#he spirals and begins a string of one night stands

[evanchantingpeters]

How I met Evan Peters (Fanfic - Part 7 - Final)

Pairings ─ Evan Peters x Y/N (fem reader)

Summary ─ A couple of months after Jake’s (Evan’s friend) tragic accident left him fighting for his life in intensive care, Evan is spiralling, lost in despair, a shadow of his former self. Just as a sliver of good news about his condition offers a ray of hope, Y/N steps in, determined to bring some light into Evan’s shattered world. She starts with a seductive dance and builds to a night of passion. But Evan has a surprise—one that will change everything in a way Y/N never saw coming.

Warnings ─ Obscene language, lap dance, oral (both receiving), overstimulation, mild daddy kink, nipple teasing, spanking, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, cowgirl, missionary, extra smutty—like you like it.

Read Part 1 | Read Part 2 | Read Part 3 | Read Part 4 | Read Part 5 | Read Part 6

Word count ─ 5.1K (I had a lot to say 🤫)

18+ This is ADULT content. I’m not your mummy to supervise your net access. If you’re a minor, do NOT read!

@evanchantingpeters — All rights reserved. Please do not modify, translate, or plagiarise my content.

Previously on: How I met Evan Peters (Part 6)

“W-what’s up, Jeremy?” he stutters, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s Jake,” Jeremy blurts out, his expression twisting into one of anguish. “He’s fallen off the roof.” Jeremy’s words hit like a punch to the gut, the colour draining from Evan’s face. The room goes deathly quiet, the weight of his words sinking in. The room spins as everything comes to a screeching halt.

Two months after Jake’s accident 

Thursday, 16:42 pm 

You settle into the cosy corner of his New York apartment, the city’s hustle muffled by the soft hum of the radiator. A rustic wooden desk hosting your work setup and a quirky lamp, which has seen better days but adds to the character, stands against the wall. A plush bean bag chair invites you to sink in while a baroque rug sprawls beneath your feet, and a bookshelf stuffed with books and random knick-knacks lurks by your side. Sunlight streams through light, breezy curtains, making it a perfect workspace for your remote routine. With Evan busy with press and meetings for the next few weeks, this place feels almost like a retreat—if only you could shake off the looming frustration of the Excel table before you.

You’d think by now you’d have mastered the art of not losing your shit at work, being the corporate girlie you are, while dealing with this stupid spreadsheet, but nope. Here you are, puffing like the Big Bad Wolf trying to blow down formulas that refuse to behave.

As you’re fighting and suffering through, your hand drifts toward your phone. You know how it goes. Brain’s fried, and next thing you know, you’re aimlessly scrolling through the endless pit of Instagram reels without even realising it. Well, this time it’s Evan’s name glowing like a beacon of your favourite “distraction,” and your stomach flutters, your heart racing.

Oh, hello, messages!

You open the chat, expecting a quick “I’ll be back in 10’, baby. Can’t wait to kiss you” text or maybe a meme about cats judging people (you know, standard fare). Instead, what do you find? A picture. But not just any picture. Oh no, this man, YOUR man, is standing there in a white tee, his pose giving swagger “yo” next to Todd McFarlane, a comic book legend. The whole shebang.

And here comes the string of messages:

“Babyyyy, look - Todd McFarlane in da house for the press conference!!” 

“he’s signed the Amazing Spider-Man hardcopy!!” 

“ill bring it home and we frame it ;)” 

“we’re going live.. tune in xx” 

“changed into the blazer and stripy tee you picked for me. Love you so ♥️”

Let’s pause here. Not at Todd McFarlane – who, mind you, is hands-down a god in his domain, but no. Your eyes, traitors that they are, keep sliding back to that picture of Evan.

Because damn.

Todd’s cool and all, but Evan in that white tee and messy curls? Where do you even begin? The man looks like he rolled out of bed straight into a photoshoot and decided to smoulder for no apparent reason. You know the one—that half-cocked sly smile that screams, “Yeah, I know what I’m doing to do, and you’re welcome.”

You catch yourself zooming in and drooling over him like a total goofball. The scrunched-up grimace. The luscious Tarzan hair. The way his eyes carry a hint of sadness and fatigue but with residues of that familiar spark he always has. It’s weird how something as simple as a picture can make your heart do that silly backflip thing over and over again after more than a year with him. 

Snap out of it, girl. Spreadsheet’s waiting. But no, instead of getting back to formulas, your brain takes a little detour down Memory Lane. Suddenly, you’re remembering the last time Evan was kneeling in front of you. Not in some adorable, “let me tie your shoes, princess” way, but more of an arousing “let me worship you, queen,” Roman Empire situation.

Oh, yeah. That night. 

You’d seized your throne aka that big armchair in the middle of the dimly-lit living room. And there he was, on his knees, completely surrendered to you. His tongue was lapping on your wet folds like you were the sweetest cake frosting he’d ever tasted. His slender fingers were plumping in and out of you in all the right spots as he slurped up your syrups and juices, sucking on your clit like it’s cherry on dessert.

His tongue would thrash and french kiss your puffy sobbing walls up near the throbbing bulb of your sensitive clit. You tugged on his hair, his brown curls wrapped around your fingers like reins as he pulled you apart, inch by inch. Your jaw tightened as his tongue and fingers mercilessly rutted into you, giving you crazed whiplash as you squirt, all while licking you clean with eager choked moans. 

Your body tremors and orgasmic vibrations were seismic… just like they are now as your cunt pulsates and aches for him, even though you’re sitting at the dining table, fully clothed and miles away from him. 

Funny how memories can sneak up on you like that, isn’t it?

But here’s the kicker. As much as you’d love for a repeat performance, that’s not where you guys are at these days. Not since Jake fell off the roof at the party he hosted at his place. You get it–one of Evan’s best friends is in a hospital bed, clinging to life while in a coma, and Evan’s drowning in his own sea of emotions and sorrow. The man is dragging so much weight on his shoulders right now. 

And you respect that. You really do. Your sex life has justifiably taken a backseat, but you’re not here to push or force him. What you have and share with him isn’t mere lust; you love him, and you acknowledge that he’s having it rough at the moment. You’ve been trying to be his rock, the one who keeps him grounded while he navigates the heavy blizzard of the tragedy. 

But you can’t help it. 

Sometimes, your mind slips back to those sizzling moments where your bodies speak in a language only you two comprehend. Because, let’s be real—he might be wearing the blazer you chose for him in the morning, but under all that fabric, you’re the one who gets to undress the real Evan. And if that’s not worth waiting for, you don’t know what is.

You sigh, your fingers hovering over the keyboard, but you’ve left the spreadsheets and work far behind with all those cheeky little fantasies that gnaw on your brain. Still knee-deep in wet daydreams of Evan and his—well, *coughing* talents, when the universe decides to slap you in the face with reality. 

That “we’re going live, tune in xx” text blinks back at you from the chat, practically yelling to stop fantasising and actually be the supportive girlfriend you claim to be. 

Gasp.

Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. Gasp again.

The press conference! You need to watch it. Like, now. 

You scramble up from the table so fast, you’d think the chair is lava, and launch into a desperate hunt for the TV remote. The remote is like a cryptid—always hiding in the most inconvenient places at the worst times. Last week? In the fridge. Don’t ask. Today? Who knows. You’re flipping couch cushions like you’re on an archaeological dig.

“WHERE IS IT?!” you yelp, your high-pitched voice bouncing off the walls like you’re a banshee in panic mode. Female rage core.

Nowhere. Absolutely nowhere. It’s like the remote’s decided to pack its bags and set off to Narnia with no return ticket.

Curse you, technology masterminds.

Plan B. 

You rush back to your laptop, slide your fingers along the trackpad to wake it up, and—oh no, what’s this? Your whole screen’s been hijacked by the most evil of phrases:

Software Update: 30% Complete.

Are. You. For. Real. 

You stare at the loading bar like you can will it to go faster. Or pretend you’re not watching, so it speeds up. Smart but nah, that’s placebo—no such luck. This thing is moving slower than a Monday morning during rush hours, and if you wait for it, you’ll be watching Evan’s interview in the past tense or through his narration once he’s back home. 

You let out a huff that could probably power a small wind turbine and whip out your phone, praying to every deity that your Wi-Fi doesn’t fail you amidst crisis. 

“Come on, come on,” you mutter through gritted teeth, frantically tapping apps like your fingers are on caffeine overload. And just when you think someone is playing another cruel trick on you—boom, there it is. The live stream. 

The screen lights up, and there comes baby Evan on stage, looking all sleek and profesh in his blazer (you knew the combo with the stripes underneath would work wonders *proud stylist smiling*). He’s sitting on a stool along with his co-stars, all of them gathered in this massive amphitheatre for their upcoming movie press tour. 

He’s got the mic in his hand, finishing up a sentence with that smooth, husky tone. You know, that voice that sounds like a lullaby wrapped in velvet. But there’s also the twist of dorky humour and the cute brow furrows he taps into when he’s either totally in his element or way too awkward. 

The interviewer gives him a nod, then sighs. Your stomach drops.

The next question is about Jake, as he’s guy well known for scripting some of the most beloved TV shows. If there were a Hall of Fame for TV writers, his star would be as big as a small planet. He’s adored by fandoms for his wit and creativity, and now you’re all grappling with the fallout from his misfortune.

You can see the shift in Evan’s face from media charm to something… darker, melancholic. He’s trying so hard to stay composed, but you know him. That tiny flicker of anguish behind his eyes filters through the cracks.

Evan takes a sharp breath and clears his throat. “Yeah, Jake was moved from LA and remains in ICU here in New York,” he admits, voice steady but edged with quiet vulnerability. “But there’s… a... there’s a glimmer of hope. He moved his hand today.”

For a second, the world stops spinning. Did he just say—? He moved?!

Your heart does a somersault, and you can’t help it—you cheer and clap right along with the audience, even though you’re alone in the living room in your mismatched socks, overstretched yoga shorts, and messy bun. Who cares, honestly? Jake moved his hand. 

Evan lets the crowd’s enthusiasm bubble up for a second before he delicately taming it. “It’s good news,” he continues, his voice like a fuzzy blanket, soothing yet cautious. “But let’s not start planning the parade just yet—there’s a long road ahead for him. We’ll have to see how his health evolves from here. I just wanted to share this little nugget of hope. His family’s already spreading the word, and they gave me the green light to pass it on to all of you.”

There’s a tightness in his voice, and you can tell he’s got a fortress built around his emotions, probably fighting not to let it crumble in front of all those people and cameras. Your baby’s always been strong like steel this way, the type who carries everyone’s baggage on his shoulders without ever letting on how heavy it is. 

You sit there, phone in hand, staring at his face on the screen. There’s so much going on behind those eyes, and you know he probably feels like crap underneath that calm exterior. 

You wish you could reach through the screen and just be there with him in a “I’ve got you, you’re not alone” kind of way. You’ve been weathering this storm together, and it’s been tough as hell. It’s taken everything in him just to stay afloat, but he’s doing it. He’s really doing it...

There’s something about post-work Thursdays that sends you into this frantic, impulsive must-clean-everything-in-sight mode. Not that Evan cares if there’s a pile of laundry in the corner or if the dishes are threatening to stage a rebellion in the sink, but still. He doesn’t expect you to tackle it all just because you’re working fully from home; he can do it himself, but you want the place to look neat and tidy. You know, like “I have my life together and didn’t just spend the last two hours binge-watching cooking videos on YouTube” level of very demure, very mindful adulthood.

So here you are, in full-on cleaning tornado mode—scrubbing the counter with the kind of intensity that could probably burn calories—when your ears perk at the rustling sound. 

That magical jingle of keys. The ignition. The click of the door unlocking.

Baby Evan’s home.

You drop the sponge like it’s on fire and just bolt. You don’t even think. It’s pure instinct, like you’re a puppy who heard the treat jar open. Your pulse leaps, your feet fly, and before you know it, you’re flinging the front door open just as he steps in. And there he is.

Your man. Your whole heart.

He’s got his arms full—takeout bags in one hand, his backpack slung over his shoulder, looking more mouth-watering than anything that could possibly be in those containers. His hair’s a little ruffled, his shirt rumpled from the day, but to you, he might as well be walking straight out of a rom-com.

“EVIEEEE!” you squeal, pouncing at him with the enthusiasm of a kid on a sugar high.

“Whoa!” he chuckles heartily, catching you mid-air. He spins you around even though you can sense the stiffness in his body as he battles not to drop the dinner. He’s out of breath, but he holds you tight, like he’s afraid to let go. His backpack slides down his arm, and for a second, you’re just tangled together—glued around him, his hands grasping on you firmly.

“Couldn’t wait to see me, huh?” he teases, his voice hoarse from the long day. But you can see it in his eyes—he’s just as hyped to be back in your little cocoon as you are. 

“You have no idea,” you breathe, and before you can utter anything else, his lips are on yours, kissing you like he’s been starved for weeks. You’re pretty sure you hear the bags crinkle between you two, but whatever… they can wait.

It’s not just a kiss. Oh no, this is the you-just-got-kissed-senseless kind that says, “I’m never letting you out of my reach again.” It’s deep and sloppy, and you feel it all the way down your toes. Little lewd moans escape your bodies as your tongues greet each other, swirling around in a lustful dance. He tastes like toffee, baby powder, warmth, comfort, and home.

You melt into each other, completely forgetting about the bags or the fact that you’ve still got soap on your hands. You twirl faster together as his hands mischievously squeeze your ass, making you giggle into his mouth.

“I was counting the hours to get to you, Y/N, and time was a total bitch today,” he grumbles, and it’s a husky purr near the nape of your neck. Your plump lips curl into an “awh, my poor baby” pout, cupping his cheeks in your palms as you swarm his face with little pecks. 

When he finally sets you down, you’re both grinning like idiots. Your heart’s doing cartwheels, and your stomach feels like you’ve swallowed a whole bunch of butterflies. You missed him. Not just having him around, but all the little things tied in—his laugh, his hands on you, the way he stares at you like you’re a precious gem.

Closing the door behind you, you pace together towards the kitchen, and get the itch to drop the question, “Did Jake really move?” Your voice is hopeful, but there’s a little tinge of fear there too. You know how much this means to Evan, so you need to tread about cautiously.

He pauses, chucking his backpack aside before turning to you. His eyes soften, and he nods, stepping closer. His hands find your waist again, his face buried in the crook of your neck. “Yeah. He really did.”

Before you can even process the relief, Evan’s lips are on yours again, soft whimpers rolling off him. This time, the kiss is slower, more tender like silky ribbons on your mouth. His lips trail from your mouth down to your neck, his breath tingly against your heated skin. “Gosh, how much I needed you today,” he whispers between kisses, his voice dense with emotion as he presses his mouth lower, toward the neckline of your sports bra. His fingers gently graze your sides and rest on your hip bones before massaging your ass, and your breath hitches.

You thread your fingers through his hair, feeling the tension melt out of him as his body leans into yours. “Me too,” you huff out, because honestly, you feel like you’ve been holding your breath all day, just waiting for him to come home.

But then you pull away slightly, the thought of Jake scratching the back of your mind. “Can we go see him now?”

Evan sighs, resting his forehead against yours for a moment, his breath warm and steady. “Not tonight,” he exhales, taking a couple of steps back. “It’s just family. They wanna keep it low with the visits.”

You shake your head in acknowledgment, nervously biting your fingernail. You get it—you really do—but there’s still that little sting of disappointment tugging at your chest. “How ‘bout tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, glancing over at you again as he tears the bags apart and unpacks the food. “We’ll try tomorrow afternoon. His family’s still adjusting, but I’ll talk to them.”

The relief that washes over you is like a pleasant, summer breeze, calming your frayed nerves. Tomorrow. You let out a breathy, “Okay, great,” your shoulders finally loosening. As you approach him to help dispose of the bags, Evan’s hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist in one quick, playful motion, pulling you flush against him. 

You barely have time to gasp before his lips crash against yours, his tongue barging in your mouth without warning, assaulting yours in tantalising ways that are better left unsaid. You loop your arms around the back of his head and drag him closer, your tits cushioning his shredded chest.

“Don’t leave, please,” he hushes, his lips caressing yours. His voice is huskier now, a bit rougher around the edges, and you can feel the warmth from his body merging with yours. His free hand slips down to the supple flesh of your waist again, fingers curling just under the hem of your top to tuck underneath.

You smirk against his mouth, tilting your head slightly. “You know, we do live together, sir” you tease, playfully pinching the tip of his nose.

“That’s a reminder in case you forgot,” he quips, nuzzling into the slope of your neck. His broad shoulders are curved over you from behind like a shield, throwing every organ in your body on high alert, your heart drumming violently.

He pulls back, and before you can react, he gives your ass a quick, cheeky smack that makes you jump. Your mouth drops open in surprise, but he just grins smugly, like he’s fully aware of what he’s done, and he’s proud of it.

“Hey!” you whimper, swatting at him, but there’s no denying your pulse thumps fiercely.

“What?” he squeaks sheepishly, throwing his hands up in exasperation, but the glint in his eye gives him away. “You look too good to keep my hands off. Plus, guess who was stuck in my head the whole day. Hint—it’s not the burgers,” he fires back, waggling his eyebrows at you. 

You roll your eyes comically, but your heartbeat is up now. There’s something about the way he’s staring down at you—like he’s hungry, and it’s not just for the takeout. You notice it when he leans in again, this time with a heat that wasn’t there a moment ago. His lips trace a line of open mouthed kisses from your jaw to your collarbone. Your fingers twist around his shirt, gripping it, as his hands roam a little lower, tugging you closer until you can feel every ounce of him pressed against you.

“Speaking of burgers, if food’s your love language, then you’re speaking mine fluently,” you chuckle, but the second you catch the look Evan gives you—whoa, buddy. Food’s officially second on his menu. His eyes are a pair of flamed balls, fixed onto you like you’re the main course, dessert, and everything in between—like you’re the most appetising thing in the room.

And, let’s just say, he’s a lot more “warmed up” than usual. His kisses grow deeper, rougher, and the way he’s touching you are the real giveaway… The man’s practically simmering.

And oh, honey, you’re more than pleased to help him get away tonight. So, in your most casual, not-at-all-planned-in-your-head-already way, you decide tonight’s the night to put up a show… Literally. 

You let your hands glide down his chest, feeling every erratic beat of his heart beneath his shirt. “You’ve been through a lot lately,” you murmur softly, your fingers dipping lower until you’re just hovering over his belt buckle, toying with the metal. “How about I pamper you tonight?”

You let your tongue slide over his upper lip, and damn if he doesn’t shudder. His eyes flash with thrill and curiosity—mixed with something darker, more primal. “Oh?” His voice comes out in this sexy rasp like he’s intrigued but still playing along, letting you lead for now.

You bite back a smug grin. Oh, you have no idea what you’re in for.

With a playful wink, you step back, making sure to drag your hand across his chest one last time. “Sit tight, big boy,” you purr, backing away with just the right amount of sway in your hips. “This show’s just getting started.”

You saunter down the hallway, feeling his gaze burning a path down your back. You can feel your heart pounding as you head into the bedroom, closing the door behind you. The second it clicks shut, you lean against it for a second to catch your breath. The adrenaline makes your hands quiver a little as you rummage through the drawer.

There it is: that little black number you’ve been saving for a night just like this. 

A lacy, black lingerie piece, sheer in all the right places, hugging curves like it was made for you. You shimmy it on, adjusting the straps, making sure everything’s sitting just so. 

A quick glance in the mirror as you set your hair free from the bun—tousled, sexy-but-effortless vibe, check. The lace hints at more than it conceals, and your lips curl into a slow smile. Oh, yeah, he’s done for. You toss on a silky robe, leaving it untied, the lace peeking through just enough to give him a preview. A little fragrance spritz and a light touch of your lipstick, and you’re sorted.

When you open the door and walk back into the living room, you find him perched on the couch, his eyes snapping to you like magnets, intense and feral, as you come into view. His posture is stiff, knuckles blanched as they grip the cushions like he’s holding on for dear life. His pupils, wide and black with want, devouring the sight of you as if you are something forbidden, yet irresistible.

His gaze lingers, darkening when it catches on the soft peek of skin where your robe parts. He swallows hard, audibly, and when you let the silky fabric slip from your shoulders and pool at your feet, his jaw clenches—hard (hint: and not just his jaw).

The low light of the room encases you as it casts a sensual glow over the room, deepening the shadows and sharpening the tension between you two like a blade.

“F-fuck,” he wheezes, like the breath’s been knocked clean and shallow out of him. He tries to maintain some semblance of self-control, but the sharp despair in his voice betrays him. He sinks deeper into the couch, spreading his legs slightly, shooting you this look that’s pure, unfiltered desire as he drinks you in. 

You want to torture him, enjoying how his gaze rakes over every inch of you, so you slowly strut over to him. Each step is deliberate, your hips swinging in a slow, intoxicating rhythm that’s nothing short of tempting. His composure slips just a little more—a twitch in his jaw, a harsh swallow, the way his chest rises and falls, faster with every second. His eyes flick down to the curves, then back up to your scandalous tits before snapping back to your face.

The heat from his body radiates into yours as you come to a stop, your thighs rubbing against his knees, and his hands instinctively move to grab your waist. But you’re not giving in that easily. “Uh-uh,” you purr, wagging a teasing finger at him, your lips forming a sly smile. 

His fingers freeze, but his eyes burn with frustration as you stretch, purposely slow, letting your ass hover just above his lap. The unmistakable press of his hardness through his jeans sends a jolt of arousal through you, and you can’t help but smirk. “I’m in charge tonight, remember?” 

Evan lets out a furious groan, his head falling back defeated against the cushions, hands flexing in silent restraint. The power you hold over him tonight? Oh, it’s delicious, addictive. You throw him one last, seductive glance before turning around, giving him the full view of your barely-there lingerie—delicate straps criss-crossing down your back and framing your ass like a gift he’s dying to unwrap.

You hear as a muttered curse slips past his lips, low and guttural. He’s so close to breaking, and you haven’t even actually started yet. You scroll through your phone’s playlist, cueing up the perfect song for the occasion. The room is soon filled with the slow, sultry beats of Beyoncé’s ‘Dance For You,’ wrapping around both of you like a spell. You start slow, letting the music guide your hips, rolling in hypnotic circles. 

You saunter towards a nearby chair, aka your prop, bending over it as your body flows like liquid heat to the beat. His eyes religiously follow every motion, waiting, his breathing growing heavier like he’s holding on a thread with every flick of your hips, every arch of your spine.

You roam your fingers up my body, teasingly stopping at your hips before dragging them higher, skimming over your breasts. With agonising slowness, you untie your bra, holding his attention and eye contact hostage. The second the lace slips off your body, you toss it in his direction with a devilish grin. He catches it with a hungry grunt, burying his face in the fabric like a man possessed, his smirk turning malicious as he inhales deeply.

“God, you’re killing me,” he groans, eyes exploding with thirst for you. The sight of him, chest heaving, lips slightly parted—oh, it’s so sadistically satisfying. 

You’re gonna make him beg for it. 

Leaning forward, just enough for your bare breasts to graze his chest, you bring your lips up to his ear, hot breath fanning the side of his face, “Good,” voice dripping with a promise for more. You pull back just a fraction, your lips curving into a wicked smile. “I’m just getting started.” 

You circle behind him, and he twists his head, tracking your every move, but you’re not finished (no pun intended).

“Please, Y/N. Come sit on my lap, or my face…just—” His voice breaks, raw and pleading, his body squirming as he shifts, desperate for release. The power thrumming through your veins is out of this world, and you bite your bottom lip knowing you’ve got him right on the edge. 

You start with the lightest touch, dragging your fingers over the hard lines of his shoulders, tracing down the sculpted muscles of his chest, feeling the shudder that runs through him as you slide lower. Your fingers brush over the taut muscles of his thighs.

His stiff length twitches beneath your touch, his growl of desire low and animalistic. His hands stretch again, desperate to reach for you, but you chuckle softly, knowing he’s at your mercy tonight. His usual command is gone, flipped on its head, and that hunger in his eyes tells you he’s loving every second of it.

The music pulses through the room as you circle back around to him. You bend low, your curves on full display, just close enough for him to grab a handful of your ass with an eager groan that rumbles through his chest. He finally pulls you into him, lips attacking your skin, trailing down your spine with feverish kisses as he peels your thong off. His breath brushes against your slit and clit as he descends, his lips so dangerously close it sends your body humming with desire. 

He can smell your fertility; the pheromones emitting from your body intensify his animal instinct to breed. His breathing is erratic now, his body practically vibrating with need to take you, but you still “hold the leash.”

He breaths come out in heavy bursts as he watches you straddle him, knees planted on either side of his hips. You grind down slowly, feeling the friction as you move in slow, sensual circles. His hands latch onto your thighs, his grip harsh and desperate, leaving marks that make your skin tingle. But still, you don’t let him seize control. Not yet.

Leaning in, you pepper steamy kisses along his neck, feeling his rapid pulse beneath your lips, your teeth tracing the sharp edge of his jawline. You tenderly bite at his earlobe, and he growls lowly, his hands spasming with despair to grab you, but even then, you won’t allow him to touch you the way he wants.

“The more you resist, the harder I’ll fuck you,” he warns with a hiss, his voice dark. It’s a threat and a vow all rolled into one that sends a heat pooling between your thighs.

“Perfect,” you retort in a hushed whisper against the shell of his ear, lips barely brushing the corner of his mouth—teasing but not quite giving in. “That’s the idea, baby.” 

You’re serving cunt, and he knows it well.

With a slow, calculated slide, you lower yourself down his body, your hands stripping him of his blazer as you go. You let your hands trace over his thighs and the hardened, erected mound in between. Kneeling between his legs, you lock eyes with him, watching the way his breath stutters, anticipation swirling in the air. Slowly, you unbuckle his belt, your fingers stroking his length just enough to drive him nuts as he lets out a shaky gasp.

You pop the button on his jeans and pull down the zipper with your teeth. The second you free him from the tight confines of denim, his aching cock springs out, pulsing with raw desire for you, the fabric of his boxers barely able to contain him.

You glance up at him again with a smug smile before leaning down, your lips brushing along his head. His hips buck instinctively, a ragged groan tearing from his throat. But you take your time, taunting him with light flicks of your tongue. 

Finally, you wrap your lips around him, licking his sensitive red tip with the end of your tongue. You swirl it around and lap up the shiny little pearls of precum that keep seeping out in his pent-up arousal. “F-fuuuck, Y/N. You’re gonna make me blow in a sec,” he grunts out with a hitched voice as you take his whole size in your mouth. 

Your eyes flash up at him, filled with mischief as you take him deeper, your lips stretching to fit his full size. “Isn’t that the point?” you murmur, your voice on a seductive octave. “I want you to cum hard... fucking hard all over me.”

Your fingers trace the thick vein along the underside of his shaft before squeezing his hardness and pumping with a fast and firm tempo. Your hand works in sync with your mouth as you suck the upper half of his delicious cock, pulling him in and out, each movement making him gasp and buckle uncontrollably.

His head falls back, eyes screwed shut, muscles tensing. Some inaudible drabble slips off him as he thrusts into your mouth. Pools of saliva are pouring out of the edges of your lips, your eyebrows knitted together as you keep gagging at his cock hitting the back of your throat. You push further, your lips tight around him as you meet his gaze once more, your eyes wild with intensity. His fingers weave into your hair, but he doesn’t force you—he doesn’t have to. You’re in the saddle tonight, guiding him closer to his magical release.

Your hand reaches for his, fingers intertwining as your head bobs up and down on him, earning little moans of delight from his chest. He’s a hot mess; trembling under the weight of the pleasure you’re generously giving him as you slide your mouth down his dick, your cheeks hollowed in a blend of sensual sucks and frantic pumps. 

The sound of you gagging, the wet slurp of your lips, and the way you glance up at him so innocently, brow furrowed with effort, has him reeling. “Ahh, yeah, keep going,” he breathes out, biting his bottom lip.

He gets a good yet gentle grasp of your hair, thrusting into your mouth in shallow, desperate strokes, but you maintain control, building him up slowly, methodically. He adores your lips, especially the way they loop around his dick and release these mewling sounds against it.

But now, his whole body is shuddering, his cock jerking inside, and you can feel the tell-tale sign he’s about to bust his load in your mouth. The blood rushes to his dick, draining any sane thought and cell in his brain, leaving him driven only by his primal instinct and craving for climax.

You slide onto his throbbing cock once more, gobbling on it like the insatiable whore you are. He presses your head down and keeps you there for a few seconds. As you detach from his member to draw a breath, his body immediately locks up, his abs contracting, and then—he’s there. 

His head snaps back as he erupts shivering whimpers of your name, painting your face with copious amounts of his thick, white, and deliciously salty cum, his release spilling over your lips. 

You open your mouth, tongue stretched out, catching the last drops as you pump him, milking every ounce of his release. His cum drips down your chin, and you let your fingers swipe off the remnants from your face, licking them off slowly, savouring the taste. Nothing goes to waste as you look up at him, lips wet, cheeks flushed with the aftermath of his orgasm.

