#this probably should’ve stayed in the drafts | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shaiyasstuff · 3 months ago

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petty | sylus

synopsis : You thought a harmless prank—some red dye, a little glitter—would be funny. But Sylus, your cold, calculating boyfriend, doesn’t get mad. He gets petty.

content : fluff, chaos, N109 Zone au, just sylus being petty af, imagine: rom-com and slapstick comedy

writer’s note : i had this sitting in my drafts for so long LOL

You have no idea how you ended up here.

It was just a silly prank. One you decided—no, more like bullied—into pulling on Sylus.

Luke had that look in his eye, Kieran had that grin, and between the two of them, you’d made a series of very poor decisions.

It started out harmless.

Overheating the dryer until his clothes shrunk just enough to make him glare at his reflection in irritation.

Switching out his toothpaste with mint chip ice cream—cold, foamy, oddly sweet.

Juvenile, yes, but survivable.

But then Luke, bored of mild chaos, decided to up the ante.

Red dye. In Sylus’ face wash.

You should’ve stopped him.

You really should’ve.

Now you’re backed up against the cold steel wall of the corridor outside your shared quarters.

Sylus stands in front of you, arms braced on either side of your head, caging you in. His body radiates heat like he’s just stepped out of hell itself.

And his face?

Still damp.

Streaked red.

A slow, uneven flush blooming down his jaw and neck like a war paint disaster.

You press your lips together to stifle the laugh climbing your throat.

Not because you’re afraid—well, okay, maybe a little—but because if you so much as snort, you know he’ll make you regret it.

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you.

That unreadable, razor-edged stare.

Like he’s measuring the weight of your existence against the trouble you’re worth.

“Sylus,” you start, trying for innocent. “It was—”

“A prank,” he finishes for you, voice low, smooth. The kind of calm that usually precedes mass destruction. “I gathered.”

You open your mouth again, but the words die as he leans in closer, the tips of his silver hair grazing your forehead. His breath ghosts against your cheek.

“You find this funny?” he murmurs, voice like smoke and ice. “My face. My dignity.”

You hold your breath, eyes flicking up to meet his.

“I mean,” you squeak, “you do pull off crimson rather well…”

He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t smile.

He just tilts his head slightly, gaze trailing down to your lips.

“I see,” he says.

You swallow.

“Sylus?”

He shifts forward, just enough that your bodies nearly touch, and then—click.

You glance down. He’s handcuffed your wrist to the pipe behind you.

One-handed. Effortless.

“What—wait, Sylus!”

He steps back, unhurried, brushing red-streaked water off his jaw with the back of his hand. He looks so composed now, it’s almost unfair.

“I’ll be in the lab,” he says casually, already turning away. “Don’t worry. Luke and Kieran are next. But you…”

He pauses at the doorway, glancing over his shoulder, “You can stay there and think about what you’ve done.”

“Sylus.”

“I’ll come back when I’ve decided how to retaliate.”

Your jaw drops. “You’re not serious—!”

He disappears around the corner, his footsteps fading.

You stare after him, wrist tugging against the cuff. “You petty, beautiful menace!”

And somewhere down the hall, you swear you hear him laugh.

You struggle against the pipe for a solid five minutes.

Nothing.

Sylus had apparently decided that if he was going to cuff you, it would be with reinforced titanium-grade handcuffs.

Because of course he would.

You’re still trying to twist your wrist free when two familiar figures round the corner, arguing loudly.

“—I told you he’d murder us, Kieran.”

“No, you said he’d probably murder us. I figured we had a 20% survival rate if we ran fast enough—oh.”

They freeze when they see you.

You, handcuffed to a wall like some criminally adorable hostage. Hair slightly tousled.

A vein twitching in your temple.

Luke whistles low. “Damn. He actually cuffed you?”

“What was your first clue, Sherlock?” you snap, yanking on the cuff. “The literal metal restraint on my wrist or the rage in my eyes?”

Kieran winces. “Hey, hey, don’t be mad at us—we didn’t put the dye in the face wash.”

“You told Luke to do it!”

Luke, affronted, points at Kieran. “You told me you cleared it with her!”

“I said it would be funny! That’s not the same thing!”

You groan and let your head thump back against the wall. “I’m going to kill both of you. Slowly. With a spoon.”

Luke bites back a grin. “I don’t think Sylus is done with you yet.”

“Un-cuff me before I scream loud enough to summon the Onychinus agents.”

Kieran rummages through his pockets. “You think he left a key?”

“Oh yeah,” you deadpan. “I’m sure Sylus, the most paranoid man alive, just happened to leave a key to his special-grade cuffs on me.”

Luke pulls something out of his jacket and grins. “Good thing I have my trusty lockpick set.”

You squint at him. “Why do you have that?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”

Kieran leans in beside him, watching like this is a group project. “Careful, if you scratch her wrist again she’s going to throw you into traffic.”

“I will throw you into traffic,” you mutter.

“You’re so cute when you’re angry,” Kieran beams.

“Touch me and I’ll break your fingers.”

Luke finally clicks the lock open with a satisfying snap. Your wrist comes free, and you stretch it, rubbing the sore spot with a glare that could melt steel.

“Thanks,” you say flatly. “Now run.”

“Run?” Luke blinks.

“Yes. Run. Before he comes back.”

The overhead lights flicker.

The three of you freeze.

“…That’s him, isn’t it?” Kieran whispers.

You look up slowly, the temperature in the corridor dropping by a few ominous degrees.

“I think he’s coming to check if I’ve learned my lesson,” you murmur.

Luke’s already halfway down the hall. “NOPE. I’M OUT—”

Kieran grabs your hand and drags you after him. “We live in fear now. This is our life.”

Behind you, the sound of measured footsteps echoes through the corridor.

And somewhere between breathless laughter and panic, you realise, this isn’t over.

Not even close.

You bolt through the corridor with Luke and Kieran like you’re fleeing an exploding reactor.

“He’s definitely tracking us,” you gasp.

“He has cameras everywhere!” Kieran hisses. “We’re screwed!”

You dive into the living quarters and slam the door shut behind you. Luke immediately ducks behind the couch. Kieran throws himself dramatically into the pantry.

You stand there for a beat, hands on your hips.

“This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever been involved in.”

“You’re welcome,” Luke’s muffled voice replies from under a throw blanket that’s doing absolutely nothing to hide his legs.

You sigh, yank open a cabinet, and cram yourself inside.

There’s a broom, a vacuum hose, and a suspicious packet of cookies you’re pretty sure expired last year.

“Kieran,” you call through the cabinet slats. “Are you eating?”

“…No,” he says with his mouth full.

“I swear to every celestial body—”

Footsteps. Slow. Measured.

Near.

All three of you freeze like a trio of amateur criminals hiding from a prison warden.

The door creaks open.

You hold your breath.

Nothing.

No words. No movement.

Just the sound of the wind outside the window and your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

“I know you’re hiding,” Sylus calls out. Calm. Even. Like he’s enjoying this.

Luke lets out a soft, wheezing squeak from under the blanket.

You slap your palm over your mouth.

Kieran drops a packet of crackers and panics. “Shit, he’s bluffing! He’s bluffing!”

You burst out of the cabinet. “He’s NOT bluffing!”

All three of you scramble again, crashing into each other like some bootleg spy movie.

Kieran ends up tangled in curtain strings, Luke slams into a chair, and you leap over the kitchen counter and miss, landing with a loud thud.

You’re wheezing on the floor when Sylus walks in.

Unbothered. Unhurried.

Looking like an avenging angel with red-streaked remnants still faintly staining his jawline.

He folds his arms and surveys the disaster with something suspiciously close to amusement.

He walks past Kieran, still suspended in the curtains like a very dumb chandelier.

Past Luke, now pretending to be unconscious on the floor.

Past you.

He doesn’t say a word.

Not a glare. Not a threat. Not even a smirk.

Just a quiet, “Clean up after yourselves,” as he heads into his study.

The door shuts with a soft click.

“…That’s so much worse than yelling,” you whisper.

Kieran groans. “He’s plotting. He’s going to take us out one by one.”

Luke peeks from behind the couch. “He knows we’re scared. That’s why he’s letting us marinate.”

“I hate both of you so much right now,” you mutter, collapsing into the nearest armchair.

Kieran flops beside you and steals the remote. “We should lie low. Maybe bake him something.”

“Cookies fix everything,” Luke nods solemnly.

You glare at them both. “If I die, I’m haunting you in shifts.”

—•

It takes you two hours to gather the courage.

Two hours of Luke stress-eating cereal straight from the box while Kieran googled “how to tell if your boyfriend is planning your murder.”

Two hours of internal debates and spiraling scenarios, most of which ended with your disappearance and Sylus calmly denying any knowledge of your existence.

So now you’re standing in front of his office door like you’ve come to face a firing squad.

You raise your hand, hesitate, lower it again.

Then knock. Once. Softly.

“Come in,” comes his voice, smooth as always.

You open the door slowly. He’s seated behind his desk, glasses on, sleeves rolled up, looking for all the world like a man deep in some technical report.

But you know better.

His eyes flick up to you—and stay there.

“I brought tea,” you say weakly, holding up the mug like a peace offering. Or a shield. “And… a cookie. But Luke sat on it.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches you, unreadable.

You inch forward, placing the mug on the corner of his desk. “Look, I didn’t know about the dye. I mean I did, but I didn’t think he’d actually—okay, no, that’s a lie. I thought it would be funny.”

Silence.

“I was wrong.”

Still nothing.

You shift awkwardly, gaze dropping to the floor. “I’m sorry.”

Finally, he sets his pen down and leans back slightly, eyes still fixed on you.

Then, just when the tension starts to crack your spine.

A small smile.

A smile.

Sharp. Amused.

Dangerous.

“It’s okay,” he says.

You blink. “It… is?”

He nods. “Of course.”

Too easy. Way too easy.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re not mad?”

“Not at all.”

“Really?”

“Mm.”

You inch back a step. “Why does that sound like a trap?”

His smile widens—just a fraction. “I said it’s okay. That’s all.”

You stare at him. He stares right back, like he can hear every thought racing through your brain. Like he’s already playing the long game and you just stepped into it without even knowing.

