#abandoned reader

[ladyrosemone]

𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐞

A misty memory A haunting face Is she a lost embrace?

𝘿𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙧!: This work contains nuances of emotional incest, if the subject makes you uncomfortable I recommend skipping this post for your comfort.

Fandom: DC

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The world works in specific ways.

There must be roles to follow, labels you can never shake off, appearances you have to play up whether you like it or not. There are protectors and victims, good and bad, one side or the other.

But what happens when you're in the middle of the line?

When your role is to be ambiguous, your label is to shine but your role is to disappear, you're neither a protector nor a victim, you're neither strong enough to protect nor weak enough to need protection, you're neither good nor bad, you're a zero, a smudge on the paint.

You're not memorable.

And you use that to your advantage.

Your family never loved you, that's the truth; Dad's a liar. Bruce Wayne can act so well it's ridiculous, but he never bothered to act with you. He didn't pretend to love you, but he didn't pretend to hate you either. You were a limbo between the two, solved by acting like you weren't even there, easy and simple. Anyway, that's what he did with your mother after having sex with her and discarded her the next morning, coming back only because…Why did he come back? You could have gone back to your maternal family, with whom you still have contact; living in the system is better than Wayne.

Your brothers? As many as there are days in the year, it almost seems like collecting them is a hobby (or his therapy, something he tries to remedy himself by using others—who said that?!), but no matter how many there are, you don't connect with any of them. Maybe because you arrived late, or because you're not a Robin, or an Oracle, or whatever exotic bird and mythological name they use to fight crime. Your sisters? They're…there, far away, not bothering to get close, and to their credit, you don't either, not anymore anyway, it's not worth it.

Alfred tries, it's sweet of him to do so, but you'll never be a priority for the old butler; you don't need bandages in the middle of the night, or coordinates for a cross-city chase, and God forbid you need empathetic comfort because someone else needs it more.

There are orphans, murderers, revived, a metahuman! Doesn't Bruce hate those?!

It would be funny if it weren't so sad, that your own father loves others more than you, how depressing; but it's not all bad, really, no, the lack of parental supervision gives you time to do many other things; you allow yourself to try everything, after all, Dad pays without a second thought.

So far, you're a singer, painter, dancer, soccer player, basketball player, gymnast, national champion in marine sciences and aerodynamic engineering, archer, model, diva, and all at no more than twenty years old, Take that, Barbie! That's what negligence, free time, and a billion-dollar legacy combined do.

Another result of this is attention; you crave attention like a moth to a flame. It's a need, your air, your most primal desire. Being adored has become your mission, your purpose. Being envied is what motivates you to wake up every morning at four o'clock to start your beauty and exfoliation routine. Being desired is literally what makes you endure every magazine photo and every clothing ad that appears in store windows all over Gotham.

But through all of that, the smallest, most hidden part of your psyche still yearns for his attention, his desires, his flattery, his adoration, his envy, his need.

𝙎𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜.

That makes you hate him—hate him and his children, who are part of his world, who don't have to fight for even a glance from him, much less his voice. Dick doesn't have to do a million things at once to be his pride and joy, Jason doesn't have to lose sleep over a compliment on his looks, Tim doesn't rack his brains to be considered a genius, Damian never needed to prove anything to be considered his equal in his eyes, Duke received everything as soon as he arrived, Barbara didn't have to beg for the mantle of Batgirl, Stephanie doesn't have to excel at everything to be recognized as one of his own, and Cassandra is his daughter, 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙙𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙧.

They're all something to him, they're all on that damn wall, in the family portrait he commissioned as a gift for them, one where you're not included, like in everything else. You don't even remember what the excuse was this time, or if it was Alfred who said it or your head made it up, but that painting is the rock that broke the glass.

And, ironically, the painting next to it is your perfect revenge.

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The changes began slowly, although if they had happened suddenly, they wouldn't have noticed.

An extra charge at a beauty salon, a clothing store, a jewelry store—nothing Bruce cared about or Alfred told him about.

Then the glances began.

A familiar figure passing at the end of the hallway as Bruce crossed, a nostalgic laugh that made Alfred nervous, a smell that made Bruce remember his past, details that made both men alert.

The alerts turned into paranoia when the images started coming in.

Bruce knew you were doing things outside the family: events, galas, parties, charity events, anything considered extravagant and spectacular. He always used that as a distraction, hiring anyone who looked like him from afar to appear on the covers and facilitating his double life as Bruce Wayne and Batman.

He's heartless, but he's useful, you're useful, from afar and without interfering in his vigilante life; at least one of his children will be free from the Bat curse.

And in he excuses, he never thought the curse would be any crueler.

Because the next time she sees you, the only gala he attends that you organized as a charity event, the only time he steps into the same space as you and sees you as the very image of her.

That he ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ.

Her bearing, her brightness, her smile and laugh, her presence—damn, you even seem to use the same style with a modern touch—it's like having her among the guests who aged like she might have.

And when you see him…

- Father!- your voice echoes in his head, and for a second he hears hers too - Bruce Wayne has arrived! -

He's a scared little boy.

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The world works in specific ways.

And when your role shifts from being a spectator to being a perpetrator, it feels good.

It shouldn't, morally, you shouldn't enjoy seeing him so disturbed, afraid to be around you but seeking you out more often. It should make you feel sorry to hear him cry every time you dress a certain way that you've seen in photos and he saw in person, you should stop when you noticed how he began to harass you more and more until you could feel him breathing down your neck.

But you couldn't. And the final straw was when he approached you first.

The encounter was strange, an awkward, tense atmosphere; you playing the piano in a living room far from the house, and he standing awkwardly in the living room doorway, listening without hearing and looking at you as if recalling a memory.

He approached awkwardly, slowly, as if each step were on a tightrope thousands of feet above the ground, and you were the solid floor on the other side. He didn't say much when he reached you. In his hands was a sheet of music that he held tightly; you could see the wrinkles in the old paper.

- Play it - he asks you, whispering, afraid of breaking whatever holds his sanity together.

That song, you learned from Alfred, who can no longer look you in the eye, was the first song Martha taught Bruce to play on the piano.

Martha Wayne, the grandmother you never met, the one you only saw in old portraits and hidden photos, the woman you bore an almost frightening resemblance to. You realized this on a day like today, a revelation that gave you the sickest idea you could have had, and despite everything morally correct, you went ahead with it.

Days at the salon to get her hair done, a manicure and pedicure elegant and classic, a new wardrobe with only clothes from the season she was alive, modernized enough to follow trends but still highlighting her style, jewelry she used to wear, the perfume she used (according to old newspapers in which she appears promoting it).

You became her in the present, the reincarnation of Martha Wayne.

Who would have thought that if you just dressed up a little more you'd look just like her?

The media adores you, those who lived during the Wayne matriarch's time desire you, women young and old envy you, and the spotlight always shines on you. And as if fate were gifting him to you, as if rewarding you for years of neglect and hatred that rotted you as a person, destiny hands you Bruce Wayne as a constant in your life.

Encounters at galas, parties, and gatherings, superficial and tense conversations whenever you meet at the mansion, calls in the middle of the night when he thinks you think he can't sleep, when in reality he's just overwhelmed by the loneliness of the night and the memories his mind combines of his mother and you, hours and hours in the music room where he asks begs you to play him the same piano score or the same lullaby, outings everywhere, accompanying you like a shadow.

The lines that were never defined have blurred, vanished, lost in a limbo that no one bothers to recapture; for you are content to have your father's full attention without seeking it, to snap your fingers and know he will come at your call, to go from being nothing to being his everything, to becoming the most twisted and sick form of you in his sole thought. And he is in a trance that no magic spell, or brainwashing, or catharsis, or anything like that can compare to; it is his never-healed trauma, the wound he sealed with fire opening again to raw, steaming, red flesh, which he uses to paint your lips the same shade his mother wore for social gatherings.

You want to know the most bizarre thing? That you've been referred to as "𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚊 𝚆𝚊𝚢𝚗𝚎"

And you won't change any of that, because your hatred makes you pull on the chain that strangles Bruce, tightening it every time someone tries to intervene and pull him out of the emotional hole he's fallen into; your brothers and sisters have tried, you must admit. Family interventions, paid therapies, magical, intergalactic therapies—there's nothing they haven't done to return his father to normal.

They've all failed because Bruce doesn't want to go out, doesn't want to leave the last piece of his past, of the time when he was full and happy, where there wasn't night and revenge, he doesn't want to be an orphan again. Bruce was a mama's boy; his previous partners have a bit of his mother in them, and now that he's found his mother in a woman, no force on Earth or beyond will make him let her go.

Even if that person is his forgotten child.

What does Alfred do? Nothing. The poor man has been swallowed up by guilt and remorse; that through his carelessness he let this grow and spiral out of control, that he knew the damage abandonment was doing to you and still left you in the toxic shadows of the house. And now? The family has fragmented.

This is your victory. You have everything you want, your life is complete; while you paint a portrait of a vase, humming a lullaby, with your father dozing behind you, hugging you by the waist.

You have won.

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Hello again! Happy to be writing again! I'm working on the sequel to A Human's Touch, so look out for it soon!

[synthe4u]

.cod #5

A/N: I INTRODUCE MY 'DREAMS' aka my writings that would only make sense if I was dreaming (they're not actual dreams)

This will include misspelling, missed punctuation, military inaccuracies, etc. This is not meant to be serious writing. It's more of a hit and run; confusion and never gonna get back to you. i have warned you.

masterlist

No man left behind, but what if Y/n did get left behind. An accident? Or maybe on purpose

“S-shit, guys!” “Evac landing” “Ghost, shit,” they coughed through the smoke. “Fuck damnit,” a few shots went through the air. Nicking his arm but going through his leg. Y/n fell onto one knee, “Ghost! Soap! Anyone?!” They called out for help but none came. They tried their comms but it was broken. No one was coming “Evac now leaving” They looked up to try and see the heli leaving but no sight of it, there was too much smoke.

-

“Hey, guys, where’s Y/n?” Soap asked, the heli was already halfway to base. The guys looked around the aircraft and had no sign of him. They knew he wasn’t in the body bags, they checked each one for enemies. Last time an enemy came through a body bag and nearly leaked their information when they came back to base.

-

You pull out a cigarette, lighting it. Getting mesmerized by the lighter before putting it away. You blew smoke out and looked around.

“Goddamn, this is some good weed” “Got any to share?” Someone was nearby. “Got a penny?” You didn’t care if it was an enemy, your men had left you whether it was on accident or purpose. I mean I know you had your fits with the pilot here and there but it wasn’t that bad.

“I have a euro” “It’ll do”

The person came closer and you got a better view of them. They wore a mask covering their mouth and nose.

“Heyo” “Pass the weed?”

You passed them the stick and they pulled down their mask. There was a scar on their left cheek.

“How’d you get that one?”

The man puffed out the smoke, “that is some good weed. Get what?”

“The scar,” you pointed to your own cheek

“Oh, some guy pulled a knife on me on the street” “Some short story that was” “Haha.” “What are you doing here?” “I’m here to collect the bodies” “One man?” “My team is lazy” “What don’t you kill me?” “You gave me good weed, a hard thing to get out here.” “Would’ve never thought”

The man offered to pull you up out of your sitting position. You grabbed his hand, and yall just stood there.

“Where to now?” “Up to you, I already collected all the bodies” “Do you wanna walk around?” “In a war zone where many have died? Sure” “When you say it like that, it makes it seem bad” “Isn’t it bad?” “It is.”

You both walked around encountering other people who were chill with you being there even though you were their previous enemy.

“Y’all make it seem like y’all are gonna come and stab me when I’m not looking” “Why?” “The kindness is a little much for me”

They go out to hug you and you try to pull away

“Hey! Let go!” “You just need some affection” “I don’t wanna be fuzzy” “Too bad”

Meanwhile as Y/n made a new friend, The base

The boys were down because they lost a friend. He was likely KIA but they didn’t find their body so they’re labeled as MIA.

A call suddenly rang through the base. No one called unless it was important plus not many knew the number to the phone. So it was weird

Price went to answer it, “Hello?”

“Hey Price, so funny story I’m living life rn, like actually. I’m at a resort with these people and it’s like oh my gosh. Can I stay?”

“Y/n?” Price was confused and shocked “Yes captain?” “You’re alive?” “Yes captain”

Soap being. The nosey body he is was listening to the conversation and told the others in the room that y/n was alive. The others were shocked as well to know they were alive.

Soap also told them he was staying at a resort.

Gaz heard that and replied, “What?!” He threw his hands up, “they said they would go with me!”

Soap also told them you wanted to stay but Price said no.

Y/n being lazy told them to come pick them up in a fancy car to make it seem like they’re rich.

Y/n exchanged numbers with the people he was with and told them he was leaving. The others were down of course but knew that y/n would return next time he had his leave as what he had said.

[ashcremated]

he was a celestial immortal demoted to volcano spirit, he was a cultivator on a mission to kill demons, can i make it even more obvious? lil bday gift for @ranilla-bean, hi fratm di brutte vibes 💕 xianxia au century egg pookie be upon ye 💋💋🍋🌋🌋

[kamaluhkhan]

LOVE, VIOLET

pairing: vi x fem!reader word count: 12.9k summary: history might say that you and vi were only best friends, but the real story is much more complicated. (or: you and vi celebrating valentine's day warning: friends to lovers arc, lots of sapphic yearning, brief mention of homophobia and bullying....but mostly cheesy domestic fluff and sappy lesbian monologues and lots of smut [oral (r! receiving), fingering (r! receiving), thigh riding, strap usage(r! receiving), needy+possessive! vi and slightly (?) dom! reader] (18+) ! a/n: happy (belated oops) valentine's day girls and gays <33 been working on this for a while and hoped to get it out like....actually in time for love day but such is life. ANYWAYS this is set in the same universe as this x-mas themed fic (and kinda a modern au of this one?? reader has the same nickname and there's a friends to lovers arc so....). hope y'all enjoy!!!!

♪: "glue song" by beabadoobee ft. clairo (sun); "home by now" by MUNA (moon); "love is a kaleidoscope" by chappell roan (rising)

also - header image was cropped from a gifset from @arcanegifs , pls check out their beautiful work !!!

track 1: “feeling you” by cat burns

(now)

"fuck, vi," you moan as her tongue splits your folds. "we don't have time for this...."

you have to get to studio and vi has to get to work, but the combination of the hot water hitting your skin and vi’s mouth on your cunt was something you did not want to give up just yet — even if you didn't want to admit it.

"baby," vi pouts, looking up at you innocently, as if she wasn't the one who decided to push you against the tile wall and get on her knees in front of you. "it was your idea to shower together this morning.”

"well, sorry for wanting to save water," you breathe, your grip tightening on her hair when she wraps her lips around your clit. "the planet is dying."

vi pulls away from you once more, lips shining with your slick. "well, excuse me for thinking you wanted to start today with a bit of romance. if all you care about is the environment...." she gets up and reaches behind you to turn off the water. "we better get going, pretty girl."

you whine at the sudden loss of warmth and clench your thighs together at the nickname, something that does not go unnoticed by vi. she licks her lips before leaning forward to kiss you, your back pushed against the cool tile once more and the taste of yourself faint on her tongue.

hearing your alarm go off reminds you that there are other responsibilities you each have to attend to. reluctantly, the two of you dry off and make your way to your shared bedroom. you put on a fuschia boyshort / bralette combo (your favorite set because, yes, it matches your girlfriend’s hair) before slipping on some dark jeans and a heart-printed turtleneck, and moving on to your makeup. in the meantime, vi had been in the kitchen making coffee, and reemerges now with two mismatched mugs. she sets one on the desk next to you, kisses the top of your head before getting herself ready for the day. 

you swipe some eyeliner on your waterline, watching in the mirror as vi searches in the closet for something to wear, still only dressed in black briefs and a sports bra. you smile as you see the stars tattooed on her upper thigh, sparkling with every movement she makes. once she picks out an outfit, her eyes catch yours.

"what?" she asks with a lazy grin, slipping on a tight black henley.

you smile, adding some pink glitter to your eyelids. 

it’s only been two weeks since you’ve moved into this new place. there are still plenty of unpacked boxes, and you still get a bit lost navigating around the neighbourhood, but otherwise, it’s been a dream. 

you love seeing your clothes woven together in the same closet; you love waking up with her arm around your waist, doing laundry together, and coming home to vi having tried a new recipe for dinner. you love how you sometimes wear each other’s rings because you keep them all in a pile on the nightstand, how she falls asleep with her head in your lap during movie night, how her skin smells like the rose body wash you picked out together at lush. 

you love this — this home you’re starting to build. you’ve known vi for so long, but your lives are intertwined now more than ever.

"nothing," you respond, finishing with a layer of vanilla lip gloss. "want me to do your eyeliner?”

it’s a familiar position: vi sits on the edge of the bed while you straddle her hips. she leans forward and presses a kiss to your sternum before you hold her chin between your thumb and pointer finger.

“so….tomorrow’s valentines day,” vi suddenly points out, though, really, you didn’t need the reminder.

you’d spent these past few years apart and this is your first valentine’s day since the break-up. 

you both agreed — no pressure — but…..there’s definitely a bit of pressure. you’d been working on your gift for her for weeks, and you’re really hoping that she likes what you’ve planned.

“i thought it would be nice to get dinner tonight at bacchus. i called earlier this morning and got us a reservation for 7:30.”

you hum in appreciation.

vi might be taking a break from the band, but she’s still the violet lanes, the pink-haired rockstar of every lesbian’s dreams who’s written award-winning songs and sold out entire football stadiums. there are new perks of being her girlfriend this time around, like a nice apartment in new york and getting a day-of-reservation at the most expensive italian restaurant in the city. 

“valentine’s day is tomorrow,” you repeat, a playful lilt to your words. you swipe your thumb near the corner of vi’s eye where you’d smudged an otherwise sharp wing of eyeliner. “someone’s eager to get a head start.” 

with that, you snap the tube closed, press a kiss to the tattoo on vi’s cheek, and get up to gather your things for studio. you’re tucking your sketchbook into your messenger bag when you feel vi’s strong arms wrap around your middle.

“you always said i was impatient,” she teases. you can feel her smirk against the star-shaped birthmark behind your ear before pressing a gentle kiss to your skin and whispering: “can you blame me, stargirl? for wanting to get dressed all fancy and go somewhere nice and romantic with the prettiest girl in the world?” 

“of course not.” you crane your neck back until your lips practically brush against hers as you speak. “except, you’re the prettiest in the world, baby.”

a beautiful blush spreads across vi’s freckled cheeks, the way it always has whenever you comment on vi’s beauty.  

she clears her throat, still a bit flustered. “agree to disagree?”

you pretend to think about it for a second, nudging your nose against hers. “agree to disagree,” you reply, teasing her by continuing to hover above her lips, just a sliver of air between you. 

yeah, vi’s impatient — but, sometimes, you love it. like, right now, when she turns you around to face her so she can close the gap, deepening the kiss by sliding her tongue into your mouth without any preamble.

vi groans as another alarm goes off from your phone. "i will never get used to how many alarms you set."

you giggle, and pull away slightly to swipe the cancel button. vi takes the opportunity to move your shirt slightly and leave bites on your exposed collarbone. you check the time on your phone.

you can spare a little more time. it is valentine’s day, after all. 

(age 13)

“vi, your precious stargirl is on the phone for you!”

at the mention of your nickname, vi flinches, inadvertently failing to dodge a lethal attack. green goblin crashed his glider into her spiderman avatar, and the words GAME OVER fill the screen in an angry red font. 

vi groans, throwing her playstation controller on the couch before heading to the kitchen.

powder is sitting on the counter, twirling the telephone cord around her finger and yapping away before vi takes her place.

“hey.” vi clears her throat, tries to sound casual. “what’s up?”

“so, my mom promised to make something for ekko’s valentine’s class party, but she just got called in for a shift….which means i’m stuck baking 30 rainbow confetti cupcakes, and hoping i don’t give any eight year olds food poisoning. you doing anything right now?”

“oh - i’m actually, uh, busy! i have homework, and….”

and she’s busy avoiding you, ever since she heard something about you — from drea, of all people — and wondered why you wouldn’t confide in her, your supposed best friend. 

“please, vi,” you coax. vi’s heart beats a bit quicker as she pictures your bottom lip jutting out into a pout. “can you come over and help me bake? it feels like forever since we’ve actually hung out. i miss you.”

vi is certainly not god’s strongest soldier when it comes to you, so of course, she caves. rainbow confetti cake is her favorite, so that’s a bonus. she and powder throw on their coats and head next door to yours; powder and ekko keep each other company in the living room while vi joins you in the kitchen.

“hey,” she greets. 

“there you are!” your face lights up with the sweetest smile, causing the butterflies in her stomach to flap up a storm. 

gods — do you realize the effect you have on her? 

there’s already flour dusting your cheek; vi has to resist the urge to brush it away with her thumb, wanting to feel how soft your skin must be. 

she snaps out of it though, as you instruct her on what needs to be done, and the two of you work in a comfortable silence, the sounds of your siblings watching cartoons in the other room filling the space between you. at one point, probably realizing that vi isn’t in the mood for talking, you switch on the radio. vi catches you smiling at her as she hums along to freddie mercury, but you’re quick to blink away and get back to work.

you’re sifting confectioner’s sugar into room temperature butter for the icing while vi slides the first batch of cupcakes in the oven, starts prepping the second, her mind starting to wander.

you and vi are playing the leads for your final english project, where you have to reenact scenes from romeo and juliet. powder caught the two of you rehearsing last week, and spent the whole night singing that stupid playground chant. now vi can’t get it out of her head: you and her, sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G — 

“the rumor’s not true, by the way,” 

vi looks at you as she pours batter into another cupcake liner, which accidentally overflows onto the counter. 

“shit,” she groans, but you slide over to the other side of the kitchen counter to bring her a towel. 

you don’t elaborate on what you’ve just brought up as you wipe up the thick batter. vi figures you’re waiting for her to say something.

“what rumor?”

it was never vi’s instinct to play pretend with you, but frankly she had no idea what else to do without letting her emotions burst into flames and inevitably burn you.  

“vi,” you sigh. “i know you’ve heard it. the whole school has. it’s not true, though. i wasn’t kissing james.”

oh. the spark of envy in her gut simmers down. 

“did he ask you to the sweetheart dance?”

you shake your head, and the spark extinguishes completely. “even if he did….i wouldn’t want to go with him.”

“why’s that? not your type?”

you finish wiping the counter, and vi takes the now-sticky towel from you to rinse it out in the sink. as she does this, you get back to frosting duty, stirring in some pink food colouring. 

“drea saw me kissing someone with dark brown hair,” you explain. “so isabel started told her that it was james, and that’s what she’s been telling everyone. but really….it was her.”

vi blinks at you. “her?”

“yeah, her,” you smile hesitantly. 

“you were kissing isabel?”

isabel was the prettiest girl in eighth grade — though, according to vi, you’d have that ranking, and it would go way beyond the scope of your middle school. you’re the prettiest girl in the world; not that vi would ever have the courage to tell you that.  

you nod. “you’re not, like, weirded out that i like kissing girls, are you?”

“what? no, of course not! especially since….i, uh, i like kissing girls too.”

in theory. vi likes to imagine kissing girls, especially when they look like korra from the legend of korra, or shego from kim possible, or hayley kiyoko in lemonade mouth.

or….you.

vi watches intently as you — a very pretty, very real girl — swipe your finger through the fluffy pink frosting and taste it, flashing her a sugary smile. 

“good to know.”

(age 16)

when josie asked her out, vi had completely neglected the fact that dinner on friday would mean dinner on february 14th. 

which is how vi finds herself getting ready for a date with someone she met during your short-lived attempt at starting an all female fight boxing club. josie is sweet and vi felt bad cancelling on her, so like the gentleman she is, vi promised to pick her up at 7:30pm. on friday, february 14th. 

it’s 6:44pm, and vi is in your room. you helped her pick out an outfit — something nice but not too formal — and you’ve moved on to makeup, carefully applying her eyeliner. 

vi tries not to stare at your lips — which are slightly red from the cinnamon hearts you’ve been eating — so she keeps squirming, and you keep gently guiding her chin towards you. her eyes wander to your decorated walls, filled with posters and photos and other things you’ve collected throughout the years. she’s featured in quite a few, and she catches a glimpse of an old valentine card she’d given you in elementary school.

“it’s weird that we won’t be spending valentine’s day together,” you comment as though reading her mind. 

you’d never spend the holiday as anything other than friends, but it does still feel strange, not spending it with someone she knows for sure she loves. 

(again — like a friend loves a friend.)

“yeah, definitely,” vi agrees. “do you have anything planned for tonight?”

“huge plans, actually.” you pop another cinnamon heart in your mouth. “i’ve got a super romantic date with the prettiest girl in the world.”

vi tilts her head in confusion — did you mention this to her? — which causes you to shake your head with a lighthearted laugh and guide her towards you once more.

“really? with who?”

you roll your eyes. “i’m kidding!” 

“oh.”

“it’s cute how gullible you are,” you whistle. by now, you’re done with her eyes and move on to dusting her cheeks with some sort of shimmery powder. “i’m probably just gonna put on a rom-com and finish — well, start — writing my english essay on romantic literature. lowercase ‘r,’ because ms. chavez was feeling festive. i’m leaning more modernist, but that’s only because i want to write about virginia woolf.”

it’s inching towards when vi should leave, but vi doesn’t care what time it is — she’d listen to you talk forever if she could.

“what’s it about?”

you pull away to examine vi’s makeup one last time.

“the movie, or my essay?” you nod once in approval and give the compact you’re holding to vi so she can take a look. “you look beautiful, by the way.”

vi watches her reflection blush, almost enhanced by the makeup you put on her. 

“thanks, stargirl.” vi clears her throat and decides to get back to your original conversation. “the movie and your essay, i guess.”

you offer vi a cinnamon heart, which she accepts, the candy burning sweet on her tongue. you then reach into your backpack, for the ring pop that vi had left in your locker this morning, just before you handed her a box of rainbow confetti cupcakes. you slip the candied jewellery onto your right ring finger before answering.

“i want to analyse the letters between virginia woolf and this other writer — vita sackville-west. they’re essentially love letters, but, you know.” you give an exaggerated shrug. “history says they were only best friends. at least, according to ms. chavez’s interpretations, along with most of the class.”

vi chuckles. “thankfully, you’re here to prove them all wrong.”

“exactly.” you nudge your shoulder against vi’s, the feeling of your body familiar next to hers. “and, for the movie, i’m thinking when harry met sally, which i remember watching with you for the first time.” 

vi definitely remembers watching that with you, too. the whole question of whether or not men and women can be friends without romance getting in the way brought up another, much more relevant question in vi’s mind: can two sapphic women be friends without any complicated feelings?

it’s definitely possible.

“so….you excited for this date?”

vi shrugs. “yeah.”

“wow. i totally believe that,” you say, words dripping with sarcasm. 

“it’s just….it’s valentine’s day,” vi whispers. she starts fiddling with one of her rings — you’d gotten it for her last valentine’s day, a silver thumb ring with a star in the middle. “what if she wants to kiss me tonight?”

“well, you kiss her back, if that’s what you want.” 

“that’s what i want,” she responds, way too quickly to be true. “it’s just — i’m not sure i’ll be any good.”

“you’ll be fine,” you assure. 

“but — i mean, i’ve never…..”

“oh.” your eyes widen and your lips part in shock, the blue-raspberry of the ring pop turning them from red to purple that’s intoxicatingly close to violet. “oh.”

“what! it’s not, like the end of the world.”

“of course not! it’s just — you’ve gone out with a bunch of girls, so i just figured….”

vi shakes her head, her cheeks heating up. “guess i never found the right one. i know it’s cliche, but i kinda wanted my first kiss to be —” 

“special?” you guess, and vi nods.

“and now, there’s all this pressure, i’m worried that i won’t be good.”

you clear your throat. “right. well, if it helps relieve the pressure….i could show you….how.”

“show me?”

“well — i mean, like teach you, i guess. plus, then i can let you know whether you’re, like, a good kisser or not.”

that’s how you find yourself practically in vi’s lap, slotting your lips between hers. it started off with a quick peck, but clearly, you’ve both decided that this lesson requires a bit more. 

every single one of vi’s senses is heightened: the stickiness of your glossed lips, the sugar on your tongue, the giggles rumbling through you and bouncing down vi’s throat. time seems to slow down — no, freeze entirely — which is a stark contrast to the burning in her lungs.

needing air, vi pulls away. 

“h-how was that?” she breathes, her words warming your mouth. 

“good.” you smile, almost shy. you’re so close together that vi can feel your heart pounding against your ribcage. “maybe….a bit gentler this time.”

“gentler?”

“slower,” you suggest. 

so, you kiss again. gentler, this time.

“your lips are a bit chapped,” is your next note. you reach for the tube of lip gloss in your pocket. “can i?”

“go ahead, stargirl,” vi whispers. “you’re the expert.”

you paint a layer of sticky vanilla glitter onto vi’s lips.

“there,” you sit back after swiping your thumb underneath vi’s bottom lip. 

vi blinks at you. her lips feel like they’re coated in honey. “how do i look?”

“really pretty,” you reply, with a small smile. you sigh, glancing at the scooby-doo alarm clock on your nightstand, the one you’ve had since you were six years old. “you better go. have a good time with josie, okay?”

“okay.” vi gets up and grabs her jacket, tugs on her shoes. “and, thanks again for, well, you know.”

you shrug. “that’s what best friends are for. happy valentine’s, vi.”

vi hesitates just as she’s about to climb out your window. “look, stargirl, i don’t have to – i mean, i’m perfectly happy canceling my, uh, date, and just hanging out with you.”

“you’re sweet, vi, but i’ll be fine. go — have fun.” you walk closer to her so you can slip your tube of lipgloss into vi’s button down shirt pocket. you pat her chest affectionately. “and remember to be gentle, yeah?” 

later, when she’s making out with josie in the backseat of her dad’s car, vi tries not to think about your soft voice guiding her through the movements, or the dizzying taste of your lips — cinnamon hearts and sour candy and sweet, sweet vanilla.

history might say that you and vi are only best friends, but the real story is much more complicated.

___

[image: a cartoon scooby-doo, holding a bouquet of hearts. the message reads: BE MY VALENTINE!]

to: stargirl <3

from: vi

___

track 2: “you’re my best friend” by queen 

(age 7)

“mom?”

“yeah, kiddo?”

“can you be in love with your best friend?”

her mom, felicia, smiles knowingly, the question hanging in the air until the end of song. it’s part of an old mixtape that felicia plays sometimes, mostly glam rock like queen and david bowie. she put it on this afternoon while her and vi get ready for the valentine’s class party tomorrow. vi scribbles names on cards while her mom fills clear heart-printed bags with candy. powder’s fallen asleep on her lap. 

“definitely,” felicia finally answers, reaching over to tap vi’s nose playfully. “love, violet, can be a million different things. that’s the fun part.” 

felicia pinches vi’s cheek affectionately. vi frowns, thinking about this whole love thing. 

love is definitely not the next classmate whose name she’s writing — drea, who always cheats during sports and teases vi for being a tomboy. she’s tempted to just leave her out, but the policy of ms. julie’s second grade class is that everyone needs to get a valentine. so, that’s not love, either. 

instead, vi thinks of her family — her mom, vander, powder, and even ekko; movie nights and lively dinners and warm hugs. she thinks of her friends — mylo and claggor; laughter and skinned knees and running so fast it feels like flying. 

when she thinks of you, though, her heart beats differently.

vi thinks about how you always carry around a spiderman bandaid because she always scrapes herself during recess, and the nurse only carries plain, boring bandages. she thinks about how you ‘accidentally’ spill paint on drea’s art project after she calls vi mean names.

she thinks about how you doodle on her arms during math or braid her hair as you watch cartoons and eat sugary cereal on saturday mornings. 

she thinks about the star-shaped birthmark behind your ear, the perpetual marker stains on your hands, the dimple on your cheek.

you’re her best friend, and your smile alone wakes up a million butterflies in her stomach.

vi’s mom suggested spiderman valentine’s cards, but vi wanted to pick out something that you’d like; vi knows that scooby-doo is your favorite show, so that’s what she went with. she adds a ring pop to your bag of candy, because she knows they’re your favorite candy. she adds a little heart by your nickname, too.  

the next day, everyone is decorating their shoeboxes, transforming them into mailboxes before exchanging valentines. vi’s hands are sticky with glitter glue when you walk over — ms. julie said that you and vi distracted each other, so she assigned you to desks on opposite sides of the room. 

“happy valentine’s day, vi,” you say, sliding a card into her mailbox and smiling ear to ear before moving on to the next person. vi eagerly reaches in for the valentine. 

it’s spiderman-themed, and there’s a heart next to her name. 

(now) 

when you walk through the door, you’re engulfed in the scent of warm garlic bread and sweet, ripe tomatoes. the restaurant is bustling with waiters delivering colourful dishes, everyone wearing crisp suits and silk dresses. someone’s playing piano, soft music dancing throughout the room, and the overhead lights are dimmed, with each table illuminated by a candle in the centre.

the maître d' greets you with a welcoming smile and settles you into a table. once they’re gone, vi reaches across the table for your hand. 