“You’re one hungry bitch, aren’t you?” he rasps, his voice strained, still shaky from the intensity of his high. He laughs weakly, dragging his thumb across your cheek with a tender caress, though his hard-on still convulses, not quite ready to soften. He winces as he tries to adjust himself, zipping up his jeans with difficulty, but the look of satisfaction on his face is unmistakable.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, licking your lips as you flash him a sly, knowing smirk. His chest rises and falls heavily, his face reddish, eyes droopy, still lost in the haze of afterglow. 

Without wavering your eyes from him, you crawl up and climb to his lap, feeling your pussy drip with every inch of his skin that presses against you. He ogles your naked torso like a dog drooling over the bone. You position yourself just right, his semi-clothed swollen tip nudging against your slippery entrance.

“I am hungry for you, baby,” you purr with a pout as your fingertips draw lazy circles over the ridges of his abs. His eyes darken, filled with a renewed lust as he watches you, licking his lips like a predator eyeing its prey.

Letting out a dark, throaty chuckle, he wastes no time—he hammers his lips against yours, shoving his tongue deep into your mouth and kissing you with reckless abandon. His hands greedily paw at your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers, tugging them just hard enough to make you moan against his lips. 

The arousal between you is electric as your body grinds against his, the friction sending sparks flying through you both; it’s like static rubbing off against each other, and you are about to feel yourself short circuit any minute. 

His hands hook around your ass cheeks before delivering a sharp, stinging slap that makes you yelp in pleasure, the sound echoing through the room. You press your lips harder against his with a mewl, tongues tangling.

“Evan,” you hush out between sloppy kisses, barely coherent amidst loud teeth smacking and clashing together. All thanks to his fingers dipping between your legs, teasing your clit with maddening eights as he grins victoriously, knowing he’s got you right where he wants you.

“My slut’s ready for me?” he hums, giving your ass another smack, the sound of flesh against flesh making you quiver with delight. Your hips swerve on his raging boner, the body-against-body friction igniting an ever-powerful spark within you both. To say you’re a ‘mere’ tease for him is an understatement. 

“You’re doing so good, my baby girl,” he gruffs, and his rough, veiny hands glide possessively toward your rocking waist as you begin to rub yourself against his thigh, slowly... teasingly. Every roll of your hips has him biting his lip, his eyes glued to the way your body moves against him.

“You’re in night care, baby boy, remember?” you hush, your voice laced with dominance as you lift your hips, fingers deftly undoing his trousers again. Your hand wraps around his cock, positioning him at your slick slit. Slowly, achingly slow, you sink down onto him, inch by inch. The stretch forces a moaning gasp out of you as your body adjusts to accommodate his size. Fiery electricity surges through you both, and he hisses watching as your pulsating pussy desperately tries to swallow his cock.

His hands tighten on your hips as you take him deeper, your nails digging into his biceps when he bottoms out, filling you completely. The fullness makes you shudder, your breath leaving you in a jagged burst as his tip presses snugly against your cervix. The deep groan that escapes his throat vibrates through your body, making you clench around him involuntarily, his hips stilling cautiously.

You start to move, rolling your hips in slow, languid circles, setting a rhythm that’s equal parts torture and bliss for both. His hands grip you harder, leaving faint red imprints on your flushed flesh, but he doesn’t push or pull—he’s letting you have the upper hand in riding him, his eyes dark and hungry as he admires you, mouth parted. The way he’s looking at you though? Like you’re a goddess descending from the heavens just for him. Oh, that does something to you.

“Look at you, baby. So fucking gorgeous, taking me like that,” he murmurs, pride and desire dripping from every word. A crooked smile is etched on his face hearing the sloshing whines squawk out of your poor needy folds as they cling to his cock. Every thrust, every grind, every little whimper from your lips makes his large member throb inside you, stretching you deliciously as you plop up and down on him.

You lean down, sealing your lips in a hungry, desperate kiss, your tongues twirling in a messy dance. It’s all teeth and moans again as he hits that sweet spot deep inside. It’s the type of kiss that makes time stop, like nothing else exists except for the raw, primitive connection between you two. 

His hands trail up your bare back, fingers tangling in your hair, keeping you close as you grind down harder. Your bodies move in sync, perfectly attuned to each other, and you can feel his cock twitching inside you with every movement. His eyes dart down to your bouncing breasts and toned stomach, but you quickly grab his jaw, tilting his head up to meet your gaze. “Nu-uh,” you whisper against his lips, your voice tinged with authority. “Eyes on mine, boy.”

He lets off a hearty chuckle, even going so far as to wriggle your ass back against him. “You feel so damn amazing, baby,” he huffs, voice rough with desire, talking over your whiny babbles. He cranes his neck to kiss the edge of your jaw before tenderly nipping at the skin.

Panting heavily, you exhale, “I could do this all night.” Your hips move faster, sliding up and down his thick length, the friction sending bolts of euphoria through you. His breathing grows ragged, and you can feel the tension rising, winding tighter and tighter. You’re so soft—sweet gummy flesh compressing around him with such ease, wringing him tight like a vice. He chokes when your pussy flutters—the way you clamp down on his dick makes his body go slack and his eyes roll back.

He lets out a low groan, barely holding himself together as your walls squeeze around him. “Thaaat’s it, hngh. This pussy knows it’s place,” he grouses, and your eyes widen, realising the shift in dynamic—he’s reclaimed control, already winning ground, sis. Before you know it, his plumpish tip drills further between each corner of your dripping cunt. Your small sobs amplify as he starts to move beneath you, his hips thrusting up harder, making your entire body quake with each deep pound.

“I love fucking you so much,” he grunts, nearly whining, his head tilting back as his cock jerks inside you.

Before you can fully catch your breath, Evan’s grip tightens on your hips. With one fluid motion, he lifts you off him, his arms hook beneath your thighs. You gasp, caught off guard, your body hanging in his grasp as he stands up, practically growling with primal need.

“You’re mine now,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, sending a bolt of excitement straight down your spine.

Without hesitation, he spins you around, carrying you across the room, your legs instinctively bundling around his waist. You’re in such a sweet, sexual brain fog that it takes you a second to get what’s going on. With one swift movement, he sweeps his arm across the dining table, sending glasses, cutlery, and whatever else is there crashing to the floor in a chaotic symphony of clatters.

“Evan!” You giggle dazedly, hands clasping on his shoulders as he sets you down on the table, the cold wood against your back making you shiver—but not nearly as much as the fire blazing in his eyes.

He leans over you and shushes you with a kiss, his lips brushing against yours as he pushes your legs apart. “I’m not done with you yet.”

You don’t have time to argue—not that you want to. He grabs your hips, yanking you to the very edge of the table, his body wedged firmly between your legs. There’s no remorse in his eyes—just pure, animalistic desire. One hand snakes under your ass, the other glides down your left thigh, lifting it effortlessly over his broad shoulder. The way he leans down and looks at you now, almost in slow motion... gosh. It’s like you’re the only thing he’s ever needed… like nothing else matters but taking you right here, right now, and it sets your entire body on fire.

He wants to smash, and he’ll get it.

The scent of your cunt is intoxicating, stirring every primal instinct inside Evan that he knows he must keep in check. He draws his hips back slowly, only his tip nestling inside you, then jams just once inside you. Your whole body jumps at the impact, your pleading eyes boring deep into his, a breathy hum punched out of you. He pulls back and slams forward again, growling through his teeth. Your pillowy walls are cuddling him, his heavy balls aching to be drained, eager to breed the fertile womb his tip is wedged against.

His hands roam up your thighs, grasping you like he can’t get enough. With each slow, deliberate stroke, he sinks deeper into you, your body arching off the table in response. The sensation of him rutting in and out of your sobbing sex is overwhelming—every movement has your breath hitching, your fingers clutching the edge of the table, desperate for some kind of anchor.

Your orgasm is building again, fast and intense. As the pressure inside you give way to climax, tears cascade down your burning cheeks, your features contorted in ecstasy. 

“E-Evan, I can’t take it! T-too much!”

He smirks, shaking his head. “Say please, baby,” he grits out, his voice low and commanding. His hips thrust into yours harder, making you lose all sense of logic. Your mind is blank, mouth hanging open, unable to form words as the pleasure consumes you.

“P-please,” a pained mewl tumbles out of you, and that single word tips him off the edge. His hips stutter, and with a series of deep thrusts along with a carnal chant of “ah, ah, ah, ah” pouring from his lips, he gushes inside you—creamy gooey ropes of cum dribble into you, not missing at all.

He’s panting heavily, hips jerking involuntarily as he empties himself, filling you to the brim with thick, sticky cum.

His groans of satisfaction blend with your breathy moans as you cling to him, feeling his weight stick against your skin like it’s adhesive. You bite into the soft skin of his neck, muffling your whimpers as he continues to thrust lazily, drawing out every last bit of his orgasm.

“Come for me,” he demands, his voice low and raspy, each word filled with the same raw desire that’s coursing through your veins. “I wanna feel you.”

That’s it—the words, the intensity, the feeling of him completely owning your body, claiming you in a way that makes your head spin—have you on a chokehold. You suck in lungfuls of air as the incoming pangs of orgasmic waves smash over you with impossible force. You can’t hold back the loud moans spilling from your lips, your body arching up and writhing beneath him as you come hard, your walls spasming around his cock.

He presses his forehead to yours, his hand gently stroking your cheek, his breath hot against your lips. Your body convulses uncontrollably in his arms as he rides out your climax with you, his cock still throbbing inside your over-sensitive core. 

As you come down, your breaths laboured and uneven, he buries his head to your chest, his mouth warm against your skin as his kisses travel down to your boobs, his tongue flicking over your sensitive nipples. Each subtle touch sends aftershocks of pleasure through you, your body still buzzing from the intensity of it all.

You huff, a breathless laugh escaping your lips. “You’re a menace, you know that?” you whisper, still trying to catch your breath. But he’s not done yet. You giggle softly as he moves lower, planting tingly smoochies to your skin, his breath like a warm breeze against your thighs.

“You smell like honey… I wanna taste you,” he murmurs, nuzzling his nose into the soft curve of your inner thigh. His fingers part your sloping folds, spreading you open for him as he watches the glistening cum leak from your swollen pussy. His primitive need to eat you up tests his sense of control. 

His tongue plunges between your labia, stretching them up with a slow and deliberate lick. Your thighs quiver around his head in the aftershocks of your climax, straining moans and semi-shrieks falling from your lips as his tongue dives deeper between your folds. The wet sound of him slurping up the mix of your juices and his cum is obscene, but it only drives you wilder, especially as he mumbles the moto, “Y/N... Thank you, thank you, thank you.” 

Your fingers lace in his drenched thick, curly brown locks, holding him in place. The untamed animal inside him is finally sated, fed well at the meal between your thighs. His teeth sink ever-so-lightly into the plump pout of your lips, and you can’t stop the desperate little wails flipping from your throat. 

Your eager pussy can’t help but drool. Streams of your slick cascade down between the crevices of your thighs and coat the entirety of his fingers. With a rosy flat tongue, he pads and licks you clean, taking every few seconds to pull his fingers in—only to push them right back out. As he re-enters, he pokes against your g-spot again, and again, and again…

That’s all it takes for the sharp twisting coil to snap within you for the second time, and your thighs turbulently shake within his feeble grasp. “Fuck, fuck,” you choke out, your breath coming in hollow bursts as you feel his hushed praises and loving words ghost against your clit. You can’t stay still for the life of you—it’s as if every muscle in your body rips apart once you come into his mouth, your jaw slackened and your eyes widened.

“Ohmygodohmygod,” you ramble, and Evan’s still flicking his tongue against your sobbing slit.

You’re making a mess out of him, and he’s still eating it up—the dedication. His chin got such a pretty glimmer of shine all thanks to your slick running down. With an echoing pop, he slides his fingers off your pussy, stretching his digits further apart just to see how your sap glues against them. The shaking from your multiple orgasmic release keeps on, the ringing in your ears never subsiding. 

“Mmph, Y/N. So beautiful,” he cries out, his voice cracking with emotion as he presses a kiss to your swollen, sensitive lips. Your sweet slickness smears against his stubble even more, but he couldn’t care less. All that matters is you, lying there beneath him, glowing with the outcome of your pleasure. 

Evan’s gaze lingers on you for a long moment, his chest still heaving as he melts in the sight of you—flushed, trembling, thoroughly wrecked from the intensity of what just happened. His hand gently strokes your thigh, trailing up and down in soothing circles as the both of you come down from the high together.

Propping your weight on your elbows, you stare down on him, a lazy grin playing at the corners of your lips. You pull him up for a sloppy, rough kiss. Your fingers pinch on his well-defined jaw as he rests on top of her. You can feel his stiff length press against her stomach, and it feels great. 

You reach up to brush his damp hair from his forehead. “You really know how to leave a girl breathless,” you mumble teasingly, though your voice is barely above a whisper, still catching.

A deep chuckle rumbles through his chest, and he leans into your touch, nuzzling his cheek against your palm. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispers, and you giggle softly, the sound light and airy.

You lay there for a while, the after-sex haze still buzzing through your veins. Evan’s sprawled out on the sofa, shirtless. His hair is all tousled, looking like some kind of model from a cologne ad—except sexier, and definitely more accessible. You watch him, feeling a dopey grin spread across your face. This man… God, this man.

You pull yourself up, snuggling into that familiar blue blanket from the edge of the couch—the one you always steal when it’s movie night, or when you’re feeling cosy after a particularly intense workout (aka “fuck time”).

“You look like a smurf burrito,” Evan quips, his hand lazily draped across his abs as he watches you pace around the room.

You snort, cuddling deeper into the blanket. “Better than looking like a sweaty, shirtless disaster.” You throw him a wink and a brow waggle, but honestly, the view is prime real estate right now. That man should charge admission.

He smirks smugly, running a hand through his messy curls. “Sweaty, shirtless disaster, huh? I was under the impression you were enjoying said disaster inside you just a few minutes ago.”

“Touché,” you giggle as you flop down the sofa, letting your head fall back against the armrest. “But the jury’s still out on whether I enjoyed it or tolerated it.”

“Oh, is that so?” His eyebrow quirks, and that playful gleam you love so much flickers back in his eyes. He leans forward, crawling towards you on the sofa with that predator-like grace, his hands landing on either side of your bundled-up self.

“Maybe.” You bite your lip, trying to keep a straight face, but your heart's already doing flips at the way he’s looking at you. Damn, those eyes.

“Hmm. Well, maybe I should just—” Evan dips down, his lips grazing your ribcage, making you gasp. You wriggle away playfully, pulling the blanket up higher as if it’s some kind of armour.

“Okay, okay! I loved it. Five stars on Yelp, glowing review and a side of fries.” You’re laughing now, barely able to keep up the act.

Evan chuckles triumphantly, that warm, rumbling sound that makes your pulse leap in your throat. “Five stars? Well, that must make me the Michelin Man of love.”

“Please,” you laugh, “the only thing you’re qualifying for is most likely to be found with a pizza slice in hand.”

His grin widens, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head. “Well, speaking of pizza, how about we start planning our wedding menu? I’m thinking pepperoni and extra cheese for the wedding cake. You know, something to make the guests feel like they’re in a pizzeria.”

You roll your eyes, giggling at his ridiculousness. “So, pizza-themed wedding, huh? What are we going to serve? Breadsticks as the bouquet?”

“Absolutely! And the best part? I’ll have a pepperoni ring!” He starts mimicking a ring toss, and you can’t help but crack up.

“Oh wow, my future husband is a real romantic,” you say, shaking your head in mock disbelief.

But then Evan leans in closer, his expression turning serious, and you feel the air shift. “But really, I want to make sure I don’t just slice into this whole ‘life together’ thing. I want to do it right. So, how about we order that wedding cake now because…” He reaches into his pocket, and your heart skips a beat as he pulls out a small velvet box.

You narrow your eyes in suspicion as you sit up. “What are you doing? Is this some kind of prank”

“Well, not exactly a prank. Unless you think proposing is some kind of joke.”

Your heart stops.

“What?” The word barely squeaks out, and you’re pretty sure your brain just exploded. Did he—did he just say proposing?

Evan’s mouth pulls into this soft smile, and before you know it, he’s dropping to one knee on the sofa. “I mean, I’ve got the ring and all that the protocol requires,” he mutters and your eyes bulge, mouth agape. “...and I don’t want to waste another minute from making you my wife!”

Your heart stops.

You leap up from the sofa, shaky hands flying to your mouth, shock flooding your system. The blanket almost slips off, eyes wide and heart pounding like you’re on the world’s most chaotic and steepest rollercoaster. Did he—did he also just say wife? “Are you serious?”

“Y/N,” he starts, his voice a little shaky but full of that Evan confidence that always makes you feel like the only person in the room, “I’ve been through a lot lately. We both have. But the one constant through it all—through the tough days and the good ones, the sleepless nights and the mornings I wake up next to you—is that I want every single day to be with you.”

Your eyes are already welling up, and you try to blink back the tears because oh my God, he’s really doing this.

“From the moment I saw you in that club, I never looked away. We started off with a bang, quite literally, but I’ve felt like I’ve known you my whole life and won the love lottery. You’re my jackpot. The reason I smile—even when I feel like I’ve hit every bump on the road. You make even the ordinary feel extraordinary, and I want to make this last forever.”

Your eyes are already welling up, and you try to blink back the tears because oh my God, he’s really doing this. Your pulse hammers so loud you swear he can hear it. And then it hits you. Yes.

“So here I am, making it official, ready to take a gamble on the biggest bet of my life. Will you marry me and make me the luckiest man on the planet?” He opens the little box, revealing the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen—a subtle and stunning band with a sparkling diamond that seems to catch the soft light of the room just right.

You can’t even form words. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, and your heart throbs so hard, you’re sure it’ll burst out of your chest.

“You drive me crazy in the best way possible. You’re my best friend, my partner in crime, my favourite person to order burgers with. I want to spend the rest of my life making you laugh, making you mad, and maybe every now and then... sweeping plates off the table to get to you faster.” He smirks, his eyes twinkling.

“Evan!” you gasp, half-laughing through your tears, remembering the chaos from a few minutes ago.

He chuckles heartily, but there’s something so tender in his expression now. “So, will you do me the honour of marrying me?” He opens the little box, revealing the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen—a simple yet stunning band with a sparkling diamond that seems to catch the soft light of the room just right.

You can’t even form words. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, and your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it. And then it hits you. Yes.

“Yes!” you shout, your voice breaking with joy as you toss the blanket aside and fling yourself into his arms, knocking him backward onto the sofa. He laughs as you straddle his waist, hugging him tight, tears of joy streaming down your face.

“I love you,” you whisper breathlessly, kissing him hard, your heart swelling with so much love it feels like it might burst.

“I love you too,” he murmurs, smiling up at you as you kiss him again, both of you tangled in this beautiful, overwhelming moment.

He slips the ring onto your finger, and you hold your hand up, marvelling at how perfectly it fits—how perfectly it all fits.

And as you both lie there, wrapped up in each other and the ridiculousness of the moment, Evan chuckles. “So, Smurf burrito, looks like you’re stuck with me for life.”

You laugh, smothering his face with smoochies of aggressive cuteness magnitude. “Lucky me. Now... about those burgers? I’m still hungry.”

Evan grins, pulling you closer. “First, how about I show you just how well I can speak your love language?”

“Burgers first, then more disaster sex,” you tease, giggling as he tries to tickle you.

“Deal,” he whispers, stealing another kiss, because honestly, in this moment, you’re the best thing on the menu.

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Taglist: sillysillygyal, junkie4weezer, frankiesweird, divinerulerz, nickrhodeslittledarling, @babymazz

@evanchantingpeters — All rights reserved. Please do not modify, translate, or plagiarise my content.

Announcement

This might not be a forever goodbye, and who knows, a spinoff of this series might pop up someday, but this is going to be the final part, y’all. I’ll admit, I sometimes feel like I’m navigating through a tiny room with towering walls in this digital space; like my creative expression is being restricted and policed, and I cannot fully communicate or channel my “writing persona,” if you will, in here. Still, every bit of your love and support has made it worth it. I’ve poured so much into this world, and Evan, well… he’s been an incredible muse through it all. So, thanks a bunch, truly. xx

[mzannthropy]

Everyone knows I fucking hate this piece of garbage film (okay, I haven't watched it, but I read the book so that's how I know it's trash) but hey, a smiling shirtless Sam Claflin is still a smiling shirtless Sam Claflin.

[souliebird]

[[and then I met you || ch. 13]]

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit

Summary:

A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s and Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.

pt: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12

Words: 5.7k

ao3 link

banner thanks to the wonderful @theradioactivespidergwen

The base of your skull pounds as you try to keep focus on the things going on around you. It is almost impossible, as you just want to close your eyes and block out everything. 

You had woken up with a stiffness in your neck and shoulders that had quickly spiraled into the beginnings of a migraine. You hadn't had one since you were pregnant and now that you had a toddler, spending the day in bed and hiding under covers was not an option.

The gods seem to have smiled down on you, though. It is Saturday, which means it is Daddy Daughter Date Day and Matt is more than happy to keep Minnie’s attention on him. You don't have to watch her like a hawk. You can just sit and wait until your ibuprofen kicks in. 

If it ever does. 

You know drinking water will probably help, so you shakily reach for your glass.

Beside you, your daughter is none the wiser to your distress. Last night, a new toy arrived in the mail, and she was insistent it must be brought to lunch so she could show her Daddy and play with him. It is a friendship bracelet making kit - the type that has beads of all different shapes and colors - and it is a hit. Minnie and Matt have been making each other bracelets as you wait for your food.

“Can you please find me another ‘O’?” the nearly perfect man across from you asks your sweet toddler. “Like in ‘Octopus’.”

“‘O’ for octopus!” Mouse quickly confirms. She sets down her string of multi-color shapes and pulls the little box of beads closer to her. She picks up the discs that have letters on them, proudly showing off her ability to identify them by stating what each letter is until she finds the one, she's looking for. Once it is found, it is carefully passed across the table. “‘O’ for octopus!”

You have not been paying attention to the letters Matt has been collecting and thus have no clue what he intends to spell, but you're guessing it won't matter much to your daughter. She's going to be thrilled either way. You have a hunch that the feeling is mutual with Matt - whatever Minnie gives him, he'll proudly wear. Right now, the bracelet in her hands is a mixture of pink hearts with purple and yellow plain beads. There isn't a method to the madness beyond that. 

Your table falls back into silence. Mouse is enthralled with her task of threading and Matt is equally quiet. You think he is aware of your headache, as he's been soft spoken since you met up and hasn't been trying to make your little one laugh and squeal with glee. You're incredibly thankful for that. 

You resist the urge to close your eyes and instead find a scratch on the table's surface to stare blankly at and wait for time to pass. Hands pass through your field of vision to collect different beads and you hear farther-daughter talking, but you don't process any of it. All you know is the pain creeping around your skull. You are aware of how your eyes sit in your head and it is a very weird, unsettling feeling that helps nothing. 

You pray this outing has enough stimulation for Minnie, so that when you go home, she'll go down for a nap easily and you can join her.

You don't know how long you sit there, spacing out while the world moves on without you, but eventually Linda drops your plates in front of you. You fall into autopilot, saying, “Thank you, Miss Linda” in chorus with Matt and Minnie. After a quick cooing over how sweet your little family is, the waitress leaves you be, and you turn your focus to your daughter's plate.

It's chicken strips and french fries today and you know she needs her ketchup and mustard. Before you can start to reach for the bottles at the end of the table, Matt is already taking them and addressing Mouse, “You like it with more mustard than ketchup, right?”

“More mustard!” She happily replies as she lays her napkin across her lap. 

You watch with slightly parted lips as he starts squeezing the condiments onto her plate. You aren't used to anyone taking over this responsibility and you don't know how to react - it is nice to have the help and to see he's learned so much about Minnie's habits, but your mind can't help but chastise you for letting him do this menial task. You know he's her father, but it feels like something you should be doing.

Of course, you are the only one having conflicting feelings. They are having a good time - Matt makes two piles of sauces and Minnie instantly starts swirling them together with her food, a big grin on her face. You try to offer a smile back, but you don't know how sincere it is. Your head hurts so much, and your anxiety is spiking.

You are shaken from your daze when Matt says your name. You look up to see his head tilted just slightly, the slightest frown on his face. Guilt courses through you.

“You sure you don't want any coffee? The caffeine should help with,” he motions to his head, and it just confirms for you that he is always hyper aware of everything, and that Minnie must be too. 

You need to get your act together. You can't just zone out because you don't feel well - you're a parent and you are out in public. You can't just dump all your responsibilities onto Matt because he is here now. 

You shake your head, even if it makes you dizzy, “No, I'll be okay.” 

The truth is the idea of coffee makes your stomach turn. You don't want anything that tastes too strongly, which is why you have opted for a Cobb salad for lunch. 

The man across from you gives you a doubtful look. To keep him from worrying over you, you stab a piece of tomato and eat it. It tastes like nothing and that is fine for you. This earns a frown, but the gods smile on you again and your daughter causes a distraction by starting to play with her food. 

Mouse picks up a chicken strip and begins to make it hop around the plate before dunking it into her now orange mixture. “Oh no, you're all messy now,” she says to herself, “I gotta clean you.” She then proceeds to lick the sauce away with exaggerated sounds. Matt makes a face of pure disgust. 

“Sweetie, what are you doing?”

“I'm a kitty!” is her proud response before repeating the process. 

You know this game well but it's the first time he has experienced it. He knows you allow her to play with her food as long as she's not messy and actually eats it, but you can tell he wants to ask her not to. You are open to him making suggestions and asking Minnie to do things, and he knows that, and you wonder what direction he will take. You can see the wheels turning in his head. 

“I thought you were a mouse,” is what he goes with. 

That stops Minnie dead in her tracks. She considers this statement, a pout forming, before bringing her chicken strip to her mouth and beginning to nibble at it - like a mouse with a piece of cheese.  

The rest of the meal is subdued. You manage to eat a third of your salad through sheer force of will - having an empty stomach will only make things worse - and Mouse only needs her face wiped a handful of times. It feels like the minutes crawl by before Linda is back at your table to take away plates and hand over the check.

Packing up is quick and easy. There are no loose beads on the table, so you just need to snap the case shut and store it into your bag, along with anything else that was brought out for Minnie’s needs. As you do this, Matt finishes off both bracelets by tying the ends together and once he is done, you stop what you're doing to watch the exchange.

He returns the bracelet Minnie made for him to her and she hugs it to her chest.

“Daddy, yous gotta put out your hand. I have something for you,” she says like it is any sort of surprise. 

But of course, Matt plays along. He does as he is told, holding out the hand not holding the bracelet he made, “You got something for me?” 

Very delicately, like it's going to break, Mouse places the bracelet into his palm. Only when she is fully sitting in her seat again does he begin to run his thumb over the beads, feeling what she made for him. His lips twitch up into a smile before he starts to bite his lip. You've learned this means he's trying to not get overly emotional, and you completely understand. 

Having Minnie’s love is the only thing keeping you going some days and you've cried multiple times when she's given you something she's made for you. 

“I love it,” he whispers, his voice breaking a tiny bit. “Thank you so much, sweetheart.”

You and Minnie watch as he slips the bracelet on, and it settles next to his watch. The bright colors stand out against his muted palette, but you doubt he cares about that. Your daughter absolutely beams when he holds up his wrist to show off his new piece of jewelry.

“You're welcome, Daddy! Do you have a present for me?” Mouse asks, jutting her hands out, palms up.

You can't help but huff in amusement, even if your headache is making you feel cold and detached. You know she isn't being greedy or rude, she's simply an eager toddler. You can't fault her for that. 

Oh, so carefully, Matt sets the bracelet into her waiting hands and once you finally realize what he wrote out on it, your heart clenches at the sweetness. The bracelet is mostly made up of lettered beads, with the words separated by different colored hearts. Minnie quickly brings it right up to her face to inspect it and instantly starts trying to figure out the mystery in front of her.

“D-A-D-D-Y,” she spells out loud, “L-O-V-E-S. Y.O.U.” Her little brow wrinkles up at the words and you wait to see if she needs help figuring them out. They aren't unknown to her, but it's usually a flip of a coin if she can connect the dots. The only word you are confident she recognizes is her name. 

She spells it again, then tries her best to sound it out, “Duh..Ahh duh duh…why. Duh-ah-du- Daddy! It says Daddy!”

You rub her back, silently trying to communicate how proud of her you are, “That's right, it says Daddy. Do you know the other words?” 

While she considers her answer, you look at Matt. 

He hasn't shaved in a few days. It emphasizes his good looks, and you can see the hints of red - and grey - in his grown-out scruff. His charming and sweet appearance is only enhanced by his heart - you didn't know someone could be so full of love. He radiates it when he's around Minnie and it's like he can't help but pour all of his affection into her and he can't believe how much of it is returned.

You wonder if you were put on Earth to give him Minnie - and you wouldn't mind if you were. It would give you some sort of purpose. 

“Mommy,” your precious angel says, thrusting the bracelet into your face, “you read it.”

You feel your face heat up - and throb - at the way Matt turns to you. Your insides pang and you can't help but feel like you're ruining this moment for him. You clear your throat, and tell Minnie, “It says ‘Daddy loves you.’”

Her eyes go wide, and she gasps like it is breaking news, “Daddy loves me?” 

“Daddy loves you,” Matt instantly confirms, “always and forever. And you'll have this to remind you.”

