#shards speaks...sort of

[sunfireshards]

i need good predicteds MANIFESTING

somehow I got 95/20 on an assignment

I hope they never fix it and leave it this way forever

[lcpmon]

Listens to sleep token once. Immediately starts rotating sky OCs in brain

[sunfireshards]

this is so fucking real

What do you MEAN I can’t just write one of the best ideas I’ve ever come up with for a series and then have it all just appear fully made in front of me????? You mean I have to MAKE IT?!!?!!?!??

[blueivyy99]

Calm and Serenity (Final Part)

Sylus x Non!MC

summary: you didn't know what sylus saw in you. he said you were calm, quiet and serene and that's what he needs. you believed it. he showed it. not until little miss hunter came. she's everything you're not. news that she's in danger can make the ever so calm sylus to run and leave everything behind. it made you think, would he do that for you as well?

tags: angst, romance, hurt and comfort, non-mc reader,

taglist: @fknblsht @aboobie @nin10doo @ixloom819 @damatically @sylusgirlie7 @stellisangelicus-world @kira-loves0905 @wanderlustingcastaway @browneyedgirl22 @lumieresdreams @babygirl-panda19 @picnicinthegarden @96jnie @xxfaithlynxx @wrimaira @reni502 @lazypostfandomer @augustdxjiminx @hey-airam @vevlvtcherie @marquitas-en-verano @ma-cherie-lovely @zeskyzed @imnikki @shiorihoshino @mentaltrouble2201 @sylustoru @imaginarytheatre @seris-the-amious @zoyadarling @sanghyuksgasolinestationscream @young-adult-summer @iamawkwardandshy @r0ckb1n @openthenyoor01 @malleus-draconias-rose @syyyy4ever @yutterfly @xsammijoanneex @reni502 @animegamerfox @hao-ming-8 @angelicspaceprince @codedove @bxtchopolis @nommingonfood @esylwen @phisen @gojosbedwarmer @rubyninja1 @lemonn015 @cordidy @blueesmiski @yunhogrippers @sleepykittenenergy @thatsbunnysmind @lumi-s-garlic @splaterparty0-0 @soulaandshere @sillyfeeakfanparty

Masterlist

Day 1

Sylus didn't get any sleep these past 24 hours. He is pacing his room, waiting for your call. He is hoping that maybe you'll contact him just to say something … anything. Even though it was an unspoken rule that you will not be contacting each other, there's a silly hope in Sylus's heart for a miracle to happen.

He kept waiting but still no text from you.

Ah figures. She needs time.

He tried to get some sleep, but every time he closes his eyes your face haunts him. He wants to get you back but he knows that you need this. That this time he doesn't get to be selfish, that this is about you and what's best for you.

On your side, it's not any better. You cried all day sinking your body in your new bed. This new place feels unfamiliar. Too bright, too spacious, too quiet, too lonely.

You already miss the ruckus that the twins are making or Mephisto's cawing early in the morning. And him. You already miss him.

You remember the previous night. Sylus helped you pack your bags, never leaving your side. He never spoke a word just quietly helping you. You can see the remorse in him and it took a lot of willpower for you not to take back what you said.

When you got in the car and let him drive, you noticed how he was driving slowly. Making sure to use the farthest way possible just so he can borrow a little bit more time.

“Sylus," you called him.

“Let me have this, love. Just a little more time before you leave, please?" you didn't have it in you to argue further. He looked broken and one second away from letting those tears fall.

“I never get to give you a lot of my time these months, and I know I may be asking for too much, but just let me be with you for a while longer. I can't let you go. Not yet." He took your hand and brought it to his trembling lips.

You didn't speak after. You just let him. A part of you wanted to stay with him a little longer as well. He stayed like that during the drive. Telling you random things or reminding you to take care of yourself. Blabbering just to take his mind off from the fact that once you step out of the car, you're really leaving.

When you reached Linkon, you never looked back. Each step you took felt like you're stepping on shards of glass. You wanted to run back to him, but you know that this is the right thing to do.

You need to set him free. You want to make sure that he is sure with what he is feeling. You want to see what he'll do. If your absence will strengthen the love between you and him, or will he run back to her.

You're giving him a sort of a way out. If he decides to be with MC, then fine. If he waits for you to heal even if it took years, then maybe you can try again.

That same night, getting some sleep has been hard. You kept looking at the photos of you and him on your phone. You kept rereading your previous messages and replaying the videos you took of everyone in Onychinus.

Starting a new life here in Linkon means leaving your family in the N109 Zone. You didn't just break up with Sylus but you also left the people that treated you like family.

Day 7

“Boss, Miss Hunter is here." Luke said. Sylus just frowned.

“Let her in."

Once she's inside, Sylus doesn't know what to tell her. He is not in his right mind even if a week has passed. He is the one who summoned MC to his base. He needs to know if she's willing to help him. He needs to know ASAP.

“What do you want, Sylus?" She said. He knows they didn't end on good terms the last time they talked, but he needs to try.

“About breaking off the bond. I want to know when are you willing to cooperate with me?"

She scoffed, "I told you, I don't remember a thing! How can I undo something that I don't remember doing in the first place!? Sylus, we're going in circles here. I don't want to waste my time with this.”

"Waste of time? This isn't just a waste of time! This is my life on the line. If I don't break this bond with you, I'm going to lose her.”

He was angry and desperate. MC surely saw it and it made her heart ache. Looking at him right now, it's obvious that he isn't getting much sleep and he isn't eating right. Poor guy must've been so broken-hearted.

If it wasn't for the knowledge that he has a girlfriend, she might actually like him. He is nice despite the rough exterior, but despite that she stayed in her lane. She didn't want to be a mistress. Hell nah.

She finally took pity on him and gave out a sigh. It's not all the time that you see Sylus like this.

“Fine, fine! I wanted to help you, but I can't figure it out yet. I will contact Luke and Kieran when I have more information about this linkage.” She said.

Sylus is relieved to hear those words. They mean nothing for now, but at least there's hope.

"And if I were you, I would be taking care of myself. What would Y/N say when she sees you like that?”

Before she left, she saw how he slightly took a glance at the mirror and quickly stood up to take a bath.

Silly guy.

Day 31

You finally got a job as a barista in Destiny Cafe. You didn't really have to work because you have enough money to last at least a decade but you need to take your mind off of things. Being in your home just makes you lonely.

Having a job is fun. Finally you get to sleep after tiring yourself during the day and you meet a lot of people.

However, the way back home is not the most pleasant whenever you pass by that arcade that you wanted to go to with Sylus.

You let yourself get bitter repressing them won't do you good anyway. You just let yourself feel annoyed and hurt and even cry at the smallest things.

Crying heals you and little by little you learn to let go of the things that break your heart. Baby steps, just like what they said.

Year 1

“Boss, do you want to go with us? We're going to Linkon for a mission." Kieran inquired. Sylus is in his office with piles of research papers at hand.

“No. I will stay here." He replied.

Kieran nodded. He understands that his boss is busy and he is dedicating all his time doing everything he can just to break that bond with Miss Hunter but that doesn't mean that they don't worry.

Him and his twin can't help but be alarmed at how Sylus is wearing himself down so every now and then they try to make him get out of the house even just for an hour.

Sometimes they succeed, but they won't miss the look of longing in their boss's eyes when he looks at the border that separates Linkon and the N109 Zone.

He never, not once stepped foot in Linkon since the day that you left. Luke once asked why and tjis is how their conversation went: “I want her to heal in her own way. And her seeing me might harm her progress. I can wait. She will come back when she's ready, or I'll go to her once everything in my end is okay. But not right now. It's too early.

“But Boss Man, what if an asshole tried to take her away? Let me and Kieran go there. We will look at her from afar so no one can get close. Or send Mephisto! She won't notice.” Luke whined. Sylus just clicked his tongue and shook his head.

"It's up to her. Now shut up and do your job.”

Kieran can see that despite saying those, Sylus is still affected; he just got better at hiding it.

You looked at your calendar. It's been only a year since you last saw Sylus but it already felt like forever.

You took a leave from work today planning to rest and just rot in bed all day. These past months, you had felt better but there are still days when his memories still haunt you just like today.

You stalked his Moments account. He seldom posts since you left and whenever he does, you know that it's about you. Every photo and caption is a reference to you and your memories with him.

Absent-mindedly, you refreshed his profile and your heart stopped at the image he posted. It was a fox brooch with ruby and onyx stone. He didn't say anything. Just that photo.

A smile crept on your lips. Surprisingly, there's no hurt and skepticism in your heart. Sadness, yes. But it's mostly because you miss him and his warmth.

You've come a long way and knowing that he is still waiting made the feeling more sweeter than it should.

Year 1 and 6 months

Sylus watched wide eyed as the soul link in his wrists disappeared. He was taking a shower when he felt it break. He didn't know how or why. MC didn't tell him anything. She didn't even have a breakthrough all these months.

And yet …

Quickly, he dried himself, took his phone and called her. She picked up the call as soon as it rang. She is just as excited as he is.

“IT'S BROKEN, OH MY GOD!" she yelled. He had to distance himself from the phone just to save his ears.

“How? What happened?" he asked.

Then there's a long pause. Sylus even thought that she hang up.

“MC?"

“Hmm, I don't know. But thinking about it now, before it broke I'm with my boyfriend …” she trailed off. "And, uhm, hehe we're y'know … intimate and confessed feelings and all that.”

Sylus winced, "Oh, shut up. I don't want to hear the filthy details."

“You asked! But yeah, I guess that's it. It was not so magical but I felt so much peace and wished that I could live the rest of my life and my future lives with him. And I guess that did it.” She said quietly.

"Thank you, MC.”

Even though he cannot see it. Sylus is sure that she's smiling right now.

"You're free now, Mister Dragon.”

She hung up the call after.

Sylus let out a shaky breath.

Finally.

“MADAME! I PROMISE WE WEREN'T FOLLOWING YOU! BOSS DOESN'T KNOW WHERE YOU ARE! WE JUST WANT COFFEE WE DIDN'T KNOW YOU'RE WORKING HERE!" Your eyes widen at how loud Luke is and Kieran is just there standing dumbfounded. If his mask is not blocking his face you're sure that his mouth is gaping.

“Luke! Shut your mouth. You're making a fuss!" you tried to shut his mouth under the mask as you escorted them away from prying eyes.

“We promise! He didn't send us here. If we know, we will avoid this place." Kieran vouched for his brother.

“I know, I know. And besides, I didn't even assume that he sent you here and yet you're screaming your lungs out explaining yourself." You chuckled remembering how silly they looked earlier.

“You believe us?" Luke asked.

“Yes." you answered.

The silence between you is comfortable. Something familiar.

“I missed you two," you suddenly said.

It was evident that they didn't expect you to say that but their shoulders relaxed and both their hands patted your head.

“We missed you as well. The base isn't the same without you in it. No one vouches for us against Boss Man's wrath.” Kieran said.

"How is he?” You asked. Your voice is low. If they weren't paying attention they might've missed you saying that.

“Doing okay. At first he's itching to look for you and call you he didn't eat or sleep. We figure it's normal. He was hurt. Slowly, he got up and accepted your terms." Luke's words were careful. Trying his best not to give you an impression that they are obliging you to come back.

“I'm glad he's doing okay."

The conversation after that was light and fun thanks to the twins. They diverted the topic to Mephisto's antics instead and as much as they could they didn't bring up Sylus again.

You're thankful that they don't push for you to get back with him. For now, it's enough to know that he's doing well.

You still love him, yes. But you need more time to be certain that you're ready.

Year 2 and 10 months

It's almost three years since you last saw him. Unlike last year where you wallow in despair, this year you're excited to go out. You put on your best dress and gave yourself light makeup.

Months had passed since you first saw Luke and Kieran and now they're regular weekly customers in Destiny Cafe during their special days off. It's fun seeing old faces and they make your day a lot better whenever they come to visit.

You remember one time they gave you a small shiny pebble.

“What's this?" You asked.

“Mephisto asked us to give you that."

You smiled from ear to ear after that. You know they can't bring Mephisto to you because Sylus will know exactly where you are and you didn't give them the permission to reveal your location yet.

Now at present ,you walk the familiar path you took everyday except you don't go straight to the cafe but to the arcade instead.

“Time to get that baby crow." you mumbled to yourself with your game face on.

=

Sylus is not used to the bustling and bright ambiance of Linkon but somehow, today his feet brought him here. He hasn't set foot in this city since you left but he cannot ignore the nagging feeling in his chest that he needs to go here today.

He walked around aimlessly. Lately, the twins frequent here and he has a hunch that it's because of you. He didn't ask. But by the looks of those two, you're doing okay. And that's enough for him.

For now at least.

He still plans on getting you back. He is just waiting for a sign. For a go signal from fate that it's time.

It's so silly, really. But he is a man in love and if your paths cross again and he is certain that you feel the same, then he will not let you go.

He went back to his senses when he saw the familiar arcade near the cafe. He remembered you telling him that you wanted that crow plushie. He still feels a pang on his chest whenever he remembers that but he long accepted that it will always remind him of what he did. He had forgiven himself for that, and swore that if you will give him a chance again, he will never let you feel forgotten again.

Once inside, he bought enough tokens to last him until afternoon. He is not the luckiest when it comes to this stupid claw machine, but he vows that today, he will go home with the complete collection.

It took him a good hour before finally getting one and wa shocked when a group of employees clapped their hands at him.

“Nice! Finally someone got one. The woman earlier spent a lot of time but she didn't get it and she left disappointed. I almost think that this claw is broken."

Sylus paid them no mind and once he got the hang of it one by one all the different colors of the crow plushies were on his hands.

The kids were in awe of him and the plushies inside his paper bag and it gave him a smug satisfaction successfully getting them all.

Once he stepped foot outside the arcade he decided to relax for a bit in Destiny Cafe. He ordered his coffee, sat on the farthest table in the corner and inspected the plushies he won.

“She will surely like these." He mumbled to himself before someone spoke behind his back.

“Oh I surely will."

Sylus held his breath. He is afraid to look back.

But he knows that voice.

He heard footsteps and then your face came into view.

“Hi, can I sit here?" You gave him a smile and he can see that there's no more uncertainty there. It's like seeing you again for the first time.

“O-of course," he stuttered. His mouth was gaping.

Then he felt your hand on his chin helping him close his mouth.

“Sylus, this is just me. Close that mouth or you'll drool."

Normally, he would retort with the same sass. But right now all he knows is that he missed you and you're here.

“I missed you," that was the first thing he said. He is hesitating to make your hands touch. You chuckled to yourself. Shy Sylus is adorable especially with that blush on his face.

Gently, you made your fingers intertwined. He squeezed your hand and held them tightly.

“I missed you too, Sylus. How have you been?"

"Finally Free.”

That's all he said and you knew what it meant.

note: this is really the end 🥹🥹🥹 i cant thank all of you enough for giving my first LADS fic a chance. im so grateful for all your loveee. i said to myself id be happy if at least 10-30 people give this a read but here y'all are 😭 so thank you thank you! ill see you on the next one i hope?

comments, reblogs and reacts are welcome 🫶🏻

[pencil-n-pen]

HANDLE WITH CARE

₊˚⊹

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hotch x fem! reader

masterlist | kofi

summary: spending the night at aaron’s usually puts you at ease, but not tonight. A broken mug brings up old memories, but he still has a way of soothing away old hurts.

cw: implied/referenced past abuse

a/n: honestly idk i just wanted to write hotch comfort. this has been in my drafts since like day 1 of this acc

──────────────────────

⊹ .

It’s really stupid, in hindsight.

In the moment though, it was really, really scary.

It was late. This is mistake number one.

You were trying to quietly make tea and whatever odd hour it was. You can’t check the oven timer. It just keeps flashing 12:00.

Making tea quietly is hard, though. Every sound seems to echo and all the shadows seem to crawl. You’re this close to closing the living room curtains you can see from the corner of your eye. You don’t, though. Not being able to see would be worse.

Anyway. You’re trying to make tea quietly. You’re staying over at Hotch’s —Aaron’s, as he insists you call him when you’re alone— Jack is away at a sleepover. It’s just the two of you.

You couldn’t sleep. Usually, being with Hotch is the strongest sleep aid in the world. You tend to conk out the second your arms find his in bed.

But not tonight.

Tonight you slept in fitful bursts. Your skin prickled and crawled with restless anticipation- of what, you’re not sure.

Not wanting to disturb his sleep on such a rare day off, you got up. Tried to do what you did when you had nights like these before him. Only watching tv is too loud and you don’t have any books here.

Thus: tea.

It started raining a little while after you got up. The pattering of the droplets against the roof and the windows helps drown out the racket you’re making.

You’re not really making a racket, you tell yourself. It just sounds like you are because it’s night. This would all sound normal in the daylight.

It’s the mantra that keeps you going on nights like these. You’ll feel normal in the daylight. It’ll go away in the daylight. You won’t feel so haunted in the daylight.

In the daylight, in the daylight, in the daylight.

You get lost in your thoughts. It happens fairly often on nights like these.

Only Aaron’s stove is newer than yours. It heats up faster.

The teapot lets out a terrible, wailing hiss, shattering the fragile silence.

You lunge for the kettle, hands moving too quickly and too clumsily to move it off the burner. Your fingers slip. The side of the kettle slams into your forearm, and you don’t quite manage to stamp down the pained yelp that rips its way from your throat the second the searing pain registers.

Your nervous system reacts before you do. It jerks your arm to the right, away from the kettle.

And into your empty mug.

You watch in horrified slow-motion as the cup is swiped off the counter, falling to the floor in an explosion of porcelain.

Your arm is screaming in pain. There is boiling water and a hot tea kettle on the floor. There are shards of mug everywhere.

You hear a thump. The creak of a door opening that signifies Aaron coming out of the bedroom, Aaron being awake, Aaron coming to you.

For a moment, your brain just… catches. Sort of like it gets stuck in this web of fear-induced indecision.

The footsteps sound rushed. They come closer.

To compensate for the momentary freeze, your brain kicks into its highest gear.

You drop to your knees on the floor of the kitchen so quickly they crack on the linoleum. You can’t tell if the sting is from the fall or the boiling water. Would it still be hot? Is it still hot?

The footsteps stop. You scramble to get a hold of the pieces of the mug, shaking fingers grabbing, grabbing, grabbing. They’re clutched tight in your palm when you speak, words rushed and tumbling out of your mouth.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, please go to bed, I’ll clean this all up—“

A hand reaches out for yours and you flinch. Not a full body one. Just like what happened with the burn. Your nervous system reacts before your brain can process. Takes your hand away from the threat.

Only the hand stills. Stops, right where it is, and your entire body feels funny, and something doesn’t seem right.

Then you stop too. You don’t move. You don’t grab more pieces of the mug, but you don’t drop the ones you have either. Your knees are throbbing. Your arm is burning, stabs of stinging pain pulsing in time with your heartbeat.

The hand retreats and the person crouches down, and you recognize those pajama pants, that hand, those feet.

“Honey?”

You keep your eyes trained on the mess. On the wreckage.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice cracks over the words.

“Shh,” He hums, and the hand reaches out again, slower, closes over your wrist and turns your hand over. A second hand pries your fingers apart and gently shakes your hand, the mug shards dropping to the floor, tinged scarlet. They mix with the spilled water, washing the kitchen floor a kaleidoscope of linoleum and sharp edges and pinky-red water.

