looks like a matching C. You walk back to where he’s sitting, and you think that maybe your smile looks as smug as Sylus’s usually does when you hand him his drink.

He takes the mug from you, snorts when he reads the side, and then look at its contents dubiously for a moment.

“You taste it first,” he finally says, looking back up at you.

“Worried I poisoned it?” You’re still grinning.

“As you say,” he says, tilting his head.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t demand beverages from people you don’t trust then.”

“I trust you, just not your taste in wine after learning you choose bottles based on the cuteness of the label. Indulge me,” he murmurs. “Prove to me that you’re willing to drink it, and that it’s not just swill you’re trying to get rid of by offering it to me.”

You take the mug from him and lift it to your lips, taking a sip, watching him over the rim as you swallow. His nostrils flair, and he lifts his hand in a gesture for you to return it to him. Instead of giving it back, you take one more big gulp, and his brow furrows. Only after you've slowly swallowed again do you comply, relishing the warmth spreading through your body as you lower the mug for him to take. He brushes your fingers again as he takes it back. He turns the mug, so that his mouth hovers where yours just was. He then closes his eyes and inhales, gently swirling the liquid inside. Eyes still closed, he takes a sip.

After a moment, he sighs. “Thank you. This is actually not bad, for a rosé.”

“You’re such a snob,” you smile down at him, irrationally pleased that he seems so pleased.

“Life is too difficult, and too short, to waste on inferior experiences. I only like tasting the best,” he says, bright red eyes opening and fixing on you.

He looks up at you like you should be able to draw some deeper meaning from his words, but you’re tired, warm from the wine, and despite how much he winds you up you were just moments ago, right now you’re strangely relaxed for the first time in days.

“Tell me why you’re here, Sylus,” you say quietly.

“You told me I could use your place when I needed it,” he says, just as softly. He takes another drink, rolls it around in his mouth. Swallows, his adam’s apple dipping.

“And why did you need it this evening?”

“I had some negotiations regarding a business acquisition that I’m considering in this part of Linkon City, and they were abhorrently boring. By the time they were over, I had a splitting headache, and the sunlight didn’t help. It would have been unsafe to operate a motor vehicle under those conditions, so I thought I’d come and wait for it to pass in my newest ‘safe house,’ he answers gravely, as if getting a headache was a perfectly logical reason to crash your evening and take over your couch. “Wouldn’t want to endanger the innocent citizens of Linkon City with reckless driving, now would we?”

“Aren’t all of your shady business deals done under the cover of darkness? Why were you here at a meeting during the day?”

He’s holding the mug in one hand by his fingertips now, along the rim, slowly swirling it. He crosses one long leg over the other and answers languidly. “You’re assuming that today’s business was ‘shady.’”

“So your business today was legitimate?” You’ve been standing for awhile now, and begin to shift from bare foot to bare foot.

He hums in acknowledgement. “My business interests are as varied as they are successful. You insult me by looking so surprised.”

“Well I would never want to insult you,” you drawl. “So that’s it? You got a headache and decided you’d crash my evening?”

He nods, touching his temple and grimacing. “It’s still pretty bad, to be honest.”

“The daylight bothers you that much?” you ask, genuinely curious. You have always assumed that it was the nature of his occupation and perhaps just a proclivity for being a night owl that explained his nocturnal existence, but now you’re wondering if it’s not something deeper that has him avoiding it as much as possible.

You finally decide to give your tired feet a break and perch on the little corner of couch cushion that has been freed for use by Sylus crossing his legs. “If sunlight bothers you that much, what could possibly be so important to come out in it today?”

“Are you really asking about the details of my business ventures, sweetheart?” he asks in what you suspect is feigned astonishment.

“And if I am?”

“Then I’ll tell you,” he responds easily.

“Then I am.”

“I’m in discussions for acquiring a chain of entertainment venues in Linkon City.” He leans his head on the couch’s backrest and lets it roll to the side to keep looking at you. He catches the look of disgust that is no doubt obvious on your face.

“Entertainment venues,” you say flatly.

“Yes. Is there something wrong with that?”

“What kind of … entertainment venues?” you ask, hating yourself for wanting to know. It’s his business if he wants to buy porn shops, or strip clubs, or brothels—your stomach twists, and you refuse to consider why.

“What kind of ideas are racing through that fascinating brain of yours?” he asks, reaching up and running two of his fingers along your temple, brushing your hair away from your eyes.

“Nothing,” you bite out, turning your face away from his touch. You normally dislike how you have a hard time concealing how you’re feeling, but you particularly hate it right now.

“Mmhmm,” he murmurs. “Then, to answer your question, it’s a chain of arcades.”

Your brain grinds to a halt. Did he just say—

“Arcades?”

He nods, and winces, closing his eyes. You’re starting to believe that his head is actually hurting him, and you feel bad for throwing dishware and hot tea at him and refusing to offer him more than the one drink he asked for.

“Why would you be interested in acquiring an arcade chain?”

“Even for odious crime lords, it’s always wise to have a diversified business portfolio.”

You have called him a lot of things both out loud and in your head, but you’d never call him odious. Odorous, perhaps, when he’s sweating heavily after being riddled with bullets. But you have to suppress the urge to chastise him about talking about himself that way.

“Which chain is it?”

“You probably don’t know it,” he says, as if bored with the question. “It’s not a very large chain, but large enough for my interests.”

“Try me! I love going to the arcade when I have some free time. I mean, you’ve seen my plushie collection now that you invited yourself into my house,” you bounce a little on the couch.

“You invited me, kitten. You’ve had a choice, each and every time.”

“Don’t deflect! Answer the question!” You’re quite excited about this. Maybe if it’s a place you know, that has a location nearby, he’ll give you a discount if he ends up buying them? Like an employee discount or something. Is that ethical? You should check the Association’s employee handbook for conflicts of interest.

He squints, as if preparing to evaluate your reaction, and names your favorite place to play the claw machine.

“For real? You’re really going to buy them?”

“I still have to review the contract that was proposed during today’s discussions with my legal counsel, but if negotiations are successful, then yes,” he says, casually examining his nails.

Your excitement is hard to contain, but you suddenly have a troubling thought. “You’re not going to change anything, right? Like, that place is perfect as it is, and the employees are all really friendly and helpful and clearly work hard to keep it really nice,” you rush out, worried that he’s planning to reduce the staff  or try to jack up the prices for a larger profit margin.

He turns to look at you again, and doesn’t answer for long enough that you’re really starting to worry. But then he says softly, “No, I’m not going to change a thing.”

“Oh? So they’re doing well? It’s a solid financial investment?” You’re so relieved, safe in the knowledge that your plushies will continue to be accessible, insofar as claw machines by design allow them to be.

Sylus laughs softly. “Yes, the financials all look good. Considering your interest in the nature of binding agreements, would you like to look over the purchase agreement with me? I have it with me.”

“I’d actually really like to, but I’m starting to get really tired,” you yawn, the relief you were just feeling—the relief of knowing that Sylus wasn’t up to anything that would leave a blood trail today, relief that he didn’t come tonight to try to force you to resonate or finally kill you for refusing to do so, and most importantly, relief that he wasn’t going to acquire and ruin one of the little pleasures in your life—all of it is now drowned out by a heavy feeling of pleasant drowsiness.

“Then I’ll read it to you, until you fall asleep.”

“Huh? You want to stay?”

“Yes,” he says, hauling himself to his feet and offering you his hand. You take it in confusion, and he lifts you to your feet as well. He sets the now empty mug on your coffee table, and then places his hands on your shoulders, gently guiding you from behind to your bedroom.

“Why?” you ask, not even thinking to object.

“Headache, remember?” He pushes you gently by your shoulders so that you’re sitting on your bed.

“How can you review legalese when you’re suffering from a headache?” You sink into the softness of the mattress.

“Why don’t you let me worry about that?” he says, nudging you until you’ve scooted to the middle of the bed. “Don’t move. I’m going to get my tablet out of my briefcase.” He disappears through the doorway, and you’re left sitting on your bed, surrounded by all of your plushies, and you have no idea what’s happening. You’re just too tired to argue with him. You really did miscalculate by spending all of your energy trying to get rid of him when he first arrived.

But just because you’re bone-tired, doesn’t mean you’re going to let him boss you around. You get off the bed and pad into the kitchen, passing him as he snaps his briefcase shut, tablet in hand.

“I distinctly recall telling you not to move,” he gripes, pushing up an elegant set of gold framed glasses perched on the uneven bridge of his nose with a middle finger. Huh, you didn’t know he needed glasses to read. He looks almost … cute wearing them, a little less feral. Like a leopard wearing a monocle.

Suppressing the thought of Sylus and cute in the same sentence, you ignore him, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water. Then you rummage through your most chaotic kitchen drawer for a few moments, before triumphantly pulling out what you were looking for.

You pad back over to where he’s still watching you, and offer him the glass and the half-used blister pack of over-the-counter painkillers you fished out of your chaos drawer. “Here.”

He looks down at your hands, offering him what you hope is some relief from his headache. His face is impassive, and you’re worried he assumes you’re trying to poison him again. But then he tucks the tablet under one arm, and reaches out with both hands to grasp the glass and the pill pack—except he doesn’t take them from your hands. He envelops yours with his, and pulls you gently closer to him. He somehow manages to pop two tablets out of the pack with his thumb, and they drop into your curved palm. Still holding your hand, he leans down to sweep them from your skin with his tongue. In a complete daze, you watch him lift the glass that you’re still holding to his lips, and he takes a long pull of water, washing the pills down, all the while holding your gaze with his. When he’s done, he slowly lowers your hands again.

“Thank you,” he murmurs “For the benevolence of your heart.” He says it gravely, as if you’ve just saved his life instead of giving him some headache medicine.

“You’re welcome,” you whisper, feeling like you’ve been struck by a truck after… whatever that was, feeling the warmth of his tongue in the palm of your hand like he was still licking it. Sylus then turns and heads back to your bedroom.

You set the glass and the now-empty pill pack on the kitchen island, thinking you’ll clean up tomorrow if you manage to sleep tonight, and follow him.

In the bedroom, Sylus sits, leaning back against your headboard, having needed to gently scoop some plushies out of the way to make room. He stretches his legs out in front of him with a sigh. He looks so soft, wrapped in the white hoodie, silver hair rumpled, surrounded by pillows and cute little plushies.

It’s getting increasingly difficult to remember that the man currently sinking into your duvet and wiggling his sock-covered toes in contentment is the same man who straight up exploded the man who dared kidnap you, and then proceeded to kidnap you himself after choking you to the point of passing out. You try to hold both of these truths about him in your mind at the same time, but the image of Sylus dancing you gently through a press of bodies, of the way he caresses your fingers at every opportunity, the soft slide of his tongue along your palm—these images are conquering every other version of him that you know to be true in your mind. You wonder briefly if this is part of some larger scheme of his, and what his endgame could possibly be. But right now, you’re too fucking tired to care.

“What is even happening,” you ask. You’re exhausted, but you still have enough mental reserves to question how you got here, in this situation, with this man migrating from vanquishing your couch to a large part of your bed. “Is the coffee table, or kitchen table insufficient for your needs? Why are you going to review the paperwork here, on my bed?”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice how quickly you fell asleep on my back on the motorcycle the other night, sweetheart. I’m just reading you a bedtime story featuring limitations of liability and allocation of risk so that you can finally get some sleep again.” He pats his thigh. “Here.”

You just stare at him. “Don’t make me repeat myself,” he warns, tapping his thigh again with one long finger. Just for that, you glare mutinously at him and fold your arms over your chest.

He sighs again, this time in exasperation, and leans over, firmly lifting you and setting you down so that your head is pillowed against his meaty thigh. He begins to run his fingertips gently up and down the middle of your back. He returns his attention to his tablet. “Now listen carefully,” he commands, before flicking the screen with his thumb and beginning to read in his softly in his deep, rich voice.