The sentiment stirs so much in you, and you let your headache push it all away and instead of getting emotional, you help Mouse put on her new bracelet. She rips her arm away from you as soon as she can to mimic her Daddy and holds up her wrist to show off her bracelet. 

“I love Daddy, too!” 

The little anxiety and self-doubt demon stirs in your chest. You love to see them bond, but you can't help but yearn for your daughter to shout she loves you, too, and you want your own bracelet. You know, you know, you are going to be overflowing with bracelets soon enough, but these ones are special. They have meaning and memories and -

And you remind yourself you can't do this in public, especially not around Minnie. You can't ruin their good time - if you haven't already. 

Instead, you gently pat her back and ask, “What do you say to Daddy for the gift?”

“Thank you, Daddy!”

“You're very welcome, Mouse.”

Your daughter looks at her new piece of jewelry in amazement, turning her wrist so she can see all angles. With her distracted, you move to finish packing up by going to get the stroller, and by the time you have it popped open and your bag secured in the under pocket, Matt and Minnie are joining you by the doorway. Your little one needs no help buckling herself in and you can tell how happy she is by the way she kicks her feet. 

As you get in position to start pushing the stroller, Matt steps to stand beside you so you can guide him as you walk. He waits until you leave the diner to address you.

“We don't need to go to the park,” he says in a soft voice. 

You are shaking your head before he even finishes his sentence, “It’s fine, Matt. It's just a headache.” It isn't just a headache - your medicine hasn't kicked in and your head is just pulsing, but you will survive.

He very gently squeezes your elbow, saying your name, “you know I can tell that isn't true. You should be -”

“FROGGY!”

Minnie’s excited scream drowns out whatever he was going to push for. 

On the corner ahead of you, waiting at the crosswalk are Foggy and Karen. They look like they are on a shopping trip - both carrying bags from different boutiques. They turn in unison towards you and Foggy breaks into the biggest smile once he spies your little group.

“Well, if it isn't my favorite little buddy! And her charming and beautiful parents. Wait,” he looks to Karen and gasps, eyes getting comically big, “is this the famous Saturday brunch?” He whirls around dramatically and points to Matt, like he is accusing him, “You're going to the park.”

“We're going to the park,” he confirms, his own grin starting to form at the antics and at the same time, Minnie exclaims, “we're gonna watch the duckies!”

“They are going to watch the duckies, Karen. Do you know what that does to my heart?” Foggy asks as he puts his hand on his chest. Karen shakes her head fondly and completely ignores him to address you.

“We've heard so many stories about the ducks. He gloats every Monday.”

Matt actually pouts at the statement, and you are reminded of a chastised puppy, “I don't gloat.”

“You gloat,” his friends say at the same time.

Minnie, of course, picks up quickly on the new word and kicks her feet as she giggles, “Daddy goats!”

A thought barely crosses your mind before the words are leaving your lips, “You should come with us.”

You can practically feel Matt's initial disapproval of the offer - not from selfishness but from you refusing to acknowledge your headache - but with how both Minnie and Foggy light up, you don't think he'll voice it. And you are right - he gives your arm a light squeeze as he agrees without any disdain, “The more the merrier.”

“I don't think this is an offer we can refuse,” Karen says, nudging Foggy with her elbow. “How can we say no to that face?”

You can't see Minnie’s face from behind her stroller, but you can picture her pleading little face. She has all of you wrapped around her little finger and you suspect she might start crying if they say no. 

“To the park we go!” Foggy declares, “and with perfect timing because the light just turned green.”

You let yourself tune out as you start to walk again. Foggy is animatedly telling Matt and Minnie about his quest to find his girlfriend the perfect birthday gift. Apparently, her preferred brand of hand lotion has been discontinued and nothing else is good enough. It is sweet to hear him being so concerned about her needs and wants. He's the type of partner you used to dream about - before you realized that would never be in the cards for you - someone who listens to what you say and doesn't treat you like a glorified maid. 

You only had two ‘serious’ relationships in your twenties and both had left you feeling worthless and unloved. You spent most of your time commuting to them and taking care of their needs only to be tossed aside when someone worth their time came along. 

You were the type to stay at home and do the laundry, raise the children - be out of sight and out of mind. You didn't get taken out on fancy dates. No one tried to woo you. 

No one went out of their way to buy you a gift. 

In fact, you don't remember the last time you even celebrated your birthday. Some of your coworkers sent you Happy Birthday emails last year - only because the first one is sent out company wide and you are pretty sure it's automated. 

You are fine with it, though. It's not like you celebrated such things as a kid, so you have nothing to miss. You are happy Foggy has someone he so clearly adores, and you hope, when Minnie grows up, she'll find someone like him. 

Soon enough, you're at the park and making your way to your designated spot. Despite it being a warm and sunny day, things are relatively empty, and you are thankful there are no older children shouting or causing a ruckus. You just want to sit down. 

You can hear Minnie unbuckling herself before you roll to a stop and there is a whirl of motion as you park. She's on the grass before you know it, scurrying like her namesake to get the picnic blanket out of its pocket and spread out. As you wait for her to finish setting up and Karen admires what a nice area you’ve picked, you realize Matt not only still has his hand on your bicep, but his thumb has been gently rubbing in a small circle. 

Your heart stutters in your chest and you don't know why he's doing such a thing and now that you're aware of it, it's all you can focus on. Your entire body feels like it is on fire - from his touch, from the situation, from your headache - and you fear making a complete idiot of yourself. Foggy and Karen are here, and you don't want to embarrass Matt. 

“Mommy, I need my sunnies!” Your perfect little distraction says from the other side of the stroller and it's the excuse you need to pull away from Matt. You kneel and rummage in your bag until you find the pink Barbie glasses and hand them over to your daughter, then take the time to pull yours out as well. 

By the time you get them on and lock the stroller, everyone else is on the blanket. You situate yourself beside Minnie and tell yourself you need to pay attention as she enthusiastically begins to point out ducks to Foggy and Karen. 

“That's Moose, he's mean!” She describes to her new friends, while grabbing Matt's hand so she can turn him in the right direction. You aren't sure if he really needs it - you haven't sat down and spoken about his needs since the revelation about his and Minnie’s senses. You make note to do that.

You listen to the back and forth about your daughter's favorite duck characters and story lines, trying to desperately be in the moment. The warm sun feels good on your skin, and you yearn to just flop over and close your eyes. The tension and pain seem to only be increasing. This may turn into a full-blown migraine. 

As you start to mentally debate taking more ibuprofen, Minnie cuts herself off from describing how Moose is a food thief and whips her head towards the street, eyes going big. It very much reminds you of a dog that has caught the scent of a prey animal. 

Foggy snorts with laughter at your daughter's expression, “Oh my God, she's just like Matt. What do you hear, girl? Is Timmy in a well?”

That has you wondering how often Matt gets his attention drawn away by something only he can sense and how many times Foggy has made that joke to him. 

You don't get a chance to ask, because Mouse is turning her big begging eyes on you now, “Mommy, it's the ice cream man! Can we get ice cream? Please, please, please, please?” She is practically vibrating with desire, and you are not going to deny her anything. 

“You can get a small ice cream,” you tell her, like it's a compromise. “You don't want your tummy to hurt later.”

She lets out a shriek of joy and scrambles up. To everyone's amusement, she starts digging through your bag for your wallet, and once she finds it, runs it back to you, held over her head like it's a prize. She practically crashes into you, the biggest smile on her face, and you do a scoop and turn maneuver to sit her in your lap. 

“Would you like any ice cream?” you ask the three friends sitting with you, not wanting anyone to feel excluded.

Foggy pushes himself up into standing before you finish getting the words out of your mouth, “Of course we want ice cream, what kind of question is that? Do I look like I say no to ice cream?”

“Oh, a cone does sound really good,” Karen muses beside you. 

“Then ice cream it is,” Matt declares, getting up as well. “My treat,” he adds much to your dismay. You don't get to protest, as he barrels on, holding his free hand out to Minnie, “Want to lead the way, sweetheart?”

Your daughter practically leaps up to grab onto her Daddy, demanding, “Carry me!”

“Minnie!” You quickly chastise, shame running through you. She knows better than to jump and climb on people, but you are beginning to fear Matt may become her new jungle gym. No one else shares this worry, least of all Matt, who simply gives into his daughter's will and swings her up onto his hip with a laugh. She clings to his neck and shoulder, and because she is sweet as pie, plants a big kiss on his cheek. 

Everything happens so fast that you are still sitting on the blanket with Karen, and you don't even think of standing before Foggy is looking down at you and Karen, “What flavor do you want?”

“I'm feeling chocolate,” the strawberry blonde hums, tapping her index finger on her chin. 

The shame and anxiety demon is growing in your throat at the implication you and Karen will stay while the men and your daughter fetch dessert. You want to say that you can pay and that you can go get it - that they should spend the time relaxing - but the darkness in your mind screams that if you say anything other than ‘vanilla’, you're going to ruin everything. Minnie's fun will stop, and Matt's friends are going to judge you, and thus him, and you can't do that. 

So, you croak out your preference and hope Matt's super senses are too focused on his daughter to notice you are two steps away from a breakdown.

“One chocolate, one vanilla, coming right up,” Foggy says so cheerfully and you wonder if he is always like this, or if it is an act for Minnie. You honestly can't tell, especially when he turns his attention to your little one, “Okay, Lassie, where's the ice cream truck?”

Matt and Karen laugh at the reference, and you force a smile because it is a cute joke. Minnie points over her Daddy's shoulder towards the road and directs, “That way!”

Matt, managing to keep a straight face, purposely turns to face the river and takes a step towards it, “this way?”

“No, Daddy! Other way!”

“Ah,” he pivots to his left, so he is facing the bushes that border the edge of the park, “This way.” 

Mouse dissolves into giggles, hiding her face against his neck and Matt gets the sweetest, dopiest smile on his face - like this is the best moment of his life. It makes your heart sing to see them play and tease and you wish so desperately you weren't in agony so you could actually enjoy it. 

Your daughter must say something to Matt, as he lets out a loud barking laugh before kissing the top of her head, “Okay, okay, we won't miss the ice cream. Fog, would you be so kind?” He motions to the sidewalk with the hand holding his cane and there must be an understanding, as the blonde man holds out his arm for Matt to take. The cane is expertly folded up and the two men and your daughter start walking towards the road. It doesn't take more than a few steps for all of them to start laughing again. 

You and Karen watch as they disappear down the sidewalk. The woman beside you is smiling softly, clearly enjoying the show that is Matt with Minnie. You hope you are smiling as well and not looking like some sort of summer Grinch. 

“You know,” Karen says a few moments after they turn around a corner and go out of sight, “I don't remember the last time I saw him smile so much.” 

You turn your attention to her, ducking your head just slightly, “she adores him.”

“And he adores her,” she quickly confirms. “And you.” You doubt that but know better than to try to argue. It doesn't matter, anyways, because she doesn't give you room to, continuing on, “He's been through a lot - not just his childhood but recently, too. I was really scared for him. We thought…we thought we lost him.” Your heart clenches tightly at the conversation. Karen switches from a soft smile to biting her lips and looking like she might start crying at the memories she's bringing up inside herself. “He's a good man but, truth be told, he's an idiot sometimes. He thought he was alone. That he had to be alone.”

You are lucky you are wearing your glasses because you can't bring yourself to look at Karen. It hurts to hear her talk about Matt in that way. You haven't had this sort of conversation with him - everything has been so surface level or about Minnie. You clear your throat and ask, “What about you and Foggy? You all seem very close.”

Karen laughs a little sadly, then tucks some hair behind her ear, “He and Foggy weren't talking. It was all…complicated. But it's better now. We're all good. Or we are working in it.” She takes a breath, and you see her look up, and you think she's smiling at you, “The point is he's…I don't worry anymore. You came into his life, and it is like you knocked some sense into him. He was never good at taking care of himself and now, he puts in the effort. He doesn't want to disappoint you. He wants to be a good dad.”

Her words confuse you - Matt seems very put together - he's a lawyer with amazing accomplishments under his belt. She must be talking about his personal life and fear trickles into your system. Was he an alcoholic or a drug user? As long as it was all behind him, you can't judge him for it. You know people have spotty pasts and even good people have rough times - and that doesn't make them any less of a good person. You'd be a hypocrite if you did think less of him because you've had your own share of troubles. 

You want Karen to know that. You start to pick at the hem of your jeans, so you have something to do with your hands while your mind free-fall. “He's a good dad,” you start slowly. “He's amazing with Minnie. He's so attentive and understanding and I love watching them play. I'm still getting used to the whole…” you lower your voice, just in case, “super-senses thing, but he's been helpful in explaining things. I’m just glad he wants to be in her life.”

“Are hers as good as his?” She asks and you can feel her leaning towards you. You don't know the answer to that, as Matt hasn't exactly explained in detail what he is able to do, but you do know Minnie has abilities you didn't know were possible. 

You shrug in response, “I'm not sure, but…I don't hear or see an ice cream truck, so.”

She laughs at that, then you fall back into a silence. You can tell she wants to ask more, but you aren't sure why she hesitates. You are grateful for it, though, and behind your glasses, you close your eyes. The back of your skull is throbbing and part of it has curled around to your left ear. You resist the urge to try to massage it away and instead try to stretch, letting your chin touch your collar bone. You focus on breathing through your nose, hoping it will magically make things more tolerable. 

Your mind feels like sludge, and you start wondering how long it will take until Minnie is worn out. You usually end up spending about an hour and a half at the park, enjoying the sun and ducks, and you've only just gotten here. You have no idea if it will go quicker or slower with more people for Mouse to interact with. Usually, she stays in your lap, hiding away from people, but she very obliviously loves Foggy. You think it is because he's good with children - Matt told you he has a big extended family. She had opened up to him very quickly once she realized he is Matt's best friend. Best friend is an important word to a toddler, apparently.

“It isn't just Minnie,” Karen says suddenly, bringing you back to reality. You frown at her, not understanding what she's talking about. Had you missed part of the conversation?

“It isn't just Minnie,” she repeats, “it's you, too.”

You feel like a lost lamb. Your brain hasn't caught up with what is going on and all you can do is gawk at the woman beside you.

“Me…?” You question and she nods. 

“You make him happy, too.”

You don't understand why she's telling you that or what it has to do with anything. You get you've made Matt happy by bringing Minnie into his life. The only response you can think to give is a simple, “I'm glad.” 

You can feel Karen examining you, but you refuse to meet her gaze. You don't think that was the right thing to say, but it is all you have. You are glad bringing Minnie into Matt's life has made him happy and seemingly changed things for the better for him. You want him to have a good life. 

In the corner of your eye, you see Karen reach out and you brace yourself as she puts her hand on your shoulder. She says your name, then gently questions, “Are you doing alright? You look pale.”

You force yourself to smile and give a dismissive shake of your head, “Just a little headache. I took some ibuprofen; it just hasn't kicked in yet.”

She quickly drops her hand, humming in sympathy, “I get that. I have some Motrin in my purse, if you need something stronger.” 

“Oh, no, I'll be okay,” you promise. 

You'll have to be okay. Minnie and Matt will be back from getting ice cream any minute and you will need to go into Mom-mode to make sure your daughter doesn't make an absolute mess of herself. Then, you'll need to keep an eye on her while you remain at the park for however long, because you will never forgive yourself if you give any indication to Matt's friends that you're not a suitable parent. 

You just need to take a deep breath and make sure you don't space out again. 

You'll be fine.

After all, it is just a headache.

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[cosmicanakin]

𝐍𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃 ⟢ | vinnie hacker.

adult content | minors do NOT interact.

⟣ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. vinnie hacker x female reader.

⟣ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. what began as a casual physical arrangement between two best friends soon blossomed into deeper feelings that neither were prepared to face without turbulence and confusion along the way.

⟣ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒). angst ┊ hurt comfort ┊ friends with benefit trope ┊ smut ┊ strong language ┊ anxiety ┊ miscommunication ┊no use of y/n.

kari's corner ⟢ ݁⋆ angsty fwb ft. vinnie? count me tf in. it's my first time writing this trope so crossing my fingers i didn't fucking butcher it.

you wake up with warmth behind you and an arm slung gently over your waist. looking at the time on your phone, you see it’s nearly noon. turning, you find vinnie still sleeping soundly, his face soft and serene.

a smile tugs at your lips as you watch him. he looks so peaceful. his curls fall messily over his forehead in a way that makes your stomach flip. you want nothing more than to lean in and place a gentle kiss on his lips, but you stop yourself.

that's what got you into this mess in the first place. kissing led to more… and more led to feelings. feelings you can't afford to have, not when this was supposed to be casual between you. what started as a friends with benefits situation has spiraled, at least for you, into something much deeper.

but vinnie made it clear from the beginning - no strings attached. and you agreed, not realizing your heart had plans of its own. now you find yourself falling helplessly for your best friend and you need to get yourself out before it’s too late. before you get hurt.

carefully, so as not to wake him, you slip out of bed and get dressed. once you're out the door, you shoot vinnie a text saying you had an early shift at work. it's not entirely a lie - you did pick up an extra shift today in hopes of keeping busy and your mind off of him.

the next few days, you do everything you can to avoid vinnie. you let his calls go to voicemail and take hours to reply to his texts. when he asks to hang out, you come up with excuses - you're tired, have plans, are busy with work. the hurt and confusion in his messages are painfully obvious, but you reason that it's better this way.

it has to end, and distancing yourself is the only way you'll be able to get over him. at least, that's what you keep telling yourself as you try to ignore the ache in your chest that grows more piercing each day without him.

one night, as you're lounging alone watching a movie, your phone rings. vinnie's photo flashes on your screen and you debate not answering, but curiosity gets the better of you.

"hello?"

"hey." his voice is tight. "we need to talk. i'm five minutes away."

before you could even protest, he hung up. your palms start to sweat as you realize there's no getting out of this. ten minutes later, there's a knock at your door.

you pull it open to find vinnie standing there, hands tucked into his jean pockets as he scowls down at the floor. he looks up at you, eyes softening when they meet yours. "can i come in?"

nodding mutely, you step aside to let him enter. he paces into your small living room as you close the door behind him. "so," he starts, turning to face you. "wanna tell me what's going on?"

"nothing," you mumble, avoiding his gaze. "i've just been busy."

"cut the bullshit," he snaps, uncharacteristically angry. "ever since that night a few weeks ago you've been ghosting me. i thought we were friends."

that night plays on repeat in your head, almost like a movie you can't turn off. the feeling of vinnie's lips on yours, his hands exploring your body, the way he made you feel cherished and cared for. but it was all pretend - nothing more than physical pleasure between best friends.

or at least, that's what you keep telling yourself it was to him while your foolish heart dreamed of more. now you have to make him understand it can't be anything at all to you anymore before you get in too deep.

"i think we should stop.. whatever this is," you say quietly, finally meeting his turbulent gaze.

hurt flashes across his face before he schools his expression into one of indifference. "oh. i see. it was just nothing to you then?"

"no, it's not like that," you sigh in frustration. how do you explain this without hurting him more? "i just, i developed feelings okay? and i know you said no strings but—"

"who said i didn't have feelings too?" he cuts you off, running an agitated hand through his hair.

you blink, taken aback. "what?"

"fuck, i care about you!" vinnie shouts, the anger and pain finally bursting to the surface. "these past few months with you have been some of the best in my life. i tried to play it cool but i'm in deep, alright? i love you."

your mind spins, trying to process what you're hearing. vinnie likes you? all this time avoiding him was for nothing? you stare at him open-mouthed as he continues.

"so don't tell me it was just physical for you, because it wasn't for me," he says bitterly. "i wanted all of it - the sex, the cuddling, the lazy mornings together. i wanted you."

a sob wells up in your throat. all the hurt and confusion comes spilling out as you grab onto the fabric of his shirt, balling it tightly in your fists. "i'm so sorry," you blubber, tears now streaming freely down your face. "i thought—i thought if i distanced myself it wouldn't hurt as much. but it only made it worse."

vinnie's face softens and he grasps your wrists gently, loosening your grip on his shirt. "hey, shh it's okay," he soothes. "i'm here now. i got you, baby."

he pulls you against his chest in a tight embrace as you cry, rubbing soothing circles on your back. "i should have been honest with how i felt from the start. this is all my fault."

you shake your head into his chest. "no, i pushed you away when i shouldn't have. i was scared."

pulling back to meet your watery gaze, vinnie brushes your tears away with the pad of his thumbs. "don't be scared. i know i said no strings but… fuck, i want all the strings with you, baby. if you'll have me."

a watery laugh escapes your lips as a smile breaks through. "of course i'll have you, you idiot."

vinnie grins, his smile bright enough to light up the dark room. he leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that expresses everything left unsaid between you until now. you moan into it, grasping at his shirt to keep him close, never wanting to let go again.

when you finally part for air, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes glittering with care and affection. "let me stay with you tonight?"

all you can do is nod euphorically, still overwhelmed by the turn of events. vinnie takes your hand and leads you down the hall to your bedroom, closing the door shut behind you. his touch is gentle but searing as he guides you back onto the soft mattress, covering your body with his own.

there's an underlying urgency to your actions now, a need to reconnect after being torn apart by doubt and confusion for so long. but vinnie takes his time undressing you slowly, pressing sweet kisses to every new patch of skin revealed with a reverence that makes your heart ache.

you return the gesture in kind, learning his body like a beloved song you know by heart but will never tire of singing. his moans and the scrape of his stubble against sensitive flesh are your favorite melodies.

when he finally sinks into you, it feels like two pieces of a puzzle clicking perfectly into place after drifting so long apart. he hits that spot inside you with practiced precision, drinking in every gasp and cry wrung from your lips in the dark.

you cling to him desperately, etching crescent moons into his back with your fingernails as you fly higher and higher together. when you fall, it's simultaneously the most exquisite pain and pleasure. he follows you over the edge with a raspy moan, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

you lay entwined after, listening to each other's rapidly calming breaths in comfortable silence. vinnie presses a kiss to your shoulder, arms tightening around your sated body.

"be my girl?" he mumbles sleepily against your skin. you turn to face him, heart swelling almost to bursting at the vulnerability and care written plainly across his handsome features.

"i'm already yours," you answer, sealing it with a soft kiss.

for the first time, you allow yourself to believe this could be the start of something real - something permanent and loving between you. no more running from what you want; you're in vinnie's arms where you belong. tomorrow you'll start again with open communication and honesty. but for now, basking in the afterglow and security of his embrace is more than enough.

[angellayercake]

Oh well @sakuraspoke if you insist on me rambling about Terzo who am I to refuse? ☺️

We know from some interview snippets about him that by the time he becomes papa he is bitter and he hates himself and he is somewhat of a recluse which is clearly a massive contradiction to the caring, entertaining, silly, sexy charmer we see on stage. That man seems a lot more in keeping with the description we see from Bishop Necropolitus Cracoviensis who describes Terzo during his time as a Cardinal. As being a visionary who cares for his flock and revels in sin.

So how did he get here and how does that relate to this song?

I think we can all agree that his hopes for what he would achieve during his reign as Papa were squashed very quickly. He clearly put up a fight and was starting to gain momentum by the end where perhaps he thought it might be possible (hence why he was dragged off stage, humiliated and murdered) but we can see that nothing really went to plan and this is what probably sent him down the spiral of depression and self hatred.

But to bring it all back to 'We'll never have sex'. He created a very specific persona that was very likable and charming and I have no doubt that those are aspects of his personality and he had no lack of partners within the Ministry and without. But they ONLY wanted the Charming Papa™ and when his darker side would reveal itself, his self loathing and dissatisfaction they would run for the hills, if they even stayed long enough to see it. Because he is Papa right? Sex god leader of the Satanic Church, champion of the female orgasm, he is above wanting to be loved or cared for.

He is lonely, depressed, hopeless and desperate for some connection. So he keeps up the facade, keeps accepting the one night stands and casual propositions just to stave off the loneliness for a night or two until he just can't anymore. He closes himself off and comes to terms with the fact that no one will ever want just him.

This is all my standard headcanon for him in general and most of my fics unless otherwise stated but this also leads specifically into banchetto so I will put that under a read more in case anyone doesn't care about that bit 😁

This is basically where he is emotionally at the beginning of Banchetto underneath the hurt about his removal from his position and his brothers interference etc.

So why does he do what he does to poor reader? Well I think personally he has forgotten how to relate to people romantically other than sex. He hasn't had a traditional 'relationship' for many many years probably since he was a very young man and first learned about falling in love and heartbreak.

When he realises that reader is attracted to him he also finds her a distraction from wallowing in his depression and even though he had grown to hate no strings sex he falls back on that easy seduction to give him that taste of connection he craves. That is until he realises how much he hurt her by playing with her and that's when he realises

1. He may have found someone who really does care for HIM not what they can get from Papa. She has seen him at his worst. Complete rock bottom and still she cares?

2. He is beginning to care for her too. He looks forward to seeing her everyday and the light she brings into his life. He wakes up earlier so he can be up as soon as she arrives and he wracks his brains for question after question so he can justify following her around as she works. It's only when she disappears for that week after he cornered her that he realises this though.

And this is why they are taking it so slowly (aside from the fact she really does have a job to do which he tends to forget and at this point has completely forgotten). She has picked up on the fact that this is unfamiliar territory for him and really there is no need to rush right? What could possibly bring their happy little domestic bubble to be popped??? 😈

On that note I will leave it there. If you have got this far I love you 😚😚

[itsphoenix0724]

~WELCOME~

~Azriel x Reader~

Tonight, you sing for me- you and your mate enjoy unexpected fun in your new home when you borrow Az's shadows for the night (2.5k)

Flower Power -Az comes into contact with a strange flower on his trip to the continent, and he begins having some strange.....side effects. (3.3k)

Falling Stars -Az feels like his throat is closing when he sees you in your Starfall dress, and he can't seem to get a word out to you. At least, until you're both more than a few drinks in. (2.8k)

A Shadowed Throne -The warmer seasons have been particularly hard this year as Azriel awaits his Queen's return. When winter finally dawns he finds Death will only kneel to Life in one circumstance. (1.5k)

Can You Kill a God? -No one will ever forget why you are Death's queen ever again. (2.4k)

Tickle My Strings -Azriel becomes a regular guest at your performances, and when you take a trip back to your house, you find the two of you have a lot more in common than you thought. (4.6k)

Hold Me Gently -Azriel knew exactly what he signed up for when he became the court's spymaster, but sometimes everything gets too much for him to handle. (1.6k) Bonus Chapter!

Meet Me On The Ice: Series

You and Lucien Vanserra have been skating together since you were children, but when he has an accident that takes him out right before championships you turn to your brother and his hockey team to fill the position. His best friend Azriel has lethal grace on the ice and owes your brother a favor, which seems like a match made in heaven, except you can’t stand each other. Can you and Azriel pull a routine together in time for your competition, or will it all spiral out of control?

Dancing With Shadows: Series

Living your life with a long-distance relationship has never bothered you before, but when you surprise Az with a plane ticket you finally get to see how it works in person.

~Eris x Reader~

Your Heart on a Platter: Series

(On hiatus)

The only way to seek your revenge is to return the heir of Autumn's heart back to a witch in two months time. However, this task proves much more difficult than you presume it to be.

Prologue Part 1 Part 2

All Things Vile -A recon mission to the Autumn Court gets more heated than you intended. They say Autumn males fuck like they have fire in their veins-you guess you're about to find out.

~Cassian x Reader~

Through the Pass- On a quiet night in with his mate Cassian recounts his past lover. A fierce, bold-hearted Valkyrie who perished during the war. (2.1k)

Save A Horse- After a long hard day of work all Cas wants is a cold beer and a pretty girl. (1.9k)

~Rhysand x Reader~

Promises Pt 2-You don't argue with your husband often, and never anything as serious as this. However, some things may be too hard to come back from. (1.7k)

~REQUESTS~

Date Night (Azriel x Reader)

You Lookin'? (Azriel x Reader)

Sit down (Feyre x Reader)

Kiss Me In The Quiet (ACOTAR next-gen, Leander Vanserra x Reader)

The Fawn and Her Lion (ACOTAR next-gen, Leander Vanserra x Reader)

Forever Afterall (ACOTAR next-gen, Leander Vanserra x Reader)

Hate Me (Azriel x Reader)

~WRITING EVENTS~

Build Me A Bouquet -Ongoing

[prosciuttulipa]

content: spoilers for JJK0! Satosugu if you squint, but it's left ambiguous enough for it to be either romantic or platonic. This is just me imagining what it'd be like if Suguru got a chance to do-over for his plan on how to save humanity from its bullshit

Reformed!Suguru who, instead of dying in the alley from his fight with Yuta Okkotsu, is saved by Satoru and teleported to Shoko for healing.

Reformed!Suguru who slips away as soon as he can, knowing that Satoru will turn a blind eye, now knowing the truth of his best friend's feelings. Satoru doesn't hate him, never did, and there are mixed emotions when he turns his back on his one and only for the second time.

Reformed!Suguru who returns to his cult, back at square one. He has no curses, so he has to absorb more. His allies have taken a hit, so he needs to find more. His funds are depleted from the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons, so he needs to make more. This should have been the plan that would've ended all suffering, eliminated the monkeys and given birth to a chosen people. It did not work.