He gently pulls you up to your feet, strong arm going around your waist. It doesn’t cage you, doesn’t box you in. Another hand turns your head away from the kitchen floor and all at once a switch flicks in your brain, and you remember. Where you are, who you’re with.

If Aaron notices your sharp intake of breath, he doesn’t say anything. He leads you to the bathroom, sits you on the toilet lid, and pulls out the extensive first aid kit he keeps under the sink.

“Can I see your arm?”

You hold it out to him, looking at his face only when he’s not looking at you.

He doesn’t look mad. You still have the vague urge to run.

He examines it carefully. “It’s only first degree, but it’s fairly big. We’ll need to run it under cool water for at least ten minutes, and then apply some burn cream and bandage it.”

He’s telling you exactly what he’s going to do. Talking you through all the steps. So you won’t be caught off guard by anything.

“Sweetheart,” He crouches down in front of you again, and you feel bad for his knees, “I’m going to need some sort of confirmation.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah,” Your voice is raw, “I think I bruised my knees when I— when I fell.”

Your pajamas consist of an oversized shirt —one of his— and a pair of pajama shorts. It’s helpful because he doesn’t have to roll up any pant legs to check your knees. It’s unhelpful because in the adrenaline crash, the bathroom is cold, and so is the toilet lid.

Your shivers of fear are replaced with ones of cold. A small but marked improvement.

He examines your knees, thumbs brushing deftly over the skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Looks like you might’ve cut one of them on one of the pieces. It’s not too big, though. Better than your hands.”

You wince at the mention.

He stands, pulling you up with him.

“What hurts the worst?”

“Burn.”

“We’ll take care of it first.”

He turns the sink tap on, checking and double checking the temperature is to his approval before gently guiding your arm under the water. It stings on first contact, and you bite your lip through the pain. You’re sure you’ve made enough noise for the night. The pain mellows, relief following hot on its heels.

Aaron stands behind you, his presence a solid weight. One hand holds your arm in place under the water, the other hovers over the faucet, ready to make any adjustments to the temperature at your word.

You don’t make any.

You’re tired, abruptly. Your hand still stings and your knees ache, but without the sharp stabbing of the pain in your arm, the exhaustion of the past five minutes rushes into you all at once and you sag, like a puppet with its strings cut.

Aaron catches you, hand over the faucet leaving to place a steady hand on your waist.

“You’re not going to hit me. Or yell at me.”

He presses his face into the back of your neck, not so much as kissing your nape as just pressing his lips against the skin there.

“I’m not.”

“I know that,” you say, going for confident but tripping and falling into desperate, “I know that. I was just. I forgot. In the moment, and I got scared.”

The hand on your waist squeezes once.

“I was scared too, you know.”

“Why?”

“Because you were scared,” You can feel his chest vibrate as he speaks, “And you were hurt. And for just a moment, I didn’t know how to help you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing to be sorry for. I was scared for you.”

“I know, I’m just. I know how rare days off are for you, and I was trying to be quiet, so you could sleep but I—“

“Hey, hey. Slow down. Don’t work yourself up.”

He moves your arm back and forth under the water, slowly working the angles of the burn so it all gets evenly cooled.

“Sorry,” You say again, both for lack of anything else to say and just to make sure he knows that you are. Guilt pulses and pounds to the same beat as your heart, to the same rhythm as the pain in your knees and your hands.

“I know you are,” He murmurs, voice a gentle wash of concern and something tender. He always knows just the right thing to say, especially when you’re like this. “But you don’t have to be. I’m not upset.”

“I know,” You answer, and this time he doesn’t respond. He probably knows that your words weren’t for him.

He works methodically through applying the cream and bandages, and then as he fixes up your hands and knees. You’re careful to keep your eyes trained on his, focusing on the feel of his hands and not the fear that jackrabbits in your chest every time your focus slips.

Once finished, he guides you to your feet, and there’s still concern etched in the lines of his face, right in between his brows. That’s where he always keeps it— his worry.

“Do you want to go back to bed?”

You could. You should. He’s tired. He deserves to sleep in and you should be able to fall asleep again, because he’ll be there, and everything is fine, and you are fine.

But there’s still pieces of mug on the floor and you feel like there’s pieces of you stuck there too, and your mouth goes dry, and you never did drink that tea, and what’ll happen to the mess? What will things look like in the daylight?

Foolish? A foolish girl, yes— always overreacting.

“Honey?” He says for the second time tonight.

Your face crumples. “I’m sorry.”

He folds himself around you again, easily. His arms slot into place like a puzzle piece- always the right angle, the right feel, the right amount of pressure. He holds you together as you cry, frustrated and tired and all the things you’d tried so desperately not to let show.

“You’re okay,” He whispers, hand smoothing over your neck, your back. All those vulnerable places that itch. “You’re okay.”

He repeats the words as your cries quiet to sniffles, as you start to think he might be right.

You pull away, wiping your hands across your face. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what— I’m okay now, I think.”

His eyes search your face, looking for any signs that isn’t true. “It’s okay if you’re not.”

“I know,” You say, and you really do believe it this time, “I just… it’s frustrating. That this still happens. That you still need to do this. It happened so long ago, and I don’t even think about it anymore, really. It’s weird, it’s just- the mug. It broke and I just… I don’t know.”

Aaron listens attentively to your rambles, no sign of being annoyed or exasperated or anything. “I understand. Healing isn’t linear, sweetheart. There are things that happened to me many years ago that I still think about.”

He dips down, pressing his lips to your forehead. “And I will always do this. Always.”

For the first time tonight, you believe him, fully.

You’ll be okay. Maybe not now, but you will be.

۫ ꣑ৎ

[moyazaika]

sharing is caring

yandere! childe (genshin impact) x fem! reader

cw; (1.9k wc) darling wears glasses, obsessive + possessive themes, allusions to violence, implied non-con, nsfw themes, mdni 18+

genie's notes; commissioned piece by @lucienbarkbark who was an angel to work with! it's always fun to dive into fanfic so thank you for giving me the opportunity to do so; have fun reading! ♡

the snezhnayan winters are deathly cold, but even then, they are not nearly as chilling as your husband’s ire. 

rarely are you ever the object of his interrogation, but there are those inevitable few moments you’re reminded of how old habits really do die hard—you slip up, in spite of all your best efforts—and hell freezes over.

take, for instance, right now. 

because although his lips curl into something akin to a smile, you know childe far too well to believe this is anything but a deception, returned in favour of your own omissions.

the heat of the nearby fireplace’s flames lick at your feet and are, you recognise, the last remnants of warmth in the room. even the heavy fur coat draped over your shaking shoulders does little to protect you against childe’s blue eyes, cutting into you like shards of dark ice. 

“ajax,” you plead. “i’m—”

“a liar.” childe finishes for you; his voice is deceptively gentle, soft as a lull. it devastates you when he laughs. “you’re a liar, my love.”

he’s got all of your letters in his hands. already, you know you’ve lost. the envelopes have been ripped open and the codes deciphered. how stupid of you to believe you could make a fool of the eleventh harbinger.

the silence that follows; settles down into the space between the two of you, is long and languid. your husband is in no rush to speak, seemingly content in merely taking in the way you’re squirming before him. he is eager, yet impassive, in his appraisal. it’s not the reverent sort you’ve gotten so used to, for there are no sweet nothings whispered against your skin as he lets his eyes linger on the softest parts of you. 

tonight, his observation is more akin to an examination. an analysis, perhaps. like he’s looking for something—finds it, you realise with a sinking feeling, as his gaze snags on your hands, curled up by your sides, and marred by deep, black, ink.

damning markers of your disloyalty. 

instinctively, you let the sleeves of your coat fall past your wrists. it’s a futile attempt at delaying the inevitable, and it makes you feel like nothing more than a guilty little girl having been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. you can’t stand the silence anymore. you really need to just—

archons—

the hair on your skin stands on end when he finally deigns to meet your eyes. beneath the weight of his cold gaze, you think anything would be better than this. it’s difficult not to walk right into the fireplace; lie down amidst the welcoming warmth of the flames that burn so brightly.

“i tried to trust you, y’know? i let you send your family little letters, and i never opened any of them even when all i wanted,” he confesses, “was to tear those pretty envelopes apart. i’ll admit, i even thought about breaking a finger or two a couple of times, did you know that? nothing to post if you can’t write.”

he looks to you for an answer, and it’s all you can do to stare back. he shakes his head, then. “no, no. of course you don’t know. how could you? you thought you had me all figured out.”

you have to force yourself to speak, because the words don’t come easy when you’re on the verge of a meltdown. you don’t even recognise the strangled sound of your own voice. “i’m sorry. i’m so, so sorry. please don’t hate me.”

“sweetheart,” he chides, fingers pulling the corners of his lips down into a melodramatic frown. “i could never hate you. i’m just, y’know, curious.” he lets his hand fall back to his side, pale mouth splitting into a sharp grin as he takes a step closer. “only wondering where i went wrong with you, that’s all.”

“nowhere. you didn’t.” your eyes are burning, though his are still crystal clear. lucid. sharp. he is immovable. you feel like the yielding force of weightless waters that split apart before a glacier’s path. ���it’s all my fault.”

“i thought we put all this behind us. that you’d finally gotten it through your head.” he stalks closer, even steps far too measured to be casual. “imagine my surprise when i read these letters my wife begged me to let her send to her family and, ohh! would you look at that?”

“my little wife,” childe's voice falls completely flat, “thinks she can leave me.”

you cast a quick glance around your bedroom, scanning the space in your immediate vicinity for anything to hold onto. the vacant eyes of porcelain dolls and ornately carved figurines from your favourite novels all stare back at you emptily. a typewriter gathering dust by the windowsill. how it used to delight you at first, filling your monotonous days holed up within the walls of your husband’s prison by decorating it with pretty things.

they’re all useless to you now.

you wonder why childe chose not to cut off your fingers. he should have, you think. then you would never have ended up here. then maybe you would never have had any hope.

but you know the answer to your own question. after all, you’ve known him long enough to understand that childe finds great amusement in the way you still manage to carry that quiet hope within you.

oftentimes, he’ll catch you roaming the halls of this maze-like palace, attempting to mentally chart your way out. and every time he catches up to you, he’ll laugh, and press a kiss to your cheek, as if he knows exactly what you’re up to. as if it’s some sweet, private jest the two of you share.

“please, ajax.” you try again, “tsaritsa’s soul, i never meant to—”

“yeah, yeah. save it, love. there’ll be plenty of opportunities to beg for forgiveness later on.” you know it’s all for show when he pretends to think something over; nothing more than a performance when he suddenly snaps his fingers with an eager grin. “oh, that reminds me! i actually have something i needed to tell you.”

you watch as he thumbs through the stack of opened letters in his hands. you catch glimpses of your familiar scrawl; the desperation painfully obvious in your every etching onto the papers, begging your family to send a saviour, to reach out to the adventurer’s guild or the archons and send a cavalry to come knocking down the doors of the tsaritsa’s palace.

“you’ll love this one, sunshine.“i mean, well, you kinda have to. don’t have much of a choice, huh?”

all of it is a performance. from the ease with which he tosses the envelopes into the fire down to the very cadence of his voice as it takes on a familiar, sickeningly sweet lilt. you know this because you remain acutely aware of the fact that childe knew exactly what he was going to do with you the moment he finished reading those letters.

that doesn’t mean you’re ready for it.

“we’re going to liyue, lovely. i’m going to let you see your family again. i mean, isn’t that so much nicer than sending a letter? we’ll even catch the lantern rite whilst we’re there.” you sink deeper into your furs, stumbling away from him for every step he takes closer. “figured it’d be good for you.”

childe’s voice dips an octave lower, and the curl to his lips is a mockery of the usual smile that sits there just for you. “good for the baby, too.”

“tartaglia.” it’s impossible to see his face through the tears; everything in the room takes on the haze of a distant memory, and you wish, so desperately, that this moment would be over sooner. you could tuck it away within the recesses of your mind and never visit it again. let it be another lesson. “what baby?”

“your mother was overjoyed at the news.” he hums absently, “she said something about your haircut? mentioned already working extra hours to commission new baby clothes.”

your back hits a wall. and finally, with nowhere left to go and no saviour here to help you, childe takes his sweet time in catching up to you; and when he finally does, it’s all you can do to keep your neck painfully craned and looking up at him without falling to your knees.

“aren’t you excited, sweetheart?” he tilts his head, lifts a palm to cup your face. he’s smiling so earnestly, but his eyes are completely dull. you try searching for a sliver of the sunny man childe can sometimes be, and find, in place of the sunshine, the cold rays of light that hit shimmering snow and dissipate into nothing, instead. “finally, a family of our own making. it’ll be nice to go back to liyue, too.”

“i don’t understand.”

“it's simple, my love,” childe’s lithe fingers creep beneath the heavy fur coat you’re wearing. with deft hands, he slides it off your shoulders in one fluid motion. it falls onto the floor, dangerously close to the fireplace. a shiver rolls down your spine as you instinctively inch closer to your husband, seeking any semblance of warmth within the freezing halls of the palace. “it’s only tradition. it takes a village to raise a baby.” he laughs. “trust me, i know. my sisters were the sweetest little girls, but the boys have been a handful since birth. we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

“…ajax? i never—”

“i’m trying, y’know?” he takes off your glasses and presses a lingering kiss to your cheek. sighs against your skin as he folds up the frames and tucks them aside. “i’m trying very hard to be a good man for you, sweetheart.”

"listen to me, i—"

"you missed your family, sunlight. i get it, i’m a busy guy. i clearly wasn’t giving you as much attention as you needed. you obviously had too much free time on your hands. i figured if we had a family to tend to, that’d keep you busy. plus,” he grins. “i wouldn’t need to take your fingers! you’d never turn to anyone outside of zapolyarny. maybe, finally, you would also have something to love.”

you can barely breathe. “no, no i don't want—”

“you’ll learn to,” childe smiles. this time, finally, it reaches his eyes. “you’re going to adore our little one. trust me, sunlight; we’re going to be the only family you’ll ever need.”

you search his face for something, anything—and your heart breaks at the sight. you turn to the side, can’t even bear to face the man before you for a second longer, when all you find is a terrifying absence of anything but the deepest depths of conviction.

in the distance, as childe works to shed your body of all these elaborate furs between flittering kisses, you can already hear the sound of fireworks. when he sinks into you; a baby’s wailing cry.

the fire crackles cruelly, as your letters of desperation turn to ash, going unanswered for eternity right before your eyes.

[sunfireshards]

I HAVE NOTICED THAT WHENEVER LUKE SHOWS UP THE MUSIC JUST. BECOMES DARKER.

And during the claiming, holy shit, the way Chris turns to him with that odd sort of panicked expression. I believe my guy is, dare I say it, SCARED of his big brother at that moment.

i’m GNAWING ON FURNITURE cuz when percy gets claimed they fucking HARD CUT to luke as soon as the music turns darker. And Chris turns his head towards Luke and you can practically SEE him plotting

[skeltnwrites]

A Family Affair ✶ part one!

In a fit of jealousy over Nancy’s perfect new boyfriend, Steve falsely claims to be dating someone too. Robin recruits you to help Steve out, despite the fact that you’re practically strangers. | MASTERLIST

⤷ Fucking Brad ›› Hawkins Elementary puts on Peter Pan, Steve has FOMO, and you have all sorts of crazy plans 8k

Fucking Brad. Brad, with his slim waist and his broad shoulders and his chiseled jaw. Brad, who doesn’t slouch and can grow a full beard and always smells nice. Brad, who is the better version of Steve in every way. He’s the Ken of Barbies. He’s what every man wishes he looked like at thirty-two. He’s like Steve, if Steve had Botox injections and a gym membership. 

And God he has stupidly good hair. All layered and cropped like it’s trimmed every other week. But effortless in the way it sits perfectly on either side of his face. He probably hasn’t had a bad hair day in his life. And even worse, Steve’s yet to find a single gray hair on the man’s entire head.

It’s too good to be true, obviously. You can’t be that attractive and a good person. Steve doesn’t make the rules. 

But Nancy seems happy. And as a good ex-husband and father of her children, Steve’s trying to be happy for her and her new boyfriend. There’s just this sharp little shard of his heart that never quite slots back into its old place. And every time he thinks he’s patched it up, Brad comes along and knocks it loose again. 

The divorce took a heavy toll on Steve. He’ll admit that now, almost a year down the line. He lost weight, then gained twice as much back. He pushed Robin so far away that they didn’t speak for two months. It really changed him. It made him question things he used to be so sure of. 

Nancy was never cruel, not even on their worst nights. But the arguing became constant. Steve slept in the kids’ rooms more than his own. He became obsessed with finding solutions that Nancy didn’t care to try.

She was never cruel, but she did break his heart for a second time. So maybe that’s part of the reason he tells her a little white lie. 

It happened last week. Steve had been out of town for the weekend and subsequently didn’t have the kids for a whole week straight since Nancy couldn’t swap days with him. And this is the longest he’s not seen them in… probably ever, so he’s extra excited to pick them up. He even offers to drive to Nancy’s house on the other side of town rather than meet her somewhere halfway. But guess who pulls into the driveway at the same exact time as him? Brad. 

And Caroline, bless her sweet little second-grade heart, beams across the yard, right past Steve’s car up to Brad’s. Steve remembers watching in a daze, the scene unfolding in slow motion. His heart wrings itself in his chest just thinking about it. Caroline, his firstborn, his baby girl, his own flesh and blood, betrayed him, for fucking Brad. 

It’s not fair. Nancy breaking his heart is one thing, but his daughter? At this rate, he’s not sure he’ll live long enough to walk her down the aisle. And like hell he’ll let Brad be the one to do it. 

Steve steps onto the driveway and quickly receives the same armfuls of enthusiasm Caroline treated Brad with. He kneels to hug her back properly, both arms around her waist as he sprinkles kisses along the side of her head. 

“You’re back!” Steve feels the shape of a big smile through his shirt. 

“I missed you,” he says, pulling back to see her lovely face, “so, so much.” 

Caroline is proof that Steve’s done something right in his life. He finds more and more evidence every day. It’s in her kindness to strangers and her bottomless well of curiosity and her sunbeam of a smile that weirdly looks like a smaller version of his own. He used to hate the way his teeth looked in his mouth but now he wonders why.

He’s received comments about their alikeness since the day she was born. She obtained his hooded eyes, his square jaw, and his strong nose. She has lighter eyes, like Nancy’s, and lighter hair, like Steve’s when he was her age. But still, Caroline’s his carbon copy, his mini-me. 

“Missed you too, like, more than the whole universe.” 

“Woah! More than the whole universe? That’s a lot of missing to do.” His fingers crawl across her chest until she arches away in a fit of giggles. “Is your poor little heart okay?” 

Brad waves incessantly from the top of the driveway until Steve glances up. He’s not an asshole, he waves back, but he can’t help his smile curdling into something sour. 

Caroline, of his two children, is by far the least likely to lie to him. She burst into tears the last time Steve caught her red-handed and over something so insignificant he couldn’t even tell you what it was. But her words feels hollow when the memory of her picking Brad over him still stings fresh. Logically, Steve knows it wasn’t a malicious decision. Caroline’s a daddy’s girl to her core. But just knowing doesn’t make the hurt ache any less. 

Steve pulls Caroline up as he stands. “Where’s your brother?” 

