#why does sleep elude me so

[writerbugg]

𝕭𝖚𝖗𝖓𝖊𝖉

Yan. Viktor x Reader

Word Count - 9.3K

Some notes. This story should NOT be romanticized, this is one of my darker stories so please read the warning.

The timeline of this oneshot is a bit distortated, I'm spreading some of the events out a bit farthen then they happedn in the og storyline.

The reader is mid-twenties (25-26) in this so there's around a 5 year age difference.

!!Warnings!! - Yan. behavior, Mentor and Apprentice Relationship, OOC, Smoking, Violence, Gaslighting, Manipulation, Unwanted Physical Touch, Guilt-tripping, Panic attack, Mentions of Blood, Injury

Pt.2 (Feat. Yan Jayce) Coming soon...

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And the world screams,

'Kiss me, Sun of God.'

━━━━━╗✹╔━━━━━

Your breath fogs the window as you rest your head against it. The sun hasn’t risen, yet sleep eludes you. Outside, the world is a mix of cold and silence, but your mind churns ceaselessly.

Three years since you began your apprenticeship under Jayce. In that time, Hextech has advanced beyond anything you could have dreamed.

Piltover has become the heart of progress, its Hexgates connecting nations, "The Center of Trade and Evolution," as Mel once called it.

Yet, for all its brilliance, Hextech remains a paradox to you—a marvel you can admire but never fully understand, much less touch.

Your gaze drifts to the blue orb resting beside you, its pulsing aura whispering a melody you can’t quite discern. Hesitantly, you reach for it, your fingers twitching as the air around the gemstone hums with energy.

You barely graze the pristine blue gem before a sharp jolt shoots through your fingers.

You yank your hand back with a hiss, cradling it to your chest. Blowing on your fingertips does little to soothe the sharp, lingering sting. An exasperated sigh escapes you as you look down at your slightly blistered fingers. This result was expected but still maddening.

For reasons you could not understand, touching Hextech directly always left you burned.

“No progress, hmm?”

The clicking of a cane echoes behind you. Panic flickers across your face as you quickly tuck your hand behind your back and turn around, but it’s too late.

Looking up, you’re met with the unimpressed stare of your mentor’s lab partner.

A nervous chuckle escapes as your cheeks flush with shame. Viktor hobbles closer, stopping in front of you. With a pointed expression, he silently gestures for your hand.

Reluctantly, you reveal your hand from behind your back. Viktor takes it carefully, his touch firm but gentle as his eyes trace the small burns along your fingers.

“You know,” Viktor begins, “it seems counter-intuitive for Jayce to appoint the one person in Piltover incapable of safely handling the Hexcore as his apprentice.”

He presses lightly on one of the burns, making you wince and yank your hand back. You glare at him, but he ignores it.

“Why are you up so early?” he asks. “And meddling with Hextech alone? Jayce has told you many times—it’s reckless, given your condition.”

You shrug, offering no real explanation. The ambiguity earns you a disapproving look, though you catch a glimmer of amusement in Viktor’s expression.

“Jayce is rubbing off on you,” he mutters. “Both of you are hardheaded to a fault.”

Viktor turns and gestures for you to follow him. You comply, trailing him to his cluttered desk. Notes are scattered everywhere, buried under odd trinkets and prototypes.

Reaching over the mess, Viktor grabs a small ceramic jar. Carefully, he removes its glass lid, revealing a clear green liquid swirling inside. Dipping a piece of cotton into the liquid, Viktor takes your hand again, dabbing the burns with a precision that’s almost meditative.

The burns will heal in a few days, fading as if they were never there. Still, this ritual has become a quiet tradition, a bond between you and Viktor—something unspoken yet meaningful.

The door swings open, shattering the tranquility. You immediately sit up straight, pulling your hand away from Viktor.

Jayce enters, his smile as bright as ever, and your stomach flutters as his gaze meets yours.

“Good morning, you two!” he says cheerfully, earning a grunt from Viktor and a wave from you.

“Today’s the day—Progress Day!” Jayce announces, his excitement contagious. “We’re finally going to showcase everything we’ve been working on.” Even Viktor’s lips twitch into a faint smile.

Jayce crosses the room to retrieve the crystal you had touched earlier, carefully placing it back in its case. “We need to get ready. Heimerdinger will be here any moment.”

He turns to you, pulling out a pair of gloves from his pocket and handing them over. “My mother made these,” he admits. “For the presentation. I need my apprentice up there with me, after all.”

You take the gloves, admiring the craftsmanship. “Wait… you want me on stage?” you ask, startled.

Jayce chuckles. “It’s your last year of apprenticeship, Y/N. You’ve proven yourself time and time again.” He places a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “It’s time you made your debut.”

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“The gemstone is gone.”

❪❂❫

“I have come before you to recommend that we suspend all Hextech operations.”

❪❂❫

“I propose that a new chair be brought forth and that House Talis be elevated to the august body.”

❪❂❫

You lay on the rooftop, staring at the stars above. The events of the day whirl in your mind like a storm. The attack, the stolen gemstone, Jayce’s abrupt decision to shut down Hextech operations without consulting you or Viktor, and his election to the council. It all feels surreal, a cascade of chaos.

“The stars are lovely tonight, no?”

The sudden voice draws your attention. Viktor stands nearby, his gaze fixed on the heavens. Though calm, his posture betrays exhaustion.

He sits beside you, gesturing toward the horizon. “Do you see them? The lights of the Undercity.”

You nod as faint glimmers come into view. “You’re from the Undercity, right?” you ask softly.

Viktor inclines his head. “And that’s why you want to use Hextech,” you continue, “to help them.”

“Yes,” he says, conviction threading through his voice. “I wish to end the suffering of the Undercity. To use our technology to evolve humanity—beyond its limits.”

You place a hand on his shoulder. He stiffens at first but relaxes as your words cut through the quiet.

“Your dream is beautiful, Viktor,” you say, admiration clear in your voice. “And I can’t wait to see you and Jayce bring it to life.”

His golden eyes linger on the Undercity before flickering to you. “You believe in us,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “In me.”

“Of course I do,” you reply without hesitation. “You see possibilities where others see obstacles. How could I not believe in that?”

A rare softness touches his gaze. “Thank you,” he says earnestly. “Your faith… it means more to me than I often let on.”

The silence that follows is comfortable, the two of you watching the stars and the faint lights of the Undercity. Yet, a shadow passes over Viktor’s expression. His fingers tighten around his cane, his thoughts veiled but heavy.

“The night grows late,” he says finally. “We should rest. Tomorrow will bring more challenges.”

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You stood silently behind Jayce, your gaze darting between him and Viktor as the tension between them thickened.

"This is a misuse of our work," Viktor muttered, eyes fixed on the enforcers tinkering with the Hexgate. His voice carried the sharp edge of frustration. "What happened to our promise to improve lives? To help those in the Undercity?"

Jayce let out a sharp breath, shaking his head dismissively. "I’m a Councilor now, Viktor," he replied, his tone clipped. "My priority is ensuring the Hexgates are secure. That has to come first." He turned to you, raising an eyebrow. "You understand, don’t you?"

Caught off guard, you hesitated, shifting your weight. "Maybe you should’ve... included Viktor in your plans," you murmured carefully. "You know, since you’re supposed to be partners."

Jayce scoffed lightly, his humor paper-thin. "Aren’t you supposed to be my apprentice?" he quipped, offering you a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Across from him, Viktor gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod. A flicker of genuine gratitude. You returned it with a faint smile before Jayce’s attention shifted elsewhere.

Marcus entered the room, and Jayce moved to speak with him, leaving you and Viktor by the railing.

"I just don’t understand," Viktor murmured as you leaned on the edge beside him. "This should be all the more reason to push our research further. The Undercity needs us, and the longer we ignore them, the angrier they’ll grow."

His gaze flicked to your hands, lingering briefly on the smooth skin where blisters had once marred the surface.

"...Thank you," he whispered, his voice soft but sincere. "At least you understand my frustrations better than Jayce does."

You shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of your neck. The quiet critique of your mentor made your stomach knot, but you kept silent. It wasn’t your place to interfere in the growing rift between them.

"—Have you made any progress on the stolen Gemstone?" Jayce's voice cut through your thoughts, snapping your focus back to him.

You noted the strain in his posture, the faint shadows under his eyes. He looked overwhelmed, and a pang of sympathy tugged at your chest. His new role was a heavy burden, but selfishly, you wondered how it might affect your time together. Would he place your training on hold, as he had seemingly done with Hextech?

The thought left a sour taste in your mouth.

Shaking it off, you turned to Viktor, who had gone quiet. His gaze was fixed on the Hexcore, its faint glow reflected in his eyes. There was a distant, almost hypnotized look in his expression.

A chill crept up your spine.

"Viktor?" you called softly, stepping closer. Your heart jolted as you noticed the blood trickling from his nose.

"Viktor!" You grabbed his shoulder instinctively. The touch startled him, and he tensed briefly before relaxing as he recognized you.

“…I’m fine," he muttered, brushing your hand away with a quiet sigh.

Jayce, alerted by the commotion, hurried over. His eyes darted between you and Viktor, narrowing when he saw the blood.

“Viktor, are you all right?” he asked, placing a firm hand on Viktor’s shoulder. The gesture forced you to step back, though you remained close.

“It’s... just a headache," Viktor replied tersely, shrugging off Jayce's hand. "I need to get back to the lab."

He turned away, cane tapping against the floor in an uneven rhythm. Halfway to the exit, he hesitated and glanced over his shoulder, gesturing for you to follow.

You cast a quick, uncertain look at Jayce, who stayed rooted in place, his gaze troubled.

After a brief hesitation, you complied, following Viktor into the corridor.

The walk to the lab was steeped in silence, tension radiating from Viktor with every brisk step. His jaw was set, his frustration evident in the stiff line of his posture.

Suddenly, he stumbled, his cane skidding against the floor. You lunged forward just in time to catch him as he collapsed against the wall, coughing violently.

"Viktor," you murmured, adjusting to support his weight as he leaned heavily on you. His breaths came in labored gasps, but he didn’t resist your help.

"Maybe we should call it a night," you suggested gently. "You’re not well. I could make you some soup—tomato basil, maybe?" You offered a tentative smile. "It’s the only thing I can cook without setting a stove on fire."

Viktor didn’t respond, his focus elsewhere as you guided him to the lab. Once there, you settled him into a chair and pulled up one beside him.

For a moment, the quiet hum of machinery filled the air.

"When I lived in the Undercity," Viktor began suddenly, his voice subdued, "I knew a man—a teacher of sorts. He once told me that loneliness was the burden of a gifted mind." He turned to you, his expression contemplative. "Do you ever feel that? The isolation, simply because you see the world differently?"

You considered his words, offering a faint smile. "Honestly? No. My parents were... eccentric, to say the least. Borderline mad scientists, but they understood me. Every phase, every crazy idea—I always had them."

Your smile softened. "And now, you have me. And Jayce. Even if we don’t always agree, we’re here for you, Viktor. Right behind you. Always."

His lips curved into a faint, bittersweet smile, though his eyes flickered briefly toward the Hexcore.

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Hours later, you had gone home, leaving Viktor alone in the lab to finish working on the Hexcore. The day’s events weighed heavily on him, the anger and disappointment still clinging to the air like smoke. His hands ran through his hair in frustration.

Sending you home had felt like the right decision at the time, but now that he was alone, a pang of creeping guilt settled over him. He hated that you were caught in the middle of his and Jayce’s ongoing conflict, forced to navigate between them because of your apprenticeship.

Your apprenticeship under Jayce.

The sudden acknowledgment twisted sharply in Viktor's chest. You were bound to Jayce—the Council’s rising star, Piltover’s golden boy. Jayce, who’d leaped into his new role without considering the ripple effects on those tethered to his orbit. On you. On your work. On your future.

If Viktor were your mentor—

He cut the thought off sharply, jaw tightening. It wasn’t his place. But the resentment gnawed at him, clawing at the edges of his resolve. You deserved a mentor who saw your potential, not someone too blinded by his own ambitions to nurture it.

Viktor’s eyes flickered to the porcelain pot sitting on his desk.

Perhaps…

The Hexcore hummed faintly, its glow pulsating in uneven rhythms. Viktor rose, but a sudden wave of nausea pulled him back, his knees buckling as he gripped the desk for support. The fit came hard and fast, wracking his body until crimson droplets sprinkled onto the scattered notes on his desk.

The air thickened, whispers curling like smog around him. His blurred gaze fell to the Hexcore, now spinning in erratic spirals, its light carving shadows that seemed to breathe.

A promise hummed through the static—a tantalizing whisper of hope, of salvation, of Evolution.

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It was early morning when you got the news.

Your breath was labored as you raced past Jayce who had just exited Viktor's room, not sparing him a single glance.

“Viktor!” Your voice jolts the frail man awake as you burst into the room.

“I came as soon as I heard,” you murmur, setting your bags on the chair beside him and diving into them. “I stopped by a few places to pick up things I thought you might need—”

Your words tumble over each other as you pull out a mismatched assortment of elixirs, fresh food, and little trinkets. You barely notice his faint, amused smile as he watches you, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths.

“You’ve brought half the city,” Viktor rasps, his voice weak but carrying a faint warmth.

You pause, finally meeting his gaze. “I’d bring the whole of Piltover if it meant you’d get better,” you say softly.

His smile lingers, though bittersweet.

You feel tears well in your eyes as you stare at your friend. "...How long?" You whisper shakily.

"...A few months," Viktor answered, his voice quiet.

The words hit like a blow to the stomach. Without thinking, you step closer, wrapping your arms around him. Viktor stiffens at first, surprised, but slowly, he returns the embrace.

You cling to him as sobs wrack your body, your tears soaking into his thin shirt. “I can’t lose you,” you choke out.

For a moment, his hand hesitates, then rests lightly against your back. His voice is a faint murmur, “You won't,” Over your shoulder, he gazes at the sketches of the Hexcore, a stark reminder of what it promised him.

The tools are in his grasp now.

The faint smile on his lips remains, but its sweetness curdles, twisting into something spoiled, something unlike himself. His grip tightens—almost imperceptibly—as if tethering himself to you.

"I haven't given up yet,"

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“You should be with them.”

Jayce glances up at Mel, her calm expression a contrast to the weight of his own guilt. She’s right, as usual. Viktor was his partner. You were his apprentice. He should be with you, especially after this morning.

That look on your face this morning... The desperation, the panic. He’d never seen you so raw, so vulnerable, and it made him feel helpless. Useless.

Mel’s hand moves gently through his hair as she speaks, breaking the quiet. “How is Mx. L/N? I haven’t seen much of them lately.”

Jayce stiffens, glancing away. “They’re fine, I think—why?”

Mel shrugs, her tone nonchalant but her gaze sharp. “No reason, just an observation. They seem... distant. Did something happen?”

Jayce falters. Had something happened? You and he didn't talk as frequently as before. He searches his memory but finds only fragments—moments where your attention seemed elsewhere, your words clipped.

“I don’t know,” he admits. A quiet befalls the two of them, only a soft breeze interrupting the silence.

“Maybe I... should be there more. For both of them.”

Mel hums thoughtfully, her fingers stilling. “Perhaps you should. Before it’s too late.”

[OML I LOVE MEL KJENFKJSEDF]

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Jayce hesitated at the door, his hand hovering over the knob. The dim light spilling from under Viktor’s door made his stomach twist. He knew he should have come sooner.

The door creaked softly as he pushed it open, revealing Viktor sitting upright in bed, a sketchpad balanced on his lap. You were slumped in a chair beside him, fast asleep, your face turned toward him with exhaustion etched in every line. Viktor’s hand idly brushed through your hair, his movements slow, almost reverent.

“Jayce,” Viktor greeted, his voice hoarse but carrying that sharp, sardonic edge. “Burning the midnight oil, I see.”

Jayce stepped into the room, his gaze flickering between you and Viktor. “I came to check on you,” he said after a beat. “On both of you.”

“How thoughtful,” Viktor murmured, though there was no mistaking the faint sting beneath his words.

Jayce’s chest tightened. “I didn’t know it was this bad,” he admitted. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Viktor’s smile was razor-thin. “And what would you have done, Jayce? You’ve been occupied. The Council, your reputation, your ambitions—so many pressing matters. Where would I fit?”

The words struck like a blow, and Jayce flinched. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” Viktor’s voice softened, a chilling calm threading through his words. “When was the last time you worked with us in the lab? When did you last look at them and see what this has cost?”

Jayce’s gaze fell to you, the subtle furrow in your brow even in sleep telling him everything he needed to know.

“They’re loyal,” Viktor continued, his hand stilling briefly in your hair. “More than I deserve, perhaps. Certainly more than you’ve earned.”

“Viktor…” Jayce’s voice cracked under the weight of guilt.

“They need someone who sees them. Not someone torn between a dozen different obligations.” Viktor’s hand resumed its slow, deliberate motion, his gaze settling back on Jayce with unsettling clarity. “Loyalty has its limits, after all, and it frays under neglect.”

Jayce opened his mouth, searching for a rebuttal, but found none. Instead, he swallowed the lump in his throat and turned toward the door.

As it clicked shut behind him, Viktor glanced toward the Hexcore sketches. His fingers curled through your hair as he murmured, “You’ll see. Progress waits for no one.”

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Jayce stared at the envelope in his hands. It felt heavier than any paper had the right to be. He had agonized over this decision for days, and yet it still felt like a betrayal.

When he opens the door, the soft clink of tools fills the air. You’re at the workbench, hunched over a half-assembled gadget. The sight reminds him of all the times he would stand over your shoulder and critique you.

“Hey,” he calls gently, but the sound still makes you jump.

You turned, your expression softening into a smile—until you saw the look on his face.

“Jayce?” you asked, worry lacing your tone. “What’s wrong?”

He hesitates. Only for a moment, but still, it felt like an eternity.

“I need to talk to you,” He held out the envelope, his hand trembling slightly. “...about your apprenticeship.”

Your eyes darted to the envelope before back to him. “What about it?”

He hesitated, then forced the words out. “I— Viktor and I thought this might be... better for you.”

You take the envelope, your fingers brushing his briefly. The contact sends a brief flicker of warmth through you, but it’s quickly extinguished by the growing knot in your stomach.

“What is this?” you ask, your voice quieter now.

Jayce rubs the back of his neck, his eyes darting anywhere but your face. “It’s... a transfer of mentorship. To Viktor. He’ll take over as your mentor from now on.”

The silence in the room was deafening.

“It’s for the best,” Jayce said quickly as if the words might soften the blow. “Viktor can give you the attention you nee—”

“Why?” The question escapes before you can stop it, laced with disbelief and hurt. “Did I... do something wrong?”

Jayce winces, shaking his head, “No, it’s not that. You’ve been incredible, really. It’s just Viktor… He’s better suited for this.”

“Better suited?” you repeat, your voice cracking.

“That’s not what I meant." He defended, stepping forward, but you recoiled, the distance between you widening in more ways than one."You deserve someone who can focus on you, who can... help you grow. And with everything going on, I just—”

“You just what?” Your grip tightens on the papers, your heart pounding in your chest. “You don’t want to be my mentor anymore?”

Jayce clenches his fist, but doesn't say anything, unable to look you in the eye.

“I thought...” Your voice wavers as you look down at the transfer forms. “I thought I mattered to you. That this... this partnership mattered.”

“You do,” Jayce says quickly, stepping closer, his hands hovering as if he wants to reach out but can't. “You matter, I promise. This isn’t about that, it’s about what’s best for you.”

“Then why does it feel like you're only doing what's best for you?”

The question hangs in the air, and Jayce flinches as if struck.

Clutching the papers to your chest, you quickly begin cleaning up your station. “Fine,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you jam your now broken gadget into a random drawer. “If this is what you think is best, then, fine.”

Turning away, you leave Jayce standing there, his fists clenching at his sides. The door closes softly behind you, but the weight of what just happened lingers in the room, heavy and suffocating.

Jayce sinks into the nearest chair, burying his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he whispers to the empty air, though he knows the words won’t reach you.

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The lighter flicks in your hand, the flame sparking briefly before you bring it to the cigarette perched between your lips.

The faint burn in your throat as you inhale almost distracts you from the knot tightening in your stomach, replaying the conversation in your mind.

Leaning against the railing, you hold the cigarette loosely between your fingers, smoke curling upward in thin, fading wisps that vanish into the night. Your chest tightens, your gaze slipping to the envelope sitting beside you on the ledge.

You thought you mattered to him.

The sting of rejection mingles with the acrid sting of smoke, and your eyes water. You tell yourself it’s the cigarette.

You take another drag, longer this time, the embers flaring faintly against the darkness.

“Am I interrupting?”

The voice cuts through the stillness, accented and soft. You startle, choking on the inhale, coughing as you fumble to regain composure.

Turning, you find Viktor standing a few feet away, a faint smile teasing the edges of his lips as he watches you struggle.

“Geez,” you rasp, rubbing your throat. “Knocking’s a thing, you know.”

He steps closer, his gait deliberate, his eyes flickering to the cigarette now on the ground. “You smoke?” he asks, voice tinged with curiosity.

“Not often,” you mutter, shifting uncomfortably. “Old habits and all.”

Viktor hums, leaning on the railing beside you. The air between you feels heavier than the night itself. “I heard what happened,” he says, his tone subdued, “I’m sorry.” His hand finds your shoulder, the touch hesitant but grounding.

“You don’t have to apologize,” you reply, toeing the discarded cigarette. “It’s not your fault.”

His hand lingers for a moment before withdrawing. “Perhaps not. But I cannot ignore the role I’ve played in this... shift.”

A bitter laugh escapes you. “Shift. That’s one way to put it.” Your fingers tighten on the railing, the city’s lights blurring slightly as you focus on the ache twisting in your chest. “I don’t even know what I did wrong.”

“You did nothing wrong,” Viktor says firmly, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. It draws your gaze to him. “Jayce’s decision was misguided. Shortsighted.”

His conviction catches you off guard. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Viktor says, his voice softening. “He is distracted, burdened by expectations he barely understands himself. He likely believed this was best for you, but in doing so, he failed to see how much he’s hurt you.”

The words settle heavily. “Maybe,” you murmur, “but it still feels like he gave up on me.”

Viktor’s expression darkens, his hands curling faintly at his sides. “Jayce does not understand the depth of loyalty you’ve shown him. Nor the potential you hold. It is his failing, not yours.”

You swallow thickly, his words cutting through the lingering haze of doubt. “I just... I thought I mattered to him. As a mentor, as a...” You trail off, the word left unspoken, though it hangs in the air.

Silence stretches between you, filled only by the hum of the city below. Viktor’s voice, when it comes again, is quieter but no less steady. “You still matter. To me, at least.”

Your head lifts, his words sinking in. He meets your gaze, his golden eyes steady and sincere. “You are... remarkable,” he continues. “Your dedication and ingenuity should be nurtured, not cast aside.”

Heat creeps to your cheeks, and you glance away, unsure how to respond. “Thanks,” you say softly, the word inadequate but all you can manage.

His lips quirk into a faint smile. He glances at the crumpled cigarette. “Perhaps next time, a cup of tea instead?”

You laugh quietly. “Yeah, maybe.”

With a slight nod, Viktor steps back, retreating into the building, leaving you alone once more. The crisp night air fills your lungs as you take a deep breath.

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You’re standing beside Viktor, the air in the lab thick with tension. Heimerdinger’s voice carries a weight you haven’t heard before as he stares at the glowing Hexcore. “What is that?” he asks, his tone grim.

Viktor’s lips twitch into a smile, seemingly oblivious to the Yordle’s concern. “I call it the Hexcore,” he says. His golden gaze flickers to the device, its pulsing glow reflected in his eyes. “An adaptive rune matrix. Hextech that evolves.”

The Hexcore radiates a heat that makes your skin prickle, like standing too close to an open flame. The sensation grows, an almost oppressive wave of intensity washing over you.

“It’s groundbreaking,” Jayce adds, stepping closer, his voice animated. His words blur, drowned out by the dryness in your throat and the heat clawing at your senses.

The room wavers, the edges of your vision distorting. Viktor’s voice cuts through the haze. “You alright?” he asks, concern threading through his words. His gaze sharpens, catching the sheen of sweat on your brow.

“Fine,” you manage, your voice hoarse. “Just… not used to this.” You force a weak smile, but his eyes linger, unconvinced.

Before he can press further, Heimerdinger speaks again, his tone firm. “You must destroy it.”

Viktor’s head snaps toward him, disbelief flashing across his features. “What?” he asks, his voice almost breathless.

The Yordle’s expression hardens. “If ever you’ve trusted my guidance, trust me now. I’ve seen nations crumble from a single spark, and this—this is no different.”

Jayce moves to block Heimerdinger’s advance. “No. I won’t let you,” he states firmly, his stance unyielding.

The Hexcore pulses faintly, its glow intensifying for a moment. You step back instinctively, the heat becoming almost unbearable.

Heimerdinger’s gaze shifts to Viktor, his voice softening. “You’ve changed, Viktor. What have you done?”

Viktor hesitates, his focus flickering between the Yordle and the Hexcore. “I… I don’t understand.”

Heimerdinger’s eyes narrow, his voice heavy with warning. “That thing must be destroyed.”

The Hexcore flares again, forcing you to take another step back. Jayce and Heimerdinger exchange heated words, their voices rising over each other. Viktor remains silent, his gaze fixed on the device, distant, almost entranced.

As the argument crescendos, Heimerdinger turns to leave, pausing briefly beside you. “Trust your instincts,” he says, his voice low but firm. “And remember, sometimes your abilities are all you have. Don’t let this be your tragedy.”

His words linger as he departs, leaving a strange tension in his wake.

Viktor’s voice pulls you back. “I want you to come with me,” he says, his tone decisive. His hand rests lightly on your shoulder, the touch steady despite the faint prickling heat. “It will be... enlightening.”

Your eyes widen at the offer. “To Zaun?” you ask cautiously. “Does Jayce—”

“Jayce isn’t your mentor,” Viktor interrupts, his tone brooking no argument. “I am. Prepare yourself. We leave tonight.”

━━━━━━━━❪❂❫━━━━━━━━

“I understand now,” Viktor said, his voice steady as he stepped closer to the shadowy figure of his old mentor, Singed. The faint flicker of light from a nearby apparatus illuminated his sharp features. “And I need your help.”

Singed didn’t look up immediately, his hands busy calibrating a device on his cluttered workbench. “And you came alone?” he asked, his tone calm, though a tinge of curiosity threaded through it.