Reformed!Suguru who spirals, again. He stays up even later at night, finds himself unable to play the kindly priest as convincingly to the monkeys who flock to him. The curses become hard to stomach again, no longer tempered by the ideals he had followed for the last decade. They were ideas that had proven themselves faulty with the last battle, and he has no use for them anymore.

Reformed!Suguru who thinks about Yuta's bond with Rika, and how they'd beaten him so entirely. He thinks about how he was defeated by love, and understanding, and trust. It's a disgustingly saccharine idea—but is there something worth pursuing in that thought?

Reformed!Suguru who begins to form a plan. He looks into his cult followers, finds those with connections to companies and schools and corporations. He does what he does best, plants thoughts into their heads, inspires undying loyalty to his cause, a new cause. They parrot his message back to their bosses and employees, none the wiser.

Reformed!Suguru who knows how to play the long game, and so he waits. He pulls strings now and then, as he watches the foundations of his idea start to take shape. There is an increase of counselors in schools, with mental health being taught as part of mandatory health education. Companies are being sued for unreasonable working hours, giving rise to a new wave of rules and regulations which set more realistic expectations. Corporations are investing heavily in endeavours and projects which contribute to the general public's satisfaction: parks and public spaces, consumption vouchers for elderly and those in need, elaborate festivals for the holidays.

Reformed!Suguru who starts to receive less and less requests for his help. The curses that he does swallow from the people (he doesn't know when he stopped calling them monkeys) who come to him are minor at best. It gets more difficult to find strong curses to add to his repertoire. The curse users who would've balked at this development have been dismissed long ago; those who have stayed know that all this means that everything is heading in the right direction.

Reformed!Suguru who sees a 5% drop in Japan's overall cursed energy. This comes from a 15% drop of cursed energy in Tokyo, the place he'd chosen as the guinea pig for his plan.

Reformed!Suguru who decides it's time to find his best friend and ask for help. He shows up at Satoru's apartment, not wearing monk robes but casual clothing, a loose sweater and jeans. He's tied his hair back into a bun for old time's sake, hoping it'll score him some brownie points, make Satoru more amicable to the data in the stack of paperwork he's holding.

Reformed!Suguru who stands behind Satoru as the man fights for Suguru's death penalty to be taken off him. Suguru is afraid that he's just walked himself into his own death. But miraculously, the higher ups deem the results of Suguru's implementations to be valuable, letting him live in exchange for his services. Satoru still pushes for Suguru's absolute freedom, threatens to Hollow Purple them and spark a mutiny. No one can defend themselves against Gojo Satoru, not really, and Suguru is a free man.

Reformed!Suguru who hears Satoru say to him, "we're the strongest," for the first time in a decade, and believes it.

Reformed!Suguru who takes up the position of counselor at Jujutsu High. The students are slow to warm up to him, both because he'd been a former enemy, and the thought of talking about their feelings makes them squirm. But Suguru is a patient man, and nothing if not persistent. He knows how isolating being a jujutsu sorcerer can be, went through it firsthand. He's determined to change the rhetoric around emotions within their line of work; he doesn't want this future generation to lose themselves or anyone else.

Reformed!Suguru who is the first person that Itadori Yuji meets after Satoru recruits him. It's him who asks Yuji why he fights, picks apart the boy's mind with thoughtfulness and compassion. When Yuji tells Masamichi Yaga his reasons for being a sorcerer, the principal deems it as satisfactory.

Reformed!Suguru who is convinced—yes, he thinks to himself, this is how we'll make things right.

[kylobith]

Under the Oak Leaves (Halsin)

Summary: After the Tiefling party, Tav feels somewhat melancholic and isolates themself from the camp. Before they can spiral, Halsin finds them and is set on alleviating their pain.

Word count: 3,283

Read on AO3 here.

Note: Reader is simply referred to as Tav. Gender-neutral. Tav is a drow. No romance.

Filtering through the rustling leaves dancing in the gentle breeze, the first light of the day shimmers upon the river’s surface. Some animals in the Emerald Grove’s wildlife awake and seek sunlight to bathe in, even if warmth has yet to reach them, shaking off their numb limbs after a less-than-peaceful night.

Horrendous singing and plucked strings have disturbed their rest for hours on end. The continuous clinks of cups and the merry cheers of newfound friends gave a new rhythm to the Grove’s heartbeat, long bereft of such conviviality. Peace has returned, and many hope it shall remain in their home from this day forth.

As most lay fast asleep and snoring, their heads still buzzing from the ales, wines and meads served during the Tiefling Party, Tav rises to their feet and tiptoes between the bedrolls and less picky choices for a place of rest. Careful not to make a sound and clenching their teeth, they hop over entwined bodies and outstretched limbs. From where they stand, the rug of spent lovers sprawled in the mud appears worthy of the most complex painting compositions.

Once at the edge of the encampment, Tav glances over their shoulder and sighs. Without a sound, they follow the path back to the Emerald Grove, stretching their shoulders after tossing and turning all night. Sleep has not been their greatest ally, cutting its visit short. Thoughts, and not the cheerful kind, have been racing in their mind ever since, creating quite the cacophony and leaving them restless. What use is there to remain by the extinguished campfire? Rest is not to return today.

Upon their arrival at the Grove, Tav witnesses the comings and goings of the few druids who declined the company’s invitation to the party as they prepare their daily rituals. Two grant them a short but friendly nod as a greeting, while the others either eye them with contempt or ignore them. Such displays no longer hurt Tav. They have become such a common occurrence outside the Underdark.

Silvanus overlooks the arrangement of altars at the foot of his idol, lending an ear to the harmonious songs flowing from the druids’ lips as they chant their prayers and thanks to the Oak Father. They gather around the statue perched up on its rocky stand, waving herbs in the air and sprinkling dry flower petals upon his feet. Birds flock to the ritual, a moving manifestation of nature and living creatures around their mediator.

Tav sits on a nearby bench and observes the ritual, awkwardly bowing to the idol when it begins, unaware of what proper etiquette is required in such instances. They tilt their head, trying to translate the chants but not recognising a single word. If only Gale were there — he probably has enough knowledge on the topic to give them a short lecture.

Short by Gale’s standards, that is.

Even if they do not utter a word, one of the druids aggressively shoos Tav away. Not wanting to stir trouble, especially on their own, they stand up and leave, heading towards the woods. Between a few lofty trees, they sit and bring their knees to their chest, enfolding their shins with their arms.

What should have been a chance at a brand-new day bitterly feels identical to the previous night. Restless, haunted. There is no respite for their wandering soul, stuck between a rock and a hard place.

As tears brim their amber eyes, threatening to spill, a vivid pain shoots through their limbs, pricking their fingertips. Rubbing them together, Tav stares at them. That is a new feeling. Perhaps their mother was right; leaving the Underdark is no good for anybody of their kind.

Footsteps grace the green grass of the woods nearby, pulling them out of their trance. As they hasten to wipe the tears away, expecting to be expelled from this place, too, they catch a friendly silhouette from the corner of their eyes.

Halsin. The kind archdruid who is possibly the only person around here not to mind their presence and existence.

‘Oak Father preserve you, Tav,’ he chimes with a beaming smile and a fist over his heart as his typical greeting. ‘I did not expect to find you awake at this hour.’

‘Morning, Halsin. Couldn’t sleep anymore.’

Tav pats the spot beside them, and Halsin graciously accepts the invitation by sitting beside them with a soft sigh as he lowers himself onto the ground. Since the drow does not utter a word, Halsin grins and sparks a conversation.

‘Unlike a good portion of our friends, it seems that you did not partake in pleasures of the flesh last night,’ he remarks. ‘Nobody to warm up your bed.’

‘Neither did you,’ Tav grins in return, although the smile is short-lived.

‘Mh. I had other concerns; such lightness felt inappropriate at the time.’

‘How odd. You have a reputation, you know?’

‘Is that so?’

Halsin chuckles and tilts his head back to enjoy the sunrays upon his natural sun-kissed complexion. Tav mirrors his demeanour but finds no solace in it. If anything, their breath quickens, and their heart races until they are dizzy. Flattening their clammy palms against their thighs, they press discreetly yet as hard as they are able to ground themself, praying that this overwhelming sensation will cease. They are on the verge of bursting, and they know it. Any more of this insane rhythm in their heartbeat, and they will drop dead.

But what if they do?

All companions would be doomed.

Gale would have no one to talk him out of using the orb and killing himself and all in his path.

Astarion would starve, and since the others were less than willing to let him near Cazador, he would never break his shackles.

Shadowheart and Lae’zel would be at each other’s throats over who gets to keep the artefact.

Wyll would go to his father’s rescue unaided, with Mizora looming over him, counting his every breath.

Karlach would have nobody to collect infernal iron for her when the engine's heat would prove too much for her to bear.

Tav cannot do that.

Tav cannot die.

Must.

Fight.

It.

Clenching their teeth to keep themself from groaning from the physical pain that their mental toll was causing, Tav digs their fingernails into the fabric of their trousers, drawing blood under the garment.

‘Tav,’ Halsin’s voice calls out softly, ‘I could tell that something was troubling your mind, but it seems you are agonising. Talk to me. What do you need?’

Tears spill onto their cheeks as they open their mouth to speak but find themself unable to produce a single sound. They shake their head, helpless and panting, clutching the fabric of their shirt in a tight grip of their fist as though it was a lifeline so desperately needed. But the rope has been severed. It will not drag them to safety. This will not help.

What do they even need? They have no single clue. Never has pain caused such anguish. It all feels rather foolish. They should have been celebrating like the others instead of tormenting themself to this point. How ridiculous.

As they emit a whimper, Halsin shifts and hovers his large hands over the drow’s arms.

‘May I touch you?’

‘Y-Yes.’

The archdruid places his hands around Tav’s arms, gently drawing them closer to him. In the face of such panic, he remains calm. Tav cannot help but be impressed by his composure, but again, they have never seen Halsin lose his temper and snap. At times, he can grow impatient, especially when he feels that his companions undermined the urgency of a situation, but he is not one to hold grudges. Not Halsin.

Halsin presses Tav’s back to his chest, hooking his arms through theirs and arching his spine.

‘Breathe with me.’

As the taller elf draws in a slow, deep breath, his chest presses against their back, urging them to do the same. They synchronise their breathing, although with difficulty at first. Tav tilts their head back until it rests on the druid’s shoulder, shutting their eyes to focus on inhaling and exhaling in the right rhythm. Slowly, the tightness in their chest subsides, alleviating the weight upon their shoulder.

Yet the anguish remains. Powerful, gnawing at their bones. The relief of the heart is fragile, ready to succumb to the pain and fear yet again. But then, Halsin rests a hand below their collarbone.

‘Just a little longer, Tav,’ he intones, keeping a quiet tone to his voice to soothe their anxiety. ‘You are doing well. Breathe against my hand. Push it.’

Tav obeys and continues to concentrate on their breathing, doing their best to inhale deeply enough to press against Halsin’s palm. In no time, it takes them little effort to do so. The druid loosens his grip around them and reaches out to catch a falling oak leaf swirling in the air as it detaches from its branch. It lands between his fingers as he tightens his knuckles around it, gently bringing it to Tav’s attention.

‘Feel the leaf,’ he says, placing it into their palm. ‘Let your fingers touch every part of it. Feel the texture. What is it like?’

With a curious glance, Tav runs their fingers against the leaf, sensing the smoothness of the deep green leaf. It is cold at first, having spent such a long time vulnerable to the wind before it overcame it. But the longer they interact with it, the warmer it becomes. They perceive the temperature change by the second, focusing on it and realising how fast it shifts.

‘It is soft.’

‘Be more specific,’ Halsin smiles. ‘What does the texture remind you of?’

‘It reminds me of…’

Tav furrows their brow as they consider it, observing the ridges upon its surface and those sprouting from its stem. The lines serpent and split into smaller ones, almost like veins. The pattern has no logic, yet it appears so beautifully natural.

‘Leather,’ they say at last with the hint of a smile playing upon their lips. ‘It reminds me of the surface of worn-out leather boots. Or a satchel.’

‘I see. What about the back?’

Their fingertips venture to the other side of the blade, feeling the sharper midrib and the veins sprouting from the spine. The smaller lines they felt on the front are nowhere to be found or perhaps so thin that the pads of his fingers cannot discern them. There is beauty to it; beauty in its simplicity, but also beauty in its complexity. Two sides of the same coin.

‘It feels different, but no less pleasant to the touch,’ Tav chuckles before sniffling. Without their noticing, Halsin has successfully redirected their attention to something more pleasant, something much less frightful. ‘And the outline is just as nice. Not the perfect shape that artists paint. It has its own will, its own curves and asymmetrical edges. I like it.’

Halsin grins and observes the leaf above their shoulder, taking in every detail. How often has he observed stray leaves in autumn when gusts would dot the air with orange and red hues? At that time of year, he usually sits in the heart of it, his chin up and his eyes wrinkling at the corners from smiling so much in awe at the sight. He likes to believe that the wrinkles he gained were autumn lines. Traces and remnants of these shed coats baring the trees for the winter. Of the sheer glee that their dances on the wind bring him. If his age ever catches up with him, he is glad that it manifests through how much he has smiled. To him, there exists no better way of growing older.

A breeze rises, carrying the warm scent of fresh broth and pastries. It tickles their nostrils, making them both hum and pat their stomachs. The archdruid’s gaze softens when it meets Tav’s, whose tears have long dried.

‘How do you feel, my friend?’ he asks, maintaining this ever-calming tone.

‘Better,’ Tav admits with a flush, still fidgeting with the leaf. ‘Thank you.’

‘Think nothing of it.’

He leans back against the tree behind them and sighs softly, his eyes not leaving them for a second.

‘My ears are yours, should you feel the need to vent. There is no judgment between us. Whatever burdens you is not to be diminished.’

Tav bites their lower lip, rolling it between their teeth until it nearly hurts. They sigh and gently place the leaf on the ground, where it was always meant to fall.

‘Everyone was so cheerful yesterday, but I could not bring myself to share the sentiment. All I could think about were the faces of those I killed to save the Grove. I know that it is a stupid thought; if we had not done it, we would have been the ones slaughtered, but there is not a single face that does not haunt me.’

Gathering their knees against their chest, Tav rests their chin on them, frowning in recollection.

‘And I know that despite all I did, all the trouble I went through to rescue you from the Goblins’ Camp, all the Tieflings and your druids saw in me was the evil drow that would need to be slain in their sleep one day. For everyone’s sake.’

Halsin instinctively sits up straight, seeking the drow’s eyes. Surely, nobody thinks that. Kagha, maybe. But the rest?

‘Give me their names, and I will hold them accountable for it,’ he finds himself saying, indignation bubbling inside him.

‘No need, Halsin, really.’

Tav sighs again and tilts their head until their cheek rests against the suede trousers.

‘I cannot blame them. My kind has caused much harm to the Sword Coast and beyond. I just wish that, sometimes, people realised that I am not like them. I am fighting to not be like them or fall into the same patterns. I fight my instincts every single day. But even if I do good, if I save and protect the needy, people will not give me a chance. They see me as a killing machine. I refuse to be just that. Ever since the nautiloid, I have been yearning for a new life, away from the harmful ways of my upbringing. I want to break free from that, but how can I even resist the temptation of evil when others still show me disdain no matter what I do?’

‘Tav, as much as it pains me to hear of this, I must say that you should not strive to reap prizes and accolades for all your good deeds. Do not let your mind be clouded by such vanities when the intention is all that matters.’

The drow grunts and scratches dry mud from the tip of their boot.

‘That is not what I am saying. All I want is for others to give me a chance and look beyond the colour of my skin and my hair. And that applies to my companions, too.’

Halsin raises an eyebrow and leans forward.

‘Yet they are all happy to be travelling with you. Such different souls, temperaments and alignments are rallied under your banner. That is something you can be proud of. It is not always easy to gather people who share the same thoughts; I cannot begin to imagine the pain you must have endured persuading this lot to stick together in the worst situation of all.’

‘It was a hassle for sure,’ they confess with a chuckle. ‘I stopped counting how often we nearly killed one another.’

The archdruid laughs and admires the Grove as it stirs awake past the edge of the woods. A sight he has seen countless times yet never tires of.

‘But what do you mean when you say that your companions do not see past what you are?’ he enquires. ‘I would figure that they are tolerant since they travel with you.’

‘Well… it seems that my being a drow repels them in other situations.’

Halsin blinks, and something clicks in his mind.

‘I see. None of them agreed to warm your bed yesterday, am I correct? It is not necessarily that you disengaged from such… activities. But they would not indulge you.’

‘Spot on.’

Tav groans and runs a hand through their hair.

‘It is silly, I know it.’

‘It is not. After experiencing such frustrations, it is only natural to feel defeated if even those you thought would accept you end up hurting your feelings.’

With his gaze lost before him, Halsin furrows his brow and scratches the underside of his chin in deep contemplation.

‘You know, I am prejudiced against the drow myself. I am not proud of it. Not in the slightest,’ he hisses. ‘I have had negative experiences with them, and I have allowed these memories to overcome my better judgment. But now that you have come along, you remind me of what I am supposed to stand for. All forms of life are worth defending and protecting. That includes you and your kin.’

The drow’s eyes meet the archdruid’s amber irises. Regret and remorse are shimmering into them, nearly tangible. Tav understands that something awful must have happened to him for him to think in such ways. Halsin is the last person they would expect to develop such an attitude towards another race. So, whatever the negative past experiences have been, they must have cut him so profoundly that he no longer could bear to even eye a drow.

‘I like to think that you are teaching me how to become a better person, Tav,’ Halsin smiles. ‘I love that you are proving me wrong with your existence. Know that I no longer see the drow when I look at you. I see the friend who has gone out of their way to rescue children, refugees, animals, and this old druid when you had no reason to and when they were nothing but strangers to you. You gave us all another chance at life, and anyone unwilling to recognise the beauty of this gesture is a fool.’

As their heart skips a beat at these words, Tav throws their arms around Halsin, nearly weeping on his shoulder. The archdruid smiles and draws them nearer, rubbing their back with fondness. They remain in this embrace much longer than expected, finding solace and exchanging gratitude for each other’s help.

When Halsin finally pulls away, Tav’s face has gained new hues. But the older man thinks nothing of it. Instead, he pats their shoulder with a smile.

‘Once this madness is over and we have rid you of your tadpoles, and, hopefully, everybody makes it out alive, I assume you will not return to the Underdark?’

Tav vehemently shakes their head.

‘Never in a million years.’

‘Then, if you have nowhere to go, know that the Grove’s gate is wide open. You can settle here as a retreat for as long as you like or make it your home. Whatever you decide, I will be happy to see you thrive away from the claws of those who once harmed you.’

‘I might take you up on that,’ Tav laughs. ‘I think I would like that.’

‘We have plenty of time to figure it out.’

Halsin pats their shoulder again and stands up, straightening his clothes and extending his helping hand.

‘How about we offer our expertise in pastry-tasting for now?’ The drow chuckles and slips their hand into the archdruid’s, rising to their feet and walking away with the Elf, patting off dirt and dust from their clothes before stepping out of the grove towards promising treats.

Tag list: @emmanuellececchi

If you wish to be tagged on future stories (or be removed from the tag list), don't hesitate to let me know!

[hyunnieshannie]

SUPERBOARD

Chapter 3: N/S

Pairing: Hyunjin x Reader

Word Count: 5.7k

General Synopsis: S_Class started off as a street racing team, built between friends but as the adrenaline rush died down, racing wasn’t enough. N/S was formed. What started off with petty crimes, quickly spiraled into a string of organized crime. 

Warnings: Mentions of sex PALACE. Mentions of violence, weapons, drugs, growing weed,

Added: If you would like to tour the N/S House please click here: Bedrooms Personal Rooms Common Spaces

A/N: Holy shit this one took a lot out of us...

Disclaimer: This is a fanfiction, this does not represent the idols mentioned in any way.

please DO NOT rewrite, translate, or repost this fic. Thank you.

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You didn’t sleep that night, your brain was too busy pestering you about the idea of needing to choose between Limitless, and S_Class. Your mind twisted with Felix’s words of warning. How would choosing a crew be a lifetime commitment? Who was Domino? Why was ‘Jinnie’ offered up? In what way was ‘Jinnie’ offered to you? Why did Jake let you spend the entire time with the S_Class crew? Was he sick of you? Was his plan to pawn you off to them? What would he gain from letting you lean towards S_Class? What would he gain if you joined Limitless? The more you learned about each group the more you wondered if these were just racing teams, or if you’d actually been brought into some weird type of cult. 

Why could questions only be answered by the respective groups? What the fuck and why the fuck are they so secretive? What about the weapons? Fighting? And seriously who the fuck was Domino, and why did Phobia look so pained to even hear the name? What had Phobia done for them to bring something clearly painful to him up? 

All the questions you had, would either go unanswered or you could find out. IF you joined S_Class. Limitless showed no real interest in you. Felix was right, they had handed you off from the get go. Sure Oddinary and NoEasy were both clear ring leaders with power over both groups you couldn’t even begin to comprehend, but if what Felix said was true, if Limitless wanted you, they’d have fought them and made one of their own members show you around. 

You were exhausted. Tossing and turning all night, from everything. The more you thought on it, the more questions you had. You wanted to know what was going on with S_Class, you wanted to know why Phobia looked so distressed. You wanted to know why you even cared about his stupid fucking emotions, when he had treated you like nothing more than a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe, that he was trying desperately to get off him. 

As you walked through the halls of your university, you couldn’t help but almost want to avoid both Jake and Felix, and whoever the fuck Yeosang was. 

“No name!” a black haired boy dressed in a pair of baggy black pants, a white tee and an oversized leather jacket comes jogging up to you, waving at you. You recognize him from the race yesterday, he was glued to NoEasy. AH! Double Knot. 

“Uh…”

“Jeongin,” he says, and quickly notices the confusion on your face.

“Hi?” 

“Oh uh, sorry. You might know me as-”

“No, no I know who you are, I just didn’t expect you to be here.” You feel an arm drape over your shoulder from behind you and you turn quickly to see Felix smiling at you and the boy standing in front of you. 

“Nah, Innie here is just a baby, he’s still gotta attend classes you know Princess?” Felix teases in a sing-song tone. “Just because he’s dicking down one of the leaders, doesn’t mean she gives him a free pass on skipping classes,” 

“You’re just mad I landed on one of the sisters and you didn’t.” Jeongin puffs out his chest, obviously proud of the girl he gets to call his, a smug smile pursed on his lips.  

“Interesting way to describe my sister.” Oddinary huffs as she walks past, with Maniac in tow. 

“Shut it Kierra, you know it's true!” Felix laughs. 

“Remember your place Felix.” Maniac seethes at Felix. 

“Ooh big scary Minho, is threatening me in school! Common man, go back to quietly simping for your girl.” Felix teases, making kissy faces at Maniac, no, Minho. Dear god this is gonna get confusing.

“I'm not a simp?” Minho says and rolls his eyes at Felix’s childish antics. 

“You took an extra year to make sure she’d be safe. That's simping.” Jeongin adds.

“That's loyalty.” Oddindary, nope, Kierra says brushing Felix off your shoulder. “You pick a side yet No Name?” 

“That’s my job?” Felix huffs, as you see Jake running up to the group of people that circled around you.

“Jakey boy, here to find out the answer?” Felix teases, pushing and poking at Jake’s arms. 

“Partially that, partially to figure out where Seungmin is, dude was supposed to meet me like ten minutes ago.” 

They’re all watching you, waiting for some sort of answer. Earlier you had thought you came to the conclusion that you knew exactly where you’d land and pick neither group. But now, with them all in front of you. You were once again conflicted. Jake had come alone, once again. Meanwhile S_Class had presented themselves in front of you. Each waiting eagerly for your response. 

“I-” you look between Jake and the S_Class crew, eyes landing on Felix. “I think I’m a bit more comfortable with you guys…”

“You made the right choice No Name.” Kierra said, patting your head gently.

“I’ll tell Akira.” Jeongin said, fishing his phone out of his pocket.

“Today you ride with me, and Hyunnie.” Kierra says. “We have a lot of work to be done before you're brought into the crew fully, Hyunnie will be your guide for that part. While Akira and I find you a spot, you good to leave your car here overnight or?” 

“I don’t have one-” you say a little shyly and the people surrounding you all gasp. It does seem a little silly to join a racing team and not have a car…

“I can work with this.” Kierra nods slowly. “Surely I got something around. Maybe Bin can whip something together for you. Can you at least drive?” You nod your head. “Wonderful, meet me at the back end of the school at one. Don’t worry about whatever classes you have.” 

~𝄋~

You look at the clock displayed on your phone, the time read twelve fifty-eight. You were early. Something inside you told you, you didn’t want to push Kierra’s buttons when you’d be riding with her. You look up and see Phobia walking towards you. God he’s even more beautiful in the day time, the sun kissing his tan skin making it look like he’s fucking glowing. 

“No name,” he says coldly as he stands next to you. 

“Phobia.” you say shyly to greet him back.

“Call me Hyunjin here. It’s fine.” You’re playing with your fingers again, super uncomfortable with his cold disposition. “I see you dropped the Limitless losers.” 

“Felix made a compelling argument last night.” 

“With his dick?” You turn to him quickly and look at him in shock. What the fuck did he think you were? Did he think it was that you were that easy?

“Absolutely not?!” 

“He didn’t fuck you? Progress buddy, fucking progress!” Hyunjin laughs, but there was still a bit of seriousness to his praise to his friend. 

“So, where's Kierra?” you ask, shaking off the weird vibes that surrounded you both from his previous questioning.

“Getting her ‘child’ she should be here in a second. You’ll hear that monster of a practice car in a moment.” He emphasizes the word child on purpose. You just rolled your eyes at his comment and chose to ignore it. 

You hear the car before you see it. Kierra pulls up in a red Subaru wrx, her speakers blaring music as she smiles out the window at you and Hyunjin. You both wordlessly get in the car. You didn’t really ask where you were going, as the rules stated, “any information deemed worthy will be given”. Here we fuckin go I guess. 

~𝄋~

The drive was fairly long, for someone who was speeding down the highway at speeds that would kill you on impact if you were to somehow crash. Music blaring through the speakers, the bass reverberating through the car. Sending wave after wave of sound, physically through your chest. No one spoke the entirety of the way. Even with her speeding, the ride was roughly two hours long. By the time anyone said anything, you were headed into a forested area. You had no clue where you were. Your surroundings all looked the same. There was barely anything around, the only things that surrounded the lone road were tall trees and deep dark woods. There was no one else on the road. No cars for miles. The car stops, and both Oddinary Kierra, and Phobia Hyunjin turn to face you. 

“This is your last chance to back out. Before I give you any information I need you to think very carefully,” Kierra looks at you seriously through the rearview mirror. “This is a lifetime commitment, this is much more than just a racing crew. You can back out now, all you want; but if you choose to continue in, there's no backing out.” 

“Not if you value your life that is…” Hyunjin whispers, 

“My- what? My life?” 

“Think about it, no name. Think about it deeply.” They both turn to look at you seriously. Kierra’s seriousness was a little unnerving. 

What have you gotten yourself into? There was no information to make this decision, when you had originally made it you thought this would simply just be some team. A sports team of sorts. Now they’re saying your life would depend on your decision? Somehow this isn’t what's holding you back from wanting to continue on with them. Life has been pretty boring, stressful, and lately just not worth.. Continuing. Every move, every new school, every friend group made and lost, your family who cared about no one other than themselves. All of it added up, into what you were before moving to Seoul, to what you knew you would become the second you could escape them. “Can I have one question?” 

“You just asked one.” Hyunjin quips back at you. His tone is serious. He obviously doesn't trust you at all or like you very much. 

“Shoot.” Kierra rolls her eyes at Hyunjin, slapping his shoulder. 

“I have a shit family-” you start, “They move me around often. They don’t think of anyone but themselves. If this is a lifetime commitment, what happens if they decide to pick up and leave again?” Hyunjin looks at Kierra, he tightens his brows together and shakes his head slightly as if to say ‘no’. Kierra just looks back with a slight pout to her lips and nods affirmatively.

“Now let me answer that with a question,” Kierra asks. “Do you want to leave? If you had the option to stay, ignoring the money, and where you’d live. Would you? If you had a-” she pauses, picking her words carefully, “if you had a makeshift family, who would support you, financially, mentally, physically. Would you stay?” 

“I would.”

“Then you wouldn’t be moving.” Kierra says matter-of-factly. “If you choose to continue, you’d have all of that and more.” 

You think over her words. What have you really got to lose if you continue? The family who doesn't care about you? Kierra is offering you that family. They’re offering you so much more than you could get at home. “Then I’ll go on.” Kierra nods, as she slowly pulls the car forwards onto a gravel path. The forest thickens around you, until you reach a large clearing with a modern mansion in front of you. The house is massive from the outside, windows surrounding the front of the house, a large staircase leading to the front door, with an entrance to a garage right next to it. The house looks like it goes on forever. Kierra pulls in slowly to the driveway, from the outside; you don’t see how the driveway leading into the garage actually slopes downwards. She continues in slowly, the fluorescent lights all turning on as the motion from the car triggers their sensors. As the dark garage brightens you notice you’ve entered what looks like to be a garage the size of one that you’d typically find in apartment complexes. Who the fuck has a garage this big? You see the line of cars all parked in designated spots labeled with each person's name carefully written into a metal plate placed on the wall. 