“Mom said he can’t play outside ‘cause he got in trouble at school.” 

“What happened?” 

“He threw rocks at someone.” 

Steve presses his lips together with a hum. “Not good.” 

Caroline beats him to the front door, swinging it hard enough to shake the house. “Dad’s here!” she announces. 

Steve’s still in this weird limbo about entering the house without Nancy’s permission. To his knowledge, she’s never cared when one of the kids has invited him in, but it feels sort of wrong because he hasn’t lived there in quite some time. 

It’s a quaint little home at the top of a hill, purchased in their early twenties when Nancy was pregnant with Caroline. So many years of his life, etched into floorboards and door frames and garden stones that he rarely ever sees anymore. 

In the foyer, a riot of blonde fur slams hard into Steve’s knees. He’s expecting it, delighted more than anything to greet his honorary third child, Daisy. Eighty pounds, a golden retriever with more energy than Steve knew a dog could have. She was a Christmas gift from Steve to the family, a surprise Nancy has slowly grown to love over the years. Still, she would’ve been happy to let Steve take her, Daisy’s always been more his than hers, but signing the lease on a place that doesn’t allow pets complicates things. 

Steve’s crouched on the floor, receiving a face full of wet kisses when someone smaller barrels into his side. 

“Daddy!” 

Steve’s hand catches the carpet before he falls, his free arm slinging around his youngest, Andrew. “Hi, buddy.” He pulls him in for a forehead kiss but pushes him back for a better look at his face.

He’s got big brown eyes, round like Nancy’s, and feathered with a long set of lashes. He’s a fair mix of their genes, Nancy’s button nose and pointed ears but Steve’s thick hair and plush lips. He’s like Daisy, with endless reserves of energy and no off switch, but he’s half the dog’s size, tiny, even for six. 

“Hi.” 

“Hi. How was school?” 

“Good,” Andy smiles, words whistling in the gap his front teeth left behind. “I got something from the treasure box and I had music specials today.”

Steve gives his shoulder a loving squeeze. “That’s fun. I heard you got in trouble though, hmm?”

“Barely. It wasn’t really bad. I had a timeout but mom says I still can’t play.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll talk to Mom.” 

“Talk to mom about what?” Nancy frowns from the doorway, crossing her arms over her chest. 

One thing from their marriage that Steve doesn’t miss is Nancy materializing out of thin air. She’s quiet and quick on her feet, always appearing at the most incriminating moments. He can think of a dozen times he’d gotten in trouble for letting the kids do something she already forbade. 

Steve shifts his focus to her begrudgingly. He presses his lips into a cordial, tight-lipped smile. “Why can’t he play? He said he had a time-out already.” 

“Because he didn’t do what I asked, Steve. I know you like to let the kids get away with everything, but in my house there are consequences.” 

“Okay,” he raises his eyebrows and his smile slips away, “unnecessary.” 

She breathes a quiet sigh, hooking her fingernail under the fresh tear in her tights. “It’s been a long week.” 

“Sorry.” Steve means it because he’s been there, but he doesn’t waste much sympathy on Nancy these days.

Brad fills the leftover silence as he zips down the stairs, his fingers drumming along the handrail in time with his hums. “Steve!” he grins. “How was Florida? Catch some sun?” He cruises over to Nancy with a much gentler excitement, pecking her head with a soft, “Hi, honey.” 

Steve wants to gag. No, he wants to projectile vomit all over their nice floors. He stands and chooses to look at Nancy as he replies the simplest, “Yeah.” 

Nancy stares blankly back at him. He used to have some kind of superpower when they were in love. Could read her mind by looking at her eyes alone. But these days he can’t tell her frown from her smile, let alone her thoughts.

“Is your dad doing better?” she says. 

“Yeah, he’s– yeah, fine. He’s home now.” 

“Good.” 

Andy pulls Brad down to his knees, eager to funnel a “very important” secret into his ear. Steve tries, but he can’t decipher any words over Nancy’s voice. 

“So, can you take him?” she asks.

“Where?” 

“The dentist. Are you listening to me? I said his appointment is after school.” 

A vein pulses on Nancy’s forehead, though Steve isn’t privy. His attention swings across the living room behind her like a compass needle, always pointing to Andy and Brad. They’re both giggling, falling onto the couch like ragdolls. Steve’s never had worse FOMO in his life. 

“Yeah, sorry, yeah. I’ll take him,” he answers finally. 

“He’s been complaining about his mouth since last Tuesday. Think he has a cavity.” 

Steve nods. Nancy nods. The silence is awful. 

She turns her nose to the stairs and he knows she can’t bear the awkwardness either. “Andrew go get your stuff. Caroline!” 

“What!” 

“Come on! Dad’s waiting!” 

Andy shrieks and Steve turns instinctually. It’s a happy shriek, he finds, paired with pleads of, “Again! Again!”

Brad nods knowingly, slotting his hands under the boy's armpits and swinging him up and up and up until he launches him right back into the couch. 

Andy’s thrilled, of course. But Steve doesn't know how to feel. There isn’t a sound he loves more in the world than his kids laughs’, but his body tells him what is happening right now is all sorts of wrong. 

“Oh and don’t forget about the play on Friday,” Nancy adds. 

Steve can’t answer. He can’t fucking think over the sound of his molars grinding against each other. A switch flips in his brain. 

“It’s at six I’m pretty sure. Care’s pretty nervous so just, I dunno, don’t bring it up maybe.” 

“I’m bringing someone,” he blurts. 

Nancy shifts her weight from foot to foot, her stare sharp as a thumbtack, pinning him right to the floor. Why the fuck did he just say that? 

“Who?” she asks strangely. Her mouth is smaller like she’s mad. But her eyes are curious, a sudden softness to them. 

Steve clears his dry throat but finds no relief. He hasn’t fucking thought this through. He shrugs, his chin tipping toward the floor. “Just this girl I’ve been talking to. She’s…” He chances a glimpse up but steers his eyes away from Nancy’s the second they land. “It’s kinda gettin’ serious, so, you know.” 

“Really?” 

He squirms at the way she says it. He feels like he’s in trouble and about to get an earful. “Yeah,” he swallows, “Yeah. She’s great. You’ll like her.” 

“How long?” 

“Hmm?” 

“How long have you been seeing her?” 

His eyes rove across the ceiling as he pretends to count the imaginary days he’s spent with his imaginary girlfriend. “Ya know, a few months.” He frowns for show, “Give or take.” 

Nancy chuckles wryly. She very clearly doesn’t buy it. And of course, she doesn’t buy it, they were married for a third of his life, she knows Steve inside and out. Steve is officially, utterly, and irreversibly doomed. 

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” he slips in nervously. 

“Right.”

“Yeah, so…” 

“Okay, well, I look forward to meeting her.” 

“Okay. Me too. Well– to you meeting her. I’ve met her, obviously.” 

Her mouth twists in a struggle to hide her amusement. “Okay, Steve.” 

This is pathetic. Steve’s never been more embarrassed in his life. Ten-plus years he’s had to make a fool of himself in front of Nancy and nothing will ever top this. 

Tiny arms curl around his legs and he knows they’re Carolines before he’s seen them. She’s a foot taller than Andy and ten times as gentle. Her ear presses into Steve’s side, her hair newly pinned with a set of plastic butterflies. Steve’s positive she gets prettier by the day and he’s just grateful to have anyone besides Nancy to look at. 

Andy hustles down the stairs not long later, sneakers swinging from his wrist by the laces, wearing a backpack twice the size of his chest. And with both kids in sight, Steve cuts straight for the front door, encouraging a round of goodbye hugs and kisses for Mom from the safety of the porch. 

On the ride home, Caroline has a deck of questions about his trip. If Grandma and Grandpa still live in that big house on the water. If the airplane ride was bumpy or not. His favorite– if he ordered the fish tails (popcorn shrimp) from that restaurant they all went to last time. 

Eight years he’s been a dad and to this day the infinite questions never fail to fascinate him. And even more remarkable, how Caroline remembers things from years ago like they happened this morning.

He hadn’t told her why he went to Florida or the real reason she couldn’t come. Steve’s dad had a minor health scare, and if it weren’t for his mom calling in hysterics, he probably would have saved the PTO. He spent most of the trip in the hospital, listening to his dad fuss about every possible thing he could find to complain about. 

Nancy preached honesty when it came to explaining things like this to the kids. But Caroline’s a worrywart. Steve couldn’t let her spiral, certainly not over his dad of all people. 

He’s very happy to be back home. And even happier to be distracted from his poor decision-making by the bottomless pit that is his daughter's brain. But time flies when you’re having fun as Steve apparently says now. Dinner goes fast, and bedtime even faster. 

The kids are asleep and he’s left to simmer alone in his stupidity. He replays the conversation with Nancy on a loop, each turn twisting the words until he can’t tell what’s real apart from what he wishes to have said. He fucked up, that much is clear. And for what? A fleeting satisfaction if Nancy had believed him? He truly can’t think of a time in the last ten years he’s said something so dumb. 

Steve dials Robin’s number and slips the phone against his ear as he opens the fridge. He stares at his groceries, or lack thereof, and listens to the phone ring and ring and ring until he’s turned over to Robin’s answering machine. 

“Hi, you’ve reached Robin! Or, well, it's not, obviously, because you're talking to a machine. Anyway, I’m probably busy doing something incredibly important, so, leave a message, and I’ll call back– unless I forget— which, statistically speaking, is very probable. Sorry.” –Beep! 

“Hi, um, this is Steve.” He shuts the fridge door and swipes the takeout menu from the magnets on the side. “I’m having an… emergency type of situation and if you really, truly love me you’ll call me back, like, as soon as you get this. Yeah, okay, bye.” 

Robin’s at work he’s pretty sure. That or sucking face with her new girlfriend, Lin. She’s busy a lot nowadays, Steve just as much. It’s put a weight on their friendship but Steve can’t imagine his life without her. She’ll surely call him a dumbass or an idiot or the classic dingus for what he’s done. But being snarky with each other is their love language; he looks forward to it. 

Steve’s three or four Cheers’ reruns deep when the phone rings. He rocks himself out of his recliner and takes the half-empty pizza box in his lap back to the kitchen. He’ll be the first to admit, his evenings aren’t all that glamorous. But things could be worse and he’s happy with the majority of his life’s choices– minus the most recent one, obviously. 

The phone slides against the pizza grease on his fingers. He pins it between his ear and shoulder to swipe his hands down the front of his shirt as he speaks, “You know, you’re lucky this isn’t a life-or-death emergency. I’d have been dead hours ago.” 

“Uh-huh. Tragic,” Robin rasps. “I’ll write your eulogy for you. ‘Steve Harrington: untimely death by dumbassery.’” 

“That’s not a real word, genius.” 

“It is now. I’ve made it one.”

“You can’t just make it a word. That’s not how it works.” 

“No, it is. Check your dictionary.” He hears the clinking of pans, water running in a sink. “But wait, what did you do? Lock your keys in your car again?”

“Ha, no. I wish.” 

“Forget to pick up the hellspawns?” 

“No, Rob.” 

“What? It’s happened before,” she laughs in that scratchy way she does. He can picture her whole face like she’s stood there beside him. “I dunno, I’m tired. I give up. What’s the crisis?” 

“Um, so, I told Nance that I’ve been seeing someone and that it’s serious and I’m bringing her to the kid’s thing on Friday.” 

Robin’s silent long enough for Steve to pull the phone back and check if the call’s still connected. But her laughter builds slowly, rattling through the speaker in beats. “Oh no, Steven.” 

“Yeah, so…” He shears the last bite off of the pizza he was working on before and tosses the crust back into the box.  “I’m fucked.” 

“You could say that.” 

“Thanks for the encouragement.” 

“Sorry, sorry. I mean, fuck dude. Why’d you say that?”

“I don’t know, okay? It was stupid. I fucked up.”

“Big time.”

“I have to figure something out.” 

“Can’t you just say it fizzled out? You had a good run, but you weren’t right for each other, cue dramatic sigh, problem solved.”

“No! She knows, Robin. She fucking knows I was lying. She was giving me that look she gives Andy when he’s done something he’s not supposed to.”

“Heh, I know the one. God, that’s hilarious. I love her mad face. Was she doing that weird lip thing, like she’s trying to suck them back into her skull?” 

Steve cuts off his own laughter, “Probably– I don’t know! I was panicking, bad, you should’ve seen me.” 

“Oh, I would pay so much money to see a video of this. Were there cameras? Where was this at?” 

“No, no, I have to do something. I need to bring someone to the show.” 

A beat. Two. “What? You want me to revive straight Robin? I can’t walk in heels to save my life, you know that.” 

“Jesus, no. She knows you're gay, dude.” 

“Then who?”

“I dunno.” Steve throws his hand in the air. “You know people.”

“I know people?”

“Yes?”

“You’re right, hold on, let me get out my address book and just call every single woman I know. ‘Hey, how do you feel about pretending to be my friend’s boyfriend so his ex-wife doesn’t make fun of him?’ Sound good?” 

“Yes! Exactly!” 

“Maybe while we’re at it we just start calling random women in the phone book. I saw a billboard with this sexy lawyer lady today.” 

“Robin.” 

“Steve,” she chuckles. “Come on. This is crazy. You have to see that.” 

“I don’t care, Rob. You don’t get it. Nancy is dating America’s next top model and I’m,” his words feel sticky as bubblegum, “I’m watching shitty TV and eating shittier pizza by myself.”  

Robin sighs. “Don’t act like I haven’t been a good wing-woman. I’ve tried to set you up with people.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m not ready to date anyone for real, I just– I just want to pretend for a night, that’s all. I don’t want Nancy to think any less of me than she already does.” 

Robin sighs again, worse. He feels bad about bugging her but she’s his best friend and she bugs him to the same extent with her own relationship problems. He listened to her cry for an hour about a fight she had with Lin last week.  

“If I help you… will you promise me that you will move on and go on a real, actual date with a woman who is not Nancy Wheeler?” 

Steve’s about to say ‘I’ll do anything’, but the sentence catches in his throat. 

Robin complains about Steve’s dating life (or lack of) about once a week, if not more. It’s been a year since the divorce, yeah, but he’s short on time with two kids and a second full-time job that affords him the first. He’s not in any rush to do awkward first dates or even worse breakups again. 

But fuck, he’d rather die than face the consequences of his own actions. “Fine, yes. I’ll do it.” 

“Hallelujah.” 

“Please, just call a couple of your friends for me. One night, that’s all I’m asking.” 

“Honestly, I definitely know a couple of people who’d do it for a hundred bucks.” 

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “If that’s what it costs to keep my dignity then so be it.” 

He hears Robin’s breathy smile. “You’re so dramatic. Shelly might do it for free. She doesn’t exactly look your type though.” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“I dunno, Steve. We both know Nancy has a better gaydar than you.” 

“I hit on one lesbian at the height of my divorce-depression. I was desperate, okay?” 

“You hit on two, actually. I do count, still. And she was like the most butch woman I've ever met. You guys basically had the same outfit on.”

“It was a good outfit!” 

Her laughter is loud through the speaker. And before he realizes it, he's laughing too. In retrospect, that woman very obviously was a lesbian and not at all his type. 

“Wait,” Robin gasps, “what about Y/N!” 

“Who?” 

She repeats your name with even more emphasis. “She was at my birthday thing. You definitely met her.” 

Steve describes a vague version of the person he thinks is you. His memory is hazy. 

“Yes! Yes! You wouldn’t stop showing her fucking pictures of the kids.” 

“Excuse me, she wanted to see them.”

“No, I think you need to ask her that again, pal.” 

Steve reconsiders that moment he met you. He recalls a polite smile and how you had several nice things to say about his kids. He remembers you being pretty but it was too soon post-divorce for him to process that information then. 

“Oh my God,” Robin roars, “How did I not think of this sooner? You guys are perfect for each other, I’m telling you!” 

“Wait, wait, Robin. This is just pretend. I’m not actually dating her.” 

She scoffs. “Will you give her a chance? Please? This can count as your real date.”

“No, absolutely not. No. I can’t– I already know her. That’s weird.” 

“Oh my God. You’re making dumb fucking excuses already. You better hold up your end of the deal, Harrington.” 

“I will, I will. Just not her. We’ll figure it out after, okay?” 

The line is silent but he can almost hear the gears in Robin’s head cranking out a new negotiation.  

“I’m serious. Don’t tell her it’s a date.” 

“Ugh. Have you no faith in me anymore?” 

“Will you ask her? Seriously, Robin, please?” 

“Yes, whatever, I’ll ask her. But don’t come crying to me when this blows up in your face.” 

“Don’t tell her it’s a date, Rob. I mean it.” 

“I knowww.” 

“Thank you,” he sighs. He feels like a load of bricks just dropped from his back straight to his stomach. 

“But I really think you and Y/N should come to that romance retreat with me and Lin. She knows the owner so I’m sure she could snag us another couple of tickets.” 

“Mmm. Sorry, no. I’m actually busy that weekend, ‘member?” 

“Oh, I know you did not just lie to me right now. What is this, a compulsion?” 

“Oh my God. I was kidding,” he laughs. “But also hard no. I’m hanging up.” 

“You can’t avoid all your problems forever.” 

“Whatever. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight. Love you, dingus.” 

“Love you.” 

Steve slots the phone back in its cradle and presses his hand into the countertop. He thinks of you again, your face, your clothes, your voice– what had you said to him? He turns you in his mind like an unravelled spool but there are way too many loose ends. 

He agrees with Robin, this is a bad idea. He can’t imagine you’ll drop everything to help a guy you met one time. And if for whatever reason you do agree? You might be really awkward or rude to the kids or a kidnapper! He really, really hopes Robin doesn't befriend kidnappers. 

She assures him you are not a kidnapper when she calls him the next night. She also tells him he’s won the lottery and somehow you’ve agreed to this ridiculous plan. You’ll pretend to be his girlfriend in front of his kids and ex-wife and her boyfriend, just to save him from some embarrassment. Steve thinks you might be crazy but Robin promises you’re a match made in heaven. 

Steve jots down your phone number and thanks Robin until she hangs up on him. But he doesn’t call you yet. He chews on the plan all week and decides it still tastes bad. Very, very bad. But what choice does he have now? He’s groveled with Robin until she gave in and asked you and you’ve actually agreed. He’s in too deep now. 

It takes him three tries to dial your number all the way through. He only works himself up to the final digit with the mental image of Brad and his stupid, sparkly teeth. Steve's stomach starts cartwheeling as the line trills. 

“Hello?” 

He freezes. He doesn’t know what he expected you to sound like but your voice throws him for a loop. Every sentence from his practiced speech erases itself from his memory. 

“Helloooo?” 

Steve forces all the air from his lungs until he makes a strangled sort of noise. “Hey– sorry, um– hi, it’s Steve. Uhh, Robin’s friend.”

“Oh! She said you’d call.” 

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Here I am.” 

You chuckle back but are otherwise quiet, waiting for him.

“So like–”

“How did–”

“Sorry,” you say overtop each other. 

“You go,” he begs. 

“Well, I mean– so Robin gave me the run down already, but like, how exactly do you want this to go?” 

“So,” Steve takes a deep breath, “my kids are both in the school play over at Hawkins Elementary. It’s this Friday from six to seven-ish. All I need you to do is just show up and pretend that you’re my girlfriend.” He cringes through the last part. The more times he explains this plan, the more outrageous it sounds. This might as well be a form of torture. 