Viktor shook his head. “No. My apprentice waits outside.”

Beyond the lab’s cracked door, you leaned against a ruined wall, exhaling a long-suffering sigh. The stale, chemical-laden air was getting to you, but boredom was the real killer. You kicked a pebble at your feet, muttering, “Some ‘important errand’ this is...”

“An apprentice?” Singed finally turned toward Viktor, his pale eyes narrowing with intrigue. “You’ve grown much, my boy. Why not bring them inside?”

Viktor’s gaze swept over the lab, lingering on the glass capsule at the far end. Inside, the still form of Rio floated, suspended in eerie silence. “They’ll... need time,” he replied, a faint unease creeping into his voice. “Like I did. I don’t want to rush things.”

Singed shrugged, his movements deliberate as he set aside his tools. “What is it you’ve brought to me?” he asked, smoothly shifting the conversation.

Viktor stepped forward, handing over a stack of meticulously prepared notes and a sealed vial. Singed accepted them, scanning the pages with practiced efficiency. “Fascinating,” he murmured. “Your work has matured, Viktor. I would very much like to see the device—this Hexcore.”

Viktor tensed, his gaze flickering back to Rio’s capsule. “That... may be difficult to arrange,” he admitted.

Singed’s expression didn’t change, but there was a weight to his silence. Viktor sighed, stepping closer to the capsule, his voice low with frustration. “I’ve tried every combination of runes. Adjustments. Iterations. Yet the result is always the same: the subject withers. It rots.”

Singed’s brow furrowed slightly, his hands resting on the workbench. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “the fault does not lie with your calculations.”

Viktor’s head snapped toward him. “Then where?”

“With your subjects.” Singed reached for a vial of shimmering, violet liquid, its glow cutting through the dimness. “Nature has made us intolerant to change. Fortunately,” he added, holding the vial aloft, “we have the capacity to change our nature.”

Viktor stared at the vial, unease rippling through him as he took a half-step back. “And this is... shimmer?”

“A variant,” Singed confirmed, walking toward him with measured steps. “It will provide everything one needs to survive a violent transition.”

The vial’s glow reflected in Viktor’s eyes as he hesitated. The liquid pulsed faintly, almost as if it were alive. His cure. His key to evolution, so close he could almost feel its weight in his hand.

“I must warn you,” Singed said, his voice quiet yet deliberate. “If you take this path, they will despise you. Love and legacy—these are sacrifices we make for progress.”

Viktor’s fingers hovered over the vial, his breath shallow. “They will understand,” he said finally, his voice a whisper. “They always have.”

His hand closed around the vial, the glass warm against his palm. For a moment, he studied it, the shimmer within swirling as if in anticipation. He slipped it into his pocket with a flicker of resolve.

“And if they don’t,” he added softly, more to himself than to Singed, “then I will teach them to.”

Without another word, Viktor turned and strode out of the lab. The faint clinking of the vial echoed in his pocket as he stepped into the ruins, the cold air biting at his skin. His eyes quickly scanned the area, finding you crouched by a crumbled wall, lazily tossing rocks into a shallow stream.

He approached and tapped your shoulder, drawing a startled yelp from you. Spinning around, you glared at him, hand pressed to your chest. “Seriously? Can you not?”

“It’s time to go,” Viktor said, his tone clipped, brooking no argument. “I have what I came for.”

You scrambled to your feet, brushing dust off your clothes. "Uh— yeah, right— sorry," you muttered, falling into step behind him.

As you trailed after him, curiosity got the better of you. “Soo... how’d it go?”

Viktor’s stride didn’t falter. “It went... well,” he replied evenly. “I believe I’ve found a solution.”

Your face lit up with excitement. “Wait, really? Does that mean—”

“Not here,” Viktor interrupted sharply, his voice low as his gaze darted to the shadows. “It’s not safe.”

Chastened, you nodded, your excitement dimming as silence fell between you.

The city’s bustle greeted you as you passed into a more crowded district, its vibrancy pulling you from your thoughts. The chaotic energy of Zaun seemed to pulse with life, unlike anything you’d seen before.

“Wow,” you murmured, marveling at the neon-lit chaos. “This is the Undercity?”

Viktor slowed slightly, his expression softening at your wonder. “Yes. It may lack the polish of Piltover, but it is... alive in ways they cannot comprehend.”

You nodded, your gaze darting between the glowing lights and towering structures. “It’s nothing like the stories. It’s... beautiful.”

A faint smile touched Viktor’s lips. “Zaun thrives despite the shadows it’s cast into. Ingenuity flourishes here, even amidst adversity.”

You glanced at him, a grin tugging at your lips. “You’ve got stories about growing up here, don’t you?”

He chuckled quietly. “Zaun teaches resilience, but it is not a kind teacher. Every invention, every triumph—it was survival, not progress.”

“Explains a lot about you,” you teased lightly.

He arched a brow. “Oh? And what does that mean?”

You shrugged, smirking. “You’re like... the world’s most intense puzzle. But lately, I think I’m finally starting to figure you out.”

He chuckled again, a rare warmth in his voice. “And you, my apprentice, remain delightfully open-minded.”

The two of you shared a quiet smile before continuing your journey, the glow of Zaun fading as Progress Bridge loomed ahead.

━━━━━━━━❪❂❫━━━━━━━━

Jayce walks through the smog on the bridge, glancing over the aftermath of last night's attack and the protests. A frown prints itself on his face as he spots two familiar figures near the edge of the bridge.

Anger bubbles just beneath the surface, but he forces his jaw tight, trying to leash it. As he approaches, his boots scrape against the grit of the stone. Viktor is the first to notice him.

“Jayce?” Viktor’s voice is tinged with confusion, his brows knitting together as he gestures toward the blockade. “What is this?”

You sit beside Viktor, a gnawing dread coiling in your stomach. From Jayce's expression, you knew you were in trouble.

Jayce’s voice is low, but it cuts like glass. “Do you two have any idea how this looks?” He glares at Viktor, his words clipped and venomous. “I order a blockade, and my partner violates it, dragging along his apprentice? Are you out of your mind?”

Viktor straightens, the weariness in his frame offset by the defensiveness in his voice. “You ordered this?” His tone is incredulous, his gaze searching Jayce’s face. “Why?”

Jayce’s voice rises a bit as he struggles to remain calm. “There are people down there who seem hell-bent on destroying us. And you—” Jayce turned his fiery gaze towards you, “—you just went along with this? Knowing how dangerous it is? How reckless?”

Viktor’s lips press into a thin line as he exhales, shaking his head. “I was consulting a friend about our quandary,” he says, his words deliberate and firm. “I told you I knew someone.”

Jayce’s eyes widened in disbelief, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You didn’t tell me they were from the Undercity.”

Viktor’s gaze sharpened, a flicker of something dark passing through his eyes. “What difference does that make?” he asked, his voice quiet but loaded.

“They’re dangerous!” Jayce hissed.

The words hang in the air, as Viktor’s gaze hardens, glaring into the other man, “I’m from the Undercity.”

Jayce's expression melts, a donning look mixed with regret appearing on his face. “Viktor, I didn’t mean—” He reached out, but Viktor batted his hand away, leaning on his cane as he stood.

Sighing, Jayce lowers his hand, "Sorry... Was your friends able to help?

Viktor pauses, glancing back at Jayce, "No," he answered, his gaze flickering to you as if telling you to stay silent. "No, he said nature was resistant to this sort of..." His grip on his cane tightens, "tampering."

The silence hung heavy as Viktor turned, his back rigid. You follow closely behind, ignoring the feeling of Jayce's stare on you.

━━━━━━━━

The walk to the lab felt endless, the silence between you thick with unspoken tension.

Once inside, the quiet lingered, broken only by the faint, unsettling hum of the Hexcore. You sat across from Viktor, watching as he wordlessly pulled out a notebook, scribbling away as if nothing had happened.

Your gaze drifted to the two plates of food waiting on the desks—Sky must have brought them earlier. Reaching for one, you broke the silence. “Have you eaten?” you asked softly, though you already knew the answer.

Viktor didn’t look up. “We’ve been occupied,” he murmured, his focus unwavering. “I need to figure out how to…”

He trailed off, and you frowned. Setting your bags down, you approached with one of the plates. “You won’t get far on an empty stomach,” you muttered, setting the food beside him.

For the first time, his pen paused. His gaze flickered to the plate, then to you. “You care too much,” he said quietly.

“And you care too little,” you shot back, leaning against the desk. “Someone has to make sure you’re taken care of.”

A dry chuckle escaped him as he set the pen down, turning his full attention toward you. “I thought you were my apprentice, not my caretaker.”

The word still felt strange—apprentice—but you shrugged. “Aren’t apprentices supposed to help their mentors?”

“And you care too little,” you counter, leaning back in your chair. “Someone has to make sure you’re taken care of.”

He chuckles dryly, placing down his notebook and pen as he turns to meet your gaze. "I thought you were my apprentice, not my caretaker."

You still weren't used to him calling you his apprentice...

You shrug, "Aren't apprentices supposed to help their mentors?"

“They are,” he said, his voice quieter now, his gaze fixed on you. There was an intensity in his eyes that made you falter.

The hum of the Hexcore permeated the atmosphere, a subtle yet resolute drone. It reminded you of flies, their incessant buzzing heralding decay, drawn to what was already doomed. Like a song, featuring a strange, almost living rhythm, curling around your thoughts. You made an effort to ignore it, but the unease it evoked inside of you persisted, a whispered omen through static.

Your gaze stayed locked with Viktor’s, his amber eyes glinting with an intensity that made your chest tighten. For a fleeting moment, you wondered if he heard the hum too— 

“It is rare,” Viktor murmured, his voice low and measured, “to feel so understood.”

—or if it had already consumed him.

The quiet stretched, your pulse quickening as you tried to process his words. Then, without warning, he leaned forward—lips brushing yours.

His touch was gentle, careful, but it felt wrong. The room shifted, the walls closing in as the Hexcore’s hum swelled into an unbearable crescendo, like flies buzzing over decay.

Your mind screamed at you to move, to pull away, but shock froze you in place.

You didn’t know what to do, or how to react.

When he finally drew back, the space between you felt impossibly vast and suffocating all at once. Viktor stared, wide-eyed, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d done. You mirrored his expression, stunned.

“I don’t know,” he cuts you off, his voice quiet but strained, like a violin string pulled too tight. He looks down at his hands, now trembling slightly. “I... I shouldn’t have.”

Your chest tightens as the silence between you grows unbearable. Every instinct tells you to say something, to demand an explanation, but words fail you. Instead, you grab your bags and retreat toward the door, the hum of the Hexcore growing louder in the stillness.

Viktor doesn’t move to stop you.

The door clicks shut behind you, and the faint sound feels deafening. Outside the lab, the air is cooler, but it did little to soothe the burning of his touch.

Inside, Viktor sat motionless, staring blankly at the plate of food. His lips pressed into a thin line, the weight of his guilt suffocating. But it wasn’t guilt over the act itself—no, the guilt came from something far worse.

I don’t regret it, the thought whispered like a vulture circling prey.

His gaze drifted to the Hexcore, its ominous glow pulsing faintly in the dim room. “I’m losing myself,” he murmured to the silence.

The Hexcore’s hum deepened, an almost living response, vibrating through the air like whispered agreement.

━━━━━━━━❪❂❫━━━━━━━━

You lean over the sink, droplets of water sliding down your face and dripping from your chin. The coolness of the water clings to your skin, but it does little to wash away the lingering sensation. His touch. His words. The suffocating hum of the Hexcore.

Your hands grip the porcelain edges of the sink, knuckles white, as you stare at your reflection in the mirror. Your reflection betrays you, every ounce of feeling lingering on its face. The towel wrapped around you feels heavy, suffocating, as though it might drag you under.

You don’t know what to feel.

Three years you've worked with him, learned from him. Even when he wasn't technically your mentor.

You admired him.

You owe him so much. The opportunity he gave you, the trust he placed in you. His unrelenting dedication and care, even as his body betrayed him.

The memory of his lips on yours lingers like an oil slick, something you can’t scrub away no matter how hard you try.

That bond felt scorched, twisted by the memory of his lips on yours. The Hexcore’s hum still buzzed in your mind, incessant like flies, circling something already decaying.

You press your palm to your lips as if to smother the burning sensation.

You splash water onto your face again, desperate for clarity, for some release from the sickening tangle of emotions pulling at you from every direction. Disgust coils deep within you, heavy and unrelenting. Disgust with him. Disgust with yourself.

How did it come to this?

Your breaths come in shallow gasps as your mind races. Could you have done something differently? Said something? Stopped him? But the guilt gnaws at you, whispering that perhaps you’d allowed this to happen, that your care had somehow blurred the lines between what was right and what should never have been crossed.

The buzzing from earlier won’t leave your mind, an ever-present phantom in the background of your thoughts. Flies, their relentless hum circling something already rotting.

You press the heels of your palms to your eyes, willing the image away. You want to cry, but the tears won’t come.

Instead, you exhale a shaky breath and straighten, staring at yourself in the mirror once more.

━━━━━━━━❪❂❫━━━━━━━━

"You can't be serious." Viktor seethed at Jayce, "You aren't actually considering using Hextech as a weapon, and against the undercity!?"

The past two days away from the lab weren’t nearly enough. The noise, the tension—it’s relentless. You find yourself yearning for a simpler time, back before the council, before the Hexcore began to feel like a living, breathing entity between you all.

"I can't—right now—I can't deal with this," Jayce sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I have a council meeting in a few hours. Y/n," he turned to you, his voice softening, "Could you go over these tests while I’m gone?"

You nodded, distracted, your eyes briefly locking with his.

Before you could reach for the files, a sharp voice cut through the tension.

"No."

You and Jayce turned, surprised by the sudden interruption. Viktor stood at the edge of the lab, his gaze locked on Jayce with an intensity that chilled you.

"They are no longer your apprentice, Jayce," Viktor continued, his voice rigid. "Any work they receive will be through me. And me only."

Jayce froze, eyes narrowing in frustration, but Viktor didn’t seem to care.

"Fine." Jayce scoffed, shooting Viktor one last glare before exiting the lab, the door slamming shut behind him.

The tension between you and Viktor hung in the air as silence settled in. Viktor turned back to his work, fiddling with some mechanical components. You returned to your notes, the scratching of your pencil filling the void between you.

The stillness was deafening. Only the clinking of Viktor’s tools against metal and the faint hum of the Hexcore filled the space.

"Shit, where—" Viktor muttered under his breath.

You lifted your gaze, curious, but the irritation in his tone was unmistakable.

"Y/n," he called quietly, "Do you think you can find my needle nose pliers?"

You nodded, mumbling a soft "yes" as you rose from your desk.

You glanced around, quickly spotting the pliers resting right next to the glowing Hexcore. Unease settles in you once more as you stare at the Hexcore.

Did it always look like that?

"Y/n?" Viktor's voice cut through your thoughts, forcing you back into reality.

"Oh— uh, found them."

You mutter, going over the the desk to pick them up. The moment your fingers brushed against the tool, the air seemed to crackle.

The Hexcore flared, and before you could pull away, a tendril of magic lashed out, striking your hand.

Pain seared through your palm, sharp and relentless, making you gasp and stumble back. But it was too late.

The Hexcore surged, and agony radiated up your arm like wildfire.

"Y/n!" Viktor's voice was frantic now, his chair scraping sharply against the floor as he rushed to your side.

Your skin sizzled as the glow of the Hexcore intensified.

A yank on your arm forces your attention away from the burn, Viktor grasped your hand tightly, inspecting the burn. It looked... worse than all the other burns you had received.

"You... You should have been more careful," Viktor murmured, his words shaky, but they felt distant, disconnected like they were coming from somewhere far away. His face was pale, his lips pressed into a thin line as he stared at your burned hand.

Slowly, he drags you away from the Hexcore over to his desk. Viktor grabbed a familiar porcelain pot, its surface cracked but still holding strong. He removed the glass lid, the faint scent of herbs wafting into the air as the greenish liquid within shimmered under the lab’s dim light.

For a moment, his hand hovered over the pot, hesitation flickering in his eyes. He dipped a piece of cotton into the liquid, his movements precise, almost mechanical. Then, with a gentleness that felt strangely out of place given everything, he took your injured hand in his.

The burn throbbed as he dabbed the cotton over it, the cool liquid soothing the worst of the sting. His touch was deliberate, almost reverent, as though he were trying to erase the damage through sheer force of will.

“This isn’t permanent,” he said softly, breaking the tense silence. “It will heal in a few days. You’ll hardly remember it.”

You winced as the liquid seeped into the wound, biting your lip to keep from crying out. “I’ve heard that before,” you muttered, your voice tight.

Viktor stilled, his hand pausing over yours. He stared at the burn for a long moment before he spoke again, his voice quieter this time. “Do you remember the first time this happened?”

You didn’t answer immediately, the memory tugging at the edges of your mind. It was years ago now, back when the lab felt like a sanctuary instead of a battlefield. Back when Viktor’s smile held warmth instead of shadows, the Hexcore was just an idea, not a force that seemed to breathe and pulse with its own twisted life.

“I remember,” you said, at last, your tone guarded.

Viktor nodded, his lips curving into something that was almost a smile but didn’t quite make it. “You were shaking. I thought you might never come back.”

You glanced at him, caught off guard by the faint flicker of nostalgia in his voice. “I didn’t want to. Not after that.”

He hummed, the sound low and contemplative. “And yet you did. You always came back.” His eyes met yours, and for a fleeting second, they softened. “Even when you have every reason not to.”

The words hung between you like a fragile thread.

“I came back because I trusted you,” you said quietly, the weight of the statement pressing down on your chest.

Viktor flinched, the softness in his eyes hardening into something darker. He lowered his gaze, focusing intently on your hand as he wrapped it in a clean bandage.

“You still can,” he murmured, but the words felt hollow like he was trying to convince himself more than you.

The silence stretched on, heavy and oppressive. Finally, Viktor broke it, his voice barely above a whisper. “About… before.”

Your breath hitched, and your stomach churned at the memory. You didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to relive the wrongness of his lips on yours or the way it had made your skin crawl.

“I shouldn’t have…” he began, his tone strained as if the words were being dragged out of him against his will. “It was—” He faltered, his grip tightening ever so slightly around your wrist. “A mistake.”

Viktor didn’t meet your gaze, his focus fixed on the task at hand. But there was something in the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, that made you doubt the sincerity of his words.

“Do you regret it?” you ask.

His hand froze mid-motion, and for a long moment, he didn’t respond. Then, slowly, he looked up at you, his amber eyes burning you.

“No,” he admitted, the word barely audible. “I don’t.”

The air between you seemed to shift, the weight of his confession pressing down like a physical force.

You pull your hand away from his grasp, and he lets you.

━━━━━━━━❪❂❫━━━━━━━━

You wandered the dark hallways, muttering curses under your breath. In your rush to leave earlier, you had forgotten something important in the lab, and now you were back. The sun had long set, casting shadows that made the corridors feel even more oppressive. Every step felt heavier as you neared the lab.

Your hand rested on the door, but you hesitated. A strange purple glow seeped from beneath it. Frowning, you pushed the door open just a little more.

What you saw inside froze you in place.

Viktor stood at the center of the room, clutching the Hexcore as energy surged from it. The room was alive with chaotic power, papers swirling violently in the air. The air crackled with an intensity that almost felt suffocating.

Viktor’s grip on the Hexcore was inhumanly tight, his body convulsing as energy ripped through him. His screams echoed a twisted mix of pain and something darker.

"Viktor!?"

Without thinking, you rushed forward, grabbing his arm in an attempt to pull him away. But the Hexcore seemed to resist, pulling back with a force that threatened to tear you apart.

A searing pain coursed through you, starting from your hand and spreading through your body like wildfire. You gasped, the sensation of your skin sizzling almost audible as you fought to stay on your feet.

An opulent light flared around you, the burns climbing up your body halting and healing quickly but leaving deep, raw scars in their wake. You could barely keep your vision clear as they spread, scarring your face and limbs, only for the wounds to heal just as quickly—leaving deep, jagged scars behind.

Viktor’s strained gasps filled the air as he looked over his shoulder, horror donning in his eyes when he recognized you. He saw the burns, your face raw with the damage, but before he could speak, the Hexcore pulsed again.

A final surge of energy erupted from it, throwing you back, your body slamming against the wall with a sickening crack. The lab was plunged back into silence, save for the distant hum of the Hexcore still glowing ominously in the center of the room,

Viktor gasps, catching his breath as he writhes on the floor. Desperation claws at him as he searches for your body, wi9dening once he sees it on the other side of the lab, blood smearing the wall behind you, a stark red against the pale stone.

“Y/n—” His voice cracked, hoarse and trembling. He dragged himself toward you, his movements slow and unsteady, his desperation palpable.

“Y/n!!”

━━━━━━━━❪❂❫━━━━━━━━

Jayce stood motionless, staring at the still form in the hospital bed. Half of your face was unmarred, a ghost of the person he’d known for years. The other half was ravaged beyond recognition, the skin deeply scarred, a stark contrast that was hard to look at.

Beside him, the doctor spoke, her voice calm but grave. “There’s a spinal fracture. If they wake, they’ll be paralyzed from the waist down.”

“Stop,” Jayce whispered, his voice barely audible. He closed his eyes, as if shutting out her words could make them untrue. “Just... stop.”

The doctor hesitated, then nodded, her expression softening. “I’ll give you some space.”

As she left, Jayce remained rooted by your bedside, his gaze never leaving you. How had it come to this?

You had been more than an apprentice to him—his confidant, his partner, someone who believed in him even when he doubted himself. And now, you were here, teetering on the edge between life and death.

He gently reached for your hand, clutching it as though his grip alone could anchor you to this world. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “No more of this. No more council. I’m done with them. We’ll fix this. I’ll fix this.”

But his words felt hollow, and deep down, he knew he couldn’t undo what had been done.

━━━━━━━━❪❂❫━━━━━━━━

“No one could have predicted this tragedy. Today marks six months since Zaun’s devastating attack on Piltover—”

The radio droned on in the background, but Viktor wasn’t listening.

He stood silently beside the hospital bed, his gaze fixed on you. Your face, marked by the scars left behind, was peacefully asleep. Machines beeped softly in the background, monitoring your condition.

Viktor’s discolored hand hovered just above yours, trembling slightly. His expression was unreadable.

“Soon, my dear,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Soon.”

To be continued...

TagList:

@marcyyywukinnie

[jenscx]

[15] DAYLIGHT — thinking bout you

you didn’t expect karina’s version of talking to be, literal talking. the bright shine of a voice call request makes you rub your eyes in the dark, in disbelief. hesitantly, your fingers press the green accept button. a deep, almost raspy chuckle is the first thing you hear. in the late night, or early morning, it sends shockwaves throughout your body.

“hey, darling.”

a lump forms in your throat. you mumble back, “hi, karina.”

she giggles and the husky tone elicits a warm and tingly sensation across your skin. you wouldn’t mind hearing her voice for the rest of your life. you could only imagine how it would sound in real life, her breathy and gruff voice in your ear. it causes you to shudder. you should really sleep if you were eluding such delusions.

“what’s up with the late talk?” no nicknames, no annoying and snide remarks, just the hint of concern in her words, “do you need help with something?”

you shake your head even though karina can’t see you, “no, just couldn’t sleep.”

“you said you were thinking about stuff. wanna talk about it?”

an involuntary blush rises. you can’t tell the person you were thinking of, that you were thinking of them.

“can’t tell you,” you say in hushed secrecy.

you can almost hear the smirk karina has. “oh really? that’s such a shame. did you just want to hear my voice?” you splutter indignantly, “no way.”

karina laughs. it’s music to your ears.

“it’s okay, darling. i know i have a nice voice.”

your throat constricts and turns dry.

“you’re so insufferable,” you scoff, but unable to deny the fact that the influencer does have a nice voice. a mesmerising one even.

“so,” karina drawls, “what’s the real reason of you texting me at 3am? only my booty calls do that.” a deep pit forms in your stomach. booty calls? just knowing the fact that karina might have had girls at her beck and call made your insides coil up. confused at the unfamiliar feeling, you simply remain silent.

“hm?” she urges.

“i don’t wanna talk to you anymore. bye,” you spit out, eyes narrowed. if anyone were here to witness your current state, they would have immediately darted from your fiery gaze that could kill someone.

“woah,” karina blurts out, “don’t be so haste, darling. i was just kidding.”

you roll your eyes, “and i wasn’t but whatever.” her nonchalant flirting with pet names only fueled the insecurity in your head. guess you were just another girl to play with. if she was so comfortable saying such things, it would only make sense that she’s done it countless of times before. you were probably just an easy target. as your finger hovered over the end call button, karina’s voice rings out again.

“as the winner of the bet, i command you not to end the call,” you can envision her proud grin.

“command? i’m not your dog,” you frown. your cat, bobo, snuggles up to you. if this were any other day, bobo wouldn’t be so affectionate. but maybe he sensed the inner turmoil you faced.

as you stroked his fur, karina says, ��of course not. but seriously, are you not gonna tell me why you texted me?”

i wanted to talk to you because even though you’re the most annoying person alive i’m still madly attracted to you.

“just wanted to talk to someone. all my friends are asleep,” you lie.

“so i was just a second choice? that hurts my feelings, darling.”

“yeah, sorry to break it to you.”

karina guffaws.

“also,” you suddenly remember, “what are we going do on saturday?” you hear rustling from karina’s side, assuming she’s changing positions.

“i actually haven’t thought about it yet. what do you wanna do?”

“don’t you just normally walk around the city and shop?” you ask, recalling karina’s previous vlogs that you definitely did not watch countless times.

karina voice takes on a teasing lilt, “does park yn watch my vlogs? that boosts my ego knowing you hate youtubers.”

“i just saw it on my recommended page, don’t let it get to your head, dumbass. also, i hate a youtuber, not all youtubers,” you say, not bothering to explain any further.

“mhm, sure. anytime you wanna see this pretty face you can just text me instead of watching my videos,” karina says playfully.

you change the subject rather quickly.

“i wanna go to a cat cafe.”

“oh! yeah, actually we can do that. i always wanted to do that,” karina confesses, but then she laughs, “won’t bobo be jealous that you’re meeting other cats?”

“bobo isn’t my boyfriend,” you purse your lips. karina’s voice perks up, “and do you have one?”

you’re bewildered.

“what? have what?”

“have a boyfriend. do you?”

“none of your business, stupid,” you sneer. karina can’t help but pout. “but aren’t we friends, yn? you said we were acquainted on your stream. by now, we should be considered friends.”

you laugh sarcastically, “of course, we’re best friends and i will definitely tell you about my personal love life!”