But of course you don't. You fall asleep as the skyscrapers light up like a dragon's hoard of jewels in the night sky outside your window, to the sounds of Sylus’s quiet recitation of indeed, a terribly boring contract, and the whisper of his fingers along your skin.

When you wake up, there is another black feather on your pillow, and you are alone. You yawn, once again feeling unbelievably rested despite the chaos Sylus always brings to your door and into your life. You stretch leisurely, spreading your arms wide and turning your head on the pillow, when something catches in your earlobe. You reach up and run your fingers along a stud earring that was not there when you fell asleep. You feel your other earlobe, but it's empty. You grab your phone from the nightstand, knocking over a semiautomatic hand pistol with scarlet flames engraved along the grip that you also don't remember owning onto the floor. You stare at it briefly, ready to commit murder if you check it and find that the safety isn't on. But first things first: you put the phone camera in selfie mode and lift it to your face, but quickly lower it again after confirming that it is indeed a ruby stud in your ear, sparkling cheekily in the morning sunlight.

Later, you're relieved to find that Sylus did actually leave the safety on on your new little ... toy, and you'll find that the mugs have been washed and set neatly away, the empty pack of painkillers placed in the recycling bin. You also see that various takeout containers and other debris that had piled up on a lot of surfaces in your place are also gone, and the countertops are clean, the coffee and kitchen table gleam in the early morning sunlight. You don't notice that the white hoodie is nowhere to be found, until you meet up with Xavier later in the day. He's wearing one that looks exactly like it.

"Thanks for returning the hoodie," he yawns. "But you really didn't have to."

You pause, feeling a thread of panic start to wind its way through your stomach. You decide to just... go with it. "Oh? You found it okay?"

"Yeah, but why did you just leave it hanging from my door handle? You could have rung and come in. I had a new limited edition bag of those cookies you were looking at in the corner store last week. I would have shared some with you... but now I've eaten them all," he admits sheepishly, big blue eyes shimmering with guilt.

You try to think fast. Did Sylus give back the hoodie without washing it? What the fuck was he thinking? He could have been seen! Does this flat have surveillance footage? Does Xavier suspect anything? You realize that you still haven't answered Xavier's question as your panic spirals. "Oh, you know, didn't want to wake you up," you flap your hands, as if you can flap this entire situation right out of your messy life.

"Well, I don't know what you did to it, but it feels brand new. As if it's never even been washed. And you somehow got out the bbq sauce stain that no matter how much I sprayed it with that stain remover stuff would never come out. So you're going to have to teach me some of that laundry magic," he says contentedly, snuggling further into the entirely new hoodie that you now realize Sylus must have somehow, over the course of the night, had hand-delivered to Xavier's place. "Uh huh," you say absently, pulling out your phone to furiously text Mr. Asshat when you see that he has also changed his name in your contact list.

You: What the hell did you do with Xavier's hoodie?"

My Sy: It doesnt matter who it belonged to before me. All that matters is that its mine now.

You: It doesn't even fit you properly! You're too big for it!

My Sy: Nothing a little size training cant fix.

Your jaw drops. He cannot be implying what you think he's implying. This is your filthy mind at work. You decide that you will simply pretend this conversation never happened. Absolutely nothing good can come from trying to figure out what the fuck is going through Sylus's head at any given moment.

You: And 'My Sy?' Really?

My Sy: Its not punny, but it rhymes. And its accurate. Gotta put the phone down for a bit, kitten. Business requires my attention. Ill be seeing you soon.

You stare at his last message for long enough that Xavier asks if you're okay. You're not. You're not okay. You couldn't even bring yourself to ask him about the other earring, or the gun. You just slowly slip your phone back into your cargo pants pocket and try very hard to stop thinking, for the rest of the day.

[3rdgymbros]

━ 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐀𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧.

— pairing; vil schoenheit x ramshackle! reader

— summary; vil's signature spell is hot, and you end up telling him that

— notes; this is. very self indulgent. I CANNOT HELP IT IF I FIND HIS SIGNATURE SPELL HOT, DO NOT JUDGE ME. also please donate to my kofi if you like my work. and know that i am mentally smooching everyone who reblogs my stuff.

❋ The first time Vil tells you about his signature spell, it’s in an almost offhand manner, like he’s listing his numerous accomplishments or talking about the weather. He’s used to people responding with awe — or fear — because of how powerful and dangerous the spell is, and surely your reaction will be something similar.

❋ “That’s hot.”

❋ Did you just say that out loud?

❋ Yup.

❋ You should technically know better, it’s just . . . The idea of him wielding that much control and imposing his will with just a touch is . . . Well, insanely attractive.

❋ There goes your first brain cell.

❋ Vil blinks, momentarily caught off guard by your reaction. He’s used to seeing admiration, yes, but he certainly didn’t expect this. The way you bite your lip, how your eyes sparkle with fascination, seemingly unfazed. A hint of pink dusts his cheeks as he processes your reaction — after all, it isn’t every day that someone looks at him with such pure, unabashed admiration. And because of the dark side of his magic, no less.

❋ “Would you like a demonstration, darling?” He asks in that velvety tone of his, leaning closer, his eyes locking onto yours. His fingers reach out to brush against your cheek, and he murmurs, “Just one touch and I would have you begging for mercy.”

❋ And there goes your last braincell.

❋ The look on your face at this very moment must be a good one; Vil’s shifting closer, and his hands are lingering on your face — not cursing you, just cupping the curve of your cheek, and drinking in your ardent attention.

❋ He’s looking at you as though he wants to kiss you, and well, you aren’t about to stop him anytime soon if he does.

❋ Normally, Vil isn’t one for indulging in impulsive decisions, but it’s the way you’re looking up at him — much too unguarded, much too trusting, almost as though you want to be stained with his darkness — breaks through the veneer of his carefully crafted restraint.

❋ Your breath catches in your throat, and all your focus is solely on Vil: the intense heat in his gaze, the warmth of his hands, and the intoxicating sense of danger that somehow makes him even more irresistible.

❋ His lips mould against yours with the kind of effortless elegance only Vil can manage. There’s a subtle possessiveness in the kiss, like he wants to mark you. Not with a curse, but something darker, sweeter, a taste that lingers on your lips like a delicate poison.

[reidrum]

castling | s.r.

A/N: another deeply self indulgent hurt comfort angst who’s surprised…i wrote this kinda fast so if it’s messy and cheesy sorry :/

cw: gn!reader (pls lmk if i missed something that doesn’t make it gn), hurt comfort, mentions of depression, ambiguous sadness, trivialization of chess, inaccurate chess jargon?, spencer is a darling

summary: in which reader finds it hard to open up and communicate their feelings with spencer, so he comes up with an idea to help

wc: 1.4k

not proofread sry

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! <3

_______________________________________________

It started during a game of chess, when Spencer was showing you different special moves.

“It’s called castling, the idea is that you move the king two spaces towards the rook and then switch their places to allow more protection for your king than if it was in the center.”

“Why would you want to move the king towards the outside, that seems counterintuitive.”

“Smart girl, that’s a good question,” he says fondly, “It’s kind of a last ditch effort in a sense, the rook is essentially expendable but the castling moves the king out of the line from key pieces like the other king and queen.”

“So, it’s like a rescue mission.”

He smiles, “Like a rescue mission.”

You smile back and continue with your next move. Spencer watches you in earnest as you deliberate the best plan of attack, even though he knows he’s gonna let you win by the end anyway.

“How was your day today?” He watches your demeanor change quickly, your shoulders sagging slightly and your eyebrows furrowing. He knew the answer, he’s a great observant and even more so when it comes to you.

“It was…fine.”

“Just fine?” he challenges, moving his bishop.

You nod and move your knight. You’re waiting for him to move his next piece when you realize he’s not looking at the board anymore.

Looking up you see hazel eyes staring right back at you, “Sweetheart,”

“Spencer, don’t.”

He sighs, “You know,” he moves his pawn, “this isn't the first time that you’ve had a hard time communicating with me how you feel.”

A deep sigh leaves you now, it had always been a struggle for you to show emotion so openly to those you love, mainly Spencer. You just didn’t want to worry him with the throes of your mind, and while Spencer appreciated the sentiment he reminded you repeatedly that he’s there for you through it all and just really wants you to take advantage of that.

“I just want to help you, angel.” he says softly, “I can’t do that if you don’t let me in. You don’t even have to tell me what’s wrong, just that something is wrong.”

Tears well up in your eyes, “I know Spence. I—It’s just, saying out loud that I’m—whatever—makes it real. A—And then you get so worried and I get more anxious—“

“Hey. It’s my job to worry about you. Because I love you,” he places his hands on yours, “But, I was thinking what if we had a code word or something, just a single word, and you can say it or text me or anything and I’ll know that you’re not feeling well.”

Your face softens at his proposal. The irony you face is that your brain has convinced you healing can be done alone, that if you’re the one who fucked up the road you should be the one to repair it. While you know logically healing is more effective when you have support, it doesn’t make it any easier for you to accept the help you need, that Spencer feels you deserve.

“I think…that’s a good idea.”

“Yeah?” he replies, “Do you want to pick the word?”

You think about it for a few minutes. You don’t want to do a silly word like banana or chicken, you want something that maybe doesn’t sound serious but would still convey the intent of the code word.

“Does castling work?” you offer softly.

Spencer’s face morphs into something you can’t quite decipher, but to him it’s a mix of adoration, love, and pure empathy for you. He’s just so touched by the fact you want to use that word, after just discussing the significance of that move. It’s an honor that you trust him enough to be your protecting rook.

“Yeah, that’s perfect angel.”

You give a small nod, “Check.”

___

You knew he wouldn’t judge you, that’s the whole reason you came up with this system. It felt like an emergency contact, which it was, but in a “How bad is too bad before I call?” type of way.

Laid down in your bed, you stared at the glow of your phone with your messages with Spencer open. Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard, daring you to make a move.

Nothing even really happened today, it was just one of those periods where you were in a funk. The voices that lingered in your brain fed you disguised truths and cynicism, and it was hard to feel afloat with support when you couldn’t even tell what was pulling you down.

It didn’t matter though, your tear stained cheeks and puffy red eyes amongst the disarray of your room which satirically matched the chaos in your mind were proof enough that maybe, you weren’t okay.

In this moment it would be stupidly easy to ignore it all and wallow in your own sorrow—Spencer was away on a case and you didn’t know when he was coming back.

So in a leap of faith, or perhaps a lapse in judgment, your thumbs twiddle a message out and press send.

castling

You toss your phone aside and try to avoid thinking about it. He’s probably busy, they’re on a case so he’s probably drawing out the geographical maps or maybe he’s on a raid or maybe he’s—DING.

Cautiously grabbing your phone, you slide the notification.

I’m on the plane, going to land in about an hour or so. I need to make one stop and then I’ll come straight to you, okay?

You stare through the blurriness of your eyes caused by your tears, the words blending together. Before the guilt of texting him and making him aware of your depressed state sinks in, another text comes through.

I love you. See you soon, angel.

Another choked sob releases from your throat, and you put the phone down before any more emotions try to infiltrate you. At some point you end up falling asleep on the bed, your body curled in on itself from the lack of warmth a nice blanket or Spencer could’ve provided.

You’re only stirred awake when you feel a soothing sensation on your head, long nimble yet intentional fingers sifting through your hair. You attempt to open your eyes through the thin crust it’s formed from crying so much, and you’re squinting for the first few moments of vision before registering the human in front of you.

“Hi honey.” Spencer whispers softly as you come to.

“Spence…when did you…”

“Just a couple minutes ago,” the hand in your hair comes to rest on your jaw, “How are you feeling?”

Tired eyes finally meet his brown ones and find nothing but reassurance and concern.

Oh. You’ve worried him now.