“Right,” you mutter. “Okay. Cool. Um. I’ll go now.”

You turn on your heel and walk—more like run—out of the room.

The moment the door shuts behind you, you press your back against it, eyes wide.

“He’s going to destroy me.”

And from behind the door, faint and unmistakably amused, comes the sound of Sylus quietly sipping his tea.

You return to the living quarters with the kind of haunted expression usually reserved for horror movie survivors.

Luke looks up from the couch, one leg slung over the backrest like a human pretzel.

Kieran’s on the floor with a blanket cape, eating cereal with a fork.

“Are we dead?” Kieran asks between mouthfuls.

“Not yet,” you mutter.

Luke raises an eyebrow. “That bad?”

“He smiled at me.”

Both twins flinch.

“Was it… the smile?” Luke asks, lowering his voice.

“The ‘I know exactly where your corpse would never be found’ smile?” Kieran whispers.

You throw yourself onto the couch and groan into a pillow. “No. It was worse. It was the ‘It’s okay’ smile.”

Luke gasps dramatically. “No. He went full passive-aggressive Zen reaper?”

“He said it like it was fine. Like I’m fine. Like life is fine. Nothing is fine.”

Kieran crawls up beside you. “That’s psychological warfare. He’s gonna lull you into a false sense of security. Then, boom—next week your toothbrush explodes.”

“I wouldn’t even be mad,” you say into the pillow. “I’d respect the commitment.”

Luke drops beside you, flinging a cushion over your back like a blanket. “You know what this means, right?”

“That I need to sleep with one eye open?”

“No,” he says solemnly. “It means we go deeper.”

You lift your head slowly. “What?”

“He’s playing mind games. So we play worse mind games.”

“I’m sorry, did you hit your head on the stupid stick this morning?”

Kieran grins. “He’s got fear. But we have unpredictable chaos. Sylus doesn’t know how to handle us when we’re not even handling ourselves.”

“Oh, he knows. He just hasn’t decided which part of the house he’ll burn down first.”

Luke leans in. “Okay, hear me out. What if… next prank, we frame someone else?”

“Kieran,” you snap, “Luke is spiraling again.”

Kieran slurps his cereal louder. “Let him spiral. I want to see where it goes.”

You sit up, rubbing your temples. “You two are the reason I’m probably going to end up in some Sylus-designed containment cube labeled ‘Idiot No. 3.’”

Luke perks up. “That means he already made one for you.”

You chuck a pillow at his face. “I hate you.”

Kieran laughs so hard he chokes on his cereal.

And somewhere in the walls—behind silent security panels—you know Sylus is watching.

Letting you run your mouths.

Letting you think you’re safe.

Which is so much worse.

—•

Dinner is suspiciously… normal.

Too normal.

The lighting is warm. The dining room pristine.

The food? Already served and plated like a five-star meal—elegant, balanced, perfectly portioned.

Which is already unsettling, because Sylus doesn’t cook. He commands kitchens into order.

But tonight, he did everything himself.

You sit stiffly at the table, trying not to choke on the silence.

Kieran sits across from you, eyes darting from his fork to Sylus like he’s waiting for the plate to detonate. Luke hasn’t even touched his food.

Which says a lot, because Luke once ate nachos that had been on fire.

Sylus, meanwhile, is the picture of grace.

Calm, composed, every movement deliberate as he cuts into his food with a quiet snick of silverware.

“How’s the meal?” he asks lightly.

You all jump a little.

“It’s great!” Kieran blurts. “So great. Best thing I’ve ever had. Better than oxygen.”

You nudge your plate with the fork. “Um. What exactly is this?”

Sylus smiles—just enough to show it’s a trap. “Roasted pepper-glazed poultry with herb foam.”

“…Foam?” Luke whispers. “Like… bubbles?”

Sylus turns to him. “Yes. But gourmet.”

Luke nods solemnly. “Tastes expensive.”

You take a careful bite. It tastes incredible, which only makes things worse.

Sylus never does anything without intent. You feel like each bite is a move in a game you didn’t know you were playing.

“Is that saffron?” Kieran asks.

Sylus doesn’t look up. “Would I use saffron so early in the week?”

Kieran panics. “No! Obviously not. What a stupid question. Forget I said it. I never even heard of saffron.”

You sip your water. Pause. Sip again.

“Why does the water taste like mint?”

Luke sniffs his glass. “Mine tastes like fear.”

Sylus hums. “I thought I’d try infusing it. Cleansing properties. Refreshing.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re being nice.”

He looks at you. “Am I not allowed to be?”

“Not like this. You’re being suspiciously serene.”

Luke whispers to Kieran, “He’s baking the tension. Like a soufflé of dread.”

Kieran whispers back, “I’m scared to chew too loudly.”

Sylus finishes his plate, sets his utensils down with the softest clink, and dabs his mouth with a napkin. “Don’t worry. I’m not angry.”

You all freeze.

“I already told you,” he says, folding his hands neatly, “It’s okay.”

You grip the edge of the table.

“No, see, when you say that, it sounds okay, but it feels like I’m about to get smothered in my sleep with a silk pillow.”

Sylus smiles, serene as a saint. “You wound me.”

“Oh my god,” Kieran mutters. “He wants us to feel safe.”

“That’s when he’ll strike,” Luke hisses.

Sylus stands, slow and elegant. “I’ve had a long day. You three can clean up.”

And with that, he walks off—leisurely, utterly calm—leaving behind his perfectly empty plate and three very nervous idiots still staring at their forks like they might be poisoned.

“I think he put lavender in the bread,” Luke says hollowly.

“That’s a threat,” Kieran nods.

You don’t speak. You just slowly lower your fork onto your plate and say, voice soft with realisation.

“We’re already losing.”

—•

It starts the next morning.

Small things.

You wake up and stumble bleary-eyed into the bathroom, only to find your toothbrush… gone. In its place is a child’s pink glittery toothbrush with a tiny bow on the handle and a smug little unicorn printed across it.

You stare at it.

It stares back.

“…Sylus.”

You brush anyway. Because fear is temporary, but oral hygiene is forever.

Down the hall, you hear a scream. Luke.

You race to his room, bursting in just in time to see him holding up a shirt—his favorite shirt—now three sizes too small and bright neon orange.

“He sabotaged the laundry!” Luke wails. “It looks like a highlighter threw up on it!”

Kieran stumbles in a moment later, face pale. “Okay. You know the coffee machine?”

You all pause.

“…What about it?” you ask warily.

“I pressed ‘brew’ and it played classical music. Loudly. Very loudly. And then dispensed chamomile tea.”

Luke gasps. “Decaf?”

Kieran nods. “Herbal.”

You all stand there in silence, the full horror of that registering.

“Okay,” you say slowly, “He’s escalating. This is psychological warfare disguised as hospitality.”

Luke grabs your shoulders. “We have to go off-grid.”

You shake him off. “We live in his grid. He built the grid.”

Kieran paces. “Okay. Okay. So he’s playing the long game. Fine. We stay strong. We don’t break.”

You return to your room to get dressed, trying to reclaim some sense of normalcy.

Your closet is empty.

No. Not empty.

Reorganized.

Everything is sorted by color, occasion, emotional state, and the lunar cycle.

There are even handwritten labels.

LUNAR-ALIGNED NIGHTWEAR.

MILDLY ANNOYED LOUNGE SETS.

IF YOU MUST INTERACT WITH PEOPLE.

You stare.

It’s… kind of impressive.

Still terrifying.

Later that day, your comm device pings with a message.

Hope the toothbrush is to your liking. Unicorns are symbols of purity. Thought it was fitting. —S.

You don’t respond. You can’t.

You sit there in silence, chewing your unsatisfying herbal tea and wondering how one man could be so elegant and so unhinged at the same time.

Back in the kitchen, Luke is attempting to pick the lock on the pantry door—now password protected and voice activated.

Kieran sits on the floor, whispering sweetly to the coffee machine in the hopes it will forgive him.

And all the while, somewhere deep in his office, Sylus watches the surveillance feed with a slight, satisfied smile.

Checkmate? Not yet.

But the pieces were moving.

And he was always ten steps ahead.

—•

It’s late.

Too late for anyone else to be awake. The halls are quiet, dimly lit, the kind of silence that feels intentional.

You creep into the kitchen, determined to retrieve your emergency stash of chocolate hidden behind the vitamin supplements Sylus refuses to acknowledge.

You’ve earned this.

After a day of psychological warfare and sentient appliances, you deserve sugar and solitude.

But the moment you open the cabinet, you hear it.

“Looking for something?”

You jump, nearly drop the jar, and spin around.

Sylus leans casually against the doorframe. Half in shadow. White shirt slightly unbuttoned. Sleeves rolled. Watching you like you’re the most amusing thing he’s seen all day.

You swallow. “Just… needed a snack.”

He hums, low and thoughtful, stepping into the room. “You always get hungry when you’re anxious.”

“I’m not anxious.”

“Of course you’re not.”

He steps closer. Not fast. Not threatening.

Just… there.

Slowly closing the distance until he’s in your space. His eyes flick down to the jar in your hands, then back to you.

“You’ve been quiet today,” he murmurs.

You shrug, heart in your throat. “You’ve been… rearranging my life like an episode of The Big Bang Theory.”

He smiles. Slow. Dangerous.

“You should be grateful. I improved your morning routine, your closet, and your toothpaste. Not many people get this level of attention from me.”

“You replaced my shampoo with glitter gel.”

“I thought you liked shimmer.”

You glare. “Okay, what is this? Revenge lite? Psychological torment with a smile?”

He tilts his head, eyes glittering with that infuriating calm. “Do you think I’d waste my time with petty revenge?”

You hesitate. “…Yes?”

He chuckles. “Fair.”

He leans in just slightly—close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the way his gaze flickers to your lips and back with deliberate slowness.

“But here’s the thing,” he says softly. “I’m not doing this because I’m angry.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then what is this?”

His voice drops lower, velvet and ice. “This is a warning.”

You blink. “A warning?”

He raises a brow. “You see, I’m not interested in getting even. I’m not even interested in winning.”

He leans in fully now, mouth near your ear, voice like silk dragged over steel.

“I’m interested in reminding you… that you don’t play games with someone who invented the board.”