“actually, i don’t think you have a boyfriend,” karina replies, amused, “you play league, overwatch and valorant. no single person plays all three, and more.”

your eyebrow raises as you bring the phone closer to your ear, desperate to hear more of karina’s voice.

“you play overwatch too, dumbass.”

karina yawns, “whatever, you’re still a stupid virgin who doesn’t have a boyfriend or any love life.”

“shut up, freak. i’m going to sleep.”

she hums, “fine. wear something cute on saturday.”

“that’s like five days away.”

“put in effort for me, ‘kay? i need to milk this bet as much as i can, and a cute yn on my thumbnail would get clicks.”

you snort, “okay.”

“good night, or morning, or whatever. rest well, darling.”

“night, karina.”

her voice is gone. just the beep of your phone.

tossing your phone to the side and almost hitting bobo, you’re unable to stop the grin on your face from forming.

you fall asleep with a smile.

masterlist | next

TAGLIST ! @flolio @imahallucination11 @wallfl9wer @edamboon @seullovesme @twicesserafim @klvarchives @rinapomu @pandafuriosa60 @jisooftme @cwpiqwon @yoontoonwhs @limbforalimb @xen248 @r4cjh @dni-unavailable @yukianism @i3lia @ryujinsdimple @httpisaoki @haerinsloverr @masuowo @multiliker @edenzeepy @1luvkarina @yeetaberry127

[driaswrld]

🪷 — A ROYAL AFFAIR . . . THE SCANDAL OF THE CHILDHOOD CONSORT

LADY DRIA WRITES . . . ˚ ༘ *

🪷 dearest gentle reader, in matters of love and longing, prince satoru comes to the realization that love may only visit the fearless, whilst prince suguru comes to terms with the taste of hope on his tongue... 5k words.

🪷 prince gojo x reader x prince geto jjk regency/royal au, romeo & juliet esque balcony meeting, fruit flavored jealousy.

CHAPTER TWO. . . ˚ ༘ *

GRAPE FLAVORED.

Sleep eludes you tonight.

Two nights have passed since the first feast and despite Areta’s consistent chatter of appearances and well needed fun time for a lady of your stature — you’ve chosen not to attend the others for the time being.

You’re assured that Satoru’s presence at the feasts and balls in between remain slim to none unless called upon by his mother, a notion that you would be grateful for under any other circumstance to dodge the question everyone at the palace court whispers behind your back—

( why hasn’t the prince married her yet? )

—but you miss him.

Embarrassingly so.

With palms outstretched, you cradle your weight against the concrete rail of the terrace adjoined to your bedroom. A wisp of wind cooling your cheeks, realization settling in.

You miss Satoru — your best friend, your person.

You miss when he’d sleepily stumble into your alcove by the palace’s west wing and lay dramatically before you, begging you to paint him or at least sketch the width of his shoulders ; begging you to 'immortalize the omnipotent beauty of the realm’s strongest' — his words not yours.

The way he’d linger by your side, laugh at your jokes and make even cruder ones of his own—

This yearning settled deep within your bones akin to that of a grieving widow doesn’t feel the way it should feel when one misses a friend.

( satoru does not yearn for you in this way, you know it. )

It’s hot, a boiling pit within your stomach and it never leaves your veins—

—not until two nights ago, that is.

Two nights ago when he reappeared.

“Your highness?”

Dearest gentle reader,

in these delicate matters

of love and longing—

“My lady,” Suguru calls out in a similarly hushed fashion. “You're awake.”

Down below the terrace, he stands on the trimmed lawn in his sleep trousers and shirt, dark hair tousled and eyes half lidded — you would've laughed at him if the air between you two hadn't settled with something else.

“I couldn't sleep,” you respond, watching with bated breath as he steps forward, one foot resting atop a raised brick in the mud, eyes trained above, where you stand.

“You often take late strolls, your grace?”

Suguru laughs, breathy, soft. “Your grace,” he repeats your words, mockingly. A few dark strands fall over his eyes as he tilts his head back to look up at you. “You’d think having me in my sleeping trousers alone would be enough for you to discard all formalities—”

( right, this encounter is improper. )

“Forgive me, Suguru,” leaves your lips in correction. You lean further over the terrace rail, body bent in near half to gaze down at him. “It isn't often I speak with men while in my dressing gown.”

“Dear God, I hope not.”

A laugh of your own breaks through and he joins in unison.

So far, and yet so close.

A soft silence soon passes over the two of you under the moonlight.

Suguru, who’d been away for so long, could make years of absence feel null — as if he’d been residing here with you all this time. As if he had been keeping your company in tow, as if the breath of your laugh belonged to him.

As if he hadn't left you.

“I wondered,” Suguru breaks the silence, pale fist wrapping around a stray vine along the wall. “If I would get the chance to speak with you like this.” He whispers, but even from so high above, you hear him clearly in the night's silence.

You know what he means. Just us two. You’ve wondered the same, albeit too often through the years.

Why didn't you write to me? You want to ask. Why didn't you come to visit? Follows next in your brain. Did you move on? Did you fall in love?

( have you been happy away from me? )

“Did you read my letters?”

—often we forget

just how greedy

the heart can be.

“All of them,” Suguru breathes, almost like it hurts to say.

As if it pains him physically to remember how he tore the wax seals open with his teeth, licked the flap of the envelopes and nearly cried when it tasted of you—

“More than once, more than I ought to.”

Suguru grips the vine tighter in his fist, stilling himself and invoking restraint. This isn't his place, not anymore.

If he had it his way, he’d be on the terrace with you, and he’d tell you every thought he had about each word you’d written, with his hands, his teeth, his tongue.

“Suguru. . .”

It reminds you too much of your childhood.

Often you would chase after Satoru and Suguru.

Always both, never one.

And though you knew your fate as a Princess — who would marry a crowned Prince — your foolish heart, so greedy and naive. . .

“I have my obligations.” It leaves your lungs like a lie, something you won't even begin to believe.

You're betrothed to Satoru. It's set in stone.

But the both of you know that's not why you're saying no. “The solstice ends in a week and you will be—” He'll be gone again.

“I’ll not wait a whole week.” Suguru’s voice is still quiet, but even you can't deny the raw hunger behind his words. “If I apologize and say that I wish—”

“You will do no such thing,” you warn, shakily. “Not now, not. . . because of this.” Not because in nearly every way that matters, you’re Satoru’s.

( i wish i told you. i wish i wasn't too late. i wish )

Suguru wished he had stayed.

He wished he had made do on the promises he made to you as children and been at your side, not just as your friend but as the man you would marry—

All those things he had sworn upon his own heart. . .

“Who’ll marry you if you spend your days swinging a sword and broadening your shoulders?”

“And if I say I will, what then?” Suguru had scoffed at your cousin back then. At the mere age of twelve.

“Aren’t there girls your age you can follow around? I don’t care if you’re a princess, we’re not friends.”

“Don't be so crass, Satoru.” Suguru grumbled, grabbing ahold of your hand and tugging you forward the moment you fell behind. “She's my friend.”

( and yet. )

Lady Dria writes : Prince Geto to assume royal estate in the North following rumored betrothal to mystery woman! Is this the end of our beloved royal trio?

( duty came first. )

“I don’t know why you’d believe he’d ever want to court you.”

“I’ll let you keep your tongue,” Satoru scoffed, stepping between you and one of the ladies at court the day after Suguru left. “But address the Princess so loosely again and I swear—”

That night, you cried in the confines of Satoru’s private chambers, your fingers bleeding ink and red wax staining the front of your dress.

What was her name? How long had Suguru known it was arranged? Why didn't he tell you? If you ask him now, will he tell you? Is he ever coming back?

Does he love her?

And it was then, when you didn't have any more words to write, nothing left to say to Suguru that he might not have known, did Satoru tell you,

“I’m here.”

And you believed him.

“Name—” Suguru calls to you and you shake your head, straightening your posture and leaning off the terrace rail. “I wanted to say it before, you were gorgeous at the first solstice feast. . . Still are, even after so long.”

Suguru bites back the words he really wanted to say. I dreamt of you, you look the same.

“You flatter me,” it leaves you breathily, and the beats of your heart elude your better judgement.

“Perhaps, silken gloves suit you, my lady.” Suguru's words hold an undertone that’s lost on you in the moment, yet still you smile at him.

He doesn't see the expression on your face when you turn away, craning his neck to find something— some inclination that he has a chance—

“Goodnight, your highness.” In your voice he finds it, that small sliver of nostalgia, and his heart grasps it in earnest.

Beloved reader,

I fear I must also

impart the knowledge—

Satoru stops dead in his tracks, a single peach colored rose falling from his palm.

—that there are always

three sides to a story.

From across the way his cerulean eyes lock with Suguru’s darker ones, and there is nothing to be said, as they both know what the other is thinking.

You are not worthy of her.

Morning gives way to the first of three hunting days.

As per the terms of the competition, all commoners go ahead before nobles to keep the proceedings fair.

Satoru sits still atop his horse, cerulean orbs downcast and flitting through the mass of bodies in the crowd riding ahead of him.

“Have you and Suguru finally fought?”

Satoru’s eyes widen for a brief moment, turning his head to the side and loosening his grip on the horse’s reins, his mother standing at his side, caressing the mare’s mane with jewel adorned fingers.

“I’ve no idea what you mean, mother.”

The older woman scoffs, the horse leaning eagerly into the touch of her palm.

“When you and Suguru were but meek babes, you two had your first fight you know.” Satoru’s mother smiles a little at the memory.

Back then, both boys were merely toddlers and squabbling with tiny fists over nothing but a simple rattle.

Neither would concede to the other.

Even so young, they fought as they still do to this day. As rivals, as best friends.

“Did I win?” Satoru asks, lifting his gaze to the scenery of dawn before him, drowning out the eager shouts of men and women alike, placing their bets for the competition to come.

“No,” she responds and Satoru’s lips curl into a small frown. “The rattle you fought over snapped in two, ‘toru.”

This isn't about a rattle, is it?

“I won't concede, if that’s what you’ve come to ask of me.” He affirms, and his mother shakes her head, stifling a laugh.

“She isn't a rattle, nor is this a battlefield—” Satoru’s mother is observant, painfully so. “I asked your father to arrange the match myself for the sole purpose that I know you care for her, and I would not subject you to a fate not of your choosing—”

( she can choose, whereas a rattle could not. that is the sole difference is it not? )

“But you would have me sit here and let her choose him?”

Satoru Gojo is many things.

Selfish, spoiled, strong. Greedy even.

He fights for what he wants and he remains determined to win no matter what.

But when it comes to you. . .

Doting reader,

our beloved Prince Satoru

has yet to realize—

“I did not raise a selfish fool. Maybe a proud fool but not a selfish one—” She smacks the side of his leg to which he immediately recoils with a pout on his lips. “You never win love, you earn it.”

As if love can be akin to fleeting favor.

“I am selfish,” Satoru confirms, not shy of shame though. “She would hate me for it, if she doesn't already.” He hangs his head for a brief moment, a puff of a sigh leaving his parted lips. “But can you blame me?”

Satoru is many things.

But not blind.

How can he tell you that he cares for you, that he’s fallen helplessly and carelessly in love with you knowing that he’d be imprisoning you to a fate he loathes?

Whispers behind your back the more you are seen with him or without, the more he puts off the betrothal, the more he leaves your side the more he hopes you’ll learn you don't want him—

That this life, at this palace is less than you deserve.

And yet. . .

—that love is not

a war you march into

of your own accord.

He’s selfish.

“Have you asked her what she wants?”

No, because he’s afraid you’ll say what he wants you to. That you don't want him.

That by the hour you grow more miserable the more he keeps you waiting, tethered by a short thread just waiting to snap—

Satoru convinced himself that if he waited just a little longer, that maybe you’d grow tired and snap the thread all together in one go.

And then the marriage wouldn't happen, you’d contest it and he'd agree. He could keep you close like before, without breaking your heart, even at the cost of his.

“Satoru.” His mother warns, deep azure boring into the side of his face. “That debutant at the dinner—” God forbid she did raise a selfish fool, who would selfishly self sabotage—

“I never touched her.”

“You say that and then you do these things as if I'm to be convinced you've changed.” His mother sighs, as if history has come around to repeat itself. “You don't even realize you're clutching your end too tight.”

And you’ll break if he doesn't let go.

“I can't tell her.”

“You must.”

Who is he to condemn you to the life of a Queen?

In the same way his father did his mother?

That spark in your eyes will go dim, and he’ll watch you give yourself to your duty and it’ll kill him, even worse than you not wanting him will.

He’d prefer you hate him altogether.

“Are you happy with father?”

Darling reader,

perhaps love

only visits the fearless.

“Your father is a good man.”

Satoru would rather die by his own hand before he hears those words from your lips too.

“My lady?”

You visibly wince, cowering behind one of the marble columns in the ballroom.

The few chandeliers that provide light do little to help your situation as Areta’s voice had already notified a few of the dancing nobles of your presence — to which you were met with confused stares.

“Please, keep your voice down.” You hush her, sliding around to the other side of the column where Areta stands, eyes wide and curious.

Areta’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, her lips parting, about to question your odd behavior.

You're hiding. Or at least trying to.

You had no choice in coming to tonight's festivities, as you were already knee deep in your pre-arranged afternoon nap when your dearest mother barged in and asked ( read : demanded ) that you attended tonight's ball to quote en quote ‘keep up appearances.’

With much practiced skill, you’ve eluded Satoru and Suguru by barring yourself in your room recently.

But, cowering behind a column won't get you far, right?

“I don't think hiding is what I mean when I encouraged you to have fun, my lady.” Areta speaks hushedly, joining you behind the column, two full glasses clutched between her fingers. “And if it’s the Prince who you—”

“Oh, spare me, which one?” You chuckle, tilting your head back onto the marble with an eye roll.

“You’ve had trouble with Prince Geto too?” Areta gasps, though not shocked, the young girl's eyes gloss over with curiosity — ever the devoted gossip.

( perhaps if you stay here and sip drinks with Areta, no one will even notice your presence ! )

Devoted reader,

our protagonist

has a pattern of

terrible judgement.

“Hardly trouble, I’m afraid.” You take one of the glasses from Areta’s hands and bring the rim to your nose — grape juice. How fitting. “Trouble would be better, I can handle trouble.”

What you can't handle is both your childhood friends driving you mad with feelings you never even knew existed.

One who torments you with mixed signals and provokes new feelings in the pit of your stomach.

And another who stirs and awakens old feelings inside of you that you thought were long lost.

“Well, I doubt trouble is what you need presently, my lady.” Areta chuckles a little, her voice soon trailing off as she takes a sip of her own drink. “Oh! You wore them—”

“I thought perhaps,” You murmur, more to yourself, fingers fiddling with the edge of your silk gloves – the same black ones from a few nights ago. “I’d wear them once more before I set them aside.”

Now that you think about it, Satoru never said anything about the dress or the gloves — not that it matters to you anyway.

Faithful reader,

it matters.

Too much.

“They're quite beautiful, as are all Prince Satoru’s gifts.” Areta affirms with a soft smile as you drink from your glass, leaning off the column and straightening your posture. “But, I thought he usually had more of an affinity for lace—”

“I was called?”

You jump just a little, turning immediately to meet the source of the intrusion, to which you bump straight into Satoru, spilling the contents of your cup on both of you.

“I’m sorry—” “Grape juice—”

You take a few steps back, immediately crouching to retrieve your fallen cup, but Areta beats you to it, not shy of shooting you a quick wink before she scurries off into the crowd. Deviant.

“You don't like the wine tonight?” Satoru hums, outstretching a hand to pull you to your feet, and you hesitate for a moment.

Only for a moment.

“I didn't think drinking would be wise,” You take his hand, silk sliding soft against his awaiting palm. You don't miss the way his shoulders tighten. “And grape juice—”

“Is your preferred drink of choice, I know.” He finishes, cerulean orbs gazing into your very soul.

You can feel the thrum of his pulse speeding up against your fingertips, calling you, like a siren song. . .

( you should've stayed in bed tonight. )

Admittedly, Satoru was never the type to drink either. He could never hold his alcohol, hated the taste, even if it was just a drop in fermented fruit.

Grape juice was his drink of choice.

And then it became yours.

“I’m sorry, again.” It leaves your lips in a hurry as you look away from him, pulling your hand back as soon as you're upright. “My head must've been somewhere else. . .” Last night on the terrace. Your mind remains there.

Is Suguru going to magically appear too?

You furiously rub a fist over the purple stain forming at the front of your gown. “I need to change my dress—”

“It's not your fault, silk can be slippery.” Satoru bites back a grunt, bringing a palm to your elbow as he guides you off to the side, towards the adjacent corridor. “Come, I’ll help.”

Silk.

( what's his problem with the gloves? )

You follow his lead, a sigh escaping your lips as you both come upon the nearest alcove in the dim light.

You can barely see the velvet cushioning of the sofa tucked away neatly in the back.

The soft moonlight falling through the open window brings a sense of calm when you take a seat, eyes catching on the violet smudge against Satoru’s pearl white vest.

Often in your youth between balls, you, Satoru and Suguru would sneak off to the nearest alcove you could find, pry the window open and sit together on the sill—

“Your vest—” He follows your gaze as he bends a knee, kneeling at your feet casually.

Satoru presses his middle finger over the damp fabric, and unabashedly sticks the digit into his mouth. “Mhm, that's grape juice.”

“Satoru!” You scold.

He only laughs, strands of snowy hair bouncing with each shake of his shoulders. It's a very Satoru-like laugh, but there's something else you can't quite place—

“It's just a juice spill, I’ll live.” Satoru’s smile dips into his cheeks. Dimples. “Hated this stupid thing anyway, I should be thanking you for ridding me of it,” he murmurs, rolling his shoulders back to slip the vest off, muscles taut against his shirt with each movement of his arms.

“Hey— hey—!” You raise your palms to push against his chest to stop him, heat rising at the back of your neck. “Don't do that—” It comes out too late because Satoru is in the middle of rolling the vest off his arms. "You can't just undress—"

The way Satoru only leans forward, shades of azure searching your gaze for something, it's like he's daring you to not look away as he slips the vest off his arms bent behind him.

( why did you run away from me? )

You hold his gaze, the longest you have in days, manicured nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.

( why didn't you give chase? )

“Name,” he whispers, as if he’s holding back, but he refuses to look away from you. Not right now.

“Don't look at me like that, ‘toru. . .” You whisper, and it takes everything inside you not scream at him, to say everything you've been wanting to say, everything that's burning your insides.

( don't look at me as if you know desire. )

“Name.” Satoru calls your name, firmer this time, just as his vest drops to the floor behind him.

His knees burn, or maybe his eyes — he doesn't know, his mouth has gone dry and oxygen eludes him.

He's not how he was in your youth.

Satoru slides a pale hand up to grasp one of your palms against his chest, pads of his fingers hooking under the dark silk, and in one fluid motion, he's pulling the glove off your hand.

“That's disrespectful,” you breathe, voice barely audible, the echo of classical instruments sauntering through the vacant corridor. “You can't have two times the favor in any competition—”

“It's not your favor I want.” Satoru grasps the silk in his palm, biting back a grimace.

I’m jealous, he wants to say. Instead he leans closer, and without letting go of your bare hand, he’s aiming to toss the glove over your shoulder and out the window.

“Satoru—!” You retract your hand from his chest to paw at the glove, trying to get it back, and his breath tickles the skin of your throat, his eyes looking down at you, only this time a few shades darker — royal blue, cobalt.

Perhaps, silken gloves suit you, my lady.

( so that's what suguru meant. . . )

“Are you—”

“Jealous? Me? Never.” Satoru rasps the words out like a cancer, his heart seizing and doing somersaults against his ribcage.

“I have to commend Suguru though, the North does make the finest silk. . . Any lady would be glad for such a gift,” he whispers. Even praising Suguru is like an act of surrender to him.

“I wasn't going to say jealous, my Prince.” Your brain melts to a mush of questions.

Satoru isn't jealous because of you— no, that can't be right— he’d be jealous if someone bet on the same horse race as him and won—

( you’re thinking too much, name. )

It's the assessment of his audacity that has the back of your neck heated.

Satoru bites down on his bottom lip, and for a second he squeezes his eyes shut.

Everything burns, it's a miracle he can still see straight.

“What were you going to say?”

You swallow, hard.

Satoru’s face is so close to yours that every word he speaks reverberates through your being like electricity. “I was going to ask if you were okay.” A half truth, really. "Your vest is stained—"

First, you were going to ask if he’d lost his damn mind.

“God, name.” Satoru grunts, dropping the glove dramatically onto the velvet sofa, instead moving his hand to cage you between his arms, his hips against the outerskirts of your dress. “You don't even know what you're doing. . .”

His lips curve into a smile, dimpled cheeks staring back at you.

“Satoru—” It’s innocent enough, the way he leans forward enough to press the side of his face against your cheek.

It’s innocent enough, the way his hand grips your hip, firm and reassuring, the way he’d guide you on horseback. You only pretended not to be good so he'd teach you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes against the shell of your ear, his lips soft against your burning skin.

“Do you even know all the ways a woman can be seduced?” It's a sultry tease that has your nails digging into the sofa under you.

Silk gloves, he wants to say. Men seduce women with silk.

Satoru dips his head in a swift motion, his mouth planting a ghost of a kiss to the corner or your lips, and his dimples deepen when your head moves forward to chase his taste, something you’ve never had but crave with every inch of your being.

“Satoru.” You whisper, desperate. He hates himself for wanting this so bad.

He doesn't make you wait long as he presses his lips to yours, it's rough, hungry — he sighs into your mouth, shoulders drooping like he’s finally found what he's been searching for all his life on your tongue.

He’s kissed you before, on the cheek, side of your neck, corner of your mouth — tasted the salty tears of your youth, licked his lips and drank in the remnants of your flavored lipgloss.

He was too young then, too foolish, too afraid to want more.

Satoru’s tongue slips past your parted lips, teeth on wet pink muscle and a shiver runs down his spine when he tastes you, truly tastes you for the first time.

Grape flavored and starving.

Your hand reaches for the collar of his shirt to tug him closer, to pull him deeper into you.

Slender fingers wrap around your wrist and your body trembles, unravelling, unravelling for him until—

He stops.

“Name,” Satoru breathes it in a broken whine, lips wet and swollen with you, each exhale he makes tickles your chin. “We have to stop.”

He’s made a mistake. A foolish one.

“‘Toru, it's okay,” you urge him, moving to pull him closer but his grip on your wrist tightens, keeping you still.

A frown forms on your lips when you see his gaze downcast, unable to meet you, and that gleam in his eyes — guilt.

“We should stop.”

Darling reader,

we all know

how the saying goes. . .

“Why?” The way it leaves your mouth so innocently, so small, in the same tone you had when you were little, chasing behind him no matter how he tried to leave you behind—

( why won't you look at me? )

It makes Satoru hate himself more.

“I’m a gentleman.” Satoru clears his throat and rises to his feet, folding his vest haphazardly over his arm. “You're a lady— a Princess— I can't just. . .”

“You can't just what?” Satoru doesn't recognize the bite behind your voice, the thread he kept toying at with razor blades finally thinning out, ready to snap and break apart. “You can't take me in a dark corridor as you do the other girls?”

He sputters.

It is that. But it's also so much more.

“Princess—”

“No.”

Nothing has changed. And you're not stupid, maybe slow, but never stupid. This isn't about a grape juice spill. It isn't about titles or being respectable.

( it’s about the three of you. )

Is it jealousy? Is this all about a stupid pair of gloves? About his pride? Why? Because he won't let Suguru win even if it means—

“Look at me.” Satoru is slouching in front of you, holding out his palm for you to take. He’s sincere, raw. “I swear to you, the way I feel about you cannot be likened to a secret in a corridor.”

( and yet, you always wished you were one of those girls with him in a dark corridor. )

. . . it's all downhill

from the first kiss.

“Your excuses again—” Satoru steps back when he feels silk stinging against his outstretched palm in a slap of rejection.

The glove he pulled off your hand, the glove Suguru gave to you, falls to the floor.

“And what even is it that you feel?” Your tone reverberates through his bones and Satoru’s considering finding purchase on his knees, where he’d show you what exactly he feels, he'd drink you in, drown in you and be done with the aftermath. “Do you enjoy this? Making me feel like a fool while you stay the bachelor—”

“This engagement was never my choice!” Satoru’s tone raises an octave, brows dipped and frown deep. “And I never—”

That's not what he means to say, not now.

( i never touched another since i laid awake thinking of you. )

“And that's why you won't touch me? Because I'm not your choice, I'm your duty?”

“God, ofcourse I want to touch you—” A guttural groan leaves him then, a rumble in the back of his throat. “If you would just understand—”

He’s a gentleman. Is what he says every waking moment he spends lying to himself that this is for you, that this is for your own good. . .

Because he knows—

( if he touched you now, he’d never stop. )

“Even now you can't say it.” How long have you known Satoru? How long have you been by his side, or rather, chased after him while he remained out of your reach? How long— “That you want me.”

It's almost comical, the way Satoru’s breath hitches in the back of his throat and the palm at his side forms a fist.

He wants you.

“Say it.”

Tell me you want me, tell me it’s me, tell me you feel what I feel too—

“I can't.”

You don't deserve this, I can't give you what you want, hate me so it hurts a little less—

You rise to your feet, the grape juice bleeding into your dress forgotten. “I always thought you were the bravest person to ever live. . .” The strongest. Prince Satoru, the realm’s omnipotent son — “You’ve fought in all these wars and you’ve fought and fought—”

Ever since you were children.

Satoru was every bit a soldier, princely and polished to perfection with his blade. He’s never lost a battle, you're sure, poets write about him.

( what does it feel like to be fought for? )

“Why won't you fight for me, Satoru?”

Satoru Gojo is many things.

Selfish, spoiled, strong. Greedy even.

He fights for what he wants and he remains determined to win no matter what.

But when it comes to you. . .

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Sorry, I’m so selfish. Sorry, I don't want you to leave. Sorry, it should be me and not him.

Sorry, I'm paralyzed in love with you.

He’s not asking you to stay.

This is what he wanted, right? For you to hate him — who is he kidding, you wouldn't hate him even if tried to make you — for you to realize he isn't what you need.

“You won't even give me one reason to stay.” Your throat hurts, you can still taste his tongue in your mouth, grape and mint, mint and grape. “Of all things, I never thought you to be such a damn coward—”

“I’m the Prince, for fucks sake!”

