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amoscontorta · 2 days

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Wine time with Sylus | ao3 | other stories in this 'series'

Summary: Sylus invites himself over, helps himself to your first aid kit and your kitchen, manipulates you into tasting wine with him, discusses his latest business venture, and gifts you more than one present before he's good and ready to finally leave.

Notes: Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, second person pov, no use of y/n

This story contains: fluff, banter, angst, mc with obvious self esteem issues, grief, self-destructive behavior, profanity, alcohol use, criminal activity, allusions to violence, sleepy kissing, biting, inappropriate thoughts regarding kitchen tools, the mental gymnastics mc engages in to avoid acknowledging or recognizing feelings on either side should come with their own warning to be honest, one very thirsty mc whose thoughts are NSFW. This part ends with a misunderstanding that you can bet Sylus will not put up with for long.

In the days following Sylus’s latest little… visit, you’re called out more frequently than usual to counter wanderer attacks. You’re barely home, and the few times you stumble home late into the night, you peel your sweat and sometimes blood-stained hunter’s uniform off right in the entryway, promise yourself you’ll do laundry soon, and drag your aching body to the shower. Then you usually spend what little night you have left lying there with your eyes closed, carefully keeping your mind blank as sleep remains elusive. You have to admit to yourself that the few times Sylus kept you company overnight, you slept like the dead, but you refuse to go so far as admitting that you wouldn’t mind if it were more frequent. If you were to admit it to yourself, which you will not, you only yearn for it strictly for the sake of your sleep schedule, and absolutely not because you’ve come to crave his warm, comforting bulk against your body.

Tonight is no different, but you’re both looking forward to and dreading the next few days, as Captain Jenna has ordered you to take some time off to rest and recover from the brutal schedule you’ve been keeping for months now, capped off by the recent spate of increased attacks. All of your wheedling to let you keep going, that you’re fine, that the people of Linkon need you, that you need the constant distraction, has proven useless. Apparently the frequency with which you are getting injured remains acceptable, but she is finally at the end of her patience reading your barely coherent, misspelled reports with unfinished sentences that you only manage to submit before Association mandated deadlines by the skin of your teeth.

“Go home, get your head on straight, and come back rested … and literate again, please.” She looks back down at the tablet on her desk, trying to dismiss you, but you stubbornly remain at attention at her desk.

“That’s discrimination, Captain. I can be a perfectly functional hunter without being able to read or write,” you protest, while Xavier winces behind you. “I mean, obviously I can read and write, I’m just a little tired, that’s all. Still able to destroy wanderers!”

Jenna’s already formidable expression begins to darken, but you’re not cowed. You open your mouth to helpfully point out that wanderers don’t care about how well you can spell, when you feel Xavier’s gentle hand on your arm. “Come on, why don’t we go together to get some snacks on the way home? I think they’ve started re-issuing that wasabi flavored chocolate bar we tried at the beginning of the year,” he says softly, and Jenna shoots him an appreciative look before proceeding to ignore you both.

You glumly follow Xavier out into the early evening. Rush hour is over, but the sidewalks are still bustling with life. You weave through the mass of humanity, resisting the urge to drop-kick anyone who cuts you off or brushes against you accidentally. I am a role model for the Hunter’s Association, even when I’m off the clock, I am not allowed to arrest someone for bumping into me…. I am not allowed to arrest someone for…

Xavier tries to distract you from your obvious frustration by describing the plot of the latest manga series he’s reading that he thinks you’ll like as you two make your way home. You listen absently, feeling slightly calmed by his soothing voice, despite its graphic descriptions of violence in the manga that you are pretty sure you’re going to really like.

“Are there any hot guys in it?” you ask as the mass of people begins to thin the closer you get to your building.

“Hot… guys?” he blinks in confusion, his impossibly blue eyes flashing in the streetlamps that have just turned on.

“Yeah. Like that other one we read, Help, I, a lowly office worker, went to sleep and woke up as the Queen’s assassin in the book I fell asleep reading. The main guy in that was super hot.”

“Well, it is by the same mangaka, so you’d probably like the way they draw the main character in this one too,” he says uncertainly, but with a strange expression on his face, like he suddenly doesn’t want you to read it with him anymore.

“Okay, I’ll give it a try. Have you finished the first volume yet? Can I borrow it?”

You’ve reached your building, the trees surrounding the courtyard rustling in the soft end-of-summer breeze.

“…Great,” he says after a brief hesitation. He holds open one of the entrance's doors for you to enter the your building’s foyer. Your boots and his echo on the polished floor as you make your way into the lift. “I’ll be finished by tomorrow. How about we go the bookstore and afterwards you can come over and read since we have the day off? You can start volume one, and I’ll start volume 2. Does that sound good? We can make fancy ramen,” he says, his normally sleepy energy spiking with the idea of adding a boiled egg and some frozen vegetables to the normally plain ramen the two of you consume more often than not while on the go. Xavier’s idea of fancy has always been adorable to you.

The idea of not just sitting in your apartment alone on the first day of your forced leave is a welcome one, and you agree that he can come find you when he’s woken up, so that you don’t risk waking him up. He likes this plan, because obviously, you’re hardly sleeping at all, and he sleeps longer than you ever would have imagined possible for humans until you met him. As the elevator approaches your floor and the doors slide open, you’re about to step out when Xavier’s soft voice behind you has you turning to look back at his pretty face.

“It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours. “I know you feel like you’ve lost everything right now, and that the pain seems unbearable.”

You quickly turn your head—you were not expecting this sneak attack of sympathy and kindness from him. You nod jerkily, trying not to let his warmth sink into you, or else you might start crying.

“It sounds cliché, but with time, even this pain will fade. And you have so much time ahead of you. I can promise you that. One day you’ll wake up, and it will be slightly less unbearable. That doesn’t mean you forget about what you’ve lost. But you can think of it without… without feeling like you’re destroyed again, every time.” He’s looking at you, but you also have the feeling that he’s looking at something else, from a great distance. Knowing how secretive he is, it’s unlikely you’ll ever know what it is he’s seeing.

You nod again, and whatever he sees in you profile seems to satisfy him as he offers you a soft ‘Goodnight,’ and you scurry from the lift to your front door. You tuck away his words, and push them down deep. You know they’re well intended. But you can’t handle crying right now. Not yet. Not yet. So you focus on possible plans for the days stretching ahead of you.

There is a part of you that’s looking forward to possibly being able to rest, it’s true. But the stretch of empty days, without work and battle and the social interaction of colleagues, had been filling you with anxiety before your plans with Xavier were made. But even after tomorrow, you’ll try to make the best of it. You can… try to remember what hobbies you had, before your life blew up. Maybe you can take up a new hobby! Within the span of a few days. Yeah, you can teach yourself to crochet,or make stained glass art, in a day, right? Online videos are super helpful. Maybe you’ll even deep clean your apartment, and go grocery shopping, properly, for the first time in weeks. You’ll buy vegetables that have to be prepped instead of the hottest insta-ramen you can find and slurping packets of applesauce while telling yourself that it counts as fiber, right? You can cook, and bake! You just haven’t in… a really long time. Maybe you’ll bake an entire cake, and then eat the entire cake. Yeah. You have plans, you think to yourself, pressing your fingerprint to the scanner under your flat’s door handle and pushing the door open when it beeps.

As soon as the door closes with a soft whump, you carefully hang up your blades and pistol holsters on your wall-mounted weapon rack, and then you’re furiously undoing the laces on your knee high leather boots, hopping from one foot to the other as you try to kick them off without actually having to sit down and pull them off. You yank off your socks, then shimmy out of your pants, which you also kick off unceremoniously. You’re going to be positive about this little holiday! You’re so close to being comfortable and staying that way for days. You almost rip your buttons in your haste to remove your shirt, and just as you’ve gotten the last one undone, you finally notice the dark, looming figure in the shadows at the end of your foyer.

You’re in your fucking underpants, barefoot, and your weapons are out of reach due to your current strangulation by your own shirt sleeves.

Heart racing, you throw yourself backward against the door, prepared to make a strategic retreat and escape into the building’s hallway to buy yourself some time to free yourself from your shirt, no matter the cost to your pride at being caught out in your underwear, when familiar scarlet-ink tendrils of energy gently wrap themselves around your waist and softly lift you in the air. You find yourself kicking and squirming like a kitten picked up by the scruff of its neck.

“The fuck, Sylus?” you choke out.

“Why are you still struggling, when you can clearly see that it’s me? Cease, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Why are you using your evol on me without my consent?” you retort, wriggling some more for good measure simply because he told you to stop.

“To prevent you from giving your neighbors the show of their lives without even charging admission,” he responds languidly, eyes the color of sunlight filtering through a glass of wine drifting from your probably red, sweaty face down your barely clothed body.

“Oh, they don’t get a free show, but you do?” you sneer, continuing to struggle to no effect.

“Look at yourself,” Sylus commands, and turns his head as if bored. You note absently that he’s wearing a ruby stud earring in his ear... the one that matches the earring in your own ear. So you never bothered to take it out. That doesn’t mean anything—you’re just lazy. You refuse to think about it anymore deeply than that, and then notice that Sylus not only looks bored, but also looks almost… offended? You do as he asks, and see that his evol is wrapping itself around your body in such a way that its bright-dark tendrils are covering all of your exposed, sensitive areas like a fluid robe.

“Oh,” is all you can think to say.

“Oh, indeed.” He continues to look away from you, aggressively bored, but his evol gently lowers you enough so that your bare feet rest on the ground, and then it loosens, but remains swirling around you.

“Then I’ll… just go get dressed.” You begin making your past him, but stop when you see him nonchalantly hold up a large, elegant shopping bag. It’s black, with some brand name you don’t recognize written in flowy silver script. “What is this?” You look from the bag to his face. He deigns to look at you again. Your eyes drift to his other ear, and you see that where it is pierced is empty.

“Wardrobe options,” is all he says, jerking you out of trying to puzzle out this opaque maniac’s intentions. You take the bag from him and quickly walk to your bathroom. No way you’re going to put on new clothes while feeling filthy from a long day and night of annihilating wanderers. His evol dissipates the moment your bathroom door shuts behind you.

It’s becoming a pattern. Thinking the worst of him, only to be proven wrong. But you don’t know how to overcome the cognitive dissonance of Sylus from your first meeting, and this Sylus who seems intent on taking care of you better than you take care of yourself.

You rinse off as quickly as you can in the shower, towel yourself dry, and take a peek in the bag that he gave you. The first thing you see is a black…? You lift it out of the bag, and it unfolds into a very large sweater. It’s thick, the fabric obviously of high quality. You touch it gently, running your hands along a sleeve—is it cashmere? It’s unbelievably soft. It’s probably a nightmare to wash. On impulse, you lift it to your nose, and take a deep breath.