The last string of resolve snaps as your face crumbles in and you mutter out apologies mixed in with sniffles and sobs. Spencer moves from his knelt position in front of you to slide in next to you on the bed. He gingerly gathers you in his arms and tucks you into his side whispering it’s okay and you’re safe and i’m here.

After a few long minutes your breathing evens out. “You came.” you sniffled.

He pulls back to look at you with watered eyes, “You called. I’m so proud of you.”

You mumble under your breath, “I didn’t even do anything.”

Spencer shakes his head and tucks you right back in place, feeling the floppy fringe of his hair tickling your forehead, “I know a version of you that would’ve held it all in by yourself. Thank you for letting me be here for you.”

You turn your head into his chest further, letting the hot tears and snot stain his nice button up. His hands rub trails up and down your back, his head bent down to your ear whispering sweet nothings to you. With Spencer delicately taking your defenses down maybe you can finally admit to yourself that you were just too soft for all of it.

“Where did you have to stop by?” you wonder.

He smiles and readjusts you against his body, “I picked up Thai food,” “And some candy, sour of course. And there may be a Snoopy stuffie as well because it reminded me of you.”

You feel a different weight on your heart, not one that’s constricting but one that’s embracing, comforting. In a life where you’ve rarely felt taken care of, or even being worthy of that care, you know with certainty that Spencer would never let you go a day without knowing how much love and care you deserve.

[sleepyparalysisdmon]

SVT when you can't sleep

Requested? No!

Genre: Comfort

A/N: This is entirely self-indulgent because I woke up at 3:45am and couldn’t go back to sleep. For this reason, please forgive any typos or mistakes.

Seungcheol

Deeply disturbed when he finds that you are not next to him in bed. Gives it a few minutes, thinking you might have just gotten up to go to the bathroom or get some water, but when the time ticks by, he gets up to find you on the couch, watching TV. “Baby, what are you doing up?” He’ll ask concerned, glancing at the clock. When you say you woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep, he’s plopping onto the couch with you, making you curl into him. You feel bad because he needs his sleep, but he’ll brush you off, saying he’ll stay up with you any night. You do eventually doze off in his warmth while reruns of some sitcom play on the TV and he’ll carefully carry you back to bed.

Jeonghan

He feels you tossing and turning for what feels like hours. He’s tired and maybe even a little bit irritable when he touches your back, asking why you’re still up. He immediately feels bad for his irritability when you say you’re sorry, but that you had a nightmare and couldn’t go back to sleep. He’s tugging you into his side, patting your head in a ‘there, there’ sort of motion, asking you to tell him all about it. It becomes clear that you’re not going back to sleep anytime soon, but that’s okay, because he’ll just lie there next to you and talk, no matter how drowsy he is. 

Joshua

Seems to have a sixth sense about when you get out of bed. You’ve barely got your slippers on before he’s asking where you’re going. When you say you just can’t sleep, he looks at the time, which is somewhere around 4am. He shrugs, getting out of bed as well, despite your insistence that he needs his sleep. He starts the coffee pot and gets a skillet out to make breakfast and you’re resigned to the fact that you both are now up for the day. He doesn’t have any complaints, not even when you both are dozing on the couch by 2pm. 

Jun

When he realizes that you never actually got to sleep and are just laying in bed scrolling at nearly 1am, Jun simply takes the phone out of your hands and puts it back on the charger. “Play a game with me. Eye spy with my little eye…” You have to laugh because, well, it’s totally dark in the room now. But you play along because everything in your bedroom is familiar to you, even in the dark. You’re kind of touched at how aware of the little things in your room he is, even if he doesn’t live here (yet). Like he knows that you left a blue sweatshirt on the back of your vanity chair, or that there is little green detailing on your jewelry box. You doze off by about the tenth round and Jun keeps quiet after that. 

Hoshi

He comes home late from practice and finds that you’re still awake, tossing and turning, and he’s concerned. When you say you just haven’t been able to settle down, he thinks for a split second and says, “Well, I was about to shower. Come with me, maybe the warmth will help.” There’s absolutely nothing suggestive about the idea. He even washes your hair for you, letting you relax as he scratches your scalp for way longer than was probably necessary. You’re out like a light as soon as your head hits the pillow. Now showering before bed, especially with him, is a regular occurrence to wind down. 

Wonwoo

When he rolls over in the middle of the night to find that your beside lamp is still on and you’re still reading, he glances at the clock and then raises an eyebrow. “Must be a good book,” he mumbles. When you hum and tell him that it’s actually not, but you just can’t sleep, he’s sitting up next to you, leaning against the headboard. “Just how bad could it be?” He doesn’t acknowledge the ‘can’t sleep’ comment out loud, plucking the book from you and reading to you. He has to admit, the book does kind of suck, but he’s relieved to see that you’ve dozed off to the sound of his voice within a couple chapters. 

Woozi

He knows your sleeping habits and also notices some of the things that don’t help it. But he’s hesitant to correct you, so he tries correcting these bad habits by correcting them in himself. Say you’re hanging out late with him while he works. The first thing he’ll do is turn down the caffeine at a certain point, saying he wants to actually get some sleep tonight. The second thing is that he’ll subtly rush to wrap things up quickly for the night so both of you can get home at a decent time. This technique won’t work every night because sometimes you don’t follow his lead or it’ll just be an exceptionally late night for him, but both of you tend to get better sleep when you keep a routine and cut the caffeine. 

DK

Didn’t you see this coming? The moment you say you can’t sleep, he’s serenading you. Sometimes it’s sweet and soft with the intent of soothing you, and sometimes it’s goofy and animated with the intent on making you lighten up when you’re particularly frustrated by your bad sleeping habits. Sometimes you scold him to rest his voice, but he Will. Not. Be. Stopped. He’ll sing entire albums for you until you’re sleepy again, so don’t test him. 

Mingyu

Prepare to be cocooned the moment you say you can’t sleep. He’s so sweet and he also doesn’t work out for no reason. He’ll literally wrap you in the blanket and hold you tight against his chest, talking sweetly about what might be bothering you. Even if nothing in particular is bothering you and you just can’t sleep, that’s fine too. He’ll stroke your hair and keep you warm until you’re ready to sleep. 

Minghao

He absolutely thinks it’s stress. He notices the pattern - when you have a lot going on a work or in your family life, you’re extremely restless. Like Woozi, he might make it seem like it’s for him when he says he wants to try out a new bedtime routine. He likes meditating and decides to do it before bed, asking you to join. Then, when you both are done, he pushes you towards the bedroom, following you with two cups of tea. It doesn’t work right away, but the longer he keeps up this little routine with you, the more he notices that your shoulders are more relaxed and you fall asleep faster. 

Seungkwan

One night, you’re exceptionally restless and he asks what’s wrong. You complain that the street lights coming through the windows and all the city noise have been bothering you lately. He lets you be for the night - if you want to toss and turn for a while, if you want to get up, if you want to cuddle, whatever is fine with him. But the next night before bed, he hands you two small boxes, one with a brand new sleep mask and one with small noise cancelling earbuds, encouraging you to try them out. These two things will constantly be replaced and upgraded as needed as long as they seem to help.

Vernon

Might be a little dead to the world when he sleeps, but if you happen to nudge him in the middle of the night saying that you can’t sleep and you seem upset by it, he’s automatically offering to take a walk, no matter how groggy he is. Throws on some clothes and splashes his face with cold water in the bathroom so he can get with the program for you. Walks for hours if you need it - talking or in total silence, headphones or no headphones, holding hands or no physical contact at all. Absolutely does not matter to him. He’ll get back to sleep when you do. 

Chan

Another one that makes it seem like it’s for him. He’s noticed your sleeping habits and how run down you seem by it, but doesn’t address it directly. Instead, he says he read an article that described how bad blue light was for sleep and he thinks he wants to try an electronic cleanse a couple hours before bed to see if it helps him. “Are you okay with that?” He’ll ask hopefully. Of course you agree, because it’s for him! He’ll resist the urge to giggle to himself when you pass out almost immediately when your head hits the pillow on the first night of this so-called electronic cleanse. He did not expect it his little plan to be successful so quickly. 

[nyoomerr]

A drabble about Bingge realizing his children’s beloved Head Imperial Tutor has the same soul as the ‘nice Shizun’ from that other world he once visited could be fun.

“Local man must compete with his own children for the attention of their very cute teacher!”

ahhh i love scenarios like this!! pitting bingge against his own kids is always so fun lol, hope you enjoy!

---

When Luo Binghe manages to find him, he isn’t even looking properly. He’s still spending his free time trying to find a way back into that weird mirror dimension, not scouring his world for anyone. After all, why would he look here? He already knows exactly where the Shen Qingqiu of his own world is; every bloody, rotten part of that body and soul is accounted for. Luo Binghe wants the other Shen Qingqiu, the one he’d gotten only a taste of, the one that had been so unfairly given to his doppelganger.

Perhaps, Luo Binghe thinks, watching through the doorway into the classroom his younger children use for self-study, he should have bothered to spend a bit more time looking at home before trying to force himself back into the mirror world.

“Ah, what are these tears?” One of the tutors is asking, tutting as if in disapproval even as he so gently wipes the face of one of Luo Binghe’s children. “You’re getting much better with your arithmetic, there’s no need to cry over a mistake now.”

The child hiccups, her little hands coming up to pull on the tutor’s robes, clearly trying to worm her way into his lap so she can wipe her face on his shoulder instead of on the perfectly fine handkerchief the tutor is trying to use.

Luo Binghe doesn’t even know which daughter of his that is. He doesn’t know who this tutor is, either, and yet -

The tutor raises his free hand up to pat soothingly at the child’s hair. He doesn’t try to unhook her hands from his robes, or stop her from shoving herself persistently closer to his person; he only pets her hair and wipes her face and tuts at her.

And yet somehow, Luo Binghe thinks, I’m sure that’s him.

It doesn’t make a great deal of sense to find this soul in a body unrelated to Shen Qingqiu, but at the same time it makes a whole world of sense to think of this kind teacher as someone entirely different from the cruel master Luo Binghe had grown up under.

Luo Binghe steps into the room properly, releasing the hold he’d been keeping on his qi to keep it held close to his body. The tutor looks up at the doorway, and frustratingly, the look of indulgence he’d been wearing just moments ago closes up. He stands and bows in unison with the other tutors in the room, and Luo Binghe flicks his hand dismissively so they know to ignore him and return to his duties.

The tutor - the kind Shizun’s soul - stands from his bow but does not immediately return to helping the girl he’d been working with. He only watches Luo Binghe a bit warily, clearly aware of Luo Binghe’s rapt attention on him, and continues to absently pat the hair of Luo Binghe’s daughter. The girl herself doesn’t seem to mind, as she’s managed to get close enough to the tutor to shove her face in his stomach and nuzzle in there, perfectly content and no longer crying. 

Well, no matter; if this man is already aware of Luo Binghe’s attention, no need to hide it further. Luo Binghe approaches without hesitation. 

“And what tutor has brought this Lord’s child to tears?” Luo Binghe asks after having reached the table that this tutor and child had been working at. He knows perfectly well that this man was not the cause of his daughter’s tears; he wants to know how he’ll respond anyway.

“This lowly one is Shen Yuan, my Lord,” Shen Yuan dutifully replies, and though he bows deeply he does not raise his hands from Luo Binghe’s daughter. “My most sincere apologies; I will accept punishment.”

Luo Binghe hums, satisfied. Good, he thinks, he’s already loyal to me. Very good.

Before he can say anything else, though, the girl buried in Shen Yuan’s robes shouts, “No!”

When Shen Yuan stands again, Luo Binghe can see his daughter peeking out, her face half turned away from Shen Yuan to glare up at Luo Binghe. 

“No?” Luo Binghe asks.

“No!” She shouts again. Her demonic huadian flares, and Luo Binghe raises his brows - this girl really dares issue such a threat to her father, knowing who her father is?

Shen Yuan, seeming to catch the very same thing, quickly moves the hand that had been in her hair to cover up her demonic huadian. This does not stop the girl herself from talking.