Your lips part then shut again, and Satoru takes a step back. This barrier between you two was always there, wasn't it? Invisible, cold to the touch.

Don't question me, I'm the Prince, he had said the day you asked him why, why can't I come play with you and Suguru?

( why won't you let me in? what are you so afraid of? )

“Then if it pleases the Prince,” It comes out shakier, in a voice that's barely your own.

Satoru picks it up before you do, you sound like a child — the same way you used to when he left you behind. “I’d like to be dismissed.”

The Prince.

Not your Prince.

( does a heart make noise when it shatters? )

“No,” Satoru steps forward, and you step back. It's like a sick game now, and with every thrum of his heart he swears he’ll die. “Name— just. . . no.”

He’s selfish. He knows that.

After this you’ll run off to Suguru won't you? And he’ll be there with open arms and words as soft as silk—

Satoru would know. Because he did the same thing once Suguru left.

But that was before it was this, before this was everything, before—

“Then forgive my defiance to the crown tonight.” You murmur and turn away, the glove is left behind.

Satoru is left behind.

You never win love, you earn it.

L’Incomparable is hardly the jewel on Satoru’s mind when you walk away from him for the second time.

( before he knew he loved you. )

🪷 taglist : @angelshimaa @yunymphs @todorokies @satocidal @maeby-cursed @rinniessance @cinnaboonn @shegetsburned @starry-grace2 @selfishdoll @shuuennovirche @wishmemel @riaki @yazzzmints @aphroditisxc @gojorbit @izakyun @satoruoo @irisxyphium @zwtari @/lollipop974 @r0ckst4rjk @softgirlgonehaywire @lilvampirina @brianmaysclog @/baepsays @xxemmarldxx @/adoraspace @/hikaorinx @/lanecass @/theloveofnagiseishiroslife @/bajbbq @/jiraiyaisgod69 @/gojo-sunglasses @/in4rizaki @/chimsblogg @xkittiecatx @lordbugs @soultoru @ladytamayolover @the1exiled @pasta-warlord @drogonfruitzen @sexeyess @siren776 @v0ctin @scinclaitnoir @gugggu6gvai @shartnart1 @nnanamii @vanevafu @lillmyg @nikitopia @altyx @beaniedoodz @fubukeys @simpforramenboy @sinnerstardoll @coco-cat @melancholia-k

[fanficsbyme-causeimgay]

Imagine, if you will, you have been hiking. Regardless of your disability that gave you problems walking, hiking was an activity you loved doing.

Sadly, one day, that disability does not help.

You trip and fumble, rolling down a hill. Thankfully, you haven't broken anything, but you have lost your backpack that had the means to contact others to help you. Your phone broke, but even if it hadn't broken, you wouldn't have any signal.

Lying there in pain because of the many injuries you've sustained - as minor as they might be, they're still painful - you just see a shadow looming above you.

When you wake up next, you're in a cabin in the middle of the woods. The owner and sole person living in it is what can only be described as a lumberjack. Big man with thick arms and even thicker and strong voice that was a lot gentler than you'd expect from a man of his size. He helped you, he took you from where you were and brought you to his home - Here you have been for three days until now. He lives away from proper civilization, and although he has an emergency kit, he doesn't really use it, and some things have expired already. He can't exactly leave you here because it would take him days to get to the closest town, and you can't possible be by yourself for so long in the state you're in!

So he stayed.

As he lives alone and you're taking his only bed, he sleeps on the ground. At first, you felt really guilty about it - it is his house, so he should sleep on the bed! - but he keeps insisting that this wasn't the first time he slept on the ground and probably won't be the last. Still, you insist that at least you share, right? But it is awkward to share the bed with a stranger. So, why not become friends? That way the awkwardness will fade away... right?

You learn a few things about him. Very important things indeed.

He loves star fruits. His favorite color is green. He is an avid reader of what he explained to you to be scientific texts about soil and rocks (he went on and on about the differences between various types of rocks). He has taken to the art of woodcarving. And he also loves bears! He has made various small hand sized little bear statues that he has all around his house.

Talking about his house, although you have been mostly confined to the bedroom, you have seen a bit of it, mainly the kitchen. After a week of living together, you can finally move your body without too much pain or strain on your muscles, but walking still eludes you, cane or no cane. It is too painful. Maybe you tore something? Regardless, he sets you down on a chair he most likely makes himself and talks about whatever he wants as he makes dinner, and he is a good cook! He lives alone, so he has to be... Or make food good enough to eat.

He loves soups, too. "They're easy to make, hut hard to truly master." Is what he said when you asked about it... and it kinda makes sense.

One week turns into two, and you're starting to move around a little more, and that's when he takes you outside. It was cold, very cold, and that is when you find out he lives on top of a mountain. Without windows in his house ("I don't like them for... personal reasons."), you didn't really know you were higher up, but it was a beautiful, beautiful place... Miles and miles of forest as far as the eyes could see - and you could see your original trail too. It was two or so miles away and a steep drop down, too.

He sat you down by the porch and you two just watched the horizon as the sun set down before going back inside... it felt weirdly romantic.

Maybe that was when things started.

You began to help him with cooking - just small things. "Let me cut the potatoes for you." Oh yeah, he grew them and a bunch of other things too. He likes gardening, too... "Let me help you with that!" Or a good ol' "You look like you need some help."

And soft touches when reaching out for the same thing became more natural. Touches become more natural. Sleeping on the same bed becomes natural. Cuddling becomes more natural. And that was when you noticed it - He was gruff with it. He just told you: "I turn into a big bear sometimes." Like was the most common and perfectly normal thing for a big guy like him to do!

"Uhm, like, regularly?"

"Whenever I want to."

"...can I see that?"

And he shows you. He is big. He is brown. He is fluffy.

Secrelty, he is also extremely happy that you didn't freak out and tried to run away. He is even happier when you literally cuddle the fuck out od him.

But time, as always, moves on.

You were well enough to return to civilization. And he knew that, so he told you that the next morning, he would bring you to the nearest town. As a last farewell, he made a campfire, and you both sat together and watched as thunder rumbled above your heads. The dark clouds rolling in as rain would soon fall - and that is when he pulls out a simple guitar.

"...can I sing you something?" He asks, nervous. "I don't make any promises about the quality. It will probably suck."

"I would love to hear it." You say.

And he sings -

And when he finishes, you can't help it.

You don't wanna leave.

That night, you both did kiss, like real people do.

[chaoticbardlady99]

Could I request a fluff fic for Astarion falling for a tav reader who's a bard and an amazing singer? Maybe he can't sleep, so he goes for a walk and finds reader singing to themselves, and he sits and listens, slowly realizing how hard he's fallen for them?

Thank you so much for putting this in my inbox! I hope you enjoy!

Astarion x GN! Bard Reader

I used the songs Nobody Knows Me At All by the Weepies and Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls because I am a cliche.

  The moon glows brilliantly throughout the night sky and the stars don’t seem to realize how lucky they are that they don’t have to deal with feelings and masters and all the other terrible side effects of being a person. 

 In spite of his name sake, Astarion does not have the luxury of being blissfully unaware of the horrors life has to offer. It didn't bother him so much- he took each terrible thing as it came and rolled with the punches. Whatever it takes to keep him alive until the next day- it’s essentially his life motto. 

  Another thing stars aren’t burdened with- the need for rest. 

 Traversing into the Shadow Cursed Lands is the last thing Astarion wants to be doing and while he was already worried for himself, he found he has an entirely other worry weighing heavily on him. 

 Where in the hells are they? He thinks, its been an hour and a half now since they wandered off! 

 He is trying to not be so clingy and weird- you don’t seem to mind his company and his overbearing ness, but the others had been teasing him and he was rather sore about it. 

 They called him a lovesick bat amongst other things and he is not lovesick. You are a means to an end, nothing more and nothing less. Granted, no one else needs to know that.

 Sleep continues to elude him as he waits impatiently to hear your footsteps walking back into camp or your scent to come rolling over him from the breeze.

  It’s probably only been 30-45 minutes- realistically- but Astarion has found himself becoming very preoccupied and aware of your safety. 

 You are a squishy mortal- your heart needs to beat and you need to breathe or he will lose you and he can’t fathom the idea of not having you by his side.

 His idle feet drag him to the forest, no longer able to sit and wait for you to make a reappearance.

 I just need to make sure they are safe, he thinks, because otherwise I am not sure they would keep me in the group- yeah! That’s why I’m doing this. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

 While most feel terrified of the darkness of the wilderness at night, he feels comforted and engulfed in it. He loves the sun, but unfortunately, at the end of the day, he is still a creature of the night and that is where he technically belongs.

 He supposes that’s another worry he’s had lately- an intrusive thought really- but what happens when this journey ends? You and the others assured him that they will free him from Cazador forever- Astarion even became a bit emotional when Gale said, “and he won’t find you alone!” when Astarion brought up the dangers of keeping him in the group. 

 You have rallied around him this whole time and stuck your neck out for him more often than not. The two of you have indulged in each other and been enjoying each other’s company, but right now he’s here and you may just not be attracted to the others.

 What happens when everyone gets back to Baldur’s Gate? He’s seen you in pubs before and playing so the bar goers can stay on tune with the singer. You have your own little following of people who crave your attention and while you have told him it all makes you uncomfortable- those people would be a far more appropriate life match for you than a Vampire. 

 Astarion’s ears droop on their own at the thought. He thought he got out of the childish elven habit of slouching his ears long ago when Cazador beat it out of him- you seemed to have brushed off some of the vines. It’s like old parts of a factory are slowly being restored and as it is, he finds pieces of himself he subconsciously knew were there, but are new to him again. 

 For example- he loves a good practical joke just for good fun. He bought a cushion of sorts from Mol and put it where Lae’zel sits- covered with a blanket. She sat down on the log for her watch as quite literally everyone was sitting down to eat dinner. He fell off his seat he was laughing so hard- it was worth being chased up and down a few trees. 

 He also enjoys dancing for fun- you dragged him around the fire during the night of the Tiefling party and taught him more informal dancing and less of the stuffy shit Cazador forces him to partake in. You growled at anyone who tried to cut in- it was rather funny.

 You are also quite the fan of the occasional shenanigan and he finds himself smiling at the memory of your baby hairs stuck to your sweat slicked skin as he kept watch for guards while you graffitied Vlaakith’s painting or when you waved at her instead of bowing.

 Life is fun with you- he forgot why people enjoy being alive so much outside of not feeling ravenous all the time. He feels alive with you and the idea of you and him never seeing each other again for your entire life scares him. He doesn’t want to stumble upon an obituary some time in the future and ‘remember’ the person who saved him.

 He wants to be at your side and it terrifies him, but it would be worse to be away from you.

 Feelings- it’s disgusting and he does not like it. 

 Your scent becomes stronger on a more beaten path and he feels his alarm bells going off- jolting in the direction he believes you are and praying that every God actually hears him as he silently begs for you to be safe. 

  Your melodic voice and the sound of the babbling brook melts the worry in his body. Astarion’s pace slows slightly and he feels that annoying warm glow spread through his body. 

  You are sitting near the bank with your laundry in hand- Scratch and the Owlbear cub are laying down together nearby, one of the pup’s ears upright to hear any intruders. 

 It brings him some comfort that you have Scratch and the little cub- he isn’t sure he would fuck with an Owlbear Cub or approach a Bard with a bewitching voice calling out into the night like a Harpy’s song.

 “When I was a child

 Everybody smiled

No-body knows me at allllll

 Very late at night and in the morning light

  Nobody knows me at all

 I got lots of friends, yes, but then again- nobody knows me at all-“

 You stop suddenly and stare up at the moon and Astarion is completely enraptured with you and your singing. He feels charmed and he is entirely okay with it. 

“I suppose that’s not necessarily true,” you say softly, picking at the grass and smiling to yourself. 

 Oh your smile- he feels himself slowly melt into the grass like a smitten school boy and his own grin dances across his lips. 

 They are talking about you, the thoughts sends shocks of happiness and twinges of guilt, your plan worked.

 He should be thrilled, but he could honestly give a shit less. He is too busy listening.

 “And I’d give up forever to touch you

 Cause I know that you feel me somehow

 You’re the closest to heaven, that I’ll ever be

And I don’t wanna go home right now.”

 If his heart beat it would be pounding in his chest right now. 

 Your face is so relaxed, but he adores the furrow of your brow as you concentrate on hitting all the right chords and remembering the lyrics.  The song is beautiful but he is certain it’s only because you are the one singing it. Anyone else singing a love song would make him feel nauseated. 

 Astarion feels centuries of heaviness roll off his body with every note and sweet omission of trust. 

 He is hypnotized by your lovely fingers plucking the chords and he feels the ghost of your hand in his- you had taken it in your hand while everyone walked through the forest. Your hand had felt perfect in his own and he felt like a young, giddy, new person again. You always make him feel like that though lately. 

 “And I don’t want the world to see me

 Cause I don’t think that they’d understand

When everything’s meant to be broken

 I just want you to know who I am.”

  Astarion had lost all hope- truly lost it all- before the Mindflayers had kidnapped him. He felt more hopeful once he landed on the beach, but that hope was also laced with overwhelming fear. 

 Lately, he has been more present in his day to day. He is happy and full most days. He wakes up near you or to the sound of your laugh instead of the screams of his siblings or angry commands from Cazador or being yanked out of bed by either Cazador or Godey to be dragged off to the Kennels or Gods only knows where. 

 Astarion has actually been trancing for four hours straight without interruption these days and he even fell asleep a couple of times- his body finally feeling safe enough to completely shut down for a while. He woke up feeling stronger than ever and your heartbeat echoing through his ribs. 

 You had been more than happy to let him share your tent at night after he had barged into your tent after a particularly bad trance. It had been shortly after killing Nere in the Underdark and before entering the Crèche. He has basically been sleeping there every night since and he gets to enjoy your company- and all to himself!

 You with your wild morning hair and sleep ridden breath- it’s a gift he has never been given before. Astarion is grateful for every morning he has gotten to wake up next to you and you are alive- so vulnerable and warm with sleep. 

 He adores the way you tiredly blink at him as you become more aware of the world. You have begun to leave a sleepy kiss on his lips in the morning and he finds himself looking forward to it; and the mornings you forget, he steals a lazy morning kiss from you. It’s like Gale and his coffee, he can’t start his day anymore without that first kiss in the mornings. 

 You continue to sing- your voice strong and full of passion. Happy tears make your eyes glimmer and sparkle under the moonlight and for once, he doesn’t hate being a creature of the night because you make nighttime seem ethereal and lovely; enchanting and whimsical; a luxury to witness. Astarion is positive you could make even the most dingy corners of the world look beautiful from blessing it with your presence alone. 

 You finish your song and he decides he cannot take being away from you for another moment longer so he backtracks just a bit.

“Darling?” He calls out with a fake worried voice, “are you okay?”

“I’m over here!”

 With a big, stupid grin on his face, he half skips half walks over to your spot under the tree.

 You are delightfully rosy with blush and your eyes light up upon seeing him- Astarion doesn’t think that will ever get old. You are the first person to ever genuinely be happy to see him and he laps it up like Scratch drinks water after he has a fit of zoomies. 

“I am so grateful it’s you singing- I began to feel charmed and feared the worst!”

 You roll your eyes at his comment, but smile widely anyway and put your luteto the side, taking his outstretched hand. 

“I am so glad you find my singing appealing,” you say breathlessly, “I will have to work harder to truly charm you next time.” 

“Oh- you may consider me thoroughly charmed, my Sweet,” he presses a kiss to your forehead and you giggle, “anymore and I might become your Thraul.”

“That wouldn’t be good at all!” You exclaim, “you would agree with me on everything and it would be terrible!”

 Astarion throws his head back with laughter- it’s not even all that funny, but the way you embrace his personality and find it enjoyable fills him with so much joy. 

 You pull him out under the moonlight and he cocks an eyebrow at you- you respond with a cheeky grin.

 “Magistrate Ancunín,” you say sweetly with a bow, “I thought I might have seen you across the dance floor this evening.”

 Astarion smiles, “Ah! Your highness- how lovely it is to see you, my Dear. I was so hoping you may be here tonight- everyone else is so dreadfully dull, as you already know.”

“Believe me,” you roll your eyes and wave your hand, “none of them find my jokes or my stories entertaining.”

“Perish the thought!” He puts a hand to his chest in faux surprise, “They should all be sentenced to death!”

 Your eyes widen for a moment before you snort and join in.

“I so agree,” you snap your fingers, “there- it’s all been magically taken care of. I am the most powerful Highness known to the realms, after all.”

“Oh your majesty,” he pretends to be on the verge of feinting, “no one has ever done something so wonderfully romantic like this for me before- however can I repay you?”

“You could repay me by giving me this dance?”

 He hears your heartbeat race slightly and you look a bit nervous. It’s such a bizarre thing for you to feel. Of course he will dance with you. It would be criminal not to.

 Taking your hand- he pulls you to him and wraps your arms around his neck. His fingers greedily cling to your hips as you sway together back and forth. 

 You hum as the two of you have your foreheads pressed together and your eyes closed- the only individuals privy to the moment being the moon and the sleeping animals. 

 Astarion appreciates how your voice always reflects your feelings- the happiness in your tune is pleasant to his sensitive ears. 

 Eventually it’s the sound of the river that you both sway to and he barely catches your sentence.

“I am surprised you came looking for me,” you say with a yawn, “I thought you would be asleep by now.”

 He shakes his head, “I couldn’t.”

“Bad trance?”

“Something like that,” he quickly tries to change the subject, “why are you still awake?”

“I wasn’t able to sleep and decided I wanted to enjoy the moon and the ability to sing so freely,” you sigh, “Gods only knows when we’ll see it again.”

 Astarion hums in agreement- taking your callused hands in his and tracing the line of your hands. This seems to help you relax and it does bring him quite a bit of happiness to be able to help you relax as much as you help him. 

“I- I am really scared,” you look up at him with tears in your eyes, “I’m scared to go into the Shadow Cursed Lands. I have heard the stories and the lands are haunted by the cursed dead- people who had lives- who had stories.

“I am scared I could end up joining them,” your lower lip quivers so adorably, but he doesn’t like the words you are saying at all, “if I make one wrong move or we all get separated-“

“Stop,” he says, his voice thick and his chest heavy with an emotion he can’t identify, “I won’t allow that to happen. I can assure you that you will be rather irritated with me by the time we kill Ketheric- I don’t think I will be able to allow you to be out of arm’s reach.”

 He says it, but the actual reality of the comment doesn’t hit him until a couple seconds later. 

 Fuck.

 You smile brilliantly at him, “I hope you are ready for the same treatment.”

“I would be offended if you didn’t!”

“Well, we certainly can’t have that!”

 You lean forward and leave a kiss on his lips that takes his breath away- he follows you as you pull away, not ready to be without your lips on his. Astarion smiles against your mouth when your breath hitches- he loves that sound.

 And he is terrified to lose you.  

 Astarion fucked up his own plan- well okay, not really, but he did kind of. You have fallen for him, that much is obvious, but he was never supposed to fall for you! 

  The swaying continues- even as your body becomes heavier and heavier with sleepiness, Astarion feels like he’s dreaming and also simultaneously having a nightmare.

 He needs to rid himself of these feelings before they become all consuming- before he goes and does something stupid. 

 Maybe I give myself some space- sleep in my tent tonight? His chest tightens and he cannot breathe,  no, that won’t work. I- I don’t want to do that. I could push them away- get them to break things off with me.

 That thought makes him feel even more ill. Being near you brings happiness, comfort, and warmth- even when he is feeling extremely confused and uncomfortable with his feelings towards you. 

 You see the pieces of him he doesn’t often let others see and instead of despising him, you smile at his jokes. You laugh the loudest out of everyone- even at the jokes that maybe don’t deserve it. You are patient when he is grumpy, unreasonable, and rude. 

 You have become important to him- more important than he ever intended for you to be.

“Let’s go back to camp,” you say with a large yawn, “I need a little bit of sleep- we have a hell of a journey ahead.”

 Astarion helps you pick up your things and he carries your bag for you. You hold his other hand and you both chat as if you have spent years together rather than mere weeks- both of you grinning from ear to ear.

 You eventually wind up in each other’s embrace in your tent and you are snoring softly. Always making music as he likes to say. 

 The nighttime eventually pulls him back into his own trance, but this time, his trance is filled with happy memories of your adventures together with every melody you have ever sung prancing through his head.

[licorice-tea]

You Feel Right; Stay A Sec

Pairing: Trafalgar Law x reader

Content: pining, yearning, wanting, and needing <3 no smut just fluff! kissing and smooching, just one mention of “going further”! reader is a heart pirate and likes reading :)

Word Count: 1.4k

A/N: it’s been a while since i wrote something for my man (Law <3) so i had fun with this😇☝️inspired by lyrics from the song “Hostage” by billie eilish… i love writing based on songs, it’s probably bc i have music playing 24/7 in either my headphones or on a speaker, and i just love music! so it’s easy to get inspo or create scenarios while listening to it, yk? anyway, hope you enjoy! <3

I wanna be alone

Danger around every corner, piles of work, tasks demanding his attention, and crew members in need of their captain’s opinion are all sources of constant stress for one Trafalgar Law. It’s not that he doesn’t love being a surgeon; it’s his passion, nor his crew; they’re the closest thing he has to a family now. It's just that his battery in all aspects- social, mental, physical- is constantly drained.

The only things keeping him going are steaming cups of black coffee and the rare moments of quiet before he passes out on top of his comforter. And, no matter what form the momentarily relief from life takes, it most always comes when Law is alone. He prefers it that way, anyway.

Alone with you, does that make sense?

He prefers being alone, really. Which is why nothing about you makes sense. Right off the bat, Law has felt differently around you than others. He made an effort not to show that difference in opinion no matter how strong it came to be at times.

Times like now, where sleep eludes Law despite how damn tired he is. For whatever reason, all he wants is to hold something- no, someone… you. Law wants to hold you. Or maybe you could hold him, who cares about the specifics?

Law flips on his stomach and groans into his pillow. This is new territory. He’s never wanted someone the way he wants you. A partner to hold close on nights like these, or to simply be alone with.

I wanna steal your soul

He has considered, on multiple occasions, telling you how he feels. But Law would never actually do such a thing. It would be a complicated and messy affair, surely, thanks to your positions. (His as your captain and yours as his subordinate.) And he wouldn’t want you to feel like you had to accept his confession, either.

Still… he wishes you were his, in every way a person could give themself to another.

And hide you in my treasure chest

At least you’re on his crew. You’re always nearby, should he need you, which he often does. Sometimes, Law likes to call you into his office for a made up reason. “Y/n-ya,” he’d say, “give me a rundown on tomorrow’s conditions at sea.” Though you’re not the navigator of the ship, you still know plenty about seafaring, so you’d comply. Then he’d find some other trivial matter to discuss, or offer you a new book so you could later exchange thoughts on it. Just something- anything to keep you around as long as possible. It’s so much more peaceful with you.

I don't know what to do

But how to make your role in his life a more permanent one? Law hasn’t a clue. Tonight, like many others, you sit on a couch in Law’s office. Neither of you speak, but the atmosphere is calm and comfortable.

Or it should be. Law discreetly looks your way every few minutes, then every few seconds. His eyes follow the way yours scan side to side over a page of your book. From the lines of your jaw and neck, to stray hairs falling over the curve of your cheek.

The usually undetectable tension seems to be coming to a point tonight, and Law doesn’t know how to resolve it. But he wants to, almost as much as he wants you.

So, for once in his life, he moves without much planning. Law rises from his desk and crosses the room to sit beside you. He (stiffly) puts his arm around the back of the couch. Naturally, you give him a perplexed look- it’s not like Law to suddenly reach out like this, physically or otherwise.

“Good book?”

“Yeah, thanks for recommending it.”

“For sure.”

“…Is that all?”

He nods, then pulls his hat lower over his eyes. Silently, he makes a plan to abort this failed mission.

Luckily, you stop him and take the initiative.

To do with your kiss on my neck

Law lifts his arm back off the couch and over you. But, you gently grab his wrist before he can go any farther. “Law, is there… You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Again, he simply nods. A moment of silently staring into each other’s eyes passes, and he leans forwards extremely hesitantly. Your hand moves from his wrist and tentatively rests on his shoulder. Still, Law doesn’t break eye contact (for once in his life), continuing to lean forward at a painfully slow pace. So you allow your hand to travel up to the side of his neck.

“You can kiss me.”

He nods again slightly, “I know. I- I will.”

I don't know what feels true

At long last, Law places a featherlight kiss on the corner of your lips. It’s an unsure, awkward action, but welcome nonetheless. His lips linger on yours, not quite aligned for a moment. Despite your breath being held, you allow your eyes to close and savor the feeling. You want more than this chaste kiss from him, of course, but you’d take your time with it. Law isn’t the kind of man you’d want to have a touch and go experience with. No, he’s the kind the one that you want to savor. The one that you want to take your relationship slow and steady with as he wants, and as a result get to spend even longer in his company.

When he pulls away, you can’t help but smile. Law’s parted lips close into the gentle curve of a smile as well, his usual smirk appearing much more bashful. The two of you lean back into each other. Your noses are nudged and warm breaths mingle before your lips can meet again.

But this feels right, so stay a sec

Law realizes he’s never done this before; kissing. But now, he’s hooked. He still doesn’t really know if he’s doing it correctly; if you’re enjoying the experience as much as he is, but it feels good. Therefore, he must be doing something right. Plus you only pull away from him to take breaths before immediately returning your lips to where they belong (on his), which confirms his hopes.

What started as a sweet and slow kiss ends up becoming a much hotter make out session. Months of pent up attraction and feelings for each other spill over, out of your mouth into his (and vice versa.) He’s the first to swipe his tongue across your bottom lip and get you to open up, and proceeds to groan into your mouth in a way that’s surprisingly communicative of how strongly he feels. It gets to the point where, besides your hands roaming over each others backs, you feel that your saliva must also be permanently entangled.

But all good things must come to an end. You pull back completely so that you and Law are properly facing each other, rather than within kissing range. “Law, I… We should talk about this. Before we go any farther.”

His face heats up at the implication; he hadn’t even thought that far ahead, too lost in your sweet taste, warm skin, and soft lips to do so. He nods and just murmurs, “Okay, let’s just keep doing this.”

You agree and kiss him without another word.

Yeah, you feel right, so stay a sec

When you do both finally wind down, and are left as nothing but half-sleep puddles in each other’s arms, Law murmurs something unintelligible into your hair.