Your suspicion is confirmed. It smells like him. This isn’t a brand new piece of clothing. This is one of Sylus’s own sweaters that he has worn before. The scent of his clean skin, the sharp tang of gunmetal, the bright burst of citrus, probably from some ridiculously expensive shampoo or body wash. The mix sends a thrill through your entire body: after only a few encounters, you already have bone-deep associations with the way Sylus smells. Fear and adrenaline, yes, but also anticipation—and bizarrely, safety. Instead of feeling terrified, you feel the way you would before riding a roller coaster. Yes, you’ll be screaming and holding on for dear life the whole ride, but you are also inexplicably convinced that in the end, you’ll have your feet firmly planted on the ground, safe again. A part of you whispers that it’s safer to avoid the roller coaster altogether—bolts come loose, wheels pull free from the track, tragic accidents happen all the time. But standing here in your humid bathroom, bone-weary from the day behind you, sniffing Sylus’s unwashed sweater makes you feel more alive than you’ve felt in a very long time.

You pull his sweater over your head, and you’re basically swimming it, it’s so big. The collar is big enough that it threatens to fall off one shoulder. But it’s so soft. And cozy. You hug yourself, and peek into the bag again. There are a few more sweaters, each dark with varying degrees of dramatic flair. This is part of Sylus’s wardrobe, after all. But there are also little sleep shorts, like the ones you were wearing the last time he invaded your home. You pick up a pair—no way would they fit on his big ass. You try, so, so, so very hard not to picture his thick cake stuffed into these tiny shorts.

You fail.

Your brain short circuits for a few seconds.

When it comes back online, you lift out a pair, and the fabric glides silkily along your skin. You’re pretty sure these are silk. They’re black, because of course, but they also have little red … happy pomegranates? Dotted along the hems. They’re adorable. You pull them on over your own bare ass and the sweater-shorts combo is probably the softest thing you’ve ever had on your body. The sweater swallows the shorts and makes it look like you’re wandering around without bottoms on.

You look at yourself in the mirror, silently telling yourself that you shouldn’t get on this particular ride. You don’t know where the track leads, and it scares you. What if it ends over a cliff, and the last thing you ever see is Sylus’s triumphant, cruel face looking down at you as you fall? There are other, less risky rides, certainly ones without wanted posters, right? Right? On second thought, you don’t even have to go the amusement park at all. You’re just fine with trying to get some fucking sleep, with continuing to hone your combat skills, with just trying to be a good person despite really liking knives and being an enthusiastic hunter.

But maybe you can just. Be friends with the roller coaster? Like, you don’t have to ride him. IT. THE ROLLER COASTER. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO RIDE THE ROLLER COASTER. You can just, watch it from a safe distance. You might indulge in little fantasies about what it’s like to ride… the roller coaster. And honestly, fantasies are almost always a hell of a lot better than the reality ever turns out to be. Not to mention! Sylus has never directly expressed any desire to ride … your roller coaster. Sure, he shows up unannounced and cares for you in ways that no one ever has, and he touches you a lot for someone who has no physical interest in you, but physical isn’t necessarily sexual, right? Maybe it’s an evol thing, and the way he touches you has to do with why you both find yourself inexplicably connected for periods of time. Like charging a battery. The point is! There will be no tickets to either ride, thank you, you aren’t open for business and he definitely does not have the proper safety inspection certificates in order, so. No.

You nod firmly to yourself in the mirror. This should be fine. You can be friends with Sylus. You don’t have to let him drag you over a cliff. Maybe you can learn a thing or two from him—he seems to be pretty competent at a lot of things that might be useful for certain aspects of your job. Like intimidating people. And exploding people with a thought and twitch of his fingers. And convincing them to do things they don’t want to do by sheer force of obnoxiousness.

Having sufficiently deluded yourself into believing that your plan of action has a chance of success, you slip out of the bathroom and find Sylus in the kitchen, next to a pretty wine glass that you certainly do not recall owning on the kitchen island.

He’s slicing strawberries with a very sharp knife that you do recall owning, because you do spend quite a lot of time sharpening the set it belongs to. They’re not kitchen knives, per se; you actually have them for work and they are really nice to throw. You already had so many knives before you moved into this place that you didn’t see the necessity of spending more money on probably inferior kitchen knives. But the large, really nice butcher block-style cutting board that he’s chopping the fruit on is not yours. And neither are the delicately arranged variety of cheeses, thinly sliced meat, and savory tarts set in puff pastry that fill up most of the cutting board. And lastly, you do not recall purchasing two bottles of what look like red wine sitting next to the wine glass, nor cleaning your kitchen so thoroughly that Zayne could probably perform surgery in here without worrying about risk of infection.

Despite your presence standing at the island before him now, he continues to serenely slice the ever-growing pile of fruit.

“Sylus?”

“Have a seat,” he says, not looking up.

“Oh, why thank you for offering such hospitality to me, in my own home,” you mutter, pulling out one of the wooden bar stools at the kitchen island. You’re about to sit down when you realize that the repetitive chop of the knife has stopped, and you look up to find Sylus frozen with the knife mid-slice in a fat strawberry. His eyes drift from your neck and exposed shoulder, down the soft expanse of sweater, to your bare legs, and then back again. You’re suddenly self-conscious—he’s the one who gave you these clothes. And now he’s staring at you like a wanderer is about to burst out of your chest.

“Did I misunderstand the assignment or something?” you ask, plopping down on the bar stool in the hopes of breaking him out of whatever weird trance he’s apparently glitching in. He swallows, flicks a final look at your shoulder, and then goes back to slicing.

“I’m simply shocked that you actually did as you were told, for once,” he responds, seemingly unruffled again. “You should also put one of the sweaters in your go bag as a backup in the event that your uniform gets destroyed, again, which it does at an alarming rate these days. The Association’s overheads for keeping you clothed must be in the stratosphere.”

“Mm, yes I’m sure you’re very concerned about the costs of doing business for the Association.” You rest your head in your hand, propped up by your elbow on the counter. The two of you sit in companionable silence for a while, with only the snick of the knife filling the space between you. The lights underneath your cabinets are on, emitting a soft warm glow from below, but you notice that he hasn’t put on the harsher, brighter overhead lights. The city’s skyline blinks serenely like an endless fleet of starships in the dark expanse of space through your windows, and a cool breeze wafts in from time to time.

Finally, Sylus is done, and he carefully rinses the knife in the sink and sets it on the counter. He turns back to you.

“No interrogation regarding why I’m here this time?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s wearing a light sweater in a deep grey, of a style quite similar to the one you’re now wearing. He looks domestic, and delicious, and you tell yourself sternly that he is friend shaped, you will not ride the Sylus roller coaster, you will not ride the Sylus roller coaster—

You have to say something. “Oh, are you missing my very effective questioning techniques? Sadly, I left my handcuffs at the office,” you lift your shoulders in a what can you do? gesture, and his eyes follow your bare shoulder again.

“Handcuffs aren’t the only means of restraint available to a truly resourceful hunter,” he says, shaking his head as if disappointed. “Your lack of imagination is boring.”

“Okay, Sylus. But only because you’re basically begging for it: why are you here?” You lift a puff pastry and brandish it at him like a knife. “Answer honestly, or you’ll really get it this time!” You take a big, aggressive bite as if to illustrate what he’s got coming to him in case of his non-compliance, and then moan because what the fuck, this is so good, is it goat cheese and honey? And suddenly you’re devouring it, licking your fingers clean when you’re done because you can’t get enough.

“This definitely counts as an enhanced interrogation technique.” His voice is low, and has a rough quality to it that normally isn’t there. You glance up from slobbering all over your fingers and find that he’s staring at you in what is probably disgust.

“Ha, yes, and I’ll keep subjecting you to it until you tell me what you’re doing in my home, again. And how did you even get in? I never got you a key.” You finish licking yourself like an animal and reach for a strawberry. If he’s going to play chef in your kitchen, who are you to refuse to enjoy the literal fruits of his labor? You just live here and pay the damn rent.

He holds up the index finger of his right hand, which is sporting a band-aid that you recognize as one of the same kind you have in your first-aid kit. They’re super cute, with a design of sad little cartoon mushrooms. “I was at my accountant’s, which happens to be in this neighborhood, and I got a paper cut while signing some documents.”

You pause before biting into the berry. “You… came to my flat. With extra clothing, wine, wine glasses, and various appetizers, in order to get a band-aid for your paper cut. Is this a correct summary of events?” You decide you’re not going to wait for him to answer, and take a big bite of the strawberry, feeling some juice drip down your chin. You catch it with your index finger, and then suck the juice off after you’re done chewing.

There is a long pause, and you look up to find him staring intently at your finger. You widen your eyes and wave your hand in the universal gesture of hurry the fuck up, get on with it already? He closes his eyes for a moment and breathes deeply. Apparently you’re so horrifying to witness eating that he needs to seek some zen before he can answer. It’s not your fault that he brought you half of his wardrobe and wine glasses but didn’t think to bring any napkins. “Yes, that is a correct summary of events,” is all he offers.

You look at him.

He looks back at you, occasionally flicking his gaze down to your mouth and back to your eyes. You consider baring your teeth at him just in case he wants an eyeful of the strawberry undoubtedly stuck in them, but refrain because you’re polite.

“Okay. Do you care to explain the motivation behind these events?” you ask slowly, thinking that maybe you will brandish a real knife at him to hurry up this so-called interrogation so you can straight up devour the rest of this charcuterie board that this wanted criminal has inexplicably prepared in your kitchen.

Fortunately, you don’t have to go for the knife, because he begins to speak. “There was a wine merchant that looked rather appealing on the way to your place. Since you revealed a deplorable lack of discernment when it comes to selecting a good bottle of wine the last time you hosted me, I thought I’d do my civic duty for the week and educate the less fortunate on how to choose, and enjoy, a decent bottle of wine.”

“I see.” You nod slowly. “That’s very civic-minded of you. You’re truly a model citizen. And the food?”

“It’s not wise to have a wine tasting without something to eat. Otherwise, you might find yourself making questionable decisions. We wouldn’t want that, would we, sweetie?” he seems to have recovered from his nausea at watching you wolf down food, because he says this with a playful lift of a silver eyebrow.

“Because letting a man whose baggage includes a wanted poster into my home whenever he wants could hardly be considered a good decision, and I made that one while sober,” you sigh. “I see your point.”

“Exactly. Just imagine what kind of trouble you could get into after a bottle of wine on an empty stomach?” He tilts his head to the side, and runs a middle finger slowly over his brow.

You shudder, because his big hands. You can’t pursue this line of thought.

“And the clothes?”

“Now you won’t need to borrow your partner’s clothes in case of an emergency. And I’ll have something to wear at my safe house in case you decide to assault me with beverages again.”

“That was one time. And if you don’t show up, then there’s no chance you’ll be assaulted. Therefore, no need for a change of clothes. And, pardon me, but your safe house? I think you meant, my flat. But what you’re telling me is that the whole reason you were coming to my flat in the first place was to put a band-aid on your boo-boo.”

He lowers his hand and begins running his thumb along his lower lip. “Even a small cut can turn life-threatening if not treated properly. And I wouldn’t want a scar, now would I? It’s not much of a safe house if I can’t make use of it when in danger of lasting bodily harm.”