“you look beautiful, stargirl.”

vi’s skin is always warm, but the cool metal of her thumb ring sends a shiver through you as she brushes over your knuckles. the flame between you flickers, darkening vi’s powder blue eyes as she gazes at you lovingly.

“you let me borrow your clothes,” you point out. “i’m wearing one of your suits.”

“what can i say….” vi winks, releasing your hand so she can open the menu in front of her. “i have good taste. looks better on you, anyways.”

“were you always this much of a flirt?” you tease.

vi smirks. “like a fine wine, i just get better with age.”

“you are so corny,” you say with a slight laugh.

“well, some people do think my love songs are cheesy.”

“even the ones written about me?”

vi looks up from her menu, one eyebrow raised. “baby, they’re all about you.”

your cheeks heat up at vi’s confession, and you take a sip from your glass, ice water trickling down your throat, in hopes of steadying your heartbeat.

a waiter comes by; you each order pasta dishes and vi orders a bottle of wine for the table. the wine arrives quickly, but given how busy the restaurant is, you anticipate the food will take longer. 

you fill the time easily, catching each other up on the details of your lives since this morning. you start by telling her how hectic your art studio has been as you prepare for your big spring exhibition, but how excited everyone is. you’re especially excited since you get to explore different mediums along the way; these past few weeks, you’ve been learning how to use a pottery wheel. you went through the final step of the process today — glazing — and you’re happy at the end product. 

“i don’t think i’m gonna include it in my exhibit, though,” you conclude. 

“well, it’d be nice to have some of your art on display all the time.” vi smiles. “you should bring whatever you made home.” 

“that’s the idea,” you muse, a twinkle in your eyes as you take a sip of wine. “how was your day?”

vi started teaching guitar at the local community centre. some adults take lessons, but it’s mostly little kids with too much energy and too little patience. still, no matter how chaotic it can be, it’s clear that vi has been loving her job.

“i swear, this one girl, marceline, is a budding rockstar. i taught her a jimi hendrix song and she picked it up —” vi snaps her fingers, smiling proudly. “like that. such a talented kid.”

“you would know, pretty girl,” you praise.

your waiter arrives to bring plates full of pasta. you and vi thank them, your stomach grumbling at the delicious smell, a reminder that you had barely eaten all day. you’re so ready to dig into some quality fettuccine alfredo.

you and vi eat in a comfortable silence, until you hear an unfortunately familiar voice grate at your ears:

“oh my god, it is you! i saw you from the other side of the restaurant and just had to come over and say hi!”

you don’t need to glance to know who it is, but you do anyways, and so does vi. your stomach drops as you watch her bite back a scoff before turning back to her food.

“hi, drea,” vi clips before taking a big gulp of wine. she continues eating, barely sparing the woman another glance.

drea continues to hover. she’s wearing dark lipstick, her black hair cut into a classic bisexual bob, and her amber eyes silently pleading at you to break the ice. 

“hey, drea,” you greet with a stiff smile, and drea relaxes her shoulders at your veil of friendliness.

“nice earrings,” she winks, reaching over to tap the dangling purple gem. “thought you might have gotten rid of them after we broke up.”

vi chokes on a sip of wine. “broke up?” vi coughs, reaches for her water glass. “since when did you two date?”

you open your mouth to respond, but drea beats you to it, clearly too focused on being the centre of attention.

“maybe like a year or so ago.” drea turns to you. “right, starlight?”

vi’s jaw clenches, and she drops her fork, metal clattering against the plate.

“starlight?”

“yeah, because of the star-shaped birthmark behind her —”

“i know,” vi snaps. her eyes are locked on you, and slightly glazed over. “you never told me you dated drea.”

“i-it was only 3 months,” you stutter.

“that hurts,” drea groans, clutching her heart. she always did have a flair for the dramatic. “it was 4 months, babe.”

“you dated for 4 months, and i’m just hearing about it now?” vi seethes, trying to keep her voice low. the tables around you have already taken note that something is happening, though, their conversations hushing down to an idle whisper. “did you somehow forget how much of an asshole she was in high school?”

“um, i’m right here?” drea chides, still not taking the hint that neither of you are interested in a happy reunion.

“we need a minute,” you and vi say simultaneously. drea rolls her eyes and mutters something you don’t care to hear; you’re too concerned with explaining yourself to vi, whose cheeks are burning with a deep shade of red. whether it’s jealousy, anger, or embarrassment, you’re not quite sure.

“vi, just let me —” 

you reach out for her hand, but as soon as you make contact, vi pulls away abruptly.

“i…i need….to not be here right now,” vi mutters. the last thing she wants is to make headlines tomorrow morning — violet lanes, caught having argument with girlfriend at upscale restaurant during on valentine’s eve. flip to page 6 for the full story! — so, she gets up and slips on her jacket. 

“please, baby, let’s talk about this —”

“order dessert, if you want. don’t rush home.”

her voice cracks at that last word before she storms out the door, leaving you with two unfinished meals and stomach heavy with regret. 

___

[image: notebook opened to a page filled with chaotic, scribbled writing]

FOR STARGIRL (FINAL DRAFT!!! COME UP WITH TITLE LATER!??!!)

i’m stuck on you, baby

you taught me what love is

sugary sweet kisses,

frosting on your lips;

first tattoos,

promises on our skin

i’m stuck on you, baby

have been since we were kids

you’re not just the sun or the moon

you’re all my stars

know that i’ll love you

wherever we are

___

track 3: “true romantic” by indigo girls

(age 18)

the auditorium is decorated with red and pink streamers, heart garlands and bouquets of roses. a red spotlight shines on the stage, painting each performer with a pink hue. there are small tables and chairs arranged to make the space feel more like a parisian cafe, instead of where drama club rehearses for the spring musical.

you’re sitting at one of the tables, inhaling all the free coffee and pastries you possibly can and chatting with viktor and jayce, like you’ve done for the past three years at your highschool’s annual valentine’s day coffeehouse. 

the first time vi performed, during your freshman year, she was all nerves, her fingers fumbling at chords and voice trembling through the lyrics of a joan jett song she had played for you perfectly that morning. when her eyes landed on yours in the crowd, you gave her a thumbs-up — you’d been just friends at the time, after all — and vi seemed to warm up, finishing to enthusiastic applause. 

now, vi walks on with confidence right away, electric guitar the same pink as her hair, with a constellation of stars scribbled on its body with black sharpie. she’s grown out her hair, still keeping it shorter on one side to display her growing collection of piercings. the newest addition is a silver loop in her nostril, which glints underneath the spotlight as she leans closer to the mic. she’s wearing lowrise jeans and showcasing a sliver of her hips; you can’t help but think about what’s hidden just a bit lower, the stars sparkling along her upper thigh, etched into her skin at the same time you got violets blooming between your ribs. 

“hey everyone. most of you know me as the captain of our hockey team —”

beside you, jayce whistles and there’s a scattering of applause for the team, who just made it to nationals. vi landed an athletic scholarship, too, to play at university of piltover. even though you have a hard time picturing your girlfriend as an enforcer, you’re so proud of her. plus, it’s only a twenty minute drive from zaun university, where you’ve decided to go so you could be close to your family.

“but, i’ve been writing songs, too,” vi continues. “i realized that i’ve gotten up here every year to sing someone else’s love song to a girl i’ve had a crush on since before i even knew what a crush was. but this is a song i’ve been writing, for and about her, for years. and now that we’re actually dating….well, i wanted to do something special for our first valentine’s day. ” vi looks at you with a toothy grin, and you blow her a kiss. “wait, actually, can we get a spotlight on my girlfriend? right there?”

vi gestures in your general direction, and suddenly you feel the heat of the spotlight and 50 pairs of eyes on you. your cheeks flush at the attention, but you play along and wave nonetheless.

“there she is,” vi gushes. “my beautiful stargirl. i wrote this song —”

“oh my god, we came here for music, not your sappy lesbian monologue!” drea, current goalie of  zaun high’s hockey team and perpetual pain in vi’s ass, groans. “hurry up and play the song already!”

one of the teachers hushes the bubbling laughter, and it dies down just as quickly as it emerged.

vi rolls her eyes. “as i was saying, i wrote this song-slash-sappy-lesbian-monologue for you, stargirl. i hope you like it. happy valentine’s day.”

you don’t know what makes your heart soar more — the sweet lyrics falling from the lips of the girl you love, or the girl herself. 

later, vi is falling asleep in the middle of chemistry class when she hears a light clink against the window. she glances outside and sees you waving at her, smile as bright as a shooting star. you have paint stains on your jeans that weren’t there earlier and you’re gesturing at her to follow you. vi just shrugs and nods her chin towards the front of the class. 

your bottom lip juts out into a pout, and you curve your hands into a heart before disconnecting them. vi snorts at your antics. 

“ms. lanes, are my slides on organic compounds amusing to you?” 

“uh, no mr. michaels. of course not.” vi clears her throat, whips her head back towards the smartboard. “may i, uh, go to the bathroom?”

vi checks her phone as soon as she closes the door behind her. 

stargirl

hurry UP!!!

dyke spiderman <3

easy romeo

i’m omw

where should i meet u???

stargirl

our spot

“wait!” you call as soon as vi reaches the bottom of the staircase and starts to turn the corner. “close your eyes!”

“how’d you know it was me?” vi laughs, but does as she’s told nonetheless.

“the axe body spray is a pretty dead giveaway,” you deadpan. 

“hey, i stopped using that in middle school. can i look now?”

you ask her to wait one more time. vi feels you shift behind her, wrap your arms around her waist. on instinct, vi reaches a hand down and laces her fingers through yours, your skin slick and cold. 

“okay,” you whisper, your breath hot against her ear. “open your eyes.”

and when she does, vi is glad that you’re holding her, because she’s suddenly weak in the knees at what’s gracing the wall before her: a small mural reminiscent of klimt’s famous painting, ‘the kiss’. except — it’s the two of you, surrounded by stars and violets.

“happy valentine’s day, vi.” 

you untangle yourself from her, but vi doesn’t let go of your hand, even when she realizes it’s wet with fresh paint. 

“you….you did this?”

“yeah.”

“wow….it’s amazing. beautiful.”

vi squeezes your hand, still in awe at how you beautifully swirled together each color, the loving expressions you managed to portray with each delicate stroke of your paintbrush. 

“i’m glad you like it.”

“like it? i love….” she turns to you. “i love it. you didn’t have to do all this though, it must have taken you forever.”

“you’re worth it,” you muse. “like you said — it’s our first valentine’s day. as a couple at least. i wanted to do something special. i made us a playlist, too.”  

so, even though it means she’s skipping chem and you’re skipping history, the two of you curl underneath the staircase, a pair of earbuds split between you. 

“i’m gonna miss seeing you every day after we graduate.”

vi hums in agreement. she gently lifts your head from her shoulder, holding your chin between her thumb and pointer finger. “you know i’ll love you wherever we are, right?”

“i know, i heard you early on stage,” you swoon, settling back against her shoulder. “seemed a bit dramatic for only being, like, 20 minutes away from each other. though, i guess that is the farthest apart we’ve ever been.”

vi takes a deep breath, as your fingers dance along the doodles decorating her skin, the ones you had drawn on in sharpie during calculus. “except…. it might be further than that, depending on how things go.”

your pointer finger pauses halfway through an outline of a heart. “what do you mean?”

“i’m, uh….i don’t want to go to university of piltover. actually, i don’t want to go to college at all. i turned down the scholarship; made the official decision two weeks ago after the big game.”

“you did what?”

“i wanna move to l.a. or london, pursue this whole music thing. i think it could really take me places.” 

“right,” you clip.“and why are you just bringing this up now? have you told vander? have you talked to anyone before making a huge, life-changing decision?”

you continue shaking your head in disbelief as you gather your backpack and turn the corner, emerging from underneath the staircase; vi follows you. 

“no, but it’s my life — and i know what i want.”

“and it’s always about what you want, right?” you scoff.

“what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“it’s just — did you ever think about your family in all this? how powder might feel having her sister so far away just as she’s starting high school?”

“i’ve spent the past 13 years of my life worrying about powder, taking care of her especially after our mom died,” vi reasons, trying to keep her voice steady. “i need a break. my dreams are bigger than this town.”

“do you…” you trail off, hesitant to even speak the words aloud, but the coil in your gut tells you it’s unavoidable. “do you need a break from us?” 

“stargirl.” vi whispers your nickname like a promise itching to be broken. “i thought you’d love having a rockstar girlfriend,” she teases, trying to lighten the mood.

“don’t,” you grumble, brows furrowed. “if you wanted to make things work between us, you would have at least talked to me about this.”

“i am talking to you,” vi counters. she grabs her hands in yours. you pull away.

“but, you spent these past two weeks listening to me imagine our future together, while you had already made other plans. what does that say about our actual future?”

before vi can respond, someone clears their throat from the top of the staircase. your principal, looking down on you with an expression that can only be described as disinterested, addressing you by your last names. 

“pro tip,” she continues. “if you want to skip class and have a lover’s quarrel, make sure it’s not somewhere that carries sound directly to the office.”

you and vi get assigned detention that afternoon. you’re told to sit on opposite sides of the room, but that doesn’t stop vi from throwing a crumpled ball of paper your way. 

glancing over at your girlfriend, you have to admit that you find yourself melting at those puppy dog eyes of hers, pleading and so full of love as she waits for you to respond to her message.

even though the future feels uncertain, you scribble something back, then toss the paper towards her desk discreetly. it lands on the floor. vi unfolds it and smiles as she reads the note, cheeks tinted a light rose.

___

[image: a crumpled ball of paper. unfold it, and it reads….]

(in hot pink gel pen)

I WANT TO MAKE THINGS WORK BETWEEN US

I LOVE YOU

(in black sharpie)

I LOVE YOU TOO

OF COURSE WE’LL MAKE IT WORK

I WOULD LOVE TO HAVE A ROCK STAR GF, BTW

BUT ONLY IF SHE’S AS HOT AS YOU

___

track 4: “home by now” by MUNA 

(age 21)

“wait, hold on — what does that sign say?”

violet lanes, will you be my valentine?

“i’m flattered,” vi chuckles. “but, sorry ladies — i’m a happily taken woman. i’ve got a pretty girl waiting for me in the crowd.” 

“and, lemme just say, it’s a good thing we’ve all got separate hotel rooms this time,” caitlyn groans. 

vi rolls her eyes. “anyways. this is a very special night because it’s the first time my girlfriend is watching us perform live! she’s over there, looking as beautiful as ever. everyone, say hi!”

the spotlight shines on you, and you giggle shyly. the necklace she’d given you this morning practically glows between your collarbones, illuminates your skin with a violet hue. 

“isn’t she the cutest?” vi gushes. “the first time i performed this next song was to celebrate our first valentine’s day as a couple. and — fun little easter egg — when we released this as a single, the cover was a painting she had made for me on that same day. she’s just so talented, kicking ass at this fancy art program….she’s basically the frida kahlo to my joan jett…..and i’m just rambling, now, sorry guys. i could probably talk about my girl all day.” 

“oh, and she does,” maddie grumbles. 

“the fans love sappy-lesbian-monologues, don’t they?” the crowd roars, and vi flashes maddie a winning smirk. “so, yeah, i love my girlfriend every day, of course, but today it’s with roses and ring pops and those cheesy cards kids hand out to each other in elementary school. happy valentine’s day, stargirl. this one’s called — stuck on you.” 

when the show’s over, and the band’s played not one, but two encores, you’re flinging your arms around vi’s neck before she even has the chance to put down her guitar. she’s all sweaty, white tank top sticking to her torso. her ears are still ringing and her throat a bit sore, but all vi cares about is the feelings of your soft lips kissing across her cheeks. 

“you’re so fucking amazing,” you gush, pecking her lips delicately. “i mean, i’ve seen you play before, but never like this! vi, you’re….wow. electric, fucking radiant. you must be exhausted, though, ahh —”

vi kisses you, sweaty and breathless, until she’s practically sucked all the air from your lungs.

“not at all,” she replies with a cocky grin. “we’ve got all night and i’m not planning on getting any sleep.”

“ugh, gross. get a room,” caitlyn scoffs, playful but with a bit of an edge. 

“oh, we will,” you reply coolly. maybe you’re a bit jealous with how seamlessly caitlyn fits into vi’s new life, how much she’s able to see your girlfriend much more than you’re able to. she hasn’t been particularly friendly since you’ve gotten here, and she’s been a bit too touchy with vi in the tabloids lately. “i’m guessing you don’t have any valentine’s plans?”

caitlyn narrows her eyes at you.

vi laughs, probably about to make a lighthearted comment to diffuse the tension between you and caitlyn, but she’s called aside by their manager for a quick chat before she gets the chance. 

“i’ll be right back. cait, stargirl — play nice,” she advises, like you’re children fighting on the playground. 

once she’s gone, caitlyn’s frown turns into a smirk. 

“stargirl, huh? guess that explains her thigh tattoo. i didn’t think vi was that sentimental, though, so it must have been at your request.” 

you straighten your back, trying to mirror caitlyn’s combative confidence. “i think i know her better than you.”

“maybe before, when you were kids growing up in that nothing town. things change, darling. people change — who they are and what they want. if i were you, i’d accept that sooner rather than later,” caitlyn snarks as she finally walks away, bumping your shoulder just as vi returns to the pair of you.  

you don’t quite have the time to register the interaction, not with vi intertwining her fingers with yours and tugging you towards her body. 

“let’s get out of here, yeah?” she brushes some hair behind your ear. “we’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.”

and, there was so much time to make up for — the days that have turned into weeks, turned into months, turned into years since you’d last seen each other in person, sometimes only speaking to each other once every month, for only two minutes at a time. 

you’d gotten so used to being apart that being together feels like a dream.

vi’s warm body presses against yours, barely making it to the bed. you just couldn’t resist pushing her against the door of the hotel room as soon as you were inside, lodging your thigh between her legs. 

“i, uh, i have a surprise for you,” vi breathes, groaning as you hum and start to suck bruises down her neck. 

“yeah? what is it, pretty girl?”

blushing and slightly flustered at the nickname, vi removes her shirt and sits back on the bed, gesturing at you to follow her. you hover on top of her and take in her naked form. 

“you…got your nipples pierced.”

vi grins. 

“can i touch them?” 

she nods enthusiastically. you brush your thumb over one and she shivers, causing you to pull away.

“no, it’s okay,” she assures, guiding your hand back towards her. “feels good.”

you start kissing her again. “you’re so fucking beautiful.” until you reach her chest. “can i?”

vi blinks up at you, eyes glazed over with honeyed want. “please. f-fuck,” vi moans when you latch your mouth to her nipple, rolling the cold, silver piercing along your tongue.

“you’re so sensitive,” you coo. you release her nipple with a pop, a string of saliva still connecting it to your wet lips. your fingers slip underneath vi’s underwear, gliding through her soft curls and down into her sticky heat. “so wet. you really missed me, yeah?”

“course i did, stargirl,” vi lets out a shaky laugh. “i want to show you just how much.”

you pout, and vi has the urge to capture that beautiful bottom lip of yours between her teeth. “but i wanted to show you how much i missed you.”

“well, like i said — we have all night.”

three orgasms later, and you’re nearing the point of exhaustion, but you’re determined to keep going, if anything because of how full you feel with vi’s fingers fucking into you at a truly impressive pace. the pads of her fingers are rougher than before, calluses from playing guitar so often, but she still knows exactly how to curl and curve them in every way that makes you unravel. her lips are shining with your cum, and you still taste her sweetness on your tongue. 

she grinds her bare cunt against the soft skin of your thigh as she brings you closer and closer to your peak while desperately chasing hers. 

“you close, pretty girl? gonna cum for me again?”

vi whines, nods eagerly. “i’m so fucking close. fuck — i don’t know what i’d do without you.” 

you groan when vi starts sucking at your pulsepoint, running her tongue over the chain of your new necklace. you reach a hand up to tug at her hair, gently coaxing her to look at you.

“don’t worry about that,” you promise. vi takes a deep breath as though inhaling your words and buries her face in the crook of your neck, butterfly lashes fluttering closed and tickling the skin behind your ear. “you’re being so good for me, so messy.”

“s-sorry,” vi sniffles, blood rushing to her cheeks. her body stills while she moves to meet your gaze, her puppy dog eyes shining with desire and desperation. 

you shake your head and dig your fingers into the plush of her hips, urging her to keep going.

“i love it,” you clarify, prompting vi’s face to brighten, her smile pure sunlight and sugar. 

you run your thumb over the scar on her lip that stretches with such familiarity, before crashing your lips against hers. vi welcomes your slick tongue into her mouth, swirling around every crevice until your tastes combine into one. the knot in your abdomen tightens and you, somewhat reluctantly, pull away to admire your girlfriend.

“i love how gorgeous you look on top of me, fucking me while using my body to get yourself off,” you continue, words flowing from your mouth like thick, sickly-sweet nectar. “i want you to cum with me one more time, yeah?”

vi whimpers into the crook of your neck, the vibrations intensifying the waves of pleasure crashing throughout your body. it doesn’t take long for vi to feel you clench around her fingers, and for you to feel her gush against your skin, staining the bedspread beneath your entangled bodies.

vi pulls away her fingers — you whimper this time at the sudden emptiness — but she places the softest kiss on your lips as an apology before adjusting to lay down on her side. she nestles into the curve between your neck and shoulder. her teeth graze your pulsepoint as you run your hand through her damp hair.

you should probably take a shower — the two of you drenched in each other’s sweat and saliva and cum — but all you want to do is to melt against her. maybe if you stay in bed, then time will slow down. 

“i wish you could stay longer.” 

“me too,” you whisper, idly tracing your fingers down her body. 

“you know, the art scene in this city is amazing,” she mumbles. “lot of galleries where you could show your work. nice, big apartments where you could have your own private studio space. you could move here after graduation.”

you laugh. “maybe in another life, where i could afford a place in new york. plus, at this point, i think it’d be best for me to move home after i graduate. but, hypothetically speaking — yeah, that would be cool.”

“well, hypothetically speaking, you would share rent with the pink-haired butch of your dreams.”

“you mean the one whose cum is drying on my thigh right now?”

“the very same,” vi nods with a cheeky grin. she throw her arm around your waist, pulling you in closer. 

you nudge your nose against hers. “paint me a picture — what does this dream life with my dream girl look like?”

“well, we get a place in an artsy neighbourhood, obviously, surrounded by a strong, welcoming community of queer artists, who are all quirky and colorful in their own way.”

“we’d actually be friends with our neighbours — host dinner parties and have movie nights and dance all night at gay bars. our apartment would have an open-floor plan, and we’d have big windows that give us a ton of light and a great view.”

“a beautiful kitchen, too. one that’s a little outdated, but we prefer the term charming,” vi adds. “and there are always fresh flowers on the counter, in a gorgeous vase.”

“we thrifted most of our stuff, so the furniture is all mismatched furniture and in every color of the rainbow —”

“but it works.”

“it works,” you echo, heart glowing. “we adopt a dog, too.” 

“and, the dog’s name?”

you think for a second. “scooby.”

“of course,” vi agrees, her smile suddenly sad. “sounds like a nice life we’d have together.”

“yeah. it does.”

you swallow down those dreams with a bitter dose of reality. you’ll be on a plane tomorrow, heading back to your childhood home, while vi continues travelling the world, performing to sold-out stadiums. 

i don’t know what i’d do without you.

the sad truth is that vi does know what to do without you, and you know what to do without her. that’s what this relationship has become: together, in theory, but growing into your adult selves and towards lives that don’t necessarily include the other. 

the vi beside you, hair a mess and eyeliner smudged, looks the same, give or take a few new tattoos and piercing. but, you wonder about all the little ways she’s changed that you might not ever have the chance to appreciate, about all the details of her day that you’ll never get to hear about. 

you wonder if, possibly, caitlyn is right. you know that people change — who they are, what they want. you want to believe that you and vi are the exception, that no matter how much you changed, you’d always be together. always. 

you then remember something else that caitlyn had said, and abruptly stop tracing designs onto vi’s skin, your eyes lingering on the stars on her upper thigh. vi must notice how you stiffen, because she cups your cheek, prompting you to meet her gaze.

“hey — are you okay?”

“i just — don’t take this the wrong way —  but….has anything ever happened between you and cait?”

vi freezes. “why….why would you ask that?”

“o-oh, it’s just….she mentioned something about your star tattoo and, i, uh, i don’t know. seems like the type of thing she’d only know if the two of you had —”

vi shuffles away from you beneath the sheets and sits up. “you think i’d cheat on you?”

“you aren’t answering the question,” you notice, watching carefully as a nervous blush blooms across her freckled cheeks. “did anything happen between you and caitlyn?”

“why does it matter? why are you asking?”

“i’m starting to think i have a good reason to.” you get out of bed in a huff and slip on her oversized graphic tee, starting to pace back and forth.

“i — look, i was going to tell you, at some point — we, uh….well, nothing actually happened.”

“well? what didn’t actually happen?”

“baby, just let me explain —” vi catches your arm to stop you. “we were both drunk and high and sharing a cigarette by the pool and….she….we….almost kissed.”

you scoff. “so that’s what this weekend was all about — you felt guilty, so you put on this heart-eyed romantic act to make yourself feel better. everything — this last minute trip, the shoutout at your concert, the fucking necklace you got me — was all because you felt guilty.”

“maybe that’s part of it,” vi admits. “but, mostly, i wanted to see you. i miss you.”

you don’t confess to missing her, too. instead, you say:

“maybe we don’t know each other as well as we used to. maybe….things are changing a bit too much.”

“what does that even — where is this going?” vi drops your arm like its a hot coal, red-hot and blistering. “do you wanna break up?”

the tension hangs in the air, a cloud of smoke and darkness between you and the girl you’ve always loved.

“do you?”

you get on a plane the next morning, bone-tired and heart-heavy with deja vu. 

you kiss each other goodbye, promise that you’ll make things work.

you don’t. can’t. 

a few months later, you’ll break up. 

___

[image: postcard reading GREETINGS FROM PARIS! messy handwriting and misspelled words on the other side]

stargirl,

i promised powder id send her a postcard from paris but im really really drunk rn and urs is the only address i can rememer 

they say this is the city of love and it’s the most romantic day of the yer but it means nothing without u. i miss u.

that mesage was 4 u not powder. just tell her i say hi.

xxx

vi

p.s. i know were not together anymore, but i still love u.

___

track 5: “i’ve loved you for so long” by the aces

(now)

“vi?” 

all the lights in the apartment are off, the only sign that vi is home being her discarded doc martens strewn by the door. there’s a chill in the air, too — the window to the fire escape is open, so you head outside.

the string lights twisted around the railing flicker like fallen stars, and the city sparkles in the late winter night. vi perches over the edge, her silk shirt unbuttoned at the top, her dark lipstick faded, and a cigarette smouldering between her ringed fingers. 

“i stopped at magnolia’s on my way home – got us a slice of confetti cake for dessert,” you try, keeping your voice light in hopes of avoiding a fight. you hoped that the sweet treat would be a welcomed peace offering; that maybe you could sit down in your shared kitchen and actually talk through the conflict like the well-adjusted adults you’re trying to be. 

instead, time collapses into itself; you’re both teenagers again, keeping secrets from each other in hopes to ease future pain, and you have a feeling you’re about to bicker like an old married couple, fall back into familiar patterns.

“sure you wouldn’t want to share it with drea, instead starlight?”

you don’t take the bait; you know vi wants to push your buttons, and you know that she knows exactly how. 

“didn’t realize you still smoked,” you say, moving to lean against the railing next to her. 

“whenever i get stressed.” she takes a drag to prove her point, exhaling smoke into the ink-black sky. “guess we don’t know each other as well as we used to.” 

“vi, please,” you sigh. “can we actually talk about this without you lashing out like a wounded dog?”

and, it’s true — vi’s instinct when she’s upset has always been rushing to sink her teeth into something to protect herself from more harm, or gnawing on old wounds until fresh blood emerges.

“what’s there to talk about?” she snarls, tapping her cigarette, ash falling down into the abyss below you. “how you lied about dating drea?”

“i didn’t lie,” you huff. the winter night shivers down to your bones, but you cross your arms over your chest to keep yourself steady. “i just didn’t tell you that i’d gone out with her, specifically. we each admitted to seeing other people after our break-up. you never gave me a list of every fangirl you took to bed.”

“i told you about caitlyn —”

“the tabloids told me about caitlyn,” you counter. 

“you knew how much i hated drea!” vi barks, finally whipping her head to look at you. “do you not remember how much of a homophobic asshole she was? how she told the entire hockey team that i cornered her in the showers one day and tried to kiss her?”

you bite down on the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste copper.

“vi, if you just let me explain — she meant nothing to me.”

vi laughs, cold and bitter as the winter air. “i mean, jesus christ, you still have and wear the earrings she got you. meanwhile, you never wear that necklace i’d gotten you. as soon as we broke up, you were perfectly happy getting rid of me.”

“please, vi —” 

vi’s eyes shine under the starlight, and she clenches her jaw so tight that you’re worried the bone might shatter. “did you not care about me at all, even after all that time, everything we’d been through?”

you uncross your arms and reach out to her, but she flinches away. 

“violet —”

“no — you stopped caring about me to the point that you dated someone who made my life a living hell.” vi takes a shaky breath, and she chokes out your name. “we were best friends first, and i thought….god, i thought that meant we’d always love each other.”

the words hang heavy in the air, your heart pierced by her icicle-sharp words. in a haste, you wipe away the cold tears burning on your skin, turn around on your heels, and storm back inside. 

vi finds you a few minutes later in the living room. you’re using the swiss army knife you usually keep clipped to your belt to tear through unpacked boxes. though she’s not sure what you’re looking for, vi turns on the lamp to help your search. 

“what are you —”

you finally pull something out and offer it to her without a single word. 

vi’s fingers are still slightly frozen as she holds it, her eyes following the precise swirls and crisp lines, designs similar to the tattoos on her back. you must have drawn them on the worn cardboard.

“what is this?”

“open it,” is all you say before sitting cross-legged on the velvety purple couch, which the two of you had lugged up three flights of stairs from the street corner just the other day. you pick at one of the tears in the fabric as you wait.

vi stays standing while she carefully cracks open the lid, well aware that it could disintegrate in her hands like sand through an hourglass. 

what looks like a forgotten, ready-to-be-recycled shoebox turns out to contain much more than old sneakers: 

valentine’s cards she’d given you in elementary school; notes you passed to each other during class or detention; her first songwriting notebook she must have left at your place; a jolly rancher lollipop wrapper from the halloween party where you first…you know. little trinkets vi had given you throughout the years. receipts, movie tickets, photobooth strips of your younger selves. so carefree and full of love.

her anger, her hurt, melts away into sappy affection; knees turning to jello, she slides onto the couch next to you. 

you watch through the corner of your eye as vi rustles through contents of the shoebox-turned-time capsule, teeth worrying at your bottom lip. 

“you….you kept all of this?” 

“i put this box together on the first valentine’s day after our break-up. i was going to set it on fire,” you timidly admit, rubbing the back of your neck. 

vi snorts. “seriously?”

“some sort of stupid ritual i read about in autostraddle, to get rid of your ex. but when it got to that point…all of this — all these memories — i couldn’t bring myself to get rid of them. i didn’t want to get rid of you.”

you reach into the box and pull out a faded, drunkenly-written postcard, chipped-polish nail fiddling with the french stamp in the corner. 

“what about the necklace?” vi can’t help but ask. she runs her fingers through the delicate, dried violets from your corsage, which your mom had helped vi pick out a week before prom. 

“ekko wanted new sneakers for his birthday, so i did the nobel big sister thing, and sold my most expensive piece of jewellery to pay for them,” you explain. you and vi had instinctively shuffled in closer together, the shoebox balanced on one leg from each of you, your knees touching. “plus — yeah, i was mad at you. god, i hated you — which probably was the reason i started going out with drea in the first place, and i’m really, really sorry that i did. but, i need you to know — i never stopped caring about you. i never stopped loving you, violet, and i don’t think i ever will. ”

silence stretches between you. vi stares at you in the warm living room light — how your eyes are darker, your lips parted, shoulders curling in to protect your bleeding heart. vi gently takes the postcard from you and places the shoebox on the floor. 

“i never stopped loving you, either,” she promises, placing her now thawed hands on your cheeks. “and i don’t think i ever will.” 

you smile softly as vi leans in closer, her eyes flickering between yours and your lips. you nod; vi presses her lips to yours, a tender vow that grows into something hungrier, something with teeth. 

“gentler,” you tell her as you pull away slightly. you want to take your time, inhale the dizzying nicotine in her lungs, savor the acidic red wine on her tongue. 

“gentler?” vi’s already eager, though, her hand inching up your thigh.

“slower, violet.”

vi shudders as you trail your fingers over the tattoo on her neck. “have i ever told you how much i love it when you say my name?” 