“If you try to punish Shen-ge, I’ll stab you!”

“Ah, wait -” Shen Yuan protests, pressing the girl further into him as if that will hide her away. He glances nervously at Luo Binghe, expression a bit pinched, and then -

“Who’s threatening Shen-ge?!” Comes a cry from across the room.

“Someone’s threatening Shen-ge?!”

“Lord Luo is threatening Shen-ge!!”

Suddenly, it seems like half the children in the room are gathered up in Shen Yuan’s robes, clinging to him and glaring at Luo Binghe as Shen Yuan frantically tries to soothe them with head pats and hushed whispers of Ah, don’t yell at him, anyone else is okay, but don’t yell at him!

Luo Binghe watches, amused and irritated and hungry all at once. Clearly, this Shen Yuan is already a treasure of his palace, and he hadn’t even known it - his own children have found this man before he himself did. 

Well, Luo Binghe thinks, watching Shen Yuan fluster more and more the longer Luo Binghe stays quietly watching the commotion, they may have him first, but I will be sure to have him last.

[withleeknow]

happy place.

pairing: minho x reader genre/warnings: established relationship, fluff; unedited, just me being self-indulgent and word vomitting again word count: 0.8k listen to 🎧: you are in love - taylor swift

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation / masterlist / ko-fi

one of your favorite things that minho does is when he drops everything just to hug you. unprompted, out of nowhere.

you like to call these sporadic moments your silent hug time.

it started not too long ago, maybe a few months back, on a random sunday afternoon while you were all snuggled up with soonie on the couch and lazily flipping through the pages of the book you were reading. it had been gloomy and miserable all day; you and minho were supposed to drive to the beach and soak up the last rays of summer sun before fall announced its arrival.

the weather had other plans though. no more beach day, that was for sure.

your boyfriend quietly walked into the room, not saying a word as he grabbed the novel in your hands, slid your bookmark into place and unceremoniously dropped the book onto the carpeted floor. soonie was promptly handled - much more gently - and placed somewhere next to the couch, which earned minho a controlled hiss before the cat just wandered elsewhere in the house seeing that your cuddle session was so rudely interrupted.

you’d learned not to question why minho did the things he did or how that peculiar brain of his worked, so you just quietly watched him with a puzzled look on your face, curious to see what he would do next.

you didn’t know what you expected, but to have him quite literally flop onto your body, pinning you underneath him as he rested his head on your chest, was definitely not something you had in mind.

“you good?” you asked, threading your fingers through his hair to play with the soft floofy mess, holding him close to your heart.

minho just hummed in response as he hugged you tightly. he didn’t sound upset or anything; there was nothing for you to worry about.

he then stayed in the same position for roughly fifteen minutes before pushing himself off of you. “recharged. thanks,” he announced curtly, pressing an appreciative kiss to your lips and leaving the room without an explanation.

that’s kind of how it became a thing. minho would randomly surprise you with silent hug time every now and then, always without warning and reasoning. you suppose that he does it whenever he wants a little boost of energy and affection, whenever he feels down and needs a little pick-me-up, or simply whenever he just wants to be close to you for a while before returning to his day. to “recharge,” as he would call it. it doesn’t even matter what you're doing when he wants it; any time can be silent hug time.

you’re making dinner? not anymore. minho already has the stove turned off before holding you hostage between his body and the kitchen counter, his arms around you keeping you flush against him.

you just got back from grocery shopping and the ice cream needs to be put in the freezer? nope, minho doesn’t give a shit about that. your two tote bags full of produce and snacks can stay on the floor for all he cares. all that matters to him the second you walked through the front door is bombarding you with a bear hug and flooding his senses with the scent of your shampoo and the perfume he loves most on you.

you’re both running late to changbin’s housewarming party? too bad. what minho wants, minho gets and minho gets right now. you can only sigh in defeat as his hands slide around your waist to pull you to him, his face finding refuge in the crook of your neck where he gives you a quick kiss there. you wrap your arms around his neck, turning occasionally to press your lips against his temple. changbin will definitely be fussy about your tardiness, but if you’re being totally honest, he’s lucky that you’re able to drag minho there at all.

in all fairness, it’s cute. it’s wonderfully endearing and such a minho thing to do. in true minho fashion, he would rather manhandle you and let your ice cream melt than tell you that he wants a hug, because god knows that minho would never willingly admit it on his own.

nevertheless, even if you you might not be able to hear him ask a simple question like “can i get a hug?” in this lifetime, you still have the privilege of being the one he goes to when he needs peace and comfort, and his actions speak more than his words ever could.

minho thinks of you first because he associates you with nothing but goodness. because you’re his happy place. you’re the calm amidst every storm, the safe harbor he can always return to when he needs shelter. every pretty color he sees and every beautiful adjective in his vocabulary? that’s all you.

to minho, you aren’t even synonymous with love. you are love.

permanent taglist: @onlyycb97wife @starsandrqindrops @borahae-reads @abbiestearsricochet @cutiespaghetti @anthropologykpopmultistan @moonlinos @mjnhoz @caitlyn98s @piercidh34rts  @stayceebs97 @linocz @yaorzu-blog @biribarabiribbaem @kayleefriedchicken @extrhotjne @caitxx1 @palindrome969 @todorokiskitten @azuna-sz @meanergreener @nxzz1skz @jazziwritesthings @poutypoutybin (italicized = can’t tag)

all rights reserved © withleeknow. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 09.02.2024]

[sahisan]

Can I request Scaramouche giving his AFAB partner head for the first time. But reader has always been insecure about the idea of it after a bad experience with an ex... 👉🏻👈🏻

Any AU is fine! This is super self indulgent so if do you this I appreciate you

- Someone from the Shrine discord 🫶🏻🫶🏻

★ summary: scaramouche x fem!reader. him giving you head for the first time and providing you with all the reassurance.

☆ cw: nsfw. oral (f receiving). use of 'good girl'. scara being nice. idk what to add more, the req says it all. i also hope i portrayed the idea of your req well🙌🏻. 1.144 words.

"do you still-"

"yes." scaramouche interrupts you, looking up at your blushing and hesitant face. you look at his head in between your thighs. gosh, he really does look like he literally belongs there, you think, gulping when you do.

but, nevertheless, all kinds of thoughts start forming in your head. what if he won't like it? what if you look bad down there? what if it-

"scara, are you really sure-"

"i am, [name]. i know that tone, stop overthinking." scaramouche sighs when he realizes what exactly you're thinking about. "you look gorgeous. stunning. jaw-dropping. breathtaking. do you see what i'm trying to get at?" he smiles at you, seeing how his words make you blush. he'll repeat that over and over for you if that means seeing you like this again - hand hovering over your cheeks and looking away.

"stop thinking about everything bad. i assure you it'll be fine." he says, and you give him a look while biting your lower lip. you catch yourself that you're thinking again, and you exhale deeply. "and i surely won't be disgusted. if i offered you this - it already means i'm not in any way disgusted."

"do you trust me?" he asks softly, his thumb tracing soothing circles on the milky skin of your hips, occasionally finding its way under the waistband of your lacy panties. god, he can't help but get hard while looking at them - he'd eat you out anyway, but with these undergarments he just needs to do it. and he surely needs to ask you to wear them more often...

"i.. do." you stammer quietly, and from his position below he sees just how your chest rises and falls, even hears your heartbeat thumping loudly in your rib cage. "i do." you repeat, this time sounding like you mean it - and you do.

"good." scaramouche whispers and lets his face get closer to your - yet - closed core. his eyes roam around your curves, and his hands spread your thighs a bit more. he looks at the lacy panties again, and his eyes' pupils basically dilate in hearts.

"mmm, wearing these just for me? i'm honored." he chuckles, and licks his lips. your heart nearly jumps out of your chest at this small gesture, and you feel yourself getting wetter by each passing second. "so sad i'll have to take them off tonight."

you missed the moment when he already discarded your underwear, making a lick along your folds, and you swear the sensation basically has you almost moaning out loud, before you bite your lip and breathe out slowly.

scaramouche, upon sensing your reactions, reluctantly, but withdraws his mouth from your cunt, smirking and taking your hand, guiding it to hold his indigo locks. you look down at him in confusion.

"i know how not vocal you are," he starts, eyes gazing up at you, full of understanding and love. "so just pull my hair whenever it feels too good, mhm?"

your eyes slightly widen at his idea. this is brilliant for you.

your fingers tangle in his hair, running through it for a few seconds before nodding slightly and giving him a small smile, still feeling your cheeks burning from all the embarrassed - it's basically written on your face how shy you feel. but you can't deny you want this.

"alright then... let me get back to my dish."

"scar- ah!.."

you moan and your fingers instinctively tug on his hair, and scaramouche nearly smirks at how easily it is to get you so turned on. he starts licking along your pussy, starting from your hole and up to your clit, then giving it a light kiss before his lips seal around it and his tongue makes swirling motions. he can't deny that you taste so good he wants to be in-between your legs 24/7. he'd never refuse such an offer - how could he?

it's not long before you whine something incoherent about how good it feels, and he just can't not notice that little babbling of yours.

"feeling good, aren't you?" he mumbles, lips grazing the sensitive flesh, almost soaked in your slick. his voice vibrates onto your cunt, sending small, vibrating sensations as you push his face more and more into your pussy, thighs instinctively closing around his head as he continues his ministrations.

"ah-ah-ah, no, keep them open..." scara says, hands coming to grab your thighs one more time and spread them. "be a good girl for me and keep your legs spread."

you whimper, head throwing back as a breathy moan leaves your throat as his tongue starts moving already inside your hole. you can't even begin to describe how good it feels, you couldn't even if you wanted to - it feels so great your thoughts can't properly form in your mind.

you, tugging on his hair again and again, and a few more times through another few minutes is enough for scaramouche to understand that he's doing everything in the most perfect way possible. the way you moan, arch your back and let your fingers pull on his locks every ten or so seconds is dazing for him that he just can't help but let his lips seal around your swollen clit once more to make you let out another high-pitched whine.

"you taste so good..." he mutters just barely moving his mouth away from your cunt, sending another vave of small vibrations straight to your core.

"s-scara- o-oh, god.. i'm-" you can't even form a proper sentence, only pushing his face more and more into your cunt, on the verge of tearing down from how good he makes you feel. "a-almost- there... please, scara, g'nna-"

scaramouche, realizing what you're getting to when you start bucking you hips into his mouth a little too much, hums a long "mmhm" into your pussy, making vibrating sensations pulse within you once more, and that is when you fall apart, your orgasm crashing down onto you.

scara helps you to go through the aftermath of it, bot moving his lips and tongue away for a moment as he continues to - now more slowly, to not overstimulate you - suck and lap on your swelled clit as he holds your hips so you won't back away. he finally pulls back after you start to slowly pant, and licks his lips, admiring once again how good you taste in his mind.

"t-this was... so good..." you manage to mumble after taking a few more deep breaths, calming yourself down after such intense release. you try to close your thighs together again, thinking that you're both done.

scaramouche chuckles and doesn't let you do so, holding the skin of your thighs and spreading them wide open again. he notices you looking down at him in confusion and raises an eyebrow. "what? you thought we were done?"

[softshuji]

𝟏𝟖:𝟎𝟐𝐏𝐌 | 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐌𝐀 𝐒𝐇𝐔𝐉𝐈

Title: Secrets We Keep

Summary: On coming back from a job, Hanma receives a very surprising and very unexpected message from you.

cw: fem!reader, quite a bit angsty, Draken makes an appearance, reader gets a little upset, some sexual content, unrequited feelings, this is kinda self indulgent and is a very personal piece to me. Reblogs appreciated!

Hanma isn’t accustomed to getting calls from you this late. 