“Just show up and watch the play and agree that we’re a couple if somebody asks? That type of thing?” 

“Yes, exactly. Yes. My ex-wife and her boyfriend will be there, so probably just them and the kids.” 

“Right, Robin said. But how much should I– how do I say– should I hold your hand, I guess, kiss you, things like that?”

“No, no,” he swallows so hard you probably hear it too. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” 

"Would you..." you pause for a while. He fears you’re backing out. “Would you want to meet up, maybe? Like, sometime before the play?” you ask. “We could talk more about boundaries and, I dunno, how we met, our first date, all of that junk. In case it comes up.” 

Steve doesn’t think that’s really necessary. He only needs you for one hour, the majority of which you won’t be talking. You’re really just there to sit beside him and smile. But you are doing him a massive favor, if it makes you feel better, it wouldn’t hurt to discuss it in person.

He lets you pick the time and place and thanks you endlessly before he hangs up, very much ready to crawl into bed and never come back out. 

His second impression of you doesn’t stray far from the first. You’re sweet, maybe a little too sweet for someone who barely knows him. And you must be smart. You have enough wits about you to question him and this plan. Maybe, with you there, it won’t completely fall apart.

But as luck would have it, Steve is forced to cancel on you last minute– thanks to Brad, of course. Well, it’s not really his fault his sister goes into labor but Steve likes to pretend it is when Nancy asks if he can take the kids that night. He reschedules with you once, then again when you can’t make it. But shit happens and things don’t work out how he hoped. Neither of you can make it work before the play. 

So Steve pulls up to Hawkins Elementary with his heart lodged in his throat like a stone. He’s about to make the biggest fucking fool of himself if you don’t show and he’s only about forty-five percent sure that you will. As of yesterday, you were still game, sounded excited, even, to come. But maybe you forgot about the whole thing or maybe you’re chickening out because you never solidified where you had your first date. Steve wouldn’t blame you either way. 

Brad’s already seated in the front row of the auditorium, Nancy likely dropping the kids off at their classrooms. Steve slinks around the back to a denser part of the audience hoping not to be seen. But it’s Brad. He’s got twenty-twenty vision, no doubt. He flags Steve down as soon as he turns around, standing and waving emphatically, leaving Steve no other choice but to sit with them. 

Brad talks his ear off, to no one's surprise, but Steve’s mind is stuck somewhere else. His eyes skip between the lavish rose bouquets in Brad’s lap to the measly assortment of pink and blue daisies in his own. It’s silly to worry the kids would love him less over something like flowers, but he can’t help himself. 

Nancy joins with a knowing smirk and immediately asks about Steve’s plus one. He feeds her some generic, bullshit line about you and how you’re trying so very hard to make it, and he decides Nancy must fucking hate him. She knows it was a lie. She just wants to watch him burst into flames and char into a corpse of embarrassment and regret. 

There are less than two minutes to showtime. The audience is buzzing, the auditorium doors are closing, and the bench space beside Steve remains unoccupied. He turns around for one last pathetic look behind him before his dignity is tarnished forever. 

But there you are! Stood up against the back wall, searching and searching until your eyes lock onto Steve’s and your whole face brightens like a sunrise. 

Steve waves, a little shy suddenly, but largely overwhelmed by the complete one-eighty his heart’s just spun. And it only worsens as you make your way up to the row. 

You look fucking unreal Steve realizes. You pat a pretty dress down your thighs, two big bouquets wedged in the crook of your arm, and shimmy past the family seated beside him with a dashing smile.

“Sorry I’m late,” you say to him, so genuinely apologetic Steve can’t remember the reason you’re there in the first place. You bend to wrap your arms around him, his nose tapping the sugared sweetness of your perfume. 

His brain reboots itself, a blank slate. He’s completely forgotten about Nancy and Brad until you lean across his lap to address them. 

“Nancy,” Steve coughs, “um, this is Y/N. My girlfriend.” The words trip off his tongue slow and he thinks it can’t be more obvious that he doesn’t mean them. 

But while his head is busy imploding on itself, you’re acing introductions. You’re smiling and waving, your voice stays so calm— exactly the reassurance Steve needed. He peels his eyes off your face for a glimpse at Nancy’s and nearly laughs. 

Her brows are up, obscured by her bangs, and she blinks like she’s got something caught in her mascara. Priceless. 

“Y/N, this is Nancy and her boyfriend, Brad,” Steve finishes. 

“Nice to meet you,” Brad smiles, squeezing Nancy’s knee until she does the same. 

The pretending is clumsy at first. Steve’s arm hesitates on its course behind your shoulders. And you go stiff as a board the first time his fingertips brush your bare arm. You overcompensate, laughing at something that’s not all that funny while Steve rambles on about how you met when no one even asked. But eventually, you find a balance somewhere between too much and too little.

And Steve can’t stop fucking smiling. You’re polite, funny, really pretty, you’re perfect. You’re more than what he hoped to have tonight. 

The lights dim and the curtains part, Steve’s excitement shifts toward the stage. His hand remains on your shoulder but his attention is reserved solely for his kids. You cheer for them just as loud as he does, for two children you’ve never met in your life. You remember their names and are eager for Steve to point them out when they appear. You’re a convincing girlfriend. You actually seem to care a whole lot. 

Caroline is a fabulous mermaid. She has a tail made of sequins and glitter gel down her arms. All those hours of practice were worth it, Steve nearly cries watching his little girl recite her two lines to a T. 

And Andrew plays a scruffy dog called Nana. He has no lines but he makes several appearances throughout the show, barking with flawless comedic timing for a kindergartener. Steve’s biased when he thinks his kids are the best actors here, of course, but he couldn’t be more proud. 

Touching you doesn’t become any less strange as the evening rolls on. Your thigh is smushed to his. Your back warms the inside of his elbow. He hasn’t touched anyone like this since Nancy, maybe besides Robin who doesn’t really count. And perhaps that’s pitiful, he’s not touching you all that much. But he likes it, which, is probably even more pitiful, you being his pretend girlfriend and all. 

The main cast of fifth graders bow, the crowd erupts with applause, and the lights flicker back on as the big curtains close. 

Nancy is staring at you when Steve checks her way. It’s not the first time he’s caught her tonight but he still isn’t certain that she fully believes this whole thing. At least you’re here and you seem normal and you’re a much better actor than Robin gave you credit for. That’s a mission fucking accomplished in Steve’s book. 

“They did really good, Steve,” you say in his ear. “They’re both adorable.” 

His smile is immediate. He won’t miss an opportunity to rave about his kids, not even to a stranger. “Did you see Andy’s run? He does this little skippy-thing, I dunno where he learned it.” 

“Mhmm! And Caroline, she’s only eight? She seems so much older the way she talked.”

“I know! She was so worried before, I can’t believe how good she did.” 

Nancy is one of the first parents to her feet. Brad collects her purse and the flowers as she scans each exit for the quickest route. Her face is rigid as she explains, “I’m going to get Caroline if you’ll…”

“Yeah,” Steve nods when she looks. 

Nancy’s eyes veer from his to yours for the briefest second before she turns around. Her chin juts up to Brad. “Ready?” 

He works a hand across the cardigan on her back and starts for the end of the row where parents squeeze and squish by each other toward the hall doors. 

Steve waits until their bodies bleed into the rest of the crowd before he faces you again. His lips tilt into a funny line, his eyes alive under the auditorium lights. “I kinda think that worked?” 

“Are you kidding?” you laugh and knock your shoulder into his. “She kept staring at me! She totally bought it.” 

Steve’s smile pinches up into his cheeks. He thinks you're really quite beautiful. It’s not new information to him, he noticed the first time he met you, bumbling up behind Robin in her kitchen. And he remembered just last week when she brought you up out of the blue. 

But today that knowledge feels different. Today you’re all smiles and sweet touches and sneaky glances. It’s doing something scary to his heart. 

Steve stands quickly. He’s hot all over, uncomfortably aware of the sweat accumulating under his clothes. Being sardined against every other parent in the school will do that. Plus, there’s you and your nice face. Still, somehow, he misses the heat of your thigh pressed to his. 

“She’s smart, Nancy, I mean… I dunno,” he worries. 

You stand too and your hand finds a home on the back of his arm. “No, no. It worked. Trust me.” 

“Trust you?” He can’t help but grin at your nonchalance. He wishes he could be like that, but having kids makes you worry more. 

You grin back and shrug. “Yeah, trust me.” 

Well, he can’t not trust you. Not when you’re looking at him with all the confidence in the world and squeezing his arm in gentle reassurance. 

His cheeks ache from smiling by the time you make it to the hall. He gestures one way and you follow him past doors and bulletin boards and as many children as there are adults. And finally, he turns through an open classroom door and it’s just absolute chaos. 

A ball pops against a ceiling tile, Steve’s heel slides under a stack of notebook paper, and a string of kids fly between his hip and yours, all in one blink. 

You recognize Andrew faster than Steve expects, pointing him out where he’s barking at a child sprawled on the rug. The other boy stops giggling as you approach, prompting Andrew to spin around with the crazed expression of a real puppy looking for trouble. 

His costume is even cuter up close, a painted snout and a fur-onesie with a floppy-eared hood to match. Andrew barks at Steve, crawling across the carpet on all fours until he’s panting at his father’s jeans. 

Steve squats down to his level, a gentle hand on either side of the boy's neck. “Oh, nooo. They didn’t turn you into a real dog, did they? Are we going to have to feed you from Daisy’s bowl now?” 

Andy slurps a rope of spit back in his mouth and rolls his eyes. “I’m just pretending, Dad.”

“Ohh,” Steve laughs, pressing him impossibly closer. “You did so good, bud. Proud of you.” 

“Did you see me? When I barked at the pirates?” 

“I did! I actually thought it was a real dog.” 

Andrew cackles once, throwing his head down on Steve’s shoulder. 

Steve pats his fuzzy back. “Tired?” 

He blinks up at you curiously and shakes his head. 

“Andy,” Steve cranes toward you, “this is my friend, Y/N. Can you say hi?”

He lifts his head and barks, high-pitched and snappy as a chihuahua. 

Steve tilts his ear away and pinches Andy’s side until the barking turns to giggles. “In English, please.” 

“Hi, Y/N,” Andy squeals out between the remainder of his laughter. 

“Hi, buddy.” You kneel beside Steve and fawn, “You did such a good job!”

Andy pokes his tongue through the gap in his smile. He looks you over entirely and bats his long lashes like a paper fan. 

“I got these for you,” you say, tipping the colorful blooms toward his face. “This one’s for your sister. Here.” 

He chokes the plastic-wrapped stems in his tiny fist, half his face hidden behind a rainbow of petals. 

“Here, bud,” Steve takes one of his bouquets from the floor and tucks it in with yours, “this one’s from me.” 

Andy can’t see much of anything with his nose pressed to a daffodil but he loves them all the same. You pick yourself off the floor, your laughter spilling like the sun. 

“Let’s go find your sister,” Steve says, a hand braced on Andy’s shoulder as he stands too. 

Andy looks between you and Steve in amazement. “She was a mermaid. Did you see?” 

“We did,” Steve answers. “She was a great mermaid, don’t you think?” 

“Yes. She was all sparkly.” Andy slips his small hand into Steve’s, then automatically offers you his other.

You find Nancy, Brad, and Caroline outside the school near the parent pickup circle. Brad’s got Caroline’s hand in his, her feet tracing the edge of the sidewalk like a balance beam. 

She jumps off the curb when she spots Steve, tripping over her toes before breaking into a sprint for his arms. 

Steve kneels right there on the asphalt. “Hi, baby,” he laughs. She sets her elbows on his shoulders as he kisses her on each cheek. “Did such a good job up there!” 

“Did you see me!” she yells. “I wasn’t even scared! I didn’t forget my words like I thought I would.” 

Steve thumbs the corner of her crinkled eye where eyeshadow glares silver under the moon. “I know! My big girl. I’m so proud. Know that?” 

She giggles, her fingers scrunching around the cellophane wrapping in his hand. “Are these for me?” 

“They are. For my best little lady.” 

She sticks her smile in the bouquet and sniffs. 

Steve is oblivious to the heart-warmed grin on your face. But you watch the scene unfold, feeling an unexpected fondness for a family that isn’t yours. You’re only a guest in their little world, an outsider looking in— but even from here, it’s undeniable. He’s a great dad.

“Hey, I have someone I want you to meet,” Steve says. 

You’re so enraptured by the moment, you completely forget that’s your cue. Steve beckons you over with features that echo Carolines, not just in emotion but in shape too. They’re cheek-to-cheek looking at you like a pair of very happy identical twins. 

“Hi, Caroline,” you wave and offer the same hand to shake.

She smiles big and wraps her smaller fingers around yours. “You came to see our show?”

“I did! You were a really amazing mermaid, you know? I especially liked the dance with the sea stars.” 

She shrinks away, suddenly sheepish as she thanks you. 

“Oh, here,” you shift the bouquet in your arms toward her, “before I forget, these are for you.”

“Another! Oh my gosh!” Her beaded hair-tie clinks as she pivots. “Mom! Look! I have three flowers now!” She takes the bouquet at the base and books it toward Nancy who’s engrossed in a conversation with Brad. “Can I keep them in my room, please? And can we get some more vases tonight? I’ll water them, I promise, Mommy.”

You have a fondness for his kids Steve doesn’t often see in the eyes of strangers. They're quite rambunctious a lot of the time and while the elderly compliment him and his genes occasionally, this is different. Affection softens every line of your expression and there’s joy stitched in each sweep of your lashes. It’s endearing as it is strange because ultimately you are still very much a stranger. 

Steve trusts Robin’s judgment more than his own sometimes. If love for his kids were a race, she’d take a very close second against him. She takes her duties as an aunt very seriously and so he’s confident you’re as great as she says. But still, he doesn’t know you personally. He can’t know your intentions for certain. And he might feel guiltier about that in the context of introducing you to his kids— if you weren’t so undeniably wonderful.

You idle beside Steve, a short distance from the rest of the crew. He places his hand on the small of your back and you exchange quiet smiles. 

It’s mostly for show. He feels the weight of Nancy’s gaze in his peripherals. But an ounce or two of Steve is motivated purely by his own self-interest.

He misses these simple acts of affection. Tracing the veins in someone else’s palm, kissing their eyelids, counting their lashes. It’s human nature, a need, he supposes. A need he’s been trying to convince himself is much more of a want. 

And you’re so very gentle with him. It’s really driving him mad. 

Nancy must tell the kids it’s time to go because they’re scrambling over in a cacophony of goodbyes. Steve gives them each a big squeeze and a little shake for the road. Caroline hugs you like you’re no different than the rest of them, while Andy, ever the little charmer, asks your name for the third time. They disappear behind the first row of cars, their voices carry far but fade into all the rest. 

When Steve turns, he finds you already looking at him. 

“They’re really great,” your smile worsens and Steve’s stomach capsizes, “your kids. You should be proud.”

The joy is contagious, infecting Steve with the same toothy smile, spreading through every cell in his body straight down to his jumping heart. “I am,” he manages. 

“God,” you shake your head at the stars, “I can’t believe that actually worked.” 

Steve closes his eyes and exhales a rough laugh. “You’re telling me.” 

“Did I make you uncomfortable at all? I didn’t want to do too much.” 

“No,” Steve promises. “No, no, it was perfect. You did great. Thank you.”

You throw your hand up in dismissal. “Don’t. That was… weirdly fun.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “is that fucked up?” 

“Not any more than me asking you to do this,” he snorts. 

“How long exactly do you plan to do this for? I could probably do most evenings but mornings are trickier with work.” 

Steve blinks unceremoniously. “Oh, I– well, I was just gonna tell her it didn’t work out, actually.”

“Really?” 

He struggles to understand your squinting. He didn’t expect you to question this part. “Yeah?”

“You want it to be believable, don’t you?” 

“Well, yeah–”

“Then you have to sell it, Steve. Give it a little buildup, some emotion. It would be so obvious if you ended it now.” 

He searches your face, not sure what he’s hoping to find. But there’s at least some level of authenticity there. “You’d want to? To keep going?”

“Like I said,” you frown, “weirdly fun.” 

He hums. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Okay.”

“I say we make a few more appearances, you know, as a happy couple. Then, we stage the breakup.” 

“What, in front of her?”

“No, not necessarily. But we plant the seeds. We aren’t as affectionate, we get a little worked up over something stupid. I don’t know. Just enough to make her catch on that things aren’t all that good. That’s believable.”

Steve stares at you for a long minute before his smile turns a sinister shade. “You’re crazy, aren’t you?” 

You huff but there’s no heat behind it. You’re grinning too. “I thought you had more manners than that, Steve.” 

“Yeah, well, if it's any consolation, I also think you’re a fuckin’ genius.”

“You’ve been a nice boyfriend, so, I’ll let it slide.”  

He rolls his eyes like a kid. He likes talking to you but he isn’t sure what else to say. 

“So, see you next time then?”

“Yeah,” he nods, “yeah, I’ll call you. Thank you.” 

“‘Kay. See ya.” 

There’s a beat before you go, a split-second where Steve could hug you, kiss your cheek, touch your arm. He’s not exactly sure what the protocol is for this type of situation, though. He makes the executive decision not to subject you to any more PDA lest you get the wrong idea about him. But the way you’ve got this all planned out, he’s not so worried anymore. 

“Bye,” he waves. 

You walk the same path Nancy and his kids had, the back of your head slipping behind the bed of a truck. There’s something about you. Something fun, something that makes him feel alive again. And a fake relationship isn’t really harming anyone if you’re both enjoying yourselves. So why the hell not? 

[howtofightwrite]

How much would a broken rib debilitate an inexperienced person in a life or death fight?

I’m trying to write my character’s (a 15-year-old, untrained librarian) first experience with serious violence (not his first time getting hit ever though, his travelling companion plays rough with him but obviously not with the intention to seriously hurt him) and being on the receiving end of a bandit attack. He gets grabbed by his hair and after he stomps on and breaking a couple of the bandit’s toes, the bandit gets angry and knees him in the stomach, breaking his rib and knocking the wind out of him while keeping his grip on his hair so he can’t double over properly.

Afterwards he’s slammed onto his back a couple times, which I imagine would send him into further pain as it jostles his injured rib. My question is, especially considering he’s completely untrained and this is his first experience with a broken bone and being attacked by someone with the intention to injure him, would the pain be great enough that he shouldn’t be able to fight back at all, or would the adrenaline of the life or death situation be enough that he could at least put up a struggle? I’ve personally only sprained my ankle, so I don’t know how incapacitating a broken bone would be, and with how vulnerable I want my character to come across, I really wanna make sure I get it right.

So, not speaking from personal experience, but no matter how much training you have, you can't “power through” a broken bone.

In the case of your ribs, don't worry, it will only cause debilitating problems if you want to do unimportant things, like breathing, or getting hit anywhere in the torso, or moving parts of your body that are connected to your torso. Again, you really can't power through that. In a situation like the one described, it's not a guaranteed death sentence, but, it's close enough.

I should probably add, this isn't because, of the broken rib per se, but, that rib is not doing them any favors. What it will ensure is that your character cannot defend themselves against their attackers. Given the attackers want to cause harm, they're going to be able to do that pretty effectively.