Your breath catches.

Then he steps back. Casual.

Smiling.

Completely composed, like he didn’t just dismantle your spine with a whisper.

“Goodnight,” he says smoothly, already turning to leave.

“Sylus—”

He glances over his shoulder, eyes cool, mouth curved in that infuriatingly perfect smirk.

“Sleep well, sweetie. I’ll see you in the morning.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you in the kitchen, heart pounding, chocolate jar forgotten in your hands.

You stare at the door, then mutter to yourself:

“Okay. Yep. We’re all going to die.”

—•

You don’t sleep.

Not really.

Not after that.

You toss. Turn.

Stare at the ceiling.

Replay his words on a loop in your mind.

You don’t play games with someone who invented the board.

You shouldn’t be thinking about the way he said it. Or the way he’d leaned in—close enough to smell your shampoo, the glitter one, traitorous and lemon-sweet.

Or how his voice had dipped low like he wanted to taste the words.

But you are.

And it’s driving you insane.

You last until just before sunrise.

Then you march down the hall in bare feet and defiance, fully intending to demand an end to this madness.

Maybe yell. Maybe shake him.

Definitely not… whatever this fluttering in your chest is.

You stop outside his office.

The door is open.

He’s seated at the far end, back to you, reading something on a tablet. He doesn’t look up when you enter, but he says, “You’re up early.”

Your jaw tightens. “You planned that.”

“I plan everything.”

You walk in, arms crossed. “The glitter. The water. The closet. The toothbrush. You knew it would get in my head.”

He finally turns in his chair, tablet abandoned. “And yet… you came to me.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

It’s silent.

That heavy, brittle kind of silence where something has to break.

“You’re impossible,” you say quietly.

He tilts his head. “You’re the one who dyed my face red.”

You blink. “That wasn’t me! That was Luke!”

“But you knew.” He stands now, slow and deliberate, each step toward you heavier than the last. “And you laughed.”

“That was after the shock wore off.”

He stops in front of you, so close your breath hitches.

“You like testing me,” he says, almost gently.

Your voice is soft. “You like watching me squirm.”

His lips curve. “Only when you’re cornered.”

Your heart kicks up. “You don’t scare me.”

“No?” he murmurs, leaning in. “Then why do you look like you’re about to run?”

“I’m not—”

He reaches out—slow, precise—and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingertips brushing your skin like a dare.

You forget how to breathe.

“You know what the real game is?” he says, voice low enough to curl around your spine. “It’s not about revenge. Not anymore.”

You stare at him, pulse racing.

“It’s about seeing how long we can keep pretending this tension is just about pranks.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

He leans in closer, mouth inches from yours. “So go ahead,” he whispers. “Run. Or…”

His breath brushes your skin.

“…stop pretending.”

And in that moment, the air between you threatens to collapse entirely.

Your heart is hammering.

You can hear it—feel it—each thud echoing through your ribs like a countdown.

But nothing moves. Not him. Not you.

Just that impossible closeness and the weight of everything left unsaid pressing in like gravity.

Sylus doesn’t touch you again.

He doesn’t need to.

He’s right there, his presence overwhelming in its stillness, in the way his eyes never leave yours. Not even to blink.

Not even for air. It’s like he’s daring you to look away first.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

The tension is a live wire between you, buzzing, pulsing, dangerously taut.

You could lean in.

He could close the distance. Just one breath more.

One slip.

One break in control.

And everything would unravel.

But neither of you moves.

Because this isn’t about the kiss.

It’s about the pause before it.

The ache of proximity. The heat of restraint.

The mutual, wordless recognition that something’s changed, tilted—irrevocably—but no one wants to name it yet.

His voice, when it comes, is almost a whisper. “Still not scared?”

You swallow, your voice quieter still. “Should I be?”

He leans in just enough for your foreheads to almost touch. “Terrified.”

And there it is again—that exquisite push and pull. That dangerous promise wrapped in affection, mischief, and a power you’ll never quite untangle.

You feel the breath leave your lungs. “Then why haven’t you done anything?”

Sylus doesn’t smile this time. Not quite.

Instead, his gaze drops—briefly—to your lips, then lingers there.

“Because I like this,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“This moment,” he murmurs, voice velvet-dark. “Where you’re still trying to pretend you have the upper hand.”

Your pulse stutters.

“And when I finally take it from you,” he continues, “you’ll know it wasn’t by force.”

His eyes lift back to yours—slowly, intently.

“It’ll be because you gave it.”

Your breath hitches.

And still, he doesn’t move.

Not forward. Not back. Just there.

Waiting.

Like he can stay in this moment forever, balanced at the edge of something dangerous and devastating.

Just to watch you fall first.

He’s still watching you.

Still waiting.

Like he’s reading your every thought, every twitch of hesitation, every part of you that wants to lean in and the part that still clings to the illusion of control.

You don’t speak.

You just look at him.

And that’s all it takes.

Because Sylus moves with the precision of someone who’s already planned this moment ten steps ahead.

One hand rises—fingers brushing your jaw, your cheek, slow as silk.

The other curls gently around your waist, pulling you forward, not forcefully, but with the promise of no escape.

You barely get the chance to gasp before his mouth captures yours.

It’s not a gentle kiss.

It’s deliberate. Consuming.

Like he’s reminding you exactly who you’ve been playing games with.

There’s heat, yes, but more than that—there’s command.

The way his lips move against yours, the way his hand tilts your chin just so, the way your breath disappears entirely beneath his—all of it says, you’ve lost.

And god, you let him.

Your hands curl into his shirt, trying to hold on—anchor yourself.

But he deepens the kiss and everything tilts with it.

The pressure of his body, the taste of him, the sound you make without meaning to—it all blends together in something dangerous.

And then, you feel it.

A faint, thrumming pulse in the air.

A crackle of invisible tension winding around your wrists.

You pull back just barely, lips parted, dizzy. “What—”

Too late.

Energy winds up your arms like silken thread—cool, weightless, until it suddenly binds.

A shimmer of red-black tendrils coils around your wrists, tugging them behind your back, smooth as liquid steel.

Your breath catches. “Sylus—?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

He rests his forehead against yours, breathing steady, unbothered. “You like playing with fire,” he murmurs, voice low and calm. “But you forget—I am the fire.”

With a flick of his fingers, the energy coils tighten. Your arms are pulled behind you, secured to the low railing of the console desk behind you—elegant, efficient, inescapable.

Then, as if that weren’t enough—he slides a metal cuff into place around your right wrist.

You freeze the second it locks.

You know that cuff.

Dull black, sleek. Lined with tech that silences Evol abilities like a mute button pressed against your skin.

It hums to life with a faint click.

And suddenly, you’re still.

Held.

Caged.

Disarmed.

Your eyes widen. “That’s—”

“—the containment cuff from Tartarus, yes,” he finishes, calmly brushing your hair from your face. “You didn’t think I’d forget to prepare for retaliation, did you?”

You stare at him. “You kissed me just to—?”

He tilts your chin up again, eyes sharp, amused, infuriatingly tender.

“I kissed you because I wanted to,” he says. “Cuffing you was just… a bonus.”

Your mouth opens in protest, but he leans in again, this time slower, deliberate, brushing his lips over yours like a threat.

“Now,” he whispers, “let’s see how long you can behave… without your tricks.”

Then he steps back, leaving you bound to the desk, breathless and flushed, completely and utterly at his mercy.

And he smiles.

Not the cold, amused smile from before.

Something darker. Possessive. Knowing.

“You started this,” he says, voice velvet. “Now you get to see how I finish it.”

You tug against the energy binding your wrists. It doesn’t budge.

The cuff hums faintly at your pulse point, Evol completely silenced.

He stands before you, not gloating—no, that would be too easy.

Too human. He just watches.

Calm. Composed.

Like a man who could undo you in a thousand ways and hasn’t even begun.

“Comfortable?” he asks, voice like poured velvet.

You narrow your eyes. “This is so far beyond revenge.”

“Is it?” he muses, brushing a thumb under your chin. “You did challenge me. Repeatedly. In public. With unicorns.”

You glare. “You’re enjoying this.”

He leans in, mouth grazing the shell of your ear. “Immensely.”

And then—crash.

Followed by a shout.

And another crash.

You both freeze.

Sylus exhales, long-suffering, and turns his head just as the door to the control room swings wide open.

Luke bursts in, holding a smoking toaster. “Okay! Who set the oven to incinerate? I was making waffles—”

He stops.

Stares.

Kieran skids in behind him, carrying a fire extinguisher. “We may or may not have caused a minor electrical—”

Also stops.

Stares.

The three of you hold in silence.

You, flushed, cuffed, and restrained against the desk.

Sylus, standing in front of you with the casual elegance of a villain who’s definitely in charge.

Luke, blinking rapidly.

Kieran, slowly lowering the extinguisher.

“Oh my god,” Luke whispers. “Did we walk in on a—”

“It’s not what it looks like,” you bark.

Kieran’s already backing out. “It’s exactly what it looks like.”

Sylus doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. He just looks over his shoulder at them and says, calm as ever.

“Leave. Before I make it permanent.”

Luke raises both hands, stepping back. “Okay! Yep. Carry on. Nothing to see. Just… us. Not here.”

Kieran salutes. “We were never here.”

They vanish.

The door slams.

You exhale through your nose. “I hate them.”

“You encouraged them,” Sylus replies.

“I was peer pressured!”

He hums, reaching for your jaw again, thumb brushing your lower lip. “You always have an excuse.”

“I wasn’t the one who turned revenge into a bondage scene—”

He cuts you off with a low chuckle. “Are you uncomfortable?”

You open your mouth.

Then close it.

Then hiss, “…Yes. In the worst way.”

“Good,” he murmurs, brushing his lips barely—barely—against yours. “Sit in that discomfort. Feel it.”

He steps back again, and your body instinctively leans forward—straining just slightly against the binds.

His smile turns wicked. “That’s one.”

You blink. “One what?”

“One slip.”

You frown. “What is this, a score counter—?”

“Two.”

You shut your mouth. Scowl.

He watches you with open amusement now. “You’re very expressive when you’re trying not to be.”

“Sylus.”

He leans down, gaze inches from yours, voice soft.