Even if you’re not in bed, you tend not to speak as much after hours, and you wind down alone for most of them. You have an unspoken rule like that. If he calls and it’s late, he does most of the talking and you play some game or another in the background, the occasional hum and word of assent that tells him you’re listening. You get tired, he knows this. He knows you have an awfully long bedtime routine, the kind that takes almost an hour- a serious dedication that even he wouldn’t get between. 

And it is late when his phone buzzes in his back pocket and he turns, half shielding it from the others like a secret he wants to keep, hunching his shoulders to protect his screen before clicking away to the voicemail you’ve left that’s ten minutes long and alone, with nothing to accompany it. 

He frowns, fishes in his jacket for a knotted pair of black earphones before walking away with a wave over his shoulder, leaving an exacerbated Kisaki who throws his hands up at the sudden disappearance. An air of apprehension licks up his spine when his finger hovers over the play button. He looks once, twice behind him, like it’s something perverse to be here sitting on a step of some ramshackle warehouse, the entirety of him now crouched over his phone as he slides the volume higher just as your voice bursts to life in his ears.

It’s not uncommon, this little pastime and you do it often. Blow his phone up on the weekends when you’re free with voice notes and videos for him to come back to when he has the time, because he knows you prefer to talk rather than text, a long film of messages for him to scroll through as he passes over the threshold of his apartment. Sometimes it’s inconsequential, and you have nothing of any import to say- just the constant reminder of him being there, a tether that holds taut in the end to end encryption of your strings of messages, a little hopeful at the prospect of hearing from him when you see him typing a few hours later. 

Other days, there is little talking and he’s surprised by how often he wishes there was, the quietness that has him jittery and out of place, anxious in a way that has nothing to do with the copious dangerous missions or drugs or anything else he indulges in. Your presence is funny like that, even this far away, a calm and soothing balm, the kind that has his stomach tightening with a sense of excitement, a sense of purpose or something to look forward to that isn’t a cheap and short lived thrill.

He glances up, just as you clear your throat and take a sigh, at Koko and Sanzu climbing into the back of a car, and Kisaki shrugging his shoulders with a vague nod in his direction before following suit, the cars now dwindling in number till his alone sits far off in a space.

You shuffle, the odd scratchy sound of your sleeve passing over the microphone.

‘Hi Ken,’ you say and Hanma frowns, pauses the voicemail instinctively, with a hard and painful thud to his chest, thumb now hovering over the play button as he stares at the shining, smiling profile picture of you looking back at him as the sun shines.

A voice somewhere says he should quit while he’s ahead, an angel on his shoulder that sends a spasm of fear and apprehension along his spine while the devil on the other has his ears ringing with a loud curiosity. 

He knows you’re not the kind that plays these sorts of jokes, not the kind that intentionally hurts or causes confusion. You’re good like that, his good girl that he wishes was less kind to others sometimes, especially when they’ve done nothing to earn that from you. His girl he wishes was a little cruller, a little meaner, a little less like you’re in love with the world and a little more like you hated it. It would be easier for him to deal with if your heart was a less fragile thing, even if he loves it like that.

The curiosity, he realises, quickly wins him over and he presses play just as you puff out a breath and sniffle into the receiver.

‘’m’ sorry Ken, I know it’s late, I didn’t know who else to talk to. You don’t have to reply and actually it’s probably best that you don’t, y’know?’ You say and Hanma notices you’re slurring slightly, the edge of your words soft and quiet and elongated, interspersed with puffy sighs and the faint click of your shoes on the tarmac, the sort of state you only get into when you’re drunk and upset and finding your way home when you’re too embarrassed to ask for a ride, which you know he’d give you. It’s because of that that you never ask.

He wonders- and it’s probably true he thinks- whether you’ve just misclicked or anything so common and random, that you’ll realise your mistake come morning once the alcohol has worn off with a headache and painkillers later, and he should probably preserve your privacy. 

But he can’t lie and say curiosity isn’t thrumming through his blood. 

Maybe you and Draken are in a relationship? That could be a possible explanation, and not so farfetched. Draken is the kind of man he thinks you might fall for, and he churns this thought in his mind often. The kind of man you like, the kind you deserve in fact and it is someone like dear Ken-chin, who is attentive, and stern, a rule follower, a man who could be a gentleman and fuck you like one too, the kind that you could bring home to your family and it wouldn’t mean a thing. You could be happy, he knows you would be in fact. He has seen you two around before with Draken leaning down a little too close for comfort- not that he can say anything anyway, because you’re just friends who fuck on occasion, a barrier he’s determined not to overstep, for various reasons that is.

‘I’m just…just tired. I just wanted to talk to you about something, because I think you’re the best at tellin’ me what I need to hear ‘n’ I’m so drunk right now, I know if I don’t talk about it now then I never will.’

He should stop because he’s not convinced that anything he’s about to hear will be good for either of you in any way. Part of him knows what he might hear. Maybe you’re going to confess to dear Ken-chin and that’ll be that, and he’ll pick up the tattered remains of his heart and deal with it alone. Or maybe he’ll pick another fight with Draken that lands him on his ass just to blow off the steam. 

‘It’s about Hanma.’

Ice slams into his veins. His ears ring, a visceral pain so sharp in his chest that his breath comes short. He heard that right? It’s about him? 

He rewinds a few seconds just to hear it again, the sound of his name on your lips in such a foreign way, to someone else at that. He likes how it sounds, he always has. The delicious undertone of an accent, the way your voice rises an octave with the first syllable, especially when you’re whispering breathy against his ear, chest pressed to his as your lips find his neck. It feels less like a dirty thing coming from you. None of the fear, the inflection of hatred and violence that often accompanies the utterance of his name in the street. A softer sound, like you’re testing it on your tongue and tasting it, often with a laugh, with a smile thrown so easily his way.

‘...it’s about Hanma, and I think you’re the best person to talk to about him.’

Hanma bites his lip as he listens, an ear trained on the empty parking lot, the sun now splashing a burnt orange over the grey tarmac, shadows lengthening to claws in his periphery. 

‘Ken I…I think I’m in love with him.’

Hanma locks his phone and pulls his earphones out, quickly, an erratic and sharp breath as he stands and his vision wavers, a hand running down his face and through his hair. He looks around, he’s not sure at what, for anything, someone to tell maybe, someone to mention it to, this bombshell landing at his feet.

You’re lying, you have to be. You’re in love with Draken, he knows this, he’s seen how he looks at you. Like you created it all, everything good and worth it in the world, the kind of smile he thinks no one can see playing on his lips, and blind to how Hanma bites his tongue and clenches his fist in his pockets, and you smiling up at him and nodding to his every word. Maybe you are good at these kinds of jokes, maybe this is all an elaborate prank and you and dear Ken-chin are going to laugh about it later.

He paces. 

He chews on his lip, a look back at the step he’d been sitting on before he unlocks his phone to see the now paused voicemail taunting him still. 

There again comes that thought to quit while he’s ahead, to let it go and pretend and keep moving as if it hadn’t happened, as if you hadn’t sentenced the both of you and damned you entirely. And yet the curiosity triumphs again as he takes his seat and presses the buds to his ears, clicking play with a fear and hesitancy that has sweat breaking across his skin, a shiver now running along his spine as his skin kisses the evening air.

‘I’m in love, Ken….with Hanma. And God do I know how damn dangerous that is for me, for him, for everyone.’

Hanma pauses again here, just to take a second, just to rewind ten seconds and hear it again, the way the words play on your lips, an almost defeated sigh- as if you’re resigning yourself to something, like you’ve lost a war, a long pause now weighted in the air as the gravity of the statement descends on you.

‘But I love him, I really do. I’ve tried for weeks to convince myself it’s not true, that it’s just the sex and company and the attention but it’s not, it’s really not.’

You sound sad. You sound like you’re upset by this revelation and Hanma feels a stab of pain when he thinks of you being devastated by this news, as if it’s something that greatly bothers you, distresses you in some way and it hurts in some cold locked chamber of his heart when he thinks of causing you pain like this, pain at the unchanging nature of him.

‘I almost hate it when he comes over, but I can never say no to him, I never want to. I want him to have everything he wants, he deserves it. God, I can almost hear that annoyed tone in your voice that you get whenever I do something you don’t agree with, and if you’re going to say I told you so then don’t bother. Because no one’s more angry at me than I am.’

There’s a brief shuffle here, the sound of doors opening and closing, a vague and muted male voice underneath it all before the hum of a car engine undulates the lilt of your voice. 

You’re sad, but you’re frustrated, and Hanma imagines the taxi driver watching in curiosity as you vent your frustrations in his backseat, the entirety of you dwarfed in the big coat you wear when it’s cold out with the hood pulled up that comes entirely over your hair and forehead, and he smiles - imperceptibly, and unintentionally at the thought. 

Vaguely, some unimportant but very noticeable thought, reminds him that you told- and you speak often, about this with Draken and with that comes a prickle of jealousy- a reminder that Draken is very obviously in love with you, that he’s the better choice in it all at the end of it. Would you pick him? If it came down to it, and you knew what Hanma was, the danger that comes with him, all the violence and burdens he carries in his wake- would you still love him then? When you know all there is, and he’s bled out and delirious on your sofa staining the fabric, mumbling profanities and your name and eyes glassy with pain and unshed tears, hurt in the way only Kisaki has seen him, would you still be so in love?

‘And I…I love everything about him,’ you say now. ‘I love even the things he thinks I don’t notice. Those shitty emergency room shows he likes, how he takes his coffee, the fact that the two of you regularly meet up so you can fight and he comes over pretending like he won, those little things he gets me all the time, the pictures he takes and keeps because they’re memories, all of it.’

A fluttery warmth floods his veins, his head dipping like he’s hiding from someone even as the smile tugs at his lips, a crimson flash of unadulterated embarrassment pecking at his skin. 

He has an album on his phone for you. Pictures and pictures and videos, both short and long of the two of you, those that are intimate and not. He looks through them often and always with a syrupy and reserved smile, the kind that he doesn’t believe he’s capable of anyways, the kind that comes so easily when it comes to you. He has favourites of course, snapshots he’s edited the colours of in his free time, monochrome snaps of you turning back to look at him with a wide grin, and often tangled up in the sheets as you pull them to your chest, an innocent embarrassment inlaying your actions when you roll over to hide from him. Others, the more intimate ones maybe, where he’s holding your hair in his hands as he uses your mouth to get off to, or presses his chest to your back as he fucks you slow and deep and full of a meaning he’s afraid to think on.

It’s never been the same with you. He likes to take his time, relax you, work you up till you’re aching for him. He finds you still, pressed to the mattress, to the sheets long after you’ve left, a hair woven into his jacket, the smell of your perfume clinging to his neck, and your name on his lips when he’s alone and seeking release and stroking his cock to the thought of you to tip him over the edge. Other times, when it’s been a while, you’re both undressed before you get to the bedroom, and it’s fast and rough and desperate, a clash and dance of bites and nips and kisses that get needier and hungrier and the air is alive with desperation and promise and he comes too close for comfort to telling you it all.

‘I think of him so often, more often than not. I wonder all the time what he’s doing, or what he’s thinking, whether he’s happy, whether I make him happy. It’s like I want to be with him all the time, like I’m happiest when he’s around.’

And you do, and it’s true and it’s perhaps shameful to admit out loud, that you wonder constantly whether he’s happy with you, what more you could do for him, whether you could ever really be enough for a man so big, so proud and unapologetically him, whether you ever have the capacity to follow him through life, holding his hand as he drags you along through the violent underworld, bodies mounting under his feet that he put there. He’s never been evasive about the kind of work he does, the kind of life he lives and all it comes with and you’ve asked on occasion, whether he intends to leave it or not. Hushed whispers under the covers as you trace and stroke the fine hairs on his forearms, leading down to the ink on his hands as you bring the backs of them to your mouth to kiss. And he pulls you into his side and tells you maybe one day, if he could find something that makes up for what would be lost, but that really he quite likes the life and how dangerous it is, how he expects to find himself on the other end of a knife or bullet one day- this last part said in a breathless laugh, as if he’s expected and accepted it and you push at his chest and tell him it’s not a funny joke, that you’d be really upset if something happened to him and would spend forever wondering where he’d gone.