“drea definitely wasn’t a fan of that habit,” you confess with a guilty grin. “one of the reasons we broke up is because, well...i kept accidentally saying your name during sex.”

“really?” vi chuckles darkly, a lightning bolt of possessiveness striking through her. “fucked you so good that i ruin you for other girls, hm?”

you roll your eyes, then suck in a breath when vi dips her fingers beneath your underwear, finding you wet and waiting.

“oh, sweetheart, you’re soaking. all this, just for me?”

“hm, i don’t know. drea did look pretty good in that dress,” you tease — because you know how to push vi’s buttons, too. “i have to admit, she was a pretty decent fuck.”

“don’t,” she warns, but her eyes are burning with desire.

you smirk, slipping your hand underneath her shirt. her skin is always warm, but, right now, it’s electric. her abs are sculpted by the gods, pave way to a thick haven of curls between her legs.

“maybe you need to remind me why your name always fell from my lips whenever she’d make me cum.”

vi’s cheeks are red-hot, her heart pounding against your chest as she pushes you onto the couch, and presses her body into yours. 

“it would be my genuine pleasure.”

everything else to ash, and you’re left with this: your lace underwear dangling off your ankle as vi pushes your legs over her shoulders. her slick, skilled tongue sliding through your folds and her rough fingers squelching into your hole at an expert pace.

“f-fuck, vi,” you moan, running your fingers through her messy hair. you don’t miss how eagerly she grinds down onto the butter-soft velvet once you start tugging at the strands more firmly. 

“feels good, yeah?” she moans like you’re the one fucking her. “i’m the one making you feel good?”

“yes.” you exhale sharply when she sucks on your clit. “i’m close, vi.”

“i know, baby,” she drawls, smirking against your skin.

“don’t stop.” you plead as she sucks a bruise into your thigh, fingers curling into you. “don’t stop, don’t stop —”

and, she fucking stops. 

“vi,” you whine. 

“uh-uh, you don’t get to cum quite yet, pretty girl.”

she sucks her honey-soaked fingers into her mouth as she gets up from the couch.

you pout, licking your lips even though you wish you could lick hers. “why not?”

“i’m still mad at you,” vi states. “you really did hurt my feelings. how do you plan on making it up to me?”

vi tries to resist, play the part of the jealous, possessive girlfriend — but, god, it’s hard, with how fucked out, how beautiful you look right now: your lips the color of ripe plums, swollen and stained with vi’s lipstick; the curls between your legs twinkling with droplets of your desire; and your eyes glazed over with lust as you gaze up at her from the couch.

“that new strap we got,” you suggest, still breathless. your breasts strain against the now-wrinkled silk of the shirt you’re wearing. vi’s thankful that it’s hers, because she wants nothing more than to rip the fabric off your body. “you — you can fuck me with it.”

“is that what you want?” vi hums, fire burning in her abdomen as she watches you nod eagerly. usually, you’re the one who takes control, and that’s perfectly fine with vi, but tonight….

tonight, she has something to prove.

you’re both naked by the time you reach the bedroom, clothes thrown across the apartment floor as you take turns leaving bites and bruises on exposed areas of the other’s skin. you get down on your knees, the shag carpet shocking your skin as vi looms over you, gnawing at her scarred, kiss-swollen lips. you help her adjust the harness and attach everything accordingly, leaving a kiss on each star glittering across her thigh once you’re done. she makes you wait patiently as she coats the dildo with a healthy amount of lube.

vi offers you her hand, sticky with lube and your essence from earlier, and lifts you to your feet. she kisses you sweetly before pushing you onto the bed. 

"turn around," vi instructs. "on your knees."

you comply, already feeling yourself dripping onto the comforter in anticipation. vi kneels behind you on the bed, grasping the plush of your hips between her strong hands. you gasp when she spits onto your hole and starts to fuck into you, inch by inch. 

"you okay, baby?" vi asks once she’s halfway inside you.

"yes," you breathe. "keep going.”

so, vi continues gliding further into your silken heat, and once she’s nestled inside you completely, her thighs meeting your ass — that’s when she turns on the vibrations. vi moans, so loud that you’re sure the entire building can hear. she starts grinding into you, but otherwise doesn’t move.

“violet.” you snap your neck back as far as you can, appreciating how perfectly dishevelled vi looks behind you, eyes rolled up to heaven, drool trickling from the corner of her plump lips. “are you gonna keep fucking me any time soon?”

“it’s just so much,” she whines, and continues rutting against you.

it is so much — the waves of pleasure quivering from her body to yours, the subtle burn of her happy trail rubbing against your skin, the melodic timbre of her voice — but it’s not enough. 

“i know, baby. but i need more. if you don’t do something now….maybe there’s someone else i can call…”

your words effectively reignite that spark of jealousy, and she growls. vi slips out slightly, only to thrust back in, over and over, until you’re a moaning mess beneath her. your body starts to shake, but before you almost collapse onto your elbows, so vi reaches one hand to your neck and lifts you up so that her pierced nipples brushed against your back.

she kisses the back of your neck, trailing her hand down to pinch one of your nipples and you hiss, dizzy with pain and pleasure. she moves her other hand below the harness, rubbing her swollen clit in tight circles and gathering as much slick as she can. she brings those same fingers, glistening in the moonlight, to your lips, and you let her shove them into your mouth so you can finally taste her.

"this enough for you, greedy girl?" she taunts. 

you are greedy, when it comes to her, suckling on her digits like a lollipop while she stretches you open so deliciously, the obscene squelching of your pussy accompanying a symphony of moans and curses. 

"yes, violet. f-fuck, yes!" 

you feel vi groan against the crook of your neck, where her teeth had been nibbling at the sweat-soaked skin. 

“fuck — i need to watch you fall apart, knowing that i'm the one who makes you feel this good."

with that, vi flips you over, so she can watch you unravel. she hisses when your nails find purchase on her shoulders, digging down her tattooed back.

“you’re so fucking hot. so gorgeous. i’m so lucky that you’re mine.” vi’s voice is still rough and coarse with lust, but she’s looking at you all wonder-filled and soft-eyed, like you’re a work of art displayed at the louvre. “you….you are mine, right?”

the question is shockingly vulnerable from the woman who’s fucking you at a truly brutal speed, deep enough that you’re sure you’ll feel the lucious ache of her for days now. 

you bring your hands to gently cradle her face as you wrap your legs around her hips. vi snakes one of her hands down to rub at your throbbing clit, while the other rests lovingly on your tattooed ribs, where delicate violets bloom. 

“i’m yours,” you assure, and your heart glows when she beams above you. “you’re mine too, right?”

vi nods, damp strands of her hair tickling your forehead. 

“i’m yours.”

there’s a mess pooling underneath your entangled bodies by the time you’re both finished. 

for a few seconds, you both lay on your backs, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, until vi breaks the silence:

“did you say that you brought home a slice of cake?”

the two of you throw on some clothes, throw the sheets in the wash, and vi pulls you into her lap as you share the slice of cake at the kitchen table, chattering about everything and nothing for however long, until vi glances at the oven clock.

“shit — it’s midnight already. guess time flies when you’re having fun.” vi wraps her arms around your middle, and kisses your shoulder. “happy valentine’s day, stargirl.”

“happy valentine’s day, vi,” you smile, weaving your fingers through hers. you crane your neck back so you can feed her a bite of cake. “you’re the sweetest.”

“this cake’s pretty sweet, too,” vi jokes. she peppers kisses across your face until you’re giggling, skin sticky with frosting. 

“i’m glad you like it,” you laugh. “they do wedding cakes, too, but i think we should explore our options before settling on one for ours.”

vi’s lips pause just as she starts to kiss underneath your jaw. 

“do you mean for our wedding?” she smirks. “is there something you wanna ask me, stargirl?” 

“damn it —” you cough, almost choking on a mouthful of cake. “i - i had this whole thing planned - wait, let me —”

you disappear into the bedroom and reemerge with an intricately painted vase. you hand it to vi and sit in the chair next to her.

“this is what i made in my pottery seminar,” you explain. “it’s supposed to be like —”

“that mural you made of us senior year,” vi finishes, looking between the vase and you with stars in her eyes. 

“exactly. except we won’t have to spend saturday detention painting over it.” you chuckle at the memory as vi shakes her head with a small smile dancing across her lips knowingly. “i was gonna promise to bring my beautiful wife fresh flowers for this vase every week and then i was gonna ask you to look inside….” you gesture at vi to do so, and she reaches in to pull out a velvet box. “and then i was gonna get down on one knee —”

“it’s okay — you’ve already done plenty of that tonight,” vi laughs, and you bump her shoulder playfully. 

“and i was gonna tell you that i love you, that i have for basically my whole life, and that i want to spend the rest of it with you,” you finish, heart fluttering in your chest. 

“i can’t believe you were going to propose to me.” vi places the vase on the kitchen counter behind her, smiling at you softly. 

“is that a yes or….?”

instead of answering, vi walks over to the couch, reaches behind and pulls up a heart-printed gift bag, and hands it to you. she watches intently as you pull out a turquoise-blue collar. 

“damn, i did not know you were this kinky.” you raise an eyebrow at vi. “so, is this a yes to my proposal or….just something you just wanna try in the bedroom?”

“w-what? no!” vi stutters, her cheeks blooming pink. “i mean, yes! well – okay, i also had this plan for valentine’s day.” it’s very endearing, how vi’s scrambling to find the right words. your punk rock girlfriend, flustered and lovesick for you. “okay — there’s a dog at the shelter i thought we could adopt. i brought home the paperwork for us to fill out, if that’s what you want — it’s all in there. there’s a picture of him, too.” 

you reach in the bag again and find a printed photo of an adorable brown lab with the warmest eyes. 

“he’s adorable,” you squeal. “does he have a name?”

“scooby, of course.” vi grins. “so, do you wanna adopt a dog together?”

“i do.”

“i love the sound of that,” vi hums. “there’s one more thing in there for you….”

it’s a ring pop — and you’re not sure if it’s the sugar rush, or the woman getting down on one knee and asking you, so tenderly, so sweetly, to marry her, but your heart is absolutely soaring. 

“we might have to tell our kids a more pg version of the night we got engaged,” vi whispers later, when you’re back cuddling in bed under fresh sheets.

“kids?” you twist around in vi’s arms to find her grinning at you. “is there something you want to ask me?”

“is scooby not our first child?” vi guffaws and you poke her ribs at her cheekiness.

“true.”

“besides, you know what they say, stargirl,” she practically sings. “first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes —”

you cut her off with a sugary, confetti-flavored kiss, your smiles melting into one.

[anto-pops]

Crimson Dominion - Sylus x Female!Reader

Summary: You and Sylus have a routine. It’s one borne of months spent coexisting with one another, and one that you’ve easily grown accustomed to. Even though your life with him in the chapel is all a means to an end— an end that involves him devouring your soul— you would be lying if you said you weren’t comfortable and complacent with the dynamic. That’s why when you find him behaving abnormally in the bowels of your shared home, you can’t help but draw closer to the peculiar sight… and upon discovering the truth, there’s no stopping yourself from selfishly caving to the desires of your lust-drunk dragon. 

Alternatively summarized as Sylus goes into his dragon rut and has freaky, animalistic sex with you. 

Word Count: 9.3k

Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, dragon!Sylus, dragon ruts/heat cycles, biting/scratching, knotting, possessive behavior, rough sex, size difference

Full fic is now up on Ao3 (with more diverse tags, as per usual)

Something was off. 

It was hard to put your finger on what exactly it was, though. Everything within the chapel looked the same; the candelabras flickered dimly and cast dancing shadows against the walls, piles of treasures covered the ground, and the damp, wooden scent of the church pews filled the air. It was humid inside– more so than usual– and the stillness inside the chamber both unnerved and soothed you. 

Your dragon was nowhere to be found. 

His usual place atop the chancel at the front of the chapel was empty. You had grown accustomed to walking into the room to find him floating there listlessly– twirling a gold coin or some other bit of loot between his fingers while he hummed to himself and daydreamed. But this time, Sylus was absent as you glanced around the room, and you rubbed the sleep from your eyes as though that might help you to better locate him. 

“Sylus?” 

Your voice echoed throughout the cavernous room, and your call went unanswered. Strange. He was always relatively quick to come when you summoned him… where could he be? 

The heels of your boots clicked softly against the marble floor as you strode to the front of the chapel. Sylus wasn’t hiding within the rows of pews, and he wasn’t behind the podium either. Maybe it was arrogant for you to assume as much, but he wouldn’t have gone out without telling you. He had been here earlier before you’d fallen asleep. 

The cracked, stained glass windows behind the stage came into full view as you neared the back of the room, and you huffed in annoyance when your dragon still failed to reveal himself to you. “Sylus?” you called again, straining in your attempts to pick up on any sign of life within the church. 

You couldn’t hear a thing, but suddenly a unique, heady scent flooded your nostrils. 

The smell was somewhere between musky and smokey. It was too organic to be deemed soot-based, but also too bizarre to be something that was simply carried on the wind. Riding on the coattails of the fragrance was a spicy yet subtly sweet aroma that made a shiver course down your spine, and you found that as you breathed in deeply to take in more of the smell, your entire body seemed to respond to it. The hair on your arms stood straight, your stomach flipped over on itself, and one particular spot against your neck throbbed to life. 

The nearly faded bite mark Sylus had bestowed upon you all those months ago felt as fresh as it had the day he’d given it to you, and you absentmindedly rubbed at it to ease the aching sensation. 

Again, something was off. 

“Sylus, quit ignoring me and come out,” you snapped with frustration. Agitation that hadn’t existed five minutes ago ran rampant through your veins– a sudden restlessness coming to life and prompting you to search for the silver haired dragon with newfound verve. There were only so many places he could hide within the chapel. Despite evidence to the contrary, you had a feeling he was still here. It wasn’t like him to up and vanish without a word to you, and strangely enough, that smell…

He was here. You knew it deep in your bones. 

A handful of tiny rooms lined the far side of the church, so you started throwing open the doors one after another in the hopes of finding him inside of one. Four vacant closets were all you were met with, however, and you sighed loudly when the weirdly appealing scent got fainter and fainter the farther you moved away from the stage. You weren’t a dog. Following your nose seemed like the stupidest idea– especially when there was no guarantee that it was even coming from Sylus in the first place. But some inherent part of you assumed as much– no, knew as much. Whatever the fragrance was, it belonged to him. 

You made your way back to the stage, reassured by the growing potency of the unique scent. There were no other doors behind the stage, nor was there any likelihood of your dragon being outside this time of night. There wasn’t a chance that you were smelling him through the windows– the very thought of it was balmy and ridiculous. But after scouring every corner, every wall, and even glancing up at the ceiling at the support beams running parallel to the floor, you found nothing. 

Where the hell was he? More importantly, why were you so desperate to find him? That smell was driving you berserk. 

Shaking your head to yourself, you glanced down at the floor dejectedly, on the brink of accepting defeat and returning to the curtained off alcove you called your bedchamber. But then something caught your eye– something you had failed to notice in the past due to the mountains of loot that normally covered the floors behind the chancel. 

A trapdoor. 

The consolidated pile of treasure that had sat on top of it before now was spread thin off to the side of the hatch. It was as if Sylus had clawed all of it aside to gain access to the lower levels of the church, the messy state of everything leaving you to believe that he had moved in a rushed, frantic manner. Odd. 

The peculiarity of the situation was overlooked entirely by the sense of calm that washed over you. You had found him. The tantalizing, bewitching aroma that had called to you like a siren’s song was strongest above the trapdoor, and you knew without a shadow of a doubt that when you made your way inside, you would find your dragon. 

You had expected to be met with a ladder or a narrow staircase upon opening the hatch, but instead you discovered nothing. It was a straight drop down into a dark, musty abyss, but the minimal light that poured into the opening revealed that it was only about an eight foot plummet. Ripping your boots off, you set them beside the scattered pile of gold next to you, then swung your legs over the edge. The muscles in your arms screamed in protest as you slowly, carefully, eased yourself into the hole until you were dangling completely from the edge, and you suppressed the urge to scream when you let go. 

To say you landed gracefully would be a lie, but there were no witnesses to counteract the claim. 

It was dark down here– much darker than you had been expecting– but the skinny corridor you found yourself now standing in only led in one direction, and the enticing scent you had been chasing after for so long was stronger. You kept one hand on the side of the wall as you padded forward quietly, narrowing your eyes as you trudged deeper and farther into the unknown area of the chapel. 

Before long, there was light. Flickering, shifting firelight that emanated from torches you could see at the end of the passage. As you neared the end of the dark hallway, a muffled, disembodied sound reached your ears and prompted you to halt in your tracks. 

Someone was groaning. Sylus. 

Your eagerness to see him couldn’t outweigh your caution, though. Silent as a wraith, you peered around the corner of the corridor and scanned the interior of the basement. At least, you figured it was a basement. A strange one with no ladder or staircase to easily access. The underground chamber was starkly different from upstairs, primarily because there were no glittering piles of gold loot or gems. It made the space look rather dull, in your opinion. 

There were lots of soft things, however. Velveteen pillows, cotton throw blankets, and colorful tapestries that had been laid out to maximize the comfort one could derive from residing in such a dreary place. 

In the center of the makeshift nest was Sylus. 

He was sprawled out on his side with his back to you, and his long, powerful tail was curled around himself protectively. The pants he usually wore were hanging low on his hips, revealing parts of his body that you had never once glimpsed before. Your cheeks flushed in an instant at the sight, and in that moment, you considered that maybe you had made a mistake in seeking him out. 

Was he ill? He was still groaning– albeit rather softly. His skin looked damp as well, as though a thin sheen of sweat covered the entirety of his figure, and– was he twitching? His arm was moving a little. 

It was the thought of your dragon being sick that spurred you into motion. You stepped out of the corridor and silently made your way towards him, taking care not to make a sound so you wouldn’t startle him. Not that the chances of that happening were very high– you could never sneak up on Sylus. He had a sixth sense dedicated solely to thwarting your attempts at getting the jump on him. 

Once you were roughly five feet away from him, you stopped in your tracks again. He was still letting loose choked groans and writhing slightly against the floor, but there was also something else. A wet, squelching sound that made your eyes go wide and your breathing hitch in your throat. From your vantage point over him, you were made aware startlingly fast what was contributing to the new noises. 

Sylus… he had his cock clenched tight in his fist. His wrist moved furiously as he worked his hand up and down the painfully hard shaft, and from over his shoulder, you could see opaque wet stains that adorned the dark blanket beneath him. 

What… what had you just walked in on? 

You weren’t as careful when you stepped back as you had been while approaching. Your heel connected roughly with the ground, prompting Sylus to go rigid as his hand stilled against his cock. Then, almost in slow motion, his neck craned backwards so he could fix his narrowed, red eyes on your frozen form. 

For a few heated seconds, the two of you just stared at one another. Your face was undoubtedly beet red– your lips parted as you scrambled to find the right words to speak. Did you apologize? Did you ask if he was alright? What was the correct thing to do in this situation? 

Sylus, on the other hand, looked strangely impassive. Apart from the heady flush that covered his cheeks and stretched down to his chest, he seemed relatively calm. His crimson eyes– while usually sharp and piercing– were presently hooded and tired looking. They seemed to brighten when they landed on you though, and at the same time you managed to weakly croak, “I-I’m sorry–”, Sylus growled. 

Shit. 

Your previous assumption that he was tired went right out the fucking window in the next second. With inhuman speed, Sylus shot up from the collection of blankets to coil his arms around your waist, then hauled you down so you were half-draped, half-kneeling over him. You remedied the half-draped part of your position remarkably quickly, because for a few blood-chilling seconds, the lower part of your body had been flush to his arched cock– so much so that you had felt it pulse against you through the fabric of your dress. 

Another animalistic sound reverberated through his chest as you pushed yourself up so you were no longer pressed against his sternum, but that was as far as you made it before the dragon’s arms tightened around you. “Sylus– what’s wrong with you?” 

“You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” His voice was low and sultry, laced with unmistakable arousal that had heat pooling in your gut. That, in addition to the inescapable scent wafting from him, was quickly making your mind feel hazy. This wasn’t normal… something was making you feel like this. Something unnatural. “I came all the way down here to keep you away from me, but you’ve ruined all my hard work.” 

One of his hands skirted up your back and pressed down against your spine, forcing you to arch into him as he leaned up to bury his nose in your neck. His next intake of breath was deep, shaking both him and yourself to your very cores, and you felt his nails dig into your hips through your dress as he exhaled gruffly. “I shouldn’t have intruded,” you mumbled, bracing one of your hands against his chest to push him back. It didn’t escape your notice that the only reason you succeeded in shoving him away was because he let you. “I-I’ll leave. I’m sorry for–” 

“Don’t go.” 

You blinked down at him in wonder. You had never seen your dragon so… out of sorts. It was an understatement, certainly, but there was no other way to describe his demeanor. Prone atop the floor, Sylus looked up at you through his long lashes, his cheeks still violently flushed and his chest rising and falling rapidly. His arms were no longer crushing you to him, but his hands remained stubbornly planted on your waist in his attempts to hold you in place. Nevermind the fact that his cock was still out– literally a hairs-width away from your core beneath the folds of your dress. 

Aside from your undergarments, there was next to nothing separating your most intimate place from his. 

“I…” you trailed off, averting your stare to the corridor you had come through earlier. “I don’t think I should stay. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you’re not yourself.” 

“I’m more myself than I’ve ever been,” he countered smoothly, intensifying his grip on your hips as he dug his heels into the blankets. “It’s in my nature to be driven mad with lust every few months. It’s what you might call an unfortunate side effect for my kind.” 

Almost testingly, you shifted your hips back to try climbing off of him. His fingers may as well have been barbed shackles for all the good your attempt was. Puzzled, you murmured, “Side effect? Of what? Being a dragon?” 

“In a vague sense, yes…” Sylus swallowed thickly as a shudder wracked his body– so fierce that you had to plant your other palm against his chest to keep yourself from toppling over. God, it was like he was drunk. He gritted his teeth together and cracked open his bleary eyes to stare at you again, and the next wave of his scent washed over you with the force of a tidal wave. “More specifically, it’s a side effect of a dragon’s rut.” 

Oh.

Oh.

You had read about such things once. At the time, you had naturally assumed it was fiction– a made up aspect of equally made up fairy tales told to children before they went to bed. But considering that dragons were very much real creatures that had once rivaled mankind’s population, of course the rest of the stories would be true as well. 

A dragon’s rut. A period of time when the creatures in question were inhabited by one, prudent thought above all others. 

Reproduce. 

“All the more reason for me to go,” you forced the words from your throat with the last bit of resolve you could muster up. Between Sylus’ branding touch against your hips and the way his scent was akin to an airborne aphrodisiac, you knew your willpower wouldn’t last long. Your affection for your dragon was a very real thing, but time after time, he had rebuffed your inquiries about his thoughts on love. Companionship to him was a foreign concept– something that went hand in hand with his solitary nature. You had made your peace with that months ago and resigned yourself to a short lifetime of simply being in his company before he inevitably devoured your soul. 

Or at least, you thought you had. 

It was hard to think about much of anything right now. 

Sylus sighed heavily, and the sound seemed to banish a degree of his self-control. Without giving you a moment to process his moves, he sat up and flipped the two of you over, caging you against the floor between his trembling arms and sliding one of his knees between your legs. You could only gasp when he burrowed his face in the crook of your shoulder, the warm, wet feeling of his tongue laving over your pulse making your mind go blank. 

“Can’t you feel it?” His husky voice was muffled against the spit-slick skin of your neck. “Can’t you feel how desperately I need you? Can you smell it?” 

S-Smell it…?

You made a small sound of confirmation at the back of your throat, at which point one of Sylus’ hands began trailing up your thigh, pushing more and more of your dress up your legs. “That smell… is my pheromones. Under normal circumstances, it would attract another dragon to my side. But instead…” he nipped at your throat lightly, making you jolt underneath him as your arousal began to saturate your undergarments. “It attracted you.” 

Words failed to form on your tongue as Sylus brazenly sank his teeth into the junction of your neck and shoulder. A cry that was equal parts pained and surprised burst from your lips, and a low, rumbling growl was the dragon’s only sound of acknowledgment. Sharp, deadly claws trailed against your thigh, the tips of his nails catching on the fabric of your dress as it was hoisted high up your legs, and the material pooled below your navel before Sylus hooked a finger under the flimsy band of your underwear. 

His breath was hot against your skin when he whispered against your neck, “You’ll let me have you, right? Your soul is already promised to me, but what about your body?” 

Fuck– you were positive you would agree to just about anything if it meant the ache between your legs could be sated. Every fiber of Sylus’ being oozed seduction; his handsome face, his ardent touch, his mind numbing scent. You wanted to throw caution to the wind and let him indulge in his thirst for you, because you selfishly wanted to experience everything he had to offer. 

What you had witnessed upon walking into the room had shocked you, but it had also piqued your curiosity immeasurably. 

You must have taken too long to respond, because Sylus pulled away from your throat with a winded sigh. The finger coiled around your underwear tugged imploringly, and when the dragon finally deigned to look at you again, his eyes were narrowed with barely there restraint. His tongue darted out to wet his plush, red lips, and it was at that moment you were able to see his hunger with startling clarity. 

Against your better judgement, you picked your head up to peer down at the leaking, solid length of him. It was evident that his efforts at relieving himself earlier hadn’t done much good. One would think that the spend covering the blankets meant that he had quelled his urges, but with how hard he clearly still was, his attempts had more than likely only staved off a persistent ache. 

Without thinking, you lifted a shaky hand to wrap your fingers around his cock, the entirety of it pulsing fervently in your grip. A strangled hiss slipped through Sylus’ teeth as his eyes squeezed shut at the minor stimulation your touch granted him, and you decided to take things a step further by cautiously swiping your thumb over the slick, swollen head. 

Sylus let loose an animalistic snarl that tore through the room and made you jolt. Then he was moving– pulling away from your touch and settling back on his haunches so he could rip your underwear down your legs with the lone finger he gripped them with. 

“God,” you gasped. You instinctively covered your exposed center with your hands and pressed your knees together, “You don’t have to be so rough.” 

With feline grace, Sylus drew back farther before lowering his face so it was directly above your knees. Clawed fingers spread over the tops before gripping them firmly, and then he was pulling your thighs apart to reveal your already soaked core to himself. “Do you have any idea how delicious you smell right now?” 

“I– what?” You couldn't help but stammer brainlessly, blood rushing into your cheeks in response to the sinful line of questioning. “You’re insane.” 

Sylus flashed you a wicked smirk, opting to silently prove your point by descending lower, lower, until his nose was nearly touching your wet folds. Then he breathed in deeply and shuddered. “It’s like the divine essence of the gods themselves. I wonder– does it taste as good as it smells?” 

Your eyes went wider than saucers. No… there was no way he was going to–

Sylus’ lips parted for his tongue, the flat muscle laving a hard, pointed stripe right up your center, and the pressure he inflicted against your clit made you keen breathlessly. “Sy– wait, what are you–” 

The dragon ignored you in favor of repeating the motion again, only this time he dipped the tip of his tongue inside of you to collect as much moisture as he possibly could. The feeling was surreal; it was hot and silky all at once, the sting of Sylus’ nails digging into your thighs harmonizing magically with the pleasure of his nose rubbing against your bundle of nerves. You gasped wantonly, your mind caving to the arousal that had been dogging at your heels since setting foot in the chamber. When your back bowed off of the floor to dimly press more of yourself onto his tongue, Sylus chuckled darkly and began feasting with uninhibited restraint. 

Wet, sloppy sounds came from between your legs, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be embarrassed by it. Sylus certainly wasn’t. The way his mouth moved against your cunt was somewhere between calculated and arbitrary, but it was all entirely instinctual. The attention he bestowed against your clit synced perfectly with the hard, probing depths he reached with his tongue, and your head fell back against the blankets as you gasped in wonder. 

“S-Sylus,” you moaned shakily. “Sylus, it feels so good.” 

The dragon hummed his approval, withdrawing his tongue from your core so he could briefly suck your sensitive nub into his mouth before releasing it with an audible pop. The fleeting rush of pleasure disappeared almost as quickly as it arrived, and directly against your folds, Sylus murmured, “Tastes just as good, too. Heavenly.” 

His mouth was back on you before you could think to say something stupid. With newfound gusto, Sylus shamelessly licked, sucked, and kissed whatever parts of you he could get his lips on. It was maddening– so much so that your hands blindly shot away from the floor to land in his hair. The soft strands curled around your fingers as you gathered fistfuls of the silvery locs in your grip, pressing him harder against you in some feeble attempt to steer him deeper. 

Another wave of that tantalizing scent of his came over you, and you swore up and down you saw stars. It truly was heavenly, and you wanted more. 

You weakly tugged at his hair to get his attention, but Sylus was too distracted to pay you any mind. He groaned eagerly and let his jaw go slack, swiping his tongue over every inch of your wet skin to collect every last drop of slick that coated it. He was positively ravenous, and you tried yanking his hair again, only harder this time. “Sylus,” came your whiny plea. “Please.” 

The needy timbre to your voice prompted his crimson eyes to fly open, and he looked up at you through his long, thick lashes with unparalleled lust. 

The heat of his gaze set your blood alight in your veins, and you had to swallow around a growing lump in your throat. “Please,” you repeated shyly. “I want… I want to kiss you.” 

For the first time since seeing him down here, Sylus looked perplexed. It was as though the concept of kissing hadn’t even crossed his mind, which made a little bit of sense considering he was a dragon… maybe he didn’t know how? But then he licked the remnants of your pleasure from his lips and let go of your legs, pushing himself up to seductively crawl over your prone form. He braced his arms on either side of your head, staring down at you with his piercing eyes almost appraisingly. 

“You want to kiss me?” he asked in that deep, sultry voice of his. “Why?” 

Despite the fact that he had just been lip-locked with your most private place, the thought of having to explain your request to him seemed largely more embarrassing. “…Do dragons not kiss each other when they do this?” 

He cocked his head to the side, the move so primal and subhuman that you were reminded once again that even though he looked human, he was the farthest thing from it. “How would I know?” 

“Do you know how to kiss?” 

His lips pressed together to form a straight line that cut across his sharp features. Was that frustration of self-consciousness you detected? You couldn’t be sure. “I don’t make a habit of bedding people, so I can’t say I’m all that familiar with the concept.” 

Ah, so it was awkwardness he was subtly displaying. For some reason, the realization made you smile– but Sylus didn’t seem thrilled with your sudden amusement. He tsk’d softly and looked towards the far wall with his brows furrowed, his sharp nails catching on the fibers of the blanket as they dug into the soft material. “I don’t see what’s so funny about me not knowing your silly, human customs. They’re irrelevant to me–” 

“It’s not funny,” you interjected quickly, reaching up to cup his cheeks and turn his face back towards you. This time, your smile was of the reassuring variety, but doubt still twinkled in those gemstone-like eyes of his. “You were just making a cute face, that’s all. I can show you how… if you want to, that is.” 

For a moment, it genuinely looked like the dragon was going to outright refuse. His jaw hardened beneath your palms, and the unyielding, stubborn glint in his irises made you believe that he would dismiss your offer entirely. But then he moved; slowly, Sylus lowered himself down onto his elbows so his face was mere inches away from yours, his nose crinkling with a quaint sort of bashfulness that you had never seen from him before. 

Was this really the same being that had shamelessly hauled you down on top of him earlier? This version of your dragon was… softer. More uncertain. You couldn’t help but find it incredibly endearing. 

Still smiling, you searched his eyes for any signs of discomfort or hesitation and found none. If anything, Sylus just looked expectant. He was waiting for you to make your next move, so you squashed your fears about upsetting him and pulled his face towards yours. 

The kiss was… stiff. You could feel the tension radiating throughout Sylus’ body as he processed what you were doing, and in an attempt to get him to loosen up, you trailed one of your hands away from his cheek to cup the back of his neck. Your nails scratched lightly against the base of his skull and pulled a barely there groan from him– at which point you decided to be bolder. 

Opening your mouth, you traced Sylus’ bottom lip with your tongue before probing cautiously at the seam– silently asking for him to grant you access. He took his time catering to your request, eventually relenting once he pieced together what it was you wanted, and the wet muscle swept through his mouth greedily. The dragon tasted of something smokey and sweet all at once– the flavor not all that different from the scent he’d been steadily giving off. It danced on your tastebuds marvelously, a tiny moan slithering free from your throat, and the minuscule sound seemed to spark something within Sylus, because he was kissing you back in the next instant. 

His own tongue wrapped around yours as the pressure from his lips increased. Each of his movements was colored with a tinge of uncertainty, but it seemed to be mostly fueled by his desire to experiment. He wanted to get it right. He wanted to learn. 

Pleased by his vigor, your hand on the back of his neck curled into a loose fist around his hair. Sylus made a sound– something halfway between a moan and a sigh– and you stole your opportunity to playfully bite at his bottom lip. You felt his back tense abruptly, his mouth halting its movements against yours, and you opened your eyes in a panic to see if you had accidentally done something wrong. 