“Be good, and I’ll let you go.”

You don’t respond.

His eyes glitter. “Or don’t. I’m patient.”

And he turns to leave. Leaves you there—bound, breathless, and burning.

“Oh my god!” you shout after him. “You’re the worst!”

From down the hall, Luke’s voice echoes faintly, “Is it safe to make waffles again?”

You scream, “NO!”

And Sylus’s laugh—low, dangerous, victorious—follows you like a storm rolling in.

masterlist

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arixella · 2 months ago

Text

Don’t Leave Me Too

╰┈➤ pairing: Luffy x female! reader

a/n: : I have so many drafts to post lol

summary: After nearly losing you in battle, Luffy is forced to confront his deepest fears — but this time, he holds on and refuses to let you slip away.

wc: 730

contains: angst turn into fluff, post-battle, desperate promises, traumatic flashbacks, and emotionally wrecked Luffy.

The battle was over.

Smoke curled into the sky, the distant island city still crackling from the aftermath. The enemy was down, the objective secured, and the crew was alive — mostly.

Except… you weren’t with them.

“(Y/N) should’ve been right behind me,” Zoro said, his brows furrowed as the crew regrouped at the Sunny’s edge.

“She probably got pushed back by the explosion near the tower,” Sanji muttered, scanning the horizon with narrowed eyes. “We need to find her. Now.”

Luffy stood silently at the railing, his knuckles white as he gripped it.

“She’s strong,” Nami said softly, more for herself than anyone else.

“She wouldn’t just disappear,” Robin added, though even her calm tone wavered slightly.

Luffy didn’t say anything. He just stared at the burning skyline, jaw clenched, body shaking with tension. His haki had flared without him meaning to — it always did when his emotions boiled too hot. And right now, he was scared.

He told himself over and over again: She’s fine. She’s okay. She promised she wouldn’t die.

But then he saw you.

Stumbling out of the smoke, hand pressed against your side, shirt soaked with blood.

Time froze.

His heart dropped.

He was already sprinting toward you, the world a blur. “(Y/N)!!”

You looked up, forcing a smile — a weak one, but a smile nonetheless. “I’m okay,” you lied, voice raspy.

But he could see it. You were pale. Shaking. Bleeding. Barely standing.

You collapsed into his arms.

The moment you touched him, the memories hit him like a wave.

Ace’s blood. Ace saying it didn’t hurt. Ace falling.

“No,” Luffy whispered, his voice breaking as he sank to his knees with you in his arms. “No. Not again. Please.”

“Luffy…” you tried to speak, but it was too much. Your body was done pretending.

“CHOPPER!!” His scream tore through the air like thunder. “SOMEBODY HELP HER!”

Chopper was already running, the rest of the crew behind him, but Luffy couldn’t focus on anything except you. His arms wrapped around you tighter, like he could physically hold your soul in place.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he said quickly, desperately. “You have to be okay. You can’t die. You promised.”

Your lips trembled. “I’m not—gonna—”

“Don’t say anything,” he begged, his face buried against your neck. “Don’t talk. Just stay. Stay with me. Please.”

His shoulders were shaking now, full-on trembling as Chopper began working on the wound. “Massive blood loss… internal bleeding—shit—she held this in too long—”

Nami knelt next to Luffy, hand on his shoulder. “She’s strong, Luffy. Let Chopper do his job.”

“She’s going to make it,” Robin added firmly. “But you have to breathe. You’re scaring her.”

“She was bleeding this whole time,” Luffy muttered, eyes wide and unfocused. “She was hurting, and I didn’t see it. I didn’t see it.”

“She didn’t want you to worry,” Zoro said lowly, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Just like someone else we knew.”

Luffy flinched.

Ace again. Smiling through the pain. Dying with a grin.

“She’s not him,” Sanji said gently, lighting a cigarette with trembling fingers. “Don’t put her in that grave.”

Luffy looked down at you, your hand still holding onto his shirt.

Alive.

Still warm.

Still here.

He let out a shaky breath and touched his forehead to yours.

“You’re not leaving me,” he whispered. “Not like that. Not ever.”

You blinked up at him weakly. “Wouldn’t… dream of it…”

He cracked the faintest smile through his tears.

You woke up later in the infirmary, sore but safe.

Luffy hadn’t left your side.

His hat was resting on your pillow. His hand never let go of yours. And the crew was sleeping in chairs and corners all around the room, refusing to leave either of you alone.

When you stirred, Luffy jolted awake instantly.

“Hey,” you rasped.

“Hey.” His voice was rough, but his smile was warm — and real. “You scared the crap outta me.”

“Guess I’m making it up to you with extra cuddles, huh?”

“Damn right you are,” he said, crawling up next to you gently, arms wrapping around you like he’d never let go again.

Because he wouldn’t.

♡♡♡

#anime #one piece #one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #one piece luffy #monkey d. luffy #monkey d luffy x reader #luffy x reader #luffy x y/n #luffy x you #luffy angst #luffy fluff

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love-quinn · 4 months ago

Text

— COMPLETELY UNREAL

summary — despite your best efforts, remus lupin is determined to get to know you.

warnings — reader with general anxiety

pairing — remus lupin x fem!reader

pronouns — she/her

word count — 2.1k

note — clearing out my drafts, this has been here 5ever. enjoy

The common room was one of your least favourite places to be, but your dorm room was worse, so there you were. It was getting late, and you had a potions assignment due the next day, so you were sitting in a quiet corner trying to work on it. Well, trying to want to work on it. You were only just passing by the skin of your teeth, and if you failed this essay then it would bring your grade down from an Acceptable to a Poor, and that meant that you wouldn’t be able to get the NEWTS you needed. You weren’t sure what those NEWTS were, as the idea of having to do anything after finishing school filled you with fear, but you figured it probably would have something to do with potions. You sort of just picked the electives you enjoyed and then did your best.

Unfortunately, your best didn’t seem to be good enough with this essay, as you had been working on it nonstop for the past four days and you still had another 10 inches of parchment left.

“Disfigurement,” a voice came from above you. You looked up from your homework at a boy, looking bashfully at your parchment.

“Excuse me?”

He had the good graces to look embarrassed by the way you were looking up at him. “Disfigurement is one of the major side effects of using lacewing flies in the potion, a big part of the reason that it’s level three restricted by the ministry,”

Now, normally, a man standing above you and explaining something that you already knew would absolutely ruin your day, Merlin only knew it happened often enough. But normally, the men doing it didn’t look like they were talking about it out of pure interest.

His eyes got slightly dimmer as he realised your annoyance, a darkened honey colour that people wrote songs about. “Sorry, I should’ve- Just because you paused writing doesn’t mean you didn’t know what you were talking about. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” You decided on after a minute. You knew who he was, of course, you didn’t spend seven years in the same grade as someone without learning their name, but you were nearly one hundred percent certain he didn’t know yours.

“I just came over for…” he gestured uselessly at the small collection of cups on the table beside you, with a metal pitcher of ice cold water that stayed full no matter how much you poured it. A group of boys in your year had tried to use it to flood the common room one time. You had a sneaking suspicion the boy in front of you had been involved, despite the fact that he never received detention for it like the others did.

“Go for it.”

He poured two glasses of water and paused, looking at you. “I really am sorry. I’ve offended you.”

“I’m not offended,” you replied honestly. “I normally would be, but I’ll allow it just this once.”

The boy cracked a smile, slightly crooked, and it evened out his whole face, as though he had been created just to smile like that. “Thank you, then.” He corrected softly. “For not being offended by my interruption.” He put the cups down gently and looked for a moment as though he might shake your hand, before thinking better of it and leaving them hanging uselessly by his side. “I’m Remus.”

“So I’ve heard,” you didn’t mean to sound pretentious. “I just mean- we share a lot of classes, so I’ve seen you around a lot.” Now it was your turn to be embarrassed.

Remus continued smiling. “No, I know. I see you all the time. You always snag the good table in the library.” He gestured to you, testing your name out experimentally on his tongue, as though afraid to get it wrong. You nodded.

You liked studying in the library because it made you feel like an actual student. Doing homework on your bed, while the more common alternative, made you feel as though you were doing it wrong somehow. As if, because you hadn’t put in the effort to go all the way to the library and bring your study materials with you that you didn’t deserve to do well on whatever it is you were working on. “Do I?” your voice sounded far away, even to yourself.

“I’ll forgive you, though,” Remus said good naturedly, noticing your change in tone. This interaction had gone on far too long for your liking. You were beginning to feel exhausted. How embarrassing.

Talking to strangers for longer than ten seconds makes my stomach do a backflip, you thought bitterly to yourself. That was why your dorm room didn’t feel as welcoming as it was perhaps meant to. The girls in there talked, like they were friends. And they were friends, it was easy to see that.

You’d been so removed when you first started at Hogwarts, when you were only eleven. So overwhelmed by the hundreds of rooms and the hundreds of students, that when your roommates stayed up all night chattering and getting to know one another, you had felt nothing inside you aside from a desire to go to sleep. It took weeks before your nerves calmed enough to even attempt to contribute to their conversations, and by the time you had realised that maybe you did want to be friends with them, they had accepted your silence.

You gave Remus an awkward smile, the polar opposite of the one he’d given you. As if your grinning was a defect, not something you were designed to do. Sometimes it felt like maybe you weren’t.

He was still standing there. How could you make him go away without explicitly telling him to? You felt nauseous, squirmy under his gaze. Why hadn’t he left yet? “That essay Slughorn gave us is a real doozy, isn’t it?”

You cracked a real, genuine smile at his word choice. You didn’t know anyone who used the word ‘doozy’ and the best part was, it seemed to be entirely unironic. “Yeah, I guess.”

“I was planning on spending the afternoon up in the library, working on it.” His hand fiddled with the hem of his button-up. “Any chance I could sit at the good table?”

You nodded almost instantly. “Yeah, no, sure. It’s all yours. Sorry, I didn’t mean to hog.”

“You’re not,” he let out a breathy laugh. “You’re jumpy, aren’t you?” You felt it, and your cheeks burned at the notion that he could tell. “If you wanted to still study at your same table, and I was also to study there, both of us in complete silence, then I don’t think that would be so bad?”