He’d laughed at himself at first - when the concept of something more with you had crossed his mind. Some random day- a Friday evening maybe, and he’d thought about taking you out for a proper date, the kind where he’d pick you up and get you a dress, drive you to some fancy place and you’d drink expensive wine and come home to spend hours between the sheets as he knows you would. And you’d said you were hanging out with Draken and he remembered, as clear as day, why he hadn’t done this already, what unspoken rule he’d be breaking, the kind of trouble he’d be getting the both of you into by involving you more with him.

It’s less funny now when he really thinks about it.

And it’s not funny at all when he catches you sniffing into the receiver for the first time, saying ‘I’m so upset Ken. I’m upset at myself, and angry. So angry, because I know he doesn’t feel the same. I mean how could he? He’s Hanma fucking Shuji, and I think that tells me enough about the type of commitment he has to me- or lack thereof.’ 

It makes him wilt with a shame that’s bone deep. His lips parting in surprise and indignation, something that feels like frustration simmering in his blood because you’re not wrong, but you’re not exactly right either. 

‘... and I don’t know what to do Ken. I don’t think he likes me the same but I can’t keep things like this forever because it hurts so much.’ The slightest waver to your voice, a rise in pitch he recognises all too well. ‘It hurts so much to have to be so close to him and so far still. And one day I think I’ll end up leaving him just to save myself, from him, and save him from me.’

Hanma pauses and takes a breath, a hand running through his messy curls, a harsh tug and pull on his scalp as he bites down hard on his lip, the phone shaking slightly in his other hand. 

For a moment, he tries to rationalise it and this is what he comes up with.

You’re in love with him, and you think he doesn’t feel the same because he’s never committed to anything more, because he’s never asked, even though he’s been convinced you’re in love with Draken and that Draken is in love with you. Of this last part he is in fact certain. It’s difficult after all, to ignore the numerous occasions in which he’s dropped your name to gauge things, only to see Draken’s eyes glaze over with that familiar syrupy shine, just as the stone drops into Hanma’s stomach. And again, given enough time he thinks you could also return that affection if you don’t already.

There is a sound then, as he clicks play again. A shuffle as you leave the Taxi and hand the fare over to the driver, a slam of the car door and the tap-tap of your heels on the tarmac and all of it undulated by the soft trickle of rain across the velvet night. You have an umbrella out and he recognises the slightly tinny sound of rain against the pink and black plastic. 

You cough and sniffle and his hands itch. You’d left the blanket in his car the last time you’d been there and your feet will be hurting from the heels and you’ll be shivering because you never seem to learn and your painted nails will be slightly chipped because you never get enough time for yourself and his heart floods with a sappy and tender warmth at how easily he can read you, how well he knows. On any day that isn’t today, he knows you’d go home and drink decaffeinated tea and fall asleep on the sofa only to wake up an hour later and trudge to your bed inevitably because you say the sofa hurts your neck and you like sleeping with extra pillows. He knows you take an hour with your dental and skincare routine and you plan your outfits beforehand, tying your hair in braids before settling in bed with a pillow between your legs because you like the support and two blankets because you always seem to be cold and when he comes over you roll one up because you say he’s warm enough for the both of you- to which he laughs. But you’re always indignant and say it isn’t funny, that he’s the sun to you.

He imagines it now, as you fish for a tissue in your cluttered bag (the contents of which you have walked him through on numerous occasions which includes but is not limited to, your purse, keys, lipgloss and lip balm, a mirror, bandages and plasters, painkillers and sanitary towels, sweets and gum, a pen and a small diary, an atomizer of your favourite perfume- which he also knows- and earphones) and his chest thumps with all the tenderness he wishes he could give you.

‘Shit sorry, gimme a second Ken, I can’t seem to find my keys,’ you say and Hanma waits, as patiently as if you’d told him, foot tapping incessantly against the concrete step till your keys jingle and your front door slides open. You throw your bag and coat on the sofa and slip your heels off at the front door, each step methodical and each a mirror of himself every time he has the fortune of coming to see you, which isn’t as often as he’d like. It’s a rinse repeat. He knocks. You open the door and he kisses you on impulse and you laugh and pull away after a moment too soon and push the door shut, leading him by the hand to the kitchen where you say you’d just finished cooking and he kisses you again just to taste the sweet tang of pasta sauce on your lips. You eat together and talk incessantly and Then it leads to more, as it always does and you’re undressed by the time you’re in the bedroom, your arms around him and your lips on his neck as he rocks steadily into you and you stay like that till one of you falls asleep, followed by a hasty morning and a quick kiss goodbye till the next time this happens.

You take a breath and he can tell you’re weighing a dangerous thought on your tongue. 

‘Y’know Ken? I know you’re gonna be pissed at me for saying this, but I don’t mind if he just wants to use me for sex or something- just to use me how he wants if it means I can stay with him just a bit longer.’

The thud of his heart is a painful punch to his ribs. 

A pause as you take a breath. ‘I know it’s not what you wanna hear and I know you’re always warning me against shit like this so I’m sorry. But it’s him, Ken.’ And you almost whine, almost keen into the microphone. ‘He’s like-like the sun to me. It’s like he’s so warm and safe and I see him in everything and God do I fuckin’ know I shouldn’t because I know what he is. I know he’s a killer, but he’s also just…just my baby too.’

He hangs his head, a furious burn licking across his skin. 

He hears you pause, the gravity of it all descending on you there at your front door, a heaviness blanketing the edge of your words before you sigh and flick on the kitchen light. Your sock clad feet are soft on the tiles and you put the phone down momentarily on the countertop as you open the fridge and pull out the glass bottle you love to drink out of, and the leftovers from lunch you’d told him you made earlier in the day and had offered to share because you always do and he had told you he was busy tonight and you’d said ‘Okay, well the offer is there if you change your mind,’ and the weight of it hadn’t meant anything to him at the time. But he listens to you lean on the countertop and drink steadily and the gravity of it settles on him. 

You love him. You’re in love with him. 

He suspects Draken knows this already and if he doesn’t, he suspects he’ll find out soon anyhow. He suspects- in addition to these revelations- that perhaps Draken is planning to tell you his own feelings soon too. As a fourth revelation, he wonders why that thought burns him so much, why perhaps the idea of Draken pursuing you, and you allowing it, enjoying it maybe, ignites a hot and uncomfortable jealousy in him, the kind that has his stomach tensing with a pulsing green envy.

And then, as you pad from the kitchen to the bathroom, and flip the tap and open the cabinets, he imagines you slipping your clothes off on the way, kicking them onto the sofa as you're prone to do. 'What do I do Ken?' you say, your voice undulated by the echoic sound of the water hitting the basin. 'Do I tell him? Do you think he feels the same?' 

Hanma parts his lips to voice an answer of his own when- 'Actually don't answer that, I know he doesn't. I know someone like him could never love someone like me. And before you give me a rebuttal, let me tell you why.' 

You take a breath and the cleanser bottle is squeezed as you rub circles into your cheeks. 'I'm not all that pretty, I'm not even all that smart. I'm too intense, too overbearing, too overwhelming and mostly, I just don't think he'd love me. And if he did, then it must be because he sees something in me that isn't really there. Projecting onto me y'know that kinda thing.' 

You pause as you ruminate on this idea before you switch the tap off and flick the light switch, a faint ruffle as you dry your face with the towel.

'And I don't know if- hang on a second I can't seem to find my shirt, y'know that star wars one I like.'

The one with the faded print, and two sizes too large that you refuse to throw away because you say it's the most comfortable and he seethes silently, with a click of his tongue and a bite to his inner cheek, at Draken having seen you like that, in the shirt only he should know about, with your hair behind a headband and fastened with a claw clip- too intimate for him to feel comfortable with anyone but himself having access to.

‘I don’t know if he’d ever be happy with me, Ken. I don’t know if I could ever be enough for him, and I can’t set myself up for something that’s going to hurt more than it already does.’

You pad to the bedroom, leftovers in one hand, and your phone in the other, the lights flicked off as you pass, a faint shuffle as you slide into bed with a muted sigh and yawn. 

Hanma wonders- while he listens and while you talk- whether these are regular occurrences between you and Draken. How many have there been? Nights where you've talked to him while Hanma is away doing some job in some shady part of Tokyo and thinking about you all the same, determined not to say anything because the change could be the end for both of you and he’s not willing to risk it despite his many vices. How many times has Draken wished it was him, and how many times has he listened out of a love that you don’t yet reciprocate?

How long until you do?

And then, as you sniffle and your voice crackles under the weight of it. ‘I hate him, Ken.’

Hanma clutches his phone a little tighter, jaw clenched and ticking under his skin.

‘I hate him so much that the thought of him being with another girl makes me sick.  I hate the way he looks at me when we’re alone, the way he ruffles my hair and kisses me, the way he does things for me I haven’t even asked for. And I feel so fucking pathetic for falling for him when I knew what I was getting into. I’m so, so stupid.’

You’re quieter now, a sombre lilt and cadence to your voice as you mumble into the receiver. 

‘And y’know Ken, I wanted it to be him. At the end of it all, it was always him. I tried. I really did,’ you say, whispering against the fibres of your pillow pressed to your cheek. ‘I tried not to love him, I tried not to care. And I’m sorry, I should have tried harder, I know that.’

You shift, and hike a leg to your chest. ‘I’ll love him forever Ken. Even if I die, even if I get old and marry someone else, I’ll always wish it was him, and I’ll always wish I was brave enough to tell him.’

You take a breath, long and forlorn and heavy. ‘And I know in my heart he could never be sincere about me, that he doesn’t mean it and I’m just someone to play with. And I hate him so much that he’s all I think about. I count the minutes till I can see him again, till I hear his voice and it never changes, no matter what I do, how much I shut him out, it never goes away. It’s like…like I was made for him.’

You laugh, and it lacks mirth, full of heartache. ‘God, what an embarrassing thing to say.’

‘And I know I’m hard to love. I’m intense, needy, clingy, weird and off-putting and just not pretty enough to be someone he could love entirely- I don’t know, I’m getting tired Ken.’ You yawn again and roll over, taking the duvet with you as you fish blindly for the remote on the nightstand and it clinks against your water bottle as you sit up. ‘I just wish I could tell him. Just really wish I could say it and hear it back and that maybe I could be more than what I am to him. Because I love him, Ken. At the root of it all, that’s all I have to give him. And if he doesn’t want it then there’s nothing else. Even if I died, and it was because of him, I would forgive him immediately and even if he didn’t want me, I could love him because he deserves it. He deserves everyth-’

‘Dude, are you okay?’

Hanma flinches and jolts on the step, ripping the earphones out and shoving his phone deep into his pocket, the harsh flare of the sunset a burning cinder in his eyes as he squints up at Draken.

His tongue trips, teeth coated with a film of anxiety, jaw aching and tense as his head pulses with a lick of increasing pain. ‘Huh?’

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost, you’re pale as shit. Are you good?’ Draken frowns and turns to glare at the single parked car, the sun a bloody orange and falling quickly behind the trees. ‘You’re here alone?’

Hanma freezes, sweat prickling at his neck, a kiss of apprehension and foreboding making a steady crawl along his spine. ‘Y-yeah. Why are you here? Thought you’d be busy.’

‘Hm? Moneymaker sent me to find you, said they’d left you here.’ And then, as an afterthought. ‘You look like shit.'

Hanma scratches at his neck and averts his eyes, thumbing his phone in his pocket. ‘Yeah, not feeling so good. Think I’ll just head home and sleep it off. Tell ‘saki I’ll be there tomorrow, or whatever.’

Draken raises an eyebrow, a long and hard look at Hanma who makes a show of standing and dusting the soot from his suit, his gaze anywhere that isn’t Draken, who eyes him as he walks off towards his car. 