And it gets worse. Normally your ribs protect your internal organs from being damaged. When one of those ribs is broken, it becomes a bone shard perfectly positioned for puncturing internal organs. So taking blows to a broken rib can easily result in serious internal bleeding, and death.

To paraphrase an old joke, broken ribs are nature's way of telling you to slow down. They're not going to be able to fight back (or, really, engage in many physically intensive activities.) If someone wants to make them hurt, the hard part is living through the attack at all.

If you want a superficial break that you can (sort of) power through, a broken nose is one of the best options. It will bleed like crazy, but outside of a freak accident, it's very survivable, and looks a lot worse than it actually is. Broken fingers are another legitimate option, and there's a lot of ways that can happen. It will make it harder for them to handle a book afterwards, meaning it's the kind of damage that will stick with them throughout the rest of the story (and their lives, if they're not properly set.) Breaking a rib? That's going to need medical attention, and they're not doing anything meaningful while it heals. It can work if someone else pulls their attacker off of them, but they're not digging themselves out of this one on their own.

-Starke

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[aetherraeys]

different on you

for this request x

poly!wolfstar x reader ⊹ 6.7k

cw ⟢ angsty, insecure!reader, body image issues, hurt/comfort, reader has scars

summary: shame doesn't suit you, but its getting harder to be comfortable in your own skin knowing it needs to be seen by other—loved by others.

a/n: i feel like a victorian child waiting for the plague to finally take me...being sick 9 days before finals is devious behaviour

Comfortability is weird and finnicky thing—it comes easy for some, natural even, and incomprehensibly harder for other. A day struggle in some cases.

A day struggle in your case.

One you thought you’d moved past after years and years of turmoil. But it didn’t take so much as as a single intrusive thought—one of innocent origin, one of admiration—for you to feel almost back at square one.

Reigniting a flame that you thought was almost snuffed out.

To be comfortable in your own skin—accepting that this is what will house you until the day you die. And you told yourself you were grateful for it, it kept all your muscles and organs in place, allowed you to touch things—gave you access to all the sensations of the world. And you tried not be harsh with it, with yourself—treating it with kindest and a gentle hand.

Because really it wasn’t its fault, the blame didn’t reside with your skin—an innocent entity in the cruel and fiery game your mind played on you—and Gods did the fire hurt?

Burning low at first, small—unimportant. A matchstick. Then bigger. Hotter. All-consuming.

Spreading like wildfire, uncontrollable and bruttish in nature.

Trampling it’s way into everything you did, spilling like oil—staining, tainting, tarnishing, every thought in its wake.

Honestly, it’s just unfair. How sick you feel—ashamed of your own thoughts, ashamed of being in your body—the way your brain does all sorts of gymnastics, a mirage of hops, skips, leaps, and jumps to get you to conclude on one thing. You’re not enough.

Comparison kills happiness.

It was never your intention to compare, it was harmless admiration—adoration. And yet, in an instant, that invasive creeping thought slid into your brain, and suddenly you couldn’t take your eyes off of Sirius.

Bold, beautiful Sirius—craved by Aphrodite herself, licked by the goddess of all that is love and beauty and grace. So effortless in the way he captures your eye—even just his eyes—seemingly endless pools of silver and grey with specks of blue that you just wanted to drown in, lashes long and fluttering with every easy affectionate word on his lips.

And then there was Remus, you could speak at great length about how much you adored Remus. He was a sight to behold, skin sunkissed, warm and freckled—you’d spent hours tracing over them and his scars. Convinced that the inside of your skull was engraved with a map—a constellation of his skin.

His voice, soft and steady, had this devastating way of making you feel like the most important person in the world. He listened like the stars might stop shining if he didn’t.

And beside them—what were you?

A flickering candle. Wax melting too fast. Skin too tight. Thoughts too loud.

You hadn’t realised how long you were staring at Sirius—eyes locked on the smooth, pale expanse of his stomach, the subtle ridges of his ribs, rising and falling with each breath. Water clung to him in beads, glinting in the low light like glass shards. You tracked a droplet as it slid from his chest, curved past the hollow of his waist, and disappeared beneath the towel slung lazily around his hips.

He was effortless. Unthinking. Just existing in his skin like it had never betrayed him. Like it had always belonged.

You didn’t notice the smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. Didn’t notice the way his eyes kept flicking over, catching you in the reflection of the mirror, until he spoke—words nearly lost beneath the hum of the blowdryer.

“If you keep staring at me like that, love, you’ll burn a hole right through me.”

You blinked at him, instantly averting your gaze as heat crept up the base of your neck—Remus snickered slightly under his breath at your reaction, peering over the top of his book from his lounged position beside you. Long limbs tangled with yours.

And your lips parted, to protest—shyly deny that you’d be staring, or more that you’d be caught. But they fell dead on your tongue, Sirius’ lips splitting into a wider grin at your poor attempt to be non-chalant.

Voice light and playful as it filled the room “No, no, don’t stop on my account—I love being a distraction,”

It had your lips quirking up slightly, mumbling begrudge under your breath, before turning back to your phone. You were helpless to it, using every braincell to not let your eyes travel back to Sirius’ sculpted form.

Fingers subconsciously picking at the skin around your thumb, bad habit. They always arose when your brain was full, allowing you to lose yourself in the endless sea of thoughts.

Sirius was touchy, generous with his affection—having been starved of it so long, he’d quickly become some sort of an addict. Constantly itching to close to one of you, usually—typically, Remus.

And he would revel in the contact, allow Sirius to curl up onto him like a cat seeking warmth at all times. Completely accustom to the way Sirius would all but try live in his skin with him—his hands, arms, thighs, head—something in constant contact with Remus.

Not to say you didn’t like touch, didn’t want to bask in his attention and generous comfort. But right now?

Right now your skin was already crawling, feeling prickly and too much. So when Sirius came to the bed, slotting himself between your legs, head resting over your belly button—automatically sighing into your warmth, you fought the urge to freeze. His smell drifting up to you, vivid and bright post—shower, a mix of a warm sandalwood and the light freshness of the shampoo you shared.

Really you wanted to tangle your fingers into his hair, let them be engulfed by soft mass of curls—but something was stopping you. Keeping your hands trapped by your sides.

Sirius had already started a conversation with Remus, effectively distracting him from the book he’d been reading. And you heard it plop by the pillow you rested on—you wanted to turn your head, engage in the small chatter but you couldn’t.

Couldn’t focus on anything other than the mindless way Sirius’ fingertips trailed up and down the sides of your thighs—dragging against the seam of your bottoms—up and down and up again. It was a completely innocent, ordinary touch. But today it was too much, too taxing, too dangerous.

You were all but petrified in place, lying still beneath him, breathing almost shallow—trying to act normal, trying to act like your mind wasn’t spiralling with each skim of his fingers.

Finally cracking when Sirius reached under the hem of your shirt—he hadn’t made direct contact with your skin just yet—still fiddling with your pockets and belt loops, trailing his hands over the curves of your hips.

Until he almost brushed against your skin—shirt hitching up to expose you. His voice rumbling and vibrating lowly against your body when you moved.

The urgency in your movement was noticeable—eyes wide and shaking slightly as you grabbed his hands. The touch was thankfully light. Sirius looked away from Remus, who also silenced along with your action.

The quiet barely hung for a moment before you forced your lips to curve into a sheepish smile—eyes still stuck on Sirius’. You were quick to interlace your fingers with his, letting them rest on the fabric of your stomach above his head—and his brows were quirked up in mild curiousity. The words slipped out easy with a small huffed laugh, “I’m ticklish, Siri,”

Maybe that wasn’t the best excuse.

Because the glimmer in Sirius’ eyes as the final syllable left your lips was undeniably mischief—lips splitting into a small grin as he raised his head, chin pressing into your stomach.

“…Ticklish, eh?”

Your lips dropped immediately—expression shockingly grave as you felt his hands try to tug out of your interlinked hold. It was obvious what he wanted them for—and there was no way you could let that happen—let his hands wander and travel, even if it was in the name of harmless mischief.

Couldn’t let his fingers feel the rough outline of the scars that smeared themselves across your skin.

Thankfully, Remus came to your rescue as your struggled to keep Sirius’ hands in yours and away from your stomach in your vulnerable position—squirming coming to a stop when his voice sounds beside you.

“Stop torturing her with the threat of tickling, Pads”

Your pulse was ringing in your ears as he relented—casually winking at you before he rested his head back on your stomach, thumbs rubbing over skin of your palm as he picked up his conversation with Remus like normal.

And though it took a short while for your heart to settle, the itching pressure clearly had no intention of dissipating—the longer you spent connected with Sirius, each shift on his face against the fabric that covered your stomach had it churning.

Because what if he could feel them, what if the texture was clear even through your shirt, what if he recoiled away from you at the discover, the exposure of what you likely wouldn’t be able to hide for much longer.

You’d narrowly escaped one instance, thanks to Remus, but what of next time—that’s a river you’ll have to cross when you’re in front of it. The longer you stay in your head, the more suspicious you’ll look, but you can’t help it—focusing all your energy on ignoring the way your hands want to shake in Sirius’.

When you turn your head, pushing the darker, insecure thoughts into the back of your mind—you find Remus’ gaze on you, watching you intently with a look you couldn’t quite read. It was likely nothing—just watching, and yet even as you forced your lips curled into a shy smile for him, you struggled to swallow as he looked away.

Another day.

Another hard one.

Harder than the last few, more distressing, more distracting and for the first time in a long time, you found yourself struggling to look in the mirror.

At least not without your hands instictively running over the roughened skin with a unkind, critical eye—frown etching itself onto your lips as your chest tightened. You’d been avoiding the bathroom mirror all day.

But it was that time now.

Time to shower, time to spend time with your body, time to wash and rub, to cleanse your skin.

Not a particularly difficult task—you’d done it thousands of times.

But right now, stripping bare was the hardest obstacle ever—because that would been you’d have to see them—have to touch them over and over and over, no barrier of fabric to disguise the texture.

And you felt sick, as your top hit the bathroom floor with a dull thud. Gaze locked onto the floor, stuggling to look at the skin, at the mirror, at yourself. So you didn’t.

Turning swiftly on your heel—focusing your mind on the sound of running water, using a loofah to rub over the skin to avoid physical contact with it. But after some time, you inevitably found your way back. Lathering soap over the area with vigour, scrubbing harder and harder—aggressively—as if to remove it entirely. Rid yourself of the unforgiving texture and darkened colour that dorned your skin in a way that made your insides revolt.

Of course it wouldn’t come off, wouldn’t release you from its tormenting shackles, it stayed. Relentless. A stubborn, inescapable, ugly reminder, and the surface of your skin burned under your excessive friction—itching and prickling as you continued to scrub away at it.

The water pressure suddenly wasn’t enough, wouldn’t clean you how you needed and you broke.

A choked sob built in your throat, clawing its way out when you hand dropped to your side. Head hanging low as your eyes stung, tears mixing with the water cascading over your bare form. You let out a shaky breath, lungs shuddering with the next inhale—clamping your hand over your mouth as another sob threatened to errupt into the bathroom.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you willed everything everything—turning and tipping your head back to rinse it away—the lathered soap, your thoughts, the scars. Even as your tears subsided, the aching pressure beneath your ribs was still going strong—now accompanied with a growing tension headache and a pair of dry, bloodshot eyes.

Stepping out of the shower, you kept your eyes shut as your dried—back to the mirror, just barely patting over the, now sore, expanse of skin. Padding your way into the bedroom as quietly as possible, tugging on extra layers.

A vest, a tshirt, a jumper.

You hung your towel over the heater to dry, and curled into the bed—curled into yourself, trying to sink into mattress. Distract yourself for the too loud thoughts that spun in your head.

It was maybe an hour of tossing and turning, skin stinging under the layers of fabric—when you finally relented, throat sore and dry—the duvet was thrown off haphazardly, and you exited the room. Making your way into the kitchen, trying to attract as little attention as possible as your poured a tall glass of water.

But to your misfortune, both Remus and Sirius padded into the kitchen at the minimal sound of your movement. Sirius automatically resting his head on the curve of your shoulder as you sipped quietly.

“Missed you, love. Have a good shower?”

You hummed, head still bowed as Sirius audibly breathed you in, planting a gentle kiss to the curve of your jaw when you murmured. “Mmhm, was very relaxing,”

It was a lie, a simple but necessary one you’d thought.

Though ultimately useless, because the second you turned around to press the kettle on and Remus caught a glimpse of your face, his brows furrowed and he leaned into you. On instinct you shied away slightly, keeping your eyes on the marble of the counter and avoiding his perceptive gaze.

He slid closer to you—pressing his back into the counter as you turned to open the cupboard, “You okay, dove?”

The mug hit connected to the marble with a small clink, and you held back the sigh the bubbled in your chest—pushed down the urge to shrug Sirius’ touch off of you when you hummed back in response.

Remus dipped his head down to get a closer look while you prepared your tea, skin around your eyes puffed, whites of your eyes still reddened. A frown worked it’s way onto Remus’ lips, but before he could ask what the matter was, your voice reached his ears, light and quiet—joining the low rumbling of water in the kettle.

“Would you like one?”

It was a simple and open question, but you didn’t raise your gaze from the empty cup before you, fingers circling the rim mindlessly.

They both ignored your question.

Remus had flashed a look to Sirius that said something’s wrong, and he lifted his away from its position, craning his neck to peak at you. And he noticed how your shoulders sagged, like they weighed tonnes more than they had before you disappeared.

Sirius let his hand drag down the curve of your spine, and as much as you knew it was meant to be a comfort—it really did nothing of the sort—body stiffening under his touch.

His brows pinched on his forehead, matching the concerned curve of Remus’ as he spoke, “’S something wrong, love?”

The question had the lump in your throat grow impossibly larger and you felt suddenly much closer to breaking down than you’d care to admit. You couldn’t even disguise the sigh that left you as your hand reached for the kettle that had ticked over, trembling slightly.

“No, just tired—throat hurts.” Your voice was pinched and shaky as you spoke, and Remus could see how your eyes glossed upon their inquiring, reaching for the kettle instead and pouring the water for you. Sirius’ palm was still rubbing small circles into your back, lips curving downwards at the sound of your voice. And he spoke softly, “Come rest on the sofa with me—Rem will make us the tea, yeah?”

Your lips pursed together, but there was no resistance when he took you hand—pulling you away from the counter and into the living room—tv still droning on in the back ground. His chest tugs a bit tighter at the exhuasted way you curl into yourself on the sofa. Taking up as little space a possible, putting too much distance between you.

He doesn’t question it though, allows you your extra slither of space and watches you for a few moments, how your hands are clenched into small fists, watching how your lip has been pulled into the endless assault of your teeth and how you blinked like your eyes were the heaviest thing in the room.

Sirius only brings his hand to rub gently over your head as he stood, walking to get a blanket before draping it over your lap, you barely moved—muttering a small thank you when he straightened and tucked it around you.

Remus eventually made his way into the room, tea in hand and look of concern on his face as he approached. Placing it beside you so gently, as if the sound alone would startle you.

“Put some honey in to help soothe your throat,”

You thanked him with a small smile that he could see was forced, watching both and you and Sirius from the single seater. Sirius’ hands twitched on his lap, restaining himself from reaching out and touching you—because you’d sat so far, frozen under his touch in the kitchen—clearly you wanted space.

Even if it burned him to give it too you.

The tea was only half finished when you dozed off—head slumping forward, your chest raising and dropping slower as you fell deeper into sleep.

Remus was careful to lift you—padding to the bedroom and settling you down and tucking you in. He sat perched on the edge of the bed beside you for a short while, fingers brushing gently over the surface of your cheekbones. Let his eyes wander over your peaceful expression—Remus knew it was more than a sore throat, more than just being tired.

But for now he’d let you sleep, let you enjoy the peace of a much needed slumber.

He’d ask again tomorrow.

And he did.

Subtly at first, just about how you slept, if you were feeling better—you only gave simple, vague answers and forced half-smiles. Sirius was fidgety and restless in his seat across from you—you’d opted to sit in the single chair away from them. Despite the larger sofa capacity for three, even four bodies.

Sirius was less subtle in the way he watched, eyes monitoring your figure, pennying each time you would frown unconsciously. He rose without ceremony from his place beside Remus—he’d noticed the excess layers—the way they bunched up and how you tried to carefully adjust them without too much fuss. But he noticed.

“You cold, love? Shall I turn on the heating?”

The worry in his voice was just as quiet and gentle as the one that swam behind his eyes—you shook your head quietly, lips pressing together in a strained smile and his heart all but sank in his chest. The way your hands wrapped around your middle almost protectively.

He didn’t push further, but you saw his eyes flicker over to Remus, saw the way his brows raised higher on his brows as he murmured something about taking a shower—padding down the corridor without another word.

You watched as he left—eyes stuck on the darkened hallway long after he’d gone, mind drifting as guilt burned in your chest. It was a double edge sword really, how you hated feeling so pathetic, trapped in your own skin—how you couldn’t help but retract under the pressure of your own thoughts.

And to top it all off, your mind wasn’t just damaging you, it was seeping out and spreading onto those around you. They didn’t deserve this, this weak, insecure version of you that loomed around the house, refusing help.

They didn’t deserve to be affected by your own inner turmoil. And they were still treating you so nicely, so careful and attentively—it all just translated to another reason you don’t deserve them.

You hadn’t noticed the shifting of fabric, or the movement from the sofa to your left—not until a dark mass all but spawned in front of you.

Remus.

He was looking down at you with that look. The one accompanied with a crooked smile and soft eyes that had you sinking into the sofa. When he reached out his hands, taking yours from the shielding position around you and dragging you to a stand—you couldn’t find the energy to resist.

Allowing him to walk you backwards across the room, until the back of his knees hit the sofa and you stood between his legs as he settled. Looking up at you as if you were the answer to everything, too tender, too fond and accepting and you wanted to run away from it.

Curl away from the affection that swam in his eyes and the honeyed tone of his voice, “Will you sit with me, dove?”

Remus had a way with his touches. His fingers gliding slowly up your wrists, ghostly and pressure-less, but still warm, inviting, pulling you in like a tide you couldn’t fight. Like water you wanted to drown in.

It took a mere moments more of anchoring touches before you found your way onto Remus’ lap.

He kept his hands in yours, just barely trailing up your forearms before coming back down, his warmth seeping in through all the layers of fabric separating you. Still holding your gaze, everything drifted away into the background, just you and him. And he held you with such delicacy, such reverence you almost didn’t notice the lump building in your throat.

Remus brought both your hands to rest on his chest—and his heart thumped beneath your palm, strong and confident and partially for you. “What’s the matter, my love?”

His hands were already by the sides of your face, thumbs grazing over the tops of your cheekbones and he simply held your gaze with that aching kind of tenderness he always seemed to reserve just for you, his thumbs smoothing away the wrinkles that were formed along with your frown.

You only shook your head, closing your eyes—willing the tremble of your hands to steady against his chest—curling them into his jumper, fists bunching in the soft wool, and you leaned forward until your forehead met his shoulder. It was second nature for his hands to slide down your sides, resting at the dip of your waist but then he felt it.

The way your breathe skipped and how you went ridgid in his hold.

It was obvious, undeniably something.

And his brows arched high on his forehead, creases of concern forming as he leaned back—hands frozen on the bunching fabric of your jumper. You still hadn’t moved, had barely breathed. Remus waited for the exhale, for the slow rise and fall of your shoulders but there was nothing and it made his throat feel unexpectedly dry.