Kierra pulls into the spot that is marked with her name. Each of you getting out of the car. 

“Hyunnie,” Kierra calls,

“Ki.” Hyunjin turns back to her.

“Be a doll?” 

“Yes ma’am.” Hyunjin says and he turns to you and says “I’ll be back,” before he heads out of the garage. 

“So, no name. What’s your name?” Kierra asks as she leads you towards the stairs. You walk past another garage, much smaller, but had a shit ton of equipment in it, music blasting throughout the room. She walks with you up the stairs and into a huge living room with black couches and windows that reach the tall ceilings. You both continue to walk into the living room and you can see the kitchen a bit further away. 

“Y/N.” you say as you look around the place in absolute awe. 

“Well, Y/N. Welcome to N/S base.” She motions her hand towards the couch, wordlessly telling you to sit on the black clothed couch. “This is where we work, plan, play, and live. Everything is done here.” Kierra says fondly as she looks around the room. You notice a large table behind her couch, with enough seating for 18 people. You see a staircase that leads to a loft above the living room. The house was all greyscale, blacks, grays, whites, and wood tones decorated most of the house that you have seen so far. Kierra turns to you a little more seriously. “This is our safe space, where we can do what we want when we want. Without the world telling us we’re wrong.” 

“This is our haven.” NoEasy says as she walks up with Hyunjin in tow. “And now yours as well.”

“Mine?” you ask confused, looking between the two girls and Hyunjin. 

Kierra hums and nods her head, “Jinnie will show you around while Akira and I work out the specifics. You’ll meet with Hanji later. I find it’s best to learn on the job.” Kierra smiles smugly as she winks at her sister. Hyunjin stiffens next to NoEasy Akira. 

“Ki-” Hyunjin stops Kierra before she continues. “Ki, are you sure sending her out with Ji is a good idea?” Kierra looks at him and gives him a look. 

“For now. You need to understand what you’ve been brought into.” Akira cuts him off before he says anything else. You are fully confused now. “I’m sure Hyune has mentioned, not to ask questions. Well now is your time to defy him, ask away.” You have just been given a gift. Any question you want. What the fuck do you ask first?? 

“I thought your team name was S_Class. What is N/S?” You ask carefully. 

“S_Class is our team name.” Hyunjin answers quickly. “N/S is the organization that owns S_Class. Next Question.” 

You're starting to piece things together - large house, many cars, code names, ‘Without the world telling us we’re wrong’, secrecy, your life depending on your decisions. Ahh, you got it. “What sort of business owns an illegal street racing team?” 

“An illegal business?” Hyunjin says snarkily, folding his arms across his chest.

“Jinnie,” Kierra scolds..

“Ki, babe seriously what kind of question is that? Did you really expect me not to say something back?” Hyunjin whines. You see Minho jump over the back of the couch and pull Kierra into his side. 

“Watch your tone, Hyunjin.” Minho threatens. 

“Yeah, whatever. Next question.” Hyunjin waves him off, looking back at you to continue. 

“If N/S is the organization that owns you all-” 

“Let me stop you there, N/S owns the team love.” Minho stops you before you have the chance to finish your sentence. “The ones who own us all, are sitting in front of you.” He points his finger between Kierra and Akira. A look of shock crosses your face. How in the fuck do these two women own all of these dudes? Were they slaves? Sex Slaves? Why are you here?

“So you’re a gang.” You say carefully. 

“Bingo baby,” Minho snaps his fingers and leans back to Kierra, gripping her thigh between his hand. 

“I see,” you nod in understanding. “So, why am I here?” 

“Jinnie.” Kierra calls. “Be a doll?” 

“Yes ma’am.” Hyunjin says and leaves the room again. You notice that whenever Kierra calls him ‘doll’ he goes off without a single word further of what he has to do. Like it's ingrained in him somehow. But without missing a beat, Akira continues for her sister. 

“To put it simply, we recently lost a member.” Akira says calmly. “Replacing a member takes time. Now I didn’t expect 7PM to just go and drop a replacement in our lap like that, but all is fair on S_Class territory. They lost their chance, not that you’d fare well with them anyways.” 

“That brat The8 would’ve eaten her alive,” Minho seethes through his teeth.

“My love?” Kierra says in a sing-song voice. 

“Yes, kitten?” Minho responds back immediately.

“Why don’t you go play with Innie, I’m sure he has a broken down new toy, waiting to be fixed. I heard it runs quite fast.” Kierra says and looks to her sister. Minho smirks at her and kisses her temple before getting up and leaving the room. 

“I love those kinds of toys,” Minho chuckles, rubbing his hands together. You look at him in confusion. What the fuck are they talking about. 

“Make sure Innie doesn’t go too hard after it, please? I’d like to actually see it today.” Akira chimes in before he can leave. 

“And Minho?” Kierra calls out, Minho turning around to look at her. “We don’t want a parrot.” Minho nods, the smile on his face is devious, scary. He looks excited to play with this toy. Minho leaves the room and the girls turn back to you. 

“So before I send you off with Hyune, we’re gonna have to get some rules straight okay?” Akira says and waits for your undivided attention. “Rule number one, everyone has a job. Respect it. Unless asked to help, stay out of their way.” You nod and her sister continues. 

“Rule number two. Nothing that happens within this group ever, EVER, leaves the group.” Kierra says, nodding to herself. 

“Rule three, ALWAYS make sure to present yourself as irreplaceable. Everyone is replaceable, make sure we don’t ever want to cut you lose.” Akira rattles off. You notice that the two of them are bouncing back and forth throughout this whole ordeal, as if it is well rehearsed, something that is shared between the two of them, two equals. 

“Rule four, do not EVER speak of past members, they’re gone for a reason. Hopefully, you’ll never have to witness someone leaving.” Kierra says the last part a little sadly. You take a mental note to ask about that next time you have permission to ask questions. 

“Rule five,” Hyunjin returns to the living room between Akira’s words. “Do not EVER, mention the name N/S or 7PM to ANYONE outside the organizations.” Kierra looks at Hyunjin and nods to him. 

Hyunjin walks up to you and motions his head for you to follow him, “lets go No Name.” He leads you to the top of the grand staircase, up to the top floor. “Kierra and Akira designed this house to have everything we need.” Once you reach the top of the staircase, Hyunjin motions his hand down the hallway for you to continue further. “This is the top floor. Kierra and Akira live up here. To the right, is Kierra’s room.” He opens the door to a black bedroom, bed facing the windows with a black bedspread, black pillows and black blanket draped across it. The walls are painted gray with black accent pieces, minimal lighting. The large windows have sheer gray curtains hanging in front of them. You’re led further into her room and enter her bathroom, her closet attached at the end. The bathroom is a stark contrast to the bedroom. The walls, floor, and countertops are covered in a bright white tile, the same gray curtains hanging around the windows in front of the white bathtub (which could definitely fit 3 people easily). At the end of the bathroom was her closet, which matched the bedroom. Black walls, black cabinets and smaller wardrobes lined the whole room. You took note that there were mens and womens clothing in her closet. Did Minho share the room with her? “She’s got what she needs here, closet, bathroom, whatever. Never come up here if you’re not called to. You will most likely never need to come into her room, but you might be called up in general because across the hallway is her office. Kierra handles- The” Hyunjin pauses as he leads you out of her room and across the hall to her office. “Physical plans.” He opens the door and you’re brought into a very plain looking office. Wood fixtures decorated the room, a lone desk sat at the end of the room. 

“To the Left is Akira. Her room, she's got everything she needs, closet, bathroom. You get it.” He leads you into Akira’s room which you notice is the complete opposite of her sisters. Her bed is decorated with a white bedspread, white pillows, and a gray blanket. Her walls are lined with mirrors to brighten the room when the light hits it. Her bathroom was the opposite of Kierra’s as well, black and gray tiling lined the room and dark wood cabinetry finished it off. Her closet, also at the end of her bathroom, was again opposite of Kierras. White tiling on the floor, white shelving, and bright light fixtures. You also noticed that there were mens clothing in Akira’s closet too. “Across the hall, is her office. Akira handles more of the logistics.” He leads you out of Akira’s room and across the hall to a large office, black flooring, black walls, black furniture, a large black desk with computer monitors and paperwork filed neatly across it. There was plenty of seating in her office as well. You assume this is where they hold some of their important meetings.

“So, the brains and the brawn?” You ask carefully.

“They’re both the brain and the brawn, but they know how to play to their strengths. Plus, not like Ki will ever let Akira get into a fight without her. Nor will Akira let Ki go into a business deal without her. Together or nothing. Is this their favorite saying.” He says proudly. You take note that he calls Kierra by Ki when he drops his bad boy facade in front of you. What’s up with them? You wonder. 

“Next floor.” He announces as he leads you to the next level down. “Three bedrooms down here, Chan, Jisung, and Changbin.” He walks all the way down the hallway and to the right. “Chan’s room.” He opens the door to a pretty minimalist looking room. The walls are lined with a glossy gray tile, soft lighting scattered throughout the room, a bed centered on the back wall. His bathroom was lined with a darker gray tile, with the same warm lighting, as was his closet. The closet was decorated with dark wood cabinetry and glass doors. Hyunjin leads you out of Chan’s room and across the hall. “Changbin.” You’re starting to recognize a theme. All the rooms in the house that you’ve seen are either black, gray, or white. There was no in between. This room was no different. The walls were lined with half white marble tile at the bottom and accented wood paneling at the top half. The bed is situated adjacent to the windows, his bathroom a mix of gray and white tiling, and his closet a warm charcoal. Hyunjin leads you out of this room and further back towards the stairs to another room. He leads you into the gray room, the bed fixed in the middle of the room, his bathroom a mix of black, white and marble tile, and his closet lined with dark black cabinetry. He takes you from Jisung’s room and across the hall. “Jisung, and this is a personal room. It belongs to Chan. Do not go in unless invited.” He quickly opens the door and you can see what looks like a recording studio. You can’t see much inside before Hyunjin closes the door in your face quickly. 

“A lot of rooms huh-” 

“Eighteen full rooms, eleven bathrooms, six common spaces, and a greenhouse. In the backyard, passing the pool.” Hyunjin says incredibly casually. As if it was completely normal to have a house of this size. Even though, now that you’re thinking about it, the house didn’t look that big on the outside. Maybe 3 floors tops. Where are the rest of the rooms he’s talking about? He’s leading you back downstairs to the living room where you left the two girls. They’re no longer there. “Ground floor.” Hyunjin says as he continues walking through the living room and past the kitchen towards a hallway with 4 doors. “This section has two rooms, two personal rooms. On the left is Seungmin.” His room has to have the most personality you’ve seen, the walls covered in half gray bricking and half bookcase. His bed is situated against the windows. His bathroom and closet are a bland gray. “And next to his room is his personal room.” He leads you next door to a room decked out in computers, random equipment that you wouldn't even be able to name if you tried. “Across from him, Felix.” You take back what you thought before. This room has more color and personality than Seungmin’s. His room was painted gray, but was decorated in red lighting, lining the ceiling. And a large mirror sat behind his bed. His bathroom and closet were also decorated with the same red lighting in contrast to the gray walls and floors. “Trust me when I say, you don’t even want to walk into Felix’s personal room, especially if you’re invited into it.” 

“Why-” you ask confusedly as Hyunjin escorts you to the room next to Felix’s. He rolls his eyes and flings the door open. 

“O-oh, oh my god.” The best way for you to describe this room was a sex dungeon. Fixtures that you have never seen before were placed throughout the room, bright red lighting, similar to what was in his bedroom, lined the entire room. 

“Now you know what you’re in for, if you’re ever invited in there” Hyunjin laughs watching your shocked expression. He trudges along, back past the living room and kitchen again and down another hallway. “My room.” His room was probably the coziest one you saw today. His walls a warm cream, a wood accent wall decorated behind his bed, and a fireplace? His bathroom was a mix of black and wood features, and his closet stark gray and black. He leads you across the hall to another door. “And my personal space. If you ever come in here without permission, I’ll kill you.” Hyunjin quickly opens the door to his space, a brightly lit room, canvases, paints, and sketches pinned to the walls. An explosion of color from the rest of the house. Two of the walls of his room are lined with windows, looking out to the pool and the greenhouse. You looked around the room in awe. How could someone so cold have the brightest, most colorful room in the whole house? He quickly ushers you out of his studio and across the hall again, stopping at the door, his hand on the handle. “Lastly, this will be-” he can’t seem to come to the right words, pausing his movements. “It will be your room.” Hyunjin says, basically wincing as he says the words. “Go at it. Walk in, familiarize yourself with it.” 

You walk into the room to a pretty bland room. Two walls covered in a white tile, one covered in black tile, and the last wall a line of windows. The bed is plain cream and white. “It’s uh-” You walk further into the room, the bathroom has nice white marble flooring white gold accents throughout, the walls a gray tile with white accents throughout. You walk into the closet last. The room is completely white, with gold accents on the drawers, bright lighting lining the cabinetry, and a squishy carpet draped across the floor.

“You can decorate it how you want.” Hyunjin shifts from foot to foot as you walk through the closet. “But please- try to-” 

“Jinnie built that closet, custom.” Kierra sighs from the doorway. “So please take care of this entire room, or he will never forgive you for it.” 

“Oh- okay,” You say slightly confused as to why Hyunjin is being so weird about this room in particular. “Umm, so about this being my room…” 

“You can start to move in whenever, bring whatever you want from home.” Kierra says to you, elbowing Hyunjin to snap out of his weird fog.

“How will I even explain this to my parents?” 

“Leave that to Aki, and I.” Kierra continues to poke and prod at Hyunjin who is trying his best to ignore her and whisper to her ‘not now i'm working’. Seriously, what the hell is up with their weird dynamic? 

“Anyhow, I need to run to meet with Min, so I’ll be back by the time you’re set to head off with Hanji,” Kierra starts to head toward the door before turning around quickly. “And Jinnie?” 

“Yes ma’am?”

“Do me a favor?” He nods to affirm to her he’s listening. “Lighten up sweetheart, stress doesn’t suit you my love.” Kierra smiles wide and leaves the room. Did she just call him ‘my love’??? Isn’t she dating Minho??? 

“Ignore her,” Hyunjin rolls his eyes. “You can explore your personal room after, you still need to see the rest of the house.” 

“The rest? There’s literally no way anything else can fit itself in here.” Hyunjin smirks at you and leads you towards the stairs you came up from the garage earlier. “Oh,” he turns to the left towards the kitchen, between the kitchen and the staircase is yet another door. “This is the library, could also be considered our designated quiet room. It’s soundproof. Nice place.”  You peak your head in through the door and see every wall lined with bookcases, every space of the shelving filled with books. You can see a small seating area that is down a small set of stairs inside the library. He leads you back to the stairs and leads you down towards the garage, stopping at the door you saw earlier. 

“Changbins personal room, this is the one room you’ll find yourself in more often than most.” The room was covered in tools, tires, basically anything that had to do with fixing up cars. There wasn’t anyone in there anymore. He leads you out of the room and down the steps. You’re back in the garage. He walks across the garage to another set of doors. “These two rooms both belong to Minho and Jeongin.” He opens the door to a dance studio, wood flooring, and wall covered in mirrors. “Though, I admit I come here too sometimes.” He walks to the next room. “Unfortunately I can’t let you actually walk in here, but this is their other room.” He opens the door and the walls are lined with guns, a huge wood table centered in the room with black office chairs surrounding it. WHO THE FUCK OWNS THIS MANY GUNS? “Down the hall you’ll find two doors. To the left, you go upstairs exiting near the green house. To the right, you'll find another basement.” You walk down the other set of stairs. This house was a maze, how in the fuck were you supposed to remember where everything was. You entered a huge training room with a boxing ring at the center. 

“Training room. Behind those glass doors is the gym. Gym is for personal time, training area is for group activities, or if you’re training with someone else. As long as you’re never alone.” You head back up the stairs and out to the backyard. “That is Jisungs personal space.” He points to a huge glass greenhouse covered in vines. 

“He’s a florist?” 

“Of sorts.” Hyunjin laughs, and you both walk in and are immediately hit with the scent of weed. 

“I see,” you say as you shake your head. Hyunjin chuckles and walks you back inside to the living room. 

“And that’s that. Any questions?” 

“How-” 

“Rich kid perks I guess,” Hyunjin shrugs. 

“How do two people so well off end up becoming gang leaders?” You mumble. “If I had that life I’d-” 

“Best not to ask questions about their past. Or anyone’s past here. We’re all here for a reason Little Star, try not to act like you shine brighter than the rest of us.” You can tell that he’s basically saying ‘youre no better than us.’ “Last thing kid,” he sighs. “There's one other rule you need to know, it will be your golden rule.” You nod your head, waiting on his words. “Everything goes through Kierra and Akira. Every, single, little, thing. Need a bathroom break? Make sure they approve. You want to even breathe in their presence? Make sure they fucking approve. Don’t even blink if they don’t say you can.” 

“W-what- Surely it’s not that extreme…” 

“One thing those two value more than loyalty, is organization, and no one. I repeat, no one is better at it than them. Therefore everything must go through them. Tell me you understand this- please Y/N…” He’s never said please to you before. It’s almost a little concerning how desperate he is for you to understand his “golden rule”, but he looks pretty stressed about making sure you fully understand it. You nod your head and you can see him relax his shoulders slightly. Why is this stressing him out so much?

Tags @chanlixiiee @channiesbub @jaebaebaegot7 @maeleelee @iadorethemskz @maenijw @hangin-out-with-the-street-rats @elizalabs3 @jinniespuppy @painstakingly-juno @lethallyprotected @multeciahucho @@jisungsbff01

[geisterbilder]

blutt, or...

... a digital cloud of self sleeping in a dark dreamworld, the digital blue sky, vast and open with dark clouds rolling through, not night but deader than night somehow.

patrick belaga's blutt is an anomaly. this album will make you see stars.

the cover of belaga's sophomore album is a seussian nightmare close-up of a candy-toothed cat with its fur tied off in festive bows. the name is german for "blood", perhaps a nod to the vivid red backdrop of this cat's universe, a dimension of thick, sludgy electronic cello that brings me back to nights as a kid waking up at 3am into the jelly of morning.

this freakish feline oughta have a pretty nasty purr, huh? well, blutt is belaga's attempt to capture that humming, stuttering motor. he embodies this cat in the album's 37-minute runtime; the coarseness of the fur, its vacant, angry stare, the calcium powdery touch of its bared teeth.

compared to 2017's groundswell, the foreboding is more subdued. if that album was being trapped inside a mountain vortex, this is being lost out on a snowy plain. don't get me wrong, there's still an ancient feeling here, but the watery production feels more ephemeral than primal.

imagine a snowy wasteland. there's a blinding light wherever you look, and angels are singing, but these angels aren't like the ones you know. they're a chorus of distant holograms plucking wires, playing a song with a lilt you don't recognize.

belaga wastes no time putting us at the center of this blizzard with the opener. cello is the first thing you hear on this album, and it's central to the cold you feel throughout, but what makes this album feel subzero is the sound design. under that gorgeous cello, there's an ominous twang signaling danger, trespassing, a pinprick tingle that you do not belong here.

once the angels dissolve into the sky, you wander until you find yourself shaking off the snow packed into your boots under a porch you don't remember walking to. inside, you sigh.

a lot of the melodies on this record are simple repetitions of an idea. here a piano progression is established, eaten and then spat out in variations at different stages of digestion. the filtered recording feels close - too close, confined by concrete walls or the contours of a cave. the horn screeching is an echo drawing in these disembodied hums that follow the chords for the rest of the song.

the ambient noises add motion. you feel a whirling wind listening to this, like a demented version of the dizziness from spinning too fast as a kid. but instead of the hard landing, you fall slow.

time seems different in the room. a film of green-yellow aging covers everything in sight, and you tense your jaw noticing holes in your vision. tiny ones, barely there. they flicker like tunnels. you think of where they could lead, what spiraling stairways you could climb - you picture spires. they feel endless. as you stare out at the vases and empty photo frames, words form in your mind. the tunnel is a tower.

when i watched felix colgrave's double king for the first time, i felt sucked into another dimension. this song's rhythmic synth and spacious cello recall that feeling. to me, this just sounds like night, those bright nights where the sun might still be out if it weren't asleep.

the synths feel curious. like they're playing in my long-faded memories with this fluid movement that explores their melody until it reaches a bright, mischievous end. there are two sets of strings: the swelling light ones and the grumbling dark ones underpinning the playful pattern. there's a secret hidden in these strings - a ritual, a heavy shadow.

you're in the snow again, footsteps behind you for miles. icicles are growing from the ground. hail is beginning to fall, but when you look into the white expanse, ice seems to only be falling where you're standing. an icicle in front of you splinters into flaked mirrors, reflecting a grey eye in its shards.

piano again, and this time it's soaked in reverb. whereas earlier the sound was muffled into claustrophobia, here the space is endless and the days are long. the melody is even simpler this time, a scale simple enough for me to learn by ear. it's the vocals by jazmin romero, the mournful cooing at the edge of the forest, that make this song interesting.

add bells and a plucked string for texture and you have a rainy evening or the long entryway of an ice palace. midway through belaga brings out the cello for a soaring but reserved run, and as the piano scale starts to slow, the strings start to stutter and take over, blending with romero's voice. this vacuum sucks the air out of space and replaces it with doubt.

rubbing your eyes as if fresh out of sleep, you turn an eye upwards. you freeze at the terrible vision above you. then you run, kicking up clouds with the momentum. the world is moving with you, moving too, moving faster than you - the eyes that follow, they hang still in the sky, glazed and heavy.

you're stuck in a time loop with something following in these strings. they're a24 quality suspense. belaga strands you at sea on an ice floe where the waters are brackish and grey and the sun is vacant.

what i like most is the killer ambiance of the background note suspended over the blown out screams of the cello - screams much like a wounded animal tracing its mortality in the snow.

sunlight didn't used to feel like this. how much further can you go? the grasses around your feet seem comfortable in death. the swelling of the ground makes you grimace. your dark circles ache; you know the earth is coated in rust.

belaga's at his most electronic here. revisiting and warping the tumbling rhythms of previous songs, he creates a labyrinth. have you ever looked at snow and had to look away from how bright it was? everything sounds high contrast, like a flash photo taken in low light.

the synths here are sheer, murky but glimmering. the bass cups the glimmer, adding a layer of weight to the floaty patterns. they feel like portals, warping the borders of self.

a slow-running river should be peaceful - water shouldn't sound so unsoft. but the trickle cascades and the sweet birds scream and you lay by the water. you reach out to dip a finger in the current. you feel thick ice instead.

i don't know what kind of vocal magic is going on at the beginning, but i like it. the spirits invoke a stream of water and the very faint chirp of birds layered under a rendition of the same string melody that started the album. a sliding, warbling bass makes this paradise feel like an impossible promise. and in the space between them a single string is plucked patiently, marking the hours till sleep.

it's vast, and smells like iron.

you don't know how it happened. one moment you're on the riverbank, the next you claw at the ice from below, palms pressed flat. pushing. the water is a slurry. your eyes are bloodshot. blurred visions of floating things are all you see across the sheet of ice holding you under. surrounded by water on all sides, your skin feels burned.

this used to be my least favorite song on the album - until i actually listened to it. the intro starts with moody plucked strings and a brooding string melody that feels at once passionate and apathetic.

where it really starts to get good is when the song floods. and i really mean floods; the second half submerges the strings and melts the edges into each other. they're raindrops falling upside down and landing in mildewy carpet.

slowly. you go down slowly, slower than you should with arms of lead. your body crumples, frays at the edges - in the currents, movements are infinite. your descent stutters, no end. no beginning. every time you're certain the floor will catch you, the ice is back on your palms. how much further can you go? the air has run out. you're still here.

your body is an artifact.

on the longest song on the record at almost 14 minutes, belaga meant slowly. it's a slow burn, rusted, lilting. if rust was the album at its most electronic, this is its most digital - time loops, error sounds collapsed into circular frequencies spin on their axis around a two-note piano melody. and the chaos is seductive; it lulls you into its simulation and transfixes you in it.

the cello is treated really interestingly here. some of the most unprocessed strings show up sandwiched between patches of glitching that demonstrate the central contrast to this work: cello as classic orchestral instrument and cello as experimental material. this is the metaverse embodied, the lonely, whirring fan of a supercomputer left to rot. when the connection's severed, when it's time to wake up, the dream never quite leaves you.

much like this album hasn't left me.

[risingsouls]

Recruited: Chapter 43

[*leans in close to the mic* It’s begun.

A FEW WARNINGS GOING IN: BIG DEPRESSION TALK AND SOME SUICIDE MENTION.

I hope you all like depressed Vegeta because that’s what you get in this chapter. I am so happy to FINALLY be at this point because the seven year gap has so much potential good shit in it, and it’s a shame that even the FANDOM doesn’t seem to do it much justice or explore it with the proper magnifying glass it deserves. ESPECIALLY when it comes to Vegeta. So. I’m doing that, and it begins here.

Enjoy. And, as usual, find the rest of the fic and a few other things I’ve written @momowritesshit!]

Vegeta

The last time Vegeta experienced a despondency such as this, a sense of loss with any real depth and the beginnings of a directionless spiral into a pit of despair, was when he, Nappa, and Raditz had been assigned a mission near where their planet once floated in the cosmos in his late teens. When he jetted off to the coordinates ingrained within his mind to see the empty vacuum left behind for himself. To confirm the reality of his lost race and birthright. It was the last time he shed tears until his fall on Namek. But instead of stumbling deeper into the pit, he dug his claws into the wall through sheer spite. Outrage. A lust for vengeance that hinged on his speculation that the Saiyans did not fall to a meteor but a pitiless tyrant instead. Determination to restore the proper fear and respect to the Saiyan name.

This time, he couldn't reach the rage. Nothing motivated him like it used to. Kakarot did not return to the world of the living, for the prince never sensed his energy at the time Trunks's ki signature reappeared after the Cell Games. A decision made to protect the planet, according to his son who tracked him down earlier that day. He would not have the rematch and revenge he strived for since that fateful defeat on Earth, the same that began his continuous string of failures. His return would have meant little; Kakarot made it apparent he still surpassed the prince in his short bout with Cell. And now his son had advanced beyond his father, and even further beyond Vegeta's current limit. He had become a joke. No matter how hard he tirelessly trained, day in and day out, it was never enough; he was always edged out by Kakarot, his damn brat, or some other assailant that turned up. 

He couldn't even find solace in the thought of killing Kakarot's friends anyway as he originally planned. He didn't even delight in the hypothetical daydreams of revenge he once sought on Earth's finest, let alone conjure them. Nothing served to ease the desolation that settled upon his consciousness.

Instead of restoring the Saiyan's name and influence, he simply made a mockery of everything his people stood for. He didn't deserve to claim the title of Saiyan prince. He didn't deserve to be called a Saiyan or mentioned in the same breath as the proud race of warriors. He didn't deserve to be called a warrior at all, let alone an elite one. He was nothing, a nobody, a sham, and a disgrace with nothing to live for.

Vegeta tested the knob of the front door to Nabooru's capsule house, and it turned easily in his hand. He pushed it open and carefully closed it behind him. Heightened sense of hearing picked up the shift of sheets and light footsteps in the hall and, before he could curse the instinctual flight pattern his body automatically chose, the click of a lightswitch preceded light flooding the living room in light too harsh on eyes that had been long adjusted to the night's darkness. He squinted, tail tight around his waist, and though his mind screamed at him to turn back, sneak into the sprawling complex of Capsule Corporation where he could take care of his business with less chance of being noticed, his boots remained fixed to the wood floor.

The Gerudo appeared equally surprised to see him standing two steps in her living room, for she stared with slightly parted lips and head tilted as if deciding if she dreamt of his arrival at such a late hour and his obvious avoidance of her and everyone else the last few days.

"Is everything okay?" she asked at last. She tightened her grip on the white silk of the robe she likely tossed on when she sensed him coming or heard him enter the house with one hand while the other tucked her crimson locks behind one ear. He couldn't even find it in him to sneer or feel insulted by the concern smeared over her visage and dulling her bright eyes. Perhaps he deserved to be pitied like some wounded animal dying from wounds inflicted by a predator who couldn't be bothered to kill it out of mercy.

"Did you need something? If you're hungry, there's some leftovers in the fridge. Plenty to drink, too."

He tried to scowl, but it felt weak and underwhelming. "I left a set of armor here." Maybe. He couldn't remember. Details had a funny way of escaping him in his current state. "I wanted to change."

She observed the ragged state his armor and battle suit were in and nodded. "If there isn't a set here, you're welcome to whatever clothes are in the guest room." She paused, twiddling with the sash at her waist with her free hand. "But maybe you should shower first? Or a bath might be easier."

It hadn't crossed his mind, much like most basic needs meant to keep him functioning. A shower sounded like far too much effort, even though he wasn't particularly fond of baths. The thought of sitting, though, brought his attention to the fatigue in his legs from standing for…how many days had passed? He didn't keep track. He didn't care.