Two things come to mind right then as he switches the heating on in the interior. 

The first is that he’s shivering, nervous. And it surprises him when he pulls down the mirror to see the sweat forming on his forehead, twitchy and tense as he presses it to the steering wheel. The second is that he got the message intended for Draken, which means Draken doesn’t know. 

He drums his lithe fingers on the wheel and pulls out his phone and your open chat tells him you’ve deleted the message. He wonders if you’re assuming he’s seen it, that it’s late and you’re too tired to be entirely thinking straight, that the alcohol in your system is hopefully blurring the lines enough for him to have time to think, that you’re pacing as you do, when you think you’ve done something wrong.

He types.

‘Hey Pretty Girl, you still awake?’

You respond immediately. ‘Just about, why?’

His fingers move fast, and he types and sends before he has a chance to backtrack, before the weight of it crushes him. 

‘I’m coming over, I wanna see you. Leave the door unlocked.’

He tosses his phone across the passenger seat, the vice clamping on his head now loosening, the pain warming and dissipating as he throws the car into reverse and speeds to your apartment, passing Draken who watches him leave in a plume of thick, grey smoke.

a/n: hi hiiii it's that time!!! my fav day of the year!! happy birthday to daddy my one and only, my heart and soul, the angel and darling of my life, my most beloved, the sun in my sky, you know who you are, i adore you.

taglist: @reiners-milkbiddies @prettyiolanthe @sugusshi @snakegentleman @haitaniapologist @lonnie19 @bejeweled-night-33 @ranscutedoll @qiiuusoup-xo @hoetani @sinfulseashell @burnishedcrown @nikokopuffs @mitsuwuyaa @haruwuchiyoo @mochimiyaas @theaonlax @blackfire2013 @wotakuhime @severellamahottub @stargirlstabber @intheafterall

[lovelyhan]

Okay, you still have a spot. Great. I thought they'd be filled so, I didn't send anything lmao. Insomnia has its perks.

This is deeply self-indulgent and I'd love more Hao from you. So, hear me out, Minghao with a breeding kink. I feel like it doesn't get enough attention especially given how much that man gravitates towards babies lol. Like he and Reader visit Cheol's and see him with his new baby and, Hao's like oh, wait a minute. I think this is making me feel some type of way.

— terrified ⟢

minghao has a knack for keeping the things you tell him in mind. from your favorite brand of wine to how the idea of bearing children terrifies you—he remembers all of it. so your husband is in a bit of a crisis when he realizes that this newfound desire to start a family kind of clashes with something you trusted him to respect.

★ FEATURING; minghao x f!reader

★ WORD COUNT; 4.4k words

★ TAGS; idolverse, established relationship, hao trying (and failing) to play it cool about the wanting-to-be-a-father thing, brief discussion abt family planning, this is only a little sad bc hao has overthinkeritis, smut (MINORS DNI!)

★ WARNINGS; mentions of pregnancy and childbirth but nothing too graphic

★ NOTES; i scheduled to post this when it hit exactly 12 midnight in rj's timezone just in time for her birthday :> (pls look away if i got the schedule wrong,,,) i'm not really back yet bcs this is a queued post, but happy birthday, beloved. i love you more than i can say directly, so i decided to just write a fic for you instead! hopefully, i can come back and torment you with every other seventeen member BUT cheol soon :3c

★ SMUT TAGS; unprotected sex, breeding kink, creampie, multiple rounds, mating press, hao is just really feral in this yk

★ PERMANENT TAGLIST; @cheolhub - @pretty-trustme - @just-here-to-read-01 - @idkmelkro - @dejavernon - @venusrae - @jyiiscool - @jiniesclub - @junhui-recs - @bldelaine - @featmia - @fruitzcup - @hoeforhao - @candidupped - @billboard-singer - @caratochan - @novalpha - @dahliatopia - @0717luv - @shiveringgaze - @toruro - @mixling-blog - @minnie-mouser22 - @homerunhansol - @mirtaspace - @ti--red - @zzucculent - @woozarts - @rubyreduji - @mozellerra - @lllucere - @cheolzip - @jjjzzzz - @lissiesykes - @dearjeonwonwoo - @meowmeowminnie - @colored-confetti - @partiallyinfluencial - @speaknowlwt - @flwrshwa - @lilylikesthat - @aurorahongg - @whippedforjihoon - @todorokiskitten - @immabecreepin - @98-0603 - @peachhiz

★ MINGHAO TAGLIST; @haoxiaoba - @jeonride - @coffeestay - @hyvnae

In the height of his career as an idol, Xu Minghao filmed a certain piece of content where he was asked a normal question to which he responded with a slightly controversial answer.

"How many kids do you want in the future?"

"Oh, It's not me who'll give birth, so I can't be the one to decide."

It's a response that made waves on the Internet during the week the video was first posted—a reaction from both fans and casual netizens alike that Minghao definitely did not anticipate that he would receive when they packed up the set several months prior.

It's pretty much the logical answer, isn't it? Sure, he'd love to have kids someday, but the quantity isn't something he should decide on without his non-existent partner's input.

Minghao learns further down the road, when he finally meets and eventually gets together with you, that the number of children isn't the only thing that a couple should mutually agree on.

"I don't really want to have kids..."

You tell him this during a spontaneous date he deigned to take you out on. He just came back from a tour packed with a long list of stops and even if he should probably catch up on some sleep, he opted to have a picnic with you at the park because of how much he missed you.

Your cheeks are stuffed with a few bites of pie, thoughtfully chewing as you wait for Minghao's response to your sudden confession. If he didn't know you as well as he does, he wouldn't have sensed the waves of anxiety rolling off of you in waves—as if you're waiting for him to get mad at you for simply being honest.

Mingao heaves a quiet sigh before he pulls you into his chest—a tiny squeak caught in your throat after swallowing your food.

"Hey, that doesn't make me love you any less," he murmurs, pressing his lips on top of your head. "I know bearing children can be terrifying and painful, so I completely understand."

For a moment, your brow dips, a soft frown tugging at your lips. "I-It's not that I'm terrified... Okay, maybe a little. But—"

Minghao promptly silences your protests with a firm kiss on your lips—one that you find yourself easily melting into given the time and distance that's separated you until this moment. He smiles against your mouth, glad that you can be honest with him about things like this.

"No buts, if you don't want to have kids, that's alright," he murmurs before pulling away. "Maybe we can just get a dog. You're already close with Mingyu, aren't you?"

That makes you snicker. "You're so mean."

It's a brief exchange that Minghao doesn't really think about again for several years. After all, his career as an idol was at an all-time high. As much as he wants to settle down with you and start the next phase of his life, he's certain that he shouldn't step out of the limelight just yet.

But it doesn't take long for time to catch up with him.

One by one, his brothers are off to fulfill their mandatory service and the group's activities are at a momentary standstill. Those who were left behind go their separate ways for a while—Joshua expanding his solo promotions in the US and Jun taking up more brand sponsorships in China.

Minghao chose to stay in Seoul mostly for your sake, and the fact that this city is the only common ground between him and the rest of the boys. When Vernon and Seungkwan enlisted together, it was around the time that Seungcheol and Jeonghan came back with overgrown buzzcuts, while Joshua landed in Incheon for the first time in two years.

It was also the time when you and Minghao got married.

The event was celebrated among close friends and family with only a brief news article about the marriage of SEVENTEEN's The8 allowed by the company to circulate for a while. They did a good job at keeping things hush hush, and Minghao thinks it's only because it's been more than a decade since his debut that they're being so lenient.

But even if they weren't, nothing would stop Xu Minghao from making you his wife either way.

It takes a few more years for all thirteen of them to get back together again, but when they do, the first thing that Seungcheol does is invite everybody to his daughter's first birthday.

Minghao has met baby Suri a handful of times in the past. Seungcheol's wife visits them at the company from time to time, wheeling Suri's stroller into the practice room as her uncles all fawn over her until she's crying. For some reason, the only people the infant seems to tolerate are Jun and Seokmin.

It's pretty much the same scene during the party. Seokmin and Jun are the only ones allowed within a one-meter radius from Seungcheol's baby girl to prevent an incurable crying episode in the middle of the celebration. Soonyoung was not happy with the fact that he can't personally give Suri the little tiger plush he got for her, but Minghao thinks it's for the best.

But then, as everyone was finishing up with dinner, he saw you walk up to Seungcheol's wife with a familiar sparkle in your eyes. You're staring at Suri who's all dressed up for her party with a look of endearment—nearly gushing with how animatedly you're speaking with her mother.

Minghao doesn't think much of it. You and her have always gotten along for as long as he can remember.

What does catch him completely off-guard, however, is the fact that Suri is being handed into your arms and you let it all happen without much of a fuss.

Chan was in the middle of telling him about this martial arts move that he'd wanted to choreograph into a dance but as much as he wants to give the younger man advice, his gaze is completely glued to the sight of you with Suri in cradled against your chest.

It's one thing to see a woman holding a baby. It's another to see his wife do the same thing.

"Hao, look!" You quickly call him over when you catch his eyes in the crowd. "Suri thinks I'm worthy! It's been five minutes since her mom handed her over and she's still not crying."

The sight is so adorable that Minghao abruptly excuses himself from his conversation with Chan to rush towards you with clipped strides. His heart thunders inside his chest as you visibly dote on Seungcheol's daughter, and he isn't sure if he wants to give the feeling a name.

It eventually fades into a barely there throb in his chest when he drives back home for the evening. You quickly fill the silence with your attempts at looking at some properties in this newly opened residential area near the freeway and as always, your husband lends a willing ear.

"It's a little far from your company building, but it's much more spacious than our apartment right now," you chuckle, face alight with the glow of your screen as you scroll through the property's details on your phone.

Minghao hums before pulling over at a red light. "Hm? Isn't our place alright as it is? Why would we need the extra space?"

He half-expected you to answer with something along the lines of, so I can have more space to keep my book collection in or so you can have enough room to practice at home if you want to.

But all you do is let out an uneasy laugh, locking your phone before depositing it in the cupholder on the middle console.

"Y-Yeah, you're right. That was a bit silly of me."

The next time Minghao unwittingly makes the connection with you and the prospect of having kids is when Seungkwan's nephews are in Seoul for a couple of weeks.

While he and his sister are off to run errands every now and again, they typically ask Jun to watch over the kids because out of all the members, he's definitely the only one who can be trusted around children. Even more than those who are actual fathers.

But it just so happens that Jun is all the way in Shanghai to shoot for a historical drama, and for some reason, Seungkwan thought it would be a good idea to drop his nephews off at Minghao's doorstep.

"You're pretty decent with kids and your wife can take care of anything," Seungkwan praises while he ushers four year-old Hanjun into the room and eight month-old Jiren into your arms. "We'll be back for them after lunch!"

It's just as Seungkwan said though: Minghao is pretty decent with kids and you can take care of anything.

While waiting for lunch to cook in the kitchen, you both do your part in entertaining the children—Minghao pointing out different shapes and animals in the picture book from Hanjun's backpack while you quietly feed Jiren the baby formula that Seungkwan's sister prepared in advance.

So distracted with the sight of your soft gaze transfixed on the baby in your arms, Minghao barely notices it when the soup he's prepared starts to overflow from the pot. You scold him for being so distracted before he shuffles into the kitchen with his tail between his legs.

As he salvages what's left of the soup, Minghao tries to pull himself together. Sure, it's been a few years since you two tied the knot, but you made it clear years ago that children wasn't on the table when it comes to the two of you.

It's something that you both agreed on even before marriage, and Minghao isn't about to break your trust by saying he suddenly wants kids all because seeing them in your arms makes his brain short-circuit. He has more tact than that.

"Is it just me or are you acting a little weird?"

For some reason, you choose later that evening to corner him in the quiet of your bedroom. Minghao was just getting ready to sleep when you turned to face him with a frown.