Stomach twisting at the thought of you being uncomfortable because of him, because of his touch.

“Love?”

There was no response, your eyes were squeezed shut, pressed into the fabric of his clothes and you could feel the way his fingers twitched hesitantly at your sides—heat from his palms feeling that bit hotter even if you didn’t want it. Throat feeling tighter, skin all but burning beneath the layers of fabric.

“Are you—d’you want me to let go?” His voice was barely above a whisper, undercut with a concern that was palpable. You didn’t answer, couldn’t—it was already hard enough for you to stablise your pulse. Let alone bring your voice to travel out of your mouth.

And you didn’t know what you wanted—if it would be better for him to let go, or pull you in closer, allow you to sink into him—there were too many thoughts spinning around in your head.

It took everything in you to take a breath, shallow and shaky and not enough for your lungs.

Unfortunately, Remus took your silence as rejection—peeling his hands away from you, letting them drop by his side. His pulse had sped up, you could still feel it beneath your palms, thrumming through the fabric of his jumper. The task of raising your head from his shoulder was too much, instead, you let your hand travel up towards his neck.

The trembles were evident, fingertips just barely tracing over the scar that dorned the curve of his jaw in a small back and forth motion—soothing, lulling.

Remus hesitated only a moment before bringing his hands up, gentle and unsure, to cradle your face. His touch was featherlight—thumbs brushing just beneath your cheekbones, as if he were afraid you'd flinch. His brows were furrowed in that familiar way, concern etched into every line of his face.

"Look at me," he murmured, voice low and soft, coaxing rather than commanding.

You didn’t want to. Didn’t want him to see it—all the cracks, all the things you were barely holding in. But his touch was grounding, and you were so tired of carrying it alone. Slowly, reluctantly, your eyes met his.

"Talk to me," he said. Not a demand, but a plea. “Please.”

It hurt to even think about it. To try and put it into words, to expose it all—so raw, so unhealed, so shameful. Your throat clenched tight with the effort it took not to speak, and the silence stretched between you like a held breath.

You couldn’t do it. You just couldn’t.

But your hand was still against his jaw, still resting there like it had been since the moment you'd reached for him. Remus glanced down, then slowly, deliberately, he slid one of his own hands over yours. His fingers curled around yours, firm and warm, as he guided them into his palm.

“You know you can tell me anything, love,” he said quietly.

He was only met with a nod, eyes falling down to your joined hands—his hand cradling yours like something sacred and fragile. Gaze lingering on the skin there, where old scars stretched and puckered, weaving across the back of his hand like faded threads. You watched the way they shifted as he held you, how they flexed and moved with each small twitch of his fingers.

It brought you back to the moments he’d got them, new ones—scars to add to the collection.

He hadn’t wanted to talk about it, had waved off your and Sirius’ concern with a thin-lipped smile. But later, when it was just the two of you, you’d seen him sitting at the edge of the bed, shirt half-on, half-forgotten, staring down at the newest scar like it was a curse.

Jaw tight. Knuckles white around the bedsheets. And no matter how many times you or Sirius told him he was beautiful, that you loved every part of him—he never quite believed you.

Not really.

Deep down still hated them, those marks. Saw them as a reflection of the thing inside him he couldn’t escape. The monster he feared he was.

And now, staring down at those same hands holding yours, something inside you twisted.

How could you show him yours? If he could barely stand the sight of his own, how could you ask him to stomach yours? To love them?

Your vision blurred again, eyes stinging as the pressure built. Remus must have seen it—of course he did—because he ducked his head to try and meet your gaze again, voice breaking with quiet urgency.

“Love,” he said, “what’s this about?”

You tried—Gods, you tried—to stay still, to keep it all in. But the dam was already cracking. Your lip wobbled, a single tear slipping down your cheek, betraying you before you could stop it. And then it was too late.

You leaned forward and pressed your face into his chest, breath hitching, your body trembling with the effort of keeping the sobs at bay. His jumper soaked up your tears, and your fingers fisted the fabric instinctively, like you were drowning and he was the only solid thing left.

Remus froze for half a second—uncertain, panicked—before wrapping his arms around you again. Tighter this time. Protective. Careful.

He didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know where it was okay to hold you anymore, didn’t know what he’d touched that had opened you up like this. But he held you anyway.

Held you like that for a long time—until the trembling in your shoulders slowed, until the tears had soaked a warm patch into his jumper, until your hands unclenched from their grip on his chest. You didn’t speak. He didn’t push.

The room felt still in that hushed, heavy way that always followed a storm, like the air itself was holding its breath around you.

And then the bathroom door creaked open down the hallway.

You heard it before you saw him—Sirius padding barefoot into the living room, hair damp and curling at the ends, towel slung haphazardly around his neck. He wore an old, faded T-shirt and joggers low on his hips, still drying his arms with the edge of the towel when he glanced over and paused.

His eyes caught on the two of you curled together on the sofa—your face buried in Remus’ chest, Remus’ arms wrapped around you like he wasn’t sure he could let go.

Sirius blinked, the smile he’d been wearing slipping off his face like someone had cut a string.

"Everything alright?" he asked, voice gentle. He didn’t move closer just yet—just stood there, gauging, watching.

You didn’t lift your head, but you felt Remus nod, “Think so,” he said, his voice still low from before. “We’re just…sitting.”

Sirius gave it a beat longer, then crossed the room and dropped down beside you, his leg pressing into yours where you were curled. One of his arms draped across the back of the sofa, not touching, but near enough to remind you he was there. A quiet sort of presence.

He didn’t press either. Didn’t say anything else. Just let the silence settle again.

You sat like that for a while—Remus still cradling you close, Sirius quietly rubbing a thumb over the seam of the cushion. Someone had turned on the lamp earlier, casting the room in soft amber, and somewhere outside the wind was rattling the windowpanes.

Eventually, Remus shifted a little, enough to look at you again. He didn’t pull away, but his head tilted as he studied you, a slight furrow returning to his brow.

You didn't answer.

Remus had asked so softly—"Love, what’s with all the layers?"—but the question settled deep in your gut, heavy and aching. You stared down at your hands, still curled with his, fingers interlaced like a lifeline.

Silence stretched between you. Sirius shifted beside you on the couch, quiet and still now, the usual spark in his eyes dulled by something softer—something more watchful that edge of concern.

His thumb brushed the back of your hand again, gentle, grounding. Then, after a long pause, he said quietly, “Can I touch you?”

Your eyes flicked to him, startled—not because you didn’t understand, but because you did.

He didn’t mean it like that. He meant the layers. The reason you’d stayed swaddled in fabric even as the flat had grown warm and the fire crackled faintly in the hearth. He meant that.

You gave the smallest nod.

Remus shifted, careful and slow, lifting his hands from yours. He didn’t move toward you right away—just let you breathe, let you have the space to decide. And when you didn’t flinch, when your shoulders didn’t rise to curl away like they usually did—he reached out, palms finding your sides through the thick material, warm and trembling just slightly.

You let him.

And then, maybe out of instinct or guilt or something bitterer, you looked over at Sirius.

Perfect, scarless Sirius.

He was watching you both, eyes wide and dark in the low light, hair still damp from the shower. His skin caught the glow of the lamp and turned gold—soft, beautiful, untouched by the things that marred you. You didn’t think he meant to look so effortless. But he did.

And it made you want to curl into yourself.

You looked down again, chest tight with shame. It sat in your lungs like smoke, cloying and hot. How could you explain it to them—how your own body felt foreign and broken and ruined in ways they couldn’t see? How could you show them the jagged edges of what was left behind?

But then—

Then Remus’ hands, steady against your ribs, slid just slightly, not to expose you, not to see—just to be there. Just to hold. And you felt the faint, rhythmic thump of his heartbeat against your ear, where your head still rested against his chest. A quiet, constant drum.

Strong. Steady. His.

He couldn’t feel them. The scars. But he knew you were hiding something, knew something was there.

You hadn’t said a word, and somehow he still knew.

And then his voice came again, quieter now, closer to your temple.

“You don’t have to tell me what it is,” he said, careful, measured, as though every word was something sacred. “But will you show me?”

For a moment, no one moved. Not even you. The weight of Remus' question hovered in the space between you, heavy and trembling like your own hands.

Then—Sirius.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His hand came to rest at the curve of your neck, gentle, anchoring. His fingers were warm, just barely there, and you felt it for what it was: silent reassurance. Encouragement. A tether.

So you moved.

You leaned back slowly, your lips pressed into a thin, tight line. Your fingers fumbled at the hem of your layers—one, then two, then the third beneath—and they trembled, the fabric bunched and clumsy in your grip. Your head dipped down, shame pooling low in your chest as you began to lift.

The clothes gathered at your ribs, and you stilled, bracing yourself.

It was out now.

The skin that you had hidden for so long—marred and uneven, smeared with raised texture and darkened pigment, raw around the edges. Ugly, your mind supplied. Ugly, brutal, wrong.

You couldn’t look at them. Not Remus, not Sirius. You stared at your lap, blinking fast.

And then Remus breathed out, barely a sound, but you caught it.

“Dove…” he whispered.

Your body tensed up, wanting to recoil, wanting to pull the layers back down and disappear under them forever, hide the mess of what you were. Because surely—surely—they hated it. Thought it looked grotesque, ill-fitting, revolting.

Your voice came out small and shaking. “I know they’re hideous. I tried to hide them, but—”

“No,” Sirius cut in sharply, fiercely. “Absolutely not. They’re not hideous. Not at all.”

His voice didn’t waver.

Remus made a soft sound in agreement, and you felt his hands rise again, hesitating for the briefest moment before they brushed against the skin. You flinched at first—couldn’t help it—but he didn’t withdraw.

His palms were warm. Gentle. They moved over you with such unbearable care, and you could feel how his touch softened around the sore spots, the still-tender parts of you.

A silence fell, heavy and waiting, wrapped in the crackle of the fire and the quiet thud of your heart.

You couldn’t stop yourself from asking.

“Do you…do you hate them?”

The words barely left your mouth, but they were enough. Remus’ head snapped up, and the expression on his face made your chest hurt. Offence. Pain. Worry. Love.

You reached down, trying to tug the layers back into place, trying to hide again, to close the space between your body and theirs. He let you. Let the fabric cover his hands that hadn’t moved, that still rested lightly on your skin like a promise he wasn’t ready to let go of.

He watched your eyes, wide and glossy, how your fingers twisted in the sleeve of your jumper, how your lip trembled and you still couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.

His voice broke when he spoke.

“I—I could never hate it. Never, my love.” His breath hitched. “How could you think that?”

You didn’t answer. Not for a long moment.

Then, quietly—almost too quietly for the room—you said, “You hate yours…I just thought…”

You never finished the sentence.

Remus' hands slipped out from under the hem of your clothes and moved to your face, cupping your cheeks, thumbs brushing over the delicate stretch of skin beneath your eyes. His touch was reverent, his gaze brimming with affection that was raw and aching. Twisting with unspoken apologies and guilt.

“No…no,” he whispered, eyes locking with yours. “Never on you. You’re perfect.”

Remus’ voice cracked at the end,

“There’s nothing I could hate on you. I promise, love.”

Your breath hitched at Remus’ words, chest tight beneath the weight of emotion pressing down on your ribs. He still held your face between his hands, gentle as ever, and you couldn’t quite bring yourself to meet his eyes, not when they held that much tenderness, not when your shame still clawed at your throat.

He spoke with such conviction, like your perfection was an indisputable truth.

Sirius shifted beside you. You felt the couch dip as he moved closer, hand still resting lightly at your nape, his thumb brushing back and forth in soft, grounding circles. He leaned in, forehead just brushing yours, voice low

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, “if you only knew how beautiful you are to us. You could tear the stars out of the sky and I still wouldn’t look at anything else.”

You blinked and your cheeks were wet—the tears spilling over, silent and slow. Remus’ thumb brushed one away, and then another.

“They’re not something to be ashamed of,” Sirius continued, shifting to press a kiss to your temple. “They’re a part of you. And we—” he glanced at Remus “—we love all of you. Even the bits you think are unlovable.”

Remus nodded, leaning his forehead to yours. “Especially those,” he whispered. “the ones you hate, the ones can’t love for yourself.”

You were quiet for a while after that, held between the two of them, your face tucked beneath Remus’ chin, Sirius’ lips occasionally brushing the back of your neck in a way that made you feel real again—held close, Remus smoothing the fabric over your skin with the same care someone might offer to silk.

Hands lingering just long enough to reassure, to ground, and then they slid back to your waist, wrapping around you in tandem with Sirius.

The scars were still there, and so were they—keeping you close, allowing you to bask in their warmth, their unending affection—safe and loved in the arms of the boys who never asked you to be anything but exactly who you are.

[sunfireshards]

this is so real im still shook about it

what do you MEAN seb cheated on carlos?? MY sebastian?? they expect me to believe that?! he would NEVER i can't stomach it

[hattiewritesalot]

Gevives (Beauty)

Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!reader

Summary: Jacaerys, ever the hard worker, is late to bed. Again. Luckily for him, you’re very forgiving.

Warnings: Reader and Jace have a daughter, one or two mentions of stress and overload, Jace being babygirl. Literally just fluff tbh

A/N: how’s it going lads im a little bit (very) in love with this pouty princess. I also wrote this at midnight for my sister so enjoy

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A soft sigh escapes you as the wooden chair creaks against the stone floor, rocking back and forth, lulling you and your sweet daughter as she snores, slumped against your chest.

She’s as loud as the day she was born, kicking and screaming as she was lowered into your arms for the first time, and now, thank the gods, she screams less. She has, however, taken after her father with her snoring, noisy enough to rumble Dragonstone itself. You’re not surprised - not entirely, at least. Little Rhaenyra has been a daddy’s girl since the moment Jace held her, since the moment her chubby fingers curled around his one, and he weeped into her downy head. It baffles you that that was so long ago - you can see the image as clear as day.

Speaking of your most beloved husband, he’s still not here. His tendency to overwork himself is shining through, and he’s all but locked himself in his study to sort through his papers and meetings and arrangements and everything boring that you sometimes have the urge to burn so maybe, just maybe, he’ll come to bed on time.

‘Perks of being the eldest son, my darling wife.’ He’d once grinned, amber eyes glinting in the sunlight with that twinkle of mischief you love so much. He’d kissed you, then, and slipped away to occupy himself with his duties.

You can’t be mad at him, not really, not when your heart is brimming with the love and devotion you have for your Jace. Not when you’re carding your fingers through your toddler’s dark curls as she dreams. It doesn’t stop you from being frustrated though. You hate it when he burns himself out like this, knowing all too well the way he crumbles when the day is done. You’ll always be there, though, to pick up the shards and put him back together again, knowing he’d do the same for you in a heartbeat.

The door creaks open, and then it closes with a squeal of the hinges, and quiet footsteps patter behind you, Jace’s face peering around the rocking chair. He winces. “You’re awake?”

You cock a brow, shooting him a look. “Yes, I’m awake. And so are you.”

He sighs, then, pressing those full lips to your forehead and cradling your face, his free hand reaching down to stroke Rhaenyra’s hair. “I’m sorry, my wife. Everything is so… overwhelming right now. Some days I want to rip Aegon’s hair out, and some days I want to rip my own out.” 

“Please don’t. I quite like your pretty curls.”

“As you tell me so often, gevives.” Gevives. Beauty. Gods, this man has a chokehold on your heart.

“Perhaps I will find it in myself to forgive you.” You finally push up off your chair, cracking your back, groaning. “Remind me not to sit in that chair for too long.”

“I do remind you. You don’t listen.”

“You’re on thin ice, Velaryon.” 

You lower Rhaenyra into her cot, rocking it and shushing her gently when she squeaks. Jace’s hands curl around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. “Our little princess.” He mumbles. “She’s perfect. Is she really ours?”

“Given that she snores like a bear and pouts all day, I’d say she is.”

He snorts. “I do not pout.” 

“He said, pouting.”

“You’re mean.” He turns you around, now, the tip of his nose brushing against yours. You love it when he’s this close, when you can count every freckle, every streak of gold and brown in his eyes, every curl. You smile at him. “You love it.”

He sighs dramatically, shaking his head, as if every word he speaks ails him. “Yes, yes I do. Gods save me from my cruel wife and her cruel ways.”

You scoff, but laughter bursts through it, pushing his shoulder and walking to the bed. “Fine. I guess you won’t be sleeping next to your cruel wife, then?” 

He’s scrambling out of his day clothes and under the covers before you can even fathom it, pulling you into his arms. He has the blood of the dragon, and runs hot when he sleeps. It’s nice on colder nights like this one, where you could bury yourself in his arms and never leave. His deft fingers trail up and down your spine, lips pressed against your hairline.

He calls you the beauty, but it is only because you are so infatuated with the man next to you. Every part of him; the sweet, gentlemanly parts, and the bitter, ugly parts; holds a dear place in the organ beating beneath your breast. Jacaerys Velaryon isn’t just your husband - he’s your best friend, your soul-mate (as the poets may say), and every time his fingers intertwine with yours, you like to think that your very beings intertwine too. You and Jace will find each other wherever you need to, for you know he is never far when he loves you so.

He sighs, nestling into your hair, and you gently kiss his jaw. “Promise me something, husband?”

He hums in response.

“Promise me you’ll take a break tomorrow?”

It takes him a long moment, but eventually, he swallows, nodding, body sagging against yours. “I’m sorry, I just-“

“Hush, I don’t need to hear it. I love you, alright? Even if you don’t show up to bed on time, even if you sometimes infuriate me with how much you put on yourself.”

He chuckles softly at that, pulling you in closer. “I adore you, my lady.”

You’re half-asleep by now, safe and content within the comfort of your lover’s arms. “Not as much as I adore you.”

You could have this argument for years, endless bickering of ‘I love you more’s, but you don’t. Not now, at least.

Now, you hold each other, falling asleep within the solidarity of your love.

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I actually like this sort of a tiny bit

[swordsandholly]

Fancy

Ch. 4: Black Out Days

Ao3 | Previous - Next | Masterlist

Vampire!Poly 141 x Fem!Fat!Reader

MDNI | cw: sickness, hallucinations, injury, some light dubcon

Word Count: 6.2k

Summary: A permanent darkness rests over the city. You’ve lived here your whole life - in the slums, just another human to be pushed and pulled at the whims of the vampires that run it. Another human made to bleed and crawl their way through a meager life. Maybe, just maybe, a meeting by happenstance will change your fate.

A/N: the tone of this story has sort of shifted as I’ve worked on the next few chapters/plot points. I hope it’s not too jarring, but I’m excited for the direction it’s going in.

Your mother rises out of her drunken stupor - spine too straight and head flopped back limply. As if her hips are the only thing capable of moving and her neck has snapped at every ligament. The worn sheets pool around her hips, torn neckline of her nightclothes exposing her gaunt, bruised collar bones.

She says your name in that sickening, gruff voice of hers. A voice too exposed to the poisons outside. Blood drips from the corner of her mouth, coats her teeth as she speaks. Black and viscous. “Oh, darling, what have you gotten yourself into?”

You’re small. A child kneeling by her bed like you always did, waiting for her to ask you to bring her water or pain pills. “What?”

“It’s easier if you give in.”