Silence passes, though you can practically hear the gears in Law’s head turning. Finally, he speaks his mind. “Don’t go.”

A smile graces your features. How pleasantly surprising it is to have your captain- possibly the most closed off man you’d ever known- asking for you to stay. Of course, you hum in negation. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

His arms seem to tighten around you- though whether it’s reflexively or to keep you close, you’re unsure. “Good.” Then, Law murmurs something unintelligible against you.

“Hm?” He can feel the vibration on your lips against the side of his face more than he can hear it. That’s how closely you’re pressed into him.

Law clears his throat. “You feel right.”

“So do you.”

[coralinnii]

❋ If you are a villain, then let me be your accomplice ❋

feat: Lilia genre: mild hurt/comfort, slow burn romance note: sequel to reincarnated into a new world as the bad guy AU Lilia ver, no pronouns used, Lilia is depicted as his older appearance with long hair, human!reader, mentions of minor injuries unintentionally inflicted on reader, 1.6k word count 

I liivvveee! For now, anyway. I still have my job projects and finals are upon me but I finally found some time to myself so I hope you enjoy another addition to the Villain/ess!series. I might end up failing a class but I know it’s not the end of the world for me and I really enjoyed the class so I wouldn’t mind retaking the class.

Yeaa...this did not end up as domestic fluff

WARNING: This part has kinda hard-to-read topics regarding children and childrearing. Sometimes parents, guardians, caretakers and/or other children accidentally get injured by a child and the child doesn’t know how to get over that. We never want to blame the child for these mistakes but we want to make sure they can learn to avoid such mistakes again. This is an odd case since these are fictional non-human characters and some people can view Lilia as too harsh or see MC/reader as too lenient. I’ve seen parents approach this concern differently and honestly to me, the next course of action is never easy to figure out without truly discussing with the child and those involved.  I'm not saying whose method is right or wrong, I just wrote what would be the best course of action in this scenario. You might have your own opinions or approaches. Read at your own risk

A lot has happened since your first visit to the Vanrouge household. Lilia surprised you by taking both of you into his home, protecting you while helping to raise the young Yung. He offered a room to the small dragon and one for yourself (though Yung still prefers to sleep in your bed with you). 

Speaking of Yung, he was still wary of Lilia and his servants, choosing to hide himself in your embrace or behind your legs. He refused to speak to anyone and if he needed something, he would whisper into your ears and being the pampering type, you would oblige. 

“Dear me, he seems to have really imprinted himself on you” Lilia chuckled casually but then he quickly hardened his gaze and the conversation turned more serious. “However, if he does not grow out from this phase, he may end up unable to control his dragon side and hurt himself or you” 

This worries you as you know due your knowledge from your previous life that Yung will grow to be very powerful but he fell victim to his own strength and destroyed himself with his power. 

Distressed, you begged Lilia to give his guidance as the former guardian of the Dragon King and with a playful smile, he gave an offer to you. 

“Very well, I will be his guide. But as a fair trade of service, why don’t you become my attendant? This would occupy your time and perhaps young Yung could use this to be a little more independent?” 

And thus began Yung’s days of torture as your new job constantly took precious time from him by Lilia. Yung can no longer ask for walks with you because you’re needed to look over some paperwork with the duke. Nights where you would lull him to sleep were getting less and less as Lilia requested your assistance in looking over some schedule details before the new day. And even when Yung gets to hang out with you, Lilia would almost always be there to monopolize your attention. 

At first, you decided to trust the young(?) duke and his tactics since you did come to him for his guidance anyway. Despite the rather playful demeanor he seems to have, Lilia seemed so confident to you and assured you time and time again that this is a rite of passage of sorts for fae like him and Yung since powerful beings like them must learn self-control before anything else. 

But self-control continues to elude Yung and it wasn’t long before the cute little dragon decided enough was enough.

“Wuv is mine! Mister duke go away!” 

To the best of his ability, Yung wrapped his short arms around your waist as he screamed at the duke. If Yung was any normal child, his growth would have been unprecedented as he was already walking (to chase after you and Lilia) and speaking fairly comprehensible sentences (to yell at Lilia). But as a fae, this was a typical growth spurt, quickly growing stronger and bigger than a typical human to ensure his survival. His physical strength was more obvious to you right now as the young child was unintentionally tightening his grip on you which started to hurt. 

“Yung, l-love” you tried to speak but it came out as a short gasp as the small fae ignored your call. His hands, while small, kept digging through your clothes and into your skin which made you wince slightly. You tried other means of grabbing the young one’s attention but all was moot as all of Yung’s focus zeroed in on Lilia alone, his eyes glowing a slightly menacing color and a glare reminiscent of a dragon ready to defend his territory.

“Sigh…you are still a foolish child” 

In an instant, the pain in your sides lessened as you found yourself in the arms of the duke instead of Yung’s hold. Both you and Yung were shocked by this sudden change of the situation. How did neither of you notice Lilia as he somehow managed to rip you out from the young dragon’s grip without his notice or harming you in the process? 

“Are these the skills of an experienced fae?” 

After looking over you for any major injuries, Lilia sighed again with slight disappointment, reminiscent of a father figure upset with a child that nearly broke something precious. “How can you protect your treasure when you can’t even protect them from yourself?” 

Following Lilia’s previous line of sight, Yung’s heart sank when he saw the torn fabric of your outfit. With his extraordinary senses, he caught glimpses of red lines across your skin through the ripped clothing. He instinctively reached out his small hand to you but saw his nails were longer and sharper, like talons of a dragon. 

He hurt you. He hurt you. He hurt you. 

Yung broke into tears as those words cycled in his head, haunting him for his crime. You were instinctively pushing yourself from Lilia by the sound of his cries, running to enclose your arms around the poor fae child, holding him while softly giving words of comfort. 

“Love, I’m alright. It was an accident, I know that” 

 But Yung continued to sob and he apologized profusely, his voice getting sore from his cries. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Lilia stood still behind you, watching silently as you continued to console your child, wiping Yung’s tears and holding his small, shaking hands. 

Night came and Lilia visited you in your room once the family doctor was done tending to your scratches. The head of the manor immediately called for the doctor but you refused to show your injuries while Yung was still panicking over the incident. It was only when Yung calmed down and stayed with him until he fell asleep in his room. You kept your smile as you downplayed your wounds, not letting Yung blame himself.

When Lilia entered your room with your permission, he shocked you as he said something unexpected. 

“I’m sorry.” He even bowed his head to you, showing the sincerity of his words.

You replied with confusion in your voice. “Pardon? What for?” 

“I expected that Yung was getting possessive of you but I didn’t think that you would get this hurt in my attempt to distance you two. I should have intervened sooner” 

Lilia held this guilt throughout the day, ashamed that he roped you into his little test for the dragon fae. He knew raising a powerful fae will be a rough journey, taking his experience from caring for Malleus. But if Lilia were the one to get hurt, it would be but a scratch that would heal in an instant. Whatever Yung would do, Lilia can handle it with ease. 

But you weren’t fae. You were a human that bleed at the lightest touch from his kind, that break much too easily, and perish much too soon. 

“You should leave this manor” Lilia stated with an uncharacteristically serious tone. “I will find a comfortable inn for you to stay in and provide other essentials until you can find another living situation to your liking” 

“Wait a minute!” You jumped from your seat, your mind thrown for a loop. “I can’t just leave, what will happen to Yung? It'll break his heart! I didn’t mean to inconvenience your grace and your plans but I’ll be care-“ 

“Do you not understand the dangers of your situation?” Lilia’s tone was ice cold. “You nearly bled from what Yung thought was a childish hug. What if he were to get angry one day and suddenly knock you unconscious? He is not a mere human child but a fae, and a strong one as well. You are a human that may die by his own hands” 

Silence filled your room as the weight of Lilia's words sink in.

You won’t lie, Yung’s nails were painful and your wounds still sting even after treatment. In the story from your past memories, Yung’s power will be on par with the current Dragon King, with the power to move mountains and call upon flames that would leave nothing in its path. Yung will continue to grow stronger and nothing you, a powerless human, can do that will be able to stop him. 

But still… 

“I stayed silent because I didn't know what would be good for Yung. But damn it, I love that child! As long as he needs me, I’ll be there for him” you locked eyes with the long-haired fae with determination. “He’ll become stronger, but he wouldn't hurt others. He is a happy, kind child"

"And how will you ensure that?"

"I will be there to make sure he stays that way” you made a bold choice, but you're confident in this. You were confident in your little Yung that he will go against his ending in that story nonsense of your previous world.

Crossing your arms, you made another bold comment.

“Besides…you still agreed to guide him. So, this will be a team effort” You were testing your luck but you assumed that should anything like today happen again, then you could always hide behind the great general Vanrouge. That's a team, right? Being able to depend on them during tough patches?

But Lilia stayed quiet and chose to simply match your stare with his. It was intimidating to have such an attractive man look at you with such intensity but you held your ground. You puffed out your chest and refused to look away from Lilia’s admittedly beautiful ruby-coloured eyes. 

Then…Lilia giggled. 

“Lilia, the renowned general…giggled….and it was so cute?!” 

You were taken aback when you saw a soft smile crept onto Lilia’s lips, so different from his mischievous grin whenever he scares you from behind during work or the confident smirk when he wins a round of a card game that you introduced to him from your original world. You were upset, offended even that he would giggle at your proud proclamation to care for Yung. But wow, he was really attractive doing so.

Not noticing your conflicted expression (or choosing to ignore it), Lilia placed a hand on your head, closer to your forehead, then moved slowly to caress your head. His touch was so gentle, careful not to scratch you or add unnecessary pressure. 

“He’s good at holding back his strength” you thought, only having heard the stories of the unbeatable general. Lilia is a playful man but his power is impressive even among other fae so this gentle side of him was a pleasant surprise to you.

“Goodness gracious, I wonder if this is where Yung gets his audaciousness from?” Lilia had a shine in his eyes as he kept his gaze on you, almost as though he was captivated by what he saw. “I look forward to your cooperation then, teammate”

[stars-and-inkpots]

Could you possibly write more soft Gale fics? He just deserves so much love and healing. I really liked how you wrote Reverence. Sorry I don’t have a more specific ask, I’m not very good when it comes to fic ideas.

Absolutely I can, I love writing for Gale so much, and he really does deserve the world. Thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy!

Late Night Book Club | Gale x Reader

No matter what you try, you just can't seem to sleep. Between nightmares and insomnia, you start to think you might never get a good night's rest again.

Gale seems to share the same issue.

While you might not be able to completely solve your problems, at least the two of you aren't alone in them anymore.

Pairing: Gale/Reader

Tags: Cuddling, Insomnia, Nightmares, Comfort, Fluff, First Kiss, Love Confessions (kinda)

Notes: choosing a name for this was the hardest part about writing it

Ao3 Link: Late Night Book Club

Word Count: 2,150

For whatever reason, you find yourself awake far later than everyone else. This shouldn’t be too much of a problem, if it wasn’t for the fact that this was the second night in a row where sleep eluded you to the point of exhaustion. The little amount of sleep you did manage to get was plagued with uncomfortable dreams that teetered on the edge of nightmares, making sure the rest was fitful. You knew you had to sleep; you couldn’t hope to lead the group if you were barely able to stand tomorrow. It’s frustrating. It isn’t like you aren’t trying to sleep either; you laid there for hours before finally giving up and leaving your tent to tend to the fire that has steadily burnt down to the last embers. It’s here where Gale finds you. 

The look on your face only adds to his concern at seeing you up so late. You don’t notice his approach, another thing that makes Gale think something must be wrong. 

“Is everything alright?” He asks softly, though the sudden noise still startles you. He watches you turn and immediately relax when you realise it’s only him. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry,” you apologise, but you aren’t exactly sure what you're apologising for. Perhaps it's for letting all of them down with your inability to sleep, knowing you’ll hold them back tomorrow. Then you notice that Gale looks just as tired. 

“Is there anything I can do?” He asks. 

You’re sure your exhaustion is evident enough, you can feel the weight under your eyes. A part of you hates feeling like you need to be taken care of. You don’t want to acknowledge that help would be both welcome and useful, but you know these feelings are simply a byproduct of the exhaustion that weighs on your shoulders. You can’t fault Gale for wanting to help. 

“No, it’s alright. You need your own rest.” The day had been tough on all of you. Gale, though talented when it came to magic, was pushed to his own limits today. 

“Very well. Would you at least allow me to sit with you for a few moments then?” Gale asks. 

You only nod, and Gale sits beside you on the ground. You’ve managed to get the fire going a little stronger again, and the warmth is appreciated by both of you. You’re suddenly aware of just how close you are, knees almost touching. You blame the warmth in your cheeks on the fire. 

“If there is something bothering you, I am more than happy to listen.” There is genuine care in his words. He is worried about you. As much as you don’t want to burden your companions with your troubles, he seems adamant that he wants to hear them. 

“I can’t sleep is all,” you admit. “It’s nothing serious. Just can’t sleep, and then when I do my dreams end up waking me up again.” It feels childish to say that your dreams are the primary culprit of your lack of sleep. You’ve been through so much in the past weeks, but it’s nightmares of all things that finally get to you. 

But Gale doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t tease you. Instead, he looks at you with only sympathy and understanding. He doesn’t pry any further, and you’re thankful. 

“What about you? Why are you still up? If you want to share, of course,” you’re quick to add. You don’t want him to feel like he has to tell you his own troubles just because you told him yours. 

“We have similar problems it seems,” is all Gale answers. You return his earlier kindness by not pressing him to elaborate either. 

The two of you sit there in comfortable silence again. 

“I understand if you wish to remain alone, but if you ever wish for company when you cannot sleep, you are always most welcome to visit me.” He says it so quietly, hesitantly, but not unsure. Knowing you don’t need to spend the nights awake alone, at least, is a comfort, and the thought of spending the time talking with Gale is pleasant; even if that time is simply spent sitting near to one another. 

You smile. “I might take you up on that offer.” 

Gale gives you a fond look. The golden light of the fire makes him look soft and at ease, though, maybe that’s only because he’s with you. 

“I think I’ll try to sleep again. Thank you for this, Gale.” You stand, and he does the same. 

“Anytime.” 

Sleep still doesn’t come easy when you return to your tent, but eventually you’re able to get, at least, a little bit of dreamless sleep before you’re awoken again. The gaps between sleep and consciousness are still more frequent than you want, but it’s better than nothing. 

---

The next day is rough. Gale doesn’t look like he had much luck with sleep either, and you’re almost thankful because he is more inclined to ask the group to slow down than you are. Maybe the others can tell that you’re also struggling, because no one complains when the steady pace is interrupted. 

Perhaps some god out there is looking out for you, because the day’s travel is mercifully uneventful. 

Setting up camp again is a chore. You do your best to help where you can, but you can barely stand as it is. 

“Get some rest, soldier. We’ve got it from here,” Karlach says to you, voice quiet. You know she’s trying to be nice, but it feels like pity and you hate it. You swallow your pride and thank her before returning to your tent. 

Even though your body aches and your head is starting to hurt, when you lay down, you only end up staring at the roof of the tent. You suddenly just aren’t tired. You know you’re tired, because your body feels tired, but at the same time you aren’t , and it’s only partly caused by fear of the dreams you know await you. It’s frustrating to no end. 

After another few minutes of laying there with your eyes closed, you finally give in. 

Only a few of the others are still awake, sitting and talking with each other around the fire. They don’t notice you skirting around the edge of camp towards Gale’s tent. It’s not that you feel like you need to keep this a secret, you just don’t think you have the energy to talk to anyone besides the wizard right now. 

“Gale? Can I come in?” You ask softly outside the tent. You know he’s awake; you can see shadows that dance across the walls. 

“Of course,” Gale answers. Before you can move to open the tent flap, he waves a hand and it opens for you. 

“What a gentleman,” you tease, but even you can hear how tired you sound. 

“Always for you,” he returns with a smile, but there’s a truth in his words that brings a warmth to your face. 

You finally notice how cosy his tent is. There are several books, all of them stacked in piles that must be organised in a way you can’t discern. The ground is covered in plush blankets and pillows. Fluttering around the top of the tent are small, almost iridescent orbs of light, some purple and others blue. They give enough light for Gale to read, but keep the tent dim enough to be pleasant. 

“Please, sit down, make yourself comfortable.” 

You sit beside him; closer than you were last night, leaning against his side slightly. You peer over at the book in his hands, surprised to find it isn’t some arcane tome. As far as you can tell, it’s just a normal adventure novel. 

“Don’t let me interrupt you, you can keep reading.” Even just sitting here beside him is enough of a comfort; the tension already starting to seep out of your shoulders. You don’t want to talk about anything yet, and you figure that Gale shares the same sentiment. 

“Do you want me to read to you?” Gale asks, and though you almost think he’s joking, you realise he really means it. 

“That would be nice.” 

And it is. You’ve always enjoyed listening to him talk; Gale has a lovely voice. He picks up where he left off when you got there. He wasn’t too far into the book yet, but he still pauses occasionally to explain something. Eventually you close your eyes, focused only on his voice, the details of his words getting blurry. 

“Can we lay down?” You mumble tiredly. 

“That’s a good idea,” Gale says with a smile, having already noticed the way your head has begun to dip forward as sleep begins to pull at you. 

It takes a bit of coordination, but eventually you’re both underneath the thick blanket that Gale pulls tighter around the two of you. You move closer to him, your head underneath his chin, and he wraps an arm around you. He’s warm, and you feel safer than you have in weeks. He starts reading again, fingers playing idly with your hair. Within another minute, your breathing has evened out and you’re fast asleep. 

Gale folds the corner of the page to mark where you two left off and closes the book before he sets it aside with the countless others. Eventually, he manages to fall asleep too. 

Both of you still wake up a few times in the middle of the night. You didn’t expect this to be some miracle cure for your sleep problems, but having Gale there holding you when you wake up makes getting back to sleep a little easier. The same can be said for Gale who wakes up several times, only to be calmed down once he feels your arms around him. The two of you are able to get a good rest, and when you wake up in the morning you don’t feel the same ache in your bones as you did the past few mornings. 

It becomes a sort of routine between you. In the evenings, after everyone leaves for their tents, you follow Gale to his or he follows you to yours. Then he reads to you, and sometimes you read to him, and you both let sleep find you in each other's arms. The nightmares are getting more bearable, and even on the worst nights when neither of you can sleep no matter how much you try, at least you’re there together. 

---

It’s been a week since you started this arrangement. The book is nearly finished. Gale had promised to let you pick out the next one. 

He brushes through your hair with one hand, the book held open in the other. You listen while he starts reading the last few pages. The hero who’s story you’ve been following through the novel culminates in one final battle against evil. It’s cliché, you think to yourself, and then smile because isn’t this exactly your own life now? And what hero story is complete without a lover to kiss them at the end, which is precisely what happens. Good prevails, and the hero gets their true love. 

Gale feels your smile against his neck and, for reasons he understands but doesn’t want to admit yet, feels a warmth flood his cheeks. 

“The End,” he announces, snapping the book closed with a flourish, earning a laugh from you. “What did you think?” 

“It was nice. It felt more like a romance novel at the end.” 

Gale hums in agreement. “Yes, but I think that's what I enjoyed most.” He puts the book down then returns to hugging you close to him. 

“I agree, it felt natural.” You hope Gale understands what you mean. 

He does. 

The two of you have been dancing around this for a while now, neither one of you ready to acknowledge it. But there’s something about tonight that feels different. 

You lean back to look at Gale’s face, bringing a hand up to guide a strand of greying brown hair behind his ear. Your hand lingers on his cheek, thumb brushing gently across his skin. He puts his own hand over yours, moving it to kiss your palm. It’s a careful gesture, tender and nervous all at the same time. 

When you move to kiss him, he meets you halfway. It’s a soft kiss; a testament to these nights you’ve spent together. When you part, you rest your forehead against his. The way he looks at you makes your heart swell: like you mean everything to him. 

He kisses you once more before you tuck your head into the crook of his neck. He holds you like he’s scared you’ll disappear, and you tighten your arms around him as if to answer: 'I could never.'

You both sleep the best you have in weeks, still there for each other each time you wake. 

[probablyreadinsmut]

How you doin' daddy?

Summary: In this Reader is Dieter Bravos PA, you've been working for him for around 4 years, cleaning up his messes, making appointments for him, going on coffee runs etc. Dieter is Dieter, we know him, we love him, reader mostly tolerates his bullshit. He's not a bad guy, he just has his demons. Alot of them.

But when he's forced to deal with the repercussions of his past, reader is dragged along for the ride.

///

Reader is afab, has breasts and a vagina. No mention of height, weight or skin colour. Reader has hair, no mention of texture type, style, length or colour. Readers nickname is Star.

Tags for this fic: Eventual Smut, Accidental parenthood(?), fluff, angst, pregnancy.

Warnings for this chapter: None? Just poor proofreading going on here 😅

Word Count: 2.8k

Tags: @aliceblxck

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

///

Chapter 4 - Awesome Sauce.

Sleep eluded you that night, despite how tired you were. You'd doze off only to be woken up by phantom cries, sitting bolt up right in bed ready to rush to her nursery, only to realise you were infact not in Dieters sprawling 6 bedroom home, but your own tiny one bed apartment. You had too much on your mind. 

Isabel, you did miss her, you missed being away from her, it was problematic that you've found yourself getting attached to her, sure it was bound to happen considering how you'd been her primary caretaker for those months he was away, but she wasn't your child. You'd have to get over it, you would get over it.

And then there was the Dieter of it all. Your boss. The man you hadn't even given a second thought over the years you'd spent in his company. And now suddenly he's irresistible to you? Having fantasies about him, masterbating over those fantasies? Nope. You're gonna nip that shit in the bud, pronto. Cold turkey. This can't happen.

It still baffles you as to why this is happening? Maybe you have a competence kink, you saw the way he slipped into being a dad and it changed your perspective on him. Still, it can't and won't happen. He doesn't see you that way anyway.

With a frustrated huff you throw yourself back into the pillows, willing your brain to just shut up and go the fuck to sleep.

///

December 5th, 2023.

Dieter's on edge today, ansty as hell. Checking the clock every 5 minutes while on set just wanting the day to be done so he can get home to her. He'd given himself a few weeks at home to really settle in before Gretchen gave him a harsh reality check.

"Dieter you were in rehab for 3 months, if you don't get back out there soon, work will dry up real fucking fast!" She'd said it bluntly. He liked it when people were honest with him but it didn't mean he wasn't still arrogant about it, he was an actor after all.

"I'm Dieter Bravo, work doesn't dry up for me." He knew that was a lie, Hollywood chews people up and spits them out faster than you can say 'Remember that actor who was in that thing? Yeah well I saw him on Hollywood Boulevard dressed up as superman'. Thoughts like that make him shudder. Thinking back to how rough it was when he first got here, he did the cliché thing any struggling actor does, working as a waiter to pay the rent on a shitty studio apartment on the rough side of town, while he chased his dream on the side. He'd clawed his way to the top, but that didn't make him special, a lot of actors and actresses had it the same way. But with the rise of Nepo babies in the industry these days, everyone's an actor if they want to be, getting the helping hand he didn't have, it leaves him a little bitter honestly. Dieter didn't get his big break until he was in his mid 30s, a reoccurring part as a side character in a high fantasy HBO drama.

From there it was a steady stream of work, some small roles, some bigger. Main character in a TV show, supporting actor in a high budget movie. He didn't really know he'd made it until Hunger Strike blew up. The press junket for that was insane. It would have made twenty-somethjng Dieters head spin. It made his head spin. Then he'd won his Oscar and honestly he was a little insufferable to be around for a while after that because that's when coke problem got out of hand, what was a thing he'd just do at parties because 'everyone else is doing it anyway', became a habit and as a creature of habit himself, he quickly found that he couldn't kick it, didn't want to even if he tried.

"Dieter, I'm serious, I know you're loving being a dad and I am immensely proud of you for how well you've taken to fatherhood" And Gretchen truly is, the Dieter she'd taken under her wing in the late 90s was this scared boy with big dreams and a cocky facade, she saw him at his lowest and now she was seeing him at his highest, but it was when he was out of work and money doesn't grow on trees. "But you need to get back out there, remember that ad campaign I was telling you about? For Cartier? They're very interested, more so now they know about your rebrand"

Rebrand. It wasn't exactly a rebrand. He'd gotten sober and the media had found out he was a dad now. Not that he was trying to hide it or anything but Dieter has never been the sort to post things on his Instagram about his personal life, it's not like he'd ever be one of those parents that posts a picture of little feet with a sickeningly sweet caption attached.

He'd been papped in his neighbourhood while out on a walk with Isabel strapped to his chest. He'd spotted the vultures, of course he had, once upon a time he'd have told them to fuck off but he knew from past experience some of them don't give a shit about boundaries and he didn't want to risk any sort of confrontation with his baby girl there. So he pretended to ignore them, pretended to ignore the clicks and flashes, the questions.

He couldn't ignore it forever though, not when the gossip sites picked it up and started speculating about who the mother could possibly be. They'd never work it out, Svetlanas agent had made sure of that, her clients image was her main priority, so she'd buried any evidence of her link to him. Besides, Svetlana had asked him to keep it a secret when she'd left Izzy with him, so he had and he would take it to his grave if he needed to. 

It was comical actually, seeing the guesses, proving the gossip sites are just that, gossip.

'Sources say he used a surrogate' He hadn't even had a fucking clue that Svetlana was pregnant in the first place. Wrong. "It was overheard that he's secretly married and his wife stays out of the spotlight" Wrong again. "I'd heard he was gay? Suddenly he has a baby?" Yes because gay people can't be parents? Seriously the deep routed homophobia in Hollywood was never ending, not to mention the blatant bi/pan erasure.

And then there was this one. "A source says they saw his PA-" And then they had the audacity to spell your name wrong, great journalism going on here "-Pushing a pram around the neighbourhood close to Dieters Sherman Oaks home, perhaps he's been dipping his pen in the company ink so to speak?"

There was a picture attached to that post, grainy like  it had to have been taken through a very long distance lens, but it was undoubtedly you, a bright, beaming smile as you pushed the pram along the sidewalk, looking down into the carriage, with no idea that you were being stalked. Probably for the best either way, given your history with the paparazzi in his neighbourhood.

So he'd reluctantly put out a statement on Instagram, social media announcements were a foreign concept to him, he didn't owe anyone this explanation but if it would shut people up he'd begrudgingly do it.

The words were bold on a plain white background, posting it to his main grid rather than on his story and he'd turned the comments off. 