"Weird how?" he wonders, praying that you wouldn't single him out like you probably will.

"I don't know, you were looking at me funny when I was giving Jiren his formula," you point out. "You only do that when you want something from me."

Your words make him sigh. Of course his wife would catch onto every nuance of his actions—even from his stare alone.

"And what do you think it is that I want?"

"Xu Minghao, we're already married. Cut the games and just tell me what's on your mind."

God, he really couldn't love you any more than he does now.

It takes several minutes, but you and your husband eventually migrate to the living room—cups of hot chocolate in hand as you patiently wait for Minghao to open up about something he's been keeping to himself for a while now.

He's rightfully nervous—hands clammy around the ceramic of the mug that matches yours. It's Game of Thrones-themed with a dragon's neck acting as a handle. You kept insisting at the souvenir shop that its selling point was the unique design, but Minghao was pretty sure you were excited by the fact that the printed text changes color depending on the drink's temperature.

With that memory suddenly drifting into his mind, the tension ebbs from his shoulders. Though he tends to forget, you're the last person who'll condemn him for what he's about to say to you.

"I've been thinking of starting a family with you," he admits—hitting his point straight to the roots. "But... I always brushed it aside because I know how you feel about kids. I don't want to force you into something you don't want."

It's in times like this where silence is more deafening than actual noise. It rings in Minghao's ears as you watch the steam rise from your mug and your husband lets himself stew in his anticipation, wondering how you'll choose to respond to his honesty.

Will you laugh at him? Will you be angry with him? It's a subject that the two of you rarely broach with each other, so he isn't quite sure how to handle whatever reaction you'll grace him with.

What Minghao never would've expected, however, is for you to crack him a relieved smile.

"Me? I thought you didn't want kids because having one would be detrimental to your career," you chuckle, taking the first few sips from your hot chocolate. "And you always kinda shrugged it off whenever I tried to ease the topic into the conversation."

"I did?" Your husband scowls. "When did I do that?"

"After Suri's birthday party? When I was showing you a couple of new houses?"

Oh. Oh.

"Shit," Minghao mutters, embarrassed. "I almost forgot about that. I'm sorry, love. It didn't occur to me because you said that you didn't want to have kids—"

"One time," you interject with a groan. "That was one time, Hao. God, can't a woman change her mind about wanting kids with her husband?"

He blinks. "But you said you'd be terrified."

"No, you said I'd be terrified. As an educated guess and to some extent, you're right. But it's not the having-a-kid part or the childbirth part that terrifies me, Hao." You let yourself breathe for a couple of seconds and it comes out shaky. Minghao has to resist the urge to reach out to embrace you.

"What terrifies me is becoming a mother."

The silence of the living room thickens when you say the words and Minghao feels his chest flutter with that same feeling from the first time he saw you cradling Seungcheol's daughter in your arms. Despite the questions swimming inside his head, your husband keeps his silence and lets you continue.

"Like, yeah, the pregnancy is going to be hell and god knows whether I'll even be alive after giving birth, but..." You hesitate, refusing to meet Minghao's eyes for reasons that elude him.

"Raising a child so they would grow up to become a good person is even more daunting to me... What if I accidentally teach them something wrong? What if they end up hating me because I can't keep up with whatever trends kids would come up with in a few years? What if they love you more than they love me?"

Minghao laughs airily. "Is that last part really a necessary measure?"

"It is," you insist before breathing out a laugh of your own. "Urgh, you get the point! It's just that... I'm not against having kids, but the responsibility that comes with raising one overwhelms me whenever I think about it."

"You know you're not in it alone, right? I'm your husband. Of course I'll be here to support you however I can," Minghao sighs before finishing the rest of his drink. "Whether you want kids or not, I'll go with either choice because I want what you want, yeah?"

"Yeah. I do know that. I think I've always known, but at the same time, I didn't want to tie you down," you murmur, tracing the handle of your mug with a small pout. "If we have a kid together, they might take up the time meant for your schedules. I never want to burden you like that..."

Your husband sets down his mug on the coffee table, carding his fingers through his hair with a disbelieving sigh. You were starting to fear that you might've annoyed him by accident, but when Minghao leans closer so that your eyes are leveled, you realize that is far from the case.

"Baby, our wedding rings are literally tattoos," he reminds you while reaching for your hand—pressing the inked fingers together. "I'm as tied down as I can be and you've never heard a peep out of me after all this time, yeah? So don't you ever think you or our future kids would be burdens to me."

Playfully, you raise an eyebrow at him. "Kids? Plural?"

"Hey, like I said—"

"Yeah, yeah, you want what I want," you interrupt with a roll of your eyes. "I get it Hao, you're a gentleman. But what if I told you I want you to fuck me on this couch right now and give me your kids?"

The wording is so crass that it could only be seen as a joke, except the reaction it incites from Minghao is leagues more intense than a mere joke would. The mental image injects a rush of corrosive want straight into his bloodstream and Minghao swears it makes him a little lightheaded.

Your husband lets out a shuddering sigh. quickly lunging after you to pluck the mug out of your grasp and safely place it on top of the coffee table. When you look up at him so prettily as he cages you on the couch, the sight makes his cock twitch with anticipation.

"Then I want that, too."

Logically speaking, you and Minghao can't just flip the switch and go into full babymaking mode after a heartfelt conversation and a bunch of impulsive decisions.

For one, you were still on birth control. It would take some time to wean yourself off it and you'd have to ask your doctor if it was safe to stop taking the pills at this point in your life.

Next was that Minghao and the rest of the guys are going to be preoccupied with their latest album—one where all thirteen men are back together after years of being separated. It'll go on for a couple of months and maybe a year if he's going to take their tour schedules into account.

And because he doesn't want to be absent in any milestone during your hypothesized child's life, you and your husband mutually decided not to actively try for a kid just yet.

But that doesn't mean you can't pretend.

"Fuck, baby, your cunt's gripping me so tight," Minghao groans, nearly hissing as he slides his cock against the velvety heat of your walls. "You want my load in you, pretty? You want to me to pump you full until it's dripping out of your pretty pussy?"

With coherence having long left your mind, you arch your back even higher as your husband continues to plough you into the mattress. "Y-Yes, yes yes! Hao, feels s-so fucking good!"

He chortles quietly and even with your cheek pressed against the sheets, you can still picture the smirk plastered on his face. "Pretty baby's in love with my cock. You just can't get enough of me, can you?"

"More," you whimper, the muscles of your pussy tightening around his length as he plunges in and out of your sopping entrance. "W-Want more, Hao. Need you to fuck me harder..."

Your husband is quick to comply with your wishes, gathering your hair with one hand while keeping your hips in place with the other. Minghao slams his hips brutally against yours, making stars dance in the seams of your vision as the head of his fat cock bullies its way into your leaking hole.

He's so deep, you can feel him prying your cervix open with a promise that you'll be filled to the brim if you behave tonight. And with all those years of being a professional dancer under his belt, it's no surprise that he's got enough stamina to wreck you more times than you can handle.

The first orgasm blindsides you completely. He'd just been whispering both sweet and filthy nothings into your ear when it washes over you like a tidal wave—inevitable, inescapable.

(Doing so fucking good for me, love. Taking my cock like a good, good wife. You'll take my cum just as well, won't you? Keep it inside so it'll take and you'll be swollen with my child. Then everybody will know you're mine.)

The second time it happens is mere seconds after Minghao's own orgasm. His thrusts have started to lose their practiced cadence and even if you've been in this situation countless times before, the euphoria that sings in your veins makes it feel like the first time all over again.

Minghao's cock twitches before his cum spurts in thick ropes inside your tight cunt—filling you with a warm sensation that has you biting down his neck to stifle your moans. The motion of his hips slows to a crawl as Minghao feels you clamp down on his length. Your pussy gushes around him with a delicious grip that brings him dangerously close to another orgasm with how good you feel around him.

"Fuck, baby," he swears, voice still hoarse with need despite the fact that he's fucking you into overflowing. "I love you. There's no one else I'd want to have a family with."

"T-There better not be," you say cheekily before Minghao is flipping you around so that you're lying on your back. The sensation of his cum dripping out of your ruined pussy makes your skin tingle with excitement, and the fact that his ravenous gaze is trained on your body isn't lost on you.

"Be a good wife for me and hold your thighs up," he whispers lowly and it takes you mere seconds to comply. "That's my girl."

You preen at his praise—no matter how pathetic it would make you seem. After all, if there's anyone who get reduced you into a cockdrunk mess, it's most certainly your husband.

Minghao doesn't waste any more time, he pumps his cock into full hardness for a few moments—refractory period be damned—before gliding the head of his cock against your slit. Your thighs twitch every time be brushes against your clit, making you cry out with desperation as he gloats at your misery.

"Minghao," you beg, trying your best to hold your thighs up just like he asked all while he's taking his sweet time admiring your pussy. "Fuck me more. Want you to fill me up even more."

"Needy little thing," he chuckles. "You want my kids that badly? If I fuck you too much, you might actually get pregnant, love."

"Don't care," you practically sob. "I want it. I want you. All of you—even your kids."

Fuck. He really, really fucking loves you.

Minghao needs little encouragement after that, gripping his cock tightly as he guides himself back inside you.

The new position makes it easier for your husband to pound into you—the weight of his thrusts pressing you into the bed with enough intensity to make the wooden enforcements of your bed groan from the effort he's exerting. He splits you open on his cock, spreading your folded thighs as far as he can as he drills inside of you with the promise of another load.

"So pretty and pliant for me," he whispers, pressing a soft kiss on your nose all while the squelch of your cunt with each pass of his cock echoes in the bedroom. "My perfect wife. You'll let me breed this pussy once all's said and done, won't you?"

You nod all too eagerly. "Yes, Hao! I'll let you use my pussy however you want. Just please make me come again!"

"So demanding," your husband sighs with a wicked smile as one of his hands trails between your legs. "Hold those thighs nice and open for me, love. You'll feel even better soon."

"W-Wait, I—"

Your protests quickly melt into a hiss of pleasure when Minghao applies ample pressure on your clit—lathering his fingers with your slick before tracing tight circles around the sensitive nub.

He knows you so well, been with you for so long, that Minghao already knows the ins and outs of your body. Your husband claims that making you come undone with his own fingers is a practiced art and that he'll never forget about it until the day he does.

So it's no surprise how quickly Minghao manages to make you unravel at the seams when he couples his intense thrusts with the added stimulus to your clit. You're creaming around his cock in no time—muffling your cries in the crook of your lover's neck as he fucks into you with the intention of filling you up even more.

"I love you," Minghao rasps as he tucks your head beneath his chin, pinpointing the height of his own pleasure. "I'll want no one else but you, baby. No one."

Shakily, through a haze of delirium, you manage to say, "I-I love you too, Hao. I'll always be yours as long as—f-fuck—you'll always be mine."

You twitch violently beneath the weight of Minghao's body and the sight of you so fucked dumb on his cock eventually pushes him over the edge. Your husband comes with a sharp breath, his white hot cum gushing into your pussy until it drips onto the sheets.

It's only when you've come down from that post-coital high that you realize Minghao is looking at you as if you hung up all the stars in the sky. You respond with a weak smack against his chest.

"Don't look at me like that," you grumble weakly. "I might think you're in love with me."

"Y/N, we're already married."

"I don't see how that's a problem."

As Minghao does the honors of cleaning you up after roughing you up all evening, you quickly realize that, really, there's no reason to be terrified at all.

Not when your husband will be by your side every step of the way.

⟢ end notes: i wrote this in a haze so if there are any technical writing errors, i implore you to just ignore them for my sake <3 happy birthday again to my soulmate, rj! i hope you enjoy your day to the fullest and i also hope you like this gift i wrote for you hehe ^\\\^ like hao to the reader, i'll always be w you every step of the way (i'm just a lil busy rn, so i hope you forgive me !!)