"It might make you feel better, getting the grime off your body instead of just changing clothes," she added, already turning back toward the hall. She waved a hand for him to follow and disappeared around the corner. "You can use mine in the master bedroom. I had a bigger one installed and it's much nicer than the standard one that came with the house."

Normally, he would have stubbornly protested. Scolded her for coddling him and ordering him around. He might have even prodded at her to pick a small fight, just to see her temper flare up and to entertain himself with the challenge. But the simple thought of any of it drained him, and, before he knew it, he had trudged down the hall and passed through her bedroom to lean against the doorframe of the master bathroom, arms crossed loosely over his chest. A far bigger space than the guest bathroom, touting a full vanity sink, a shower stall, and a large bathtub.

Nabooru finished fidgeting with the hot and cold knobs and, after placing her hands beneath the steady stream of steaming water, she nodded her approval. "I'll go grab some towels and the soaps you've been using from the guest bathroom. Mine are pretty fragrant and might be too much for you." She strode back toward him, bare feet padding on the tile. "Are you hungry at all? Thirsty?"

Vegeta did little more than grunt a noncommittal response, shifting out of the doorway and kicking off his damaged boots and pulling off his torn gloves. It earned him a snort and she disappeared behind the door closed behind her. He tore off the ruined armor and peeled the royal blue battle suit away from his skin, the pungent scent of body odor assaulting his nostrils. He tossed the garments into the furthest corner of the room and kicked his boots and gloves, sending them skidding across the tile to join them. He made a mental note to simply destroy them, one he was sure he would forget anyway.

He crossed the room and slung his leg over the side of the tub and into the water, welcoming the scalding temperature she chose. A stark difference than the arctic chill of the mountain range in the far north he hid away in. He climbed in and lowered himself down into the water, sinking into it until all but his head and shoulders were submerged. He let himself slip all the way under, the pounding of the water filling the tub muffled, and found he could comfortably stretch out with room to spare. Only when his lungs started to ache and burn did he resurface. He had to ignore the tantalizing whisper of staying a little longer, until the universe went black.

Dark eyes settled on the door several seconds before it opened again, ears picking up the sound of her footsteps over the running water in the otherwise silent house. Nabooru ditched the robe and now donned a white tank top and orange shorts, a strip of her toned midriff exposed between the articles. Her arms were laden with several bottles.

"Good. You didn't drown yourself," she said, carrying the items over to him and ignoring the pointed narrowing of his eyes. A valid concern or not, a macabre jest or not, he didn't like that she realized something like that might and did cross his mind. 

She lined the bottles along the lip of the tub. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash and, unsurprisingly, a bottle of water. She perched on the edge of the sink and stretched a leg out to rest her ankle on the edge opposite him. "Did Trunks find you today?"

"He did." The prince shifted. Though he had not spoken, he listened to his son spill his guts about, despite their rocky start, being glad he got to meet a version of his father. That he was still proud to be his son, even if he wasn't the man he imagined throughout his childhood. "He asked me to see him off tomorrow."

"Oh?" Nabooru leaned forward, hands gripping the marble sink top to keep herself from falling face first onto the tile. "What did you say?"

"Nothing."

"Do you plan on going?"

Once more, he found he didn't have the energy to be properly annoyed with her incessant questions even if he wanted to be. The idea of coming up with a witty, sarcastic, or snappish retort required too much effort. The ever-pervasive numbness kept him at an emotional flatline. But, he supposed it was better than miserable.

"I'm considering it…" he answered at last, gaze pinned on the opposite wall. Though sifting through how he felt about fathering a child, or whether he cared to claim either iteration as his own and pretend that singular, foolish night of weakness never happened at all, still remained murky, the version who came from the future had earned his respect to a miniscule degree. As a warrior and as his son. Throughout his time in their era, Trunks more than proved his mettle in combat. When the teen finally stopped acting like a sniveling child desperate to have a father Vegeta could and would never be, the tension between them lessened, and it made it easier for the Saiyan prince to see who Trunks was. That he could be proud of his strength and his drive to defeat the androids in his own time at last.

Trunks hadn't outright requested he turn up the next day to see him off, another point for him in Vegeta's book. But the proposition was lightly suggested in his one-sided farewell from earlier that day. And since Vegeta couldn't find the words let alone the wherewithal to express them, somewhere in his broken mind he decided showing up physically at Capsule Corporation would suffice as a mediocre compromise to, hopefully, relay to Trunks that his father was proud of him after all, and that he sent him on with his best to deal with 17 and 18 in his time.

Nabooru's other foot joined the first on the end of the tub. "He'll be happy to have you there, I think." She leaned back into her palms. Several moments of silence ticked by, the background noise only notably changing when she turned the water off to prevent overflow. Finally: "Did he tell you about Goku?"

Vegeta flinched. Noticeably, instinctively. "Yes," he grunted, refusing to say more on the matter. He didn't want to talk about Kakarot's refusal to return to life, what that meant to him. When he didn't sense the other Saiyan's energy return along with Trunks's, he knew something had gone wrong. The reasoning behind what he found out was Kakarot's choice didn't matter. His prospects for revenge or proving himself or reclaiming his rightful place as the Saiyan prince and strongest in the universe had already taken a dramatic nosedive after the Cell Games, the impossibility of it, the gap that once again stretched all too wide between his power and Kakarot's, dampening his motivation to continue chasing that dream. What would have been a minor setback, a few days tops to himself to violently reawaken his passion and ambition again, to remind himself of his place and Kakarot's, turned to grim understanding that Kakarot would not return. And it became abundantly clear that his rematch with Kakarot had become his sole motivation for living. It was all that kept him going, and with that possibility gone…

His head fell back and he stared at the ceiling, his body slumping further beneath the water. The desire to dissolve into the water or scream or throw up or explode made a prominent comeback. He heard her feet hit the tile, her bare feet walking the length of the tub. He caught sight of her profile through his peripheral vision as she sat on the corner next to his head.

"I miss you, you know."

Vegeta's derisive snort almost surprised him; he was sure he didn't have enough care or energy to manage amusement or anything adjacent. "I didn't die."

"You might as well have."

Another wince. He had more trouble maintaining his usual aloof haughtiness, he was finding quickly. He more closely resembled a finicky rodent, leaping out of its skin at the first sign of a threat, than a proud Saiyan warrior and prince. Again, he considered fleeing. He despised her blunt truth. He didn't feel like himself. He didn't know who he was anymore. Maybe he never did. He may as well have died alongside Kakarot and joined the rest of his dead race in Hell.

"I think you understand my meaning now but…" When she trailed off his eyes finally drifted over to her. He envied how relaxed she looked. "I miss the strong, confident, ambitious, and determined Saiyan prince and formidable warrior I came to admire to some extent. And I'm not convinced he's not in there anymore."

"Do you ever get sick of believing such nonsense about me?" he snapped, gaze firmly fixing itself on the ceiling again. His jaw tightened, and his lip curled away from his sharp canines. Though, the anger was in no way directed at her, he knew. "How many times do I have to fail or fall short to make you see that the Vegeta you think you knew is dead or never existed?"

"I don't." Her voice remained conversational. Gentle even. But her eyes held a resolute stubbornness that dared him to argue with her. He didn't. Yet.

"I can't claim that I know you completely. In fact, I feel more confident saying I barely know you despite all we've been through and how long we've known each other and I'm sure that's by design." She tucked her hair behind her ear. "But what I do know is that those things I listed are still part of you even after Frieza and the universe has tried to rip them out of you. They may look different now and may look different still a few weeks down the road, but they're still part of you. I still stand by what I said on Namek: I want to see what you become outside of his influence and given the chance to just…live."

"I haven't served Frieza in nearly five years now," he retorted, the usual derisive tone he would use for such a statement uncharacteristically absent and replaced by a dispirited mutter. "If you're not satisfied with what you've seen yet, then you should give up on seeing improvement."

This is more likely to get worse, he wanted to add. It probably went without saying. Her faith in him, like it always had been, was severely misplaced. He struggled to think of a single facet in his life in which he hadn't failed. He couldn't save his people from destruction, let alone avenge them. He couldn't maintain his rightful place as the most powerful Saiyan in existence, surpassed easily by an Earth-raised softie and his spawn. He fell to every opponent he faced, not only making him weaker than another pair of Saiyans but others as well. He had nothing to show for years of slavery. No vengeance, no empire of his own, no undisputed power, nothing. And he had zero ambition or felt any draw to change any of it. His father would laugh and spit in his face over the pathetic excuse for a Saiyan his son had become. A disgrace to their line, the crown, and the entire Saiyan race. He should have been the one killed by Cell. Not Trunks or Kakarot. He should be the one insisting they didn't revive him should they try.

"No…you haven't." Her voice dragged him from his cyclical and self-deprecating mantra. "But you still replaced your obsession with killing Frieza with other ones: becoming a Super Saiyan and getting revenge on Goku and his friends."

He growled, eyes flicking to her and silently, desperately, willing her to get to the point. Or, better yet, to shut up entirely. Change the subject if anything else. She did none of those things.

"Point is, you went from one obsession to another. You may not have been ruled by Frieza anymore or driven by the need to kill him, but, since you had major tunnel vision when it came to surpassing and defeating Goku, nothing else mattered. There was no room in that big head of yours for anything else." Her index finger traced the lip of the tub next to her. "Basically, you were a slave to your own obsession. And sure, at least it was yours, chosen by you, but I feel it didn't let you figure anything out."

Another pause. She shifted in her seat, pulling her hair over her shoulder to save some of it from tumbling into his bath water. "And now that Goku's gone and not coming back…is it safe to say you have nothing left motivating you?"

He stared straight ahead again, acutely aware of the emptiness that took a firm root over the last few days. Again, her perceptiveness grated on his nerves. Old habits suggest he lie or tell her to mind her own business. Old habits lacked their typical influence.

"Yes," he answered bluntly, softly. It was more than that. More than simply Kakarot's absence shredding the ambition that drove him for the past four years or so to ribbons and engulfed them in flames. It was his brat surpassing him. It was his defeat at the hands of the androids, Cell, Frieza, the Ginyu Force. It was his failure to take the revenge he rightfully deserved for himself and his entire race. It was a loss and confusion surrounding his own identity and understanding of himself. It was uncertainty in what he wanted, what his future held. If he wanted to find out. It was the sudden, real reconciliation of the fall of the Saiyans. He was mourning it all at once because he never let himself do it in the past and it broke him.

Of course, he hadn't the faintest idea how to express any of this. Nor did he think he wanted to.

The single word hung heavy in the air, it's meaning and implications bouncing off the tiled surfaces in an awful echo. He grit his teeth and sank beneath the water to drown it out. Once again until his lungs begged to be refilled and resurfacing won out at the last second.

"I was here too, you know."

Vegeta turned his attention to her again. One leg crossed over the other, she rested her arms loosely over her knee and leaned into them. Gold eyes fixated on the wall behind him, or perhaps to the point in her past she mentioned. 

"After Namek, I felt I had nothing to live for. Everything I did was dedicated to helping or protecting my people up to that point. In the force, I added freeing myself from it and helping you defeat Frieza if I couldn't do it myself so I could return to them. And in an instant, all of that was taken from me. I had nothing driving me and no will to live." She swallowed, though her expression remained largely neutral save for the flicker of a frown twisting her lips. "In fact, it felt like it would make more sense if I joined them in Hell, and being brought back was a curse to me. I broke completely under the weight of knowing I couldn't bring them back, that I couldn't save them, and that all the atrocities I committed to protect them from Frieza's cruelty was all for nothing. I didn't know who I was anymore, what I wanted, or if it even mattered."

"I remember." 

How could he not? He was on top of the universe at that point in time, riding the high of Frieza's and Kakarot's death, even if they both survived in actuality. He was certainly on the verge of ascending himself and snatching the title of most powerful in the universe and beginning his reign of his own empire. But she hadn't been. Her moping and refusal to even celebrate Frieza's demise had pissed him off to some degree. She was a shell of herself, pitiable and pathetic. And he showed her zero empathy despite facing a similar situation himself in the past, dragging her out to train with him despite her refusals and low energy and making his thoughts on her depression more than apparent. And to top it off, he left her behind when, perhaps, giving her something to do might have helped her as his obsessions kept the darker emotions repressed deep within him. The truth of the matter was he didn't care; this was, after all, the first time he even thought back to that time with any depth.

No, he didn't show her a crumb of understanding back then. He didn't deserve her company or kindness now.

"I remember I was surprised to see you alive when I returned as well," he mused. Alive and with her spark returned, the fire in her eyes that he got caught up in more than a few times in their acquaintanceship. He snorted bitterly. "I'm more surprised now, considering."

She reached across the tub and grabbed the shampoo bottle. "It surprises me some days, too, if I'm honest." Her thumb grazed over the label as she pretended to read it. After a beat, she glanced at him again, the cap of the bottle pointed toward him. "Want me to help you wash your hair?"

Vegeta's growl was less annoyance with her than with himself for wanting to accept with little question. On top of the effort expended, he hadn't cared enough about his personal hygiene since before the Cell Games. His pride smarted at the thought of allowing someone to attend to a task as menial as this like he was some helpless child, but he couldn't find it in him to care about pride or much of anything he once defined as indisputable and unwavering. Never to be compromised. So, he nodded.

Nabooru stood and shifted behind him. He heard her flip the cap open and the exhale of air as she squeezed the soap onto her palm. He instinctively flinched when her fingers made contact with his scalp, his body tense all the way to his toes. She waited the several seconds it took for him to relax again–as much as he could manage, at least–the tips of her fingers working the faintly mint smelling soap to a lather. 

His mind wandered back to where they left their conversation. His tongue and lips moved before he could stop the thoughts from forming words. "Why are you bothering to waste your time with this?" With me felt a more apt question, but he did manage to keep that to himself. "When you were in a state like this one, I offered shit advice and left you behind. If I were you, I would have told me to fuck off when I walked in the door."

He wouldn't have visited himself daily, either. Brought him food and water, even if he knew he wouldn't touch it. To his credit, he didn't treat her as horribly as he could have all the years they knew each other, as he did plenty of others in the past, but he saw no reason why she shouldn't let his own self-destruction take its course and stand clear of the blast zone.

She slowed her work. In the mirror across from him, he watched a smile slowly curl her lips. "I never thought I'd find something you and Lila could agree on." She picked up the shampoo bottle again and squeezed more into her palm. "I guess it's because I want to. It's not a waste of time to me, nor do I really care about how you treated me in the past. I'm not bothered by that."

Her fingers threaded back into his onyx spikes, and she meticulously began coating them with suds, working the hair between her fingers. "I guess…I guess it's because I've been here. I know how this feels and how a part of me ached for someone, anyone, to just…get what I was going through to even a minor degree. Anything to help me feel a little less alone. And I never got it. Unless you count starved and dehydrated hallucinations."

In his mind, it didn't really justify her care, but she pressed on before he could express it. "With that said though…I know you by no means left me behind here for my benefit but…I think that was the best thing you could have done for me." She caught the furrow of his brow in the mirror's reflection and continued her explanation. "What I mean is I think I was on the verge of making the same mistake you did. Instead of facing it all, I was just going to throw myself into helping you become a Super Saiyan. Instead, I was given the space to face my grief and guilt. It helped me realize that I still wanted to represent my people with the pride, strength, and resiliency they all deserved as the very last of our kind, and that I would never let anyone like Frieza manipulate me that way again. And that meant continuing to train and grow more powerful so that no one could force me into servitude again. It pushed me out of my funk and to at least love the thrill of combat again. From there, things sort of fell back into place again. I felt again, normally. Things other than misery."

She removed her hands from his head and stood from her crouched position behind him. She crossed back to the sink to clear the shampoo from her hands. "When I worked through everything, I was more pissed that you called me weak," she said, turning the tap off. She pulled the hand towel down and turned to face him again, drying her hands. "You were right, technically, but I hated hearing it out loud. I hated that it had become my reality and wasn't really just you being a jerk. You can rinse, by the way."

Vegeta ducked beneath the water, scrubbing at his scalp to rid his hair of soap. Despite his observations and the fact that she stood before him, her claims sounded impossible to him. He stumbled into a hole far too deep to claw his way out of, and the bottom of it seemed to fall out beneath him each day, dropping him further into its endless depths. He found nothing to grip on the walls to pull himself out. He could no longer see a light above him. At least his grave was already dug if this was meant to do him in.

Had she felt the same sense of hopelessness? Of uselessness and a formidable lack of purpose that paralyzed her? She said herself her life was devoted to the Gerudo. Had she dragged herself from the same depths and screamed to the universe that, in spite of everything, she survived?

He gripped the sides of the tub and pulled himself back up, blinking the water from his lashes. His gaze found the Gerudo again, backside resting against the counter and her palms pressed into the marble top for support. He had long since ceased trying to figure out the whys behind the thoughts his broken mind conjured up, and this case was no different. As he observed her tapping her nails against the counter and a calm, comfortable demeanor, he remembered the moment he first laid eyes on her. Dressed in what he assumed was the typical garb of her kind and following Zarbon, curiosity and awe breaking through the nerves and tension of being ripped from an environment so different than what she founder herself in. He remembered how she regarded the trio of Saiyans without prejudice that could have been attributed to not knowing better, but never changed when Zarbon and others attempted to impress upon her their views of the Saiyan race. And, despite everything they went through, what he himself put her through, she still regarded him the same way, with focus, an open mind, and understanding. Had she found herself again, who she was before Frieza got his hands on her, then, or at least reinvented herself to something she could be halfway content with? Could he do even remotely similar at this juncture?

"I had no right to call you weak," he blurted, thoughts whipping back to their prior conversation. Her stupefied blinking and inquiring hum revealed it surprised her as much as it did him. In his usual head space, he would have found some way to take it back, add on some critique or transmogrify it into a backhanded compliment at best. But now he only seemed to be able to speak full, unfiltered truths as if he were inebriated. She deserved them from him, a part of him knew. It felt freeing and wrong for him all at once.

He growled, and loosened his grip on the edge of the tub when he felt porcelain crack and protest beneath the force. "I didn't," he reaffirmed, more to himself than her. "You were never weak, not then and not now. In fact…you have a strength I may never understand let alone possess. It's…commendable."

Nabooru stared, her surprise further amplified by the lift of her crimson eyebrows and the slight drop of her jaw that parted her lips. Finally, her eyes closed and a smile curled her lips, her shoulders shaking with a light chuckle. "You really are going through it aren't you?" 

She crossed the room to a cabinet and pulled out a pair of fluffy pink towels which she placed on the edge of the counter. She rested her hand on the center of them and leaned her weight into it, her other hand on her hip. "I've seen that strength in you; you've just never had to dig this deep to reach it. I know you're even less patient than me, but just give yourself time and a chance to figure things out, okay?"

Biting her lip, she glanced away. "I'm here if you need me. No matter what happens or if you stay here or leave, and no matter what changes you make on the other side."

If she expected an answer, Vegeta didn't have one for her. The desire to consider his future in any capacity hadn't struck him for a millisecond, and attempting to do so then still held no appeal. It required too much effort and he had too little confidence to keep it from diverting onto a dangerous and destructive path. Drifting aimlessly without clear direction was far more doable for the prince.

As for her offer, he realized he never once doubted it with any serious conviction. She showed time and again that she would stand with him and offer support, physically or in cheering him on, no matter how poorly he treated her. In their endeavor to defeat Frieza, on Namek when it meant risking everything on a long shot, in helping him train to become a Super Saiyan and supporting his decision to go at it alone despite it potentially setting her back in her progress, in lauding his efforts when he returned with his goal reached, bringing him food and water when he was beside himself after each defeat, and she showed confidence in him when he faced Cell and, foolishly perhaps, allowed him to reach his perfect form. And now she offered him comfort and support, understanding, even, in the middle of the night. He deserved none of it, but, for perhaps the first time in his life, he appreciated all of it.

Nabooru pushed off the counter and stifled a yawn. "Anyway, you can have my bed tonight. I just painted the guest room, and if the paint smell is a lot for me, I imagine your nose won't handle it well." She strode to the door and pushed it open. "I'll set some clothes out for you, and let you finish up. It is safe to leave you alone, right?"

The Saiyan rolled his eyes. "Yes, it's fine."

Her smile returned. "Good. And don't forget: I can sense you, and if I feel anything amiss, I will bust back in here and drag you back out by the hair, got it?"

"Would you leave already?"

"Just making sure we understand each other."

The door clicked shut behind her. The water had grown tepid in the time they spoke, and his skin pruned beneath the water. Uncomfortable now that he took stock of these things, he quickly scrubbed at his body and tail with soap and rinsed it off. He climbed out of the tub and pulled the plug to drain it before grabbing one of the towels and drying. Upon entering the master bedroom, he found a pile of clothes resting at the foot of the bed: gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt. He pulled the pants on and, when he picked up the shirt, he noted a capsule resting on a piece of paper beneath it. For just a moment, the characters scrawled on it were foreign, but he surmised it must be her native script, and his translator chip supplied the meaning for him:

End of the world deals were generous, so I bought another Capsule house on a whim. I think you could make better use of it than me right now. It's yours if you want it.

He turned the capsule over in his hand and, after a moment's consideration, wrapped it in her note and pocketed it. Not a decision. Not yet. He wasn't ready to think about it yet, even on a temporary basis. He was too exhausted, a notion placed at the forefront of his mind when he sat on the edge of her bed. He laid back, not bothering with the sheets or blankets. He lost track of how long it took him to fall asleep, and, though it wasn't for long, it was the first real rest he managed in days.

[hierophants-hourglass]

In The Woods Somewhere

Jakob kneels at the river bank, hands resting on the silty layer of soil just below the water’s surface. The coolness of the mountain water is soothing as it threads over his skin. His eyes are closed and his ears are tuned to the sounds of the gentle stream. It’s too early for the birds to share their songs, and he’s desperate for a distraction from the nightmare that had terrorized him minutes before. He’s tempted to dunk himself entirely, to chill the unpleasant warmth that comes with adrenal surge, but he knows that would be dangerous when his fire had been allowed to burn out.

He’s currently alone. His animal companions have been distant lately. They don’t attempt to threaten his safety, but they seem avoidant. Perhaps he’s closer to the city than he realizes- after all he’s traveling on memory, his damn map had been ruined by the recent rain. 

The throbbing of his head isn’t as thunderous as it had been when he initially roused, but it aches residually. His stomach churns as his thoughts drift. He really shouldn’t be leaving his camp alone, not when it’s occupied with goods to sell. Fine pelts, preserved meats, leather work- a season’s worth of effort in one place. His visit to the nearest market has a dual purpose, but he isn’t sure he can stomach visiting her gravemarker. In a few days, it will be two years since her death. Jakob finds it hard to believe it will bring him any comfort to visit an empty plot, but he knows it would be spineless of him to acquiesce fully to her parents, both of whom have threatened him before. 

He… he doesn’t blame them. As much as his heart aches with the thought, he knows that he failed her that night- but it wasn’t just her that he had failed.

Jakob sighs, gently shaking the string of thoughts out of his head. He can’t afford to spiral, not when he knows the stress makes him vulnerable to the second occupant of his body. There’s an instant regret of acknowledging them, the power they hold over him. He knows he doesn’t remember everything about what happened, his memory too shattered by the creature’s bond. The elf’s headache worsens and his brow furrows as he lifts a hand to rub the center of his forehead, his fingers meeting the rough patch of star shaped scar tissue.

The elf is stubborn, though, and pushes himself to stand. He needs to get ready to move, and to emotionally prepare himself for the gawking he’s sure to receive for his unusual appearance. As his thoughts forcibly drift back to his errands for the day, the brewing pressure beyond his brow begins to ease and settle. 

But there’s another problem. As he begins to make his way back through the brush leading to his camp, something feels.. off. He slows his progress to a  careful creeping pace, and he realizes why. He hears in the distance the sound of a voice talking. There’s a certain burning in his head, followed by a familiar sense of dread. He’s far enough out of the way of any main paths that he shouldn't be hearing anyone, especially not at this hour. 

He’s careful as he approaches, peering through the thick forest. From here, he can see someone in the center of his camp, looking through the leather backpack he had left. They appear to be alone, talking to themselves. Jakob only has his knife on him, his bow and quiver left near his extinguished campfire, He wasn’t ignorant enough to leave his goods completely exposed, most of the more valuable items tucked away in the surrounding brush, but having someone snooping around isn’t exactly a good sign.

The elf moves to pull his dagger from its sheath, but hesitates. He doesn’t know who they are or what they are capable of, or if they even deserve his ire. His calloused fingers twitch before wrapping around the antler hilt of the knife. He’s pressed to admit he’d be more likely to kill them if he just had his bow on him. The distance would be safer and easier for a multitude of reasons, but it wouldn’t be fair of him- even if drawing attention to himself by speaking to them could be disastrous.

“Shh-ouldn’t touch th-ings. That. Aren’t, yours.”

The elf is comically short for his blood, just over five feet tall. He’s thin and tired looking, with dark eyes and bags beneath them. His hair is in a loose braid with a few choppy fringes of hair that frame his sharp features. A pair of antlers branch near his temples, more tree-like than belonging to a creature. Jakob’s wearing his resting clothes, but even now he wears her scarf. It rests loosely around his collar, appearing well used and loved. From where the stranger is standing, they can’t see the knife he’s holding at his side. 

[astroboots]

RED FLAGS ║ PART 4

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader (hints of Marc Spector x female reader)

Summary: Steven disappears and you fall into a rabbit hole trying to decode Marc’s secret message. Or alternatively: Marc needs to communicate better. 

Rating: really gratuitous and detailed sex, writers are clearly super horny.

Warning/content: anxiety, spiraling thoughts, worrying about safety of a partner, clumsy sex-shanigans, the writers being way too obsessed with how freakin' beautiful Steven is.

Word Count: 8.1k

Series Masterlist | Astroboot's Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss' Masterlist

[PREVIOUS] - [NEXT]

You can’t believe Steven’s gone.

Flinging the quilt aside, you leap out of bed and dash into the loo. Against all logic, you’re hoping that he’ll be standing in front of the sink with a  spare toothbrush in his mouth, ready to wish you good morning through a frothy toothpaste smile. 

He’s not. 

There’s no one here but you. 

Your home is a cramped studio flat with barely enough space for a bed, small sitting area, and an even smaller kitchenette. If Steven were still here, he’d be in plain sight, but somehow you find yourself turning cushions like some kind of madwoman. Inspecting every corner of the room, as if Steven might be hiding behind your washing machine like a goddamn leprechaun. 

There’s nothing. No note left on your kitchen counter. No clothing left behind. No promised breakfast. There’s not even a text message on your phone letting you know that he had to leave early for work. 

With shaky fingers and your heart beating painfully loud in your ears, it takes you three tries to unlock your phone and select Steven from the list of contacts. You lift the phone to your ear and hold your breath, staring blindly at the mess you’ve made of your flat as it rings and rings and rings.

Finally, there’s a click and then Steven’s cheerful voice in your ear, and for the briefest of seconds, relief rushes through your veins. 

“Hiya, this is Steven. I’m not in right now, but leave me a message, and I’ll ring you back as soon as I can. Laters, Gators.” 

You stare at the phone in disbelief. Bile rises until you can taste it, sharp and burning, on your tongue. 

Steven going missing out of the blue on you is hardly novel, but his random disappearances have never made you feel like this before. Experience dictates that Steven will come back safe and sound in a day or two (or a week or two). Right now, however, that knowledge does nothing to dull the panic clawing at your throat, and it takes you a minute before you realise why this is so much worse than all the times that have come before. 

In the past, the worst case scenario was that he’d ghosted you. One more wanker who’d decided to dump you without so much as a courtesy text. But now you know better. Steven wouldn’t do that. He’s not disappearing on you by choice. He’s gone because someone else, Marc has taken over. And taken him away.

Now, you’re pacing the length of your flat, nearly in tears, the worst case scenario something you cannot even begin to fathom. 

For all you know, this Marc person has decided that you’ve gotten too close to the truth. Maybe he came to the conclusion that it’s too dangerous to have you around Steven. Maybe, last night was the last time you’ll ever get to see him. 

Back and forth you go across the room, wearing down the carpet pile as your mind spirals with worry. You pop the band on your old wristwatch in and out of place as you go, nails digging into your wrist as you tug at it until you slip and the metal pin jabs your wrist. 

Then you spot it: the writing on your hand. The long string of numbers, ten digits in all, that Marc had written on the centre of your palm last night. 

In a mad scramble, you dig up a notebook and quickly copy them down for safekeeping. You spend the rest of the day trying to decipher their meaning. 

Your first thought is that it’s a phone number, but when you try dialling it, you get an automated message that no such number exists. 

Your next theory is that the numbers might be coordinates. But when you attempt to plot them using an online grid reference finder, the results are meaningless. Depending on how you input the digits they point you to a handful of different locations—China, Romania, the middle of the Celtic Sea—none of which mean anything to you. The majority of the number combinations you try do not exist at any known map locations.

Panicked by your failure, your mind scrambles for other possible explanations. Thinking that it might be a mathematical equation or a password of some kind, you pull out your calculator and another notebook, trying to make any sort of sense of the only hint you've been given.

By the time you leave for work Monday morning, your desk is starting to look like a landfill. The wooden surface is littered with crumpled up paper and sticky-notes filled with nonsensical scribbles of numbers and letters that were the results of randomly adding, subtracting and dividing the ten numbers on your hand. If anyone walked in on your flat, they would think you’re a particularly unhinged conspiracy theorist. 