“Mmm yes, what with your evol that renders scarring impossible for you, we wouldn’t want your paper cut to cause you lasting bodily harm. And you couldn’t acquire a band-aid at a pharmacy, perhaps like at the one next to the wine merchant I’m pretty sure you’re referring to?” You refuse to look at his big thumb pressing into his thick, soft-looking lower lip. You stare up at the ceiling, and consider cataloguing wanderers in your head to stem the sudden urge to vault over the island counter separating him from you and pulling that damn thumb into your own mouth.

“They didn’t have a box containing such cute little designs. I never knew I wanted anthropomorphized fungus to decorate a bandage intended to protect an open wound until I saw your own box.”

It takes you a second to remember what the hell the two of your were discussing when you realize he’s talking about your adorable little mushroom band-aids.

“A wine snob, and a band-aid snob.”

“I prefer the term cultured, but yes, I’ve told you before. Life is too short to waste on the inferior. Your sad little champignons surpass all others.”

He’s done it again. He has hardly even moved this entire time, and has managed to exhaust you to the point of blissful indifference. He shows up unannounced, rifles through your first aid kit, decides what you’re going to wear both this evening and in the future when you need a spare change of clothes, and has prepared an hors d’oeuvre spread worthy of at least a mid-ranged restaurant for you to eat while offering you a wine tasting? Fine. “Okay,” you say, reaching for another one of those puff pastries.

He watches you steadily for a few moments, as if trying to sense a trap. “That’s it?”

You shrug. “Sure. I told you that you could use my house if you needed it. I’ve just learned my lesson: next time I’ll be very careful in drafting the conditions of any deal we make, since your interpretation of certain terms appears to vary wildly from any reasonable person’s.”

“I think I’m quite reasonable,” he examines his nails. “I come bearing gifts, and this is how you show your gratitude? By insinuating that I'm unreasonable?”

Another thought occurs to you. “How did you even get in, Sylus?”

“Ah,” he says, squinting and looking out the window, as if contemplating a very deep philosophical question. “While you were sleeping last time… I took the liberty of adding my fingerprint to your door’s fingerprint scanner.”

What. The. Fuck. “What. The. Fuck.”

“Again, it’s not much of a safe house if I can’t access it without your presence. I didn’t think you’d mind. It’s not like I can’t just use my evol to teleport into your place anyway, but I thought you’d appreciate me coming through the front door. Fewer feathers. You didn’t seem to like cleaning those up the last time I teleported out of your place.”

You just stare at him. How would he even know that you cursed him, loudly, as you were mopping up the mess of blood and feathers he generously left in your entryway after being shot? And then it comes to you. Mephisto. Of course. You pinch the bridge of your nose, and visualize violently shaking that bird until his circuits are rewired.

Sylus continues, ignoring your mounting rage. “Come to think of it, we should probably upgrade your locks, kitten. It was laughably easy to override the system and add my print as authorized for entry.”

Forget riding the Sylus coaster—you think that maybe he isn’t even friend shaped after all. He might just have slid right back to enemy shaped. Frenemy shaped? Where does a frenemy lie on the spectrum of “fuck his brains out” to “polite, but distant acquaintances?” But then you remember that it’s not a linear spectrum, and fucking his brains out is not mutually exclusively to being mortal enemies. You’ve read enough enemies-to-lovers romances to know that perfectly well, so even if he is enemy shaped… you shudder. Why are you like this? You redirect your self-disgust and deflect, like a true emotionally well-adjusted adult:

“Why can’t you be normal? Like, do you do anything like a normal person?”

“Why would I pretend to be normal when I’m so obviously extraordinary?” he scoffs, looking at you like you’re the unhinged one in this little situationship.

“Sylus.”

“Yes, my heart’s delight?”

You stare at him, and he gazes back at you, leaning leisurely back against your counter, arms folded and long fingers slowly tapping out a rhythm on one bulky bicep. You know that if you remove his authorization on your locks that he will just teleport himself right into your place, and you’ll be endlessly cleaning up feathers. And you also really don’t want your neighbors to wonder who the hell the creep is loitering around your door at all hours of the night and then start asking questions if he actually honors your request not to simply appear in your place on a whim. You did previously offer him a key. Which he declined. Apparently because he was already planning this. You run your hand along the back of your neck in an effort to relieve some tension. “You can’t just let yourself into my place anytime you want. There need to be rules.”

“Fair enough. Provided that they’re not moronic, I can follow your rules.”

“And who decides whether they’re moronic or not?” you ask, knowing the answer.

He just smiles at you, radiating satisfaction.

“Okay. Rule number one—” you begin, only to be interrupted as he lifts a finger.

“I’ll follow your rules, if you promise to taste the wine I brought with me tonight.”

Even though you had already resigned yourself to whatever he had in store for you tonight, you can’t help arguing at this little added condition. “No, the deal is, you can use my flat, with your fingerprint, when you need it, if you follow the rules,” you huff.

He starts shaking his head. “I’m afraid not, kitten. You should have set rules at the beginning of our deal. You can’t just impose new conditions halfway through. A deal’s a deal. I suggest keeping that in mind the next time you have to deal with anyone else less… generous, than myself,” he intones, as if you’re a somewhat lacking student in need of instruction.

“So you’ll follow the rules if I promise to… taste wine tonight?” you ask, hoping that you can catch him out on a technicality and beat him at his own game. He considers for a moment, but must see something in your expression, because his eyes narrow and his smile widens to reveal his sharp canines.

“I’ll follow your reasonable, and not moronic, rules if you promise to taste the wine I brought tonight, with me,” he says.

You need to work on your poker face. You need to get Sylus to teach you how to improve it. Ugh.

“Fine.” If this means more food can happen soon, and honestly, yeah, a glass of wine, you’ll accept anything at this point.

He straightens from the counter and claps his hands once, looking more eager than you think you’ve ever seen him. “Excellent, let’s begin.”

“You didn’t even wait to hear what the rules are,” you protest, watching him fish out a wine corkscrew from his trouser pocket. It looks heavy, with a handsome wooden handle, and the stainless steel flashes under the soft lights.

“Send them in a text, I’ll redline them and return them to you, you can counter, and so on and so forth until we have an agreement. Like any proper contract negotiation. For now, it’s wine time.”

And with that, he sets to work opening the wine, humming a little tune so off-key that you have no idea what melody it’s supposed to be. It occurs to you that you’ve never used a corkscrew as a weapon, but as Sylus uses the small blade to slice through the foil covering the neck of the bottle, and then unfolds the lethal-looking twisted screw and begins expertly driving it into the cork, you realize that it could come in really handy in a fight. And there’s something else that’s really appealing to you—the combination of the contained savagery of the corkscrew, the assured movements of Sylus’s hands, the penetration of the cork—you feel a warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the sweater you’re wearing.

“See something you like, kitten?” Sylus’s smoky voice drifts into your thoughts, and you look up, realizing you’ve been unabashedly staring at his beautiful hands, again, and the corkscrew, with undivided focus for the past few moments, and he has noticed.

You clear your throat, and then gesture weakly at the corkscrew. “That’s uh, a very nice looking wine opener.” You nod to emphasize your very normal approval of this very normal household item, because you are not thinking any thoughts about Sylus’s huge hands or screwing or penetration. None.

“Good eye. I’m rather fond of this model. I’ll have one delivered to you,” he says as he firmly pulls the cork from the bottle with a soft pop. He sets it on the counter, and picks up the other bottle.

“Oh, that’s not necessary. I’m sure it didn’t escape your notice that the kind of wine I drink tends to come with a screw cap instead of a cork,” you decline, shaking your head. You can buy your own damn self a corkscrew for tucking into your pocket if you ever find yourself at a wine bar that doesn’t allow patrons to be armed, but you anticipate needing some kind of weapon.

“Refuse me all you want,” he murmurs, and you feel like there’s an implied part of that sentence that he’s just not saying out loud. But then he’s repeating the opening process with the second bottle, and you suddenly find the night view outside your window immensely fascinating, because whatever is continuing to happen in front of you is just. Boring. Utterly sleep-inducing. You can’t look or else you might just pass out from the tedium of it before you even get to taste the wine. And a deal’s a deal, as Sylus is fond of repeating ad nauseum.

After hearing the soft pop of the other bottle, you sigh and turn back to find Sylus holding the wine glass and pouring the first bottle’s wine along the inside of the glass until it reaches the widest part of the bowl. For the first time, you notice that there’s only one glass on the counter. But before you can comment, Sylus begins to lecture.

“Now, if this were an ideal tasting, I’d have brought a decanter to let the wine breathe properly for an appropriate period of time before pouring. We'd also be using a container for spitting each mouthful out in between tastes, to avoid the intoxication and poor decisions I mentioned earlier and interfering with our judge of taste. But since we only have two bottles to try, and it’s just you and me here, I took the gamble that you wouldn’t mind if we were a little less formal.”

You wait to see if he has any other fun facts to share, but he’s looking at you to confirm that indeed, you can live with not waiting even longer to taste this wine that better have gold leaf flakes in it or something to justify this amount of ceremony and can also live with not… spitting out said wonder wine after tasting it.

But you recognize that Sylus appears to be truly passionate about this, and he’s looking at you so earnestly—you do not have the heart to meet his sincerity with sarcasm, when he's so sweetly trying to teach you something new.

“Your gamble paid off. I don’t mind at all,” you say, meaning it. He perks up and gives you one of his almost smiles, with just the corners of his generous mouth lifted. He then proceeds to explain, in great detail, what type of wine this is, where the grapes for it are grown, its signature characteristics, what year it was bottled, and how it was received by the international wine community. It’s all actually quite interesting, except once again, right now you’re at the end of a long day, you’ve run the gauntlet of interacting with this unpredictable force of nature walking around in the body of an extremely attractive man, and you feel like you should be taking notes to actually retain any of this information.

After he seems to have informed you to his satisfaction and is looking at you expectantly, you nod. “That is… very fascinating. So how do we go about actually tasting it?” You might be an uncultured heathen, but even before Sylus’s lecture, you knew there are rules when it comes to tasting wine. You just always had other things you needed to learn first, like the weakest spots on a wanderer or human body. Or the best method of sharpening knives for the sharpest edge. Or how to clean guns to prevent jamming. How to affix a scope on a sniper rifle and measure the effect of wind speed and direction on a bullet’s trajectory. Or whether you should use baking soda or baking powder as leavener when baking certain kinds of cake. You have priorities. But tonight, it seems, is the night for you to learn about wine.

Before he answers, he moves around the kitchen island to where you’re still seated on the bar stool and leans down, gently spinning your stool so that you’re facing him instead of the counter. He then pushes the one next to you closer and seats himself. Even sitting, you have to look up into his face. You suddenly realize that the way he has positioned the stools puts him so close to you that his long legs don’t have anywhere to go—he just spreads them so that one is stretched out on one side of you, and the other is between your own, his knee incredibly close to your lap. If you shift forward even a little, you could grind on him.

Why is he doing this to you? What does he want? But then it occurs to you that Sylus has never seemed to either recognize or respect boundaries like a normal person—maybe this is just how he interacts with his friends. Constant, small touches, no sense of personal space. You wonder if he and the twins huddle together on the couch, sharing a blanket, while watching something on television.