People aren’t buried anymore. There isn’t room. Your mother’s urn is painfully cold in your hands. You stumble as the train lurches. A new voice hisses above you. Wild eyes and big hands that leave clawing, bloodied stripes in their wake down your body. A flash of blonde, some sort of scar. An accent so old you don’t recognize it.

“It’s easier if you give in, little girl.”

You fall back, out of the train doors and onto something soft and silky. For a few beats you stay there, in the quiet. In the dark. Comfortable in a way so deeply foreign to you it might as well be alien. Until some thick cover pulls away from your face. John grins down at you, shirtless with his head resting on his hand and elbow on the pillow below him.

“Knew you were awake.”

You rub your eyes. “Wh- when did- when did I get here?”

He frowns, a deep crease forming in his brow. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve…” You run a hand through your sleep tangled hair. “I don’t know…”

“It could be so easy, Fancy.” He murmurs, voice low and far away. “It doesn’t have to be… this.”

“I can’t…” Something complicated swirls in your chest. A twisting of guilt and love and unadultered disgust.

The world shifts. You’re standing, now. Simon leans on the railing of the penthouse balcony, staring out at the city. He takes up so much space. Envelopes you without even touching you. “How many memories do you think a person can lose before they’re someone else entirely?”

“What?” You frown. There’s an ache in your head - a drumming pain growing more intense by the second. Your bones rattle along to the rhythm.

“It’d be so easy…”

You peel your eyes open only slightly. It hurts, as if they’ve been glued shut. An offensive light blazes in your face. It takes a moment before you realize the tingle on your skin comes from the UV lamp beside you. Did you fall asleep under it again? No matter how hard you blink your vision won’t clear. When you finally manage to swallow it feels like your throat has been lined with shards of glass.

You grope around the bed uselessly, hands unsure. The edge of the bed takes longer to get to than it should. With a low groan you crawl to the edge, barely managing to swing your legs over. Well, swing is a generous description. In reality you end up on your back on the floor, head thunking against some sort of plush rug or carpet. Your vision swims.

With another groan you slowly pull yourself up into a shaky stance. Wherever you are, it’s big. The bed you fell out of is easily a king with richly woven sheets and a thick comforter. The rug on the floor has such intricate patterns it makes your pounding head dizzy. There’s even a fireplace in the far corner, unlit at the moment.

Something different catches your eye - an item too familiar for this foreign room. Your box of valuables sits on an elegantly carved wooden dresser. Real, actual wood. You run your fingers over the strangely organic material, so rare that it almost feels more unnatural than the plastic plywood you’ve grown accustomed to in the slums.

You limp weakly toward the heavy door on the far wall. A whine escapes you as you pull it open, the heavy wood causes the hinges to creak quietly. You poke your head out, walking down the empty hall like a person with decade long atrophy. Sweat drips down your back, the sickness in your gut turning to anxiety as you realize where you are.

The penthouse.

Voices waft through the mostly open central area - deep and growling. A sound you might mistake for an angry beast if it weren’t for the intelligable words the noise makes up.

“Bloody ‘ell, Price, what the fuck?” That baritone could only belong to Simon. You poke your head around the corner of the wall, peaking into the living room where the four vampires stand.

“I know, I fucking know. I couldn’t-” An exasperated sigh. “I couldn’t lose her again.”

“So you fuckin’ marked ‘er?”

Your hand lifts shakily to the still sore cuts on your neck. They’ve scabbed over but barely. The action makes you look down at your hands - neatly bandaged. Recently, too, you think. At least if your blurred vision is to be believed.

“We’ll lose ‘er anyway if you fuckin’ scare ‘er away!” Simon’s volume continues to grow. He steps forward. John doesn’t back away.

“Guys…” Kyle tentatively steps in, hands outstretched between them as if stepping into a dog fight. He might as well be, frankly.

“You promised her you wouldn’t!” Simon’s voice wavers. It makes your heart skip, the unsteady sound so bizarre coming from him. “We all did!”

“Simon’s right.” Johnny crosses his arms. “We said we’d take our time. See where she’s at.”

“Weren’t exactly taking your time when you fucked her raw were you?” John snaps back. It’s shockingly childish and out of character for the man. Not that you would know. He sighs, rolling his wide shoulders. So much for not being angry about it.

Before you can make heads or tails of the scene playing out in front of you, your vision blackens, one leg stiffening and the other giving out. You barely catch yourself on some random side table, knocking it against the wall in the process. Despite your efforts to hold yourself up you collapse onto the cold, hardwood floor.

“Oh, baby girl.” It’s Kyle at your side first, cool hands tenderly enveloping you as he checks for damage.

“Don’t…” You push at his chest weakly. “Don’t touch me…”

“Dove-” A crack sounds throughout the penthouse, deafening and ringing as Simon’s palm comes into contact with John’s chest, forcing the man back a few steps.

“You’ve done enough.”

There’s a moment, long and silent as you watch them stare each other down. A power struggle. John is the head of the coven, objectively. The only way to change that is an exchange of power. A death. You’ve seen it out on the streets within lesser covens. Simon is bigger, but you can see the cold, dogmatic shift in John’s eyes. The look he gave you in the car. The one that says he is well and truly Right and there is nothing to stand between him and what is Right.

The moment ends when you double over, lungs heaving as you choke and cough. A slimy, viscous glob of red-black comes up from your throat. Barely liquid with the thickness of it. You fall limply against Kyle, as much as you’d rather be left in a dark alley than with these psychopaths your body just can’t hold itself up.

Someone scoops you up, pressing you tightly to their chest. Johnny or Kyle, you think. A touch so soft and sweet you might mistake it for love. Not that you would know. You’re back under the wave of nothing before you even touch the sheets.

You sit still as you can, arm growing tired of the stiff angle you have it positioned in. Laid out across some old loveseat that creaks every time you move even slightly. You don’t trust it to not have at least a little dry rot considering it’s from a good few centuries ago. One of those random pieces John hoards for some secret reason. The light positioned carefully above you feels too warm, discomfort making you twitchy.

“Johnnyyy!” You whine. “Hurry up!”

“Ye can do it, bonnie. Just sit like me.” He goes still. Inhumanly still. Transitioning from living (well, undead) being to a marble statue in barely a second. It sends a frightened shiver down your spine - the prey instinct in your hindbrain moving into overdrive.

You take a shaky breath. “I hate when you do that.”

When he does what? Has he done that before? Have you been here before?

“Jus’ be a good lass f’me.” Johnny murmurs. A different sort of shiver runs down your spine.

You recognize his room but it’s… different. Lighter, somehow, than the last time you were here. The only time you were here. The wall has far more drawings tacked to it, nearly doubling the amount and bleeding across onto another side of the room. You squint. It’s you. Well, mostly. All in different poses, some more salacious than others, each carved out with a deep attention to detail. Were… were those there before? They couldn’t have been.

Your body lights up, the room grows darker. Nearly pitch black. Your hips roll lazily. You feel… good. Ecstatic. The warmth from the light replaced by an immeasurable heat. The man below you comes into focus as the dream settles - a mountain. Blonde and pale and scarred. Part of his right ear is clipped off from a fight. At least you think it was a fight. His hair just barely long enough for you to tangle your fingers in. You’d know those dark eyes anywhere - the ones that look right to the very core of you. That know you wholly from Eve.

“Fuck, Si…”

“Tha’s my girl.” He grins. The action pulls at a scar covering his lips. “Always so good f’me.”

The hands on your waist lift you like nothing. Like you weigh as much as paper and are just as delicate. A burning fills you, a tension that pulls a grating whine from your chest.

A distant part of you remembers to question what this is. Why you’re here, with him. Why you’ve never seen his face before but seem to know every detail of it by heart. The rest of you falls into the moment without a care, allowing yourself to be consumed entirely by him and his desire. It’s all you want - all you need.

Simon’s voice rumbles in a sort of call and response to your devoted babbling. “I love you.”

You jolt, snapping forward and sloshing water around you. For a moment, you panic that you’re drowning. That you’ve been dropped into some great sea and left to flounder.

There’s a quiet rumble behind you, vibrating through your back. Simon. You couldn’t make out whatever he said.

You relax instinctively. Some unconcious part of you falls back into him. Until he runs a soap rag over your chest and you tense, clumsily attempting to cover yourself and curl into a ball. The water sloshes over the edge of the tub again. You don’t get very far, despite the massive size of the bath you’re utterly surrounded. Bracketed by Simon’s strong thighs and large hands.

“None of that.” He barks, pulling your arms back to continue washing you. “You’ve been sweatin’ in bed for four days. Gonna make y’self worse.”

Four days? Worse?

You stay quiet, limp and pliant as he pours a hefty glob of shampoo into your hair. Vanilla. Far too exhausted to put up any sort of fight. Not that you would win. It feels good, if you’re honest, the way he systematically scrubs every part of your scalp, slowly detangling with conditioner. You nod off for a moment, coming back when he pours water over your head to rinse you.

“Simon?” You murmur weakly.

He grunts.

“Why am I here?”

The hands in your hair pause. Only for a moment before going back to their gentle movements. “Because you’re ‘ome.”

You shiver, another coughing fit wracking your body. At least nothing comes up this time. There aren’t bandages on your hands, just the scabbing wounds that have obviously been carefully tended to. Even as the coughing subsides your breaths wheeze, shallow and hollow in your chest.

When you were young, your mother would set you in a cart to walk to the supermarket. The cracked streets would bump and rock you uncomfortably but it was better than walking all those miles. You always hated the market. Too loud and confusing. A maze of sterile white tile and shelving so high it felt giant to you.

One time you lost her, distracted by a massive plushie that she said you can’t afford. You’d stood there staring at it, angrily contemplating why you couldn’t afford it. What sort of societal disservice had been done that you can’t have that bright pink creature. Angry and lost you ended up wandering the aisles for what felt like an eternity. Walking through that white void in search of… you’re not really sure what, actually.

That confusion continues to eat at your mind as the aisles transition into a small, lush greenhouse. The UV lights above you would burn, if it weren’t for the large hat covering your head and shoulders. Gardening gloves protect your hands as you carefully harvest a few tomatoes. They came in so well this year, bright and firm.

You’re lost in it. The green. So accustomed to grays and neon lights that it feels unnatural. You turn your gloved hands over, palm up, down, up, down. They’re yours but distant. As if you’ve possessed some alternate version of yourself. You suppose you have, in a way, if these fever dreams are in pattern. Not that you remember the others well.

The lights turn off suddenly and you freeze, muscles tensing and hackles raising. You turn slowly as the door begins to creak open, trowel in hand. Not that it would do much against whoever has you cornered. John said to be wary.

He’s been acting strange lately.

Isn’t he always?

A hand clamps over your mouth and you shriek behind it. You claw at the stony hand covering you, instinct taking over. Adrenaline pulses through you.

“Hey, hey, it’s just me.” Kyle coos, letting you go quickly. “Sorry, love, I didn’t mean-”

“Don’t do that!” You snap, harsher than you meant. Or less so?

He deflates a bit, shoulders sagging. “Sorry, I just wanted to come in here with you for a bit.”

“Why?” You snort. Kyle is the only one brave enough to venture in. Even with an external light switch, the others are far too wary of the UV lights hanging across the roof to enter. It’s a joke between Simon and Johnny - that they’ll throw Johnny into the greenhouse if he doesn’t behave.

Kyle nods, scooting forward. You can barely make him out, the only light being that of the faux stars drifting gently through the fogged greenhouse glass. “Missed you.”

“I saw you, like, five minutes ago.” Did you?

He shakes his head. You wish they would tell you more. They always hold back so much, as if your puny human brain can’t grasp what they think. You could. You’d learn to. Even if it was some horrid, eldritch secret you would bear it for them. He pushes you back until you’re laying on the floor, slowly resting his weight on you and burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Just let me stay like this for a bit.”

You frown, but only move to reach up and pet his hair. It’s smells like vanilla. He stole your shampoo again. A fraction of you screams, rails against the idea of being this close to an apex predator. To a man you don’t know. Strange. You know Kyle. You love him. Both the fear and the fondness swirl together into a confusing mixture in the back of your mind.

“We can stay. For as long as you want.”

Something heavy and cold coils around you. You weren’t out as long this time, you think. If you’re even awake now. The room is dark. A pitch black void that you float in outside of the grounding weight holding you in place. That vanilla scent felt so real, still wafting through your nose. A nagging sense of despair settles in your chest as it dissipates.

“Need t’go home.” You croak, unsure of why you say it. Your tongue feels heavy and numb. God only knows why.

“Ye are home.” Johnny murmurs in your ear, voice low.

“Not m’bed… sheets’r t’nice.”

“It’s yers.” Johnny’s arms tighten around you. His voice shakes. “It’s always been yers.”

“N-no…”

“Knew it was tae soon tae bring you back.” He buries his face between your shoulder blades. “Told Kyle it’d be tae much.”

“Wh-”

“Ye make us such a mess, bonnie.” He sighs. “Cannae believe Price-“

Johnny cuts himself off. You can’t find it in yourself to argue or press. A sob wracks you out of nowhere. Something about Johnny, about being wrapped up in his strong arms sends you over the edge of it all. The weight of him mimics the one in your chest.

“Dinnae cry.” Johnny sits up a bit, running a thumb under your eye.

“I’m s-so confused-“ You sob. “I can’t- I-“

Somewhere in the midst of your crying fit the bed dips in front of you. Kyle cages you in between himself and Johnny, pressing you tightly in the center. It makes you want to thrash, to fight and scream.

It also feels so, so good.

You’re back in the slums, in your apartment, with some random man groaning above you. He works down the street, you think. Smiles at you whenever you go get a coffee or cigarettes. You stare at the ceiling blankly. You brought him here… why did you bring him? What- You hiss at the living heat of his hands, burning through your skin - gut churning at the blue of his eyes. It’s wrong. Neither bright nor tranquil enough. You can’t voice it. Can’t place it. They’re just wrong.

You catch a flash of dark irises as you take drinks to some slimy little vampire paying on credit. Immortal but still poor. Pathetic. Suddenly, though, you don’t care when he and his friends grab at you, your gaze trained on the man lounged in a booth on the other side of the club. You can’t stop staring at him, something tugging at you deep down to go to him. His eyes connect with yours, and you nearly leap with joy when he waves you over.

Except, when you get close, you freeze in place. Straddling his lap, a crushing weight lands on you all at once. They’re not what you’re looking for…

What are you looking for?

You sob in your bed late into the night, pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes. You’re so lost. So hollow. You don’t know why - don’t understand what changed. Some portion of you carved out into nothing. A soulless tulpa born of someone’s imagination. You can’t be human, there’s no way you can be human and this empty. A walking carcass. Not even undead, just barely animated. A puppet, almost.

It’d be so easy…

You wake in a fog this time, limbs heavy. As much as you try to will your arms to move, they won’t quite do it right. Your hands glide over the soft fabric around you, barely moving a few inches. The muscles twitch and shake. It feels like wading through molasses and with a thousand pounds of steel strapped to your back as you attempt to sit up even slightly.

“There she is.” A familiar voice murmurs. It’s soft, comforting, but also incredibly far away. “Hey, lovie.”

“Kyle?” You croak. You might as well be speaking around a massive ball of cotton. There’s something hot and wet streaming down your face. Are you crying?

“You’re alright.” He murmurs, soothing down your hair. Petting you like a dog in pain. An injured, feral animal.

You collapse back on the bed - not that you made it that far in the first place - unable to see more than a few feet in front of you. Kyle, really. Kyle is all you can make out. His face so vivid you’re sure you could draw it from memory. “Where am I?”

He pauses. “…Your room.”

“M’chest hurts…”

“I know, lovie. We’ll make it better.”

“What’d y’do t’me…?” Your vision flashes in and out. You’re going back under, as hard as you try to fight it. The edge just comes closer. You teeter on your heels.

“You just breathed in some bad air. You’ve been out for… a while.” Somehow, you get the sense that what he says is an understatement. That there are layers he has to hold back. Simon said four, you remember, though you can’t quite define if that was real or a dream.

“I hate you.” You whisper, barely audible. “I hate all of you.”

“I know.” Kyle sighs, continuing to run his fingers through your hair. “I know.”

Teeth sink into you. A choked gasp escapes your lips, body stiffening and hands knotting into some thick cloth. The pain is searing but fleeting. A part of you, the present part of you, feels disgusted. Wants to shake and batter whatever parasite has you caught in its maw. Another part, a far more distant piece of you that you aren’t even sure is you, blossoms with warmth. You melt into the strong arms that hold you against a cool chest.

“John?” You murmur. Or, rather, this other you murmurs.

A low groan reverberates from his chest to yours. Your head gets lighter, vision fuzzy around the edges. A hand clamps over the bloodied parts of your neck. Your vision fractures, partially the scene in front of you and partially the ceiling of your room that isn’t your room. Your lashes flutter and you’re back loosely straddling John’s lap.

“Yes, love?” He pants, mouth and teeth stained red. It sends a wave of panic through your veins.

You swallow roughly. “I don’t-”

Something shatters - the staccato sound reverberating through the apartment.

You startle, sitting up and throwing your blankets back. The bed is empty, room dark except for the few embers trapped in the fireplace off to the side. You don’t notice the box missing from your dresser.

“Hello?” You frown, standing and moving toward your door as if possessed by some external force. As if you at all know where you are going. Your bare feet pad quietly against the hard wood, door silently sliding open a fraction.

There’s another smashing sound. Your heart rate spikes, fear coursing through your veins. No one’s home - they left days ago. On business.

How do you know that?

Suddenly you’re in the living room of the apartment, crouched behind the couch and groping underneath for one of the silver daggers stashed around in various hiding spots. An insurance policy. Your breath comes in short, rapid gasps. You have to get out. Get downstairs. There’s security down there. They’ll help you, they know you.

How do they know you? How did you know the knife was there?

With the small dagger gripped tightly in your fist, you flinch at another smash. It came from John’s room across the apartment, another following right after. It sounds like this person (or people) tore his metal bed-frame apart. Splintered into pieces.

You take the opportunity to carefully move toward the front exit, allowing the noise to cover the sound of your movements. Damn the open concept design. You told John you didn’t like it. Breaths come in faster and shallow. You’re not built for running - too soft from all that pampering. A chubby, well loved pet. Not that you’re complaining. It’s just not the best for this particular moment.

A figure moves at lightening speed from John’s room to Kyle’s. You duck down behind the kitchen counter, covering your mouth to stifling the sound of your breath.

“I can smell ya.” A low voice taunts, echoing through the apartment. Fortunately, your scent is everywhere. It will take longer to distinguish where you are in particular than he may think.

Why is your scent everywhere again?

There’s more tearing and smashing. A door groans loudly as the intruder tears it off the hinges. More shattering. Your heart breaks a little - that must have been Kyle’s pottery. Oh he worked so hard on those. Some of them are from a century ago.

Anger begins to boil up your spine. Who is this fuck who thinks he can just wreck your home? Someone you know, for sure. He would have had to be invited in at some point. With a sneer you continue making your way through the penthouse, toward the front door. John’s going to rip this fucker in two when he gets back.

Except, just as you’re reaching for the front door, the vampire exits Kyle’s room. You meet his eyes - glinting in the dark of the hall. There’s barely a beat before you begin to rush, opening the door as fast as you can.

Not fast enough, of course. You’re only human, after all.

A scream rips it’s way through your throat as you connect with the far wall, knife clattering who knows where. Something broke, you’re not sure what. Every nerve ending seems to light on fire as you try to sit up. Your arm doesn’t move more than a twitch when you try to stand.