Remus could see that you wanted to say no, and he didn’t want to push it if you were clearly uninterested, but he also knew that it had been seven years of you being the only Gryffindor girl he’d never spoken to, and also being the only Gryffindor girl he’d ever felt a strong desire to speak to. The others were great, sure, Lily and Marlene had become friends to him more concretely now that Lily and James were seeing each other, and Alice had always been sweet. You, on the other hand, had been described by your roommates as sad. Not ‘pathetic’ sad, but a more deep sadness.

“She’s awfully kind,” Marlene had told him once, hushed in the back of a History Against Magic Lesson. He hadn’t remembered how your name had been brought up. “Think she just likes it quiet.”

“The table’s yours,” you offered. “It’s okay. I can just study down here, it’s warmer.”

“It’s louder, though,” Remus reasoned. “Up there there’s no… well, no guys coming over here to explain something you probably already understand.”

“I thought you said you were going to be there?” You were genuinely confused at what he was asking of you by this point, but he laughed it off. You staved off a frown.

“I always find that homework is nicest when you’ve got someone there,” he offered finally. “Even if you’re not talking, just purely sitting there.”

You didn’t see how that would help at all. You’d probably be too distracted by anyone to even get any work done. But, you realised with a start, the notion of someone wanting to spend time in your vicinity, as innocent as Remus’s intentions were, made your heart ache.

He probably just wanted to be able to sit at the good table without putting you out, you understood that. But at the same time, if he really wanted to sit there, and he really wanted to not disrupt your routine, then you didn’t see why not, even though maintaining eye contact with him for any longer than a second felt as though you were going to combust in a caramel-irised explosion.

“You can come,” you conceded, gently, hoping as not to come off rude or too territorial about your space. Perhaps it would be better if you studied outside, or in an empty classroom. That way you weren’t getting in his way.

“Excellent,” he was talking too loud, and he could tell that by the way you shrank back in your seat. “Maybe I can finally get my transfiguration grade up, Merlin knows you’re doing well in that class.”

Why would he say that? That made him come across as a stalker who knew all your grades. He hoped you didn’t think that implied you did need help in potions. Your reactions weren’t giving him much, and it was making him nervous. He definitely shouldn’t have come over here, but he had been scrambling for something to say, and now he had to take water over despite the fact that no one had asked for water.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine.” You closed your textbook so gently it didn’t even make a paper noise as the cover closed. “But if you really do need help, then I might be able to.” You offered him one final smile, cheeks tinged with a visible blush.

You hoped he couldn’t see how dizzy you were getting. You wanted to go to sleep and pretend this was all a dream so you could go back to ignoring Remus’s existence like he could go back to ignoring yours.

Unfortunately for you, though, he’d found your little hidey-hole study space that you occupied yesterday, coming in to tease you light heartedly about abandoning him for transfiguration. You didn’t not want to talk to Remus, it was nothing about him. He’d been nothing but sweet and funny in the very limited interactions you’d shared, you were the issue.

“Should’ve known you’d ditch me,” he’d said with a sigh as he sat down, opening his textbook up. You found you didn’t mind his being there as long as you weren’t expected to contribute much to the conversation.

“Thought it would be obvious.” You’d attempted to match his airiness in your tone. It came out strangled.

He sighed gently. “I wanted to pretend it wasn’t so, sweetheart. I thought you and me had something special. I told you about disfigurement in potions and you tell me about disfigurement in transfiguration.”

He’d been attempting to do the spell for about an hour, trying to turn a ball of yarn into a scarf. It was a simple spell that’d normally be of no issue to him, but he just couldn’t get it this time.

After nearly forty minutes of mumbling all but silently to himself so as not to disturb you, you had enough. You reached over and, so delicately he’d thought at first it was simply a breeze, uttered the spell while controlling his hand movements. A long, thickly knitted navy scarf burst from the ball of wool, landing pooled by his crossed legs. You looked up at him, expecting to be reprimanded for the touching, knowing you would have done exactly the same.

“You’re not real,” he said after a moment. Sometimes you felt that way too. “We’re officially studying together every time now.” He grinned to himself, picking up the scarf and wrapping it securely around your neck multiple times, tucking the ends into your jumper. It was soft. “Every single time, you little wonder.” You maybe didn’t mind as much this time as you had when he’d last suggested it. Your smile was almost hidden behind the mass of fabric you’d just helped him conjure, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t see it.

#remus x you #remus lupin #remus lupin x you #remus lupin x reader #marauders #marauders era #remus lupin fic #remus x reader

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mydarlingclaudia · 7 months ago

Text

every word I meant to say

note : ermmmm hi. don't ask where I went for like almost a month work is eating me alive and I was sad. this was inspired by that the unsent project thing andddd idk if I really like this it's def ooc but I was thinking about it again today and this has been in my drafts since September so I figured why not

wc : 2.1k

tags : @luvrgreyy @clitorphosis @sonya-semyonova

desc : letters that went unsent. kind of unrequited love, angst (???), more Leon focused, re2r!Leon - DI!Leon, fem!reader, ooc, not proofread

"I meant to write sooner, I really did. I know it's been a year, my life is so different now, I don't think you'd even believe me if I tried to explain it. I hope you're doing better than I am, I'm happy you weren't able to move to the city with me."

Leon hasn't written a letter since, what, his first few years in the academy? Maybe the end of his senior year of high school? He can't really remember, but he knows that this letter is important because it's to you, his friend he hasn't seen since the night he left for Raccoon City. This isn't even an actual letter, he's scribbling out what he thinks might be good excuses as to why he hasn't talked to you in a year on the back of pieces of scrap paper he took from the office.

He's supposed to be asleep right now, same as everyone else in boot camp, but it's been a year since Raccoon City and he's wondering if you ever tried to reach him. Maybe you tried to go to Raccoon City to look for him, only to see the pile of rubble that stood in its place, sectioned off by the government. Maybe you thought he was dead, he wouldn't blame you.

You and Leon had stuck together all throughout high school, even managed to stay friends when he went off to the police academy and you moved a few hours away for college. He doesn't even know if your address is still the same, he really hopes it is, there's no phone-books in boot camp if he wanted to try and call you, you're supposed to have your loved ones numbers memorized.

The last time Leon saw you was the night before he was supposed to move to the city, before he got a letter in the mail the next morning telling him not to come in, he really wishes he had listened. You were so happy for him, starting out as a city cop was a big deal and he had worked so hard to get there, you and a few friends had thrown him a going-away-party, telling him not to forget you once he got to the city. Leon couldn't forget you if he tried.

You had talked about moving to the city with him for a short period of time, it was really just ramblings the two of you kept bringing up. "Oh, when we live in the city..." "I can come visit you at work..." "I'll handle dinner, you'll handle cleaning..." Nothing ever really came of those ideas, but it gave him a warm feeling in his stomach knowing you wanted to come to the city with him.

He hopes you’ve been well, that life has been kinder to you than it has to him. Leon hopes you got that job you were gushing about the last time he saw you, he hopes you still think of him on his birthday because he thinks of you often.

He shouldn’t have gone to Raccoon City, he should’ve stayed home the day he left and instead stopped by your house to bother you about going to see a movie. Or he should have taken you to lunch, anything would’ve been better than walking into a city that was beyond saving.

"I’m not really sure what I’m saying, but I know I miss you. How have you been? I hope I’m able to come and visit soon, everything’s been moving so fast, but I’ll figure something out. Maybe we can get dinner, or something. Whatever you want, I’ll pay for it, don’t worry."

Leon's hands shake a tiny bit when he thinks of you, it's that school boy nervousness that movies portray whenever there's a boy with a crush on a girl who he knows is probably too out of his league. You were friends, at least.

"You're done with school now, right?" He knows you are. "I wish I was there for the graduation ceremony, I know your parents are proud. Do you remember my graduation party? Someone spiked the punch and we both ended up passed out in the bathtub at your house, you looked really pretty that night. I hope your graduation was better than mine. This would probably have been better as a phone call, but I don't know, you said letters were always more thoughtful.

– Leon"

–

That letter never got sent. Every letter needs an envelope, Leon just never got around to finding one, but he kept that scrap piece of paper tucked inside his pillowcase on the odd chance that he got his hands on one. He had stricter rules to follow than the other recruits, being legally dead and all.

But even after he got out of boot camp, he kept the letter. It's hidden away in some drawer in his house, he's not sure where, though.

He didn't make it into the army, he's not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing, but being in the position he was in now wasn't much better. He's stronger now, hardened, more mature.

Leon's written a few more letters to you over the years, ones that still never got sent because he either deemed them unworthy or because he became unsure of himself halfway through writing it. But he hasn't thrown any of them away, he'll send them one day, he swears it.

Leon's not using you as a way of journaling, either, even though he should find some way to actually write down his thoughts to get them out of his head. What he writes to you is mostly memories, telling you that his life keeps changing and that he misses you. He knows you're different by now, too. You're both grown, no longer in high school, no longer in college or the academy. If he could turn back time, go anywhere other than Raccoon City, he would. He thinks that's selfish of him, him not being there would've left Claire and Sherry in that city, but how would he have even known?

"Me again, hope you're doing better than I am." Leon's way with words gets worse and worse by the week, not that he cares. "I met someone who kind of reminded me of you, she's a sweetheart, like you. You'd probably become fast friends if you were ever able to meet."

Leon's not allowed to tell you about his mission in Spain, or about the president's daughter. President Graham is putting more body-guards in place for his daughter once she steps foot in D.C. again, Leon's sure the president considered appointing Leon as one of them at some point since breaking the news that she was going to be coming back home safely.

Leon should stop thinking about you so much, it's not like you were his only friend in the world, you've probably forgotten him, anyway.

"My life is still different, but yours probably is, too. This probably sounds stupid, but I miss being in high school. You probably don't, your mom was up your ass all the time and you worked yourself to the bone. Has that changed at all?

I remember that one year I went to Thanksgiving at your house, your uncles were all drunk and your cousins kept trying to get me to come sit with them, your grandpa was trying to get me interested in football. I haven't had a holiday like that since then, your family was always really nice to me."

He's not sure what to say anymore, these letters always just end up dragging out, but Leon has a lot of memories and he hopes you think of them as often as he does.