So maybe you’re the freak, imagining riding this poor guy’s meaty thigh when he’s only just trying to share his appreciation of a sophisticated beverage with you. You close your eyes. It doesn’t matter whether he’s playing this little game on purpose or not. You refuse to let him see how much his proximity is affecting you, because then he wins. You don’t know what he wins exactly, but you will beat him before you let him have it. You try to think about his big hand choking you, but instead of having the intended effect of reminding you why you should never even consider buying tickets to the safety hazard now wedged between your thighs, it has … unforeseen consequences instead. What has this man done to you?!

You open your eyes, reach across the counter and grab a handful of carefully cut pieces of cheese, and then promptly stuff them all into your mouth at once. When in crisis, cheese is always a good solution. Except for maybe the blue cheese you accidentally mixed in with the Manchego or whatever-the-fancy-fuck he brought with him. Aaaand now you’re going to smell like blue cheese for the rest of the night.

You stare at him defiantly as you chew with puffed cheeks, and brace yourself for whatever is coming next. He side eyes you, face impassive.

You’re expecting some biting comment, but “Well, that’s one way to make sure you’ve eaten enough to absorb the alcohol,” is all he says. He slowly slides the glass with two fingers along the base across the counter until it’s sitting between the two of you. “Whenever you manage to finish inhaling all that dairy, we’ll be sure that we’ve given the wine enough time to breathe.” He pauses. “It occurs to me now that while I was preparing the food, I didn’t think to ask if you’re lactose intolerant.”

You deliberately chew as slowly as you can, making him wait as a punishment for making you feel things that you should not be feeling. When you’ve swallowed, you shake your head. “Fortunately, not one of my many flaws.”

“It’s not a flaw.” He shrugs. “How can anything you can’t control about your body be a flaw? And Luke and Kieran are lactose intolerant, so I always have lactase enzyme tablets on me to avoid… unwanted consequences when they decide to have a cheese tasting contest.”

You cock your head. “A what now?”

He rubs his middle finger between his eyebrows. “Yeah, they can’t help themselves from making a competition out of every single human activity, so on the nights the chef prepares a cheese board with dinner, they try to outmatch each other regarding who can identify the most flavors of cheeses without cheating by asking the chef or querying Mephisto or searching online. Or asking me, because I’m undefeated.”

You stare at him, and think if there’s ever any universe in which you voluntarily return to the base where Sylus kept you captive for days and touched you like he owned you, hand violently clasped in his, where you were terrified for your life, exhausted and confused… and if you ever have a friendly enough relationship with the chaos twins, you’re going to practice your ass off so that if you’re ever invited to such a competition, you can wipe the floor with them. Their cheese-off sounds fun.

Your train of thought is derailed as it registers how smug the last thing he said was. “You’re undefeated,” you repeat, giving him a chance to redeem himself. “At identifying cheeses by taste.”

“And smell, yes. So I’m not allowed to play anymore. My palate is too refined, and they know they don’t stand a chance.”

Oh, you’re definitely going to start sampling cheese every week. You cannot let this smugness stand.

“Ah yes, his royal snobness and his impeachable palate,” you roll your eyes. “Now, will his grace the Duke of Gouda please get on with the wine instruction?” You would give him a little mock bow, but that would put your face right in his formidable cleavage and you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from motorboating his unfairly huge pecs. Ugh.

He snorts. “Finally, you’re showing me some long-overdue respect.”

You nod gravely, thankful that the aether core in his eye is not currently delving the depths of your depravity. It’s time to focus. On wine.

“So why do you have to let wine breathe before drinking it?” you ask, because you’re focused.

He looks pleased that you’re interested enough to ask a question. “Much like people, it’s good to expose a greater surface area of the wine to fresh air for a while—it allows undesirable scents and flavors to dissipate, so that it tastes better when you do take a sip than if you drink it straight after opening.”

“Well aren’t you wise, philosophizing about wine and people,” you smile. You find yourself being surprised again and again tonight—at his presence, his bearing gifts, his surprisingly sweet attempt to teach you something, his kind takes on lactose intolerance and what people need to be healthy.

“Did you think I only consist of feathers and spite?” He lifts the wine glass by the stem with one hand, and your hand in his other. He gently wraps your fingers around his own.

“Let’s not forget hubris and violence.” You watch as he gently swirls the wine in the glass held between you. His hand is so warm compared to your own.

“If that’s all, then you still have a lot to learn about me,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t seem offended. Almost as if he’s simply determined. To do what, you’re not sure. “I’d tell you that you should always hold a wine glass by the stem so that the heat from your hand doesn’t affect the temperature of the wine through the glass itself. But your hands are so cold—I don’t think that would be a problem for you. But if you want people to think you’re a connoisseur, you should anyway if you’re ever on an undercover mission. Now, before you take a sip, inhale the scent we’ve just released by swirling the wine.”

You do as you’re told, and lean over, hovering just over the edge of the glass and taking a deep breath. The scent of the wine, warm and deep, fills your senses.

You look up at him and smile again. “It smells really good.”

“Of course,” he lifts the bottom of the glass with his free hand so that you can straighten, and guides your other hand to support the glass while slipping his own from around the stem and allowing you to hold it by yourself. Your hand immediately feels cold again. He leans one elbow on the counter, “I chose it for you. I’m not going to let you drink plonk.”

“Plonk?” What a cute word.

“Shit wine.”

“Mmm, not allowing me to drink shit wine, you’re truly a knight in shining armor.”

“I don’t need armor, kitten. Now that you’ve established that the wine hasn’t gone off by smelling it, you can take a sip.”

You’re about to lift the glass to your lips, when he reaches up and runs his fingertips along your wrist to stop you. “As you do, don’t swallow immediately. Roll the wine with your tongue in your mouth, and try to really think about what flavors you can taste: can you detect the oak from the barrels, earth, tannin, fruit or spices? Is it sweet or dry?”

You nod, mouth suddenly dry. But you follow his instructions and take a slow sip, rolling the rich liquid around in your mouth, and then slowly swallow. A familiar warmth spreads from your stomach, radiating out through your body. His blood bright eyes follow the movement of your lips, your throat. “I taste… fruit.” You pause, trying to appear very serious about finding the perfect description of flavor. You take another sip, close your eyes. “Yes, very fruity notes. Grapes, in particular.”

You open your eyes to find him scowling at you.

“Aren’t you the comedian?” he growls. “I’m going to revoke your wine privileges if you don’t take this seriously. How are you going to feel confident if you ever need this knowledge on a mission? Or on a date?”

You just laugh at him and try to turn a little on the stool, lifting your arm to keep the glass out of his reach, but his knee between your legs prevents you from moving, and he easily leans forward, fingers drifting up the length of your arm to then wrap around your own hand on the stem. He carefully pulls it back between the two of you. Your hand feels warm again. Safely wrapped in his.

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned my needing to know how to pass as a wine snob on a mission. What kind of missions do you think I’m regularly going on?” You gently lift the glass again, pulling his hand with you, and take another sip. It really does taste so good. You can’t tell if it’s wildly different than the wine you normally get, but you know it doesn’t taste like it’ll leave you with a headache in the morning.

He shrugs. “If we didn’t have to bring the place down when we were at the auction, people would have been watching you at the dinner banquet. What would you have done if people started to notice that you were clutching the wine and swigging it like a drunken toddler and started to suspect that your behavior wasn't matching your cover identity?”

You gasp. “Excuse me, you don’t know how I normally drink my wine!” Who does this bastard think he is? And here you were, thinking he was sweet, sincerely trying to share one of his interests with you. “I don’t need you patronizing me regarding how I’d manage at a formal event or on a date! I’ve been on plenty of dates where I was able to drink wine without driving off my partner.” You try to pull away from him, and the wine sloshes dangerously with your movement.

“Sit still,” he commands, holding your hand tight with his and placing one large palm on your bare thigh. You immediately freeze. “I watched you gulp wine from a mug the last time I was here,” he retorts.

“So you think that just because I don’t care what you think, I can’t read the room and act according to the demands of the situation?” The indignation coursing through you is amplified by the wine spreading through you.

“Then is it fair to say that you didn’t feel the need for any pretense between us last time because you’re so comfortable with me, and not because you’re as civilized as a cactus?” he asks, running his thumb gently back and forth along your inner thigh.

Your brain is being scrambled by his thumb, how close he is to you, his clavicle exposed by the V of his sweater’s neckline, the scent of his warm, clean skin, the wine going to your head after a long exhausting day.

“I’m saying I don’t feel the need to impress you in my own home when you show up uninvited and demand beverages and band aids,” you finally manage. You’re warm. Too warm. “And what’s wrong with being a cactus?”

“Did I say there was something wrong with it? Cacti can survive the harshest conditions on earth and still produce the most beautiful flowers. And they hurt when they stab you.” He smiles like the thought pleases him immensely.

You can’t process this. He says shit like this so easily—he can’t possibly mean it in the way you are trying so hard to deny that you want him to mean it. You refuse to be lured in, only to see the cruel lines of his face when he realizes you have pathetic feelings for him. The man who could as easily rip your spine from your ribcage as offer you a glass of wine, if you lose your usefulness to him. A usefulness you still don’t know the nature of.

You’re suddenly viciously aware of how close he is to you, how he is watching your face with an intensity that makes you feel like the use of his aether core is unnecessary: you’re afraid that he can see everything you’re feeling, and you hate it. You need space. “What are we even doing, Sylus?”

His eyes drift from your eyes to your mouth, and you try very hard to steel your expression, to conceal how utterly raw and exposed he’s making you feel. You can’t tell if you’re successful, when he finally lifts his hand from your thigh and runs the back of his knuckles with such softness along your cheek that it makes you ache. You resist the urge to turn your face and nuzzle his palm.

“We’re tasting wine, sweetheart.” He leans back, pulling the glass of wine you’re still holding with him. He inhales deeply, and then takes a sip, eyes glittering over the rim, watching you. “It is a good vintage. But it’s not the only one I brought.” He guides your joined hands to set the glass on the counter, and then gets up, rounding the counter to rummage in a bag on the floor on the other side. When he stands up, he’s holding another wine glass.

You do a double take. “You brought two glasses?”

He looks from you to the glass in his hand, then back to the glass still on the counter, and then lifts his eyebrows. “Is this a trick question?”

“Why haven’t we been drinking about of separate glasses then?” you demand.

He shrugs. “That glass is for that bottle,” he nods to the glass sitting next to you. “This glass is for this bottle.” He gestures at the other, untasted bottle sitting on the counter. “No need to rinse our glasses in between tastes.”

You want to laugh, and cry. You’re so fucking done with thinking for tonight.

“Okay, Sylus. Whatever you say,” you sigh.

“Oh, I quite like the sound of that,” he smiles, one canine peeking over his lip. “Then you’re going to enjoy the sorbet I brought for us as a palate cleanser.”

He proceeds to go to your freezer, scoop out some of the aforementioned sorbet that has apparently been in there all evening into a bowl, and takes the stool next to you again. This time, he situates one long leg on either side of you, caging you in. He takes a spoonful and offers it to you. “This will help rinse your palate so that you can taste the next bottle without any lingering effects of the other.”