Sylus’ face was a blur as he quickly pulled away to knock your arm to the floor, pinning your wrist beside your head in one quick motion before he was back on you. Suddenly it was like he had known how to kiss all along; his mouth was everywhere. He sucked wetly on your bottom lip, then peppered hot, open mouthed kisses along your jaw, and finally surprised you by tugging at your earlobe with his sharp canines. 

Maybe biting held a similar meaning to kissing for dragons, because you were quickly realizing that Sylus enjoyed having his teeth on you. 

“S-So?” you stammered softly, tilting your head to the side to give him easier access to your neck. Sylus latched his lips over your pulse point to bite and suck at the skin there, your lashes fluttering in response to the sting, and it took a herculean effort for you to voice the rest of your question without groaning. “Did you like it?” 

“It’s strange,” he muttered hotly against your throat. “But then again, so are humans. I could get used to it.”

It was as close to approval as you were going to get with him, so you hummed in acknowledgment and let your eyes drift shut. Sylus’ nails bit into your wrist with alarming strength– his full weight settling against you more and more as he dropped his hips so they were flush with yours– and you felt the wet, heavy length of his cock rest tellingly against your pelvis. Its mass should have scared you, especially considering you had already seen how big it was when you’d walked in on him earlier, but instead of apprehension taking root in your gut, you only felt the exhilaration of arousal. 

The arm at your side slid coyly between your bodies so you could delicately stroke his shaft. Sylus’ breathing hitched in his throat, and when you teasingly ghosted the tip of your finger over the leaking head, he jolted. His gruff voice vibrated directly against your jaw when he lifted his head and growled, “I don’t think those priests were wrong for accusing you of being a sorceress.” 

“Oh?” Your brow quirked up questioningly, your finger dexterously tracing featherlight shapes over the tip of Sylus’ cock. “Why is that?” 

“Because you’re wicked.” His crimson eyes narrowed as he released your wrist to trap your hand to his shaft with blind precision, forcing the entirety of your palm to press against his member, and the sound he made at the stimulation was nothing short of perfection. The corner of his mouth curled as he purred, “What sinful little spells are you casting on me, hm? I can’t seem to get enough. You make me greedy.” 

“Bold of you to talk about spells when you’re the one reeking of those phero-whatevers.” 

“I can’t help that. You, on the other hand…” He buried his nose in the junction of your neck and shoulder, laving his tongue over the fading bite scar he had left there a lifetime ago before whispering against it, “For how insistent you were about leaving, you’re enjoying this quite a bit.” 

To say your mind was swimming in lustful thoughts would be a monumental understatement. Even though Sylus wasn’t looking at you, you were positive he could hear your innermost desires. Over and over again in your head were iterations of “More” and “Take me”. How many times since meeting the dragon had you fantasized about exactly this happening? Not the rut part– that had taken you by surprise– but the rest of it? 

You were a fool to believe that you had dealt with your unrequited feelings for Sylus. Maybe he would come to regret this moment later on when his rut was over, but that would be a problem for future-you to deal with. Right now, you wanted nothing more than to cave to your baser instincts and for Sylus to cave to his. You wanted him to fuck you within an inch of your life and finally help scratch the itch that had been hounding you for months. 

Emboldened by your internal acceptance, you laughed airily and did the only thing you could think of in that moment; you squeezed his cock imploringly, turning your head towards the sound of his guttural moan so you could murmur directly in his ear. “I’ll give my body to you, Sylus. So hurry up and do something with it.” 

The next sequence of events happened so fast that you could barely comprehend them. Sylus growled and yanked you upright, his clawed fingers raking down the back of your dress and tearing the fabric open so he could free you from it. There was a muted stinging sensation against your spine where his nails had broken your skin, but that hardly seemed important when you caught sight of the ravenous, insatiable hunger on the dragon’s handsome face. Your breasts spilled out in full view as the attire pooled in a messy heap around your waist– though it didn’t stay there for long. It was soon ripped away and haphazardly tossed to the side of the room without a second glance, and then Sylus was pushing you back against the blankets. 

Heavy, panted breaths sounded from him at an almost concerning pace. You blearily watched as he shoved his pants lower– evidently too impatient to take them off all the way– before one of his hands appeared against the underside of your jaw and forced you to look him square in the eyes. 

“Don’t look away,” he instructed sternly. His hand remained where it was until you nodded, and only then did he release your face and plant his arms on either side of your waist to support himself. 

The first bump of his cock against your entrance made you jump, but you followed his directions to the letter and kept your stare trained evenly on him. His right eye began to glow softly– the vibrant red stark against the flickering torchlight that illuminated the room– and he smirked to himself as he languidly slid his shaft tauntingly between your folds. “I knew it,” he growled. “You do like this.” 

Patience was a forgotten thing as Sylus abruptly pressed into your cunt, your mouth falling open around a long, drawn out moan that shook the walls of the chamber. He was huge. It was unreal how thick he felt breaching you– the very air in your lungs stolen from you as your body instinctively tensed. Sylus bared his teeth as his eyes formed into thin slits, the heady flush decorating his skin deepening into the same shade as the gem centered on his chest as he stilled his hips. Something told you that it wasn’t for your benefit, though. 

He looked like he was on the verge of losing control completely. 

“Relax,” his head dipped between his shoulders to creep closer to yours, and a glimmer of something new in his eyes caught your attention. 

Affection.

You stood corrected… maybe he was waiting for you. 

“S-Sorry. You’re…” you swallowed thickly and planted your palms down on the blankets. “It’s really big…” 

“It’s only going to get bigger, so don’t hold your breath like that.” 

It was going to what? Your eyes went comically large, and his guideline to keep your gaze on his was momentarily forgotten as you looked down to where the two of you were connected. He wasn’t even all the way in yet! “You’re not serious, are you?” 

Annoyance flashed across his face, his arms trembling with restraint as he held himself back from moving any further. “I don’t joke. Now breathe.” 

You did as he asked, sucking in a shaky breath through your nose that rewarded you with a dizzying rush of his delectable pheromones. The aroma shot through you like a bolt of lightning, striking you deep in your loins and prompting your body to practically melt against the floor, and Sylus sighed above you as he felt your walls flutter around his cock. There had to be some sort of magic attributed to your reaction to the scent, because any discomfort you had felt previously was now nonexistent. 

“Good,” Sylus rumbled proudly. One of his clawed hands lifted away from the floor to tilt your chin up, directing your eyes back to his as he shifted his hips forward ever so slightly. Inch after inch of his member slid home within your cunt, and even though your brain wanted to remain hung up on how mind-boggling the stretch was, you forced yourself to keep breathing. Whatever innate magic his pheromones performed on your body was working perfectly.

It didn’t take long for you to feel the hot, sweat-slick skin of his pelvis go flush against the backs of your thighs. Fully sheathed within your walls, Sylus groaned roughly and planted the hand under your chin beside your head. It was no secret that your dragon was strong; his large, toned body was littered with scars and lined with bulging veins that spoke volumes of his physical prowess. But being wholly beneath him like this– staring up at his broad shoulders, his thick neck, and watching the muscles in his arms shift beneath his skin– it made you feel incredibly small. 

He was giant. 

The realization also amplified your arousal tenfold, for some strange reason. Or maybe it was just his smokey scent diluting your mind with such corrupt thoughts. Either way, you allowed yourself to enjoy the sight of his powerful body moving over you as he grabbed your waist and reared his hips back again. Then without a moment of hesitation, Sylus slammed his cock into you, and your vision flashed white as a cry tore from your lips. 

“F-Fuck, Sylus–” 

He didn’t relent. Low, guttural sounds emanated from deep in his diaphragm as he pounded into you again, and again, and again. Sylus set a brutal pace right from the get-go, thrusting deep inside of your cunt with animalistic ferocity that reminded you how desperate he actually was. Having succeeded in his efforts to relax you, he had completely surrendered to the throes of his rut– grunting and snarling and digging his nails into your flesh as he practically pulled your body against his with every plunge of his cock. 

It was an iniquitous display, but you relished in it all the same. 

You were completely beside yourself. Your hands fisted in the stained blankets beneath you to hold on for dear life, your mouth falling open to let out loud, stuttering moans. You wanted to rock your hips back into Sylus’ movements, but at some point during the split second his cock withdrew all the way to the tip again, he’d manhandled your bottom half off of the floor. With your shoulder blades digging into the ground and your ass elevated in his bruising grip, the most you could do was writhe fitfully against the makeshift nest. 

“Sylus, Sylus–” you gasped, your eyes rolling back when the head of his shaft struck something deep. Whatever it was, it had you seeing stars, and you desperately needed for him to do it again. “Sylus!” 

You were met with a feral growl from him, his back hunching over as his hips snapped forward and punched another grating cry from your hoarse throat. Your spine arched more and your legs tensed on either side of his hips, and you heard your dragon huff brutishly before he was lowering your rear back to the floor. With quick, pointed movements, Sylus’ nails dragged along your thigh as he slung one of your legs over his shoulder, then pressed the other one against the blankets to spread you open obscenely wide. Then he was fucking into you again– so hard and so fast that it seemed like it shouldn’t be possible. The slap of his hips against your flushed, marked ass was loud, but it was completely overpowered by how shrill your screams were. 

It was everything you’d wanted. Probably more so, because Sylus was ramming into you with insane stamina– moaning and growling and savagely marking your legs with his nails. You didn’t even have the brain power to beg for more. Every time he pulled back and left you nearly empty, he was fucking you open again not long after, the force of his thrusts jolting you along the floor and making a crumpled mess of the blankets beneath you. To further indulge your debauchery, you threw your hands over your head to try to find something– anything– to push against so you could rut back into Sylus’ cock, but all you managed to do was shove pillows and covers farther away. 

Sylus chuckled darkly above you– a sound that made your stomach flip over on itself with how suggestive it was. His eyes were narrowed with pleasure, a half-smirk pulling at the corners of his cheshire-like lips, and he had the audacity to fucking hum, “If you want more, little sorceress, you’re going to have to beg me for it.” 

God, did you ever. You wanted everything Sylus had to offer. In the time you had known your dragon, you had become an insatiable, greedy woman– shameless in your pursuit to fulfill your neverending desires. Seeing as you had already given him your body and your soul, there was no point in considering the cost. No price was too high to pay for pleasure like this. 

“P-Please,” you croaked dryly, your voice garbled and raspy from shouting so much. “I want more. Please, give me more, Sylus.” 

To your horror, Sylus slammed into you and stilled his hips completely, holding himself annoyingly still as he leaned forward so his face was a hairs-width away from yours. The angle practically bent you in half, but you weren’t given any time to dwell on it before he was murmuring, “You can do better than that. I know you can.”

The burning ache in your loins started to transform into a dull, unsatisfied throb, and you keened needily at the lack of stimulation. It was torture. You were certain you looked crestfallen, because Sylus grinned wickedly at whatever expression spread across your face and continued to hold his hips still. 

Fine. You would give the conniving bastard exactly what he wanted, but you would make him pay for making you wait. In an act of complete submission, you licked your lips and bared your throat to him, then used your lower muscles to tighten your innermost walls around his pulsing cock. 

Sylus’ reaction was instantaneous; his mouth fell open around a stuttering groan, a violent shudder rolling over him and prompting his nails to dig into your skin harder, and his half-lidded eyes seemed to bore deep into your very soul when he fixed them on you. “You…”

“Come on, Stayrus. My dragon, please– I want more. I want you to give me everything,” you pleaded brazenly, reaching down to wrap your fingers around his thick wrist where it was still planted against your pinned knee. You knew you would get what you wanted just from using his real name alone, but you still decided to add fuel to the fire. “It hurts, doesn’t it? So don’t wait anymore– just take what you want. I’m yours, Sylus, all yours.” 

Sylus’ crimson eyes went dark as his pupils dilated, only a thin ring of red showing before a ferocious sound came from deep in his chest. You were moderately surprised when he chose to close the gap between the two of you to kiss you again, although it was far from a gentle affair. Sharp canines clamped down on your bottom lip as Sylus bit and sucked at the soft bit of skin until you tasted iron, and then his own tongue darted out to lave over the tiny wound. 

“Mine,” he growled, his mouth descending lower to plant one lone bite against the same spot he had months earlier. “All mine.” 

The potency of his declaration was overshadowed by how fast he reared his hips back before slamming them forward again. More of Sylus’ weight pressed down on the leg he held against the floor, but only for a moment. Just as the pressure started to border on painful, he snatched the limb up and tucked it against his side, pinning it there with his arm so your lower half was completely restrained at his mercy. When he deigned to start pounding into you again, you were almost tempted to start praying. 

Sylus held you securely in his grip in an act of complete possession, fucking into you harder and faster as his long, firm thrusts transformed into deeper ones accompanied by grinding rutting. The new position drove the swollen head of his cock against that same spot from before– so fast and so intense that it almost knocked you out. Your throat felt raw as you threw your head back and cried out his name, the sheer ecstasy overtaking you comparable to nothing on this Earth. Your brain was melting as you burned hotter, the knot of pleasure in the pit of your stomach constricting more and more, and Sylus let loose a loud, rumbling groan when your cunt started to clamp down on his cock. 

Wait, no. It wasn’t that you were tightening around him… he was getting bigger. 

You could feel your walls stretching wider with every toe-curling thrust Sylus bestowed upon you, and your startled gasp was muted by the sordid sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin. “Sy– I– Sylus, w-wait–” 

“I can’t wait anymore,” he snarled viciously, his head falling back between his shoulders and sending strands of silvery hair across his forehead. “Fuck, you’re intoxicating.” 

There was no way you were imagining it; the base of his cock was swelling. Your body was left with no choice but to conform to the new shape entering it at a rapid, mind-numbing pace, and your next breath was cut short when he struck that sensitive, spongy spot deep inside of you again. “Sylu– ah!” 

“Breathe,” he commanded sharply, his lust-dark eyes boring down on you as his grip on your legs turned bruising. You could see the litany of scratches that covered your thighs and your hips now that he was holding you up, but the only thing you could wholly focus on was how full you were quickly becoming. If he had been big before, now he was massive. His eyes pinched shut, and it seemed like he had to force the rest of his sentence out through sheer force of will. “Just breathe– you can handle it.” 

You begged to differ. It felt insane– like his cock was swiftly taking up any remaining space inside your body and making it impossible for oxygen to reach your lungs. You still tried, though. Through your nose and your mouth, you inhaled as deep as you were able, the air tinged with Sylus’ familiar smokey-sweet scent. His pheromones. The aroma somehow helped your body to relax, and your abdominal muscles untensed enough that the stinging stretch of your cunt shifted into something more enjoyable. 

It was a dizzying sensation, and Sylus stared down at you unblinkingly as your expression went from alarmed to serene. “That’s it… good girl,” he groaned, punctuating the praise with a harsh buck of his hips. “You fit me so well, little sorceress. It’s like you were made for me.” 

If you could form words at all anymore, you would have wholeheartedly agreed. You were made for him. You were his, and he was yours– your dragon. A cacophony of sinful noises spilled from Sylus’ open mouth as he spread his knees to give himself better leverage, fucking into you so fiercely that you knew he was close. The swollen base of his cock steadily grew larger, the stretch so absurd that you blearily wondered if your body would be able to revert back to its natural state when all was said and done. The thought was fleeting and irrelevant, however, as you were reduced to a drooling, boneless wreck in response to his blunt head assaulting your sweet spot over and over and over. 

It was pure rapture– absolute euphoria– and the tight coil in your gut that had been on the verge of snapping for far too long finally came undone. 

You wailed as you came, though there was a fairly good chance that any words you tried to speak were unintelligible. It was like your entire being– body, mind, and soul– ascended to some higher plane as your climax crashed over you. Between Sylus’ scent flooding your head and his brutal pace growing faster, it felt like you came and then kept coming. Your legs shook in his arms, and Sylus swore viciously as he held you through all of it.

After a few strained thrusts, Sylus followed you right over the edge. He fully sheathed himself within your trembling walls and roared, his voice echoing throughout the cavernous room so loudly that you knew if anyone were upstairs inside the chapel, they would have heard him. Through the waves of pleasure that rolled over you, you became keenly aware of the base of his cock swelling within you, and the uneven thrusts that had followed his animalistic cry transformed into shallow grinding. 

He was locked in place. You could feel your body enveloping his girth– stretched so tight around him that the tiniest movements made you whimper and twitch beneath him. You could never have anticipated something like this happening when you’d walked in on him earlier, but you were having a difficult time regretting your impulsive decision to seek him out. 

Sylus pressed his hips against you harder, a telling warmth spreading deep within you, and suddenly there were no thoughts you could formulate. Your voice was barely more than a choked whisper when you stuttered, “G-God…” 

Sylus had to take a moment to gather his bearings, his eyes clamping shut firmly before cracking open to reveal his crimson irises in their entirety. Then with the utmost care, he slid your legs off of his shoulders and lowered them to the floor. It was almost embarrassing how aggressively they trembled, but he didn’t pay any mind to your shaking. His muscular arm was like a steel band as it coiled under your back to lift you from the blankets, and then he tipped himself sideways against the mountain of pillows before situating you comfortably on top of his chest. You were dead weight against him with your face hidden in the crook of his neck, your arms and legs completely boneless, but you were well aware of his cock still pulsing inside you. 

With how swollen it had become, you knew it wouldn’t be leaving you any time soon. 

Sylus’ heavy breathing eventually became softer and more controlled, at which point he lifted an arm to lightly trail his nails up and down your spine. It was soothing, and you shivered and sighed against him while your brain gradually started working again. 

“I told you it would get bigger,” Sylus remarked dryly, his deep timbre reverberating through your spent body.

Unable to stop yourself, you huffed out a short laugh. Your lips brushed against the skin of his throat as you muttered, “You could have been more specific. I didn’t realize you meant it would grow like that.” 

His fingers against your back halted for a split second, and silence filled the room for a few beats. Then softly, Sylus murmured, “Does it hurt?” 

The genuine concern in his voice prompted you to crack your eyes open. Beyond the broad expanse of his chest you found yourself lying on, you couldn’t see anything… namely his face. You wondered what sort of expression he was making as he asked about your wellbeing, but you were still so limp that you couldn’t be bothered to sit up to check for yourself. “No. It was a little uncomfortable at first, but breathing helped.” 

“Remember that the next time you think about not listening to me.” 

Now you were really glad you weren’t looking at him, because you were positive he wouldn’t appreciate the way you rolled your eyes. “Whatever…” you sighed softly and shifted your hips a little, trying to gauge how much movement you were allowed with Sylus’ cock still stuffing you to the brim. Flushing red at the feeling, you asked, “How long do we have to stay like this?” 

He hummed thoughtfully, the tips of his fingers trailing higher and higher up your spine until they reached your hair. He carded through the strands lightly and shrugged, “Don’t know.” 

“What do you mean you don’t know? Am I supposed to stay like this all night?” 

Sylus shrugged again, and you had to fight the urge to use what minimal strength you had left to smack him upside his horned head. “It varies from dragon to dragon. I’ve never knotted before– much less a mortal. You may as well get comfortable and try to sleep. You’ll need your energy for later.” 

Later? Your heart skipped a beat, and you finally lifted your head from its resting place to stare down at Sylus with wide, questioning eyes. “Why? What’s happening later?” 

The smirk he flashed you was nothing short of sacrilegious. His otherworldly eyes crinkled at their corners, and the wicked edge of his sharp incisors glinted against the flickering torchlight within the chamber. “Don’t tell me you thought this would end so soon? How naive of you.” 

Your pitiful squeak was enough of an answer; you had absolutely assumed he would be sated after going at it like a ravenous beast the one time. 

Sylus wrapped his arms around you to haul you back down against his chest, a rumbling sort of purr vibrating through you at the same time his trademark scent graced your nose again. You were hardly of a mind to protest– not that you wanted to, by any means– so you let him soothe your nerves and calm your mind in that unique, atypical way of his. Turning his head so his lips brushed against your ear, Sylus said, “Allow me to remind you that it was your idea to seek me out down here. It’s only the first day of my rut, and you’ve already gone and promised me your body.”

You swallowed thickly, your lashes fluttering against the warm skin you were pressed against. “I did…”

The throaty chuckle that sounded from him had heat pooling in your veins all over again. Sylus playfully nipped at your ear, his fingers wrapping around the nape of your neck as he whispered, “Rest well, little sorceress. It’s your turn to fulfill my desires, and I have no intention of letting you go until I’ve been completely satisfied.” 

[ctrlhope]

Lily pleaseeee share your favorite ot7 hybrid fics, i can’t find any 😭😭😭😭

OMGGGG BB YOUVE COME TO THE RIGHT PLACE OKIEEE I LOVE OT7 FICS REAL BAD

I’ve been reading hybrid fics p much since I started reading bts fanfics so… I can hook u up dastardly style 🤩 links under the cut <33

so before I start listing ima be so fr and say I like most of my hybrid fics verryy formulaic. i p much only ready hybrid bts x human reader and I really enjoy the whole plot of ‘y/n inherits bts and doesn’t know what to do!’ Or ‘y/n sees 7 hybrids at the shelter who need help and doesn’t know what to do!’. It feels sooo chicken noodle soup to me and it feels good for my soul <33 so I hope these fics feel like chicken noodle soup for u too and that you love them as much as I do <33

Series

Abundance ✰ @angelicyoongie

HYBRID CLASSIC FICCCC actually one of the first hybrid fics I think I ever read?? Def the first hybrid ot7 which is kinda crazy 😭 perfect chicken soup for the soul <33 probably the basis for the way I like hybrid fics I read formatted now!! you can really see how the authors writing grew with this fic. Was the fic that made me fall in love with hybrids, actually. I love all of her work so bad man [last updated: 10/4/24]

Trouvaille ✰ @spookyserenades

on my main recs list for a REASON!!! MODERN OT7 CLASSIC FIC!!! if you like the slowest of burns… you’ll enjoy this fic heavily. once again my favourite chicken-soup style so I can’t help but recommend it <33 I have… so many words id like to say about coyote jimin and hoseok… but I will remain silent for my own dignity 😔love all of her work terribly <33 [last updated: 8/17/24]

SeVen Uncaged ✰ @/missing_min_meowmeow (ao3) and @/polaritae (ao3)

two part series (first half completed, second half not) detailing the difficulties of adopting 7 hybrids reader was completely unprepared for 🙂‍↕️ YESSS MA’AM!!! LOVE LOVE LOVE!!!! I love how this fic goes into the details of how difficult mentally and physically this kind of change would be for the hybrids. I love the characterisation of each of the boys. I LOVE IT!!!! pls give this series a chance it is so definitely worth it even though it’s unfinished. A love it terribly, in its entirety. I LOVE FLAWED CHARACTERS!!! [last updated: 9/11/23]

Restitution ✰ @/cloudtea (ao3) @cloudteawrites (tumblr)

like I said I REALLY like fanfics where reader comes into a bunch of hybrids and has to deal with the consequences 😭 that being said, this has exactly everything I love in a hybrid fic, I absolutely love the concept, and the stories of where each of the guys came from before. THIS is exactly what I mean when I say a chicken soup fic— warm and comforting. Hopefully the author will come back to it someday <33 it’s so good even though it’s just the beginning [last updated: 4/19/21 — permanent hiatus]

Loving You Isn’t Hard to Learn ✰ @/arduouslove (ao3) @arduouslove (tumblr)

MANNN ITS SO WARM AND COMFORTING!!! like,, i know i keep saying chicken soup and IM SORRY BUT THATS WHAT THESE ARE FOR ME!!! I absolutely adore the concept of a motel for hybrids to go when they need help. And I really love the development we’ve seen so far between Hoseok and jimin. Another fic that was left at the beginning, but truly lovely. Another one I hope the author updates again someday <33 [last updated: 03/07/23]

Still Life ✰ @/king_myg (ao3)

OKAY NO YOU DONT UNDERSTAND THIS IS ACTUALLY LIKE,,, ONE OF MY FAVOURITE HYBRID FICS IVE READ!! The concept behind it is just so,, intriguing. It’s a yandere fic, so it has that edge to it but the way jungkook just *is* is so…. No you actually just have to read it to understand. I love this fic sooo bad actually. And Yoongi who pretends not to be a hybrid… and!! I really can’t express in words how exciting this was for me to read. I can’t wait to see how the rest of the guys relationships develop with the reader. [last updated: 5/22/24]

Home Calls the Heart ✰ @anonnie-in-wonderland

verryyy cute ot7 fic <33 the first chapter just feels very warm and soft. its adorable how tae wants to 'adopt' a human for his family even though he doesn't quite understand the repercussions of it [last updated: 12/17/22]

About love ✰ @mochiimac

One of my favourite tropes of reader coming into hybrids and them all hating each other right off the bat!! The writing style feels so safe too <33 [last updated: 04/24/3]

A Hundred Percent Human ✰ @/wrienne (ao3) @wrienne (tumblr)

Another CLASSIC ot7 hybrid fic!! I remember reading the first few chapters before I took a break from fanfics back in the day. Each of the characters (bts memebers) are so interesting and I love the personalities the author made around them as well as all the world building they did within the fic. The class system was so interesting to me and TAEHYUNG??? God, such a fun and dynamic story!! Highly recommend you check it out [last updated: 7/24/23]

Daddy’s Money Makes the World Go Round ✰ @/That_Author (ao3)

SOOO warm and comfortable. Guarddog Namjoon rlly just wants to keep the reader safe even though her parents are mean. Their relationship (as well as the rest of the guys that come into the home) is just SO sweet n gentle <3 [last updated: 10/28/22]

Oneshots

Secret Story of the Swan ✰ @purpleyoonn

one of the few yandere fics on the list and oh so sweet <33 the way they gently lure reader is so 🥺 and she gives in easily to their charms 🥺 v cute little oneshot <33 love her a lot

Beastly Gods ✰ @lemonjoonah

A CLASSICCCCCC one of the only (other) yandere fics on this list. mostly taehyung x reader w/ implied ot7 x reader ++ drabbles featuring ot7 x reader. I love this fic so much actually you don’t understand. It holds such a special place in my heart PLS READ IT!!

Tangled Hearts ✰ @writersrealmbts

Adorable look into readers life with 7 hybrids <33 truly love how this fic played out and the interactions the members had with eachother and the reader. ITS JUST REAL CUTE OKAY!!!! Makes me all soft nd gushy!! Very cute <33 i love it.

To Be Read / Currently Reading

Kindness ✰ @/angelaronin (ao3)

Stray Cat Strut ✰ @/typhloticharuspex (ao3)

Meritocracy ✰ @/saylilirose (ao3)

The Dog Days are Over ✰ @/mintedmango (ao3)

Redamancy ✰ @/dalgi_jungoo (ao3)

A Sweet Change ✰ @/kagsii (ao3)

Peculiar Pack ✰ @/dollremi (ao3)

If anyone has any reads I didn’t mention comment them or message me them!!

** I’ll update this as I read more / find more fics I’ve read in the past that I enjoyed!! By no means is it complete, these are just the fics I’ve read/reread recently nd enjoyed <33 Currently going through my tumblr likes to see if I’ve missed any <33 ✰ last updated: 01/19/25

Main Rec List | individual/poly hybrid rec list (coming soon)

[allimili]

First Encounter with Mr. Gloom !

..After a long yet fast run escaping from Ms. Arachnid.

extra

[secretagentspydetectiveninja]

posting this with absolutely no context

[syrupyuu]

— 𝐀 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐘.

ft. m! yandere! monster hunter × gn! shapeshifter! reader

word count: 16.7k || tags: semi-slowburn, murder, descriptions of gore, reader is briefly decapitated for plot progression. it's mostly wholesome until the ending. partially unedited by time of posting.

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊, unspoken ones. Learn fast, or leave your guts in the dirt. Watch the wind. Never name what you can't kill. And above all—never trust the partners they assign you.

Kazu had to learn that last one early.

He'd buried too many half-eaten corpses to believe in coincidence. Most died because they didn't listen—blindly thinking they were apex by default simply for being born human—only to die at the maws of the very monsters they sought to outsmart. He had survived this long because he knew better.

No noise was ever just wind. No body was ever just a body. No "lost traveller" ever truly wandered into black pine territory.

And monsters? Not all monsters were disfigured, snarled and bore fangs—no. Some wore faces that smiled too much, spoke sweetly, laughed and chattered with townsfolk like they'd never eaten raw meat by the handful.

That was why he worked alone, or as close to alone as the Guild allowed. He didn't like watching people die, and he liked trusting them even less. Babysitting rookies was the worst kind of assignment—ink-hands in the Guild always threw him one when they'd run out of uses for their wet-behind-the-ears recruits.

'Toughen 'em up,' they'd say. 'if they make it a week under you, we'll know if they're worth keeping.'

But they never make it a week.

So when he got the dispatch with the latest name—no face, just initials and a curt write-up, like the Guild didn't even believe their own pick—Kazu had already written them off. Some no-name wannabe with a polished sigil and a blade, probably. Here to ask too many questions and fall behind when things get bad.

Maybe he’d play along, entertain them for a day or two, let them believe they were doing the work while he cleaned up the mess behind them—then snap the illusion and scare them off before another rookie's name is crossed off the list.

That was the reality of it. He wasn’t brought in for company—he was called when things had already gone to hell. He was what they sent when there was no one left to evacuate, when the town militia was found strung up like scarecrows, when they didn’t care what did it—only that it stopped, and when failure wasn't an option because someone else had already failed.

He never asked for thanks or waited for gratitude, neither did he want it—not from the Guild or survivors, not from anyone still breathing after dawn.

All he wanted were clean kills, silence, and solitude. That was all for the best.

It was a good run, right up until they handed him you.

When he finally meets you—his assigned rookie—you were waiting for him barely past the treeline, sitting squat against the bark like you had nowhere else to be, eyes so dazed you looked like a lost child—as if you weren't in one of the oldest kill zones this side of the ridge.

For some reason, he got the feeling you'd been here, waiting for him all morning. He'd never admit it, but that thought alone sat bitter in his sternum.

And maybe that was the thing that irritated him—the fact that you didn't look like anything. You didn't carry yourself like a person trying to impress, someone arrogant enough to think they could keep up, or a coward scared out of their mind. Just... neutral. Boring. Calm. The Guild had sent him warm bodies before, all nerves and overeager chatter, but this? You didn't say anything as he approached, only watched him like you were waiting for him to speak first.

He didn't. Yet.

Instead, he took one long look at you and committed everything to detail. Your clothes were Guild-issued but too soiled and dirty to be new. Pack was light. Your boots clearly hadn't seen enough mud, and the weapon hung over your back was sharp but discolored—old, but it hadn't been used for any real work.

That was enough to convince him you weren't a normal rookie, at least not in the typical sense.

"...You're quiet." he says at last, low and flat.

The words leave him without much thought, more observation than accusation, but the moment they do—your head tilted slightly, pupils dilating in the process. Not wide-eyed with fear, or to size him up. You were just watching—curious and placid, but a little too still.

You blink once. Then—like you just realize you forgot to reply, "Oh. Should I not be?"

The sound of your voice startled him more than he'd like to admit—not because it was too loud or harsh, but because it was gentle. Wrong. Gentle never belonged in places like this. Not the kind of gentle that cut through hush like a ripple on a stagnant pond. It was a tone better suited for lullabies and nursery tales, never an occupation where recruits die on the daily, oftentimes without carcass to be spared.

For a split second, he wondered if you could be a mimic. He had seen mimics before, beautiful flesh stitched ones that could copy a human's laugh to the breath hitch. They always got the eyes wrong, though—too lifeless and wild, more reminiscent of animal than man—that was always the tell-tale sign, but those eyes of yours...

They gleamed, like maybe you were just happy to be here.

"I read the handbook," you add quickly, as if that might help. "It said not to speak to superiors unless necessary. That is necessary now, right? Since you asked?"

He stared at you.

You stared back, earnestly—but all that he could think was:

What the hell were you?

He didn’t draw his blade. Not yet. But the weight of it suddenly made itself known against his palm, as if it, too, felt the pressure shift. He didn’t trust instincts blindly, but he didn’t ignore them either—not when they hissed like that, low and certain. There was something off about you, something he couldn’t name outright.

You don't smell of danger the usual way—no sweat, no iron, no nothing. You smelled neutral, neutral in a way nothing in the wild ever was—and even if you were human(which he highly doubt), not even the most hygienic of people could ever bore a scent so... devoid.

And yet, you still smiled at him—softly, without guile. Not the grin of someone winning a game, nor the brittle stretch of a liar. None of that—only warmth, like the simple act of standing across from him in the forest had made your whole week.

"You're Kazu, aren't you? I'm assuming you are." you continue to speak, rocking slightly on your heels and ignorantly unaware of his inner turmoil. "You're way taller than I thought. I mean—not in a bad way! Just. Surprising.” there was no fear in your words, no performance, only open wonder.

He holds his breath for a moment, then lets it out in a thin stream.

"You're not what I expected, either." He says finally—his tone is even, but the statement carried an edge, and he knew it. He meant for it to land that way—a warning. A subtle flag in the earth between you.