"I'm sorry I haven't visited. It's harder for me to get time off of work these days, even though I could really fucking use it. I promise one day I'll come back, it's just not going to be for a little while. Just don't do anything dumb.

– Leon"

–

Those letters he's been writing you have piled up in the drawer of his nightstand.

He's definitely sure that your address has changed by now, you're probably not even in the same state anymore. He could always try to find you on Facebook, explain everything that's been building up over the years in a simple text, but there's still rules he's supposed to follow even in his personal life.

Leon didn't stop writing, though. The letters did eventually get shorter, he's not sure if you like the same things anymore or if you'd even be interested.

He writes now mostly about how different his life would be if he was with you, if he had just asked you out in high school or kissed you the night he was supposed to leave for Raccoon City. It almost feels real to him when he goes to sleep, but that might just be the alcohol numbing his brain, not the dream of you sleeping next to him or the feeling of your breath on the back of his neck, not even the little pitter-patter off tiny footsteps coming from down the hallway.

It does make him feel a bit pathetic, dreaming of a life with someone he hadn't talked to in years. Leon can't help but think of you, he always thought you were pretty, and the past always lives in the back of his mind, but it comes alive late at night.

You're an entirely different person by now, someone who he hasn't had the opportunity to meet yet. You're probably married, maybe you even have a few kids running around, Leon's jealous of that. That could've been him, but it's not. But he's not even sure if you'd recognize each other if you passed by on the street, so is it even worth it to dwell on all the maybe's?

"I'm not sure I'll get to visit you for a while, not without a lucky fucking twist of fate, anyway."

All these letters are starting to sound the same, but Leon clings onto the thought of someday sending them to whatever corner of the country you were hiding in and hoping that there's still room in your life for a stranger.

"Do you still want me over for dinner? You don't know what I'd give to just eat a shitty meal with you right now."

You don't know what he'd give to do anything with you, really. He knows that there's a lifetime worth of things he's missed out on and that maybe every once in a while you think about him in the same way he thinks about you.

"I don't know how to ask this, but are you married? I know you'd look stunning in a wedding dress." You probably are, you're a catch, who wouldn't want to put a ring on your finger? Your husband's probably a better man than he is, too. One who hasn't had years worth of trauma jammed into his brain with the proof of it marked across his body, your husband probably takes you out on a date every week, maybe even surprises you with breakfast in bed and kisses the nape of your neck to gross out your kids. "I really hope you're happy, in my head you are.

I wanted that to be us, I never told you, but I was a chicken-shit kid and didn't know how to say it. You show up in my dreams sometimes, you deserve nothing but the best. I meant to get back in touch with you forever ago, but I think it's probably too late.

– Leon"

–

Two years after his last letter and Leon's still thinking of you, seventeen years after Raccoon City and the image of you sitting across from him for the last time still loops in his mind. He doesn't really remember your voice but he knows that you thought handwritten letters were romantic, and he still reads over the ones he meant to send to you but kept avoiding.

He's done with the letters, hasn't written one in a long time. But he just got back from California and your old favorite song is playing on the radio, and he's remembering how in love he is with your memory.

"I don't know what I'm doing. I'm too old for this and I'm sure you'd tease me if we had somehow kept in touch. I don't blame you if you thought I died in Raccoon City, I hope you're still alive and that life is good to you.

You were always important to me, I think you've given me something to cling to over the years. This letter won't find you and I'm not even really sure if I want it to, but I hope you'd still call me if you were able to. You wouldn't believe the things I've seen, but I'm happy you never got to see them.

Love, Leon

p.s. I'd say I love you but it feels like something you'd say in person"

#leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #resident evil #resident evil x reader

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cheriecoke · 1 year ago

Text

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ IN ALL THE LINES I'VE READ — nanami kento

summary . . . coffee shop meet cute with literature professor nanami <3

contents . . . sfw, written w f!reader in mind, lit prof nanami tehe, fluff, grumpy nanami, reader is a barista, age gap (nanami early 30s, reader early 20s) — 1.4k

notes . . . selfship coded :,,) this is such a random idea from rylie's brain (and drafts) bc i must post something for my most beloved for valentine’s day <33 i have some other ideas for this so let me know if you like it !!!

The first time you meet Nanami Kento, it’s in a dimly lit cafe in your hometown.

The evening is just dawning upon you, the grey of the dreary sky turning into a muted black. It’s just after 5pm; the sun already fading into the horizon, drizzly rain coating the windows like crystals.

You’ve been busy all day — it’s always busy on rainy days, when people seem to recall that the ambience of rain pelting outside mixes well with a cup of warm coffee between your palms. The tables are all full, now that people have gotten off work, and it’s a favorite study spot of many students.

It’s tiring work sometimes, and there are days where you get weary of the same routine. When saving up money seems like a fruitless effort, and you feel like your life should’ve begun already.

But it’s also good to be around people like this… Seeing them laugh and smile, while you only wonder what they’re talking about. The job pays less, but it’s better than being cooped up in a office all day.

“Hey,” one of the other baristas sets a latte down, a pattern of milk sitting just on top. “Can you run this to the man over there,” she points to a blonde in the corner of the cafe.

Wordlessly, you take the mug, wiping the drops of coffee that have spilled over the sides of it. The customer had ordered a pastry as well, one of your favorites. There is a small puff of steam wafting off of it, the bottom of the plate still hot.

The man’s back is towards you, facing the window, and he’s bent over a pile of papers. You can’t see his face — but his hair is done up nicely, and his white button-down sleeves are rolled up to his elbow. There’s a nice watch on his wrist, silver and black; one that’s probably more expensive than anything you own.

It’s a balancing act, weaving through the tables with the pastry and mug in hand, and when you get to his, there’s no room to set his order down. Papers are scattered across the table, and there is a stack of well-loved books beside him. A few are titles you recognize, ones you’ve read, ones you own but haven’t gotten to. Some you know only vaguely.

“Here’s the latte,” you say, distracted, scanning the spines of the books. The man mutters an apology, and moves his papers so that you can set the coffee and plate down.

He doesn’t look up at you, offering only a dismissive thank you. But the sound goes unnoticed by you; you’re too preoccupied by your excitement. So few people walk in here with with books you’re actually interested in discussing.

“I’ve been meaning to read that one,” you say, pointing to a title that is on your long list of books to be read.

He hums — it’s obvious he doesn’t care, and the sound is just one of acknowledgement.

Embarrassment heats your cheeks as you realize this is probably something he gets often. Upon second glance, he’s attractive… breathtakingly so. He probably fends of hoards of woman, ones who use books to gain the key to his heart, even if they’re only pretending to be interested.

“I enjoyed his other books,” you continue, highlighting the ones that you’ve read and love. At least, then, he’ll know you’re not an idiot, even if he stays silent, eyes glued to the paper.

His pen stops scratching marks into the sheet, but only for a second. Then, he carries on, unimpressed by whatever slim knowledge you’re able to supply.

“Are you a teacher?” The words leave your lips, once before you can stop yourself.

He doesn’t care. You aren’t sure why you’re even still bothering.

“Nope,” he replies, finishing up his summarized commentary, scribbled in a penmanship that is something in between messy and elegant. “A professor.”

“Oh.” You’d thought he was too young to be a professor, but when you look at home closer, there are faint lines around his eyes, ones even more obvious on his forehead. Around thirty, you’d guess. Maybe even older than that. “That’s interesting.”

You should probably leave him alone. He’s busy, and you’re supposed to be working, and he probably thinks you’re a child, the way you’re talking to him like a brick wall. Yet, there is something about him that keeps you glued to your spot, so intrigued by the stack of novels and the way his hand flexes around the pen.

“Is it?” There is a hint of irritation in his voice when he finally glances up at you from under the round, wire-rimmed glasses, perched on the bridge of his nose. The pen drops onto the table with a soft click. “Because, I find that—”

His lips part. Whatever he was going to say next seems to die, abruptly cut off, and he blinks at you. Two dark eyes scan your face with a hint of surprise.

You’re cheeks warm, and you suddenly feel uncomfortable. It’s not typical of you to make conversation with strangers, and you’re certain he notices how awkwardly you’re standing.

“I’m sorry,” you say, clearing your throat, and pointedly ignoring the lump in it. His silhouette had been striking enough, but it’s nothing compared to the entirety of his face. He’s beautiful — like he’s stepped right out of the pages of a novel himself. He feels like everything you’ve ever wanted, with his stack of books and piercing irises. “I’ll let you get back to grading.”

“No need to apologize.” The tone shifts a bit, his voice not as rough. Maybe you’re just delusional, but his eyes appear to soften. “I’m almost done, anyway.”

You nod, and a little smile pulls onto your face. It’s not quite true; the stack of ungraded papers is twice as large as the ones he’s finished. “Well, I should … Get back to work. Enjoy the coffee.”

He smiles, amused; your heart flips, then sinks all the way down to your stomach, pounding. “Alright. Thank you.”

“Have a good night!” you say, far too quickly, before turning on your heels. Your hands are sweating, and you hope he never comes in again, because you’re not sure that you can stand the embarrassment you feel.

The blonde professor, name unknown, lets you go, and you slink off to hide in the kitchen, cursing yourself for acting like a fool. With hot cheeks, you down a glass of water, big gulps from your shaking hands, and glare at your co-worker when she grins to herself.

Thirty minutes later, your shift ends, and the professor has made his way out the door, walking down the sidewalk. As you leave the cafe, your bag over your shoulder and hair undone, you notice that he left one of his novels, the one you’d pointed out to him in the beginning of your conversation.

You rush out to stop him, carrying the book with you. “Hey,” you shout, waving it to the stranger. “You left this.”

He glances over his shoulders, bundled up in a coat to combat the brisk air. There’s a redness on his cheeks from the cold, a hint of a smile on his lips. “I know,” he says, hands firmly tucked in his pockets. “You can keep it.”

“But—” you start, swallowing as the pages rustle with the wind, the cover snapping open.

“You wanted to read it, didn’t you?” he shrugs. “I’ve got lots of copies. You can give it back to me when you finish.”

You start to question him, but he’s already turned around, heading away.

Which means he’ll be back, won’t it? You haven’t scared him away completely.