'Yes it's true, I'm a father now. I will not be taking requests for media participation regarding this. Just know that I'm loving fatherhood, my child is the light of my life and no I will not be disclosing her maternal parentage. Please respect my wishes on this.

-D.B.'

Short and sweet, to the point. It was a contrast to his last post however, he wasn't a frequent poster by any means so the last time he had posted was 5 months prior and that was an old repost of him at the Oscars just because he thought he looked hot in that one particularly and it had been a while. Overall Dieter tries to stay away from technology as much as possible, he made sure everyone knew how he felt about Bluetooth at any given opportunity.

Dieter wasn't particularly fond of the WiFi nanny cams he'd had installed either, afraid the 'radio waves they emit would lower Isabels IQ', a sentence you'd snorted at. But right now, as he sits on set, impatiently bouncing his leg, waiting for the photographer to show up so they can get this show on the road, he can't help but slip his phone out of his pocket and open up the app to check in on his favourite little lady.

///

You'd agreed to watch Isabel for him today, knowing he wasn't keen on the idea of hiring someone anymore, he wasn't so sure he wanted a stranger to watch her when she's gotten so used to certain people and let's face it, you didn't mind either, this kid had softened you, she'd softened Dieter more, but you? 

So here you are, hands over your face playing peekaboo with Izzy laying in your lap, you'd completely lost count by now how many times you'd done this already, my god this girl loves repetition. 

"Where's Izzy? There she is!" Every time. Every single time the same the rapturous cackles leave her, you can't help but laugh along, you'd play Peekaboo for a thousand hours if it meant you could keep making her laugh like that. 

"Oh sweetheart.." You laughter slowly dissolves into a soft smile, picking her up to hold her out in front of you, little feet dancing on your lap as she brings her fist to her mouth chewing on it with tiny happy gurgles. "You have no idea how much I love you do you?" Big brown eyes just blink back at you, now gnawing on that same fist, drooling all over it, you can't help the little chuckle that leaves you at that "Someone's teething huh? Growing up so fast... C'mon Izzy it's almost nap time baby" 

///

'You have no idea how much I love you, do you?' 

If Dieter hadn't been on set he might have shed a tear or two at that. He'd opened the app at just the right time, hearing those giggles was enough reassurance for him but he found himself sticking around, unable to take his eyes off the screen, watching at you sat on the couch with her, how good you were with her and how obviously attached to each other you were. It warmed his heart. This is why you'd insisted on him installing these cameras, for his peace of mind, you'd seen how anxious he was to even leave her at all.

Before Isabel came along, he was pretty sure you hated him a little, with how stern and bossy you were towards him sometimes, then again maybe that's what he needed? A kick up the ass from someone who deep down, actually cared about him. You're still doing it now, just in a gentler way and he appreciates it endlessly, more than you know.

///

When you get back into the living room after putting Izzy down for her nap, you decide to give your mom a call to catch up. You hadn't gone home for Thanksgiving, it's not your favourite holiday, the stress of travelling for it, the relatives who haven't even seen you in years and always forget your name, honestly? It was a little monotonous.

Dieter never celebrated it anyway, not since he was old enough to be in his own place. His answer for why he didn't was 'Why would I want to celebrate a genocidal holiday?' and the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. So this year you'd spent it at Dieters place, having an 'anti thanksgiving' as such. There was no place you'd rather be.

As the phone rings you set it down on loud speaker, starting to tidy up the living room as you wait for your mom to answer, this woman is so slow to get to the phone, always answering on the last ring.

"Is that my baaaabbby?" Yes she was that type of mom.

"Hi mom" You respond with an amused drone in your voice. "Yeah it's me, just wanted to check in and see how you were doing? How was Thanksgiving? Did Uncle Fester show up?" That was yours and your brothers 'affectionate' nickname for the uncle who never seemed to shower, another good reason to avoid thanksgiving.

"Oh god no and that is what I'm grateful for this year, I think we all were!" Her chuckle down the phone makes you smile as you're tossing toys into the basket under your arm, you did miss her, along with your brother and his family, making a mental note to atleast try to fly out sometime in the new year "We're all good here baby, just getting ready for Christmas now! Does your boss at least celebrate that?" You talked to your mom about Dieter a lot and while she couldn't quite wrap her head around certain things he did, she didn't judge. Not too much anyway.

"Well no not usually, he says it's just a scam to get people to buy shit they don't need, but I think he's considering doing a little something this year since he has Isabel now, it's kinda sweet." Dieter had been hinting at it, suggesting that maybe it might be nice to put up a tree in front of the big window that overlooks his expansive back yard and pool, maybe you'll convince him to let you take him and Izzy Christmas tree shopping this weekend?

"Oh well that would be nice, I remember your first Christmas like it was yesterday. You threw up all over santa!"

The wheeze you let out at that is ungodly, you've heard this story so many times but it's the way your mom says it, sounding like she's getting all wistful and reminiscent and then she pulls that out. She's fucking hilarious without even trying.

"And um... How's the... Yknow... The little crush you've got going on?"

"Mom!"

"What? Why tell me if you didn't want me to ask hm?" Fair point, you think.

"It's um... Well I'm just trying to ignore it honestly."

"Ignore it? Why? Have you seen that man? If I were 20 years younger..."

A groan leaves you when she says that, you do not need that image in your head "Oh no mom please!"

"What? He's gorgeous."

"Yes and he's my boss mom. Plus he has Isabel and he doesn't even--" Oh shit. The nanny cams.

"Uh actually mom I have to go I think I hear Izzy crying, talk to you later byeeee love you!"

"Oh okay? I love y--" She's cut off by you hanging up, tossing your phone onto the couch like it's burning you to touch it.

Maybe it you're lucky he won't watch the footage back for today? Why would he? He trusts you.

Or maybe he will and you'll just move to Canada and start a new life under a false identity! Oh god, you're not a religious person, but right now, you find yourself praying to a diety you don't even believe in that he wont watch that footage back.

///

Dieter was still waiting for the photographer to show up, the shoot assistants were coming up to him to personally apologise for the delay every five minutes or so, to which he waved them off, it wasn't their fault this guy was an incompetent jackass after all. 

Despite his annoyance, he needed a way to pass the time. 

A wolfish grin spreads across his lips when he remembered a feature the nanny cam had, two way audio. Ever the prankster, even at his age. He was going to open the app and speak into it planning on saying something dumb to scare you, the first thing coming to mind was 'There is no Dana, only Zuul.' He'd recently rewatched all the Ghostbusters movies one night when Izzy was restless so it was fresh in his mind.

As he opens the app, he sees you back in the living room, picking up the toys that were strewn across the floor, mute was on but he could see you were talking and curiosity got the better of him. 

Imagine his surprise when he unmuted it just in time to hear 

'How's the... Yknow... The little crush you've got going on?' Crush? On who? Wait no he shouldn't be doing this, it's intrusive and... Who's gorgeous? Why is he so bothered to hear you have a crush on someone? 'It's not like...

'Yes and he's my boss mom. Plus he has Isabel--'

"Mr. Bravo, the photographer has arrived." With wide unblinking eyes, Dieter stares up at the confused looking assistant, hastily locking his phone and shoving it back in his pocket.

You. Have a crush. On him.

"Oh... Awesome-sauce."AWESOME SAUCE!? Those are legitimately the words that just left his mouth. He'd heard it, the assistant who is now looking downright concerned heard it.His brain is soup right now and he's just saying things, cringing at himself a little.

" S-sorry, I'm coming..."

And now Dieter has to get up and pose for this fucking photo shoot, all the while he's having an internal meltdown over this information?!? Fuck. Good thing he's an Oscar winning actor, huh?

///

A/N: There's a reason why I've never physically described Svetlana (other than the fact that I'm terrible at describing what people look like) and that is because of this part 'perhaps he's been dipping his pen in the company ink so to speak?'. The idea is that Svetlana and Reader (you) have enough similarities in appearance, that the baby could be mistaken as your own biological child (aside from Dieters ridiculously strong genetics that is). Just wanted to put that out there! :)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Once Upon a Time 10

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: Andy Barber

Part of the Bookstore AU

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

A message pops up on your Instagram. You open it with dread, a blank profile with some generic photo of a bookshelf. You already know it's him. 

‘Your aunt is very nice.’ 

You nearly drop your phone as you glance over at Jo. She sits with a cross stitch as she watches a rerun of Cold Case. You shudder and look back down at the screen. 

‘Why r u doing this?’ 

You hit the arrow as your sweaty hands stick to the silicon case. 

‘Why am I being nice?’ He replies. 

You can't. You stand up with your phone and your Aunt Jo peeks over with an arched brow. You give an apologetic smile. 

“Sorry, I'll be right back.” 

You cross the room and pass the kitchen doorway. You lock yourself in the bathroom and look at your phone. You see three dots then they disappear. 

‘You followed me.’ 

He sends a rolling eye emoji. You nearly scream. What the hell? He's rolling his eyes at what? Stalking you? 

‘More than once.’ 

He sends a laughing emoji with tears. You huff. He's so confusing. Then a photo pops up, buffering before finally loading. 

It's Chelsea, well, the top of her head and she's… 

You want to puke. You can't believe he'd send you that. Does she know he took that? Even if she's a bitch, you feel bad. 

‘Looks like I'm all taken care of.’ He texts. 

‘Looks like you are.’ 

You turn your phone to do not disturb and lock it. He's disgusting. You don't even get what he wants from you. If he has Chelsea doing all that, why the heck is he texting you? 

You take your phone to the spare room, what was once your room, and leave it there. You don’t want to be bothered by him, even if you can’t shake the uneasiness stirring your nerves. You go back to the living room and sit down on the couch. You stare unseeingly at the television as the syndicated legal series drones on. 

“What was that, honey?” Jo asks, poking her needle up then pulling it through. 

“Work,” you lie, “um, they keep moving around the schedule or whatever. It’s... frustrating.” 

“Ah, that’s too bad,” she tug the thread to its limit, “you’re stressed. Maybe you should take a day off.” 

“Maybe,” you rub your forehead, “or get a different job.” 

“Could do,” she shrugs, “you know I’ll support whatever you do.” 

“Yeah,” you drop your hands into your lap and look at her, “I know.” 

You turn back to screen and try to hide your despair. Should you try to tell her about Andy? The thought’s crossed your mind a dozen times over. Your Aunt Jo is fierce and loving, she might just believe you but it’s not her holding you back. It’s him. He’s dangerous and he hasn’t yet shown you how dangerous. 

It’s better she doesn’t know. Not right now. You’ll have to deal with Andy. Just not tonight. 

📖

You grumble around the last mouthful of coffee. Another day, another shift. While Jo’s suggestion was tempting, you really can’t give up the hours. Nonetheless, you haven’t sat on your hands. Several applications were forward late into the night as sleep eluded you. Now you can barely hold your head up. 

It shouldn’t be very busy at opening. You can survive on an instant coffee packet from the breakroom. You yawn and grab your coat and bag. The snow puffs up around your boots as you step outside, shivering as you tuck your scarf into the top of your jacket. You pull your hood up against the frigid wind and tamp down the fresh powder as you come down the walk. 

As you get to the sidewalk, you stop and look both ways. Before you can cross and head for the bus stop, a horn honks, jarring you. You step back as a familiar car rolls up. You cross your arms, heart racing, and peek back over your shoulder at the safe hold of your aunt’s house. 

“Buses are behind,” Andy calls through the window as it slides down, “you’ll be late...” 

“I’m fine,” you sidestep to walk around the rear bumper and he shifts into reverse, blocking your escape. 

“I know your aunt didn’t teach you to be so ungrateful--” 

“Don’t talk about my aunt,” you snap as you turn back the other way and he rolls forward. You stop short and stomp your foot, “why are you doing this? Why are you bugging me? Chelsea--” 

“I don’t want Chelsea, she’s a slut. She’s easy. She gets the job done,” he sneers. 

You shake your head and blow out a cloud of warmth into the crisp air, “I’m sure there are other--” 

“You,” he says tersely, “that’s it. No one else.” 

You close your eyes and shudder, “I... I’m not interested... like that, Andy. I just was being friendly because it’s my job. Can’t you understand?” 

“I don’t understand,” he snarls, “I’m a lawyer, I’m good-looking, I take good care of myself and I could do the same for you. You wouldn’t have to work in some shitty bookstore.” 

You flutter your lashes and shake your head, “I...” 

“What? Why don’t you want me?” He leans over the seat further, glaring at you. 

“How old are you?” You blurt out, immediately sealing your lips in regret. 

He scoffs, “and how old are you? Bit over the hill to be in retail, huh? I know you’re not some college kid getting a few extra bucks. You’re a grown woman, your life is a mess. You need someone like me.” 

You huff, “I need you to leave me alone.” 

He clucks and sits up. The car idles in front of you as he sits silently. He grips the real and clears his throat, “I’ll be seeing you for dinner. Aunt Jo sure is sweet, maybe you could learn a thing or two from her.” 

The window rolls up before you can spit back a retort. The mention of your aunt flares in your chest. How dare he. You know it’s more than a snipe at you, he’s not saying her name for nothing. It’s a threat. 

He steers away down the snowy road, the snow packing beneath the weight of the car. You watch his headlights stop at the corner before you kick through the snow. Fuck. 

[tmwcs]

hey reinaa this req is def something 🫣🫣

so like heethan and reader like live together and reader isnt feeling well, and she slept in like a skimpy nightdress so her tits and ass are out (idek how to start it) anyways heethans cooking her breakfast like eggs or something and cvms in it 😭😭 then hes like feeding it to her while stroking her head n shit and asking her if she likes it, and shes like yes (obviously) and is completely oblivious to it then smut or whatever

thank uu if u do this

”Tell me…how does it taste?”

warnings: so if you read the prompt…yeah, consumption of bodily fluids in not such a traditional manner lol. But it’s quite juicy. Implications of rough smut, smut described in subtle detail, unprotected sex (implied) and yeah…think that’s it. ;)

Stretching out the aches from last night’s session, the opening between your thighs sting with a sense of looseness throbbing mercilessly. A reminder of what your beloved fiancé had put you through, all for the sake of pleasure, pain, and love. Hard love. 

…………….

“Look at me. I said look…”

“Mmmmm…..nnnnngh!”

“That’s right…shhh….take it like I showed you…like how I trained you to.”

“Mmmm….mmmmph!!”

“Watch me…watch me….fuck….going deeper….”

……………

The vague images of Heeseung and Ethan swapping out, taking turns as they stuck their thumb in your mouth, while the remainder of their digits hooked your chin as they forced you to look their way, were all like still images in a memory drive. Heeseung pulled, thrusted, and swallowed your moans with his kisses while Ethan pushed, pumped, and slurped the drool from your mouth. You squabble aimlessly, putting forth whatever strength you had to get just the tiniest bit of distance, all to ease up the tension of his throbbing cock as he made himself fit; filling you entirely. 

You wondered for a moment, as your warm feet touch the flooring—cooled by the brisk morning temperature of near freezing, would it even be possible for you to be considered an exceptional candidate for a partner and wife, if something has happened to Heeseung and he was no longer around? Not that that wouldn’t happen, you knew that your thoughts were strictly hypothetical, yet it was a valid thought. Because the man had taken you so many times since the beginning, and has delightfully feasted and punctured your flesh, to the point that despite never experiencing pregnancy or childbirth, not yet, you wondered if your womanhood was beyond dignified. Heeseung was a stallion of all sorts, his momentum, size, and pace was unmatchable, and there was no way that any man wouldn’t be able to tell that you had been ravished. Good thing that Heeseung, and Ethan, has both claimed you for life—and that no matter how many times you both engage in the heat of sexual passion, they remarked how it always felt as good as the first time, why wouldn't they? With all that length and girth, they barely fit and required you to be extra moist in order for them to punch it in. This all further convinced you tha if ever you were without them, surely you’d be doomed to remain single forever. 

Heeseung wasn’t in bed, you sat over the edge, taking your time to adjust your body and to get ready. Still nude, you figured you should start the day off with a warm shower, but suddenly, the door opens, and there he was. 

“Hey, good morning pretty. Did you sleep okay?”

“Yes. You?” You chuckle, when he was rough and hard with his love, he was intense and passionate, sexy and dominating. Yet when he was calm and all honey, he was sweet and the love was a different type than the one he eludes at night. It was a soft, delicate love, one that was admiring and caring. 

“Good. I made you breakfast.”

You looked at him somewhat wide eyed, Heeseung, much less his Ethan side, never dabbled into the art of cuisine creation. They admitted openly and yet, here they were, with Heeseung’s dashing smirk and Ethan’s dark gaze, they split the shred body 50/50 as they presented you a plate of messily scrambled eggs, semi-burnt toast—with jelly sloppily drooling over the edge of the crust, and a small glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, with pulp staining the rim of the glass. You smiled, even though the plate had a humorous display, you knew he did his best. 

“Oh my gosh, you cooked for me?” You smiled gleefully as you looked up, to which the man before you nodded in silence and even had a faint of bashful sense in his countenance. “I tried.” He calmly states, clearing his throat as his deep voice spoke modestly in response to your grateful reaction. 

“Baaaaabe, thank you! I’m going to eat ever last bite.”

“I hoped you would.” His words were sharp, deep, and somewhat quiet as he pressed out the response under a breath. You didn’t catch it. 

“What was that babe?” 

“Oh nothing. Just talking to myself. Let me know how it tastes.”

You took a bite of the eggs, and tossed the fluffed texture around as you savored the taste. “You seasoned the eggs?” You chuckled as you rolled your tongue, taking in the semi-pungent saltiness as you swallowed. He smiles as his eyes widen with an expressive sense of delight. 

“I did, do you like it?”

“I do.” You nodded politely. It was a bit saltier than what you preferred but it was the first time the man has ever stepped foot in the kitchen to cook, you weren’t going to discourage him, besides…a little salt does good for the body. 

He takes a seat next to you, takes the fork from you hands and places his free palm on the back of your head. Initially you looked at him curiously, but the moment you witnessed him sternly looking at the plate, forking a cluster of eggs, and bringing it to your face, you smiled adorably as you opened to take in the bite. He smirks and chuckles, placing a kiss on your cheek as he continues to feed you every last morsel. “Does my baby like it?”

You nod. “Mmhmm.”

“Good girl.”

…………….

Earlier…

He woke up before the sun has a chance to kiss the moon to sleep. Prior to getting out of bed, he looks down and admires his sleeping beauty. “Damn she’s pretty…” he whispers to himself. How lucky is he to have you? Well, the truth was, he wasn’t lucky, just smart. Smart enough to know that he had to get you, from the very first moment he laid eyes on you, and he planned, lied, and deceived in order to accomplish his goal….he got you. 

His member begins to harden at the sight of you, and as much as he was tempted to get at you again, he knew that after last night, he has to give you some time to catch up on your rest. You’re such a trooper, always taking him and his Ethan side without complaint, pleasing them as you took one after the other, allowing them to take turns as they pumped you up with every bit of juice they had to give. Yes, you’re such a good girl. A good, and pretty little girl. 

Always the one to show his dying love for you, Heeseung heads into the kitchen. He didn’t know what item from which in order to cook, thank goodness for YouTube. 

With the toaster ticking, and the eggs sizzling in butter, he plays around the yolk and whites, zoning out as the image of your face from last night makes him grow. You always looked so helpless, whenever he’s fucking you, and God….does he love it. 

With his thoughts triggered, an idea pops in mind. You were his…you belong to him. Even if you had wanted to leave, he knew that that was not how you truly felt, you both are in love and he claimed you the moment he laid eyes on you. You will always be under his thumb, his beautiful flower, his delicate princess…only his. 

Since he’s claimed you in more ways than one, why not expand it and introduce another manner in ‘claiming’ you? 

Grabbing onto the base, with the image of your teary face bumping up and down as he thrusted into you repeatedly the night prior, he strokes his member. God…he was so close to shutting everything off, rushing up the stairs so he could fuck you in your sleep. He was tempted, but he maintained some sense of control as he continued to stroke and thrust his palm, going faster and faster as he groans until finally… 

“Fuuuuuuuck…!” He whispers under a harsh breath, chest deeply heaving as his nostrils flare. He leans over, palm gripping the edge of the counter as he catches his breath, gasping for air. Decorating the eggs, he unleashes every last bit of what he could draft up since last night, and felt satisfied at the result. Stirring the eggs, he turns off the stove and slides it all on a plate. Adding the other ingredients, he organizes the breakfast tray and brings it up. He’ll be so happy to see you take him in, in a way that you’re not used to taking him, but it’s just as good. Besides…

“You know pretty baby, a little salt does good for the body.”

Perm Taglist:

@enheene , aiden2001 , heeseung-min , lathan1510 , rayofsunshineeee , @hoyeonheeseung , @rayofsunshineeee , @yohanabanana , @sunoosrightbuttcheek , @jaeneohee , @icydawon , @silcry , @iamliacamila , @nikstrange , @enheene ; @nuriicata

[ju-vondy]

Into Jason's mind (Headcanon scene)

So, after the release of EP 4 I couldn't stop wondering the reason Jason prefer not commit to a long-term relationship and how he would react when he realize Candy was breaking that barriers down... So I wrote this for the chap. 20+- in my fic and I just HAD to share with you all. I didn't post the fanfic yet once I'm still waiting AO3 invite me LOL. But here you go, I hope you enjoy it:

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Jason was sitting on the sofa in his luxurious apartment, the dim light from the modern lamps casting soft shadows on the walls. He held a glass of whiskey, slowly swirling the amber liquid, lost in his thoughts. The night was silent, interrupted only by the occasional sound of distant traffic.

He glanced at the clock on the wall: 2:45 a.m. Sleep was something that had been eluding him lately, especially with Candy dominating his thoughts.

Jason ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. The goals, contracts and meetings that once occupied his mind so easily now seemed insignificant. His mind wandered incessantly to Candy, to her smiles, her expressions of determination, and even to the moments of vulnerability that she rarely let show.

Looking around, he realized how his personal space was carefully designed to reflect success and control. However, the emotional emptiness remained unchanged.

Jason picked up his phone and, on an impulse, opened Instagram. He looked at his recent posts: several photos of him at social events, with different women by his side. He recalled Thomas's words that he had overheard while the Devenementiel team gathered at the Cosy Bear Café: "Jason is a womanizer…" “He doesn’t seem to commit to his relationships…”

That was true. But why?

Releasing a deep sigh, he leaned back further on the sofa, closing his eyes. His mind drifted back in time, reliving memories of past relationships. Then he remembered the first time he decided not to commit: He was young, ambitious, and... In love with an older woman who had promised to be his partner in life and in business. But she betrayed him, both emotionally and professionally, ruining not just his heart but also an important business transaction.

After that, Jason vowed never to let anyone get that close again. Long-term commitments brought risks he couldn’t afford. He built a life where control and independence were paramount, and where women were only temporary distractions, never real threats to his heart or business.

Moreover, he didn’t have time to dedicate to a partner. His work consumed every second of his day, leaving little room for anything else. And children? The idea of being a father was a responsibility he couldn’t, and didn’t want to, assume. Kids are absurdly expensive and need time, patience—things he couldn’t offer in the phase of life he was in.

Jason also couldn’t ignore the fact that most of the women he met were shallow. They played hard to get, but as soon as he showed some sign of value, some symbol of status, they yielded instantly. Candy, however, was different. Candy never yielded. She challenged him and… That intrigued and attracted him in a way he couldn’t ignore.

She disarmed him with her intelligence, her strength, and paradoxically, with her vulnerability. He remembered how he felt when he saw her wearing glasses for the first time, how that unexpected sight affected him more than it should have. Jason stood up and walked to the window, looking at the illuminated city below. The view was something that always calmed him, but today, even that couldn’t soothe the restlessness within him. Candy’s presence in his life was starting to make him question his decisions.

What was most frightening wasn’t the desire he felt for her, but the fact that he wanted more than just a fleeting affair. He wanted to know her better, wanted to be by her side, wanted to hear her bad jokes, wanted… Commitment.

“Why does she affect me so much?” he murmured to himself, his thoughts returning to the last time he saw her.

They had met at the tennis club last weekend. He still remembered how his heart skipped a beat when he saw her with sunglasses and a hat, an unexpected and incredibly attractive sight. And then, during the match, the moment they bumped into each other and he offered his hand to help her up. The connection he felt at that moment still haunted him.

In fact, all the other moments haunted him. Even though he had shared a bed with several women in recent months, it was always Candy he found himself thinking about. The first time he kissed her in the garden, that night when the explosion finally happened and they released all the tension between them as their naked bodies engaged in heady movements. And then, at the Snake Room, the electricity between them was almost unbearable. The heat and urgency of that moment still made him shudder.

At the opera, the tension between them was so palpable that he could barely focus on the performance. And later that night in his apartment… their bodies fitting perfectly, the way she knew how to touch him in ways he didn't even know he needed. Every encounter with her was a whirlwind of emotions and sensations.

Jason closed his eyes, remembering the conversation with his mother he had earlier.

Since the moment their families reunited again she encouraged him to bring Candy closer, seeing something he tried to ignore. He accepted the mayor's proposal for a partnership with Devenementiel not only for strategy but also to keep Candy close. At first, he told himself it was to destabilize the competing company. But now, the truth was becoming increasingly clear: he wanted Candy by his side for much more personal reasons.

Jason walked to the desk in his bedroom, opening the drawer and taking out a small wooden box. Inside, there was a ring he had bought years ago, intended for a proposal that never happened. A reminder of his failures and fears.

“Candy…” he murmured, closing the box and putting it back in the drawer.

He needed to admit to himself that all this had started as a game. He wanted Candy to accept his job offer to screw up over Devenementiel again, but in the process, he ended up getting lost. She was not just a pawn in his corporate game anymore; she was someone who made his life more complete, more vibrant and his days became easier when she was around. She was someone he didn’t want to lose.

And he hated to admit it.

Jason stood up again, taking the glass of whiskey and heading to the terrace. The cool night air enveloped him, bringing a momentary sense of clarity. He looked at the stars, remembering how his life seemed simpler before Candy entered it. But now, he couldn’t imagine going back to that simplicity.

He knew he was at a turning point. Continuing with his usual behavior meant losing the chance at something real, something he hadn’t felt since… well, since forever. But opening up meant exposing himself again to pain, to risk, to vulnerability.

Jason took a long sip of the whiskey, feeling the warmth descend his throat. He needed a new approach, a new way of thinking. Maybe, just maybe, Candy was worth the risk. Maybe she was different. He just needed the courage to find out. Because, in the end, he was falling for her. And that was the truth he could no longer deny.

This realization hit him hard.