You didn't say anything at first, only tilted your head with such an innocent precision it dragged his gut into a knot. "Is that bad?" you ask, "Should I change?"

The question should've been benign, maybe even self-deprecating. Yet the way you asked it—flatly, plainly, like you meant it—sent a subtle chill crawling up the back of his neck. His mind caught on the phrasing.

Before he could stop himself, he muttered, "...What?"

You perk up like a child caught misbehaving, "Sorry!" you say bashfully, waving your hands as though that could brush away the building tension you yourself weren't aware of, "I just thought—you know, maybe I said something wrong, so I could try again?"

You go still for a moment, brows pinching into a tight, thoughtful crease. The change was quick and exaggerated, like watching an amateur actor flick through expressions in a scripted play.

"...If you didn't like my first sentence, I can say it a different way—or in a different tone—or I could even say something else entirely. People usually like jokes first, or compliments—or for hunters—questions about their gear, don't they? Is there a… protocol for this?”

You looked so genuinely curious, face drawn into a serious, almost scholarly concentration, as though the social dynamic of monster hunters was a puzzle to pick apart instead of a living environment. Kazu didn't move. Not forward, nor backward. All he knew to do was watch.

The problem wasn't what you said.

It was how you said it.

This wasn't the oddball rookie trying to prove themselves with overcompensation, or the wide-eyed cadet chattering to fill the space fear usually occupied. It wasn’t that he sensed danger. If anything, that would’ve been easier. This—you—were something else entirely, something fundamentally flawed. You weren't wrong in the traditional sense. You smiled sweetly, your face expressive, but you were... misaligned, like a doll with it's joints screwed backwards. A creature wearing a person's corpse.

And so, without missing a beat, you stepped a little closer. Not enough to be threatening or to trigger a response, but just enough to maybe suggest you didn't quite understand the concept of boundaries.

Then—quietly, like you were admitting to a secret: "I memorized your file." you say, softer now. "..well, what little I could of it. It seems like the Guild doesn't like to share, but they always forget to wipe the backlogs in the archive building." you smile—not conspiratorial, not smug—just pleased with yourself, as if you didn't just admitted to an espionage. "I wanted to be prepared. You've been out here so long, so I thought maybe if I studied enough, you wouldn't think I was useless. Or..." your voice trails off, "..disposable."

He stared at you then, longer than before. Not because he was impressed or because he was moved—but because that word, "disposable", had fallen off your tongue too naturally, with what felt like too much practiced familiarity. It had the same weightless uncertainty, as when a child parrots a word they've heard adults say—only because no one told them not to.

It wasn't pity or concern he felt. No, what stirred in his chest was far from that. Sharper. It was instinct, again—the kind that had kept him alive this long. Something about the way you stood there, proud of the stolen information, easy to be judged, made every hair on his neck want to rise, just barely. You shouldn’t know how to get into Guild archives. You shouldn’t speak of things like that so casually. You shouldn’t be smiling at him like this was a first date of all things.

And yet, you are, eyes wide and waiting, posture open like you didn't fear what he might say. Like you were expecting approval, even.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is dull. Dry. More baffled than accusatory.

"...You're really serious, huh."

It wasn’t a question so much as a quiet, stunned declaration from his side.

For the first time since stepping into the clearing, something inside him shifted. He thought he'd seen it all before: puffed-up swaggers of overconfidence, quiet trembles of fear, the forced calm of rookies too green to realize their bravado was transparent—but you? You weren't faking it. You weren't putting on a show. There was no angle nor bluff to call. You didn't even try winning over. You were sincere, maybe even thrilled to be here.

About him.

About the job.

About being out here—in this forest—like it's some storybook adventure instead of the death sentence it really is.

"Is that a bad thing?" you ask, after a heartbeat of silence.

Kazu doesn't answer immediately. The wind rustles the trees in long, slow breaths above you both, carrying with it the kind of hush that usually warned of something watching. Only- something about you made the familiar forest suddenly feel foreign.

He'd met monsters in his time, had burned things that mimicked wailing infants, hacked apart forms that flickered between man and beast mid-scream. He knew what danger looked like—how it moved, how it breathed and spoke—but you unsettled him in a way nothing else ever had. Not because of how you looked, but rather, because of how carefully you did. Every motion, every word, every tilt of your head came with a precision that felt practiced. It wasn't wrong, exactly—just.. off-mark enough to make him feel like the one under scrutiny, and not the other way around.

You stood there, as you continue to wait for his answer like it actually mattered—your posture relaxed, hands open at your sides, chin tilted up slightly like the breeze was something to savor and not a prelude to something worse. You were smiling again, that strange gentle thing that wasn't quite strained or forced. It sat on your face like it belonged there—that's what unsettles him most.

"No," he says finally, after too long a pause. "it's not bad. It's just... rare."

You seemed to consider that, mouth parting, slightly, brows lifting like you were trying to make sense of something that didn't compute, instead of just listening. "But rare is good, right?" you ask, hopeful.

He watches you, the edges of his mouth threatening something that might've been a frown, or a grimace. In truth, he doesn't know why he's still standing here—still talking and listening to you. Usually by now, he'd cut the conversation short, laid out the bare essentials and set the pace without looking back.

Not to abandon—never that—but to keep things efficient, clean. Detached. The less rookies relied on him, the longer they might last.

But you aren't a normal rookie—it should be a question if you're human at all—and you aren't asking for help, you're just... waiting, watching, and for reasons he couldn't explain, Kazu stayed.

He should’ve left you already.

Should’ve walked away, put distance between you before anything could escalate—but instead, he asks—against his better judgment, before tension sank its claws in deep: “Why are you here?”

The question catches you mid-thought—not enough to rattle you, but enough to give you pause. Then, as if it had been waiting on your tongue all along, you say softly, ‘Because I wanted to be.’

All that did was make his jaw tighten. He almost laughed—wanted to, maybe. Like it was ever that simple. Like this job hadn’t taken better hunters for less.

"No one wants to be here," he says flatly, a little harsher than intended.

You only look at him, unblinking. "That's not true. You're here."

"That's different."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to be." he snaps, turning his back to you. "I'm needed here."

The woods swallowed his words as soon as they left him. He started walking soon after. The underbrush gave away beneath his boots with practiced quiet, and he half-hoped you wouldn't follow,

But you did.

Your footsteps were too light—too agile and exact. No rookie should move like that, unless they'd trained far longer than their records implied—or weren't a rookie at all. When he glanced back, you were still there, eyes wide, feet following in the sunken patches left by his, copying his gait like a duckling after its mother.

'Memorized his file'.

That thought stuck to the inside of his skull like rot. There were only three people still breathing who even had access to those backlogs—and none of them were rookies.

"I know I'm not what you expected," you say after a moment, your voice just behind his shoulder, "but I can learn, fast. I'm not strong or experienced yet, but I'm good at listening. I won't get in your way."

Kazu doesn't answer.

The wind picks up again, rattling through black pines in an uneven rhythm. A murder of crows shriek overhead and vanish eastward. He stops and waits, if only to observe. No movements between the trunks, no scent on the breeze—it's still too quiet, though.

And still you stood there, unbothered, still watching him with a face lacking of any fear or caution.

"I don't care about glory," you add, almost absentmindedly. "or the promotions, or the Guild. Not really. I just want to be there—live life to its fullest. What better way for that than this?"

He turns then, just slightly—enough to look at you again.

Your expression didn’t change. If anything, your eyes softened like it was a confession, not a fact. Yet there was no weight to the words, no illusion nor idealization, only... an honest admission, plain and bare.

"Live?" he repeats, in blatant disbelief.

"Yeah," you confirm, the ring of your voice barely above the rustle of leaves. "live."

You don't elaborate. You don't have to. He's a hunter—he's seen enough to know when people say things they don't mean. The way your gaze held his now—steady and sure—like the pain of it was familiar but not resented, he knew that look. Had seen it in survivors clinging to half-scorched homes, orphans clutching talismans over their late parents' cooling bodies. In inns, he'd seen it in mirrors, sometimes, in the silence that settled after grueling missions. That's the look of something that understood living hurt more than dying, yet chose it anyway.

But something about it felt wrong. Not bad, or fake, not exactly—but out of place—reminiscent of when sunlight shone through carbon smoke. There was something about your posture, something about your manner of speaking that screamed not ignorance, but absence; absence of the after-math that follows when world teaches you what it cost to survive, or worse (at least in his opinion)—like it had, but you liked the lesson.

He should've shut you down right then and there—told you living had nothing to do with this job—that survival wasn't the same thing as being alive—only, he didn't. Again, just for a breath, his hand hovered near the hilt—but for some reason, he hesitated, and whatever instinct had flared… dulled. He let it go.

The way you said it—live—like it was the greatest ambition a creature could have. Not glory, or peace, just the raw, senseless choice to keep waking up, keep walking forward, even if the road clawed at your feet.

"You picked the wrong job." he mutters, voice low—not as a warning, but a fact.

You smile anyway—a faint and soft twitch at the corner of your mouth. You agreed, and you knew.

"I know."

It has been a grand seventy-two days since Kazu first met you, and he still can't sleep right.

It's not rare for him to stay up late, near campfire while the moon rises high, sword in reach as he keeps one eye on the forest, and the other on you—sleeping far too soundly for a place like this.

He watches you often, after the fire has burned low and the woods have settled back into their nightly hum—not out of affection, or curiosity, no. He watches you the way he follows blood trails winding from villages into the foliage, the way a herding dog fixes its gaze on a wolf draped in sheepskin, waiting for the moment the disguise falls away.

Except, that moment never comes.

Every night, you lie down without a sound. There's a distinct kind of stillness to the way you sleep—no tossing, no muttering, no restless twitch beneath the weight of slumber. You always lie there, still, breath-slow and arms tucked neatly like a corpse awaiting burial—more statue-like than human, he thinks.

You don’t sleep like normal people do, and yet, for all his suspicion and certainties—he hasn’t done anything about it.

He's had plenty of time, truly. The hunts you've been assigned to aren't easy ones by any means—terrain scorched beyond recognition, pits lined with organic shredded remains, and guideposts mangled into symbols no human hands wwould've ever carved. These past months, you've been witness to what most don't live to describe: a worm that bawled with human lungs, thumb-sized crawlers that picked through corpses for ivory, a small, child-like thing that bled with tar when struck. Despite it all, you never flinched or faltered, and Kazu... he saw everything.

How you don't breathe hard after a chase, don't get hungry at the right time. Some missions, you take wounds that should lay a hunter low, only to shake it off with nothing but a clean, thin wrap around the injured area.

And once—once, you stood with blood trickling from the side of your neck, soaked in someone else's intestines, but for all your wit—the first thing you thought to do was to look at him and ask, 'Did I do good?' like a damn dog waiting for a treat.

He should've run you through then and there—split you from collar to hip and watch to see what came out—but instead, he only nodded gruffly, and told you to clean up. He hated that he did. Why?

Because he knows what you are. He doesn't know your species. No page in the Guild bestiary matches you exactly—too neat, too clean, too weak—but he knows a monster when he sees one. You're one to respond too quickly, speak too evenly, move too smoothly. Real people stutter. Real people get nervous—and yet, here you are, two steps behind him on every trail, asking for instructions, jotting down field notes like a bootlicking tagalong.

And for seventy-two days, he allowed it.

Worse—he's grown used to it.

Somewhere along the line, he started portioning extra rations without thinking, grumbling reminders when you forgot to clean your blade or adjust your grip. He’s begun watching you not out of threat assessment, but out of habit. He knows the tilt of your head when you’re puzzled, the way your eyes squint and wrinkled when you lie. He's seen you laugh and he's seen you panic, usually whenever you trip over your own words and forget what to say next.

And damn him, but it's start to... affect him.

He's begun warning you about the environment before each job, muttering "Stay close." when the forest starts to get too quiet. He yells less when you mess up, and instead just sighs and mutters under his breath like a parent tired of repeating themselves. He watches you bandage wounds wrong and reaches over without a word, fixing it himself, grumbling “Don’t pull it so tight, you’ll lose circulation.”

You shouldn't be under his skin, but here you are—nestled in his routine, engrained in the way he moves now—his pace slower, stride shorter, all so you can match. Every time you forget a task or miss a cue, he finds himself not scolding, but explaining in that gruff, unchanging tone that tries so hard to pass as cold but is far too careful to be cruel.

You've grown on him how moss grows on stone, and just like that—slowly, without his permission—he's started making room for you in the places no one else fit.

That night, you burn the rations, said you wanted to help—so you took the skillet from his hand and waved him off like it was the simplest task in the world. In blatant horror, he watched as you fumble the firewood, watches the flame lick too high, and watches blackened strips of jerky curl into charcoal at the edge of the pan.

You look at him, sheepish. "...Oops."

His eye twitches.

“You absolute idiot.” The words come out with all the dry finality of a death sentence, but there's no real bite to them. Kazu snatches the pan out of your hand and slams it back onto the fire before the next strip of meat becomes another casualty.

You eye the scorched meat with a grimace, nudging a curled blackened strip with the edge of a stick like maybe, maybe, if you prod it enough, it'll look more edible.

"Okay, so, maybe it's a little... crisp." you offer, rubbing the back of your neck in an abashed apology. "-but crispy's a texture, right? Some people like smoky flavors—very smoky—so-"

He stops, and turns to you.

Very, very slowly.

“I like my food not announcing our position to every goddamn thing in a two-mile radius,” he growls, punctuating the sentence by stabbing a forked stick into the blackened heap. “If something with teeth shows up tonight, you’re on bait duty.”

You hold his gaze, too used to the barbs by now to flinch, just standing there with your hands still curled mid-apology, your head slightly lowered in mock defeat—but your eyes light up. You weren't sorry—not really. And worse? Kazu could tell.

“Sorry,” you offer, belatedly. “I'll do better next time."

He scoffs under his breath and turned back to the meat. It's salvageable. Barely.

You sit back across the fire, cross-legged with your chin in your hands, watching him now in the constant quietly devoted way you always did—as though everything he did mattered, as though even his smallest of gestures carried meaning, as though he was your sole anchor in an ever-changing world that kept shifting beneath your feet. You didn't even try to help again. You just kept watching, happy and content, as if this little moment—burnt food and all—was another page you'd commit to memory.

That moment, it hit Kazu in an instant.

He turns his back on you before another word could be said—ears red.

He hates this. Hates that you're worming your way into his habits. Hates that he's memorizing your tells. Hates that he's begun listening for your footsteps when you wander too far out of sight— but more than that, more than anything, he hates that he doesn't hate it.

He doesn't look at you when he sets the salvaged strips of meat on a flat rock to cool, nor when he pushes the least-burnt portion toward your side of the fire and offers a single word, firm: “Eat.” Not an offer—an order, one you obey without question, because of course you do—you always do. That’s half the problem.

You take the food with a small nod and a faint smile, like he’s handed you something like a rare delicacy—never mind that it smells faintly of burnt bark and overcooked sinew. You always look at him like that—like he’s something to be thankful for, something safe and good—that's the one thing that gets his breath stuck in his throat, over and over, because you're not supposed to think that. You’re not supposed to look at him that way, not with that quiet reverence like he’s someone worth being near. It’s not fair.

He's not good.

He's a killer, no different in theory from the very monsters he slays on the daily.

He's murdered people who died shaking, choking on their own tongues in the name of 'mercy', ended the lives of possessed children too far gone to save. He's buried comrades with trembling hands and dug up others just to bring their bones home—because not all monsters swallow whole. The Guild says “no remains recovered”—but most of the time, that just means Kazu was there first, always the quiet end to someone else's failures, cleaning up the mess no other hunter wanted to claim.

And you—whatever you are, whatever you pretend to be—you look at him like none of that matters. You still sit there with singed fingers and soot on your cheek, anyway—chewing through burnt meat with your usual quiet focus, as if eating next to him is something sacred—like he isn’t already building contingency plans in his head for the day he finally has to gut you,

because he knows it's coming.

There's no perfect version of this story where you're just some weird, overeager rookie with too-clean boots and too-perfect manners. The truth is: you aren't normal, no matter how soft your voice is, no matter how flawlessly you imitate the motion of humanity. The seams are too straight, and timings too perfect. Kazu’s spent most of his life watching monsters pretend to be people—watching people become monsters—and the line’s thinner than most would care to admit.

But you? you walk said line like a tightrope, barefoot yet unbothered. It's really only a matter of time before you slip.

Kazu thinks he’ll be ready for that moment—that when it happens, he won’t hesitate—won’t freeze the way he always feared he might if it came to it. He tells himself he’s just playing along, watching from up close to get a better angle. He tells himself that the extra rations, the shared fires, and the too-soft voice he uses with you sometimes—it’s all a tactic, part of the game. He’s humoring you. He’s baiting you.

Except—he isn’t. Not really. Not if he's being honest to himself.

He's letting you get close—has let you get close, for far too long. Somewhere between all the bloodshed and burned dinners, all the eerily silent and strangely peaceful walks through monster-thick woods, you've become his—but not in the romantic sense. He doesn't want to think so. You're not his partner nor his friend.

You're his problem. His burden.

And he can't stop looking for you in the quiet. Can’t stop listening for your steps behind him. Can’t stop the twitch of his fingers toward his sword whenever you stray out of sight. Not because he's cautious you'll strike him, but because he fears something else will.

That's worse, somehow, because it means it's already too late for him.

The thing is: he's killed monsters—beautiful ones—beings that wore the face of lovers, of children, of family. He's done the hard thing—chosen survival over sentiment. It's what he does. It's what he's good at—and yet, when he looks at you, he can't imagine pulling the blade fast enough. He imagines hesitation, a breath too long, a misstep—and he imagines you smiling through it all, asking him how well you did on your last mission together.

He should kill you. He knows that.

But you’re still here, still warm at his side, still tracing patterns into the dirt with your finger while he watches the shadows.

Maybe that's why every night he doesn’t do it—for every night he lets you sit too close, sleep too near—he trades another piece of instinct for something quieter. Heavier.

The ache of almost trust. The dull, sour fear of knowing he's slipping.

The moment lingers, quiet and heavy, only the pop and crackle of the fire filling the silence he doesn’t know how to break. Kazu stares into the embers like they might answer something for him—like the flicker of flame might burn away thoughts clawing too close to the bone. His arms are crossed, legs stretched out but rigid, still plagued by tension he refuses to name.

Then—quietly:

"Why haven't you eaten yet?"

The question breaks the silence gently. There’s no accusation in it, no challenge—just a simple, observant softness that lands somewhere deep. Kazu doesn’t flinch then, but something in him stalls, just a little.

His eyes shift, flickering to you, then away again. He hadn’t realized you were still watching him like that—chin still propped up in your hand, your legs folded close, voice quiet and steady—not teasing, not overly concerned. Just… noticing.

He doesn’t answer right away. There’s no snap, no bark—just a long, slow exhale through his nose like he’s trying to breathe out the weight pressing behind his ribs. Kazu shifts slightly, glancing at the scorched meat still cooling near the fire. His stomach doesn’t grumble. He’s long past the point where it does.

“I’m not hungry,” he murmurs eventually, his voice terse and under-breathed, almost an afterthought.

Regardless, you keep looking at him, not pushing, not prying—just, there. Present in that quiet, uncanny way of yours. “You’ve been up since before the sun, but I don't see you eat enough.” you say, and it’s not meant as a scold—just the simple truth, and spoken like so. You've been paying attention to things he doesn't even bother noticing anymore.

That only makes something in his chest stir—nothing sharp, just tired, and old—like dust being kicked up from a corner of an old antique.

He huffs softly and reaches out, slow and quiet, picking at one of the less-burnt pieces with his fingers. The movement is unhurried and mechanical, like he’s going through the motions just to take his mind off static in his head. He doesn’t look at you when he chews—doesn’t grimace either. It tastes like smoke, like ash, and if he were to be poetic; like the draining feeling of countless days blending into each other—but it's food, and he's still breathing. That alone should be enough.

"I'll eat." he says after a beat, quiet and evenly. "You don't have to worry."

You blink at him, and although your expression doesn’t change much, something in your eyes softens.

"Okay." you smile, nod, and settle back into your spot by the fire. There's no commentary nor satisfaction to follow—just the ever-present serene expression you always wear beside him.

You're not harmless and he knows that, but you're his monster now, and that—somehow—that’s worse than anything else. because not like this does he know what to do with something that belongs to him. He knows how to kill, how to end, to survive, but this—this slow unravelling of trust—this presence beside him that’s too steady, too real, too there—it unsettles him in a way nothing else ever has.

It’s not a trick, neither is it a treat. It’s just you, sitting in the firelight, asking him to eat, looking at him like he genuinely matters. He doesn't dare meet your eyes on nights like these.

Perhaps that's the worst part of it all—that he's beginning to believe you.

Kazu swallows, jaw tightening. Silence settles again, but not quite heavy and cold like before, just present, as if the forest itself is holding its breath for reasons he'll maybe never know.

But he's doomed, and he knows at least that.

He's always been doomed. This is just a new shape of it.

Nearly an hour has passed since the Guild representative signed off your latest report, wax seal pressed crooked against the parchment. Since then, you still haven't let go of it. The paper's folded clean and careful, tucked between your palm like a precious keepsake rather than the bureaucratic obligation it really is. Kazu hasn't asked to see it—but then again, he never does. The confirmation of another slain woodland creature had barely left your lips before he was already shouldering his pack, muttering something about supplies and the road ahead.

But then—just as the trees thinned and a few dozen rooftops began to peek through the dusk, you heard it.

Music.

Soft at first, just beneath the blacksmith's clangor and the chatter of open-air market, so faint it could've easily been mistaken for wind blowing through chimes—but no, the melody held shape. You could hardly make out the sounds of flute and drum blending into each other, and the faint rhythmic call of strings coaxed to laughter. It was coming from town square—weaving its way through footfalls and merchant haggling, calling out to you before you even realized you’d turned your head to follow.

..a festival, or so you assume.

Noisy, bright, colorful lanterns crowding the streets where kids ran wild along stalls packed to the brim with sweets you've never seen before. For a moment, you're stunned, just standing there to watch.

Kazu doesn't stop walking until your footsteps don't follow.

When he turns, he's already a few paces ahead on the trail, boots scuffed against the worn earth and stray pine needles. You're not looking at him. Your gaze is fixed beyond the forest's mouth, where the muddy path slopes down towards the town below. Lanterns flicker and dance in the air like firefly between houses, while the faint echo of people's laughter rises with the breeze. The town is alive, breathtakingly so: music that drifts through the air in uneven bursts, the warm scent of roasted grain and smoke curling up from obscured stalls.

You stand there quietly, as if caught in a trance.

"There's a... celebration." you breathe.

His exhale is already heavy.

"We're not staying."

But you're already turning toward it, drawn to the distant flicker of lanterns like moth to a flame. Your face contorts to something like a mix of curiosity and excitement.

You turn back to him, "Just for a while?" you plea.

"No." he cuts in, dry and decisive.

"Not even just to look?"

The silence you receive isn't disapproval, but it doesn't feel like agreement either. Recently, you've begun to recognize the way he hesitates—how he tends to let silence answer for him, as though he's giving you space to reconsider on your own—but he doesn't ever say no.

So you decide to press, softer this time: "We don't have to go in if you don't want to, just.. closer, if only for some time."

His eyes narrow, words that you don't catch tumbling out in a barely audible mutter meant more for himself than you, before his voice finally sharpens with resolve.

"Ten minutes," he scowls, not quite looking at you anymore. "no more."

Your eyes widen—not with triumph or glee, but a quiet, grateful kind of wonder. You hadn't expected him to give you anything at all. "Ten minutes," you echo, the words barely louder than a whisper. You nod firmly, like memorizing the moment. "Okay," you smile, "ten minutes."

Kazu grunts, the sound lacking its usual weight. He adjusts his pack, shrugs his shoulders as if the leather strap suddenly itched, and begins walking again—not looking back to see if you're following.

Of course you are.

You catch up to him in seconds.

The two of you walk side by side, though not quite together. There’s a few inches of space between your shoulders that neither of you tries to close, but it’s not uncomfortable—only existing. As the forest thins behind you, giving way to the stir of town life, Kazu remains quiet. The scent of fried oil and sweet batter hangs heavy, slowly drowning out the damp, piney breath of the forest behind your backs.

The town sprawls before you both, vibrant garlands hung in uneven lines between posts and wooden ledges, while lanterns flutter in the wind like little captured suns, flickering warm hues of gold and red. Music spills like water from every corner—laughter, rhythm, the clap of drums over the murmur of voices calling out greetings and bartering with stall-keepers.

It's... a lot. Noise, movement, light—too much to co-exist.

Kazu keeps you in his periphery as the crowd thickens. Part of it's instinct—he always watches, always prepares for the worst—but another part of him, the part he doesn't like naming, is watching for your sake; for the twitch of your fingers, the quickening of breath, the signs of overstimulation in a place far too overwhelming for your liking. He knows what this kind of environment does to people like you, or—he thinks he should.

But you don't stiffen. You don't even show a flicker of discomfort.

No, your eyes go wide—yes, but not in alarm. It's wonder. Your steps start to slow, and you're stopping to enjoy the moment instead of shrinking away. Your gaze skims over paper lanterns bobbing in the breeze, catches briefly on a vendor tossing sugar over skewered fruit, lingers longer on a pair of children darting between legs with streamers in tow. You stand at the edge of it all, breathing slow, your face unreadable—until it isn't.

There's an awe to your expression that hadn't been there moments ago.

Kazu's brows twitch subconsciously, and he... falters.

He'd been half-ready to drag you out himself if your hands started to shake, or if your voice suddenly dropped below a whisper—but instead, you're here, breathing even. Not just holding steady, but enjoying it.

Your reaction isn't dramatic. You're not rushing to join the crowd and tumbling over yourself in excitement, but there's a subtle ease in your movements. You're letting down your guard without even realizing. He catches it, and for a second—he too, forgot what he was watching for.

Once, you glance back at him, not sheepishly or questioningly, it felt more to him like you were just checking for his presence—to see if he's still with you.

He is. Why wouldn't he be?

And like countless times before, he doesn't speak. Neither does he reach for you. He keeps close though, pace purposely matching yours like that's always been how it's meant to be.

This.. isn't what he expected when he chose to keep you around, but it doesn't matter. Not like he'll ever stop watching you, anyway.

"..It's loud." you comment, but it's not a complaint—more-so a factual observation, like how the sky is blue or blood is red. There's a quiet kind of awe in your voice, almost innocent—the type of fascination you'd expect from a child's first time at a candy store.

"I think I like it."

Kazu doesn't respond as he moves to stand just slightly ahead of you, blocking the crowd's spills from touching you too directly. He doesn't mean to hover, but it's somewhat become second-nature by now. Old instincts, conditioned by numerous prior ambushes.

Places like these breed carelessness, only fools would assume a crowd means safety. You're not even fully in the square, just somewhere past the outskirts, standing where trees thin into cobblestone—but the air's already too different. Charged, restless joy of people who aren't watching for danger—ironically, it only makes him more cautious.

You're still holding the report in one hand, but it's become an after-thought. You've forgotten it was ever there in the first place.

“Kazu,” you say, after a moment. “does it ever feel like… like you’re only watching people live? I think I get it—the purpose, the patterns—but joining in… I don’t think I’d know how.”

He doesn't answer right away. Your words feel too honest for his usual brand of snide dismissal, too vulnerable for him to ignore; honesty that didn't expect anything in turn.

He huffs eventually, low. "Then don't."

You glance over, and he doesn't meet your gaze.

"Just look. That's enough, isn't it?"

"Yeah," you murmur, surprised by the warmth curling in your chest. "It is."

And somehow, it really is. You stand together in the narrow space between torchlight and shadow, far enough away that no one notices either of you, close enough that you can hear the music rise and fall like waves against stone. He says nothing else, and you don’t offer anything in return. Something about the stillness between you feels fragile, like a thread pulled taut but not yet frayed. You don’t move, neither does he. The world carries on around you and you let it.

Maybe that’s what makes his throat tighten when he glances sideways and sees the firelight catch in your eyes, even here, far from any hearth. For all that you aren't, there's a flicker in your gaze that makes him forget it—makes him wish, dangerously, that you were.

So when a child bolts from the crowd—skewer in hand, feet pounding past without aim—

Kazu doesn't think. His arm shoots out on instinct, hand closing over your shoulder, pulling you in close—too close. As if he could keep that flicker. As if holding you could make the wish real.

Startled, you look at him in surprise.

"Watch where you're standing." he grunts. It comes off more gritty than it needs to—short, clipped, like he's scolding you, though it doesn't land the way he expects. In the end, that's not really what he meant to say.

You blink. Then, without flinching or shifting away, you nod. "Sorry."

You stand there for a breath—no more—just long enough to feel the weight of Kazu’s hand on your shoulder before it slips away, fingers hesitating for a fraction too long before they release. The pressure leaves behind a ghost of warmth, as if some part of him hadn’t meant to let go so quickly, or had only just realized he’d grabbed you at all.

The child’s long gone, vanished into the crowd like a leaf carried by wind, and Kazu doesn't speak again, adjusting the strap of his pack with a sharp tug, like the motion might ground him—something solid and familiar to occupy hands that had moved before he’d thought.

Your gaze flicks back to the festival.

"They're wearing masks." you observe aloud, head tilted just slightly. Sure enough, dancers in painted crane-faces twirl between booths, steps timed with the playful trill of flutes. Their garments are mismatched but vivid—fluttering robes, strings of beads, paper charms trailing from sleeves like falling petals.

He shifts beside you, clears his throat. “...We should go.”

You glance up quickly. “Already?”

His eyes narrow again—not in anger, just a tic. He doesn’t like repeating himself, but when he exhales, it’s softer than before.

“We still have six minutes,” Kazu mutters.

You gape, dumbfounded. "You're counting."

He shrugs, just enough for the strap of his pack to shift. "Someone has to. I said ten, didn't I?"

You breathe out a quiet laugh and take a few steps forward. This time, he doesn’t follow right away, only watches as you approach the edge of the crowd, where a vendor offers candied plums on polished sticks. The smell makes your stomach twitch with unfamiliar interest.

You don't notice when he appears at your side again. He doesn't look at the plums, neither does he comment on the way you squint on the pricing and freeze when you realize you have no money.

He just pulls a coin from his own pouch, tosses it the vendor's way, and walks away.

You accept the sticks automatically, syrup already tacky on your fingers. "Kazu!" you call, hurrying after him before the moment slips away. You're unsure whether to thank him or question what just passed.

...maybe a little bit of both.

He briefly lifts one hand in the air behind him, but you catch the slight stiffness in his movement and the flush creeping up the side of his neck. It's unclear to you if the gesture is meant as a wave or dismissal, and you don't think he knows either.

"...Are you blushing?" you ask, not teasing—just saying it like you're trying to confirm something you didn’t expect to see. Your words hang there, honest and unembellished, and for a moment, the only answer you get is the stiff set of his shoulders as he keeps walking. His pace doesn’t change, but you notice the way his hand drops a little faster than it should, like he's trying to cut off the motion before it gives too much away.

You glance down at the candied plums in your hand, then back at him, lips parting before the words come without much thought. “You didn’t have to buy them, you know.” Again, it’s not an accusation. Not gratitude either—just fact, like you’re still sorting out what to make of it yourself.

“You wanted it,” he replies, brusque as ever, though his tone lacks bite. His eyes flick sideways, almost too fast to catch, as if he’s trying to gauge whether you actually like it, or whether this, somehow, was the wrong call. But you’re already licking a bit of syrup from the corner of your mouth, head tilting in mild surprise.

 “It tastes like plums,” you manage between chews, the stick still at your lips, “but… better?”

 The second plum stick is still in your hand, warm and sticky. without thinking, you extend it towards him. "Want one?" you hum.

But Kazu only casts it a dubious glance, then snorts. "What am I supposed to do with that?"

"You paid for it."

"I paid for you."

Your head tilts, eyes flicking to him with a sudden kind of confusion.

"..What?"

He scowls. "I meant the plums."

You don’t push—just let the smallest smile curl onto your lips, amused in a way that doesn’t need teasing. Silently, you extend the stick again, patient and insistent. He hesitates, scowls deeper, then mutters something under his breath in what you now consider typical Kazu fashion—before ducking forward slightly and taking a bite straight of the skewer. His mouth pull into a sharp line the moment he chews.

"Tastes like medicine," he mutters with a grimace.

"..really?"

You peer at him, skeptical. “I don’t think it tastes like medicine.”

He gives you a look, flicking a crumb from his glove. “Then you’ve clearly never had medicine.” he jests—you think, and for a split moment, there's the faintest upwards curl on his lips.

You feel the urge to laugh, but manage to hold it in.

"Want the rest of mine?" you gesture, still holding out the second stick.

He rolls his eyes, "No." but he doesn't tell you to stop offering, either—so you just keep walking beside him, still holding the extra skewer in your hand like maybe he’ll change his mind.