You look from his seemingly guileless face to the spoonful of sorbet. Yup, you’re really done thinking for tonight. You lean forward and open your lips. He slips the lemon sorbet into your mouth. His eyes remain on your lips as he pulls the spoon away, dips it back into the sorbet, and brings it to his own mouth.

After he continues to trade spoonfuls with you until the sorbet is gone, he pours the second glass of wine, and you both take turns sipping it in companionable silence.

“Now tell me. Which one is your favorite?” he asks after you’ve finished the second glass, and return to the first to finish it as well.

“I like them both,” you shrug. “Sorry for not having a more sophisticated answer.” You’re feeling drowsy and loose. He can walk off a tall building for all you care if he doesn’t like your answer.

“They’re both excellent wines. Each one is suited for multiple situations or meal combinations. They’re versatile, just like you are. And I don’t require any particular answer, except your honest one. I think you already know that you don’t need to put on an act for me, ever.”

You rest your elbow on the counter, mirroring his position, and rest your head in your hand. “Why would I pretend with you, if you can just force the truth out of me?”

“I will never do that to you.”

You look away. “You’ve already done it to me once before. What else is there to hide, when you’ve seen the ugliest parts of me?”

“I will not do it again. Not unless you ask me to,” he says so solemnly that you’re tempted to be a fool and believe him. “And is that what you think? That what I saw was ugly?”

You sit up, take the glass from him and knock back the rest of the wine in one gulp. You can't do this right now. You can't think about the the violent hunger, the savage thirst, that his eye brought from the depths of your soul when he forced his way into your deepest, darkest desires the night you met. The extent of how much you wanted to kill him, and make it hurt, when you thought he had killed Caleb and your grandmother. How you still feel that hunger and rage, with every wanderer you kill, every time you hope some dealer in modified protocores resists arrest so you can put them down, with prejudice.

“I’m tired, Sylus. Thank you for the lesson. Now I can successfully fool rich assholes at upscale dens of corruption and unsuspecting dates into believing that I’m a sophisticated connoisseur of overpriced beverages, and swindle them all. And I’ll never horrify you again by swigging wine out of a mug like a drunken toddler. You should invoice the Association for your services. In the meantime, I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

“I see. You’re still on guard, and defensive, when you're drunk too. How fascinating.” He narrows his eyes, not seeming to get the hint that you want him to leave now.

“I’m not drunk. I’m maybe tipsy, and I’m fucking tired. I’m going to bed.”

“All right,” he says easily. He stands and begins tidying up the counter.

“All right,” you repeat, feeling a little dizzy, a little empty. “You know where the door is.”

“As you say,” he says serenely, pulling out food storage containers you also didn’t realize you own and packing the food away.

“Thanks again,” you say, because you are polite, dammit. You make your way into the bathroom and begin getting ready for bed. When you emerge, your flat is dark. The kitchen looks pristine in the streetlight drifting in through the windows. You stare for a moment longer, wondering if maybe he’s finally given up on whatever his agenda with you is after your little emotional display tonight, and he’ll stop coming by now. You’re fine with that. Maybe this is what you’ve needed to do all along. Get drunk and sloppy. Guarded, defensive, he called you. What an asshole.

You pad into the bedroom, yawning, pulling up your phone to look at it as you walk. Maybe you should try listening to audiobooks to try to help with the insomnia. Like, boring ones with deep, sexy voiced narrators who can bore you to sleep like Sylus did the other night. You crawl onto the bed, and then—

“The fuck, Sylus?”

He’s sitting in the middle of your bed, sweater off and replaced by… nothing. Just the expanse of his big, creamy chest. And he’s wearing a pair of silky looking loose, black pyjama pants. An impossibly soft looking line of silver hair drifts from his tight navel, disappearing under his waistband. His gold-rimmed glasses are perched on his nose, like last time, and he’s scrolling through something on his tablet. He glances up at you, but then goes back to his… spreadsheets?

“Haven’t we already been through that little routine tonight?” he asks, and yawns. “I’m getting déjà vu.”

“What. Are. You. Doing?” you seethe.

“Going over the financials from the meeting with my accountant today.”

“Why?” You just sit there on your knees, on your bed, gaping at him like an idiot.

“To ensure that my next acquisition is suited to purpose.”

“What?”

His gaze flicks to you, and he pushes the glasses further up his nose. “Well, I made a promise that I wouldn’t change a thing about my latest business venture, so now I need to ensure that the next chain of businesses I acquire can serve one of the functions I had intended for the arcades.”

“What function is that?” you ask, curious now, despite yourself.

“Well, one of two primary functions,” he amends, tapping his temple thoughtfully with a finger.

“Okay,” you say slowly, inviting him to continue.

“Money laundering.”

You shake your head. “Come again?”

“Oh, I’ll be happy to. Thank you for the invitation. I wasn’t sure I’d ever receive one again, what with your heavily implied dismissal earlier.”

“Sylus!”

“Yes, my most precious gem?”

“What do you mean you intended to use the arcades for money laundering?” You want to cry even thinking about it.

“To be fair, after you asked me so sweetly not to change a thing, I immediately agreed. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“But that’s why you wanted to buy them?” How many times can a heart hurt in one night?

“I said that was one of the two primary reasons I wanted those arcades,” he says, reaching out with one hand and softly stroking your knee.

You look down, watching his calloused fingers drifting so sweetly across your skin. How can this man be so cruel and so gentle at the same time?

“What was the other reason, then?”

“Guess.”

“I’m done playing games with you tonight, Sylus.”

“When was I playing a game tonight?”

“Fine, don’t tell me. Just promise again that you won’t change anything about my favorite arcade.”

He sets the tablet on his lap, and reaches over to grasp your hand. He links your pinkie with his, and lifts it to his lips. “I already promised. And I promise again.” He seals the promise with a brush of his lips, and then rests both of your hands on the bed between you.

You don’t know why, and you will probably never know why, but you believe him right now. It’s clear that no matter what you do, he will not be leaving tonight without great violence on your part, and once again, you’re just too tired to fight him anymore. He reads your body like a damn book, because he silently hands you the glass of water that was sitting next to him on the nightstand. "Even if you're not drunk, but only maybe just a little tipsy," he says, doing an awful imitation of your voice. "You should still drink some water so you don't feel terrible in the morning."

Perhaps because of your easy compliance with his reasonable advice by simply taking the water and drinking it, he seems to deem it safe to pull you into his side. You go down, resting your head on his thick shoulder, and let your gaze wander over his tablet.

“So what are you thinking of buying this time?” you ask, yawning.

He shifts, lifting your head so that he can wrap his arm around you, repositioning you so that you’re tucked a little closer under his chin, cheek resting against his chest. “A chain of casinos.”

“Casinos?” you laugh softly. “That’s on brand, I guess.”

“Mmhmm.” He runs his fingertips absently along your arm, from wrist to elbow and back again. “Lots of money changing hands. Ideal for functioning as a washing machine for the dirty proceeds from the weapons business, which comes out clean in the pockets of lucky winners.”

“You make your living profiting off the worst in people, you know that?” you ask sleepily, the numbers on the screen blurring.

“They’ll continue being terrible, with or without my involvement. I don’t make them take the bet, or pull the trigger. And if I don't, someone else will put the chip or gun in their hands. Might as well be me collecting the paycheck.”

“Maybe, through the power of friendship, I can change your mind,” you murmur. You don’t think you’ll need that audiobook to fall asleep tonight.

“Friendship, huh?” Sylus asks, but when he looks down at you, he sees that you’ve already fallen asleep. He traces the long sweep of your eyelashes across your cheeks with his eyes, feels your measured, calm breath drifting across his skin. He gently touches one finger to the ruby earring you haven’t taken out yet. The thrill of satisfaction he felt when you answered the door still wearing it would sustain him for weeks. He is absolutely certain that it won’t be the power of friendship that’s going to change him.

He pulls you a little closer into his chest, snorts when he feels you begin to drool onto his pec, and continues scrolling through his tablet.

That night, you dream. You’re walking through your childhood home—but not your childhood home from before your memories, because you will never know what that home looked like. This one, the home from your earliest memories, with its wood panelling on the walls, old-fashioned lace curtains in the windows that you can’t see out of, because it’s pitch black beyond the glass. Hallways lengthening at the same pace as you can walk down them, boots echoing on the polished hardwood floor. You walk and walk, and you can never reach the end. Doors that won’t open, but you know Caleb might be behind them, because in your dream logic, his bedroom is behind every door you pass. You turn the handles, but they remain locked. Sometimes you think you can hear the sound of someone biting into an apple, crisp flesh giving way to sharp teeth, but the door won’t open no matter how hard you throw yourself against it. You hear your grandmother speaking, just around every corner, but you can’t understand what she’s saying. You follow the sound, and every time you think that she’s just around the next turn in the hall, the corridor stretches in front of you again, empty.

You have been in this empty house for years now, and you’re afraid that you’ll never be able to get out. But you’re more afraid that once you get out, you’ll never hear them making these particular sounds again, this slim proof of their existence echoing through the empty hallways.

Slowly, you wake up, and in that endless moment caught between your dream and reality, it’s just peaceful and black—you are coming from somewhere so far away toward something you know will hurt, and you’re not ready to feel that yet. But then a feeling of suffocation is overwhelming you, and you open your eyes to realize you’re literally being smothered by a very big, very warm body.

The relief you feel, the gratitude, that Sylus is still here, that you aren’t waking up alone, again, from the nightmare in your sleep to the reality that the nightmare is real, and you’ll never be able to see your family again, is more overwhelming than your current need for oxygen. Sylus is still here, and the yawning emptiness you were carrying with you for what felt like years during that long dream dissipates in the warmth of his body against yours. You can’t help yourself. Your throw your arm that isn’t being crushed by him over his torso and hug him tightly to you, giving in to the urge to nuzzle his chest and just listen to his steady heartbeat.

You lie like that for awhile, blissfully listening to his soft breathing, when suddenly you realize that pressed so close to him, you can feel every contour of his body, from your chest against his abdomen, his muscular, silk-covered thigh wedged between your legs, and his apparently very, very big dick pressing into your hip.

You freeze, feeling like the creep you have accused him several times of being. He’s just sleeping, and you’ve plastered yourself against him like a vacuum sealed burrito. You have absolutely no business being utterly thrilled that this part of him matches the rest of him in terms of size and intimidation. You will not be taking this joy stick for a test drive. You can get out of this. You’re a very good hunter, and you can evade detection and make a tactical retreat when necessary. And it’s very necessary right now, because you do not want him to wake up and find you attached to him like a love-sick leech.

Slowly, sooo slowly, you slide your arm from where it is slung over his waist, and begin to incrementally scooch backwards, his leg slipping from between both of yours, freezing when he seems to shift a little, and then continuing the slow slide away when he settles again.