“Damn, Candy,” he murmured, running a hand through his hair. “What have you done to me?”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

PLEASE DO NOT POST IT ON OTHER PLATFORMS without giving credits! This is all my original writing and I would hate to see anyone use it without my permission. Thank u <3

[kamianya-ttv]

You’re not lazy, you’re neurodivergent:

A post on executive dysfunction, ADHD inattentiveness and hyperfocus, and whatever else occurred to me as related as I originally wrote this for twitter.

If you’re like me, you’ve probably been called lazy by people in your life. But the thing is, there’s almost no-one (if anyone) who’s actually lazy. And I promise you, if you’ve felt guilty because there are things you should be doing and can’t get them done? You are NOT lazy.

I'll get to executive dysfunction, the main focus of this thread in a moment. Because I want to start by talking about ADHD and hyperfocus.

Is it hard for you to pay attention to things you don't enjoy, but can focus for hours on things you do?

Does the world ever disappear to the point you forget to eat/drink while you're working? Can you suddenly get days worth of work done in a short amount of time, but only once it's the last minute, or when you get into the zone? But you don't necessarily have control over getting into that mode?

Hyperfocus

The reason this is related to this thread is that often this is the "proof" that you're lazy. Look, if you're interested you get things done! Look at how much you can do when you "just make yourself" or "just focus"! Clearly you just don't want to do the thing.

I can't tell you how many days I've sat there trying to get into a zone that's eluding me, losing sleep and feeling guilty, just to finally hyperfocus in the final day and pull out a miracle.

But I have ZERO ability to force it (I have tricks! but it's not the same).

Hyperfocus often gets brought up as a "you can't have ADHD, look how focus on the things you enjoy! Look what happens when you do focus!"

But actually, it's a major aspect of inattentive ADHD!

So, that's why hyperfocus matters in this convo.

Now onto Executive Dysfunction.

To start with, a quick note: Executive dysfucntion is not just an ADHD thing. It's an aspect of a lot of different neurodivergencies.

Also, this is primarily from my perspective as a person with ADHD, I'd love to hear your versions of these experiences!)

I like to describe executive dysfunction as "the start button isn't there."

Also, this isn't just for chores or boring things.

Have you ever sat there going "I want to game" but it just never happens?

I sure have!

When you have executive dysfunction, this means that starting tasks can be near impossible. You just can't get yourself to start it. Often, you may sit there staring at the document with the blinking cursor, or looking at the stove, or glancing at the full laundry basket, etc

But again, there's no start button. You just can't do the thing. Which makes it really hard when people tell you to just focus, or that you could do it if you just cared, or that you're just lazy.

Because we want to do the thing! We do!

(I mean, okay, want may be a strong word sometimes, I never WANT to do chores, but it's still not an intentional putting it off. It's more an "I need to do this thing, I know I need to, I want it to be done, but I can't get myself to do it")

Now for me, and many with ADHD, once someone points out you haven't done the thing, or when the deadline comes close, suddenly the start button appears

Which again, people use as proof you totally could have done the thing the whole time.

So clearly you were just lazy & are only doing it cause you got yelled at/prodded/nagged.

But this isn't true, there was no start button!

@adhd-alien has a PERFECT comic on this: https://twitter.com/ADHD_Alien/status/1138475368191598594

Now, we learn tricks to deal with this. Or meds may help.

For me, I find ways to enforce outside deadlines, or I'm more likely to have. a start button for something I'm doing with/for other people.

But ultimately, our brains just don't work the same.

So for someone where the start buttons are always there, who assumes everyone is the same as them, it looks like we're actively making the choice not to hit start.

So they call us lazy, unable to see us desperately trying to hit a button that's just. Not. There.

Now, add on to this all the other comorbidities that come with neurodivergency, we almost never have just one thing. Add on physical disabilities or chronic/invisible illnesses or chronic pain or fatigue.

All of these make it so much harder.

There are SO many things that affect our abilities to get things done.

For example, I had a doctor appointment four days in a row (OT, neurologist, OT, infusion). I also helped schedule an event, and did a stream.

Before MS and chronic pain that would be nothing.

I could have done SO much more, filled my days with getting things done.

Now? I'm spending today on the couch, recovering before my stream tonight.

And I have to fight so much guilt, because I feel like I should be doing more. But my body just CAN'T.

So.

Do you feel guilty, but you just can't start the thing?

Is there no start button?

Are you exhausted and your body is insisting you rest?

There are so many things that affect our ability to do things.

Brains, bodies, the world we live in.

But you're not lazy.

[skuleighrose]

With how intense Andrew gets at even a brief mention of a man with Ashley, it has me asking if he's the type to be "all men are trying to defile my sister, no man is good enough for her" type of mentality as to why he immediately shuts down any of her (usually joking) propositions of sleeping with other men.

Or when he's in the dream and finds the body of one of the wardens.

Not only does he make a comment eluding that he's happy they are dead because they leered at Ashley, but because he could have made it more painful.

I know the one essay goes into way more details about Andrew's possessiveness, his sexuality and need to control Ashley, I just find it so fascinating how long he's tried to hide his concerns for her in this thinly veiled veneer of being a concerned big brother just looking out for his sister.

Which is funny cuz considering Ashley's own obsession with Andrew it would surprise me if she ever even spoke to a boy in any flirtatious manner if not maybe only to make Andrew jealous.

[gribbo]

In the hands of another minstrel, it would make a triumphant theme: Thorm trounced, his captives freed, his curse lifted from the land. Let another minstrel write it. The one who struggled up from the bowels of Moonrise Tower would rather find an unobtrusive corner in which to curl up and die.

"Somebody knocks you on the head every tenday," grumbles Barcus, as though it's a character flaw. His hand on the minstrel's jaw is rough and cool. "Follow my finger."

He seems to be holding up two. Peculiar. The minstrel does his best to watch them instead of falling over. "Did you see the"—he wobbles, peering over Barcus's shoulder—"aasimar?"

The Nightsong, tracking bits of Thorm across the hall, wings to Isobel in a blaze of moonfire. Barcus fails to notice. "You're more addled than I thought."

The minstrel could kiss him. If either of them deserved that.

He reports to the High Harper, who stops him midway and orders him to bed. Where bed has gone eludes him; Vally, he thinks, had shouldered his bedroll. Karlach, his pack. He looks for them in the hushed bustle of the hall: teary farewells here, his niece Nimble frowning at him there, the dead laid out yonder for the living to grieve. Harpers weeping for their fallen softly, businesslike. Victims of the cult, too, lying far from their families and friends—and Alfira where he expects her to be, hunched alone with her lute, feeling out the first fumbling chords of a threnody for them all.

It all makes sense, all of a sudden. He still has his gittern. When he drops onto the bench beside her, her hands stumble on the strings.

“Let’s sing for our supper, then,” he rasps without preamble, tuning up.

Alfira stares at him—huge, stunned eyes in a hollow face. “Really?”

Magga cammara, the minstrel thinks, she’s gotten thin. She’s not even famous yet.

“Go on,” he says gruffly. He fiddles for a moment in A minor before settling on something suitable. “I’ll back you.”

A slow, weary smile staggers across Alfira’s face.

It’s a grueling task, to sing in tribute for so many, for so long. Few would ask it of a singer so untried. But when Alfira’s voice lifts in lamentation like a rusty bell’s chime, heads turn; when he joins her in the second verse, the stentorian echo of her high mourner’s cry, the hush that follows is a grim gratification. They play long after their voices fail. He’s nodding over the gittern, his fingers plodding across the strings, when a warm, heavy hand envelops his shoulder. “Silk?”

“Karlach.” His voice scrapes like an old hinge. He blinks up at her, wondering why she’s so blurry. “There you are.”

“Here I am, sangster.” She turns from him, speaking gently to someone else. “Get some rest, Fira, hey?”

Whoever’s leaning on him rises with a willing mumble, leaving him cold. There’s a head on his knee, he realizes; he gives Mirkon’s curls a drowsy pat, then nudges him awake. Someone lifts the boy and carries him away. Around the hall, the torches burn like drowning stars.

Karlach’s hand keeps him steady. “Can you walk?”

He wobbles up. To his consternation, the hall tilts. Around him, the torchlights stretch and spin—

“Whoops,” Karlach says—and whisks him off his feet, bearing him who-knows-where. Hellion. He should object, probably. Keep his eyes open, certainly. Beneath his head, the machinery in her chest—that horrid death-clock, ticking—rattles a radiator-cough.

She smiles grimly at it. “Will you play one of those for me?”

A funeral dirge. His own tired heart beats off-tempo. “Oh, Karlach.”

“It was beautiful,” she says in her plain, awful way. “Will you?”

He’d sooner cut off his hands. Milil, he thinks, help me play happier music for these people. That triumphant theme. It’s in me, somewhere.

“Sangster?”

A voice speaks up somewhere past his eyelids. “Is he all right?”

“Asleep.” An infernal yawn. “Hells. I’m beat, too.”

Not quite asleep, he thinks. There’s a space between sleep and wakefulness, now, where the Prism-bearers’ minds mingle and meet. Gale’s drifting off thinking about a real bed, with sheets and blankets and such, so all of them are thinking about real beds. Them, the minstrel thinks muzzily, who are we, who are us.

Karlach’s thoughts, blunt and amused, brush his. You sound like that brain-thing.

Shadowheart, ever the eavesdropper, dips in. Are we going to keep it?

That headcheese? asks Vally.

Whatever will it eat, thinks Wyll, in our company?

Tsk’va. Lae’zel pretends to miss his joke. The creature is an abomination.

So are we, darling.

We! cries the intellect-devourer, somewhere else. It’s skittering after a rat, its simple joy rippling through their minds in alien hues. Whee!

Not a theme, the minstrel thinks, absently. Not a theme. He blinks up at Karlach with some effort. “Odd little medley, ours.”

Karlach blinks back at him.

Then she grins, brushfire-bright. “Catchy."

[slowd1ving]

II. RIDING HIGH IN APRIL ･ﾟ FRANCIS MOSSES

"Your usual, Mr Francis Mosses?” you repeat with the same inflection. It has to stay the same. A name to a star will not make it any more personal – it’ll remain the same cold distance away, stay the same burning core of amorphous light, in a fixed set of constellations. It has to. But you’ve overlooked the most salient point. Humans are not stars. There's a reason you stuck with this shitty diner job: routine. So, why the hell does that keep changing for you? warnings + general: amab!reader, nsfw, depression, smoking + unhealthy habits, diner au, trauma, military background (made up unit for doppelgangers) so canon divergence, obsession lowkey BTW this is also posted on ao3 so if there are any doubts about me being the author just comment on any of my fics and I assure you I'll reply on there! (but thank you to those who expressed concern it means a lot)

MISC. MASTERLIST

THAT'S LIFE MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART ゜・NEXT PART

‘That’s life (that’s life) I tell you, I can’t deny it.’

It’s a different type of blue hour when it’s thirty minutes before dawn – cleaner than your smoke-filled evenings: filled with hope and a promise of sunlight, rather than a vow of everlasting sin. 

Your lungs burn with the cold air. It seems like you’re drowning, but it’s not the same sensation as three years back. This time, all your cells are clamouring for oxygen; scrambling and twisting, unlike the freezing resignation beneath the rain and viscera. 

You’re dressed casually: sweats and a shirt that’s tighter than your clinical kitchen jacket. Like a never ending hug, it tightly clasps the muscle forced upon you by the Execution programme. You should feel cold. You are cold, but the surge and flush in adrenaline is something that melts your stone heart and body. In your haste to leave at your colleague’s proclamation of an emergency, it seems you forgot your jacket. 

Fatigue eludes you – your breathing is controlled as ever. 

Let’s face it – if it weren’t for your shifting galaxy, you would’ve stayed in bed this morning. 

This is all his fault. 

You’re not sure what you’re doing here, having jogged to the diner getting heckled via landline by your coworker. Ordinarily, you wouldn’t have deigned to answer. After all, the day management of the place is left to your colleague, not you. 

“He’s asked for you specifically.”

You can hear the satisfied grin through the landline. When you press her for more details, she hangs up on you, and you’re left seething with an almost broken cord clenched tight in your fist. 

Who the hell is she talking about?

As far as you knew, the boss had gone and fucked off to somewhere in Scandinavia two years ago. Unless he’s hauled his geriatric ass back here, you sincerely doubt he’s the one requesting your presence. 

But if you’re being honest, you don’t mind this sudden disruption to your schedule. 

Like molasses, sleep would’ve pulled you under – sticky and sweet – for the rest of the day to escape your thoughts. That’s your daily routine: an endless struggle with your mind. 

With this, at least the war in your brain has stilled. It’s a dangerous calm, one that threatens to flow out of control at the slightest ripple. The waters are growing agitated – it’s only a matter of time before you’re pulled under. 

Make no mistake, you will be dragged to the depths eventually. That’s not something you, nor anyone, can prevent. Sleep cannot hope to fight it. You cannot hope to ever escape it. 

Your head aches. 

It’s freezing. You’re slowly becoming more frigid, and your hands are beginning to shake. It was a mistake, coming out here. You don’t know what’s caused the change. 

No, you do know. You just can’t bear to keep acknowledging the catalyst behind it. 

It’s not the run that’s winded you – your breath stops ragged as you fumble in your pockets for the Old Gold that should be there. That small, plastic-wrapped carton should be there, but your pockets are sorely empty. 

Shit, shit.  

Your ears are ringing. Just like the death knell ringing for your friends and subordinates, it keeps ringing and ringing and tolling and tolling. Those reverberations permeated through sinew, through flesh and vessel – only contributing to the staggering tremors attacking your palms. 

That alizarin blue is fading from your vision, and there’s nothing you can do. 

Numbness spreads awful quick through your extremities after all; it hurtles whip-fast through your spine, pressing you against icy, rough brick. 

“Ha,” your breath comes in the form of hoarse, faint heaving. 

You’re not sure what comes next. Once the star begins exploding, it’s eventually reduced to nothingness. It’s theorised that even its very atoms disintegrate eventually.

 What’s going on?

Why aren’t you disappearing like those husks of particles?

You– you’re an empty shell. 

What’s that infernal fire spreading through your arms?

“I’m sorry,” you whisper with the finality of resignation. You’re not falling anymore. You give up. 

“Hey, there’s nothing to be sorry for.”

He was nowhere mere moments ago – there was nothing but empty void on all sides. Not a star, not even a singular atom to initiate collision and the chain of energy. He’d been nowhere, but now he’s everywhere. 

That hushed cadence. Those warm palms. That tired look in his eyes, softening as you met his gaze. 

“You okay there?”

Mr Francis Mosses is closer to you than he’d ever been. Each callous on his hands you can feel pressed through your thin shirt, they burn against the permafrost of your skin. 

You’re too close. Those soot-black eyelashes – you can count them individually at this proximity. This distance is infinitesimal; faint traces of his cologne invade your senses, lingering beneath that milky, powdery smell. You shouldn’t notice this. You shouldn’t be like this. You shouldn’t be feeling that feeling in your stomach. 

This is dangerous. 

“Yeah,” you manage to form a coherent syllable. A nuclear fission chain begins in your throat. “I’m alright.”

“Mm,” he acknowledges. His hands are still supporting you, and he’s not letting go. You can distinctly hear each pulse as it sounds out in his ribcage, while simultaneously hearing each breath as it hitches and tumbles in his lungs. At your sides, curled into tight spirals are your fists. 

You’re tense. Anyone can see it – the spring making up your flesh and bones is about to reach its plastic limit. You won’t be able to come back from this. 

The centripetal force making up your galaxy – your routine – is dissipating. 

He’s the cause of it. 

His arms wobble when you go limp, and suddenly you’re in his space – face pressed right into his trapezius, breathing in the temperature of his skin and the woody scent of aftershave. 

That’s new. 

He wraps around you, and you clutch the back of his shirt with enough force to crush a skull. He’s alive, pulse wildly careening through his flesh and sinew like a hummingbird. Furiously, he’s alive. His touch is searing as you press impossibly closer and closer. 

That gravitational pull can’t be from a mere supermassive black hole. 

He’s the origin – the very centre of the universe. All matter wants to be part of it; your cells tear into his, your heart sings out its mournful song, just to be a part of him. 

“Hey,” his breath is scorching across your ear. “You’re here, you’re alright.”

The murmurs are clumsy, tripping themselves up in a rush to escape his torrid lips. 

I’m here.

I’m alright. 

It may just be true. Where your hands connect to his latissimus dorsi through his crisp white shirt, they’ve stopped shaking. 

And you don’t know it, perhaps you never will, but that small, plastic-wrapped carton of gaseous aurum has been stored neatly away in the back of your mind for the past few minutes now. 

A throat clears. 

Your colleague’s face sports an amused expression, while your eyes convey a well-timed fuck you, as the rest of your face is buried in his shirt. 

When you pull back slightly, with her hand now on your back as well, you swear you feel Mr Francis Mosses clamp around your biceps like a vice. Resisting. An unstoppable force. His expression is worried, but when his exquisite brown eyes slide from you to your coworker, you think you can see the hint of a glare in them. You can’t be too sure. 

In the ultramarine light, there might be a hint of red on his face. You can’t be too sure of that either. 

“Sorry, I wouldn’t have called you in if he said he didn’t know you,” she explains sheepishly, but your ears are too full of a roaring heartbeat and your focus is entirely elsewhere. “We’ve been having issues with our milk provider, so we’ve switched to his company. It wouldn’t have been such an issue if our menu wasn’t half milkshakes.”

Her eyes are full of apology, despite her grumbling. She’s known you since your Execution Squad days, operating the calls and speaking to victims. She knows exactly how it feels – the panic, the suffocation, the lingering taste of tobacco that you can never really escape. 

But you can’t focus on that either. 

His thumbs are rubbing tiny, fiery circles onto your flesh – unconsciously, you think, as your eyes observe the slight anger in his face. 

No, wait. You blink in surprise. Since when are you able to discern that face?  

“I’ll wait inside so you can help me with the contract,” she scratches the back of her head, nonplussed when you don’t reply. “Take your time.”

She leaves, and you feel the origin of the universe relax. The molten, rigid singularity sighs – the heavens shift in response. 

“Sorry for taking up so much of your time.” He’s working, yet you’ve taken that away by giving in to your weakness. Shame bubbles in your throat, and you wish you could repeat this morning all over again and do it right just so you could avoid inconveniencing him. 

“Don’t apologise for that,” his voice is low, strung through with a hoarse fatigue. There’s something else clouding it, though, a sort of tightness that reminds you of anger. But he’s not angry, not anymore, you don’t think.

What is it?

He pulls you back into him, clutching at you as though you’re the lifeline instead of him being yours.

What is it?

“Mr Francis Mosses,” you breathe, but your arms wrap around him tightly once more. 

What is it?

“I’d give up all my days to help you like this.” 

The words are hushed, too hushed. They’re not meant to be for your ears, but your senses have been honed to a razor-sharp edge and your hearing is the sharpest blade of them all. 

You’ve identified that strain of his voice, so parallel to anger. 

Worry. 

He’s worried. 

That realisation burns you more fiercely than anything you’ve ever felt before. 

You give in to the torturous exhilaration. 

You lose yourself in the warmth. 

Just for a bit. 

‘I thought of quitting, baby, but my heart just ain’t gonna buy it.’

When he comes in those blue evenings, he brings the stardust that you can never spot in the sky. There’s no sun. There’s no moon, either. There are only the thick clouds that only let the most precocious blue through, and the power lines that cut straight through them. 

Over these three years, the only stars that you’ve seen are the twinkling remnants left in high-rise office buildings in the far city. You’ve seen the glimmers in diamond-encrusted watches, seen the shine on the record-player knobs you polish, seen the glitter in the dirty cents handed over the counter. These are not real stars, however. 

He brings the excruciating stardust, all bottled up in flesh and woven through in his capillaries. 

Today is no different. 

You don’t need the stars that are light-years away. Proxima Centauri, I don’t care about you. Tens of thousands of Kelvin – but they might as well be as freezing as the vacuum they orbit in. They’re cold points to you, dots of light that you can only see in encyclopaedias and the thick books customers bring in on occasion. These celestial bodies aren’t meant to be in a greasy diner – even mere phantoms of them are rare to spot.  

He’s warmer than any star. He’s closer than any star. He’s comprised of the universe itself. 

“What would you like today, Mr Francis Mosses?” 

Your very own galaxy. It appears nightly, much better than those lousy light shows that never appear in the thick fog of this polluted city. 

The panic of this morning has been long-forgotten. All gone, when you look in his mellow eyes. All gone. 

“Your recommendation,” he requests. He’s derailed your routine once more. “And double that.”

For the first time, you’re late in lighting a smoke. That’s not your fault, of course. It’s not. It really isn’t, not when he pulls your arm to sit you opposite him, nor when you let him, nor when you miss the warmth of his hand as he retracts it. 

The steaming food lies as the Rubicon between you. Who will cross it first?

You wait, tongue poised between your teeth. 

His hair is as messy as ever. Briefly, you wonder how it would feel beneath your calloused fingertips. 

There’s no response yet. You watch a little longer: a slight tremor as his throat bobs, lips pulled in nervousness, and eyes that dart to you, to the food, to the wall and everywhere in between. 

You lied about that last bit, by the way. Those tired, glassy eyes are focused solely on you at the moment. His darting eyes are actually your own: focused on him, his tapping fingers on the black reflective table, the steam particles between the two of you. 

“Are you feeling better?” It’s a simple question, devoid of any exhausted hum. It takes everything out of him, as though he’s practised a million ways of saying it and he’s still messed it up. His next breath is deep. 

“Yes?” You don’t mean it as a question, but the rising of the syllable from your larynx belies your confusion. Of course you’re all right – and you don’t mean this in a patronising manner. Of course you’re alright, when the building suffocation was replaced with a suffocation of another kind. 

A balmy, soothing sort. The previous drowning was a struggle; you gave into it fighting, with a snarl on your lips and a shattering spirit. But who wouldn’t ease into the other asphyxiation? In that honey-sweet warmth, you’d readily renounce your soul. 

“Yes,” you quickly repeat. This is a first: considering a customer’s feelings as you attempt to avoid a misunderstanding. “Much better, Mr Mosses.”

You don’t know why you avoid his first name. 

It seems he doesn’t know either; those tranquil brows furrow momentarily, before he gestures to the second portion of food. 

“Will you eat with me?” 

You give in too easily to the deception, especially when he adds your name onto the end of his question. It’s like a challenge, almost. 

“I thought about asking you directly,” he bites into the sandwich. Chews. Swallows. You’re slightly entranced by the movement of his throat. Human windpipes are so fragile, after all, in comparison to the imitation. “Mm, then I got nervous.”

If he was nervous, what were you?

“Don’t worry,” you say blithely, but that’s not your intention at all. You don’t want to be callous, and that surprises you once more. 

He always seems to coax a novel reaction from you. 

“Don’t worry – I wouldn’t refuse you,” you repeat. It’s a little quieter, a little more honest about how your heart sways. You don’t think you’ve ever sounded so heartfelt. 

“You mean that?” 

His tone shifts; a note lower, a pitch you wouldn’t have detected if you hadn’t specifically trained for this. You didn’t think of your response as particularly special, but it seemed he’d taken it as an invitation. 

You don’t mind that. Then again, you don’t mind his actions that should annoy you, had they been done by anybody else. 

“Yes. I’ll eat with you anytime.”

When you take a bite of the sandwich, you finally cross the Rubicon. 

You don’t know anything anymore. The routine, the precious universes you shaped – they’ve all been scattered by the two warm palms of a single man. The object of your rage is sitting in front of you, yet there’s no actual fury filling in the preconceived compartment. 

There’s amiability in one neat box. In the next, curiosity overflows and spills everywhere. Weaving through them all, however, is a strange substance you can’t identify. It’s warm. 

It’s warm, where there had previously only been ice. 

The strawberry taste lingering on your tongue is exquisite. 

It’s odd. Only after the dishes are soaking in the sink do you remember the pack in your apron pocket. Only when you turn around do you realise he’s still in the booth. Only when you spot his face do you notice you’re no longer feeling the same surge of adrenaline right before you smoke. 

You light the stick on the stovetop dispassionately. 

When the crisp blue air greets you, he’s in your shadow. How bizarre. 

It’s even more strange when he doesn’t leave to go to his small, compact van. He… remains. 

No, he does go back to his van. You watch him, sweet plumes hazing from your lips and fingertips. You can see the contraction of his tendons, each muscle moving seamlessly. No, not seamlessly. There’s a bit of a wobble – from fatigue, perhaps. No, that’s not right either. 

Have you always made so many mistakes when reading someone?

There’s a lack of drag that you’d expect. He’s always tired, so the slight pause in his gait is something natural to him. Instead, his feet are hesitant, as though he’s jittery.

This time, he comes back. 

Your mouth opens slightly. 

He’s never done this before. 

That coat from before, he wraps it snugly around you. You didn’t even know you were shivering. He’s meeting your gaze, but his brows are furrowed and he wears a weak smile with it. 

“Ah,” he mumbles slightly as your cigarette falls to the gravel between the two of you. It’s fine – it’s almost been burnt to a stub regardless. You step on it – thus bridging the chasm between you two. At this distance, he’s shorter than you are. You’ve been aware of it, but this is the first time you’ve truly felt it. 

He’s fastening his coat around you, but you can feel the trembling of his hands. 

“You looked cold.”

He’s so considerate, you realise. Even this morning, he went out of his way to help you. Even now, when he’s uncomfortable, he’s thinking of you. 

“What about you?” you breathe out. Your breath condenses in white plumes, and you think it’s a prettier sight than smoke. “Aren’t you cold, Mr Francis Mosses?”

Those warm eyes soften into liquid. There’s a slight crimson in his ears, a tiny hitch in his breath, and a shake in his shoulders. 

“No,” he answers honestly. It must be honest, for though his voice is clear, he looks away bashfully. He’s bared his heart, while yours is still locked away in its box. “I don’t get cold when I’m with you.”

What a coincidence, you want to say. 

Neither do I.

But you’re not him. You don’t get to run words parallel to that beating organ’s desires. 

You look away. 

You shouldn’t be allowed to say that either, you also want to add. 

Inexplicably, your heart is beating far too fast for it to be considered healthy. In fact, it might even be arrhythmia. That’s serious. 

“I–” You begin your sentence, but you hadn’t planned to actually open your mouth. This is new, too.  

“You should take better care of yourself.” The words stumble clumsily from your lips. Not everyone can have that buttery smoothness like he has. This is the universal truth – you’ve always avoided prolonged conversations for that reason precisely. So, why? Why now? Why does your pulse push these syllables from your careless vocal strings?