The festival continues to bloom around you, loud and alive, music rising from every direction. Drums beat low in the chest, a steady pulse beneath the swirl of flutes and what you think are performative strings that leap with gusts of wind. The same group of dancers from before twirl past with ribboned sleeves and bells wrapped around their ankles, casting ripples of colors across town-square.

Amidst the chaos, someone tosses a fistful of paper petals into the air and children chase them like butterflies. The scent of fire-roasted corn lingers in the space between stalls, mingling with something floral and sticky-sweet—incense, you guess, or maybe sugared rice cakes steaming in their baskets.

You slow down a little, taking it in—not wide-eyed anymore, but still quiet with a kind of awe you don’t really know how to name. There's nothing else you’re supposed to be doing right now. No Guild forms to fill, no other monsters to hunt, no next destination hounding your heels. Just this—music, people, color, your hand sticky with sugar, and Kazu… not exactly smiling, but he seems content.

You glance over again and catch him watching you—he doesn’t even pretend to look away this time.

“What?” you find yourself asking.

He frowns, which is his usual default, but this one... feels different. "...Nothing." he huffs.

You don't push, you've learned not to when it comes to Kazu. Instead, you find yourselves pausing near a game stall—small clay pots lined up in rows, a basket of bean bags beside them and a sign boasting some local dialect variation of three down, prize won. The prizes aren’t anything special, just a mix of wooden charms, glass beads, and poorly-stitched dolls, but something about the way they’re all piled together draws your eye.

Kazu notices your interest and scoffs. "That's a scam."

You squint, looking at him questioningly. "It's a festival game?"

“Same thing.”

Still, you step forward. There’s something oddly charming about the way the clay jars are all different shapes and sizes, and you’re curious if the game’s rigged or just genuinely difficult. The middle-aged man running the booth smiles toothily and offers you a bean bag with fingers bent at odd angles.

When your gaze returns to your trusty travelling companion, he's already fishing coins from his pouch.

You stiffen, brows twitching in uncertainty. "I didn't say I wanted to play."

"You were looking." he says, as if that explains everything.

You accept the bean bag, a little stunned, then weigh it in your hand thoughtfully. It’s lighter than it looks. Your throw isn’t particularly strong—but on the second try, a jar wobbles and tips off the plank, shattering on impact.

Kazu lets out a short breath. “…Huh.”

You look back at him, smug. “Guess it’s not rigged.”

He doesn't reply, but there's the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth,again, almost like he's fighting a smile and losing. You miss your third throw, but the man counts the shattered pot with a nod and lets you pick a prize anyway.

You hover for a moment before reaching toward the back of the pile—picking out a tiny carved animal figure. It's some sort of bird, maybe a falcon, its wings out-stretched mid-flight. The carving isn’t masterful, but the way it fits in your palm makes you like it even more. You turn it over once in your hand, then extend it out to Kazu without thinking.

He blinks at you.

You hold it steady. “For you.”

He stares at the bird, visible confusion on his face. “Why?”

You hum, "You paid."

"That's... that's not—"

“Maybe not. Still.” You nudge the figure toward him a little more insistently, and he takes it eventually—slowly, like it burns. His fingers close around it like he's afraid it'll crumble at first contact.

You walk again, weaving between lantern strings and children in animal masks. The candy’s half gone now. You’ve stopped offering him bites, but you keep the second stick in hand anyway. Kazu still keeps the bird, the little wooden carving finding its home within the crevice of his pocket.

Soon enough, your attention is grabbed once more by a fire dance that's about to begin—spinning performers with flares in each hand, breath soaked in oil and exhaled in long, steady ribbons of flame. The crowd gasps in delight. You flinch at the first roar of fire, and Kazu shifts, just barely brushing against you, a subtle check for any tremble in your shoulders.

But you don't pull away. There's no need to.

“…You’ve got syrup on your face,” he mutters.

You reach up to wipe it away, missing by a few centimeters.

“No—left. More left.” He lets out a soft, barely audible huff, then reaches forward and smudges it off himself with the corner of his sleeve. You stare for a second, thrown off, as he draws back.

“There.”

“...Thanks.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his hand lingers in the air for a second before falling to his side.

Somewhere, another chime rings, delicate and high. You tilt your head toward the sound and spot a charm stall—little paper fortunes hanging from strings, inked prayers written down with careful brush strokes. One of the attendants offers you a reed pen and a scrap of parchment without a word. You glance back at Kazu.

“You write one too?”

He gives you a look. “What would I even write?”

You consider, “Something you want?”

“Don’t want anything.”

You raise a brow.

He sighs. “Nothing they can give.”

You nod, and don't ask again

Either way, you still get to write something. You don't think too hard about it, just let the words come as they are, no frills or poetry—just transparent honesty. A wish small enough to feel like your own, but meaningful enough not to lose its shape if ever spoken aloud.

You hang it on the charm line with the others, a flutter of parchment caught in a passing breeze.

Kazu watches.

When you turn back, he still waits for you, hands in his pockets, one still curled faintly around the carved bird, eyes half-lidded beneath the firelight—but present.

You're more than sure ten minutes have passed by now. You're more than certain he knows too.

"Can we look around a bit more?" you ask, careful, watching his face for any flicker of hesitation, already bracing yourself in case he says no—but still hoping he won’t.

He remains silent for a moment, gaze dragging over the lanterns, over the path ahead, over the swell of people beginning to thicken near another bend in the street. His brows furrow—not in refusal, you think—but in a kind of reluctant resignation.

"..If we must."

You brighten, but you keep it mild. No need to spook him now.

Your pace quickens slightly as you lead him toward the narrower part of the plaza, where booths line both sides of the stone path in loose, irregular rows. The heat from the fire dancers still lingers in your skin with each step. It's only been a handful of minutes since you arrived, but something in the air makes time feel weightless—like it’s suspended between heartbeats and flickering lanterns.

You walk without any real aim, letting the sounds and smells guide you. Kazu doesn’t stop you, just lets you lead, his steps always keeping pace. The bird in his pocket taps gently against his leg.

Eventually, you find yourselves drifting near the eastern end of the square, where the lanterns hang lower and the music grows fainter—replaced instead by the soft ringing of chimes and bells. The crowd here is thinner, older. Couples linger longer at stalls, their fingers entwined as they examine trinkets and charms meant to bestow anything from safe travels to good fortune in love.

The mixed smell of incense and pressed herbs is thicker here, but you don't mind. It's a soothing counterpart to the sugary stickiness still clinging to your fingers.

You stop in front of one such stall—its surface cluttered with bundles of dried sage, lacquered charms shaped like hearts and cranes, and little clay animals painted with looping red strokes that immediately remind you of the wooden carvings from the festival game prior.

The vendor is an older woman with curly hair wrapped into a red scarf, leaning over the counter as you approach.

“Ah,” she beams. “Looking for luck, are we?”

You glance down at the display. The hand-painted sign above it reads Fortunes for Love, Fortune, and Friendship! in charmingly uneven script, flanked by a doodle of two rabbits holding hands.

“Not really,” you tell her, but you’re already leaning in a little closer. The trinkets are small, almost forgettable, but oddly compelling—soft-wrapped bundles and little painted stones, one shaped like a fox head with golden eyes.

“You should try the couple charms,” the woman says suddenly, with a conspiratorial twinkle in her voice. “Always been lucky, those ones.”

You pause, “Couples?”

“Aye.” She nods toward a section near the back of the table, where two miniature tokens are bound together with thread. One red, one black. “To bring closeness and good fortune. Bind them together at midnight, and your paths won’t stray.”

You hesitate. "We're not—"

But the vendor only smiles wider, nodding toward the space between you and Kazu, where your elbows nearly brush and neither of you have noticed.

“Ah, don’t mind me,” she muses. “I’ve got an eye for these things. From what I can tell, you’ve got that look about you.” She titters, tapping a finger to her temple. “That quiet kind of closeness. You kids don’t need to say much, do you? You just are.”

The vendor lady gestures to Kazu with a knowing little nod. “He’s got the face for it, too. All grump on the outside, sweetheart on the inside. I’ve known plenty of men like that. My late husband was just the same!”

You turn instinctively, gaze drawn to Kazu’s face.

He’s frozen.

Utterly, unmistakably frozen—stillness that speaks louder than words. His mouth is pulled taut, his eyes narrowed in that flat, impassive expression you’ve seen several times before—but this time, it feels more defensive than annoyed.

“We’re not a couple,” he says flatly, teeth barely unclenched.

The vendor waves a hand. “Ah, not yet, then. My mistake.”

For a moment, you half-expect him to storm off, but surprisingly—he just.. stands there. Bristling, maybe, but not leaving. His shoulder is still angled toward you, his hand tight in his pocket around that little wooden bird. You can’t read his expression anymore, but you think you know him well enough by now to guess he's probably regretting ever letting you lead him into this part of the square.

Nonetheless, you can't help but smile a little, a bit crooked this time.

“Guess we fooled her,” you lean over and whisper, barely more than a breath.

"She's wrong." Kazu argues back, as if your little encounter with the old lady is something that needs clarifying. For a moment, it almost felt to you like he's trying to shake off the weight of that single word: couple.

"I know," you hum. "does it bother you?"

Kazu doesn’t respond right away. He glances off to the side, jaw flexing slightly.

Then: “…No. Just stupid.”

You nod once, and turn your attention back to the charms. Your finger rests lightly atop one of the braided cords again, this time letting it catch against the pad of your thumb.

The vendor watches you both, smile never fully fading, but she doesn’t push. Just leans back and pretends to busy herself with reorganizing her wares.

Kazu exhales slowly, almost a sigh, and after a long moment, he hands you his pouch and murmurs, “Get it if you want.”

You glance over, "The charm?"

His face twitches. "Yeah. Or don't."

You study him for a second longer, then quietly pay for the set. The vendor ties one around your wrist, fingers light and practiced. You thank her with a slight bow, then take the second cord, holding it out to him like an offering.

Kazu stares at it, then at you. His eyes narrow again, hesitant.

“I don’t—”

“It’s just a charm,” you say, voice soft, not teasing. “You don’t have to wear it.”

You mean what you say, but he takes it anyway.

He doesn’t tie it on right away—rather, he takes a moment to hold it between gloved fingers, examining the threads. You don’t press. He can do what he wants with it.

..But, as the two of you walk away again, returning to the quieter paths threading the festival’s edge, you catch the flicker of motion at his wrist. The cord is there—clumsily tied, looped twice, the knot imperfect but secure.

He notices you looking.

"..Did it wrong." he mumbles.

You don’t laugh. “It’s on,” you say simply, as the corners of your mouth twitch for what felt like the hundredth time tonight.

He grunts under his breath—you don't know if it's in agreement, or just to fill the air between you. Regardless, he keeps walking. The path is narrower here, veering off from the main lantern-lit square, paved with uneven stone and canopied overhead by willow branches that sway like heavy curtains. With the festival’s noise muffled behind you, the hush that settles feels deeper, more natural.

Crickets chirp softly in the grass, and from somewhere out of sight, wind chimes sound with a fragile clarity, barely there at all.

Neither of you say much for a while after that, footsteps continuing to fall in uneven rhythm. There's no conversation to spark when your shoulders brush once when the path narrows again. You don't fail to notice how the charm at your wrist glints just slightly upon being touched by the low light of a passing firefly.

You guess the same can be said for Kazu, because you catch him staring at it, before looking forward again.

"It's dumb," he mutters after another moment of silence, "the whole binding thing—midnight and all that."

You hum, half to show you’re listening, half because you’re not sure what to say yet.

"Superstition," he adds, a firmer now, like saying it with more conviction would make it sound less like a choice he made.

You glance down at his wrist, anyway. The cord's still there.

"Maybe," you say in reply. "but I think it's a nice kind of dumb."

Although Kazu doesn’t answer that, his pace slows a little. Not a full stop, just enough that you fall into step beside him again, his shoulder no longer ahead of yours but level. He draws in a breath like he’s about to say something else—but whatever it is, he lets it go and resumes walking.

You listen to the crunch of gravel beneath your boots, the whisper of wind through distant banners, and something else—his hand brushing near yours again, not quite a touch, but he's close enough for the heat of your hands to overlap.

It stays like that for a while.

Later, you tilt your head toward him, voice quiet and low. “Still want to head back soon?”

His silence stretches, staying quiet for a beat too long. His jaw shifts—like he’s chewing over what to say. Then, without lifting his gaze: "..Let's walk a bit more."

You nod wordlessly. The quiet has settled too comfortably between you to bother breaking it. the world has dimmed here, quieter. Even the festival seems far off, muffled by trees and distance.

Your fingers drift a little closer. The gap between your hands narrows until your pinkies nearly touch, neither side closing the distance. He doesn’t tense, but there's a thin layer of tension in the way he moves.

Contact never comes between you. What hangs is only thinner than thread, but it holds just fine. It just so happens that lantern light glints briefly off the charm at his wrist, tied haphazardly, a loop barely secured.

No one moves to fix the knot.

Hours later, by the time you finally settle for an inn—the cord remains tied, frayed ends brushing his wrist like it never came close to coming undone.

Kazu's hands are soaked in someone else's blood.

It clings to the lines of his palms, thick and half-dried where it’s seeped into his skin and dark as rust beneath his fingernails. It’s splattered across the folds of his jacket, caked on the blade that remains clenched within his palm, smeared across the earth where your body had fallen.

Your head lies in the dirt, just a few feet from where he’s kneeling. Your eyes are closed. Peaceful, almost. Too peaceful for his liking.

He can’t move.

The air is heavy, weighed not only by the scent of copper and soil but by silence as well. It's the kind to ring hauntingly in one's skull, only ever following after a scream.

Your scream.

His breath comes in short, uneven bursts, everything else the cause rather than physical strain, the weight of what had just happened settling in like stone in his gut. The fight with Tarin had been brief, hardly even a fight in the end.

It lasted only a few seconds.

There had been no real contest, no struggle for dominance or skill. Kazu’s blade had pierced through the other man's skull as easily as if it were soft bark, too quick and too clean for what he truly deserved. A single motion, brutal and efficient, born more from instinct than rage, and it had all been over.

He should feel vindicated. Furious. Something.

Yet all he could do was sit there, knees dug into the dirt, staring at the limp body that refuses to die. He watches the faint twitch of your fingers, the barely-there shudder of your chest. It should be impossible. It is impossible. He'd saw the wound, the severing.

But your body doesn't go still.

He stares at it, unmoving, as the blood dries sticky between his fingers. A bitter taste creeps up in his throat, foul in its essence. It's then that without meaning to, his mind flickers—not to the moment of the fight, but to the one that started it all.

It began with a voice.

"Well, I’ll be—didn’t think you’d show up again, Kazu. Haven't seen 'ya 'round these parts for some years now."

A man stood beneath the dappled shade of pine, leaning against a sloped tree trunk. His stance was relaxed, one thumb hooked in the strap of his gearbag, the other hand loosely holding a waterskin. His clothes bore the practical wear of fieldwork—dusty hems, scraped leather, streaks of what looked like dried blood clinging to his inner tunic. His hair was longer than Kazu remembered, sun-burnt at the tips, and messily half-tied.

His voice came from behind, breaking the hush of dusk like a twig underfoot—too easy in its humor to be entirely casual. Kazu stopped dead in his tracks, bootheel pressing into old pine needles as he turned just slightly to confirm the voice. He didn’t need to. He already knew.

There was an easy grin tugging at his mouth, but his eyes—they didn’t match it, steel-colored and sharp. Those eyes were shaped too alert to be relaxed. He wasn't looking at Kazu.

He was looking at you.

"Tarin," Kazu said after a beat, his voice flat with recognition. He didn’t offer a greeting so much as confirm the man's name like he was clocking a piece of intel. Whether that was how he usually greeted old colleagues or just the ones he had reason to be cautious around—it wasn’t always easy to tell, even for him.

The other hunter didn't seem the slightest bit offended in response. If anything, the lack of warmth only made him smile wider. “Still a man of many words, I see.”

Kazu grunted but said nothing.

Tarin pushed himself off the tree and approaches without hesitation, gait easy but measured. Automatically, Kazu stepped half a pace to the side, angling himself in front of you.

“I didn’t expect you this far north,” Tarin remarked nonchalantly, “last I heard, you were working eastern routes—contract cleaner for the old southern garrison. Rumor was, you went solo.”

Kazu finally spoke, low. “I did.”

“Hah,” Tarin exhaled a short laugh, “figures. Coordinating never seemed like your scene."

There was amusement in his voice, but something colder pulsed beneath. His gaze slid past Kazu and landed on you, sharp and deliberate. It lingered too long to be casual, eyes flicking over the guild seal tucked at your hip, the way you shifted your weight, the subtle closeness you kept to Kazu’s side—

"You his new side-kick?" he asked, not unkindly—but the way he phrases it makes his intention clear. This wasn't a genuine question, but a probe.

You hesitated.

There was something in his eyes—not quite humor, nor hostility… yet. It felt more like a weighing—a quiet, deliberate measurement, masked by a lazy smile. He’s not looking at you, but through you—toward whatever connection you might have to Kazu.

Kazu didn’t give the silence time to stretch.

"They're with me."

Three words. Flat. Final.

Tarin raised a brow, not at what’s said, but at what’s not. He held up both palms, mock-apologetic. “Didn’t mean anything by it, just saying. I'm surprised you’re letting someone stick that close. You used to bite the heads off our quartermasters just for trailing behind you.”

Kazu didn’t rise to it. His stance didn’t change, but there was a faint shift—just enough that someone like Tarin would catch it. And he did. His smile dimmed by a fraction. He looked down at the waterskin in his hand, turning it once by the neck, almost absently.

“You headed for the old ridge route?” he prodded, voice turning casual again. “Heard a few things about movement up there, not just the usual strays.” another look your way, then back to Kazu. “You might want a second map.”

“We’ve got it covered,” Kazu replies.

Tarin held his gaze for a long moment, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.” His hands dropped from his belt, the weight of his stare lingering a beat longer than necessary. Then, like it had cost him nothing, he added, “Mind if I stay with you for the road?”

The question hung there, like it wasn't already assumed. Kazu saw the shift of his pack strap, the way he was already moving like he expected to join. He almost said no. It was right there on the tip of his tongue.

“We’re two days out from Western HQ,” he says instead, voice clipped but level. “Keep up, and don’t get in the way.”

The memory loses its grip, lacking in closure. The air has changed. The silence isn’t the same anymore; not quite lighter, but disturbed, as if the forest itself had shifted position while he was locked in thought. His eyes return, slowly, to the ground in front of him.

You lie there, unmoving. The space between your head and your body still hasn't changed. Nothing has moved, yet, something is wrong.

Kazu pushes himself to his feet. The stiffness in his joints doesn’t come from exertion, but tension. The blood has begun to dry at the edges of his gloves, flaking where his knuckles flex. He ignores it.

He steps carefully, almost piously, toward your body.

It's then that he sees it.

A thin strand—no, not quite a strand; something organic, wet, and pale, like a vine or a root—has stretched from the exposed flesh of your severed neck. It snakes out in a cautious, almost tentative motion, glistening faintly in the dappled light that breaks through the treetops. A matching branch extends from your neck stump, twitching once before stilling, as if sensing its counterpart nearby.

His breath stills.

More follow. Fine, translucent threads, branching out like veins or mycelium, begin weaving their way through the dirt. They move slowly, with purpose, like limbs remembering what they used to be. The distance between your head and body isn’t much—barely a few feet—but the quiet persistence with which your biology reaches out to reconnect it is enough to make his stomach turn.

Not out of fear, nor revulsion like he'd expected.

It’s awe—a twisted, reverent kind of awe. Awe that burrows itself in his chest and leaves no room for fear.

He swallows hard.

Your body doesn’t convulse. There’s no violent jerk or grotesque movement. The regeneration is quiet, solemn. A biological process, he supposes. Already, the strands are reaching one another, brushing together with cautious, delicate touches, then winding tighter, almost tenderly. They pulse faintly, like breath, and begin pulling.

Kazu feels his heart hammer once, painfully.

"You know what they are, right?" Tarin’s voice had cracked, caught somewhere between incredulity and desperation, his heel scraping backward in the dirt. He’d raised his bloodied hands, as if it could stall what was already coming. “I’m doing you a favor, Kazu! Why are you looking at me like that?!”

He tried to justify it, even then. As if mere words could scrub clean the horror written into the scene. What was already done is irreversible. Kazu knew what you were—what the Guild would call you if words got out: abomination, liability, target. Tarin had only acted accordingly. Kazu understood that. But he didn’t care.

Not anymore.

Not since meeting you. He's been defying his duties as a monster hunter for a while now.

The moment he turned a blind eye to the odd cadence in your steps. The moment he started making sure you slept first during rotation shifts. The moment he adjusted your cloak in the rain— even to the moment he stitched your arm himself after a raid and muttered about how “lucky” you were to heal so well. Each choice he's since made was a quiet defection to everything he's ever known.

In the past, he used to tell himself it was only tactical patience—that he was only waiting for you to slip—but deep down, he knew the truth: he had already chosen you over the Guild a long time ago.

Kazu drops to one knee again, carefully, the ground still warm from spilled blood. His breath clouds faintly in the cooling air, though sweat dampens his collar. One leather gloved hand hovers above the rejoining strands for a moment, uncertain, then slowly lowers until his fingertips graze the dirt beside them. He doesn't dare touch the threads themselves—not out of fear, but some distorted version of worship.

You’re not screaming. You’re not writhing. Fortunately, there is no pain he can see; just a peaceful stillness still etched into your face, made grotesque only by context. Your head lies inches from reattachment, and already your body has accepted the command. Your flesh has begun to knit, slow and subtle, with a movement that feels less like tissue repairing than instinct falling into place.

A new silence has fallen. No longer one thick with death's undertones following your decapitation—a different kind; silence that watches. That waits.

Kazu briefly glances back at what remains of Tarin’s corpse. It lies a little ways off, face-down in the underbrush, half-concealed by ferns. Blood still seeps slowly from the base of his skull, forming a dark pool that soaks gradually into grass and soil. He remains motionless. Dead. No magic nor crawling resurrection to follow his current state.

It's a morbid little reminder that only confirms what Kazu already knows: some things stay dead. Other's don't.

He turns back to you. The strands have grown thicker now, winding together in wet coils, anchoring your spine to itself. There’s no tearing or tension, only seamless reconnection. A seam being steadily stitched close. The process itself is as meticulous as it is surreal—terrifying only in its elegance.

Kazu breathes in, slow. The iron stink of blood hangs sharp in his nose, but beneath it—faint and earthy, something else has begun to rise: a fungal note, rich and wet. Mycelial. That’s what it reminds him of. He wonders if this is the smell of the forest reclaiming its own.

Had he half a mind, he would be preparing to put you down properly. He would be finishing it—ending this with the same mechanical efficiency he'd shown Tarin. That would be the clean answer. The right one.

But at this point? He's far from sane.

So he lowers himself until he’s sitting cross-legged beside you, if only just to keep watch—not protectively, not yet. Curiously. He's decided to be a witness of what comes next. You’ll wake soon. He knows this the same way he knows how to draw a blade—instinctively. Maybe, somewhere along the way, your rhythms had long since wounded themselves into his own.

He waits only a moment longer, watching the fleshy threads draw closed like the last pull of a careful stitch. It’s not done—not fully, not yet—but it’s enough. The connection has been made. The rest, he knows, is just time. Time and care.

Kazu breathes out, steadies himself, then moves.

The act of gathering you is delicate and measured, you deserve that much. He starts with your head, fingers careful as they cradle it. He lifts it slowly, keeping it level, letting the organic threads still connecting you stretch rather than break. The strands are wet and pale and flex like tendon, but they don’t resist him. They yield, slackening just enough to accommodate his movement. He cups your cheek with one thumb, brushing away a smear of dried blood with the edge of a knuckle, and carefully presses your head against his chest—one arm wrapped beneath it, supporting the base.

Your body comes next.

He shifts to crouch beside it, lifting your shoulders first and then your torso, careful to keep you aligned. Your limbs dangle limply, like a doll’s. Too limp. He doesn’t like that. So he adjusts your arms—folds one across your abdomen, the other beneath it. There you go. That’s better.

You’re not heavy. That's not it. If anything, you feel too light—too insubstantial for something that had the chance to end him—for someone who’s become the axis around which everything else revolves. It unsettles him, this frailty. The soft quietness of your breathing, the looming sense that your body is only borrowing time. That, he thinks, has always been what terrifies him most.

Still, he keeps you close. Closer than necessary, really. He doesn’t realize how tight his arms have wound around you until a twig cracks beneath his foot, snapping him forward, and instinct tightens his grip without thinking.

“…Tch.” He exhales through his teeth, readjusts, and moves.

You don’t stir then.

..Good. He doesn’t want you to see him like this.

The place he takes you isn’t far—just a small cave set into the hillside, shallow but sheltered, obscured by a veil of hanging roots and vine. He's camped there before, some years prior to meeting you. It's a fallback spot for poor weather or retreat—dry, cool, defensible.

He moves quietly, despite the burden in his arms. The weight of you—your blood-soaked cloak, your slack limbs, the faint warmth of your head resting against his shoulder—ought to unnerve him, truthfully. Would've for any other person. Instead, it calms him in a way he can’t fully explain, something about it steadying. Grounding.

Once inside, he lays you down as though you are a relic he dare not mar. Which, of course you are.

The coat goes first—spread out neatly across the stone floor like a makeshift bedroll. He carefully lowers you onto it, adjusting the angle of your head so it rests aligned with your spine, his fingers subtly tucking the cords that have begun to fuse along your neck. He doesn’t rush nor fumble. Each motion is deliberate. Intimate, in a way.

A small fire follows, meant only to sterilize. He sets water to boil, sprinkling in dried herbs from his pouch. Pinebark and feverleaf rise on the steam, filling the cave. When he comes back to you, he’s stripped his gloves, sleeves cuffed past his elbows. None of the marks matter. He’d earn a thousand more to ensure this never repeats.

Barehanded now, he works quickly: he unclasps his satchel, retrieves the sterilizing tincture, and the few supplies he’s hoarded over months—not Guild issue, but things he stole from clinics, traded for in hushed corners of waystations.

Not for himself.

He dips the cloth into the cold, astringent-smelling brew, then presses it to your skin, wiping along the raw edges of your neck where the muscle jerks in shallow pulses.

His hand trembles once before he steadies it. “No sign of infection,” he mutters, almost trying to convince himself, “Tissue’s holding... good.”

He doesn’t look at your face right away. His focus stays on the mechanics—cleansing the blood, wiping away the dirt that clings in the creases of your skin like soot.

It isn’t until he’s halfway through cleaning your chest—until the worst of the blood has been cleared and your breathing, though shallow, has steadied—that his gaze finally rises. He looks at you then—really looks.

Something in him pulls taut.

Your face is still slack with unconsciousness, and although you're still alive—still breathing, that peaceful, calm expression you wear only reminds him of the dead. He stares for a long moment, fingers stilled, cloth limp in one hand. A breath catches in his throat and shaky upon its release. He leans back on his heels.

“You idiot,” he breathes, barely audible. "reckless, stupid thing…”

The senseless accusation lingers for only a moment before it turns back on him like a blade flipped in reverse. He exhales a bitter, humorless laugh, and his fingers slip through your hair, combing gently through the blood-matted strands.

“No,” he murmurs, softer now. “That’s not fair, is it?” his hand stills. “You didn’t let him. I did.”

The truth of it hits like a punch to the chest. His other hand drops to the ground beside you, palm flat against the blood that stains the moss in dark, drying patches. His hand finds the ground there, steadying himself from the slow press of something he doesn’t want to name.

What really gnaws at him—was that he had known. A part of him had, from the very moment he noticed Tarin eyeing you with that predatory gaze barely hidden beneath all his easy charm.

Just like Kazu had, Tarin saw right through your disguise.

It wasn't hard to tell he knew; the tilt of his stance, the angle of his questions—how his eyes had lingered when they shouldn't. He'd notice it all, every single fraction of a second he laid his eyes on the other hunter.

And yet, he let it slide.

He’d told himself it wasn’t worth drawing blood over, that keeping things civil was smarter, that he could control the space between you, that Tarin wasn’t foolish enough to try anything while Kazu was watching.

Ultimately, he just hadn't been watching close enough.

Look where that got him now.

This wasn't a slip, the same way it isn't an accident of timing or tactics, or a failure borne of his oversight.

He made a conscious choice that let someone close enough to hurt you.

Worse than that—he had stood there, thinking he could afford to wait, as if mere caution and observation on his part would be enough. He'd seen the warning signs, knew something was wrong—but didn't act.

He gave Tarin the chance to strike.

He nearly let you die.

For a moment, Kazu is no different from a statue. When he moves again, it's to pull his blanket free, gently spread it over you to keep your limbs from cooling, then sit behind you, cross-legged once more, your head resting just inches from his thigh.

He says nothing when he reaches out, brushing a thread from your cheek. It sticks faintly to his skin—warm, damp, fragile. It reminds him of the way veins are fragile. The way hearts are.

His eyes linger for a moment, and it occurs to him, distantly: he has never seen you look so peaceful.

A flicker of something wicked twists behind his ribs.

“Whatever you are,” he murmurs, eyes tracing the lines of your skin, to the rise and fall of your chest.

“Abomination. Anomaly. Miracle.” his voice sinks, “It doesn’t change anything." he murmurs, barely any louder than a whisper. “You’re still mine.”

He doesn’t realize his hand is still resting against your cheek until the heat of your skin begins to seep through his callused palm, a fragile pulse beneath the thin layer of tissue that has only just begun to re-knit. The contact is absurdly intimate, out of place with the sterile logic he ought to be clinging to—yet he makes no move to withdraw. His thumb drags a slow path across the arch of your cheekbone, feeling the slick tack of drying blood in its wake, and something within him twists so sharply it feels like it might split him down the center.

Minutes drag by. He busies himself with small, necessary things—tending the fire, re-wetting the cloth to dab again at the edges of your wound, checking the pulse in your throat. Each motion is clinical, precise, but beneath the practiced detachment there is a relentless, gnawing preoccupation: the certainty that nothing he does will ever be enough.

He cannot clean you of what you are any more than he can scrub his own hands free of everything he’s done.

The threads at your neck have begun to thicken, taking on a denser, more opaque color, darkening where they knit themselves deeper into muscle. If he listens closely, he can hear the tiny, wet sounds of regeneration: soft clicks and damp little pops, like raw wood splitting under slow pressure. When he glances at your face, your lashes have begun to twitch, small spasms that hint at returning consciousness. He doesn’t know if he hopes you will wake soon or if he dreads it.

With a quiet exhale, he presses the back of his wrist to your cheek—testing for fever, but also reassuring himself that you’re still warm. Still here. Your skin is cool, but not dangerously so, the faint heat of life still pulsing beneath it. He lets his hand linger, thumb brushing the fine edge of your jaw. The sensation grounds him, a tactile proof that you are no phantom.

His mouth is dry. The fire flickers, sending restless shadows crawling up the cave walls—sharp and wavering and alive in a way he feels he no longer is. He wonders, distantly, what this will mean when you wake. Whether you’ll remember what happened, whether you’ll understand that even now he can’t make himself finish it—can’t do the thing he’s been trained to do all his life.

That thought alone leaves him feeling raw, skinless, like every inch of him has been scraped open to the air. He shifts, letting his palm fall away to rest on the edge of the blanket, careful not to disturb the delicate strands still knitting your throat together. The mycelial cords flex with each subtle movement of your pulse—faint but steady, an undeniable proof of life. It feels profane to look at it so closely, yet he can’t look away.

He can’t help but think how grotesquely beautiful it is—this process by which you refuse to stay dead. There’s a gentleness to it that’s worse than any horror, a quiet certainty in the way your body repairs itself. He finds himself pondering if you even need him here, or if you’d have reassembled yourself just the same whether or not he’d laid a hand on you.

Kazu draws in a slow breath, feeling the way it catches on something heavy in his chest. He rubs the heel of his hand against his sternum, as though he could physically dislodge the ache lodged deep in his chest.

Outside, night is falling properly now, blue darkness pooling between the trees like ink poured over the land. The fire offers only a small radius of light, and beyond it, the forest waits, unknowable. He tries to tell himself that’s what he’s listening for—any sign of pursuit, any consequence to what he’s done—but it’s a lie.

The only thing he’s listening to is you.

Your breathing is shallow but even, and every time your chest rises, it loosens something tight in his throat. It is an absurd thing to feel relief over. You were decapitated, he thinks, almost distantly. You should be dead.

But you aren’t.

He wonders if you’ll hate him when you wake. If you’ll look at the corpse cooling somewhere out in the ferns and see only the hunter he used to be—see that, in some ways, he still is. He wonders if you’ll know that, if Tarin hadn’t made the first move, it might have been Kazu himself someday, blade in hand, duty outweighing anything else.

The thought makes him sick.

...He'll remember to properly dispose of that man's body later.

Slowly, he shifts to brace one arm along his bent knee, lowering himself just enough to study your face at closer range. You still carry a strange kind of innocence, even with the dried gore painting at your hairline. The pulse at your throat has steadied to something approaching normal, and he watches it a moment longer than is necessary, almost hypnotized by the fragile proof that you are here, still by his side.