You’ve managed to extricate all of your limbs from him, except the one that is currently numb and squashed underneath him. You slowly roll onto your back and contemplate how you’re going to get it out from under him without waking him, when suddenly his arm flops over your waist. You jerk in surprise, eyes flying to his face, but his are still closed. His hand slides from your waist to your hip, and then snakes around to take a big handful of your ass. He makes a little happy noise and then pulls your body into his again. In the process, he has managed to jam his thigh back between your legs. You stare at his face, trying desperately to see if he’s starting to wake yet—how did you even end up in this situation? Then he pulls you even closer, causing his thigh to press deliciously against you. You suppress a whine, because it has been so long since someone has touched you liked this. But of course the person who is touching you is a maniac and is doing so while still asleep. You reach up and pat his cheek to wake him up, simultaneously trying to to pull away from him, but tightens his arms around you again, dipping his head to your shoulder still exposed by his too-big sweater. You freeze in shock as he inhales deeply and hums, and soft kisses trail from your neck down, and before you can push him away he bites into the meat of your shoulder. The pain, pressure, and warmth of his mouth on your skin have you trying to arch away and into him—you do whine this time, loudly, because it hurts but you want.

Suddenly, his whole body seems to tense. The pressure on your shoulder eases, and he sighs, his breath cool drifting along your over-heated skin.

“Good morning.”

You open your eyes, realizing you’d been squeezing them shut through the last few moments, and meet his sleepy gaze.

"Were you awake?” you demand, terrified of the answer. Because if he was, then what the hell was he thinking, pretending to be asleep? And if he wasn't, was he just dreaming? Was it you in his dream, or was he dreaming of someone else? You don't want to know. You have to know.

“Your rather loud response to my love bite woke me up, I think,” he smiles softly. "I didn't realize that I was... dreaming until then."

“So you didn’t mean to—” you start to pull away.

He tightens his arm around your waist. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Sylus, let go. I’m sorry for not waking you fast enough. I was just—I was just shocked. I know you wouldn’t have done that otherwise.” You struggle, but his arm is a steel bar holding you in place.

“You’re right, I wouldn’t have,” he agrees, and you feel whatever fragile, tender root that had been growing in the cracks of your broken heart wither, the dry husk drifting away in an autumn breeze. Replacing that faint feeling of hope, you're livid that you do not share the same teleportation ability that Xavier and Sylus have. If you could, you'd teleport in a poof of glittering light or melodramatic feathers. To anywhere else but here.

You nod, and nod, and nod, because he’s not letting you move but you have to do something or else he’ll see it right on your stupid, open face, and you’d rather he slit your throat than see the pain his rejection is inflicting on you. You had lied to him earlier, about not having anything to hide, about always being honest with him. You've been lying to yourself, and to him, ever since you met him.

“What I mean—” he’s looking at you intently, and you want to cover his eyes with your hands, because as always they’re seeing too much, but suddenly, the doorbell rings through your flat.

You both turn your heads to look at the bedroom door at the same time.

Oh. Fuck.

Xavier.

Sylus turns to look back at you, so close that his nose brushes yours. “Expecting company, kitten?”

“It’s Xavier. Shit.” You try to roll away, and this time he lets you. You grab your phone off the nightstand and see that Xavier has already texted you a few times to see if you’re ready to head to the bookstore yet. The texts grow increasingly concerned the longer you don’t respond. The doorbell rings again. “You have to go. Now.”

You turn to Sylus, who is now lying leisurely on his side, head propped up in his hand, silky silver hair cascading across his forehead, occupying the bed like an imperialist force annexing a weaker neighbor’s territory, with no intention of leaving.

“And what are you going to do?” he asks, eyes drifting from your face, to your shoulder, down to your bare legs.

“I need to answer the door and tell Xavier that I’m running late.”

“Late for what?”

“Sylus, I don’t have time for this. You can’t be here. Xavier helped me get into the N109 zone, he spends a lot of time there—he’s smart enough that if he finds out what you look like, he might eventually be able to figure out who you are. You can’t be here,” you repeat, starting to panic. Sylus may not have any feelings for you beyond friendship or a predator toying with its food, but you still don’t want him to get caught because of you.

“You’re not working today. What plans do you have with him?” he asks, completely ignoring your distress.

“We’re going to the bookstore. We were going to spend our first day free just reading manga and eating junk food,” you rush out impatiently.

Sylus just looks at you for a few beats, the picture of lazy boredom on a weekend morning.

“Okay? Are you satisfied? Can you please leave now?” This is good. You can avoid the inevitable, It was a mistake, thought you were someone else, was dreaming about a giant amorous anthropomorphized ruby, you’re not exactly my type, because my type is someone who has their shit together, can identify what fucking region a certain grape was grown in and its exact soil acidity based on the year of the vintage, my type is someone else, anyone else—you reach down and hit yourself hard in the side of your thigh with a fist to get your head on straight, and start heading to your closet, intent on throwing on a robe or longer shorts so that you don't answer the door looking like you're not wearing any pants.

Sylus's irritated voice follows you. “Satisfied? No, I'm not feeling satisfied. But I would advise against answering the door wearing that.”

You jerk to a halt. “Excuse me?” You turn to find him scowling at you.

He waves a dismissive finger at the sweater and silk shirts you’re still wearing. “I think you should change before you answer the door.”

“I look that bad, huh? Thanks for the advice. You need to be gone when I get back.” You turn, hating everything and everyone, and make your way to the front door.

You throw it open, just as Xavier is lifting his hand to ring your bell again. His sky blue eyes, usually so calm and sleepy, widen when he takes in the dumpster fire that you are today.

“Hi, yeah, sorry. I overslept,” you rush out, hoping you can skip this part and go straight to the moving on with your day and your entire life part. “I just need like, fifteen minutes, and then I’ll be ready.”

“Did you get in a fight with a wanderer last night after we go home?” he asks, hand lifting again, this time toward you, as if he wants to touch you, but then thinks better of it and drops it back to his side. He’s wearing the white hoodie that Sylus stole from him. What even is your life right now?

“What? No, I just had some wine and was really tired.” He’s staring at you, brow furrowed now, and it takes a minute to realize that he’s staring at the sweater hanging off your shoulder. You suddenly get a really, really bad feeling. “Why?”

He lifts his hand again, and points, but in a kind of timid way, like a little kid who knows that it’s rude to point but can’t help himself anyway so just points a little so that his mom won’t get mad at him. “It looks like a wanderer bit you.”

You lift your own hand and touch your shoulder, and feel the too-warm skin there, the ache spreading deep into the muscle.

“Oooh, yeah. Yes.” You decide that you need to take acting classes. That is what you will do as your new hobby, on your few days off. You’re going to win the best actor award if it kills you, because if it doesn’t kill you, the embarrassment will kill you instead. And you’d rather die convincing everyone that everything is normal and you’re fine, and not from the embarrassment of the fact that your not-boyfriend, not-fuck-buddy, not-interested-at-all, probably not even your friend anymore Sylus accidentally bit you while fucking asleep and left evidence of it for all the world to see. “I did respond to a really minor alert in the neighborhood last night. It was only one wanderer. Hiding in a trash can of all places,” you laugh, not at all sounding unhinged. Convincing. “Bit me pretty good, but it really was nothing, I had completely forgotten about it. So, still on for the bookstore?” you ask, chipper, eager, well-adjusted!

Xavier stares at your shoulder for a few seconds longer, and then just nods. “Yeah, just text me when you’re ready.”

Bless him. You’ve almost put him back to sleep with your absolutely stellar performance. “Okay, great! See you soon.” You back into your flat again and let the door shut with a heavy click.

Xavier stands outside your door for several moments after you’ve scurried back inside. He thinks about how sharp his light blade is. He thinks about how he’s going to use it on whatever motherfucker thinks that he has the right to mark Xavier’s partner like an animal. And then he yawns, and meanders back to his own flat to wait for your text because he has all the time in the world, and the patience to match it. Xavier is your partner, and he’s not going anywhere, anytime soon. If he murders whatever asshole was in your flat last night right now, that might interfere with your bookstore plans with him.

You stand on the other side of the door for a moment, just trying to collect yourself. You lean against the cool surface, look up at your ceiling. Breathe in the smell of shoe leather, oiled metal. Absently you lift your hand to your shoulder. Why didn’t Sylus warn you before you went to open the door? He even admitted that he wouldn’t have … done that to you if he hadn’t been asleep. Why would he just… and then it hits you. He did tell you to change clothes before you answered the door. The asshole just didn’t tell you why. But he would know by now that you’d actually do the opposite of whatever he says, because he’s not the boss of you. He played you like one of his fucking records.

But why the fuck would he want Xavier to see what happened between the two of you? Does he enjoy your humiliation that much?

You have no idea if you’ll ever have the chance to figure him out, especially if he got the hint that you don’t want to see him anytime soon. You shake your head. Even though you should be exhausted after staying up so late and ending up on the human embodiment of a roller coaster with its wheels coming off despite all of your promises to yourself last night, you feel well-rested. You will survive this. You can survive anything.

You head back to your bedroom to confirm that Sylus is actually gone, because last night proved that whether he actually listens when you tell him to leave depends entirely on his own whims. As you enter, the late morning sunlight spills into the room. He really left. The room is empty. The books and various weapons on your nightstands have been stacked neatly and lined up just so. The clothes that had been left haphazardly hanging off your chest of drawer handles or strewn over the floor are nowhere to be seen. It would be the tidiest your bedroom has been in weeks, if not for the fact that your entire bed is covered in a thick layer of black feathers.

“This bitch,” you breathe.

It’s going to take at least two full size trash bags to clean this mess up.

You decide then and there that Sylus doesn’t have a choice about whether he’s going to see you again. You’re going to bag up these feathers and then tar and feather him with them the next time you see his gorgeous, petty fucking face.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #l&ds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x mc #my fanfic #love and deepspace fanfiction #this is over 13k long so if anyone actually reads this you're a goddamn hero #i've already written sylus's pov of this mess but it needs fleshing out #absolutely self indulgent over the top comfort food #which is what sylus is to me

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allmoshnobrain · 1 day

Text

You're a short girl, and sometimes that messes with your confidence. Your boyfriend doesn't seem to care at all, though.

✦ on this fic: simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader, fluff, reader is short and it makes her a bit insecure

✦ a/n: this is my first time writing for anything other than metallica/megadeth/venom which is what i usually write for but i've been daydreaming a lot about this man and needed to get this out of my system 😭 also it was a great way to warm up and start writing again after my break!! hope u guys enjoy it 💖

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

It takes him a while to pick up on your insecurity.

It's subtle, and honestly, he’s not exactly great with subtle. He fails, at first, to catch the way you pout, the way you frown whenever you see a hot actress who’s taller than you, or a long dress you think would look better on someone with a few more inches.

He finally catches on, though, one night when you’re cooking dinner. It’s kind of a slip up, really — a tiring day and your period cramps the worst they’ve been in the last few hours just making it easier for you to get upset over the smallest thing. So when you can’t reach one of the trays on the top shelf and have to ask him to grab it, he turns around to see you teary-eyed and upset, which is not how this usually goes.