“Hey there, little girl.” The man pins you suddenly. You get the nagging sense that you know him, his name on the tip of your tongue. Buried somewhere under lock and key in your mind.

You thrash, punching at his chest and tearing at his hair. To no avail, of course. He just lets you, a cruel grin spreading wider and wider the harder you try to get away.

“What do you want!” You finally sob, going limp when your body finally gives out under pain and exertion.

“To destroy John’s coven. Obviously.” He huffs. “Yer step one.”

The vampire grabs your jaw in an iron grip, your teeth crack under the pressure as his pupils dilate. They’re bright - so blue and infinite and you can’t look anywhere else no matter how hard you try.

A clarity washes over you almost violently as you come to - like breaking through the surface of water after staying under too long. Everything from yo ur time under washing away, sinking back into the deep. A forgotten wreckage - old and twisted and grown over. Another lost Atlantis somewhere in the depths of your mind.

“John?” The name falls from your lips before you even realize you’re speaking, before his face comes into focus. Soft and familiar - comforting and enraging.

“Right here, dove.” He murmurs, dabbing your face with something damp and cool.

“Wh…” You swallow roughly, not entirely sure what you even want to say. So any words threaten to spill from your lips and yet your mind feels blank. All fuzz and static.

You want to beg him to let you go. To keep you forever. To tell you why he brought you here despite the ever nagging sense that you know why. Something deep in your marrow that connects you to this place - to these men - at the very soul. You are theirs and they are yours and you want nothing more than to run from them as far as you can go.

Those blue eyes focus on yours, so oddly gentle for all of their inhuman qualities. “We’ll talk when you’re better, okay?”

Talk about what? There isn’t anything to talk about. You don’t know them and they don’t know you, no matter what that tugging in your chest tells you. You’ve lied to yourself before - you’ve lied to others before - surely you’re just doing it again. This man hurt you. Marked you, whatever that means, so why do you still melt into his touch?

Your name falls from his lips, reverent and frightening. You blanch, eyes wide and mouth falling open. You didn’t tell him that. You didn’t-

“Just sleep for now, yeah?”

~~~

John watches intently as you fall back asleep. There was panic in your eyes for a moment, but your sick body can’t do much more than drift in an out of consciousness. You look more peaceful this time, at least, your breathing even and your body still. You’d been thrashing before, for what reason he isn’t sure. The lower city’s poison air does a number on the body, it’s effects only growing worse as time goes on and the pollution becomes more dense.

He did that, didn’t he? He left you and now you’re sick and hurt. John runs his fingers over the Mark, nearly entirely healed now. Just two small, faded marks that will follow you to the grave.

“I’m so sorry. I just keep failing you, don’t I?” He sighs. You always said he was a good man even when he didn’t believe it. Even with all the things he’s done. Would you still agree?

John‘s eyes sting. He’d be crying if he was human, surely.

He glances at the door. The others are out - taking care of business while he watches over you. The world doesn’t stop even when you need it to desperately. It took Johnny and Kyle nearly dragging Simon away to leave you alone with him.

He takes your hands in his, guilt wrecking him. They’re so much smaller, so much warmer. He can feel your pulse in every fingertip. Surely he’s ruined any chance to fix this before they could even try. He wouldn’t blame Simon if the man decided there needed to be a change - that John needs to be removed. He wouldn’t fight it.

John crawls into bed beside you like he’s done so many times before. Nestles under your pink silken sheets - the ones you picked out for Christmas. That was years go, now. Over two. Two tortorous, draining years that felt longer than the past six hundred.

He ran for days. Weeks maybe. Tearing through the city block by block, dodging and weaving between people and buildings alike. Speaking to anyone, using up every connection and resource he ever gained under this damned dome. It took a week to get through the sewer system.

No one knew where you went.

No one heard a thing. At least, nothing they would admit to. Even under compulsion.

You were gone, just like that.

Two years go by in the blink of an eye for a vampire. Might as well be a day, a night, a handful of hours. Time in such small increments is nothing to an immortal. Decades are barely enough to measure with. Not for them, though. Every second drug on. The days were long and tense.

A fracture formed between them. Kyle retreated into himself - quiet and frayed around the edges. Sometimes John caught him with a far away look in his eye, staring at nothing. He thinks Kyle would have been crying in those moments if he could. Johnny became far too unpredictable. Ripping and tearing any lower level vampire he can find. He spent a few months hunting Frenzies in the lower city without contact.

And Simon…

Simon turned into a fucking nightmare.

After the first year, they at least hoped to find your body. After the second anniversary of your disappearance came around, they gave up. The guilt of giving up brought a whole new wave of grief on them. Johnny laid in your bed for weeks, nearly beginning to petrify as he denied any blood. John couldn’t blame him, opting to re-read your favorite books with shaking hands. Simon fished your last knitting project, eyes heavy and tired. Kyle meandered listlessly through the house, sometimes laying with Johnny but most often sequestering himself in the now empty greenhouse.

They try to fill the hole with pretty girls that look sort of like you. Never enough and they never act like you. Too busy placating to snap at them like you were so willing to do. These others are only place fillers - something to take up the space you left between them. They could never truly fill it, though. It was far too great. A chasm that continues to swallow the four of them whole.

He’s so tired. The others were, too. Kate handled business well enough but their involvement was still required. Each issue and event weighing on them more and more. Kingpins of the city and they’ve been nearly ruined by the loss of a single girl. A single, human girl. None of it mattered in the face of what they lost.

John looks up, the pin-drop silence in the room bringing his attention back to the present.

And there you are.

Like Lazarus returned. An angel bathed in low, red light. Your hair spills around your shoulders framing that face he knows so well, one he’s held more times than he can count. A face that made him pray to a god he does not believe in every day to get back. Just once. Those unmistakable pearls grace your neck, the ruby latch glinting as you twist your neck and tuck your hair behind your ear.

“I’ll be your Companion tonight.” You say so softly. Almost the way you used to, laid up in his bed, whispering about nothing and everything with your fingers running through his hair. Asking about the things he’s seen with such awe.

“What happened t’ Cherry?” Kyle asks faux casually. John can feel the tension in the man next to him. He’s feeling it out - always so good at that. Better at human subtleties than the rest of them. His dark eyes sparkle, though, with a light John hasn’t seen in so long. He hadn’t realized just how much he missed it.

“She was unfortunately unable to come in tonight.” You slide the tray onto the table. You look the same. You sound the same. There’s a few new scars, some scratches here and there. A wariness in your eyes that wasn’t there before. Damage done to your skin that could only come from the lower city air.

Where have you been?

You shift nervously. “If I’m not to your standards-“

“Well, now, none of us said that.” John says far too quickly, smiling despite himself. It might not even be you. Maybe a doppelganger. A distant relative. A clone is more plausible. “What’s your name, dove?”

“Fancy.” And oh, John is sure his dead heart comes back to life. It is you. It has to be.

“Fittin’.” Johnny says, eyes raking over you. He might as well be vibrating, struggling to keep himself held back from yanking you into his hold.

They’re all measuring you up the same way he is. Feeling for anything unfamiliar. Outside of your distant, distrustful gaze with a lack of recognition that makes his chest ache, it’s you. It’s all you.

“Do you know who we are?” Simon murmurs. You’re having trouble looking at him, only meeting his gaze in small glances. Not so different from when they first met you. You and Simon have always had a certain… connection. Not that you weren’t all close - that they all didn’t love you deeply - but you and Simon had an understanding. He wonders if you can still feel it somewhere, deep down in the back of your mind.

You’re panicking a little, eyes flitting between their faces. John’s heart sinks. He feels it in the others. A deep disappointment - a turbulent melancholy- seeping into their bodies. You don’t know them. You don’t recognize a single one of them.

It’s all gone.

“It’s not a trick question.” Kyle says gently, ever one to soothe.

“No, sir.”

John’s heart breaks all over again.

A/N: My initial summary for this one was just “Fancy tripping balls on pollution while John and co. have a meltdown”

[sshadow-heartz]

I Love You, I’m Sorry

•Squid Game C.AI bots here!

🤍Cho Sang-Woo x Player!Reader

🤍With one more game to go, Sang-Woo doesn’t like your odds. He loves you enough to know that you don’t need to continue suffering, taking things into his own hands…

🤍Word Count: 1.2k

🤍Tags: Angst, Murder, Slight Gore?, Glass Shard as murder weapon, Stabbing,False Hope, Betrayal

•masterlist

‼️If you are sensitive to the tagged topics, please keep scrolling!‼️

It had been a long day. After a dangerous game of glass stepping stones, you had watched player after player fall to their death. Only three of you remained - Sang-Woo, Gi-Hun and yourself.

Retreating to your bed, you looked up at the ceiling, the large piggy bank sending a soft, golden glow over the room. It had to be almost over, right? There were only three of you left, surely there were no more than two games to go.

You sighed, thinking of everything you would be able to do once winning. Pay off your debts, get a drink with your friends…

Start over.

Your thoughts were interrupted by footsteps, and you turn your gaze towards the sound. It was just Sang-Woo, you had grown to become fond of the man during your time. You had been apart of the same team, alongside Gi-Hun, Ali…

Painful memories crossed your mind, Ali was gone. He wasn’t coming back. You had to move on, no matter how tough it felt.

“Quiet in here, huh?” Sang-Woo’s voice speaks up, drawing you away from your own mind. He was stood above you, a few scrapes across his face from the glass tiles exploding. Dark eyes studied yours, his own expression unreadable. You could never tell what he was truly thinking.

“Yeah… it’s weird without everyone else here,” you shrug, the room holding a strange eeriness without the hundreds of players that once resided with you. “How many more games do you think there are?”

He stayed quiet, thinking. “One… maybe two? That’s my guess. Just a little longer and we’ll all be out of here and way richer than we ever were, too.”

You smiles, nodding at his reassurance. “Yeah, you’re right,” you nod, patting the space on your bed for him to sit down.

Taking a seat, Sang-Woo keeps his hand in his pocket, the other reaching forward to rest on your thigh. His thumb strokes your skin through the fabric of your pants, looking down at you with a slight hint of softness. “You’re coming for a drink with me and Gi-Hun, right? When we get out of here?”

“Of course,” you smile. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Settling into comfortable silence, you allow your eyes to slip closed. You could feel Sang-Woo’s hand on your thigh, a small comfort in such a place. The two of you had grown close rapidly, you admired him. He was smart, and confident and seemed to know what he was doing. All of that lured you in, made you desperate to win his affection. He had seen you during the dalgona round, working ever so calm despite the shootings around you. He knew you would fight to survive, and he wasn’t sure if he loved you for it, or hated it.

Sang-Woo looked down at you, eyes closed and breathing steady. He couldn’t work out if you were sleeping, though it’d be best if you were…

Glancing over his shoulder, he could see Gi-Hun across the room, taking a much needed nap. He turned back to you, sliding his hand out of his pocket. He glanced down, eyeing the object he had been keeping so secretly.

A glass shard, sharp and easy enough to stab someone with. He took a breath, steadying himself and his nerves. Sang-Woo had decided you needed to go nights before, a long thought-out choice. He theorised the final game would be between the three of you, some sort of direct competition against each of you. Sang-Woo knew there could only be one winner, one player who takes the amount home.

You had become a distraction to him, his feelings overriding his logic. You were beautiful, strangely optimistic after what you had been through, and gosh, he… he loved you. He knew that if you faced against him, he would let you win. Let you walk away with the money, and a better life. No, he needed that money for himself. It’d be him and Gi-Hun. He could take down his childhood best friend, surely…

Sang-Woo leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. A sick and twisted act of love before enacting his wicked plan. He watched as your eyes fluttered open, smiling up at him as though he’s the most wonderful man in the world. He wasn’t, not that you needed to know that.

“Get some sleep,” he whispered, trying to make it easier. You wouldn’t struggle, or cry or yell. He didn’t want you to view him as a monster. In a way, he was doing something good for you. What if you suffered in the next game? What if you had to watch him die? No… that wouldn’t be an option for you. You’d have the peaceful way out, all thanks to him.

“Lay with me?” You ask, softly. It was such an innocent request, he couldn’t deny you. Laying down behind you, he wrapped an arm over your waist, pulling you against his chest. “You’re safe with me,” he lied. “Nobody will hurt you.”

Both laying in silence, legs tangled together, Sang-Woo waited for you to begin drifting off. He had to wait for the right moment, he didn’t want you to fight him on this. You wouldn’t realise it was for the good of things. His mind replayed everything you had told him. You were in severe debt, over a million won. You had nobody out there, no family, no friends. Loan sharks were waiting to get you.

It was no life for anyone. Even if you paid off your debts, you’d still be alone. There was no way you’d all make it out alive. He knew that, he wasn’t dumb. He, on the other hand, had plenty to return to. He could get himself out of debt, though his reputation would still be ruined. He could give money to his mother, have enough to live comfortably. Yes, Sang-Woo knew he needed to survive. It’d be better for him than it would be for you.

He leaned down, face nuzzled against your neck. A final moment of comfort, his arm wrapped around you tightly. He had the glass shard ready and waited, concealed in his free hand. Gi-Hun was still sleeping, nobody paying close enough attention to him or to you.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

Before your half-asleep mind can process his words, Sang-Woo digs the glass shard into your stomach. He continues to hold you close, your blood pooling on the bed. He strokes your hair, whispering soft comforts to you.

“Shh, just let it happen. Its for the best, you’ll see that.”

You cough and choke, unable to say anything as the light drains from your eyes and blood pools into your mouth. You felt pain, and nothing more than that. A white, hot blinding pain as the room began to dim. You were tired, so… so tired. It’d feel so good to close your eyes right now.

As Sang-Woo felt you go limp in his arms, a small tune played over the speakers, a voice ringing out.

“Lights out! All players must return to their beds.”

As the lights shut off, Sang-Woo closed his eyes. He took a few deep breaths to calm his shaking hands. One more game, he repeated in his mind. One more game…

[sunfireshards]

whatup homies. thank u anix bestie for the tag

here’s 9 people you would like to get to know better but i make it silly because i can. here i go.

1. 3 ships: fierrochase, solangelo, aegiovale (ship of my characters of my own creation because god them)

2. first ever ship: percabeth

3. last aong: ajr - yes i’m a mess. because, yknow

4. last movie: enola holmes 2 >>>>

5. currently reading: nothing. a textbook. sadly

6. currently watching: my friend cutting up paper (badly)

7. currently consuming: air

8. currently craving: nothing really.

npt (oh boy): @viridianstatic, @boxpoet, @ithinkimaturtle, @ghostie-06 and uhhh anyone who wants to join in because i cannot for the life of me think of other people. ok bye again

9 people you would like to get to know better

thank u for the tag @backgroundagent3 <3

1. 3 ships: frazel (pjo) , Fitzsimmons (aos) , solangelo (pjo)

2. first ever ship: I think it was actually frazel

3. last song: king of my heart by Taylor Swift

4. Last movie: red White and royal blue, it was sooooo fun

5. currently reading: dry by Neal and Jarrod shusterman and loveless by Alice oseman

6. currently watching: big bang theory again (with my dad) and KC undercover just for fun

7. Currently consuming: nothing, but I just had pizza

8. Currently craving: carrot cake

npt: @anixknowsnothin ,@poppy-inmyhair , @a-pessimistic-swiftie , @suburbanlegnd , @butyoupaintedmegolden , @thisistoritrying , @loveless-not-lonely , @number1abbasupporter , @augustpoem

<3

[writingescapades]

Jealous Rafayel

A/N: This started as jealously headcanons than became something else, lol.

Has two sides. The immediate more obvious, dramatic reaction is the one you are most used do. More like, it’s what you see on an almost daily basis. Rafayel basks in your attention. It’s like seeing the sun on a cloudy day, or feeling it’s warmth as a ship comes close to shore. One always notices the presence and loss of the sun, and Rafayel finds himself in continuous orbit around you.

There is also desperation painfully laced in this response. A question wondering how much time does he have left in this life? When would he see you next? These are questions that hang over his head and subject him to the agony of being a powerless god. So forgive him for his numerous gimmicks to veer your attention towards him. It not about knowing one another. It on creating those moments where it just feels like only the 2 of you exist in the world, like you’re the only 2 stars in the sky, because one day, there will be only one star. And he doesn’t want it to be. He doesn’t want to bear your loss anymore. So he clings on, each time reminding himself that you’re still here.

He's not particular on whether it’s your work or another person who is taking your time. They’re all evil demons that have him dramatically flailing because woe betide the young man who suffers the loss of love. If your try to console him, he’ll playfully scoff and shove you off claiming to not be second choice. If you cater to him, he’ll sigh and supposes he’ll accept your love. If you shrug and walk away, he’s chasing after you. It’s one thing to be jealous. It’s another to be alone in your jealousy.

But it’s all fun and games. His words are all bluffs intended to capture your attention on any excuse. Afterall, who wouldn’t want to hold onto the sun after lifetimes of darkness? But when you allow your priorities to consume you. When the time away from him is more than the time spent with him, that’s when Rafayel’s true jealousy comes out. Despite his temperament, Rafayel’s negative emotions do not flare out as easily as his positive emotions. Sarcasm and wit are as far as he gets, and even then, he keeps a light tone. Negative emotions coils around him, slowly, slowly twisting until it seeps out.

His voice cuts you like an ice shard. This time, he looks right at you, eyes so dark you cannot find their original colour. He uses everything at his disposal to his advantage. Leaning over you, he speaks in a sharp quiet voice. He’s direct in his accusations and tells you upfront that he doesn’t like what’s happening. Despite his anger and demeanour, deep down Rafayel is worried. He doesn’t trust easily, especially not humans, and though he knows not to treat you the same as other humans, he can’t help but notice patterns. When those patterns appear to be heading down paths he’s traversed too many times, he panics. He should trust you. Why did he trust you? He knows you won’t hurt him. But too many humans have said the same and done worse. You love him. Love is a dangerous word in the human realm. Such conflicting thoughts run amok in his head as he listens to you.

The truth is, Rafayel doesn’t really know what sort of life he wants with you. You both never made it far enough to even think about that. And now, when it finally seems like the universe is giving you both a chance, to see if being ripped apart because of your own priorities frustrates him. A part of him doesn’t want you or this human life. He wants Lemuria and Lemurians. Yet the moment that thought runs through his head, he laughs bitterly to himself because he knows that even if he’d manage to achieve that, he’d still not be satisfied. What was the point of such an accomplishment if there was no sun to bless them?

When Rafayel truly gets jealous it’s a reality check for both of you. For him it’s a reminder that you both made it this far. The path ahead has not been carved yet, there is still a chance. That he should still hope and fight because after centuries. Being with you feels is comforting, familiar, like wearing a glove. You both just slip back in each other’s lives as if you’ve never been apart. But what really shakes him is how accustomed he’d become to your loss. He’s spent too many years without you than with you. And he doesn’t know if he should let your in or let you go.

But when you talk to him. When you hold his face and call his name, he realizes that you are currently here, beside him, willingly. That you won’t abandon him. And while trusting you is still too hard for Rafayel, he knows that you are willing to protect whatever he does trust you with. So he apologizes, immediately, mumbling half-coherent reasons into your shoulder. He’s emotionally drained and just wants to be near you. He would prefer taking a nap, but is also okay doing something together or separately, just so long as he can feel you beside him.