He thinks of all the things he has never said aloud. The long, silent hours spent letting you move ahead on the trail, cloak dragging in the underbrush, the strange pang he felt every time you glanced back to check that he was still behind you. The first time you’d laughed, soft and startled, at something he’d muttered under his breath.

He has spent too long pretending he does not care.

His hand lifts again without conscious thought, fingertips hovering just above the place where the strands of your spine have begun to fuse. He doesn't touch them. Instead, he drags his knuckles lightly along the curve of your jaw, tracing the line where skin and hair meet.

“You’re still mine,” he repeats, softer now—as if by saying it, he can bind the words into the space between you—make it something solid and undeniable. His breath trembles as he draws it in, releases it again.

He wants to tell you he’s sorry. He wants to promise he’ll never let this happen again. He wants to ask you what you truly are, to hear you answer in that low, careful voice that has always felt like a secret kept just for him.

But none of it comes out.

And as if in surrender, he leans forward until his forehead brushes lightly against yours. The contact is brief, the barest graze of skin, but it leaves him feeling stripped to the bone. His eyes close. For a moment, he lets himself imagine that this is something he deserves—that whatever you are, there is still something between you worth holding onto.

When he pulls back, your breathing hasn’t changed. You don’t stir. The cords at your throat flex faintly, still working to mend the last of the damage. Kazu watches them, feeling a strange kind of astonishment hollow him out.

His hand drifts to the blanket covering your chest, smoothing it once before falling away. He doesn’t move to clean himself—doesn’t bother with the blood drying in cracked lines across his skin. It feels almost appropriate that he should wear it, like a mark of what he’s chosen.

He settles in behind you again, one knee drawn up so he can rest his elbow across it, keeping his weight low. His gaze never leaves your face. If anything comes for you now—guild enforcers, scavengers, the rot of his own conscience—he’ll be there to look out for you.

His thoughts continue to circle, uncapable of settling. He thinks of Tarin’s final expression—shock, confusion, that flicker of something almost plaintive. The moment the blade went in, all that pretense had dropped away, leaving only the raw human panic of a person who realized too late that he’d overplayed his hand. Kazu wonders if, in that last instant, Tarin understood how inevitable it had been.

He almost hopes he did.

But then his gaze returns to you, and all that grim satisfaction curdles back into a softer feeling, sick with regret. He can’t pretend this was only vengeance—that it was only Tarin’s death he’d chosen, because in that split second, Kazu had decided to kill for you, to do whatever it took to keep you breathing—even if the price was the last of whatever loyalty he still owed to his old life.

He sighs, dragging a hand over his mouth. His throat feels dry, scraped raw from the inside.

Your breathing hitches.

The first sign is so slight he nearly misses it: a faint flex of your fingers, the slow curl of one hand against your chest. Your eyelids flutter again—this time not a spasm.

Kazu’s heart lurches. His hand drops back to your shoulder, steadying himself more than steadying you. For the first time since he laid you in this cave, he feels an honest surge of relief—hot and almost painful in its intensity.

Your head shifts against the folded edge of the blanket. The damp strands bridging your neck flex wetly as you move. A thin sound escapes your throat—an unformed, husky exhalation—and then your eyes crack open, unfocused and glassy.

He doesn't realize he's holding his breath until it shakily rushes out of him.

You blink, once, slowly. Your pupils contract against the dim firelight, tracking with a sluggish, dreamlike quality. He waits, afraid to speak, afraid that if he breaks the silence you’ll reveal yourself as simply some illusion conjured by the exhaustion and grief of his mind.

But you don’t vanish.

Your gaze drags over the cave, then over yourself—taking in the state of your body, the stitched line of tissue at your neck. Your brows knit faintly, as if puzzled, though there is no immediate panic. He wonders if you’re even fully aware yet of what happened.

Your eyes finally find his.

It feels, absurdly, like impact—like being struck square in the chest. Even half-lucid, you still look at him with earnestness in your gaze—death, blood, the sheer monstrous fact of your survival somehow only sharpening the terrible softness within your eyes.

Kazu wets his lips. His voice feels terribly rusted when he tries to speak.

“You’re awake,” he says. It sounds too small and inadequate for what this moment should be.

Your mouth moves as though you mean to answer. No words come, only a rasping breath. You try again, throat working. He can see your confusion sharpening, awareness creeping back in, and with it, the knowledge of how close you came to ending.

Guilt coils through his gut like a python, twisting until he has to drop his gaze to your chest, to the quiet lift and fall of your breathing. He can’t look at your eyes any longer—he can’t bear to see recognition bloom into fear or accusation.

He feels your hand shift, clumsily reaching out. It lands against the fold of his coat draped over you, your fingers twitching weakly. You don’t try to push yourself upright and a part of him is unspeakably grateful for that. He doesn’t think he could stand to watch you strain right now.

Your fingers curl into the cloth, like you need something—an anchor.

He understands. He feels it, too.

Kazu exhales, long and low. Slowly, he slides his hand back to yours, covering it with his palm. He doesn’t dare squeeze, afraid of jarring your freshly-mended body, but he holds you there, offering what he can.

“You’re alright,” he whispers, some pathetic bastard of a promise and confession. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

Safe, he thinks, but the word tastes like a lie. Nothing is safe anymore. Not you. Not him. Not whatever life might await you on the other side of this cave, if word ever get out of your true nature.

Still, looking down at your hand in his, he knows there’s no part of him that regrets it.

He would do it again, a thousand times.

He shifts and lowers himself further until he’s leaning over you, so you don’t have to strain to see his face. He doesn’t bother to hide the weariness there, nor the raw, inexplicable tenderness that tightens his throat when he meets your eyes.

“Rest,” he murmurs, softer than before, his thumb brushing across the line of your knuckles. “I’ll keep watch.”

Kazu doesn’t say the rest—that he’ll keep watch as long as it takes—that he'll be here, whether you wake in ten minutes or ten hours. After all, he's already surrendered something of himself to you, something that can never be reclaimed, and he is too exhausted to pretend otherwise. In the quiet ruin of this night, he's found something steadier than loyalty or duty—a need so profound it no longer has the shape of desire but of inevitability.

You are his now, the same way he is yours—whichever way the claim runs doesn’t matter. Oath or confession, no words he can dredge up will ever be large enough to encompass the gravity of what he feels.

That is why he sits here, beside you in the dim light. His thumb strokes the back of your hand in an unthinking rhythm, memorizing the minute twitches of your fingers as sensation returns. The world has shrunk to this single point of contact, the slight give of your knuckles beneath his touch, the fragile heat that reassures him you are still real.

He wonders, distantly, whether this is what it feels like to be damned—if damnation is nothing more than the recognition that you will choose the same person, over and over, no matter how much it costs you.

He lets the thought settle, heavy as wet earth in his chest, and feels something give way beneath it—quiet and inexorable. Your breathing evens out by degrees, the shallow hitch smoothing into a steadier rhythm, and he watches each rise and fall of your chest as if it alone could anchor him to what remains of his purpose. The fire has burned low, shadows lapping at the edges of the cave like dark water, but he makes no move to feed it yet. He can’t bear to break the quiet that has settled between you.

In this thin margin of time—after violence, before consequence—he allows himself to believe that nothing else matters—that if you open your eyes again and call him by name, it will be enough to absolve every sin trailing behind him like a long, bloody wake.

His hand tightens fractionally over yours, thumb sweeping a final, trembling arc across your knuckles.

If it is damnation, so be it. If this is the price—this ruinous devotion, this soft annihilation of everything he once thought he was—he will pay it gladly.

When the fire gutters low and the dark presses in, when the guild’s retribution finally comes to collect what he has stolen, he will not run. He will not yield you up to them, or to any other power that dares claim the right to unmake you.

He will be the last line between you and every blade that would see you undone.

[saltcxrcle]

sweet smiles and sweaters ── . ✶ s. winchester

summary: you want to be close to sam as possible, which means you might crawl into his old hoodie... with him in it

pairings: established sam winchester x reader, sam winchester x gn! reader warnings: no use of 'y/n', fluff, pure fluff, like tooth-rottingly sweet, word count: 1.3K a/n: this is just me being obsessed with sam bc who isn't?? but this was inspired by a video i saw on my feed lol hope you guys enjoy this fluffy fic with sam hehe <3 sam winchester masterlist

IT WAS SCARY how fast you fell for Sam. But how could you not? Sam’s smile never failed to make your stomach flutter whenever he aimed it your way. Oh, and how could you forget to mention the adorable dimples that appeared when he smiled brightly and never failed to make you melt in your seat. You could feel your heartbeat race at the sound of his loud and boisterous laugh when you said something funny and couldn’t help but laugh along with him; his laugh was the best type of pick-me-up you could ever ask for. 

Sam’s mind was one that you always admired; he was brilliant, and you always loved to hear what he had researched for the hunt you guys were on. You loved hearing him talk; the low timbre of his voice never failed to fill your veins with warmth as you stared at him as he spoke—no doubt with love in your eyes; you always smiled and nodded along as he spoke. 

Sam made you feel in a way that you never had experienced before—and it scared you. You never entertained the thought of the chance of him reciprocating your feelings because you thought he could never see you as more than as a friend, someone he hunts with, and someone to confide in—but not be in a relationship with.

The thought of confessing to him made your stomach churn and twist into knots (a rejection from Sam would probably hurt more than the time you were thrown down a flight of stairs by a vengeful spirit on a hunt). Besides, there was no way you were risking messing up the friendship you had established with him, nor with the dynamic you had with the brothers. 

So, your plan of shutting up about your feelings was your best bet to save you from messing everything up until Sam came in with a sledgehammer (a metaphorical one, of course) and shattered it completely. 

The two of you were chatting quietly through a movie (a terrible one at that) that was playing on the TV in the motel room the three of you were sharing. Dean was out at the nearest bar, and Sam was sitting next to you, his shoulder against yours. You chuckled at the joke he had made about the flimsy plot. You looked at Sam as your laughing subsided, seeing a soft smile on his face as he looked at you—fondness glinting in his hazel gaze. 

Sam unconsciously leaned toward you, his hand coming to rest against your face and his thumb swiping against your cheek softly. You couldn’t help but lean into the warmth of his hand, but you were slightly confused at the action. You didn’t verbalize it, not wanting to break the spell Sam had put you under. 

His eyes flicked from yours to your lips before meeting your gaze again. “Can I kiss you?” Sam’s breath was fanning over yours, resting his forehead against your own. 

You didn’t realize how close he had gotten but gave him a soft smile. “Yeah.” You murmured. 

Sam mirrored your smile before placing his lips on yours, drawing you in for the sweetest kiss you had ever gotten in your life (until that moment, of course). Your eyes fluttered shut when Sam kissed you, savoring the feeling of his lips against yours.

You were convinced that you were dreaming, but the warmth of Sam’s palm against your cheek told you that this was very much real and Sam was kissing you. It seemed to have lasted forever, but Sam pulled away from you slowly like he was reluctant to part from your lips. But he didn’t stray far; his forehead was still resting against yours.

You could feel your lips stretch into a broad smile, feeling giddy at the fact that Sam just kissed you. You slowly peeled your eyes open to see your favorite sight, Sam beaming down at you—something akin to love coloring his gaze as the two of you locked eyes with one another. 

Dean had a shit-eating grin on his face when the two of you woke up the following day after you guys had shared your first kiss but congratulated the both of you for finally getting over your fears and getting together. 

Now, you were at the table in another motel room, on another hunt in a random town in the Midwest, researching and typing away at your laptop. You couldn’t help but cast glances at your boyfriend, who was lying on your shared bed, his back against the headboard, as he flipped through one of the lore books he was able to check out from the library in this town. Sam’s brows were slightly furrowed, and you wanted to smooth out the wrinkle between his brows with either your fingers or a kiss. 

You smiled at the thought as you continued to look at Sam. He was wearing an old, worn Stanford hoodie that rarely saw the light of day, having been at the bottom of his duffle bag since he left university. You looked back at your laptop; you hadn’t found anything useful before looking back at him. You smirked to yourself before closing your laptop and getting up from the table you were hunched over for the past hour. 

Your hands went above your head, stretching out the stiff muscles in your shoulders and back before you padded over to the end of the bed where Sam was reading. He hadn’t noticed that you were there until you started to crawl onto the bed and towards him. 

Sam glanced up from the book to see your smirking face as you climbed up his body. “What are you doing?” He asked with a confused smile on his face. 

You didn’t bother with answering him verbally; you just shot him a sly smile before lifting the hem of the red hoodie he was wearing and crawling into it head first. 

Sam let out a shocked laugh, and an exclamation of your name fell from his lips. The book he was reading fell from his grip as you shimmied your way up his sweater. Sam squirmed slightly as your body shifted up his, plastering yourself against his. You eventually got your head through the top of the sweater, now being nose to nose with your darling boyfriend. 

“Hi.” You greeted him with a wide grin. 

“Hi.” Sam chuckled at your antics. His hand came to rest on your back as you straddled his body. “Is there any reason why you’re in my sweater with me?” 

“Do I need a reason to be close to my boyfriend?” 

“I suppose not, but you could have done without almost suffocating yourself in my hoodie.” 

You shook your head. “Nope, this is way more comfortable.” 

Sam let out a chuckle at your words, shaking his head. “Okay then honey.” 

“To answer your question, I was bored and I felt like it.” You weren’t exactly lying. Doing research on your laptop had lost its charm when you kept hitting dead end after dead end. But you weren’t going to admit that you just wanted to be as close to him as possible (there were days that you wanted to crawl into his skin, but you weren’t going to address that thought any time soon). 

“You got bored doing research didn’t you?” 

“Yep.” You popped the ‘p’ as you answered Sam, and he shook his head at you. 

He kissed your forehead, and your eyes fluttered at the feeling of his lips on your skin. Sam pulled back slightly before kissing you. You sunk into the kiss before he pulled back, placing another peck on your lips. 

“Are you going to stay there the entire time?” Sam asked you as he picked up the book from the bed. 

You nodded. 

“Will that be comfortable for you?” Sam had a slight frown on his lips. Not that he didn’t love having you this close to him, but he didn’t think that his sweater was big enough for the both of you. 

“I’ll be fine.” You told him before shifting downwards slightly, resting your head on his collarbone, and closing your eyes. 

Sam couldn’t help but smile at the sight of you through the opening of his sweater. He kissed your forehead again before going back to reading. 

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[daistea]

Laios, Mithrun, and Kabru x Reader Headcanons

Word Count: 1,483

Falling In Love With You & Relationship Headcanons

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

Laois

It takes a little while for Laios to realize the truth of his feelings, to be honest. He doesn’t have much experience with romance, and actually not much interest in it either, so he sees you as a really good beloved friend. 

He falls in love without realizing and spends quite a while having no clue that he’s in love. Everybody else knows how he feels and are impatiently waiting and watching for him to realize it too.

Laios thinks of you often. Between the pages of monster doodles and notes are very badly drawn doodles of you. (He’s made you a monster-sona, it's very cool, but he's too nervous to show you.)

Laios says the sweetest things without realizing they’re sweet. He’ll always tell you that you look nice. He’ll always make sure you’re well fed. He’ll always make sure you’re safe.

He spends a lot of time around you. A lot. He’s like your shadow, or a puppy at your heels.

He only realizes how he feels after a big event, such as you dying in the dungeon, getting hurt, etc… 

But even then, he’s not really sure what to do with himself. He starts to get more nervous and pulls away a little bit, but his actions with you also become more weighty and serious. His touches are more meaningful, he looks you in the eyes deeply often when he’s talking to you, he tends to put a hand on your back to lead you through the dungeon (though he gets flustered when he does that.) Laios basically starts trying to put more thought into how he acts around you, trying to be cooler or more charming, but this isn’t very sustainable because he’s not being himself anymore. This is probably fixed by someone in the party telling him to stop, or by yourself.

Laios is a clingy partner. He’s very touchy and unashamed about it. He doesn’t realize he’s touching you half the time, it’s just habit. He’s the type to absently draw circles on your thigh or hand. 

He isn’t particularly jealous, mainly because he doesn’t realize it when people are flirting with you unless they outright say it. Then he’s just worried about you, and how you feel. He can be protective though, he just doesn’t really know what to do if it’s a human threatening you. 

Buy this man a bouquet of flowers once and he’ll start thinking about marriage. He likes affection from you. 

Laios’s love languages? All of it. Every type. Gift giving and physical touch are big for him though.

You ask Laios for a baby and he just thinks for a minute… His cheeks are a little pink as he asks, “What kind?” Preferably human, you say. He tries to hide his disappointment but agrees nonetheless. 

Kabru

Kabru is immediately aware of what’s happening with himself. The very moment he hears you laugh and thinks to himself, “Wow, what a pretty sound…” He’s like haha hold up! No. 

Kabru is a charmer and knows how to handle people. I believe he’s been in very light, casual relationships before, but nothing serious. At first, he’d assume his feelings for you are light, like usual. Nothing to be concerned about. 

He starts getting the urge to dissect your thoughts and put each of them into little jars for him to inspect. He does not say this out loud and tries not to show it, but he stares a lot. 👁️👁️

His feelings for you quickly become a chess game that he’s determined to win. Unfortunately, you’re eating the pieces when he’s not looking. 

He worms his way into your life very subtly. One moment, he’s asking you how you feel about the weather, the next moment he’s urging you to spill your childhood trauma. It’s only when he takes a step back and asks himself, “Why do I care so much?” that he realizes how serious of a situation this is. 

Of course, Kabru cares about a lot of people. He likes to know things. But this is different. He wants to know every little detail about you simply for his good pleasure. Sure, he files it all away into neatly organized cabinets in his mind, but he has no intent to use that information for anything but your happiness. 

For example: Kabru will most definitely remember that offhand comment you made about preferring a certain table at that one restaurant you visited three years ago. He’ll make sure you get that table. He knows exactly what you’ll order too. 

When he’s wrong about you, though, it baffles but simultaneously charms him. 

You people-watch together. He can probably read lips, and he tells you what the people around you are saying. 

He needs to keep you away from the dungeon. Not because of anything you did, but because he might go a little mad if he doesn’t at least try to keep you away from that lifestyle. 

Kabru is chivalrous and kind. He kisses your knuckles a lot, like a gentleman. He puts his hand on the small of your back. He fixes your hair if it’s messed up. He isn’t much for pda, but it’s obvious you two are a couple with the way he often whispers to you, catches your eye, and smiles at you. 

He’s a blanket hog. He doesn’t mean to be, but he is. 

Jealousy isn’t a big thing with Kabru. Sure, he feels it, but he stays calm and will simply wrap an arm around your shoulder and start a conversation with the person flirting with you. He’ll end up actually making their acquaintance and have a relatively okay conversation. He's still jealous, but distracted enough for it to not consume him. 

Kabru's love languages are acts of service and physical touch.

You ask Kabru for a baby and he just laughs. He thinks you’re joking. After a moment, it sets in that you’re not joking and he gets flustered.

Mithrun

Mithrun is vaguely aware of what’s happening when he’s falling in love, it just doesn’t seem like something he needs to acknowledge, think about, or act on. He’s wrong. 

To be honest, he doesn’t believe he’s capable of romantic love. He’s wrong.

It starts out very subtly. Mithrun starts to take more notice of the little things about you; the color of your hair in the sun, the color of your eyes, how your voice sticks in the back of his brain and refuses to leave. Mithrun knows what this means, but he doesn’t really care at the moment.

Then, it starts getting more intense. Without meaning to, he notices the shape of your lips, the feeling of your skin, the sound of your footsteps… 

This is when he starts getting a little curious. Is this a desire the demon missed within him? Is this a new desire forming? Huh.

Pre-ending Mithrun chooses to ignore it because what’s the point? This results in some irritation for him, longing looks(he doesn’t look longing on the outside, but it’s there on the inside. What everybody else sees is just... a slight look of determination on his face. He has no idea he's making that face either nor does he really care.) and unexplained protective tendencies that shock the canaries and, occasionally, himself.

Post-ending Mithrun chooses to dig deeper because this is a desire forming and he wants to hang onto every tiny molecule of desire he possesses with all of his strength. This results in soft touches at every opportunity he has, willingness to do whatever you ask, and his constant presence with no discernible explanation. 

Are you dating? Nobody quite knows, not even you. 

Mithrun was naturally jealous and possessive before The Incident. He doesn’t get like that again until you come along, and then it’s like his old self wakes up a little. Just a little. He doesn’t make scenes or get emotional over it, but he will calmly walk up to somebody that’s flirting with you, touch their shoulder, then teleport them away from you.

 If someone asks what you are to him, he simply says, “Mine,” or “Does it matter?” with a straight face.

He can be seen frequently wrapping his arms around you from behind and resting his head on top of yours if you’re shorter, or on your shoulder if you’re taller. 

On occasion, he will be caught with a small smile as he holds you. It’s rare, but it happens. What’s he thinking at those moments? No one knows. 

The canaries are incredibly nosy— aside from Pattadol— about your relationship, and Mithrun has no qualms about answering their invasive questions. 

Mithrun’s love languages are acts of service and physical touch. You’re the only one he likes touching. He doesn’t say I Love You often but he will definitely lean on you a lot and protect you even if you don’t need it. 

You ask for a baby and he calmly says, "Give me a week... What color do you want?"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[ladyrosemone]

History does not remember blood, it remembers names

Using Google Translate here, sorry for any spelling mistakes or inconsistencies 🗣‼️‼️

Tw: allusion to child prostitution, prostitution, death of a secondary character, abandonment of minors, allusion to negligence.

It wasn't always like this, you know.

You weren't like this when was younger, when mom would put you hair in those cute braids or dress you up to match her on dress-up Wednesdays, or even when she taught you how to put on makeup instead of buying the bike you wanted, one that you friend Michelle had. It was metallic blue, with white streamers hanging from the handlebars, and you still remembers it clear as the sun because that was the first time you felt envious of something foreign.

You was never blind to injustice, you saw it every day; at school when the teacher took you away recess because some brats weren't silent, at home when mom didn't give you dessert for some stupid reason, but the most recurrent one was the one that took the bread out of their mouths.

You understood it when you turned nine, when you woke and you beloved mother decided it was time for contribute to the household; On you birthday she took you to a fat old man, whom she said was his boss, he dressed you the way her mother dressed on a Wednesday and a Thursday and a Friday and a Saturday and a Sunday and she put so much makeup on you that you eyes burned.

She didn't want to do it, she wasn't going to do it, but when your boss comes to your home to demand protection money and sees you child, what else do you do but make things easier?

That's what adults love most.

She was not a bad mother, she was loving and protective, affectionate and self-sacrificing, but she was also a woman desperate to fulfill the most basic needs of a human, to eat and sleep safely one more night, and if she must use her little girl for that, may God forgive her on his last day.

And you loved her too, but not enough to intervene when you saw being pulled into a car, or asked her boss for help when others did, and you'll be damned if you refuses to be taken to the police station to take a statement, poor baby.

"Is in shock" they say that word a lot, even now "Leave in a foster home, there is no room in orphanages"

Like divine intervention, an old but royal gentleman like a general entered his life.

Alfred Pennyworth took you to a large house one day; He apologized for taking a while to find her, saying that he would never have expected that a child of Bruce Wayne would have been born in a prostitution ring and lived there for eleven years.

Suddenly you had a father and a brother, but it was like you didn't have them at all.

Bruce not a father, never a father was distant, like one of those men who only rented you to pretend to be a therapeutic doll, and Richard was...annoying, angry, lashing out at everyone all the time, a brat who left you without dessert because of his tantrums.

But you were good at something, at pleasing; It was never touched, thank God, but you're observant and you've learned a few tricks to cajole people.

That didn't work in them, not until Jason Todd came along.

He was better than Richard without a doubt, and for a few years he was you best friend; two peas in a pod, vanilla and chocolate, brothers of everything but blood, and for a time you found home in him.

And then Joker took him away.

You were never interested in being vigilante, dressing up as a traffic light and running across the roofs at night, but in those years you wished could have gone with him, to be a Robin just so you could avenge your brother.

Shortly after, Tim Drake arrived, Bruce's shadow, his little chameleon copying his movements, his gestures, his personality and you hated him with every part of your being.

At that time you stopped trying to bond with Bruce, you would never be his son, and quoting what he said;

"I don't have time, not now, not for you"

But yes for Barbara, yes for Stephenie, yes for that spawn of hell with whom you share blood, and yes for her adored daughter, Cassandra.

It was the straw that broke the camel's back, finding out that Jason, your brother Jason, had come back to life and never came to you, the only person who has entered your heart besides your mother, had abandoned you, betrayed you.

And then a metahuman arrives and they open the doors to him as if it were nothing?

Well, fuck them.

Although in reality, it was not your plan to return to your origin, who would have thought that finding your old friend Michelle in an alley after being thrown out of a van on the verge of death was going to give you the biggest reward in Gotham.

Loyalty.

Unlike you, Michelle did not have a millionaire father who claimed her like a carnival puppy, and her fate was no different from that of her dead mother, but she had contacts, people who knew things about more people and that a third spectator like you could use.

And if you learned anything in that damn mansion, it was to sweeten their words, caress egos and say what they want to hear, you learned to deceive and pretend, to disguise your intentions and attack without killing.

You learned to be a snake instead of a bat.

And like sweet karma, divine intervention or whatever you like to believe, starting your business from the brothel where your mother sold you by giving that fat bald guy to his enemies and taking his place, wasn't a bad way to start his story.

"Don't you think that's a brutal origin story?" You ask, looking with amusement at the infiltrated man now slowly bleeding out on your rug, Is it considered a fur rug if it's the skin of the past boss?

—Liar —he mutters in pain, writhing in pain and under the gaze of your cruel eyes — You killed them in cold blood! Your poisonous tongue made us destroy ourselves from within! Two-faced whore!

“I always like how creative they get when they’re dying” you reply, leaning back in your leather swivel chair, because no animal cruelty for you, you are not a monster “Anyway, I hear Ivy needs test subjects for her new fragrances, but I think you’d make a better fertilizer, Michelle dear”

Your right hand opens the door, where two men grab the traitor and take him out while he continues screaming, varying between cursing her and crying out for mercy "I hope it helps Pamela before the hyenas eat him"

Now you're Gotham's super predator, and your heart is hungry.

[hehearse]

so you made a river out of your body, made  a pomegranate of your heart

Sean Glatch - Pomegranate 

a commission to the yuri warrior and my dearest @leejihye ^^

[waynes-multiverse]

No Rules in Breakable Heaven

Abandon the Ship Pt. I

And you say I abandoned the ship, but I was going down with it...

Series Summary: It starts with a chase and ends with his name in your mouth. He says it’s just for fun. Late nights. No strings. No promises. You were never supposed to matter. But he keeps coming back like a habit he can't quit. He’s bleeding time, and you’re getting too close to something meant to burn out fast.

Pairing: Mark Meachum x reader

Warnings: +18 due to language and smut (p in v, oral f/m, fingering), meet-cute (Wayne's Version), strangers to lovers, one-night stand, drinking, humor, tiny humans, a pinch of angst, fluff?

Word Count: 6.8k

A/N: Aaaah, new character alert (& Cruel Summer vibes)! So happy I finally get to share this!! This was what probably sucked most about all the bad luck recently because I've been so stoked to do this for weeks!! I have definitely some interesting plans for this, depending how the show goes 🤞🤓

Series Masterlist || Tag List || Patreon

Los Angeles mornings have a chaotic rhythm in designer packaging.

The sun climbs slow and golden over the hills, the air is still soft with sleep, and the city hasn’t decided yet what kind of madness it wants to be today. In these quiet hours, before the honking and the sirens and the buzz of espresso machines, you load three small children into a luxury SUV like a very determined sherpa, tugging straps tight and adjusting sippy cups like a one-woman pit crew. 

“Okay,” you say brightly, securing the last car seat strap with a satisfying click, brushing a Cheerio out of the baby’s curls before slamming the door shut. “Who remembers what we talked about?”

“No yelling,” Mila says, swinging her feet.

“No trash cans,” her twin brother mutters with a suspicious look in his eyes.

“Snacks,” Noah offers with great confidence, clutching a half-eaten graham cracker in one sticky hand.

“Close enough,” you sigh and slide into the driver’s seat. 

The twins – Miles and Mila – are four, full of righteous opinions, and identical only in destructive potential. Noah, the baby is nearly two and convinced you have magic powers because you know where the food lives. 

You’ve got a system. You can wrangle them like a pro – park visits, potty breaks, stroller logistics, snack distribution. You’ve handled full-blown meltdowns in the middle of Whole Foods and a spontaneous naked rebellion during music class. By now, you know you can handle any lemons (or diapers) life throws your way.

Today, for example, it’s spilled yogurt, someone’s sock in the toilet, and a small argument over whether bees have bones. You manage all three before 8 AM – fully dressed, caffeinated, and armed with the kind of calm that only comes from deeply internalized panic.

This morning, like most, starts at Echo Park. 

It’s a staple on your approved outing list. Safe, scenic, stroller-friendly. You’ve done the swings, the climbing structure, and the obligatory duck sighting. You’ve run interference on a toddler standoff over a sand shovel. You’ve kissed a scraped knee, and Noah has climbed into your lap as soon as you sat down on the bench. 

You’ve let him. You always do. 

You then check your watch. It’s been just under two hours. Enough. 

It’s just past 11 AM, and it’s time to get them back in the car once again before someone decides to pee in public. The late June heat in Los Angeles is already starting to settle in – the kind of warmth that fools you into thinking the day will stay pleasant before the concrete starts to bake and everything smells like burnt tires and desperate ambition.

“Okay, team,” you call out across the playground. “Wrap it up. The countdown’s running. Shoes on. Water break, then back to the car.” 

Groans. Crushed spirits. The usual protests.

You herd them toward the exit gate like a very tired Border Collie. Behind you, two small hurricanes tumble through the grass, still high off sugar and sunshine. They are locked in some kind of chase game that involves yelling, giggling, and occasional threats of mortal revenge. 

Meanwhile, your arms ache from carrying Noah, who is perfectly capable of walking, but has recently decided he’s emotionally allergic to the ground and too insulted for the stroller. But the finish line is in sight.

The car is parked in the middle of Echo Park’s lot while three small humans orbit around you like caffeinated moons as you throw your purse and phone onto the passenger seat and load diaper bags, stroller, two bikes, and bag full of sandbox toys into the trunk. 

“Okay,” you say, breathlessly, heaving the last bag into the car. “Everybody chill. Everyone breathe. Mila, I swear, if you take off your shoes again–”

“I’m a raccoon,” Mila informs you, twirling as she holds the hem of her dress like a movie star. “Raccoons don’t wear shoes.”

Miles is spinning in tight, dizzying circles on the sidewalk as well, with his arms straight out and his shirt on backwards. You made a note to fix it twenty minutes ago, but you’re too far gone now.

“Hey!” you call. “Miles, keep spinning like that and you’re gonna barf.”

“I like barfing!”

“Cool. Let’s save it for after lunch,” you tell him and look at them – your little circus, all noise and limbs. 

This is your life, now. Juice stains and bandaids. Screaming over sunscreen. Three little people who talk to you like you’re Google and God combined.

You exhale through your teeth, palms bracing against the SUV. It’s sleek, dark, and more expensive than anything you’ve ever owned. You’ve memorized every button, every storage compartment, every stain removal protocol. You know exactly where the granola bars are hidden and which seatbelt sticks in the heat. 

You should be more tired, and some days, you are. But right now, you’re just trying to get them into the goddamn car, already calculating who’s going in first. 

And then you hear it – footsteps. Loud. Fast. Coming right toward you like for some godforsaken reason, you’re the target.

You whip around to see a man sprinting across the parking lot. 

Tall. Built like trouble and doesn’t know how to sit still. Longer, shiny hair. Trimmed beard that says ‘yes, I know what I’m doing, and I’m doing it well.’ Black jeans on bow legs, a gray t-shirt clinging to his broad chest, a battered leather jacket flaring behind him like a cape, his expression wild and focused.

And then, dark green eyes lock onto you. 

You flinch instinctively, already stepping in front of the kids. This is fucking LA, after all. The crazy doesn’t hide in this town – it lives everywhere. 

“Hey! I need your car!” he shouts, reaching into his jacket as he skids to a stop in front of you.

Your heart skips before he flashes a badge, and you exhale with relief – but only for a second. 

“LAPD, Detective Meachum,” he says, baritone voice breathless and rough with adrenaline. “I need to borrow your vehicle. Emergency. Official police business.”

“I–… What–” You blink, already shaking your head before you realize you’re doing it. “No.” 

“No?” His mouth curves with the kind of smile that has probably gotten him out of a hundred bad decisions.

“That’s right. No,” you repeat and don’t budge. “I have three kids under the age of five, a half-eaten granola bar melting in my bra, and I’m not about to let some sweaty stranger with a badge and a beard and zero sense of boundaries Grand Theft Auto nap time.” 