“Love?” he asks, his brow furrowing when he sees your state “What’s wrong?” He glances at the glass tray in his hands. “Did I grab the wrong one?”

“What? No, no, it’s fine,” you mutter, his confused look quickly shifting into worry when he notices the tears in your eyes.

“Hey,” he quickly puts the tray down and gently grabs your chin. “Talk to me. What is it?”

He’s firm, straightforward but not harsh, which just makes you feel even more ridiculous for almost crying over something so dumb.

“I’m being silly,” you say, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t say that,” he mutters. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

That last part sounds almost like a command, his voice all firm and serious — something that would probably annoy you if he didn’t sound so genuinely concerned. You sigh.

“I wish I was taller,” you whisper, hoping he wouldn’t hear it, but he does. Of course he does.

“You wish you were taller?” he repeats, now more confused than worried. “Why?”

“I just don’t want to feel useless, always needing your help,” you half-lie, because that’s not really it. And of course, Simon knows — he always does. You can tell by the way he raises his eyebrow slightly at you, disarming you instantly. “I wish I was prettier,” you finally mutter.

“You are pretty,” he says slowly, like he’s still trying to figure out where all this is coming from. “You’re beautiful. And I like helping you.”

“But tall girls are… More beautiful,” you sniffle, and he snorts.

“Who said that?”

“I said,” you frown. “Like, every time I see a cute dress that’s too long, I just think I can’t wear it. It won’t look right on me. I always feel like I can only look cute, but sometimes I want to look, I don’t know, gorgeous. Tall girls just always seem to look gorgeous to me, and I...”

“Oh, shush,” Simon grumbles, sliding an arm around your waist and pulling you closer. He tilts your chin up gently so you’re looking at him. “You are gorgeous. And you’re beautiful, and you’re mine. And I like you small — easier to hold.”

You can’t help but laugh. It’s shaky, and you try to hold it back, wanting to stay in your little pity party a bit longer. I mean, seriously, what does he mean by "you’re gorgeous" when you feel the exact opposite?

"Easier to hold?" you say, trying to sound offended but failing as a giggle slips out.

"There she is," he hums, kissing the corner of your mouth, and that’s when you realize you’re smiling. "My girl. Don’t be upset, love. You don’t need to be taller to be pretty. And if you ever need to reach for something, well, that’s what I’m here for."

“You’re just saying that because you’re my boyfriend,” you tease. He lets out an exasperated sigh.

“I’m not.”

“You are!”

“Goddammit, woman. Will you quit trying to convince me you’re not beautiful? It’s not happening,” he frowns, then leans in, pressing a small, tender kiss to your lips. His arms wrapped around you are comfortable, warm and firm and feel like home.

It never fails to disarm you, how soft he can be. Out of the blue, always when you’re not really expecting it. Just when you think you’ve finally managed to annoy him or maybe this is the time he’s gonna get tired of you. He never fails to prove you wrong.

He never fails to prove that he loves you, just the way you are.

#you can rip the big strong men being soft for their lovers trope out of my cold dead hands #ada writes fanfiction #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader

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ghostsangel · 3 hours

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Could I request being friends with Ghost (who's desperately in love with you) and admitting to him one night that you don't think anyone would ever love you? If reader is plus size that would be amazing! Thank you 😊

oh my god this is adorable!!! sorry if this is too short or it sucks. totally felt like writer’s block.

simon “ghost” riley x fem!plus-size reader

tags/warnings: a lil internalized fatphobia, smitten ghost, this is legit fluff bro, a bit of angst if you squint

You’re so tired of being alone.

It sounds stupid, but you’ve never had a boyfriend. Never been kissed or had sex or even held hands with a guy. A big part of you feels like it’s because you’ve got a bit more meat on your bones—apron belly, saggy boobs, thick thighs. How would you expect anyone to love those parts of yourself when you barely do yourself?

“You alright?” Simon’s voice tugs you out of your thoughts.

You blink and look at him, forcing your lips to tug up into a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinkin’.”

“About?” He takes a sip of his beer, leaning back against your couch.

You’ve been friends with Simon for a couple of years. You met through mutual acquaintances, and found he’s really fun to hang out with. Caring, a bit goofy when he’s drunk, protective. In truth, you’ve developed a bit of a crush on him. But, surely, someone who looks like Simon….yeah, you’re out of his league.

You shrug, crossing your arms in front of your belly and leaning back on the couch. “Things.”

Simon raises his brows. “Things,” he repeats. “Come on, tell me. We’ve been friends for a long time, doll.”

His eyes pierce through you, and you can’t help the heat that rises to your face. Averting your gaze, you rub your thighs together, shaking your head. “It’s stupid.”

Simon grunts and sets his beer down, moving to sit next to you on the couch. He turns your head to face him, fingers on your chin. A prickly subject for you—your double chin makes you so self-conscious, you could cry.

“C’mon, nothin’ you say could be stupid,” he reassures you, releasing your chin.

You’re silent for a moment before you sigh. “Just thinkin’ about me. And how I’ve never been loved, and probably never will be.”

Simon blinks at you, brows drawing together. “And why do you think that?”

You look at him incredulously, your hands gesturing to your body. “Because I look like…this. I’m fat. And guys don’t—”

“Shut it,” Simon says, tilting your head up by your chin. There’s a look in his eyes, one you’ve never seen before. “You’re bloody beautiful, doll. Your body makes men like me weak, and it drives me crazy.” He leans in, and your breath hitches in your throat. “Ever since I met you, you’re all I fuckin’ think about. Think I’ve loved you since that first day.”

Your heart stops, and your brain scrambles as you try to reply. “I—what? You…what?”

Simon laughs softly, his fingers moving to cup your cheek. “You don’t have to worry about anyone not loving you, sweetheart. I already do. Been crazy about you since we met.”

“Really?” You breathe out, meeting his eyes. “You’re not just lyin’ to me or makin’ fun of me or—”

Simon shuts you up with a kiss, his lips pressing against yours slowly. You kiss him back, clumsily, not sure what to do. You just follow his lead, letting him take control. The kiss causes heat to run down your spine and you pull back after a moment.

“I’ve never…” You trail off, meeting his eyes.

“I know. Don’t worry, love. I’ll be all your firsts if you let me.”

#trisspeaks #cod #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #cod mwii #ghost #ghost cod #simon riley x y/n #ghost hc #simon ghost x reader #simon x plus size reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost headcanons #ghost mw2

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luveline · 1 day

Note

for the fred x asf!reader, maybe something where one of his family members is like whispering about r or says something rude or backhanded and he sticks up for her? or if you don’t want to do his family, maybe a friend or something?

ty for requesting! fem, 1.7k

Sometimes you get so sick with everything that it makes you gag. It sounds insane, how can an illness that tires you force something like a gag? It might be more appropriate to attribute it to anxiety, but it’s overwhelming, whatever it is. You get this feeling like you’re totally lost in the middle of the day and all Fred can do is watch you as you scramble out of your seat for a bathroom.

You haven’t actually thrown up yet. You stand bent over the bathroom sink in the burrow and breathe. Your gag had been loud —it wouldn’t surprise you if everybody here tonight had heard it. Fred stands just outside the door, the bathroom too small to force his way in while you still stand at the sink.

“Lovely,” he says, without shame despite the tens of ears listening in, “can I come in?”

The basin is made of yellow and orange tile, peculiar as the rest of the burrow. The mirror is framed by the same colours. You meet your own eyes and don’t have it in you to scowl. You aren’t angry at being sick. You aren’t sorry for yourself. You’re just tired.

Fred says your name.

You scoot into the very corner of the bathroom and begin opening the door for him. He’s in as soon as you allow him to be, shimmying between the door and the toilet to close it behind him again. He takes a breath of relief when he finds you unhurt, but his concern doesn’t waver.

“You okay?” he asks.

Sometimes you wish Fred didn’t have to see you at all. Like this, like that, ever. You wish he never met you, because you know he’s beautiful inside and out, and he has to witness you at your constant lows. “Fine.”

“My mum’s making some peppermint tea, if you want some. It settles the stomach.”

“Maybe.”

“Is there something wrong?”

Beyond the usual? No. Everything is the same. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you’ll be in love with him forever without ever feeling enough, maybe he’ll keep looking at you like he is now, softly, the slightest air of defeat about him. There are wires crossed in your head you can’t fix, and he loves you, and sometimes it doesn’t make a bit of difference.

“Hey,” he says, “it’s okay.” Fred holds your arm by the elbow.

“I know. I don’t know what…”

Do you ever?

Fred doesn’t catch onto your dark mood. “That’s enough for today. We’ll go home, okay? Let me just say goodbye to mum, you can say bye to George. Or do we…”

“No. It’s okay, I’ll go and see him.”

“Okay.” He kisses your cheek.

Fred leaves first. By the time you’ve slipped between the toilet and the door back out into the hallway, he’s gone. Not even his scent lingers. You make your way back into the living room where you’d been before you started feeling sick, face angled down.

“You alright?” Charlie asks.

You raise your head to smile at him quickly. “I’m okay. Just not feeling well, sorry.”

“Going home?” George asks.

You bite your tongue and nod. George gathers your jumper where you’d shed it in a hot flush and quickly stands to be by your side.

“Let me walk you down to the garden.”

“Okay. Bye, Charlie. See you next week.”

“Feel better!” Charlie calls as you go.

You pull your jumper on and follow George out into the garden, where you meander. You’d say goodbye to Molly, only she’s so caring that it can make things worse. She’s more understanding of how you feel than you’d first expected, but she made boys like Fred and George, so it shouldn’t surprise you.

“What’s that about? The being sick?” George asks eventually.

“I wasn’t sick.”

“No?”

“No, it’s just kecking. I don’t really know what it is, honestly.”

George looks like Fred, but they’re not as identical as people think. Very occasionally you’ll spot him across the shop and think it’s your boyfriend for a few nanoseconds, but you could never mistake them for one another in good lighting. When George offers a hug, it doesn’t feel like Fred’s touch. You know the difference.

“Maybe it’s, like, a sign you need to chill out for a bit.”

“I’m always chilled out. Nobody expects anything from me. I never do anything.”

George pulls back with an arm still covering your shoulders, “Listen to the way you’re talking,” he says gently, “you need to be nice to yourself, even if it’s just until you feel better. You know? Something is clearly winding you up, and it doesn’t have to. You can tell me about it.”

It’s something, but it’s something he knows already. You hold your arm to his, struggling to explain, to want to. You wish you could go back to saying nothing; it was easier to be quiet.

George isn’t disappointed. He rubs your arm. “You can tell me whenever. Or not tell me. Don’t tell me anything, let’s just ditch Fred and go get cake.”

“I can’t ditch Fred.”

“Why?”

“I like him.”

“Ugh.” George puts his cheek to yours. “Whatever. You’ll pick the right twin eventually.”

Shouting echoes from the house. You and George look up at the same time, startled, the light mood of your joking quickly tanked. “Is that Fred?” you ask.

It’s definitely Fred. “I couldn’t care less what you think, Ronald, I’d be surprised if you could form intelligent thought–”

“Fred!” Molly shouts, “Boys, please, there’s no need for all the shouting!”