You shout something at him, and turns, just halfway, making a face that tells you he didn’t hear you.

“That’s my name,” you say again, repeating it, licking your lips. Your only hope is that he’ll offer his.

But he doesn’t — he keeps walking down the sidewalk, before he answers a phone call, and crosses the street.

Unsurprising.

You sigh, gaze dropping down to the book. The pages are filled and filled with his handwriting, notes in the margins, highlights and lines across the words. So much thought had been put into it, that you wonder how many times he’s read this book, if maybe, it’s a favorite.

The wind flicks the cover back to the front title page, the publisher underneath. In the top right hand corner, Nanami Kento is smoothly written. As if he’d wanted you to discover it yourself, instead of hearing it from his lips.

You trace it, and smile.

#this wasn’t meant to see tumblr but here we are so #jjk x reader #kento nanami x reader #nanami fluff #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x y/n #kento nanami x you #nanami x reader #jjk x fem!reader #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #xoxo rylie 💌 ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆#la bibliothèque des vampires ♱˚.⋆

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jaeyunluvbot · 4 months ago

Text

footnote

this is part two to my series emails i can’t send

note .ᐟ OUCH OUCH OUCH

Subject: You’ll Never Read This To: (unsent)

I know you said the email thing was stupid, and I guess it is. But I have to put my feelings somewhere so I don’t tell you and ruin everything. I don’t know exactly when it happened. One moment, you were just my best friend, someone I’ve known forever, someone I felt like I could be myself around. Then, one moment, everything changed. I can’t pinpoint when or why it happened, but it did. Maybe it was the way you laugh when I tell a joke, or maybe it’s the way you have the special smile you seem to only use around me. I guess it’s always been there, and I just couldn’t see it, or I refused to. I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter, because I’ll never tell you. I’m afraid to ruin everything we have, to throw ten years of friendship down the drain over a one-sided love. I won’t ruin this, so I’m just writing it down where you’ll never see it. I hate that I’m even letting myself feel like this, but I don’t know how to stop. I don’t think I even want you to know, because even if you did return my feelings, you deserve so much more than me. I’m a mess and I can’t ask you to take that burden on, even though it hurts, I’ll try to be happy just being your friend.

Love,

Y/N

(Draft saved at 2:13 AM)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Subject: Please don’t make me watch you fall in love To: (unsent)

Jay,

I watched you with her today. I didn’t even notice until I saw the way you looked at her, and heard how you said her name. It’s like she was the only thing in your world, like I didn’t even exist. I guess I can’t blame you, she’s gorgeous, it’s only natural that she’d take up all your focus. You didn’t even know that the ground beneath me felt like it was slipping away. You’ve always asked for my advice, about clothes, about school, about crushes. I was always fine with that, I wanted to be someone you could rely on, someone who you knew would always be there for you. But now I’m not sure I can be ok with that. I’m trying so hard to be happy for you, but it hurts in a way I don’t know how to explain. I should’ve never let myself feel this way. It hurts so bad, but at the same time, I can’t lose you, so maybe it’s better to keep this to myself and continue supporting you as a friend. I just wish I was more than a footnote in your life.

Yours,

Y/N

(Draft saved at 9:19 PM)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Subject: Things Aren’t the Same Anymore To: (unsent)

Jay,

I hate that we’re like this right now. We’ve never gone this long without talking. I don’t even know what changed, or what happened to make you distance yourself from me. I know it’s probably not on purpose, but I can see the small things adding up, the late responses, you forcing a laugh at my jokes that used to make you crack up, the way you won’t even look at me. I see you with her a lot now, and it doesn’t hurt as much as it did before. Or maybe it does, but in a different way. I’m just remembering how we went to that restaurant and the waiter asked if we were a couple. You laughed and denied it, but I was so happy that someone else saw what I saw. Why can’t you just see me how I see you? I guess you’re outgrowing me. I knew this would happen, but I thought we’d have more time. Even though we’re both changing, some things stay the same, like how I’d resign myself to a lifetime of pain if it meant keeping you near me. But I guess that’s not enough anymore. I wish I could be happy for you, you deserve every good thing in this world, I just wish it was me making you smile like that.

Yours,

Y/N

(Draft saved at 12:02 AM)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Subject: I Don’t Know How To Say This To: (unsent)

Jay,

It’s hard to admit this, but I think I’m losing you. And it’s not even because of her, or the fact that you’ve found someone else. It’s because I’m realizing that I was never really yours to begin with. You’ve always been mine, Jay, but I was never yours. It’s like I’ve been living in this illusion, holding onto something that was never meant to happen. You’ll never see me the way I see you. I’m not the one you think of when things get hard. I’m not the one you turn to when you’re upset. And I hate that I’ve been waiting for that moment, that moment when you realize I’m the one who’s always been there for you. I keep telling myself that I should be happy for you. I should be glad that you’re happy with her. At this point, it’s like you don’t even remember I exist. The second you met her, everything changed and all of a sudden, I wasn’t important anymore. I understand why, but I would’ve never done this to you. I guess that’s where we differ, I was wholly devoted to you and ready to give you anything you needed, but you had bigger dreams. I guess sandbox love doesn’t last, and I should’ve seen this coming, nothing good lasts forever. But still, I thought I mattered to you, and I thought that maybe, just for a second, we could’ve been good together. I mean, hell, even our parents wanted us to get together. Even so, I’ve accepted that I’ve lost you, and I wish you the best with her. I hope you’re happy together and I hope I can move on, though I doubt I will.

Yours,

Y/N

(Draft saved at 3:21 AM)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Subject: I Can’t Keep Doing This To: (unsent)

Jay,

I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, and I think it’s time. It’s time for me to let go. I’ve accepted that love isn’t precious and that life isn’t like the movies where the childhood best friends always end up together. You’ve been avoiding me, so I guess I won’t be able to tell you in person, but I’m moving away. I got accepted into a professional program at my dream school, and I wasn’t going to go. I couldn’t bear to be away from you, but now I see that there’s no point in me staying here. It’s kind of funny, we always said we’d go to university together and move in with each other after school, but now I’m going without you. I guess in a way, this is just part of life, watching your childhood dreams fade away and be replaced with the harsh reality of the world. I know you probably won’t even notice that I’m gone, since you never seem to text me anymore, but I hope you occasionally think about me, and maybe even miss me a little. I’ve accepted that I’ll be relegated to a small role in your life, and I know you’ll go on to do wonderful things. I hope life brings you nothing but success and happiness, even if it’s without me. I want to tell you everything I’ve written in these emails, just so you finally know, but I can’t. I hope you don’t think I don’t care about you, because I do. I care too much. My reckless feelings ruined everything and I can’t continue living like this, so I’m letting you go. I’m leaving next week, so I guess I won’t see you before I go. Goodbye, Jay. I love you, even though I shouldn't.

Yours,

Y/N

(Draft saved at 8:29 PM)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Subject: Bye To: Jay

Jay,

I’ve been writing these emails for months. To myself, to you. You told me they were stupid, and you were right. I don’t know why I thought they would help. Every time I see them sitting in my drafts, I feel the same old hurt all over again. The same pain that’s been festering beneath the surface. So, I’ll send you one last email, and after this, I’ll delete all the others. I don’t want to keep holding onto them anymore. I’m in love with you, Jay. I’ve been in love with you for so long, it’s impossible to even pinpoint when it started. Maybe it was when we were kids, and I thought I would never feel anything but friendship for you. Or maybe it was when we got older, and I started seeing you in a new light. But I never admitted it, not even to myself, not until you met her. It’s been there all along, under the surface. Every laugh, every inside joke, every late-night conversation, every small moment that made me feel like maybe, just maybe, there was something more between us. But it wasn’t real, not the way I wanted it to be. I spent so many years wishing I could be the one for you. Wishing that one day, maybe, you’d look at me and finally see me the way I’ve always seen you. But you never did. And that’s okay. I get it now. I understand. It’s not your fault. You never promised me anything. You were never mine to begin with. And maybe that’s what hurts the most, the fact that I let myself believe, even for a little while, that there was a chance. We were never meant to be. And I’m okay with that, I have to be. But it doesn’t stop the pain from being real. I wanted to tell you all of this in person, to say goodbye face-to-face, but every time I’ve tried, you’re never around. And I’ve stopped waiting. So here I am, telling you in an email. It’s dramatic, I know. But I’ve always been a bit melodramatic, haven’t I? I’m leaving, Jay. I’m moving far away. I need to let go, finally. I’m going to chase the career I’ve put on hold for too long, the one I convinced myself wasn’t as important as being there for you. I’m going to move on. At least, I hope I will. It’s time. I don’t want to be this person anymore, the one who keeps waiting for you to turn around, the one who’s always there for you when no one else is. I can’t keep hoping that maybe one day, you’ll wake up and realize I was the one who was always by your side. I don’t want to hurt anymore. So this is it. This is goodbye. I hope you find the happiness you deserve. You deserve someone who can love you the way you need to be loved. And so do I.

Goodbye,

Y/N

(Sent at 4:33 PM)

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callahanisms · 7 months ago

Text

apt.

unfortunately i don't really drink so i don't know any drinking games. so this fic is based on the song's ✨vibes✨

not beta read. first draft is my final draft mentality. uhhh based on promos and nothing else so if this becomes outdated next week i'm so sorry

pairing: ash x gender neutral! reader

word count: 2.1k words

accompanying bot: 🍻

You weren’t a heavy drinker. Not like you could be one anyways, considering you were deemed the designated sober friend for tonight. Not that you minded. You were more than cautious about drinking at a frat house. It was Essex’s only Asian frat and you had been invited by your friend Myung-Jun, or “MJ” as some of your friends call her. In all honesty, Essex had little diversity—an unshocking reality for 2021’s “Most Liberal College in America” which explains why Greek life was still mostly led by the historically white fraternities. The doors to the party were open to everyone because everyone at Essex liked to party.

Except your friends, for some reason.

You wanted to go with other people you know, outside of darling Myung-Jun. She was sweet and super into this guy at the frat and you didn’t want to end up third wheeling. But all your friends had other plans.

“There’s an event tonight at the antiracist research center. And as the events coordinator, I have to go. I organized it. I’ve been working on this for months!” is the excuse your friend Apinya gave you.