His brow raises. Then he smiles a little. “You like the beard?”

You freeze, your heart pounding faster, mouth opening. “Wha–”

“Just saying, you mentioned it.” He smirks.

Asshole. 

“What in the Fast and the Furious hell is wrong with you?!”

He really looks at you then – like he’s used to getting what he wants and doesn’t know what to do when someone pushes back. Sharp green eyes are already sizing up how much trouble you’re going to be as his chest rises and falls fast, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. 

“Ma’am–” 

“Oh, don’t ma’am me,” you snap. “You don’t get to ma’am me and then try to leave me stranded in a parking lot. I have three children here. Three.”

His gaze flicks to the twins, to the toddler, then back to you. The kids aren’t crying. They’re just staring at him like he’s the lead actor in a movie they’re too young to see.

Honestly, you feel like you’re too young to see that movie. 

You can smell the heat on him – sweat, asphalt, and something a little reckless. His apple green eyes glitter in the sunlight, and for a second, just a second, your brain fucking stutters.

He gives you a crooked grin, breath still catching in his chest. “I can see that. They’re cute.”

You narrow your eyes to a glare. “Don’t.”

“They’ve got your eyes.”

“They absolutely do not.” 

His lips twitch, but he schools it quickly. “Look, I’m trying to be polite here.”

“Oh, how gracious of you,” you huff. “What d’you want me to do, huh? Just stand here while you joyride in my car?”

“I wouldn’t call it a joyride. I’m chasing someone. Armed suspect. Probably shouldn’t have told you that.” He smiles, and you hate how good it looks on him.  

His voice is clipped, clipped, clipped – like every second he talks to you, he’s losing ground. And yet there’s a glint in his eyes that doesn’t match the urgency. Amusement. Or maybe something worse – fucking charm. 

“You can’t just take someone’s car,” you argue and cross your arms. 

“I mean, I can. That’s what the badge is for.” He flashes a quick, exasperated grin – somehow both dazzling and rude. “Look, I really don’t have time to explain, and I can see that you’re doing a stellar job here. No one’s bleeding. Gold star. But if you don’t give me those keys, someone else might not be so lucky. So unless you want to explain to the evening news why a guy got away on your watch–”

“My watch?!”

“–I suggest you hand over the keys,” he finishes and is smug as hell about it, as if he knows he’s going to get away with this.

You hate that it’s working.

“You are unbelievable,” you hiss through your teeth.

“I get that a lot.”

“You are not taking this car!” 

The kids are watching you now, silently waiting. You hesitate, and that’s all he needs.

“Respectfully, ma’am – yes, I am.” He plucks the keys from your hand before you even feel them leave your fingers. 

“Hey!” 

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says, throwing himself into the driver’s seat. “You’re doing amazing.”

“Wait! My bag–” 

Too late. He’s already shutting the door and adjusting the seat. You lunge for the handle, but the lock clicks before your hand reaches it. He winks at you through the window.

He fucking winks. 

“Tell your husband he’s a lucky guy,” he shouts through the glass with a grin, the engine roaring to life. 

And then, he’s gone. Car, purse, phone, and all.

The SUV screeches out of the lot, tires biting the scorching pavement. You stand frozen, stunned, three kids clustered around your legs, one arm still reaching for the car that’s now halfway down the block and vanishing fast. 

The kids erupt into giggles. Mila claps. Miles yells, “That was so cool!” 

And you? You are going to fucking scream. 

Mila shrugs and says, “That guy’s weird.” 

You stare into the blinding sun above, questioning your life choice and wondering if you’re going to make it home before nap time and the kids turn feral. 

“Yeah,” you mutter. “He’s definitely weird.”

You crack open the front window of your living room, letting in what passes for night air in June in Altadena. It smells faintly of cut grass, someone’s grill, and the perpetual low hum of traffic. The TV glows in the background – some reality show you’re not really watching. 

You settle back down onto the couch and place your laptop across your thighs, half a job application typed out, half a bottle of beer drunk, half a bag of tortilla chips devoured beside you. 

The house is quiet – too quiet, if you’re honest. 

You’re still half-expecting a tiny voice calling your name, someone asking for another glass of water, or forgetting how to pronounce rhinoceros. But there’s nothing. Just you, your crappy Wi-Fi, and a cheap beer sweating into your palm. 

Your body aches, and not in the cute way either. It’s a bone-deep exhaustion, radiating from your lower back and shoulders and wrapping around your knees like lead. 

You eventually got the kids home today – thank God for LA’s ride-share drivers with patience and car seats. You spent two hours apologizing, another three hours panicking, and the rest of the day waiting for a knock on the door that never came. 

No car returned. No badge. Nothing. 

You groan and flop your head back against the couch, taking a slow sip of warm beer and closing your eyes for a full five seconds.

Then comes the knock. Of fucking course. 

You drag yourself upright, expecting a neighbor or a Jehovah’s Witness or someone trying to sell solar panels. But you are definitely not expecting a six-foot-one, leather-jacketed disaster with a crooked grin and a bottle of whiskey. 

Detective Meachum holds up your purse like a trophy. “Special delivery.” 

He flashes a smile that should be registered as a deadly weapon. T-shirt, leather jacket, jeans – like he just stepped off the set of a cop show where the detective never plays by the rules and always gets the girl.

Your mouth falls open. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…”

“Surprise?”

“You–… I–” You steel yourself for a moment. “You absolute fucking asshole!”  

“Okay,” he says calmly, head bobbing. “I deserved that. Possibly more. Definitely more. You can hit me if you want.”

“You derailed my entire day!” 

“I am aware now, yes. Hence–” He jostles the whiskey bottle in his hand. “Liquid penance. Sold a kidney for this one.” 

But you’re not falling for the smile again and already spiraling into a rant. “I had to drag three kids back to the park with no phone, no snacks, no diapers, no stroller, and no fucking backup! Mila threw up on my shoes!” 

He winces theatrically. “That’s a rough one.”

“Oh, you think?” You raise your brow and fold your arms over your chest. “When I asked a dad at the playground if he could call me an Uber, he tried to hit on me and said his wife wasn’t home tonight.” 

“Oof,” he says and whistles lowly. “Men are trash.”

“Present company included,” you shoot back.

“Guilty.” He grins and tilts his head slightly. “Guess you had a shitty day after I dramatically exited stage left, huh?”

“You could say that,” you grumbled. 

“I mean, in fairness, I didn’t realize I was kicking off a domino effect of childcare-based misery,” he adds apologetically. “But yes, my bad.”

“You didn’t come back!” 

“Look, I had every intention of–… Okay, yeah, you’re right.” He sighs then upon your glare and leans a shoulder casually against your doorframe like it’s a bar in a dive he’s already been thrown out of once tonight. “In my defense, it was a legit chase, alright? High speed. Real stakes. Tires screeching.” 

“So, did you at least get your guy? Or did you just wreck my life for fun?” you ask dryly. 

“Ah,” he says and grins, pointing like you’ve queued him up. “Funny story. Buckle in.”

You roll your eyes and exhale a deep breath. 

“So, I’m flying out of the lot, and this absolute maniac I’m chasing takes a hard turn into a construction site – which, okay, bold move,” he begins, already gesturing animatedly. “Naturally, I follow. Bad idea. Perp jumps out of the car and bolts across three lanes of traffic and then bam – Tesla cuts me off. Scooter kid zips out of fucking nowhere. There’s a smoothie involved, too. Long story short, I hit a pole.” 

Your eyes widen. “You totaled the car?” 

“I–… yes. Technically,” he says and scratches the back of his neck. “There’s no polite way to say ‘the front half crumpled like a soda can.’”

You arch an eyebrow. “And you show up now?” 

“I had to go to the hospital for a wrist X-ray,” he explains. “And then I had to track you down. Wasn’t as easy, you know?”

A tiny smirk curls your lips. “Bet it wasn’t.” 

He huffs a chuckle. “Yeah, I went to the address on the registration. Huge, beautiful house. Fancy gate. Trimmed hedges. Thought, ‘wow, someone’s doing alright.’” 

“Surprised?” you tease.

“A little. No offense, but I didn’t expect the soccer mom in a hoodie full of apple juice stains and a messy bun to live in a mansion in the Hills,” he admits with a soft laugh, and you feel your cheeks catch heat. “Anyways, I ring the bell, expecting you to answer, probably with a toddler stuck to your legs. Definitely with more kids screaming in the background. But instead, some icy blonde with a face carved by botox and rage opens the door.”

You poke the inside of your cheek with your tongue to cover the grin on your lips as best as you can. “And how did that go over?”

“Oh, not well.” He snorts a chuckle. “Malibu Cruella de Vil launched into a full-blown tirade. Said she was gonna call her lawyer. Said you stole her car. Basically told me to arrest myself. Been with the LAPD for a little over a decade, and that was a first.”

“You got me fired,” you cut into his soft laughter. 

“Right.” He clears his throat and his voice of amusement, nodding. “I know. I’m sorry. But hey, at least it’s not your car.”

“What a relief,” you deadpan.

He purses his lips. “So, not your kids, huh?”

“Nope.”

“And I’m guessing the name on the registration isn’t your husband either, and you’re not actually married to a plastic surgeon named Craig,” he deduces. 

“Wow. Are you a detective by any chance?” you mock with a wry smile.

He laughs, throwing his head back a little. “Yeah, might’ve done some minimal detective work to figure out where you live and return your stuff. And, alright, maybe also checked if you didn’t have a six-foot-five husband waiting behind the door with a shotgun.”

“Mhm,” you hum and cock a brow. “You really want me to believe that? You sure you’re not just here to see if you have a shot with the nanny you got fired?”

He clasps a hand to his chest, innocent and mock-affronted. “What, me? No.” He shakes his head unconvincingly, then smirks – slow and lazy. “I came here out of pure, unselfish guilt. But seriously, I figured I owed you a whiskey, at least. And your phone.” He hands it over, adding, “I put my number in, by the way. You know, break glass in case of Mark.”

You lift an eyebrow. “Mark?”

“Uh, yeah,” he chuckles and sends you a softer smile now, slightly flustered. “Me. I’m Mark. Hi.”

“Right. I’m–”

“Yeah, no, I know. I looked it up before I came here, remember?” Mark says, amused, probably noticing how your face is a shade redder now. But then his expression turns a little more sincere. “And hey, I’m sure you’ll find a new gig quickly. I mean, honestly, she was stupid to fire you. You looked like you were killing it with these kids. Hell, I, for sure, thought they were yours by the level of professionalism.”

“Still think they got my eyes?”

“Touché.” He snorts, grinning without shame. “But at least you don’t have to go back to that fancy hellhole and see that bitch again. Her loss, not yours, right?”

You let out a sigh, half-frustration and half-tiredness. “It’s not about her,” you share. “I’ve been with that family for three years. I caught the twins in my arms when they took their first steps. And the baby hadn’t even been born yet when I started there. His first word was my name.”

Mark nods like he suddenly understands then. “Right…” He clicks his tongue. “It was more than a job,” he realizes. 

“Yeah,” you breathe and offer him a small shrug. “It always is.”

“Well, look, I really am sorry for getting you fired. That sucks,” he says. And for the first time, it really sounds like he means it. “Anything I can do? You want me to talk to Malibu bitch? Tell her it’s all my fault?”

“No, it’s fine,” you assure him and exhale a breath. “It’s not gonna help. Trust me. Not entirely your fault alone. After I finally got the kids home, she yelled at me and was upset we missed toddler yoga.”

“Toddler yoga?” His brow quirks.

“Yes, it’s as stupid as it sounds,” you mutter your response. “Anyways, one thing led to another, and after the morning I had, I guess I just lost it. I called her a wine mom who only spends time with her kids when it’s for an Instagram post. And maybe, possibly, I told her she’s turning her kids into tiny sociopaths by ignoring them and feeding them almond paste instead of affection... in front of her SoulCycle friends.”

“Damn. I’m impressed.” Mark lets out a bark of laughter. “Sounds like a great mom. Poor kids.”

“Yeah, and now they don’t even have me anymore,” you say quietly. “She didn’t even let me say goodbye to them. They’ll think I just vanished, probably wondering why I never came back.”

You feel it then – the way your throat closes, the way your eyes start to sting, and the way your heart constricts a little tighter behind your ribs. You’re about to cry, and the chaotic detective on your doorstep can probably tell as well since he shifts on his feet.

A beat passes where Mark quiets for once. 

“Well,” he says then, subtly clearing his throat. “If you feel like yelling some more about your ex-boss, or calling me names, or finishing that beer with something stronger–” He lifts the whiskey like it’s holy water. “I make a great audience. Terrible decisions, sure, but excellent company.” 

You hesitate. You know what this is, and you also know what happens as soon as you invite that man inside. It’s like the Big Bad Wolf knocked on your door tonight with a bottle of cheap booze and the promise of an orgasm. 

“C’mon,” he coaxes and smiles sweetly. “Let me in, yell at me some more, and I pour you a glass while you call me every name in the book. You can even call me a plague upon nannies everywhere. I’m great at getting screamed at. Just ask my captain.”

You lift a brow and eye him from head to toe, studying him. “What’s in it for you?”

“I get to drink expensive whiskey and hear more of your greatest hits while I pretend not to stare at your legs,” he says and grins wickedly. 

Fucking hell.

Your grip tightens on the door, and your brain tries to scramble for reasons why you should absolutely let a reckless stranger into your home. But it’s honestly been a while since you had a guy over. 

Your job is stressful, and most nights, you’re too exhausted to put on makeup and a tight, glittering dress to go out. And even if you do find your way into a club, you never stay too late or drink too much, knowing your alarm goes off early in the morning. 

You give a resigned sigh and step back, opening the door wider. “One drink.”

Mark tries to bite back a shit-eating smirk but doesn’t entirely succeed as he passes you and strolls inside. 

He got you fired. The least he can do is be a decent distraction for one night. 

The whiskey’s nearly gone. 

The bottle’s between you on the coffee table, glowing warm amber under the lamp. Your legs are folded under you on the couch, your head fuzzy and pleasantly light, body thrumming with a slow, steady burn that’s only partly the whiskey and mostly the company. 

Mark’s sitting sideways now, arm slung over the backrest just behind your shoulders, knee bent and almost touching yours. You haven’t told him to leave yet. 

He hasn’t brought it up either.

Instead, the conversation has turned lazy and slow – those late-night murmurs in low light that drift deeper without realizing. You certainly haven’t expected to trauma-bond about jobs, asshole bosses, and sleepless nights with the guy who abandoned you in a parking lot with three children and got you fired.

“So,” he says, voice quiet and rough like smoke. “What’s next for you, gremlin wrangler? Job-wise.”

“God,” you snort at the nickname. Then you give a shrug of your shoulders. “I don’t know. I already put up my post on the website. Probably find a family quickly. Good nannies are a hot commodity in LA, and this house doesn’t pay for itself.”

“Yeah, it’s a nice house. More cozy than the ice queen’s castle in the Hills,” Mark notes and takes another glance around your living room. “What’s the name of the Disney one again?”

You arch a brow. “You mean Elsa from Frozen?” 

“Yeah, that’s the one. Let’s call her that.” He grins wide and a little drunk – maybe on more than just the whiskey. “Of course you know your Disney.”

“Part of the job description,” you quip. 

“How much are you paying rent for this place anyways?”

“Oh, I’m not renting. It’s mine,” you say proudly. The house is small, old, but yours. 

Mark’s brow raises. “You inherited or something?”

“No, dumbass,” you snort a laugh. “I bought it. Couple months ago, actually. Still thinking of what exactly I’m gonna do with this place, you know? I mean, granted, I’m still paying off a huge mortgage, but it’s all mine.”

“Jesus,” he scoffed, brow furrowing. “How much do nannies earn?”

“In LA? Pretty well,” you reply. “If you’re a good nanny, which I am. Elsa actually paid me an annual salary of 200k, including all expenses paid when they wanted me to come on vacation with them. I went to the Maldives three times and twice to Europe. Didn’t pay a cent.”

“Seriously?” Mark sinks a little back into the couch and takes a sip of his drink. “Man, guess I’m doing something wrong. You get that much for dealing with diapers and tantrums? I barely earn half of that, and I’m getting shot at almost every day.”

“Hey, Miles once had a phase where he head-butted me every time he gave me a hug. For fun,” you say, laughing. “And I’m getting shot at with pee, poop, and puke on a daily basis. It’s not all sunshine and Bluey.”

“Honestly, same. I get the pee, poop, puke a lot, too. And the head-butts.” Mark laughs. “I mean, not as much anymore. But surely happened a lot more when I was still working patrol. You know, I think this is the first time I’m questioning my life choices.”

“First time? Really?” you tease with a little grin. 

He matches it. “Maybe happened once or twice before that.”

You then let out a long sigh. “Well, if it helps, I’m questioning my life choices right now, too. I was supposed to go to Europe with them again in September. Just me and the French Riviera.”

“And three kids under five,” Mark adds, copying your wistful tone in jest. 

“Hey, they do sleep sometimes,” you retort, giggling. “And then it’s just me and whatever hot Italian or French guy with an unbuttoned shirt buys me the first drink at the bar.”

“Wow, didn’t know you were that easy,” he taunts you a little, that tiny wolfish smirk spreading under the beard again. “I bought you a whole bottle. What does that get me?”

“You bought me a bottle because you got me fired,” you counter playfully. 

“Fair,” he says, but the smirk doesn’t disappear. “I wouldn’t worry about finding another job. Any family would be lucky to have you. I mean, you care, you know? That’s rare to find in an employee.”

“How do you know? You just met me today,” you challenge him with a little smile. 

Mark leans in a little like he’s sharing a secret. “First thing I noticed about you. I mean, I came running up to you probably looking like a maniac, and you immediately moved in front of the kids and looked at me like you were ready to shoot me in the middle of the street in broad daylight.”

“Funny. That was exactly what I was thinking,” you joke, and he laughs again – full, soft, and warm. 

“Well, anyways, I figured, ‘Yeah, of course she is. Now that’s a great mom.’ And then I find out those aren’t even your kids,” he says, and there’s something in the green of his eyes you can’t quite decode. “So, yeah, I’d say you give a shit, and your next family should give you a goddamn throne.” 

“Smooth,” you giggle softly, your gaze drifting to your fingers in your lap. 

He suddenly groans then and squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s in pain and leans slightly forward on his thighs. 

“You okay? Too much whiskey?” you check and tilt your head with a soft smile. 

He chuckles lightly, blinking his eyes back open, and empties his tumbler. “Uh, maybe. Just a headache. Already gone.” He smiles somewhat convincingly, your gazes locking.

A heartbeat passes, and your breath catches. He clocks it. 

His hand moves slowly – first toward your glass, taking it from you without breaking eye contact, then setting it down on the coffee table with a gentle clink. When he turns back, his face is closer and you can almost count each freckle on the tip of his nose. His fingers graze your wrist, tracing upward. He gently pulls a little, and you shift closer till your leg is brushing his. 

It’s silent for a moment. Green eyes drop to your mouth, then flick back up – asking without asking. You don’t pull back or answer, just hold his gaze.

And then, his lips press against yours.

It’s scorching hot from the start. He kisses you like he’s been dying to all night and you’re his goddamn last meal. His lips are plump, firm, and searching, and when you gasp, he takes the opportunity to deepen it, tongue sliding against yours as his hand moves to the back of your neck. 

The tension explodes all at once. He tastes like good whiskey and leather and sweat, and you kiss him like you’re starving for it. You climb into his lap, straddling his muscular thighs, fingers eagerly tugging at the hem of his shirt. He growls against your mouth, hands dragging down your back, gripping your ass hard as you grind against him.

“Bedroom?” he mutters without ever really parting from your skin. 

“Left down the hall,” you pant, breathless. “First door.” 

He hauls you up like you weigh nothing, hands on your thighs, mouth never leaving yours. The trip down the hallway is frantic – bumping into walls, your bubbly laughter tangled in his deep groans, your fingers tugging at his belt as he kicks open the door.

Clothes fly in all directions. You don’t know who takes off what first or in which order. You just know you want to feel as much warm skin underneath your fingertips as you can tonight. 

He bites your shoulder and kisses your neck. You bite his jaw and kiss his collarbone. When there’s just underwear left, you push him down on the bed and fall to your knees in front of him. 

He looks down at you like he’s already ruined – broad chest rising fast, pupils blown wide, boxers tenting with how ready he is. His hands fist in the sheets like he’s trying not to grab you, dark green eyes looking at you as if they want to see what you’ll do next. 

You curl your fingers into the waistband, and he lifts his hips in a silent offering. You drag the fabric down, slow and unhurried, watching the way his cock springs free –thick, flushed, and leaking. Beautiful and heavy, twitching against his stomach like it’s aching for you. 

You take him in your hand first, wrapping your fingers around the base, stroking him just once – slow, deliberate. His hips buck and his eyes snap back to yours. He runs a hand through his hair, head tilting back. 

Then you lean forward and lick a long stripe up the underside, tasting the salt of his skin, the heady musk of him. He groans, deep and raw, as you seal your lips around the tip. 

He’s hot, heavy, and velvety on your tongue. You hollow your cheeks, easing lower inch by inch, and one of his hands finds your hair, fingers tangling between strands. Not forcing – just there, grounding himself as you take him deeper.

But fuck, the sounds he makes? They’re low, unfiltered, almost feral. He keeps muttering your name under his breath like a prayer, and it sends tingles throughout your skin. You pull back just to swirl your tongue around the head before sinking again, letting your spit slick him up as your hand strokes what your mouth can’t reach.

He’s definitely more than the average you’ve usually taken home. And you didn’t even have to take this one home – he’s been practically delivered to your doorstep. Either by God or the devil, you’re not sure yet. 

“F-fuck, that mouth,” he hisses under his breath and twitches on your tongue, hips starting to rock in sync with you. 

And then suddenly, he pulls you off with a wet pop and a hand under your chin, tilting your face up. His eyes are dark, half-lidded, and hungry, jaw locked tight. He pulls you up by your arms into his lap, a secure arm wrapping around your middle as he brushes your hair out of your face with his other. 

“You keep doing that, I’m gonna come,” he says, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. 

“Thought that was the point,” you tease. 

“My turn.” He smirks.

You don’t get a chance to respond before he’s flipping you gently underneath him and dragging you further up the mattress. He kisses you contrastingly hard – tongue deep, his taste mixing with yours – before sliding down between your thighs and leaving featherlight kisses on your skin in his wake. 

He spreads your legs with both hands, gaze locked reverently on your center like it’s the only thing that matters. 

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs with a sleek smile as he runs his fingers through your slick heat.

And then his mouth is on you. 

Hot, slow licks that make your hips jerk, your back arch, and your fucking toes curl. He groans like it’s his favorite thing in the goddamn world, tongue moving in lazy circles before he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks. Your breath hitches and a strangled moan escapes. 

Holy shit. 

You’re almost sure you could’ve come from that alone, and it’s never this easy. But your own surprise doesn’t last long before you feel one, two fingers join in, and they seem to be even more clever and skilled than his tongue – thick digits curling until they hit that spongey spot that makes you cry out and no one ever reaches. 

Your thighs shake around his head and your hands fly to his silky hair, gripping tight as he devours you. His name falls from your lips among a few curses, and you break with a moan so loud and filthy you’re not sure the neighbors can’t hear it, too.

Your legs lock around his shoulders, your hips grind almost helplessly into his mouth, and he doesn’t stop until you whimper – until you push gently against his head before falling back into the sheets with the most blissful sigh ever uttered on this planet.

He kisses his way back up your body and chuckles against your neck. “Still mad at me for getting you fired?”

“Feeling better about it now,” you grin breathlessly. 

Fuck, you could peacefully fall asleep right now and never wake up and be perfectly fine with that. 

Then his mouth claims yours, and you taste yourself on his tongue. “Condom?” he asks, voice just a smoky rasp. 

Still panting, you silently reach over into your nightstand, tossing it to him with trembling fingers. Despite the satisfying ache in your bones, you still manage to prop yourself onto your elbows as he rips open the foil and rolls it down his throbbing length. 

His eyes find yours in the dark. “You good?”

You nod – dizzy, content, and keen – and kiss him in response, your hands gently pushing his shoulders back into the mattress. He watches you with mesmerized eyes as you bracket his hips. His massive hands spread wide on your thighs and slide higher and higher – gentle and coaxing. 

His cock stands thick and hard between you. Your knees press into the mattress as your fingers slide between you, guiding him to your entrance. The head slips against your folds, hot and slick and pulsing. You pause just for a second, breath catching in your lungs as you brace your hands on his smooth chest and sink down.

And shit, the stretch makes your whole body shudder. He’s so goddamn big, and you feel every single inch as you ease him in – burning, filling, aching. Your walls flutter around him, already overwhelmed. The ache slides into pleasure so quick your head spins.

“Fuck,” he grits out beneath you, eyes squeezing shut. “You feel–… Shit, you feel unreal.” 

You gasp as you bottom out, hips flush against his. You stay there for a heartbeat, throbbing around him as the thick weight of him stretches you to your limit. His warm hands come up to cradle your waist, callous thumbs brushing your ribs like he’s trying to ground himself. 

You find your rhythm gradually, rolling your hips in slow, deep circles. The angle makes you see more stars than there are in the sky – he hits every nerve ending like he was built to wreck you. His hands glide from your waist to the globes of your ass, helping you move, guiding you down harder.

And fuck, it feels good. You ride him like you need it – like this isn’t just sex, but it’s a goddamn exorcism. Sweat slicks your skin, your tits bounce with every movement, and his gaze is fixed on you like you’re the most beautiful damn thing he’s ever fucking seen. 

He thrusts up to meet you, the slap of skin-on-skin filling the room, wet and so goddamn shameless. The friction sends sparks spiraling through your belly, and you lean forward, bracing your palms on the headboard to take him even deeper. 

His mouth finds your neck, your shoulder, your nipples – biting, kissing, groaning your name. You grind down harder, chasing the fire pooling low in your stomach, and watch him fall apart underneath you – mouth slack, eyes wild, fingers gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise. Sweat beads on his chest, and his filthy praises tumble out like he can’t stop them. 

“Shit, look at you–… taking me so good… so fucking tight–” 

Your orgasm hits like a wave against rocks – your whole body trembles, muscles clenching around him, his name tearing from your throat over and over. You barely get your breath back before he grabs your waist, flips you onto your back, and drives into you again – deeper, harder. Animal.

He fucks you like he’s losing his mind and wants to lose it in you. He pounds into you with everything he has left – raw, ragged thrusts, fucking you like he’s trying to leave a piece of himself behind. 

Your legs wrap around his hips instinctively, your nails scrape down his back. He’s flushed, feral, lost in it – but when he looks down at you, it’s something else entirely. This isn’t just about getting off.

It’s about you.

He kisses you as he comes – deep and breathless and wild. 

His body goes taut. You feel him pulse, hear the guttural stutter in his breath as he buries himself to the hilt. He doesn’t move right away. Just pants against your neck, one hand cradling your face, the other pressed tight to your waist like he doesn’t want to let go. 

The air is thick with sweat and whiskey and sex, but underneath it blooms something warmer. It’s like everything else about him – reckless, consuming, and addictive. 

It’s not love. It’s not fate. It’s just heat and skin and something strange humming beneath it all that you can’t name – something that might fade with the morning light.

For now, though, you let it linger and let him stay.

▶️ What If I Told You I'm Back?

Do we like so far? How did you enjoy that little reader plot twist? I honestly had a little too much fun with this lol. Somehow Mark feels more up my alley than any other Jackles character, and I can't wait to see what else we get from him in the show 👀

I'll post parts of this series randomly whenever the muse strikes, life lets me write, and however the show develops, but we're definitely safe for the next 2-3 parts 🤓💙

⭐️ Tag List PSA: I updated the tag list to include Mark, so if you're not on my Everything Jensen tags, and want to be added to Everything Mark Meachum or this series specifically, fill out the form 🚀. If you received a tag for this story, you're already on the Everything list and will be tagged either way.

Coming Up:

It was a one-time thing. Good sex with a handsome stranger. A moment. A distraction. A hot, borderline reckless one-night stand with a guy who kissed like he meant it and fucked like he needed it.

Yes, it was good. Better than good. But it was also over. That’s how these things go.

You get out of the car, and the porch creaks under your feet as you climb the last step to your house, keys already in hand, eyes focused on the lock. You’re half on autopilot, your brain fried from interviews, LA traffic, and summer heat, when a deep voice cuts through the suburban quiet.

“Hey.”

You flinch so hard you let out a very undignified yelp, keys clattering to the floor. Your head snaps toward the sound, and there he is:

Mark.

He’s sitting on the bench to the left of your front door, half in shadow, one arm resting loosely on his thigh like he’s been waiting there for a while. The other hand, however, rubs the back of his neck like he already regrets being here.

“Jesus,” you breathe, one hand flying to your chest, heart pounding fast underneath your palm. “You scared the shit out of me.”

He stands instantly, clearly aware of how bad this looks – tall and awkward and handsome in the last light of day, offering a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You glance at the door, then back at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the area,” he says, which you both know is a lie. He clears his throat a little. “And honestly? Being a bit of a dick.”

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[naumala]

okok I know a lot of angst in DE is related to the objects losing touch / abandoning the player after realizing them buttttt what about the reverse where the mc is the one slowly reverting back to their old life now that they're really alone again.

(aka they might have been the exception to MCs' bad social habits when it was basically a forced proximity situation, but now they get to be the ones to experience it firsthand).

MC can admit that it's a heavy, bittersweet feeling when the house becomes more and more empty and quiet after realizing each person but refuses to let it show. who are they to hold back everyone (whether lovers or friends) from making a whole new life outside this house? they're all out living their best new human lives and figuring themselves out! it's a beautiful thing.

life goes on like it did before. way before.

at first it starts small– calls that were a regular thing slowly dwindling down to texts only (that new promotion keeping them busy is always a good excuse), which also start getting shorter answers and replied to less often as the weeks go by. trying to find the middle ground of either spam texting or giving MC space does nothing in terms of their unpredictable timing of when they finally respond to a two week old text.

visits that were made from the MCs side are practically nonexistent now. if you wanna see them face to face you have to go basically barging down their door because they're more than likely gonna pretend that they're not home unless you make a fuss of it, and even those visits feels awkward.

MC tries to rationalize their self-sabotaging habits in their mind like they always have with previous friends; they never were good at keeping in touch with people when they got all sad and weird. It was probably inevitable that it was gonna happen anyways. Might as well do it before they got way too attached and ending up hurt again (yet unsurprisingly hurting a lot of people in the process).

[impish-baby]

Ima need some more big brother Jaiden (is there any other siblings also?)

The reckoning - Jaiden's reaction to his baby sibling leaving - (Yan big bro x reader)

(There are more siblings! Jaiden is a middle child, a set of twins are the oldest)

Jaiden scoffs after his mother asks if he's seen the youngest of the household. Of course, he fucking hasn't! He could care less about the brat, they're probably just at a friend's or something.. No, he doesn't know who any of their damm friends would be. No, he can't call them! God.. fine, he'll help look for the twerp at least..

Seriously... he's going to be so pissed when you get home. Mom and dad are making a huge fuss over what? You apparently haven't been at the house for a few days, big whoop. You're an adult. You barely took any of your crap with you, you didn't run away! They need to calm down for five goddamm seconds, they really think you ran off somewhere? You? Who's always clung to your family like a leech? Yeah, right...

Except.. a few days turn into a week, and there's nothing. Mom had thought that maybe you'd go to the twins, but they haven't heard from or seen you at all. Even those bastards are starting to worry and... Jaiden will never admit this to anyone, but he's starting to worry too. You had always followed him around like a little lost ducking, even as you've gotten older. And now you're what? On your own somewhere? He knows you're too dumb, too naive, too trusting to be by yourself. If you get hurt or if someone takes advantage of you, who's going to be there to help? Can you even take care of yourself if you get sick? Shit...

He feels so fucking pathetic.. but damm does he miss you. There's no one climbing onto his bed to watch him game or pouting at him to drink something other than energy drinks... it feels so lonely. It's why he's lying down in his little siblings' bed, cuddling the childhood stuffed animal they left behind. You... left it. You would always bring it everywhere with you growing up, and you just...left it. Like you left him. Abandoned more like it. He didn't even get a fucking goodbye!

Does he not deserve one? He.. jaiden knows he hasn't been the best older brother, ok? But is he really so terrible that you didn't even feel the need to let him know that you're leaving, to give him a hug, at least? (He'd always shove you away... wouldn't he? Jaiden doesn't remember the last time he ever really showed you any affection...)

Fuck...he's sorry! He's sorry, he's sorry, he's so damm sorry... please just come home... Jaiden feels like he's going to drown without you, he needs his little sibling..

The stuffie is damp with his tears by the end of the night, but jaiden refuses to let the stuffed animal go, clinging to it like a lifeline as he falls asleep in your bed. Don't worry, he'll make it right, you just need to come home. Please... come home..

(a/n: aw, poor guy :(( he's going to be clinging to that stuffie every night, it still smells like you afterall..)