“I will.”

The weakness in his smile is gone. It’s fond, and you can’t bear it. 

“You’ll catch a cold,” you warn. 

And you won’t be at the diner if that happens. 

That’s strange. Why are you thinking that way?

Right. It’s him. He’s the catalyst. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” His teeth are so bright. When he smiles, he’s got the jewels of the sea in his mouth. Bright pearls – and here you thought he’d only have mastery over the stars. 

“I’m serious.” You let yourself indulge in the smell of him on the coat. Your eyes are closed. You don’t think you could bear seeing his face more. “Don’t get sick.”

“Don’t worry so much,” he exhales – the trip and jump in the sound turns it into suppressed laughter. 

You can’t get sick. You want to say that. You’d shout it for the world to hear, but that would be too troublesome – and like you mentioned previously, you’re not like him. Your heart is small and cold and closed off in a tight box. 

Please, you can’t get sick. 

But for him, you’d do it. 

‘And if I didn’t think it was worth one single try, I’d jump right on a big bird and then I’d fly.’

He’s tricked you. 

Each time you think you’ve fit Mr Francis Mosses into a neat routine with clear expectations and a place in the galaxy, he evades that and tricks you. Then, he tricks you for a second and a third time, for good measure. 

Otherwise, why would you be counting down the hours until he gets here?

When you’re ringing up Miss Mia Stone’s order at half-past twelve, you’re thinking of him and his soft hair. When you’re taking Mr Henryk Jamesons’ money at quarter to five, you’re picturing those molten brown eyes. And when you’re separating the food into two compact takeout boxes for Mr Stephen Rudboys, you’re imagining those soft lips, poised to say the most unexpected things.

That’s also new. Since when did you focus on his lips?

“Thanks, have a great day,” Mr Rudboys waves at you mechanically, and you almost unconsciously reply with ‘don’t get sick’. You feel like an idiot. 

You feel swindled. 

You feel tricked, and it’s all his fault. He evidently has no respect for the labours of a diner worker, if he’s entering your mind while you’re serving other clients. 

Why does everything have to boil down to him?  

It always comes back to Mr Francis Mosses. You think it was a wise decision to be wary of his gravitational pull. If you’re not careful, he might just cause a wormhole and shoot right through you. 

With others, you’re thinking of him. 

Even when you’re alone, you swear you can smell that powdery, milky smell lingering. 

It’s not fair. 

Does he think of you too? When he’s under blue, fog-filled skies like these, does he think of the smoke you exhale? When he’s with others, can he recall your awkward attempts at conversation? When he’s alone, does he imagine you there with him?

Do I occupy your thoughts like you occupy mine?

It’s ridiculous. Really, it’s laughable. You’re a speck on this planet, while he’s the centre of everything. 

That would be your usual train of thought. 

Humans are not stars. 

But you don’t get to think even that, because you can hear the familiar hum of an engine and you know it could only be him that’s here.

And you’re laughing – laughing at yourself, laughing at your foolishness, laughing at just how ludicrous you’re being. To think, he’d made himself so at home in the ordered compartments of your mind that your very capillaries are magnetised to him. 

You’re attuned to him – compass pointing straight. Not north – you couldn’t care less about the ridiculous iron centre of Earth. The arrow points at him.  

For the first time, you’re inside the diner when he comes through – still beaming, hand pressed to your miserable face and wretched laughter ringing flush against the mellow tones of Frank Sinatra. 

He pauses in the doorway. Though you hear him – how could you not – the sounds that bubble up from your diaphragm refuse to cease. 

It’s only when you notice that gaze in his eyes that you stop – warmer, more liquid than anything you’ve ever seen. Those irises are darker, too – impossibly dilated. 

“Mr Francis Mosses,” you greet him. There’s a smile on your lips. You don’t think he’s ever seen you smile like that. “What will it be today?”

Dazed. You can read his face clear as day – and somehow, somehow, that makes you incredibly conscious of yourself, of him and of every minute action between the two of you. 

“I’ll take anything you give me,” he murmurs. His voice is hoarse, and not in the fatigued way, but in the ‘I’m losing my composure’ way. Carmine bleeds into his skin – you can feel the same carmine thrumming ceaselessly through your veins. 

Fuck.

This man, is he your Achilles’ heel? Your hamartia, your flaw above anything.

No, it can’t be. You’re full of flaws – he’s the only good thing about you. If anything, you’re the person who’s sure to drag him down. 

“Right.”

He sits at the counter today, perched on the cerise-red stools and propped up on an exhausted elbow. Yet, his eyes are clearer – sharper – than your usual expectation. They’re honed on you: your movements, your actions, you. He’s watching you, and nobody else. 

“Did someone make you laugh?”

His tone is different from his usual one; it lacks its usual enervation, and there’s a rougher burr to it that you can’t quite place. When you look up from where you’re assembling his wrap, there’s a shadow in his eyes. 

“Yes.” You did. For the first time in years, you laughed. All thanks to your azure singularity – him . 

There’s more he wants to say. Those lips of his part minutely, but you’ll never know what he wanted to say. 

“Hm?” And for the first time, you really want to know the potential: his thoughts before they leave his lips. 

“Forget it,” he exhales, looking anywhere but you. You slide his food over the counter; there’s a tinge of disappointment in your action. Disappointment, huh… 

You wonder if you’ll have enough boxes to sort out these different feelings. 

He doesn’t speak as he eats. It’s only when you slide onto a neighbouring stool with a milkshake for yourself that he looks up in surprise. 

“You…” he murmurs – there’s an eternal question concealed in that singular word. 

“You feeling alright?” you ask in mild concern. 

“What would you do if I said I wasn’t?” he breathes, and you look at him. You study his expression: his wide, sleepless eyes, his tousled hair, his lips pressed together. There’s a faint trembling in his hands. That won’t do.  

“I’d ask about it further, Mr Francis Mosses,” you reply seriously. “If it’s an emotional issue, I’ve been told I’m a very good sandbag. I can listen and take beatings simultaneously.”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” his raised eyebrows suggest he’s mildly taken aback, but he presses on. “But there’s one thing you could do for me.”

“Which is?” you prompt. 

He takes a deep breath.

“Call me Francis.”

Oh. 

He always exceeds my expectations. 

“Please,” he almost begs. Who are you to say no to the one who decimated your universe?

“I think I’ll go crazy if you don’t.”

You don’t think you’re meant to hear that last bit – it’s muttered so softly that you think he’s unaware that these are his words.

There’s a maddening rhythm to your heartbeat. You don’t want it to ever end. 

“Francis.” Those two syllables creep out carefully. This is a first – you don’t remember the last time a name wasn’t carefully framed by honorifics and made impersonal. Francis. 

“Yes?” he replies breathlessly. It’s so fucking intimate: his pupils are blown out, bottom lip wobbling with a slight sheen on them, hands shaking around a cheap napkin. All because of you. It’s his name you’re saying, but it’s your lips it’s falling from. Yours. 

You want to turn his thoughts on their head – just like he’s flipped your world upside down. 

“Francis.” It’s almost a whisper – not quite. There’s laughter seeping into the name; rich amusement drips from it. You’re delighted. 

How can one man make you feel so much?

At the sound of your joy, his scarlet flush bleeds into his neck. Before, he’d met your gaze so boldly each time – irises honed right on you. But this – his face is exquisite right now. Those glazed-over eyes evade your stare. He’s looking anywhere but you: breathing spiralling out of control, teeth clamping desperately over those soft lips. 

And you’re grinning, teeth flashing neon and that blue taste on your tongue. 

Have you ever felt so light?

There’s laughter spilling over, and his eyes snap back to yours. 

“Francis,” you rasp. “Don’t ever change.”

Keep surprising me. 

Stay right here. 

When he takes your hand and holds it in both of his, it feels like a promise. It lasts only a moment – but you swear you experience several lives within that singular gesture. 

There’s that blazing flush on his face. 

You hope he’s feeling as warm as you are. 

“I won’t,” he says, and the heavens align themselves once more. 

‘I’ve been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king.’

Anticipation makes way to expectation.

Francis.

Each muscle, every organ, all of the cells in your body – they’re all waiting. Sure, you’ve waited before. You’ve waited for the next mission, you’ve waited for your paycheck, you’ve waited for your new gun to be issued. 

You’ve waited to tear down doppelgängers.

You’ve waited a long time for revenge. 

But that burning feeling doesn’t feel like the balmy heat that traipses carefreely within your vessels. It’s a dancing, delicate thing. 

You’ve seen the ballet, once. There was a doppelgänger amongst the dancers – movements bolder than any of the others, freer and more unrestrained. Wilder. You almost felt bad about putting a bullet through its eye, but duty called and you weren’t about to abandon the fury within your heart for something as mundane as admiration. 

You don’t know why you’re thinking about it. 

You don’t know why your heartbeat is behaving so intrepidly, but you suppose you’ve lost enough humanity for your body to develop such characteristics. 

It’s strange. Really, it’s so strange you might end up laughing again.

Francis.

He’s got you so easily in his palm. If he asked you for it, you think you’d take the fist-sized organ from its receptacle nestled between your lungs and present it to him on a silver platter. You’d wipe away the congealed blood on his hands with a rough thumb and kiss them better with your poisonous mouth. 

You aren’t a poet. 

You’ve been a soldier and a pawn, so all you know and all you may ever know is the metallic, coppery stench of carmine – it follows in your shadow and stains your footsteps. Your hands are covered in it, and will be forever.  It doesn’t matter – you’d give your body over and over and over and over. Parallel universes will have the same outcome for you. There’s no changing that. 

You’re a soldier, so you’re not allowed to wax poetic about him – any letters you write, any flowery prose will be obscured by the heavy darkness you drag within you. 

But for once, you’d like to try your hand at words. And if your hand is still too stained with that bleeding arterial red, you’ll write it with your body. 

Just once, you’d like your limbs in this universe to be used for something more pretty than killing. Even though it’s an imitation, red is still red and blood is still blood. 

You aren’t a poet, so the most you’ll get is this expectation. You’re a simple creature. Words elude you, but your emotions are too fleeting to be caged in by prose and logic. 

It’s so ordinary. 

It’s all you ever wanted. 

But he doesn’t come tonight. 

Tonight, you’re left with that awful blue fog as your paramour and Sinatra as your entertainment. 

It was foolish, holding on to this expectation. Did you forget already? 

He is one to go beyond them. 

This is one of the few times you’ve ached so sharply. It’s a clean slice through your heart – not like the blunt bang of a pistol, but a masterful cut that draws out the pain better than a bullet ever could. 

It hurts. It really does, and it’s all your fault for feeling hopeful. 

You changed your mindset, and it only came back to pay you in tears. 

But you don’t cry.

It hurts, but the plumes of smoke you exhale taste better than the salt. 

If anything, you’re cherishing the white-hot pain. Maybe you haven't completely lost your humanity. 

It’s long laid dormant, but this agony is sweeter than honey. 

Still, you wish for everything to just disappear. If only for a moment. 

It hurts. Go away, please. Go away. 

You’re an idiot, and when you bury your face in your hands, you barely feel the burn from the cigarette. 

‘I’ve been up and down and over and out and I know one thing.’

You’re unusually sullen the next day. There’s the biting pressure you feel from yesterday, but that’s ridiculous. Francis has no obligation to visit you daily, and your disappointment is your own fault. 

It’s alright. 

You can’t bring yourself to blame him. 

You feel so stupid, though. 

Never have you felt so small. With revenge, the burning consumes you and you don’t feel hopeless. There’s a goal to strive for, after all. But with this, there’s nothing you can do.  

“What will it be, Francis?” 

Your words come out tired. They match the fatigue in his eyes; something you’d normally be noting with wonderment. Today, the excitement doesn’t come. 

No, to be more precise, you tamp down on it harshly before it can come up to the surface. 

“Mm.” He acknowledges your question, but he’s staring you down dazedly and you can’t help but feel slightly wobbly inside. “Something light. I haven’t been feeling well lately.”

Right. You tap the pager unconsciously – it seems him staying away yesterday wasn’t out of his own volition. You don’t know what you would’ve done if it had been otherwise; but then again, you’ve forced those feelings back into a little box, locked tight thrice. Inescapable. Impenetrable. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” You give him a weak smile, and the awkward fumbling of well wishes seems to have done the trick – his soft smile back washes the insecurity away without a trace. 

It’s when you’re cooking that it happens. While your hands drip red from strawberries, you hear footsteps. His footsteps – the ones you memorised. There’s that same gait, that same tired drag of his sole. 

And you force down your smile. 

He’s never done this either.

You’d think he was just walking around the diner to pass the time, but his footsteps get closer and closer, until–

His arms wrap around you from the back. 

You freeze. 

Out of all the things you thought he’d do, this isn’t one of them. His face presses into the juncture of your neck, and he’s breathing you in. He’s warm, so warm, and your heart finally begins its fervent race once more. 

If he squeezed you any tighter, you would’ve thought he was going for a suplex.

His fingers trace from your hips, up your abdominal muscles, before settling on your solar plexus – each digit splayed out as though his palms were the sun and his fingers the rays. How fitting. 

You should push him off. You should, but there’s something about him you can’t resist. 

“Francis,” you whisper, and it’s like that final barrier in the dam finally breaks. You give in to the raging tide of emotions. Let yourself be swept up in this turbulent river. Don’t worry about a thing. 

“Mm,” he hums, lips just brushing against the stiff fabric of your clinical jacket. And you can feel their reverberations echoing to your very bone marrow – you don’t think you’ve ever heard your pulse so cleanly, so clearly. “I missed you.”

The admission takes all the strength out of you. 

I missed you too. 

I missed you, so much I couldn’t bear it. 

Perhaps that’s the reason. Perhaps that’s why you could never push him away. 

Fuck.  

You really are a fool. 

So, why doesn’t that upset me?

‘Each time I find myself flat on my face, I pick myself up and get back in the race.’

It’s a sleepless night. Just when you think those sweet molasses are going to drag you under, they slip from your fingers and leave you tossing and turning. 

“I missed you.”

You can still feel his fingers on your body. 

When you close your eyes, you can feel him, pressing his lips against your neck and holding you close to him. 

Back then as a Captain, there were people who needed you. Of course there were – you were a pawn, a soldier, someone who had a duty and kept to it. You were a resource: easily replaceable. In fact, it was a miracle you’d lasted the year. 

But him.  

You bury your face in your pillow. There’s a furious beat to your pulse. You can feel it everywhere: your head, your legs and even your stomach.

There’s no doubt about it. 

You like Francis. 

You like him, so much so that you’re running out of boxes to put your emotions in. 

It doesn’t come as a surprise when you’re haggard at work, even more so than yesterday. The day is both sluggish and hare-like, racing away from you yet constantly disturbing you with its slow crawl. It’s the adrenaline and dopamine; they’re clashing and twisting and dancing against themselves. You honestly don’t know how your hypothalamus manages to outshine itself every time. 

The familiar hum of the engine comes when the fog up in the sky is still white. It’s earlier than usual, but Francis has never been one to stick within the lines you’ve put him in. 

“Francis.” 

The shadows under his eyes are darker than before.

“I’m not here for food today,” he exhales. “Just let me spend time with you here.”

That’s a first. 

You’re a little lost. When the boss trained you on how to deal with customers, he never mentioned the tricky ones like these. 

“Ah,” you mumble. “Sure.”

“I also brought you something.” He’s smiling with his eyelids lowering – it’s not an expression you’ve ever seen him make. Fuck. You can’t resist him. 

He’s already taken up too much space in your universe. 

There’s a small plastic bag he takes out of his coat pocket. It crackles lightly against the glass of a milk bottle. “Strawberry cookies. Made them myself.”

You don’t think you’ve ever received such a heartfelt gift. 

When he places them in your outstretched palm, all you can think about is the roaring heat of his hand. 

There’s a few flecks of sanguine on his crisp white shirt. When he notices you looking, he laughs awkwardly. 

“I cut myself at work,” he explains, adjusting the hazy buttons. That’s a new habit; of course he’s filled with mysteries. Since he’s Francis. 

Gently, you take his wrist and press your lips to the fabric concealing it. 

“What–” he chokes. “–what are you doing?”

“I’m kissing it better,” you reply. There’s something different about you tonight as well. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but it seems you’ve become more bold in the time you’ve met with him. “Do you want me to stop?”

It seems you’ve been intoxicated by him. 

“No,” he stammers. “Please don’t.”

Perhaps he’s been intoxicated by you too. 

It’s only when you’ve placed your lips on the tips of his fingers that you finally pull back and study his face. He’s completely flushed now, with his hair messed up and eyes wide. 

You take a bite out of the biscuit. There’s strawberries on your tongue: sweet, tangy, perfectly suited to the buttery crumble. It’s warm, as if it’s been held close to his heart. The thought makes you smile. 

It’s perfect. 

This man…

When you stand from the stool to brush the crumbs from your fingers, he stands with you. 

When you head into the kitchen area, he follows you. 

When you attempt to move past him after washing your hands at the sink, he stops you by holding onto your wrist. You could break free if you tried, but you won’t. Because it’s him.  

“Francis…” you trail off. There’s a certain look in his eyes – it’s impossibly tender.  

“Tell me you’re feeling the same as me,” he pleads, pressing your palm flat against his heart. His pulse is wild, spinning out of control like that dancer you saw all those years ago. 

Your own heartbeat roars its own feral beat; it’s a careful syncopation with his. 

You didn’t know his human heart could feel that way. 

It’s not supposed to, not like yours does. 

That heaviness – you don’t hear it with humanity. 

Your thumb brushes over those soft lips; that look in his eyes speaks of immeasurable hunger. 

“Please,” he whines, and you surge. 

Your mouth is on his, and he tastes like the strawberries you’ve just eaten. Heady. Sweet. He may have cornered you between him and the sink, but you’re in control – the two of you know it. 

Perhaps that’s why his lips part so easily. 

He’s warm – so warm. You eagerly devour him, pressing a hand to his nape and another to his waist while you take his small hisses in stride. He’s forced to tilt his head up; hands scramble for purchase in the dips of your back, seeking refuge as you roughly press into him. 

He’s intoxicating. Even when the metallic taste enters your mouth, he’s intoxicating.  

Even when you can no longer smell that milky, powdery smell on him. There’s no woody aftershave either. 

Even when you hear the sound of a familiar hum. 

He stands, frozen in the doorway. 

Your lips are on someone who looks like him. 

And you’re looking directly at him. 

Why does he look like that?

His hands are shaking, and he just looks so lost. He’s panting, as though he’s just run here – and his face is covered with small scrapes that can’t just have been from work. 

And why are you feeling this bitter pain?

You knew you could never have Francis – his world was far too removed from yours, and staying with you is dangerous. You’re cursed, doomed to stay in this intransient state. 

“No–” he chokes out. “Get away from that thing!”

Why does it hurt so much?

You thought you’d be alright giving up on him. 

He can’t enter your blood-soaked world. 

He can’t.  

It hurts. It hurts so much. 

Your heart’s breaking into pieces, but you’re still holding onto his doppelgänger and that creature’s lips are still on yours. 

Francis… 

It was nice. This little dream was nice. 

It was nice, but there are tears in your eyes and a wry smile on your lips. 

It’s ending. That fake, brief happiness is crumbling away. 

“Get away!”

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” The doppelgänger’s voice finally drops to its natural pitch – low, a harsh hum reverberating through your sternum. “You caught on now?”

No. You hadn’t caught on just now. 

You had a feeling from the very beginning. 

‘That’s life (that’s life) that’s life and I can’t deny it.’

All the celestial bodies will go cold one day. It is simply a matter of waiting for the universe to turn into a graveyard of giants, undisturbed for the rest of eternity. 

There’s a gun in the cabinet behind you. If one examines it closely, you can see distinct initials that match someone working at the diner. But, surely not, right? None of your customers have suspected a thing. 

Faintly, you hear your name being called from somewhere along the periphery. 

“You need to get back, he’s dangerous!”

You pull out your gun, unlocking the mechanism with a swift click. It’s a standard-issue, given to the lieutenant-class and above – a heavy thing, unauthorised to be carried by any civilian. The bullets inside are deadlier than any ammunition used in human warfare. 

You didn’t think you’d ever use it again. 

But today, Francis will be joining the graveyard of celestial bodies. There, he’ll eventually disintegrate – not an atom will remain. 

“Francis, stay right there.” Your words are cold. Don’t you see? This is my world, Francis. 

This is my danger. 

This is what follows in my shadow. 

Don’t come near me. 

“Oh? I didn’t think you were ex-military,” the doppelgänger’s voice rumbles in its chest. “Give up. You’re no match for me. We’ve evolved past puny human capabilities.”

You didn’t think you’d ever do this again. 

Not again. 

Tears blur your vision, but you don’t need to rely on your eyes to kill. 

You need to shoot him. You need to shoot him because you love him, because he’s still alive and this thing is trying to replace him. You need to pull the trigger. 

Francis.

I love you. 

This pain – it’s too much to bear. 

When you squeeze the trigger, you repeat it like a mantra. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.”

And there’s a smile on the doppelgänger’s lips as you shoot him, like he’s won. 

There’s blood everywhere. Splashed on the pans, coating the griddle, sliding and congealing on the bright neon signs that light up the diner in fluorescent red. Brain matter is cleaved in thousands of pieces, and you resist the urge to throw up.

Red is still red, and blood is still blood. 

When the doppelgänger’s body begins to bubble, you move without a trace of hesitation – sliding across the counter with the agility of an athlete. You’re crying – crying as you take Francis out into the pouring rain.  You’re crying, as you’re covering his body with yours – behind you, the doppelgänger’s body finally blows up and shards of the diner stick to you and maul your back. But it’s fine – he’s still alive. Your universe is living – breathing beneath you. He's warm – a human warmth, with a human pulse and a human smell. 

“You–” he murmurs, drenched in rainwater and the blood covering you. His eyes are widened, but he doesn’t look scared. He’s not scared of you. 

And you’re high, high on adrenaline and the sight of him. 

He’s alive. 

He’s not dead. 

You protected him. 

‘Many times I thought of cutting out, but my heart just won’t buy it.’

The D.D.D will get here eventually. That’s something you’ve come to accept as truth, which is why you don’t care about phoning them when the smoke rising from the place will alert them regardless. 

You pull him into an alleyway near your apartment. There’s a howling storm and a torrential downpour, but you don’t care about any of that. 

He’s warm. He’s warm, and he’s alive. 

“You’re real, right?” you murmur. Your drenched palms press into his face. He’s staring at you, tears gathering on his lash line and a shake in his bottom lip. “Francis.”

“I’m real,” he breathes, and it’s like nothing else exists in the universe. Nothing but him and you in suspended animation, within all the space-time. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I’m not going anywhere. 

Has anyone said something like that to you before?

There’s no fear in his eyes.

What a foolish promise. 

But maybe you’re the fool for feeling the way you do about that vow. 

You’re covered in blood, but he’s looking right past that. 

“Did you know–” he chokes out, looking away. “–that he was a doppelgänger?”

Yes. I knew, and I kissed him despite knowing that. 

Francis, I can’t be with you. 

Those words race through your head, but you can’t bring yourself to say anything. You can’t bring yourself to lie, either. Instead, you nod – and you can’t meet his eyes when you do so. 

“Why were you with him like that, then?” His thumb traces your jaw, mirroring the actions of your hands just moments prior. He sounds heartbroken, and you can feel tears blurring your vision once more. “Don’t tell me he’s better than me.”

“Francis,” you plead against the storm, against the deafening wind that presses against your words. “I can’t be with you.”

There’s a pause. Water soaks the two of you, but neither moves. 

“Who decided that?” He steps closer, and you swallow. His arms wrap tightly around you, and his head’s buried against your chest. He’s angry, you realise. He’s angry, because he knows exactly why you decided on that dream. 

He’s pressed skin-to-skin against you – fabric drenched through and ice-cold – and there’s a searing heat that threatens to envelope you whole. Let it, you think. I’ll give in for you. 

“Who decided that?” he repeats, mouth moving against your collarbone. If you weren’t against a wall, you think you might’ve collapsed by now. 

“Francis,” you falter. More. “Don’t you see how dangerous it is with me?” Say no. Be with me despite that. 

You’ve become selfish. 

“I don’t care,” he whispers against your flesh. “You like me, don’t you?”

I adore you. 

Don’t leave me.

You don’t say anything, but he can hear your answer in the wild drum of your pulse. 

“You’ll protect me.”

I’d give my life to serve that purpose. 

“Francis,” you rasp. There’s something coiling within you, burning up hotter and brighter than anything you’ve felt before. It sets your veins and capillaries alight, altering everything within. 

There’s a frigid downpour that freezes flesh and sinew, but you’re sweltering with him pressed against you.

Stardust coats your fingertips when you slide them beneath his chin. Beneath the rain, everything sluices away – the pain, the blood, the worry, and the hesitation.

“Use me to forget,” he breathes. “I’ll be yours.”

Fuck.

Gently, you slot your lips against his, and his eyes flutter closed. He’s hesitant – you can tell from how his hands curl open and closed against your chest. He’s hesitant, yet he presses himself against you like you’re going to disappear any minute. 

It’s funny. 

You’re thinking the exact same thing about him. 

Your fingers dig into his hips – you don’t think you’ll ever let him go.

His lips are warm – humanly warm – and he tastes explosive, like neutron stars merging. He’s divine.  

“More,” he whines into your mouth. “Please.”

With such soft lips parting just for you, who are you to refuse?

“Mm,” he gasps as you deepen the kiss, pressing your tongue into his spit-slicked mouth. Each pretty noise that escapes him snaps one more string of self-restraint of yours, until it’s all gone. You flip him, so his back’s pressed against the cold, drenched wall and your body moves against his front. 

And his hands – they’re clawing at your back and dragging against its valleys. You can feel each nail as you go rougher – eliciting more pain for you, but you couldn’t care less about that . Not when you’ve got him melting like putty as he clumsily moves his lips against yours, not when he’s desperately trying to come closer and closer and closer.  

There’s salt on your lips and copper on your tongue. Tears and blood. You can’t tell who cries. 

“More,” he pulls back from your mouth panting, choking for breath. “Please, I need more.”

Fuck.  It’s getting addicting. 

“You sure?” 

Give in.  You can’t help wanting to lose yourself in that heady sensation. 

“Please,” he begs. 

You crumble so easily. 

‘But if there’s nothing shaking, come this here July, I’m gonna roll myself up in a big ball and die.’