“I have homework.” was the excuse you got from three of your other friends.

“I have to stay at the lab to work on this report.” was Whitney’s reasoning.

“There’s an event at the KJ house tonight. Sorry.” Multiple of your friends were going to the KJ House tonight.

So essentially, it was just you and Myung-Jun and her friends, most of which you just met. And first meetings were always a little awkward, even at parties. You’re only nursing some Sprite in the red solo cup when Myung-Jun walks over, giggling. “(Y/N)! (Y/N)!” She says, her arm around the shoulders of a girl with shaggy dark hair, high cheekbones, and pouty lips wearing a denim jacket. “Oh my god! Are you having fun?”

“Yeah. I’m doing great.”

“You looked so lonely over here, so I thought I’d bring someone to keep you company!” She pats the girl’s shoulders. “(Y/N), this is Ash. She’s Talia’s friend.”

“Talia? Like…Talia Tran the philosophy major who already has an idea for what her capstone is going to be? That Talia Tran?” You ask.

“I mean…that’s one way to put it.” Your heart nearly stops hearing her voice. You can’t describe it exactly without letting someone else hear it. But her voice is warm, smooth and there’s a slight hint of a rasp. She clears her throat. Her cheeks are pink. “But yeah. Talia Tran. She’s cool.”

“You should’ve seen her! We taught her how to play APT. She can really hold her liquor!”

Ash shrugs. “I barely feel anything.”

“(Y/N) on the other hand, is a lightweight.”

“I-I’m not!” You feel your own face heat up with embarrassment. But it was true. A lightweight and depending on the day, you either got sleepy or really giggly. The first option didn’t exactly make drinking outside of your home or a friend’s place safe.

Myung-Jun looks between you two, smirking. “Ash is also single.”

Ash looks over at the slightly shorter girl. “Okay. Outing me as single already.”

Myung-Jun only giggles before walking away, leaving you alone with the attractive girl. She looks nice beneath the blue and purple lights of the fraternity house basement. “She does this a lot. When she’s drunk, she tries to matchmake. Unfortunately it actually seems to work.” You explain. It hasn’t worked so far, mostly because you didn’t want another situationship. Your last one ended pretty badly and left you laying in bed for the remainder of the year. It being winter probably didn’t help.

“How long have you two known each other?” Ash says, raising the volume of her voice so you can hear her over the loud music and people singing and dancing to it.

“Ring Ding Dong.”

Definitely fits the vibes.

Ash glances back, slowly moving towards you. The denim jacket is grazing your knuckles. She looks at you curiously with her eyes. “Since high school. She also ended up moving from the city to the suburbs like me. So we became friends in a school where everyone’s known each other since they were in diapers.” You also raise the volume of your voice as you talk to her.

“And you both went to Essex together? That’s cute.” Ash leans towards you, glancing down at your cup. “What’s your poison?”

“I prefer weed. A good edible. Not much of a drinker.” You take a sip. “It’s Sprite.”

“Honestly smart. I think I took too many shots of soju. I started hating the taste of yogurt.”

“That’s like the worst flavor!” You can’t stop the small laugh that leaves you and your lips from curling into a smile.

“It’s not. It’s very underrated. But honestly, I had enough for tonight.” She takes your cup and presses it to her lips.

If it was a man who did that, you would hate them immediately. But here was Ash, taking your cup and taking a sip of your Sprite. It was weirdly attractive, in a drunken sort of way. Of course, she might be a little tipsy, which would explain the lack of inhibition. Sober people usually don’t take other people’s drinks. “How do you know I didn’t mix it with anything?”

Ash looks at you up and down. “MJ told me you’re the designated sober friend for today.”

“That I am. But some people don’t like being sober friends.” You take the cup from her hand. You can’t help but admire how…relaxed she is. You’d probably be a bit of a mess if you weren’t sober. Some of these parties could be overwhelming. “Some sober friends end up more wasted than the people that brought them out.”

“Okay well…you’re not wrong. That’s happened on more than one occasion.” You finish up the Sprite and set the cup down on a flat surface. It wasn’t your house. They’d clean it up anyways.

“It smells too sweet down here.”

“That’s from all the people vaping inside.”

“Do you want to get some fresh air?”

Your heartbeat picks up a little bit. “Yeah. Sure.” You swallow your saliva, letting Ash take your hand and guide you through the dancing people, up the stairs, and out of the frat house.

Her hand was soft and the silver rings on her fingers were cool to the touch. You want to look at them more closely, feel the intricate designs and study them, ask her about how she got them, how long she’s been collecting jewelry. She was a silver girl it seems.

The air outside tastes better. It’s more crisp and you’re able to breathe without issue and needing to deeply inhale for some semblance of oxygen. But the air bites back against you through your thin clothes. Goosebumps form on your skin and you involuntarily shiver. It was supposed to be warm today. But you could never trust the weather app, could you?

“Now we can talk without yelling at each other.” She says, leaning against the wall of the house besides you.

“And breathe. Finally.” Your hand slides into the pocket of your pants and you could feel the joint inside of its tube. Pre-rolled of course. You didn’t have time to roll while working on your midterm papers. And you’re tempted to light it.

“So what are you studying?”

“Is that the question we’re starting off with?” You turn your head to look at her.

“It’s college. We all start with that question. What’s your name, what are your pronouns, where are you from, what are you majoring in.” Ash puts her hand out.

You roll your eyes. But you tell her anyway. Your name, your pronouns, where you’re from, what you’re majoring in at Essex. She doesn’t interrupt you, she just watches you with curious eyes. You fail to notice how her eyes glance down at your lips while you’re talking, too busy looking at other things because eye contact was uncomfortable. You soon end up going on a small tangent. About what, you don’t exactly remember because you mostly remember the biting chill of the wind.

“Sounds rough. I’m sorry your situationship was an asshole.”

You have to stop talking, looking at her. She’s looking at you with those big eyes of hers. Beneath the porch light, they look dark blue. Had you been talking about your situationship? “Yeah…I just…wish they were better.” You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. Your hands rub your upper arms, trying to get some friction going to warm yourself up.

Ash slowly slides her jacket off. “Here. Take it.”

“What? But aren’t you…” You look at what she’s wearing beneath the jacket. A baggy Depeche Mode shirt and a black compression shirt beneath. “Wouldn’t you also be cold?”

“I’m used to it.” She shrugs. “Come on. Take the jacket. Don’t be stubborn.”

The jacket does look cozy. So you take it, your fingers brushing against her own, and you place the jacket on your shoulders. “It’s a shame. If I was your situationship, I wouldn’t leave you for another average white guy.” She takes a step closer and you can feel her body heat.

“Really?” You raise your eyebrows. “I don’t know. People love average white guys. That’s the whole point of the white boy of the month trend!”

Ash clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “People are…shortsighted, I guess we’ll say.” Her hand cups your face. You blink. Shivers run down your spine. “They don’t realize they have someone awesome in front of them.”

“And…are you…” You lean closer. “Are you saying…you’re not shortsighted?”

“I’m just saying…I appreciate people as they are.”

Your brain can’t process the sudden physical sensation of warmth against your lips. Ash’s lips on yours, her hand holding your face in place so she can set a sensual rhythm. Your stomach churns, your heart feels like it’s going to burst from your rib cage. When you breathe in, you can smell the scent of bergamot and sweet oranges lingering on her clothes. It’s a little overwhelming actually.

The kiss itself is overwhelming.

You pull away, breathing heavy, face hot. You might collapse. Ash looks at you, your lips parted, and there’s a flash of disappointment in her face. “Shit. I’m sorry.” She says immediately, pulling back. You already miss her body heat. “I shouldn’t have assumed—”

“No! No!” You grab her other wrist and pull her back towards you. “I…Sorry. I just…I haven’t kissed someone in a while.” You swallow. “A-And…” Ash looks at you expectantly, but there’s a sad expectation reflecting in her eyes. It’s as if she’s expecting you to reject her.

Who would reject her?

“You’re the first person in a while. And I…I liked it.”

Those sad expectations leave her eyes, replaced with a sparkle that mixed hope and suggestion. “So…do you want ano—”

You kiss her again before she can finish her question. You add more pressure to the kiss and some more passion. Ash melts beneath your touch, pulling you closer with one hand resting on the side of your neck and the other resting at your hip. She enjoys that you taste of Sprite. Her teeth gently bite down on your bottom lip and pull, causing you to gasp. Your back stiffens from the shiver that runs up along it, your hands beginning to slide along Ash’s sides. Your other hand goes to the back of her neck, gently wrapping some of her hair around your finger.

Ash finally pulls away, her breathing heavy, her chest moving up and down. “Do you…want to get out of here?” She asks.

“I…” You think back to your friends. “I shouldn’t—”

“You absolutely should!”

Both you and Ash nearly jump. You both look, seeing Myung-Jun taking a hit from her vape and blowing. “MJ! H-How long have you been out here!” Your voice cracks as you speak, only furthering the embarrassment of getting caught making out with a girl you just met.

“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t want to interrupt.” The Korean girl giggles. “Go have fun (Y/N). Just text me when you get back to our dorm. If you get back.” She raises her eyebrows suggestively.

“I’m…W-What about you? And being your sober friend?”

“(Y/N), I’m smarter than that. We have multiple sober friends. Besides, Kimberly and Bela are here. They can take care of me.”

You furrow your brows, thinking. “Since when…” You shake your head. “Okay. Fine. Text me updates okay?”

“Okay~” Myung-Jun winks at you, taking another hit from her vape and then sauntering back into the frat house.

You lean your head against the wall of the house, groaning a little bit. Ash can’t help but let out a small laugh. “Don’t look so embarrassed.” She says.

“I’m not embarrassed.” You look down at her.

“I think your face says differently.” Ash grabs your hand, intertwining her fingers with yours. And you let her pull you off the wall and take you back to her dorm.

You ended up submitting your paper late. Thank god for having a chill professor.

#sex lives of college girls #slocg #slocg s3 #ash slocg #ruby cruz #ruby cruz x reader #hazel callahan #kit tanthalos #x reader #male reader #female reader #gender neutral reader #fanfiction #reader insert

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