In all fairness, they wouldn’t be too far off, because you’re beginning to feel a bit like one. Haring off on one pointless wild goose chase after another, halfway to plotting out your suspicions on the wall with pins and string.

More days go by, and you spend every waking moment (and many moments you should be sleeping) trying to solve the mystery. It becomes a consuming obsession. You’re distracted both at home and at work, your poor coworkers forced to pick up the slack while your mind stays firmly on the puzzle of Steven.

Your lack of sleep leads to increasingly wild theories. You’re convinced that those ten digits are somehow the key to everything. An unfounded belief based on nothing but your own desperate hope that if you manage to crack the code, a congratulation banner and confetti will fall from the sky with a big bow-wrapped present containing Steven as the final prize. 

Unfortunately, you’re not the best at puzzles, and the galling irony is that the most qualified person to solve this riddle is the very same person you’re desperately missing. 

By the time you leave work on Thursday, you’re frustrated, exhausted from sustaining a near-frantic level of worry, and no closer to finding a solution than you were at the start. Steven is still out there somewhere, and you decide that you’ve waited long enough. Maybe even too long. He could have had his kidney harvested and be half-dead in an alley for all you know. Hurt and dying, while you’ve wasted time grasping at straws.

You’ve decided to finally file a missing person’s report with the police when you exit the tube to find a new text notification on your phone.

+x xxx xxx xxxx He’s safe.

You stare at the message for a long time, too overcome with relief to immediately make the connection between the numbers on your hand and your phone screen. When the epiphany hits, you feel like the dumbest person alive. Ten numbers… It wasn’t a puzzle or some obscure treasure hunt to lead you to Steven. It’s Marc’s bloody mobile number. It’s an American mobile number and he didn’t include the fucking country code 

He’s safe. Steven’s safe. 

Wiping what is close to the beginning of tears on your sleeve, you pull the phone closer and type out a message in reply. 

You Is Steven okay? Where is he? 

There’s no answer. 

Not that evening or the day after. And the relief you felt at first slowly drains away.  

The text is a consolation prize. It’s not Steven wrapped with a bow and wrapping paper. This is not the answer you needed, but, you try to remind yourself, at least it’s something. 

Steven is safe. 

You repeat it like a mantra in your head, and it gives you some comfort… for a while. Soon it's overtaken by an intrusive voice asking a question that you don’t want to hear. 

But what if he isn’t?

Any residual consolation you were feeling gives way, and anxiety overwhelms you as you imagine all the terrible scenarios that could have befallen Steven, each more horrifying and improbable than the last. 

You can't shake the paranoia that the matching numbers are just a coincidence. There's nothing in the text itself that says it’s from Marc. Or about Steven. It could just as easily be a timely telephone scam. 

Is there anyone who hasn’t received a random automated call informing them that someone they know has been in a car accident? There are thousands of these calls a day in the UK, scammers hoping to find some dimwit waiting for a call from a loved one. 

Maybe today, you’re the dimwit. 

You can count the hours of sleep you’ve gotten since Steven disappeared on one hand. 

You need to sleep, but even as exhausted as you are, you just can’t. Instead, you're having a staring competition with your ceiling, and so far you’re winning. 

You’re worrying yet again about Steven. You wonder where he is. If he’s really safe. What he—or Marc—has been doing all this time.

A full week has gone by, and you still haven’t heard anything from Steven himself. You haven’t had any further communication from the unknown number that may or may not be Marc either. 

Marc. 

Rolling onto your side, you stare off into the darkness of your flat. 

The concept of Marc is still an enigma to you. As far as you can tell, he’s entirely distinct from Steven. Not only are his mannerisms different, but he calls himself by another name and talks about Steven as if they’re separate people. 

There is another person inside of Steven that is markedly not Steven. 

In the complete darkness of your flat, your sleep deprived brain tries to make sense of what that actually means, but you can’t. There’s so much you don’t know.

Rolling back across the bed the other way, you reach for your phone. 

Midnight is not the ideal time to do research, but what does it matter? You’re not likely to sleep regardless. 

Your first pit stop is Google, but that does you no favours. As always, no matter what symptoms you put into the search bar, WebMD is determined to convince you that it’s cancer. 

Instead, you end up trawling through NHS’ homepage well past midnight, ending up in a wormhole of health issues until you land on the symptoms for Dissociative Identity Disorder: 

They may feel the presence of other identities, each with their own names, voices, personal histories and mannerisms.

The main symptoms of DID are:

» memory gaps about everyday events and personal information

» having several distinct identities

And there it is, written in plain Arial font. The conclusion you’ve been trying not to jump to. The inescapable reality behind all those red flags Steven’s been waving in front of your nose from the very start. 

You stare at the words on the page, reading and re-reading them. You don’t know what to think or how you feel about your discovery. The only thing you do know is that you are wholly unqualified to handle any of this. 

As far as you know, you've never met anyone—anyone else?—with DID. Your only previous exposure to the disorder has been through movies like Psycho, Split, Basic Instinct… Movies that depict the character with a mental health condition as a psychotic murderer or one in the making with sensationalist glee. 

You don’t believe that of course. You know better than to expect sensitive and accurate representation from Hollywood blockbusters. That’s a bit like reading The Sun and expecting truthful and unbiased news reports.

The problem is that knowing all of this doesn’t solve anything.

All you do know is that you miss Steven. You’re scared—terrified for him—and want him back with you. 

Fuck Marc for taking him away.

The devil himself must have heard you, his ears burning. Your phone pings out in the silence at that moment, interrupting your thoughts. The screen flashes, and it takes you a moment to adjust to the sudden brightness before you can read the incoming message. 

+x xxx xxx xxxx Steven will be back tomorrow. Don’t mention me. 

You stare at the phone as you reread the text once and then again. There’s no ambiguity this time; there can’t possibly be. 

Back. 

Steven. 

Steven is coming back to you. 

You barely have time to rejoice over the fact before those last three words hit you. Their meaning settles heavily in your gut, burning at the lining of your stomach until you think you might be sick all over your duvet.  

It’s a warning. The wolf is at your door. 

And just like that, the curtain’s pulled back, and you see Steven’s disappearance for what it is: a sick display of the power Marc holds over him. Over you both. A demonstration of how your life with Steven continues only at his whim. Those three words are an order and a stomach churning threat all in one. 

Mention Marc, reveal his existence to Steven, and he will take Steven from you.

For the first time, you understand why Steven has always been alone, and anger burns in your blood. Steven is being held hostage in his own body, and he doesn’t even know it. And you’re being blackmailed into lying to the man you love. 

You want to tell Steven the truth immediately. You want to scream it from the bloody rooftops. 

But you don’t want to lose him.

Selfish as it may be, you want to keep Steven in your life for as long as you can. At the very least, if you’re together, maybe you can protect him from Marc. Make sure he’s safe.

Isn’t that better than telling Steven the whole truth only to have Marc take him away from you? The only thing that would achieve is to relegate Steven back to a life of loneliness.

No. It wouldn’t do any good to tell Steven now. You can’t go in blindly when Marc has such a strong upper hand. You need more information, a plan, or at least some kind of strategy before you risk doing anything that might result in Steven being spirited away from you again. 

With your ear pressed to your pillow, you stare at the text, struggling to keep your eyes open. You turn the brightness up so far that it’s painful to look at, blinking away sleep until you’re unable to fight it anymore. 

A knock on the door wakes you. 

Squinting one eye open, you find the room flooded with light, bright and blinding. Your mouth tastes like harsh cotton, and your throat is sore when you swallow. 

You don’t know when you fell asleep last night, but it’s five to eight now according to your alarm clock. Your shoulders are stiff and aching, body protesting the lack of rest.

Sleep concussed as you are, you fumble towards the door, relying on memory rather than sight to navigate your surroundings. You don’t even make it to the middle of the room before you trip over your ottoman. 

Pain shoots out from the nub of your toe, and you barely manage to stop yourself from face planting. With a curse and a pending bruise forming on your foot, you hobble the rest of the way towards your door and unlock it. In your struggle, you don’t even bother to check the peephole to see who is at your door. 

You slide the door open, scarcely paying attention. At first, all you see is a much-too-loud novelty print and flowers wrapped in cellophane in the open doorway. Your brain stalls for several heartbeats, before you drag your eyes upwards. 

It’s Steven.

Sporting messy hair and an ill-fitting jumper, at least two sizes too large, he’s standing in front of you, hugging a fresh bouquet of flowers to his chest. 

“Hiya,” he greets you with a small wave of his free hand, a besotted smile on his face as though everything in his world is just as it should be. 

You blink. For a second, everything slows. You’re not sure if you’re ready to allow yourself to believe that this is real. If this is a dream, the disappointment of waking up with him not here will break you. 

“I got us some breakfast,” Steven says and steps inside, clumsily closing the door behind him with the side of his shoulder, “and there were these tulips at Sainsburys. Pink, your favourite.” 

He's here. Steven's actually here.

His face beams with pride as he looks up at you. “I know you said to stop getting flowers unless there’s an actual special occasion, but I thought spending the morning together after our first official sleepover is pretty special, and more importantly–” 

Your stomach drops. 

He doesn’t know. Steven clearly still thinks it’s the morning after. Doesn’t realise that a whole week has gone by since he spent the night here. 

Putting the flowers down on your kitchen counter, he turns to face you, holding up a wax paper bag with a delighted smile. 

“Et voilà! Croissants au chocolat for the lady. I’ll just pop them in the microwave real quick—I know you like them hot—and then I’ll make us some tea, yeah?” 

Steven is in your home, standing in the kitchen, smiling at you and spoiling you rotten, like he hadn't just disappeared off the face of the earth for a week. Because as far as Steven's aware, he’s been here with you all night after falling asleep watching animal documentaries. 

Right now, in front of you, he’s acting out the morning-after the two of you were supposed to have but a week too late, making you the breakfast he promised.

Your throat closes, and a liquid burn rises in your chest, making it hard to breathe. You can feel the threat of tears behind your eyes.

“Hey, is everything okay?” Steven drops the bag of croissants onto the counter and rushes over to you. “Did something happen while I was gone?” 

“No. I just–” You take a shaky breath, trying to collect yourself. 

Breaking down now won’t do either of you any good. You can’t tell him what’s wrong. Not without risking him being taken away forever. 

“I’m happy you’re here," you say, trying to fake a smile. 

You’re a rubbish liar. Always have been. It’s no surprise that Steven doesn’t buy it for a second. 

"Those are obviously not happy tears, love. What's going on? Have I done something wrong?"

His hands draw up to cup your face, one thumb skimming gently over the single tear that’s escaped onto your cheek. He tilts your chin up until you meet his gaze, and it’s like something clicks behind those sharp eyes. 

"It's because I wasn't here when you woke up, isn't it?" he asks gently.

You bite your lip. It’s such an oversimplification of what’s happened, but you don’t know how else to explain it to him, so you nod. A half-truth at best, but at least it’s only a lie by omission.

"’Course it is,” he soothes. “That would bother anyone, yeah?"

You let yourself collapse against him, hugging him tight around the middle as you bury your face in his chest. He lets out a quiet oof, but you refuse to let go and despite his obvious physical discomfort, Steven doesn't protest. He wraps his arms reassuringly around you, blanketing himself around you in comforting warmth.

“I’m sorry, I should have left a note. Don’t know why I didn’t. I was so sleep deprived that I don’t even remember leaving this morning. I must’ve thought it was only going to take a second, but the next thing I know, I’m in the dairy aisle and this lady with a stroller is looking at me funny."  

One large, gentle hand smooths over your shirt at the small of your back, and you shiver pleasantly at the warmth of the doting touch.

"I'm sorry," he says again, voice soft, "I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

Closing your eyes, you take a second to let the comfort of his words and his arms around you seep in. You tilt your head upwards, pressing your nose to the hollow dip of his throat, right below his Adam's apple. He smells faintly of stale air and alcohol, covered up by the unfamiliar scent of cheap hotel soap. Your chest squeezes painfully at the reminder of his double life, one that neither of you know the details of. 

Even with Steven here in your arms, you cannot escape the reality that you’ll always have to share him with something you cannot understand. 

You don't move, instead, you press your mouth to that same spot on his throat, feeling his pulse beat steadily against your lips. 

He's here, the beat says. He's safe, he's alive. 

Nuzzling into the delicate skin, you’re rewarded with a keen gasp that makes the small hairs on your neck rise. His fingers flex against your waist with that familiar trademark hesitation, before settling there, hardly even resting against you. 

After all this time, it’s like he’s still scared you’re going to tell him no. As if your relationship is some kind of practical joke on him, and if he reaches for you first, you’ll laugh in his face. 

He was too afraid to mention the first night in case you’d get upset. He thought you were going to break up with him when you said you two needed to talk. It’s almost funny in a macabre sort of way that Steven doesn’t realise just how deep you’re in it over him. If he only knew of the sleepless nights you’ve suffered. How you’ve been sick to your stomach over missing him. Willing to bargain with the devil just to get to keep him. 

You kiss him again, trying to use his closeness to drown out all the things you can’t say. Pressing your lips to that sweet little spot where his jaw meets his throat. You do your best to savour the hint of stubble that tickles against your bottom lip. 

Steven shivers and then pulls back slightly, ducking his head to close the distance between your lips. A barely there touch, then Steven’s thumb catches behind your ear, timidly guiding you closer. 

That one kiss continues into several small chaste kisses, each press of his lips soft and devoted like he’s thanking you for letting him. It’s so pure, the kind of kisses that have your toes curling in delight and your ears tingling. But it’s restrained in a way that you’ve not got the patience for right now. 

Not after a whole week of his absence. Not when you’ve spent those seven days unsure if you would ever get to see him again. You want so much more than this. Can’t bear the fraction of a moment when his lips are not on yours when he breaks up his kisses to allow you to catch your breath. 

You want all of him all at once.

Your hand clutches at the collar of his shirt, pulling him in closer. His breath stutters, mouth parting slightly, and you take the opportunity to lick over the swell of his bottom lip before you bite down, trying to be gentle. 

It must be the reassurance Steven needs, because he groans into your mouth, his grip on you tightening. His hands dig into the plump flesh above your hips, kneading it with strong fingers, and there it is, that eagerness and hunger for you that you’re heedlessly in love with. The duality of Steven Grant. It's desperate, sweet and almost aggressive. One hand moves to grip the base of your neck, pulling you flush against him, chest to chest, eliminating the last of the physical distance between you.

It’s exactly what you need, and for a long, hot, breathless moment, you’re not thinking of anything except him. When he finally breaks off the kiss, you lean after him, chasing his lips. 

“Bed?” he asks, the word a low rasp against your seeking mouth. 

You nod eagerly and grab for him, recapturing his lips and giving him a tug in the right direction.

It’s clumsy and desperate as you let Steven manoeuvre the two of you through your flat. You’re blindly walking backwards, guided only by Steven’s outstretched hand fumbling against the surfaces of the wall to make sure you don’t bump into furniture. 

You kiss him like you’ve been held under water, deprived of air and his beautiful mouth is oxygen filling your lungs. Every step is an uncoordinated mess that nearly has you tipping over if it wasn’t for Steven holding you upright. It’d be far easier if you only let go. Would only take seconds in your tiny flat to get from the kitchen to the bed. But you’re not willing and Steven is only happy to indulge you. 

His mouth is warm and slick, hands large and firm. The warmth of his body against yours, comforting and alive. It’s all you can focus on as you forget your surroundings. Until something heavy and blunt pushes back against the inside of your calf. 

The surprise makes you lose your balance. You fall backwards, the whole room tilting as you’re sent sprawling. When things stop moving, you find yourself flat on your back, less than half a foot away from your bed. You’re still staring up at Steven’s shocked face and outstretched hands when you realise what (literally) hit you. 

Bloody cockblocking ottoman. 

The pitched dark hunger disappears from those brown eyes in an instant. Instead they’ve gone round and doelike with concern as Steven rushes forward, falling to his knees in front of you, and draws your leg into his lap.

“I’m so sorry. I should’ve been more careful and watched where we were going. Bloody stupid of me, I practically pushed you. Are you hurt?”

“It’s fine, Steven. I’m fine. You didn’t push me. It’s alright,” you tell him. 

But his eyes are already darting over your lower leg, and his hands quickly follow, gingerly rubbing your ankle and feeling up over your calf with great care, making your skin prickles under his fingers.  It’s a credible imitation of Florence Nightingale, but as sweet as it is to have Steven tend to you, it's not the sort of attention you want from him right now.

"Leave off the fussing, please?" you ask him softly. 

“Should we–maybe I should get you on the bed yeah? You might be hurt and–”

Leaning up, you place kisses on his jaw, his cheeks, the swell of his lip, hoping to distract him. "I need you, Steven. Don't stop. I don't want to stop right now."

His eyes are still wide and worried, as his hand smooths over the bend of your knee in comfort. “You’re sure you're alright? That I didn’t hurt you?”

“I’m sure.” You grab his collar and lean back, dragging him on top of you as you lie back onto the floor.  

Steven follows, letting you pull him down without a hint of resistance, and clambering forward until he’s completely above you. His large frame looms over yours on the floor, thick thighs straddling your waist, and you’re reminded all over again that one of your favourite facets of Steven is how cooperative he is. Always so eager to please you, and you have zero compunction about taking advantage.

“Take this off,” you order, tugging at his jumper impatiently. 

He nods hastily. “Right, right.” 

Ever so good at following your orders, Steven’s hand immediately reaches for the bottom of the garment. He grabs the hem and pulls, revealing a tantalising sliver of golden skin above the waistband of his trousers. You’re so focused on the slowly widening swath of his bare stomach, that it’s not until he pauses, a clumsy snarl of fabric tangled around his head and shoulders, that you realise he’s attempted to take off his jumper and the shirt beneath all in one go and gotten himself stuck. 

Honestly, you’re not even surprised. On any other occasion, you’d be smiling at his adorable ridiculousness, but it's been a week. One hundred and sixty-eight endless hours since you’ve gotten to hold him and touch him like this—uncertain if you’d ever get to—and now each additional second of delay feels like an eternity.

Finally, with another sloppy tug and an impatient groan, the tangled mess of clothing gives, and Steven’s bare-chested on top of you. He’s all strong, sleek muscles, as gorgeous and well-defined as those cut from marble on statues of Greek deities displayed in the very same museums that Steven himself tends to. 

It should’ve been obvious from the start. You want to burst out in laughter at your own naivety. Why on earth would a man who works at a gift shop and spends his free time with his nose buried in dusty old books have a body like this? How has Steven never questioned his own physique? Does he think that all men just wake up looking like this without any effort? 

The sun from the window shines soft over his shoulder and arms. The thin gold chain dangles from his long neck, glistening in the light. He is all warm and golden, soft for your hands to freely wander over the bare expanse of his skin. 

Your hand cups the back of his neck, teasing at those ridiculously soft curls with your fingers, before scraping the base of his scalp with the gentlest strength. You’re marvelling at how prettily his eyelashes flutter and the way he sighs with a blissful shiver makes you smile. 

Sliding down, your hand roams over the carved muscle of his shoulder blade, over his back, pressing a line of soft kisses on the column of his neck. They flex under your touch, as Steven keens softly and you take comfort in the fact that if there was ever proof that Steven is here with you, it’s this. The heavy weight of him on top of you. The fast beating pulse of his throat under your lips. The feel of him hardening against your belly. 

Reaching for his belt, you fumble with the buckle until it finally gives with a metallic clank. Then you shove one greedy hand under the loose waistband of his trousers, slipping it into his underwear. 

He’s hot and hard. Flesh smooth to your touch. Your fingers curl around the thick girth, giving him a firm, indulgent stroke, from base to blunt tip, tracing every ridge. Steven gasps and shudders at your touch, slumping forward like he’s unable to support his own weight and pressing his forehead into your collarbone with a quiet whine. 

You close your eyes at the sound of it, feeling him all around you. 

This is what you’ve been missing, what you’ve been desperately needing, all week. Immersing yourself in the moment—in him—as fully as possible, you draw in a deep breath and give him another stroke just to hear him make that noise again. You let his reassuring presence wash over you, try to let it convince you that he’s really here. 

Wherever he’s been this last week, he’s here, right now, with you.

Then suddenly he’s not. 

Out of nowhere, the protective weight and warmth of him is rising away. Alarm crowds your senses, and in a moment of instinctual panic, your hand shoots up, grabbing his arm. 

"Don't go!"

You open your eyes to find Steven still right there next to you. He's frozen with one hand outstretched above the open drawer of your nightstand, a look of shocked surprise on his face.  

Oh God. He wasn’t going anywhere at all, he was just getting a condom. 

Your cheeks flush with embarrassed heat at the realisation.

"Sorry," you mumble, and you duck your chin, "I just–" You don't know how to explain away your massive overreaction, and guilt claws even deeper into your chest as you find yourself offering up yet another half-lie.

"I had a nightmare that you left. Disappeared, and I couldn’t find you.” 

You can’t believe it’s your own voice that you’re hearing. It sounds so small. Ugly in its neediness. If this was any other man, you’re sure they’d be running for the hills by now. It’s a miracle Steven hasn’t. “It’s silly. Sorry.”

Steven frowns with sympathy, worry etched all around his beautiful eyes. "You don’t have to be sorry, love." He closes the drawer, condom in hand. Then he's leaning back down to press his lips to your hairline. “It’s not silly.”

"But hey, listen,” he murmurs, resting his forehead briefly against yours. “I’m not going anywhere, am I? No. Not except maybe down to the shops."

One warm hand comes to cup your face, and he’s looking at you with so much sincerity that it takes your breath away.

"I would never leave you. Never. Not ever, I swear. Not so long as you’ll have me.” He says it with such utter conviction that pain washes over you anew. 

Because it’s not really up to Steven, is it? He may not be able to stay with you, regardless of what he wants.

“You don’t know that." 

The unfairness of the situation, his powerlessness over his own life, has tears pushing hot behind your eyes.

“Then I'll come back, simple as that. No matter what happens. Even if the bloody sky falls down. Even if a fleet of flying saucers brings an army of funny little green men straight out of Mars Attacks to invade the earth tomorrow, I'll still come back to you. Always, alright? I'll always come back to you.”

The lump still sits heavily in your throat, but you choke out an amused laugh at the imagery Steven draws for you. He smiles victoriously in return. It lights the whole room, and you reach for him again, wrapping your arms around his neck because you need to pull him close and kiss him. 

In this moment, you allow yourself to believe. Against all flashing red signs pointing otherwise, you choose to believe that he will keep this promise. That whatever circumstances arise, even if Marc takes him away again, Steven will always come back to you. 

“Okay,” you say, with a smile stretching wide across your lips, and you can feel the dark weight lifting as you nod at him. 

Steven mirrors your smile, returning your kiss and that’s all it takes before the last morsel of doubt lifts. 

His hands reach down, shimmying his trousers down his ample hips. You help him, hooking your thumb at the hem to drag them down the rest of the way, and he kicks them off his ankle. 

Then finally, the warmth of his bare thighs is against yours, and you both gasp. It’s fucking bliss to feel him like this.  Naked and warm, pressed up against every inch of you, his weight holding you down against the floor, the length of him lying hard and heavy against your belly. 

He anchors himself on one elbow, as he rips the foil wrapper, lifting off of you slightly. 

You miss the contact immediately. It’s like the week apart has left you even more attuned to him, hyper-aware of all the places you’re no longer touching. You watch impatiently as he turns to one side just enough to give himself room, rolling the condom down over his cock with gratifying speed. 

His hands are steady, his movements sure, nothing like that first night where both of you struggled to make sense of the stubborn rubber in the near-dark of his flat. By now, the two of you have done this often enough that Steven knows every step of the routine like the back of his hand, clumsy eagerness replaced by practised ease. 

Anticipation and longing beat loud in your chest at the sight of him, eyes dark, cock in hand as he positions himself at your entrance. You reach for him, unable to stand the distance between the two of you, and he smiles fondly at you and leans down obligingly, resting his bodyweight on top of yours like a heavy blanket. 

It’s fucking perfect. Exactly what you need, and your body opens for him, knees falling outward, hips canting up, heels digging into the floor as you arch up, trying to press yourself closer.

He grinds forward, the underside of his cock sliding slick and wet over your folds. Pleasure rises hot and overwhelming between your thighs at the stimulation, and an unflattering high-pitched noise escapes from the corner of your lungs. It’s like your whole body is strung on a thin line of thread. Overwhelmed by the barest contact after a week of having none. You’re not sure how you’re going to survive having him inside you when this already feels like so much. You wonder if he feels it too.

Opening your eyes, you see the boyish grin on his face, radiating with pride. He does it again, angling his hips to thrust up as the blunt head of his cock glides wetly over your clit and oh fucking– 

Your hips jerk up involuntarily, pressing harder against him, and Steven gasps, eyes going wide and dark, that teasing grin wiped right off his face. 

“Fuck, Steven–God. I need–” Your fingers dig into the meat of his shoulders, and you don’t know what you’re trying to say—not sure if you want him to stop or do it again—but it doesn’t matter. You never get to finish the rest of your sentence. 

The thick ridge of his cock slips wetly inside you, and the sweet stretch of him, white and blinding, crowds out every other thought in your head. Your cunt squeezes around him at the thick intrusion, and you both moan at the tight pressure. 

He halts, stilling inside you, and dear fucking god, he’s not even all the way in.  

“God, love. You’re squeezing me so tight,” Steven gasps out, “Feels bloody amazing.” The words are soft, but there’s a clear strain in his voice, and his arms are trembling at your sides from the exertion of keeping still. 

He still doesn’t move, and you’re not sure if he needs a moment or is trying to give you one. “I feel like I'm going to lose my mind if I can't be all the way inside you. Can I–”

He hovers above you, and you can feel his cock jerking and straining against you, the only part of his body he can’t fully control. You can’t help the way your body clenches and shivers in response, and he groans, resting his forehead against yours for a long moment as you pant heavily against each other’s lips. 

“Is it alright for me to keep going?” he asks, eventually. 

You try to say yes, but all that comes out is a breathless, choked out sob, as you nod at him frantically. 

It’s all Steven needs. His hips push forward, pressing the rest of the way into you in one long, smooth stroke. The feeling is electric, robbing you of the ability to process anything except the way he fills you, stretching you out as he buries every inch of himself inside you. You can’t think. Can barely breathe. He’s embedded so deeply that there’s no space left in your lungs.

After a long moment, he starts to pull out just as slowly, his eyes fixed on yours. The pace is maddening, a thick, glacial drag that makes you feel every gorgeous inch of him. It leaves you gasping and writhing under him as he continues to retreat until only the tip still rests inside of you. 

Then he does it all again.

He’s so different when he’s like this. His eyes focused, any trace of timidness gone. Everything else, all his usual hesitation and fear and doubt, seems to fade away when he’s inside you.  It’s like you’re the only thing in his world—you and the need to make you feel good. 

Drawing two of his fingers to his mouth, he slides them between his plush lips, and you can see his tongue tracing around them before he pulls them out again, glistening with spit for you. It’s entirely unnecessary. You’re so wet it’s leaking down the length of him and onto the inside of your thighs. But the sight makes your heart race all the same. 

Steven reaches down between your bodies, hand resting above the apex of your thighs where his cock is still nestled inside you. His fingers slide, ever so gently over the slippery, sensitive flesh where you’re stretched wide around him.

“Feel that, love?” he breathes into your open mouth, “I’m right here. You’ve got me.”

His thumb catches at your clit as he gently presses down, and it has you spasming from the sharp pleasure. He gasps, jerking slightly above you, but doesn’t stop. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” He continues to draws small, persistent circles over and over your clit that squeezes the very air out of your lungs, replacing everything, with a needy heat. 

Your eyes squeeze shut at the sensation. Tears stinging in the corner of your lids. 

It’s still not enough. You want more of him. Need to get closer. 

You press your heels hard against the floor, trying to get better leverage, and grip frantically at his back. Nails biting into his skin, you claw at his shoulder blades as though you’re trying to dig your way in so deep that he’ll never be able to tear himself away from you again. It’s selfish, and you know it must be hurting him, but you can’t seem to be able to stop yourself.

Steven doesn’t stop you either. It’s like he knows that you still need more, and he rolls his hips into you, thrusting deep. His hand grips at the underside of your knees, pulling your legs to wrap them around his waist to let you squeeze your thighs around him, heels digging into the curve of his ass. 

It feels like another way of telling you he’s here. Yours to use. Yours to have. Just… yours.

“Never gonna leave,” he whispers into your ear, pressing a soft kiss to the lobe as if to seal his promise. 

Right now you don’t care if it’s a promise that he might not be able to keep. Not when pleasure, bright and blistering, is surging through you with every roll of his hips. It’s too much, bordering on unbearable. You can’t make out what he’s saying anymore, just soft murmurs and vague shushing. 

It doesn’t matter, because his body is telling you all you need to know. 

Because for all of Steven’s calm and reassuring words, his actions don’t match. His actions are telling you a different story—a more desperate one—full of grasping hands, deep urgent thrusts, and bitten-off gasps. It’s like his body knows how long you’ve been apart and what it’s been missing, even if his mind doesn’t.

His hand palms at your ribs, fingers digging deep crevices in your flesh, holding you tight like he means never to let go. 

Mine, it says. Possessive and hungry. 

His mouth, for all its loving dulcet tones and cooing, never seems to leave your skin for long, sliding over your throat and jaw as if magnetised.

Yours, it promises, just as certainly.

He thrusts inside you, his hands find the bare backs of your thighs as he hooks one leg over his arm, and the new angle has him sliding in impossibly deep until it knocks the air out of your ribs. For a long blissful moment, you swear your whole chest cage is going to collapse.

His cock hits somewhere earth-shattering, and you arch up off the floor, curling into him with a shivering gasp. Heat crackles through every limb, swirling and swelling, sweet and insistent in anticipation of your climax.  It settles deep in your belly, raw and heavy, soothed only by each insistent thrust.

He’s so deep you swear you feel him everywhere, buried inside you like he’s trying to stake a claim and never leave. 

You hope he never does. 

Pushing your hips up to him, you chase the feeling of him hitting that perfect spot, as the warm heat of it flutters in your stomach with each deep stroke. It won’t take much, you’re almost there– 

But you don’t want this to end. Not yet. You want to keep Steven right here inside of you for as long as you possibly can. 

You try to relax the tension in your legs, try to push your hips back down to stave it off. But it’s no good, Steven’s hands are still on you, manhandling you into a position where you can’t escape the perfect, relentless press of his cock inside you.

Not yet, not yet, not yet…

But it’s already there, at the tip of your fingers, so close you can taste it on your tongue. A promise of rapture, whether you want it to or not, and you want to scream and cry and fight the sensation that taunts you as it hangs there. But you can’t seem to do any of those things. It’s like you’ve lost control of your body, your hips lock tight, your throat feels tight and– fuck fuck, you’re– 

“Steven, please. Not yet, I’m–”  Your eyes squeeze shut, hands clawing at the carpet, searching for something to ground yourself with. 

“I’m right here, love,” he murmurs, hand reaching for yours until he finds it and pins it next to your head. He clasps your hand tightly in his, weaving each one of his fingers between yours. “Right here. It’s alright. Let go for me.” 

That’s all it takes. The floor underneath gives under, opening up and swallowing you whole. You feel like you’re floating and falling all at once as you clamour for Steven and hold him close as you fall through the cracks off the edge of the earth. 

Your legs latch around the middle of his waist as you wring out every ounce and drop of the sensation you can. It rushes through you, ripe and overfull, filling every strand of every vein. You’re disorientated, the world narrowing into nothingness. The only thing that still exists is Steven. 

All you can hear is the way his breath is stuttering with effort. 

Can feel the way his even pace falters. Can see the way his brows knit in concentration, his face painted with bliss. 

God, he’s beautiful like this. 

Steven comes with a broken groan. 

It’s so much and so deep and somehow you still want more. Want the feel of him raw and bare inside. Even that thin separation of not even a millimetre of rubber is too great of a separator for you to bear right now. All you want is to feel him spill himself inside you, thick and warm. 

His body goes still and rigid, and then the strength in him gives under, nearly collapsing over you. He stops himself at the last second with a slam of his fist on the floor next to you, bent arms trembling with strain in an effort to keep himself upright. 

It’s a sweet and considerate gesture. He doesn’t want to flatten you with his weight. It’s also completely unnecessary because there’s nothing you want more in this moment. 

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull him down the rest of the way. It doesn’t take much of your strength, his elbow gives in and bends further, until he’s flush against you, sweaty and heavy limbs entangling with yours. 

Despite the unbearable stickiness and heat from your exertion, Steven holds you, chest still heaving against yours. His thin necklace slips delicately down over your collarbone, cool where it rests against your overheated skin. The golden pendant is pressed intimately between your breast and his chest.

The morning sun washes over everything inside your flat in a golden hue. Even the dull white of your walls turns into something warm and amber. The only sound permeating the peace is the sound of morning traffic outside. A busted old moped races down the street. Children shouting over a game of tag. The honking of cars trying to get somewhere fast. Outside it is loud, hectic and chaotic. 

But right here, inside the safe bubble of your tiny flat, Steven is warm and heavy over you, the beat of his heart drumming against your chest in a steady pace. 

“Can we stay like this for a while?” you ask. 

He kisses your forehead, uncaring of the way your skin is sticky with sweat, and you can feel the smile on his lips as he squeezes your hand firmly in his. 

“‘Course we can, love. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

~ CONTINUE ~

Once again thanks for everyone coming along for this ride. We're hoping to be posting this on a semi-regular schedule of every two weeks. For anyone who wants to be tagged please sign up to the tag list linked on the series masterlist.

We are beyond grateful for all the comments, reblogs and likes and just interest on this series, and while I can be a bit rubbish at replying sometimes, please know that your words and support inspires us to keep going with this series. 🥰

Dedication & Credits:

It takes a village huh, guys?

All my broken dishes to @the-ginger-hedge-witch because when I told her I wanted Steven to get to rawdog it, she went, "absolutely not, not when Marc is out there whoring around for all we know." (I may or may not be rephrasing but that was the sentiment).

To @radiowallet for listening to my insane and uninformed ramblings about Moon Knight and for giving me a firm guide and steering on how to write our beloved Moon Boys and making sure that everything tracks.

To @write-and-buried for inspiring me with the most absolutely deranged filthy suggestions when my smut inspiration well runs dry. I got really stuck in the sex scene for this one when I decided to in the 11th hour add a sex scene because "it felt right" then proceeding to panic cause I forgot how to write smut and she got me back on track.

And always and forever to my co-writer @thirstworldproblemss who had stayed up endless nights with me discussing the finer details of how twitchy a cock should be, how much it should leak. This series would not exist without her, she turns the rubbish I write into diamonds, she goes through every sentence once-twice-three times and she is always responsible for the best lines in every chapter, her voice for Steven is unparalleled, and I find myself falling more and more in love with this world because of her. I would not be writing this story, and most likely, at all, if it weren't for her and our friendship.

[laufeyamp]

“S”

SUMMARY. ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ- how could two distinct worlds ever collide to one for two utterly different people to really embrace each other?

RELATED DRABBLES. ༊*·˚ Steven Grant, Solely Yours, Hazel and Gus, "S".

PAIRING. steven grant x assasin!gender neutral reader/marc spector x assasin!gender neutral reader (platonic) WORD COUNT. 1.244k TAGLIST. @lovers-liability​

THIS WORK CONTAINS angst, fluff, mentions of murder/mass murder (nothing explicit)

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“I don’t think we stand a chance,” you confessed your silenced thoughts with the faintest beam of bitterness and fatigue after much deliberation, enunciating a truth you’ve made futile attempts in rewriting. The ex-mercenary stared at your mentally and physically drained figure which leaned against one of the poles on the felucca boat you’ve taken, bedecked with spirals of golden light strings. You were his prey demanded by Khonshu, the only one he'd failed to slaughter with your adept assassination skills and flexible body. It was immensely shocking the night he learnt that you were his alter’s significant other among billions of people in this world, to learn this wholly new behaviour you’ve developed willingly for his nerdy alter out of love. The best out of the best was what they named you in the world of criminals for your infamous kill count, the catastrophic destruction and grievous anguish you’ve brought to thousands. Merciless, belligerent, remorseless, heartless, immoral, you were regarded as every horrible adjective in existence. There are minutes when he’d ponder how could someone like you possibly melt in the hands of a bookworm this effortlessly. 

”Steven, he’s-” you didn’t know where to begin for a split second, the flare of this splendid and peculiar sentiment shimmering on your darkness at the mere sight of his ingenuous twinkle. “He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve had after the years I’ve spent having my vicious carnage for a stash of money. He’s a stark contrast to me, an embodiment brimmed with each quality I’m nothing of.” And Marc relates to this. It’s the similarities that you share that fortuitously build a bond between you such as your desperation to completely rinse off the crimson blood staining your pair of hands, the threats faced and the sacrifices you must make for the sake of your loved ones. Perhaps it’s erroneous of him, but he understands your suffering like no other and he tends to show you empathy and sympathy, just as how you do for him. Looking at you felt like looking at a mirror that reflected him himself, instead of his distinct alter. The only dissimilarity separating your identities was the roles you both portrayed in this world, either as a protagonist or antagonist of this story. Nevertheless, you were both entangled in a contract or deal you’ve made with the devils, transforming yourselves into puppets with strings you could never cut off for eternity. It’s the same question you’d ask yourselves afore shutting your eyelids and allowing your mind to obtain rest: when? When is this seemingly perpetual profession and burdening responsibilities ever going to cease, returning you your respective freedom which you both deserve?

”He showed me what it’s like to be loved and appreciated, how it’s like to wander under broad daylight without any sense of guilt, to pass my days in tranquil without being haunted by this feeling of-” “-worthlessness,” he finished your sentence for you, seeing that you couldn’t find the precise phrase for it through your puckered brows. It’s this weariness of being forced to follow this path you wished to quit and the unerasable shame that swallows you like a black abyss. And no one would truly understand your side of the story, how you had been left without an alternative option after all of the bloodbaths you’ve engaged in.

”Yeah,” you agreed, your gaze averted to the American who shares a shell with the love of your life, studying his slightest nods of comprehending your unwanted plight. It's never crossed your mind that a man who had once made a laborious effort in depriving you of your life is an alter of your sweet lover, the only person who’s capable of reading you and providing you support in the most appropriate way. The brick walls you’ve both built due to your fear of emotional attachment just collapse miraculously when it comes to each other as if you’d known for a lifetime. No words of elucidation were required, nothing. And it was more than great, not having to put the affliction into letters you're about to vocalise or receive any form of ignorance and judgement towards it. “It’s time for me to wake up from this 'all-too-well’ dream now, isn’t it? Nothing beautiful lasts.”

It prickles his heart to learn your frank request for a break up with his alter whom he treated as his brother. Marc was reminded of the same choice he’d made to shield his wife by vanishing from her life, eradicating each hint that proves the memories they’ve created real. It’s an option you’ve attempted to realise but failed miserably, truth be told. The empathy and adoration you had towards him restrained your intention in abandoning him when he was living at a point of perplexity and despair, utterly aimless in the crowd of people marching towards their goals. Marc Spector on the other hand has always been positive about it being an entirely risk-free and the best choice for both parties until now, when he’s given the opportunity to witness your relationship nearing its end. The snivels of intense sorrow simply above the level of inaudible from his alter echoed in his head, leading him to wonder if Layla had wept for him the moment he disappeared without a word, to doubt if it really was the right decision he’d made.

“He does this all the time…” Marc reached out to take ahold of one of your hands resting on your lap delicately, in hope of showing you something he’d perceive whilst Steven was fronting. He may not have an accurate solution or advice with his relationship being a downright failure, but he knows that he has no desire for you to repeat his mistake, devastating one another regardless of the endearing link shared. He wished you’ll have it differently, that you’ll honour your pledge and stay alongside Steven. You lifted your weight from the pole in instant, hunching over with your elbows pressed against the flesh of your thighs without any sign of protest or discomfort. He extended your loose fist, revealing your palm under the magenta lightning with his rough one cupping the back of it underneath. Perhaps it’s muscle memory, the way he moved the pad of his thumb deftly against the skin of your palm felt like your lover himself. Marc traced his first letter crookedly which was an ‘S’ at a laggard pace and it managed to send you on a visit down memory lane, reminiscing how much Steven admired your calloused hands. He loved comparing hand sizes, frequently playing with your fingers, and asking you to guess the invisible letters or shapes he traces on your palm. It’s an affectionate habit of his that’s somehow soothing and favourable. His thumb carried on with drawing an outline of a V-shaped heart in one go, one that was particularly thinner and smaller. And that’s another distinguishable intricacy of both alters you’ve discerned as Steven’s heart shape was rather disparate. His was rounder drawn with obviously unparallel curves that were typically done twice. It didn’t take you another minute to recognise where this was directed to and which one of Steven’s gestures he was mimicking.

“… and I think it’s more than enough to show that he loves and needs you,” Marc interpreted, all the while ending his imitation with a gentle trace of your initial across your palm lines. ‘S’ hearts ‘y/i’, how could you ever forget that?

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SYD .ೃ࿐ Reblogs and interactions are greatly appreciated, thank you for reading.

[blue-bird-kny]

We’ll Be Okay

This deals with a heavy topic so please read at your own discretion. ~Amanda

Warnings: Angst, TW: Fertility Issues and Loss

(1.9k+ Words)

Zenitsu had wanted very little after the final battle against Muzan’s reign of terror ended: he wanted the satisfying sense of pride that came with knowing that every second he risked his life and every life lost amounted to something, to know that Japan would forever be safe from demonic creature prowling the night–all he wanted was peace, for himself and for his friends. Above all else he wanted peace with you. You’d both been through hell and back, worse even, but between it all, each sliver of good Zenitsu ever found at the end of every day was rooted in you. 

After the war, you’d move in together of course, into a medium-sized estate with enough space to house your friends when they’d visit with their eventual families near a clear lake with plenty of nutrient-rich grounds to grow all sorts of plants and foods (a hobby Zenitzu favored more than you did). When he found that the time was right, he had gold rings made just for you and him, another piece of himself he wanted to share only with you. Two heartbeats intertwined to become one lifelong symphony of love and trust.

Zenitsu could feel the beginnings of the warm summer sun chase away the cool remnants of spring, his exposed forearms warm with its comfortable kiss. “These damn peppers grow like weeds” he mumbled to himself as he harvested yet another full basket of peppers, red and yellow and orange strings weighed the wicker basket down onto his skin. “At this rate we’ll need to start handing them out to people when they come over for dinner next week” the walk back to your shared home wasn’t far, though half way there Zenitsu couldn’t help whining at how heavy this basket was quickly becoming. He found solace in the distant hum of the river and in the way the trees rustled gently, their leaves giving way to the stream of the wind as petals flew with it. The sound carried him further down the beaten grass towards home, a rhythm of familiarity–until it wasn’t. It was almost inaudible at first, muffled beneath something and low, but it grew steady and strong, terrifyingly sound. ‘Something is here’ Zenitsu abandoned the basket and no longer cared for the nature around him as he honed in on a single pounding, racing to the house because this beat was new and different and ‘dear lord it's in the house’

A terror he thought was gone burned at his throat in the form of bile that he forced down because you were home and it’s thump was there too. The back door creaked eerily as he stepped inside, searching with precision for a sign of something else. You crossed the threshold of the living room having heard your husband, “Perfect timing! I needed your help-” “Shh” Zenitsu interrupted you as the beating grew more and more until it was just you and him, standing feet apart, surrounded by the same home you two enjoyed everyday. 

Zenitsu’s body acted faster than his thoughts could catch up and before he knew it he lowered himself onto wobbling knees. “Zenitsu what are you doing? Are you ok” your worried words fell on occupied ears as he slowly pressed his side to your stomach. Boom the sound was strong and gentle, boom.

“Zenitsu” your eyes watered without having to be told why as his grip on your hips held you in place and his head pressed harder against you waiting, counting each unmistakable heartbeat. Your fingers tangled themselves in his golden roots, willing him to his feet as tears streamed down your cheeks to the corners of your wide beam. “ (Y/N) you’re pregnant, I-I heard it” Zenitsu's shock was obvious and his thoughts collided with one another unable to form anything else, but before he could spiral further your warm hands cupped his cheeks tying him to solid ground. “Zenitsu, you're going to be a father” you sobbed, ‘oh yea, that’s right’ How could he have forgotten that part? You stood in the middle of your home, heads pressed together as tears of joy fell freely between the both of you. How quickly two heartbeats had become three, finally you’d get to start your own family.

The next few weeks felt surreal. Naturally, when Tanjiro and Inosuke came to visit with their families the next week you both shared the news. Their reactions were priceless and so full of genuine love–you weren't sure who cried more, Tanjiro or Zenitsu. Of course, you scheduled a visit with Shinobu almost immediately. She ran blood tests’ and performed a physical exam, she took note of any and all side effects you might have been feeling, any sickness or nausea, which you’d had none of. She then placed her stethoscope against your lower stomach and pressed just enough for the pressure to be uncomfortable. “Hear anything?” you asked excitedly, which earned a scoff from your side, “Of course she does” Zenitsu added. Shinobu moved to listen from different positions, her lips pursed slightly. “Everything alright?” you asked.

“With you, everything seems normal. However, from what I can gather the baby's heartbeat is slower than what I expected. It sounds scary, however technology is not where it needs to be and this method is not an exact science, so please don’t panic. I advise you to take things easy and maintain a healthy diet, please let me know of any changes, even the minor ones.” Shinobu reached out to squeeze your hand with kind eyes, “I’m here as your doctor and as your friend”

After that visit you both felt a little uneasy, but you trusted her nonetheless, after all there wasn’t much else to do. Shinobu was able to estimate that you were still in your first trimester, roughly 7-8 weeks into your pregnancy, so there is still a long way to go and lots to do.

“You know maybe we should take this moment to address your hoarder problem” you joked from the doorway of what would be a nursery. Zenitsu was drenched in sweat as he moved boxes around in an unproductive cycle of  ‘I forgot we had this!” and “We will need this one day”  His narrowed eyes met your lit pair and his frustration melted away, it was never easy to be mad at you, especially not as you carried his child. “I found something today when I was in town” he started, stretching his back. “Oh yea? Anything interesting?” you asked, shuffling through yet another box of useless knick knacks. Zenitsu left the room for just a second before returning with a small brown bag; he offered it to you shyly, which you accepted gratefully. It was heavy and when you pulled out the gift tissue you felt yourself swell with pride and your eyes with tears. Inside there were two things; a yellow, cotton blanket with white stitching going across all sides and a small “A” embroidered in one corner–the whole thing was big enough to swaddle a newborn. You pulled out the second item with delicate fingers, a pair of leather bound boots with fur trimmed insides, too small to actually fit a human being. “I saw them and figured that they'd be here in winter so I got it” Zenitsu rambled, but his eyes were filled with a different kind of adoration that you couldn't help but fall harder for the man before you.

“You’re going to be an amazing father, you know” you sniffled putting these gifts away softly. “Only because you gave me a chance. I’m going to mess up a hundred times, but I’d only ever do it with you” he leaned in to nuzzle his nose against yours, placing a gentle kiss on your lips. You didn’t think things could get any better, there, with your husband and the small bump that had taken shape.  

It was the middle of the night when Zenitsu woke in a cold sweat, frantic. Something wasn’t right. Zenitsu could feel it, rather he couldn’t hear it. That constant heartbeat he knew he should hear, he knew should be there, the one he remembers hearing just before he went to bed hours ago. Your breathing had become labored as sweat beads clung to your brow, your face contorting in a pain Zenitsu couldn’t see and whimpers escaped your parted lips. “ (Y/n) you need to wake up” he shook you till your eyes opened, agony painted in your hazy orbs. “We need to get to Shinobu, we need-” his voice caught as he pulled back the comforter to find thick blotches of blood staining the sheets between your legs. He gasped in terror, torn between the blood and your cries and the what if? He scooped you out of bed and ran like hell. Without shoes and neither of you properly dressed he bolted out the front door with you coddled to his chest, the blood roaring in his ears as he looked down to see you clinging to his chest.

When he arrived at the estate, Shinobu was awake and ushered him in. It was all happening so fast; Shinobu and a few staff members rushed around your writhing body that laid on the bed. Zenitsu didn’t speak, didn’t breathe as he searched in all the frantic shuffling for a single sound. The room had become stiff and somber as Shinobu sat with her stethoscope, the room clear of everyone else but you three. “I’m so sorry, but…I can’t find anything. I’m so sorry” Shinobu’s voice was tight as she looked from you to Zenitsu. “No, no you need to keep looking, you have to keep looking” your hands grabbed hers and forced it to keep at what Zenitsu knew was a useless search; the baby was gone. “(Y/N) please-”Zenitsu heard his own hoarse voice muffled and distant. You turned to him slowly, silently, your mouth hanging open in disbelief, begging for answers your husband couldn't give you, so he just shook his head.

Your face twisted as you brought your legs together, one hand clutching your heart and the other holding yourself. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” you sobbed into the room, rocking back and forth with each hysterical scream. You couldn’t even tell who you were apologizing to. Yourself? Your husband? Shinobu and all your other friends? This baby whose life ended before it could even start? The pain creeping into your spent throat wasn’t enough to overcome the unbearable, indescribable weight ripping you from the inside out.

Zenitsu had seen a lot of anguish in his life, too much for one person, but watching you now felt worse than anything he’d ever done. He’d rather be turned into a demon and forced to burn with every sunrise than ever watch this gut wrenching agony overcome you again. How did things go so wrong so quickly? Not that it mattered now, though. There would be time to grieve and time to think of all the scenarios that wouldn't happen later, but now as you screamed your lungs raw Zenitsu had to move and focus on you. Shinobu had excused herself at some point, leaving you two alone. He crawled next to you, cradling you to him as you both sobbed till there couldn’t possibly be more tears, yet still you continued to cry together, clinging to one another. Words didn’t need to be exchanged for either of you to understand that things didn't feel okay now and they wouldn’t for a while, but that's alright because you had Zenitsu and he had you–two heartbeats that would always beat as one.

Masterlist

[x-lipstickstain-x]

Comfort in the Dark

Daniel/Lando Fluff

Daniel squinted at the bright screen of his phone when heard a noise, the time displayed was 1:03am and he was now certain someone was at the door as the knocking continued. It was evidently the sound that had brought his peaceful sleep to a pause. Although he was slightly annoyed by being woken, he knew no one would be at his door at this time without a good reason, which made him a little uneasy. 

With a bathrobe now hugging over his half naked body, he pulled the door open. The frustration built up when he couldn’t locate the culprit, he leaned out of the door, spotting a familiar mop of curls heading away down the corridor. 

“What the fuck man?” Daniel huffed, startling his teammate who clearly hadn’t heard the door opening, his eyes wide at the sound of Daniel’s voice. “Playing knock and run at 1am?” 

Lando winced, strolling back to where he was just a few seconds before, disturbing the Aussie’s sleep. “Sorry I just thought you might be awake, but then you weren’t opening so I just-,”. He continued rambling on an explanation, avoiding eye contact.

“Well I am awake now cause you’re fucking around, mate go to bed we have a race tomorrow.” 

“I wasn’t-,” Lando began, but let out an exhausted sigh, his head shaking. “Nevermind, see you tomorrow Danny.” His tone was so fragile, as if his voice threatened to crack any moment which didn’t go unnoticed by Daniel, just like the way Lando’s fingers were almost pulling apart the sleeves of the Quadrant hoodie he was wearing. 

He had already turned back to walk away again when Daniel softened, his anger replaced by concern and suddenly feeling wide awake. “Wait, are you okay?” At his question, Lando stopped in his tracks with his shoulders slumping even further than before. Slowly turning to face Dan, his head gently shook from side to side in a silent response. That’s all Daniel needed before pushing the door to his room open further and stepping to the side to let Lando in. 

It actually wasn’t the first time Lando had come to him looking as if he was a hug away from bursting into tears. They got on well as friends and teammates, perhaps they weren’t that close off track, though this didn’t stop them from comforting one another when it was necessary. 

It started when Daniel was missing out on Q3 and then not finishing in points for a few races in a row, he felt awful, unable to pinpoint what was going on with him. Lando came to see him that time and instead of the usual ‘I’ll help you with more data if you need it’, he suggested they could hang out, what he didn’t quite expect was for Daniel to just hug him tightly. Lando felt a little awkward, he playfully commented how he could have just asked for cuddles if he needed them. He took him up on that offer the same evening. They didn’t speak about it after. 

The second time it happened, it was after Lando had crashed during qualifying, whenever he closed his eyes to sleep that night it felt like he was about to be thrown around in the car again and he wanted nothing more than to be held. Dan’s room was right beside his, he didn’t know Daniel had stayed up that night, wanting to check up on Lando himself though not quite building the courage to do so, he was relieved when Lando came to him. Once again, they didn’t speak about it after.

The difference between the situations was that both of these were clearly the other needing comfort after a bad experience during the sessions. Though, today Lando had qualified on pole position, his first one in formula 1, so why the hell was he sulking in Dan’s room at this time?

He sat down on his bed, patiently waiting for Lando to tell him what was on his mind. He watched him as he stood in the middle of the room, clearly not sure what to do with himself, tugging the sleeves of his hoodie over his nervous hands then placing them over his face before blurting out. “I’m scared.”

Daniel frowned. “Of?” 

“Of fucking up in the race, fucking up the start, making a mistake, crashing, disappointing the whole team.” He paused to take a breath, his teammate mentally begging him not to continue the list. “What if this is my only chance to win and I fuck it up. It’s all I can think about, Danny.” 

The way he said his name sounded like a beg, a cry to help him stop the thoughts from spiraling. Daniel raised to his feet, stepping closer and using the pocket of his hoodie to draw his smaller frame into his embrace, Lando immediately responded by wrapping his arms around Dan’s waist, his face nuzzling into his chest. Daniel softly massaged out the tension built up in the muscle between his neck and shoulder, a low hum escaping his lips in response to the touch. 

Daniel pulled back once Lando’s breathing had returned to a somewhat calmer pace. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.” He helped him get out of his hoodie before slipping out of the robe himself and both of them settling into the bed comfortably. Surprisingly, Lando didn’t turn away with his back to Daniel like he had done the previous nights they met. Dan figured it was because he felt a little embarrassed about being vulnerable and being cuddled by him, but this time he was facing Dan with his sparkly eyes on him. 

Lando’s eyes closed for a brief moment as Dan’s arm wrapped around him, his fingers brushing through the curls on the back of his head, when his eyes opened their gaze met, sending shivers down Lando’s back. Knowing he had about half a second before Lando would begin to overthink the way his body just reacted, Daniel spoke up. “You know you’ve been amazing all season, you’re capable of getting this win.” Lando winced - even Daniel had high expectations of him, he almost rolled away from him, but Daniel held him still. “But even if you don’t, it’s okay because this is just one opportunity out of many… You’re getting better and better with experience, I’m sure one day getting on pole’s will be a normal thing for you.” 

Lando still seemed unconvinced, a sigh leaving his lips. “You really think I can do this?”

Daniel chuckled, “Of course you can.” There wasn’t the slightest hint of hesitation. “If not tomorrow, then many times in the near future.”

The reassurance was met with a small upwards tug of Lando’s lips, but not quite yet forming a smile. He leaned into Daniel’s fingers which were currently massaging his scalp. He allowed himself to close his eyes and focus on the soothing sensation mixed with Dan’s further whispers of comfort. 

At one point Daniel believed Lando was asleep as he hadn’t spoken or moved a lot, he noticed how long he had been staring at him so he forced himself to reach for the lamp and switch off the light. He absentmindedly moved closer to Lando, his lips pressing to his forehead and he became very aware of what he’s done when Lando stiffened beside him, his eyes now open and very much showing he hadn’t been asleep just yet. Daniel felt his own breath get caught in his chest, he didn’t mean to scare him, now he’s fucked it completely and clearly overstepped some sort of boundary. He moved back, ready to apologise when he saw a sleepy smile slowly form on Lando’s face, the light coming through the gaps in the window curtains allowing him to thankfully distinguish it in the dark. Lando, no longer tense, pressed himself further into Daniel, the Aussie relieved and left with a flutter in his stomach when Lando found his hand and entwined their fingers, whispering a goodnight.

A slam of the door made Daniel’s eyes snap open, letting out a string of curse words when he realised it was Lando who was no longer in the room and apparently wasn’t able to close the door quietly like a normal human being. It was already bright outside so he reached out for his phone to check how long he had left before his alarm would ring. When grabbing the device his hand bumped into something warm on the nightstand that he knew previously wasn’t there, making him slowly sit up to see what it was.

He found a takeaway cup standing on the side, when lifting it closer, the smell of coffee finally reached him, already filling his chest with warmth and switching his mood when he realised how it got there. ‘Thank you.’ Was written on the cardboard with a little love heart underneath, when he turned the cup the other side displayed ‘Let’s get ‘em’ written with the same black marker. 

He stared at the closed door with a fond smile on his face.

In the paddock Daniel couldn’t help but steal glances at Lando to make sure he was doing okay, he was evidently still nervous and Daniel had the urge to walk over to him and hug him. That's why when he had a few minutes spare with still some time before the race due to start and he spotted Lando being left alone in his drivers room, he went over to him. As soon as the door closed behind him and Lando realised who had entered, he walked right over to him, his arms wrapping around his older teammate instantly. Dan whispered a small “hi” before his hand found its way into his hair, massaging his scalp the same way he did last night. 

Lando pulled back to look into his eyes, “Can you do it again?” Daniel frowned at his request, confused if he was referring to him massaging his scalp which he was still doing anyway. 

“Kiss my forehead.” Lando whispered. “You know, like for good luck.” He nervously added, waiting for Dan’s reaction. 

Meanwhile Daniel felt his heart almost leap out his chest with affection. He smiled, pressing his lips to Lando’s forehead and letting them linger for a moment before moving to peck the tip of his nose and carrying on down to his lips. Daniel’s lips hovered over Lando’s letting him pull back if he wanted to, but instead Lando leaned in, capturing his lips in a kiss. 

Maybe this time they’ll speak about it.