“If I were you I’d look at yourself carefully the next time you're tempted to open your fat gob–”

George laughs beside you. “Jesus, what’s Ron said?”

“I have no idea.” The twins argue with Ron every time they see him, so it could be anything. “Maybe he’s harping on Fred to cut his hair again.”

“Well, he should.”

“No way.” You picture your lovely boyfriend with short, short hair as everyone wants him to have and cringe. “No, thank you.”

“Just don’t talk about her, Ron! It’s really quite simple, even a half-wit like you could understand it if you tried, don’t even think about her–”

Your chest falls as you realise what it is that’s making all the fuss. At Fred’s shout, there’s an upheaval of sounds, Ron’s yelling, Molly’s, and Arthur’s quieter pleading for everybody to calm down. Fred says something you can’t hear, and then the door out into the garden is opening, and Fred huffs a breath as he makes his way down the path.

“Hey,” he says, forcing a smile when he sees you and George. “Ready to go?”

“What happened?” you ask.

“It’s nothing. Ron being Ron.”

“Did he say something?”

Fred looks between you and George with a frown. “He’s hardly capable of stringing four words together. But yes, he said something.” His frown deepens. “He’s just being a dick. It doesn’t matter.”

“Was it about me?”

Fred squints at you. “Could you be less perceptive?”

“No.”

He visually debates telling you what’s been said. George grabs your shoulder, half a hug as he says, “I can invoke a divine punishment.”

“It was nothing cruel, ghost.” Fred sighs. “He asked me why you act like that, and I– He doesn’t get it, okay? But that doesn’t mean you act wrong.”

“I see,” you say.

Fred watches your face. His own turns to heartbreak. “Listen, I’ll go back in there. I’ll kill him.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Of course I will.” Fred ducks his head a little to see you where you’ve shied away. “I will kill him.”

George snorts. “Me first. He’s such a fucking dolt of a boy.”

“No, it’s okay, I know I’m weird–”

“I’ll kill him–”

“Fred,” you interrupt. You take a moment to formulate what you’re saying, because it’s important, and because you constantly toe the same line, “I am weird. He doesn’t have to pretend I wasn’t just almost sick in the living room for no real reason–”

“It’s not about pretending, it’s that he thinks you do it on purpose.” Fred speaks with such severity that you immediately close your mouth. “I’ve seen you struggle for so long, it’s painful, ghost, and it’s worse for you, I know it is, and the insinuation that you’re choosing–”

“Fred,” you say, putting your hand to his chest. “It’s okay.”

“Well, it isn’t,” George says, “but yeah, it’s okay. I’m gonna make slugs come out of his nose.”

George kisses your cheek, a smacking joking thing that you bat away before he jogs back up the path to the house. Fred looks down at your hand on his chest, still frowning, but with a slowly relaxing brow.

“You can’t blame people for not getting it,” you say.

“Yes, I can.”

“You can’t.”

“Yes, I can. You are difficult to understand sometimes, lovely, but being difficult to understand does not mean you’re difficult to care about. Ron’s total lack of empathy is ridiculous. He should be better than that.”

“He just doesn’t get it,” you say, raising a hand to his chin to turn his head, and lifting your chin to kiss his cheek primly. “But I don’t need him to. Just need you.”

He grabs you in a hug before you can move away, his face pressed against yours. “How do you feel now?” he asks quietly. “Still poorly?”

“Yeah, a bit. George told me I need to chill out.”

“You do. That’s what we’re going home to do.”

Fred is so careful with you that it sort of hurts. Like, to have someone stand in front of you and to hold you without a second thought, to have never let you down, to grab you at the first sign of weakness and hold you together. You will never, ever feel like you deserve him. Maybe you don’t. But Fred doesn’t work on deserving, he just loves, lips soft on your temple as his hand scrunched into your side. “Don’t worry,” he says gently, fingers curling in and out against you, almost like a loving scratch, “you’ll feel better soon.”

#a special friend universe #fred weasley #fred weasley x reader

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chicgeekgirl89 · 10 hours

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Rating: K Summary: T.K. is eager to return to the firehouse for his first shift post-icy pond coma. He's feeling great, excited, and ready for anything. What he doesn't expect is a surprise visit from a lonely Carlos in the middle of the night. A/N: This one has been sitting for a while and I figured I should probably release it before we FINALLY get some new material to work with this week!!

Read on AO3

“Did you pack extra socks?”

“Yes.”

“Your vitamins? Your hoodie?”

“Yes, Carlos.”

“I put an extra blanket for you in a bag by the door, make sure you grab it on your way out.”

“Okay, this is starting to feel more like my first day of Kindergarten than my first day back at work,” T.K. chuckles.

Carlos shifts uncomfortably and huffs. “I just want to make sure you have everything you need.”

T.K. puts a hand on his chest, steadying him. “I’m going to the firehouse. Not the moon. If I need something you can bring it to me. It’s twelve hours Carlos. One overnight shift. I’ll be okay.”

“I still think maybe you should have waited until there was a day shift available,” Carlos insists. “You need your sleep.”

“Babe, I want to go back. I need to go back. If I sit around here for much longer I’m going to go crazy,” T.K. says gently. “The doctors cleared me, my dad cleared me, Tommy cleared me. I’m good to go.”

“Nobody asked me if I cleared you,” Carlos grumbles low, almost as if he doesn’t mean for T.K. to hear it.

T.K.’s mouth twists into a half smile that he tries to suppress. Carlos has been extremely attentive and serious about T.K.’s recovery care since coming home from the hospital. There have been schedules and spreadsheets and alarm reminders about medications and appointments. T.K. has been plied with so much of Andrea’s soup that it feels like his eyeballs could float.

He still tires a little quicker than normal, especially toward the end of the day, and he hasn’t quite shaken off the permanent chill that ate its way into his bones in that frozen pond, but he feels almost back to one hundred percent. And he’s definitely well enough to get through one shift.

“I will be okay,” T.K. promises him. “If anything feels off I’ll tell Tommy and come right home.”

Carlos eyes him, still not convinced. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

His phone buzzes and he checks it. “Nancy’s here. I��ll see you in a few hours. You’ll barely even know I’m gone.”

“Be safe,” Carlos says.

It was their standard standard farewell before. Before the fire and the breakup and the ice.

“I will,” T.K. responds. The words have an odd weight in his chest. The last time he went to work they were broken up. He couldn’t promise Carlos that he would be safe, and he wasn’t. He fell through a frozen pond and died and woke up to a second chance with the love of his life.

It feels good to be able to make that promise again.

“Love you,” he says, pecking Carlos on the lips as he shoulders his work bag.

“Love you too,” Carlos says. “Ah! Blanket!” he calls as T.K. reaches for the doorknob.

T.K. accepts the bag from him. “Thanks Mom.”

Carlos rolls his eyes, but there’s a fond, slightly embarrassed smile on his lips. “Shut up.”

T.K. takes the elevator down to the ground floor and exits out the front doors to where Nancy is parked and waiting. “Aw yeah!!” she yells out the car window. “Get in loser! We’re going to work!”

T.K. throws his bag giddily into the back seat and buckles his seatbelt. “Freedoooom!!” he crows happily as she puts it into gear.

“Oh, yeah, like it’s been so hard for you recovering with Carlos catering to your every whim,” Nancy teases.

She’s not wrong; he has no complaints. Carlos has been with him as much as possible for the last few weeks, rebuilding the fractured splinters of their relationship into something that finally feels solid again. T.K.’s heart is nearly as recovered as his body. There have been painful moments, lots of tears, anger, and some difficult confessions, but already T.K. feels stronger for it. The break up was awful, and part of him still hates himself for his role in it, but it almost feels worth it to be where they are now.

“So catch me up on the gossip,” T.K. says as they drive. “What’s the firehouse tea?”

“Mm! Yes! God, I missed you,” Nancy says fervently. “Okay. Someone froze Paul’s boxers last week and he’s still so mad about it. He thinks it was Mateo.”

“And was it?”

“Nope.” She pops the ‘p’ and smiles wickedly. “It was me and Marj.”

“Nice.” T.K. sinks into the seat, already feeling like he’s settling back into normal. “What else?”

“Torbin’s girlfriend left him. Again,” she says. “And your dad found the decoy candy stash, but the real one is still safe.”

“Third cabinet from the left behind the spare hoses?”

“You know it.”

“Are there Sour Patch Kids?”

She takes her eyes off the road for a second to smile at him. “I restocked them for you as a welcome back gift.”

“Aw, thanks Nance,” he says, heart warming at her kindness.

The entire 126 has stepped in a major way over the last few weeks. The fridge in the loft hasn’t been empty of food once, everyone has stopped by to check on him, and the group text thread has been full of encouraging and silly texts. It had hurt to watch them all get back to work once the station opened; he’d been able to attend the ceremony but hadn’t been cleared for duty yet. But tonight they will finally be all together again.

When they arrive the house is quiet. There’s no flurry of activity in the bays; everything is oddly silent and dark.

“What’s going on?” T.K. asks as they get out of Nancy’s car, nerves fluttering. Have they been shut down again for some reason? They literally just reopened a couple weeks ago, if they’ve been taken out of service already….

The lights flick on and there’s a cacophonous shout of “SURPRISE!” as the whole team pops out from behind the engine and the ambulance. There’s a giant banner with “Welcome Back T.K.” on the front of the rig, along with balloons and streamers, and Paul is holding a massive cake.

The grin that splits T.K.’s face is so wide it hurts and he feels tears prick at the corner of his eyes. It’s Marjan who comes to him first, holding out her arms as she runs over for a hug. “Welcome back,” she says warmly and he squeezes her tightly before letting go to catch the next person in line.

Judd claps a hand onto his shoulder. “Good to have you home brother.”

“Thanks,” T.K. says. “And please tell Grace thank you again for all the meals. It’s made our lives so much easier these last couple weeks.”

Even with a newborn in the house, somehow Grace had managed to send over meals to make sure Carlos and T.K. didn’t starve during his convalescence.

“Yeah between you and Paul she’s been basically running a catering company out of our kitchen,” Judd says. “Gotta make sure everybody’s taken care of. But you’re cut off now,” he announces loudly. “Time for y’all to do your own cookin’ again.”

“Bro, I can’t believe you didn’t even lose any toes or anything,” Mateo says when it’s his turn. His hug is accompanied by a back slap that chokes the breath out of T.K. for a second. “I mean it’s good, but like, that would have been pretty gnarly.”

“Yeah, I’m glad I kept all my appendages,” T.K. says. “I find them pretty essential.”

“Still, would have been a cool story,” Mateo says a little wistfully.

“Mateo his story is already plenty cool,” Paul says. “In fact, it’s so cool, it’s almost frozen solid. And that is why we got you this cake.”

He holds it up for T.K.’s inspection and T.K. bursts into laughter. It’s got Frozen characters all over it and reads “The Cold Never Bothered T.K. Anyway.”

“It’s an ice cream cake,” Paul says proudly, like this is the greatest collective idea they’ve ever had.

“I love it,” T.K. says. “It’s perfect.”

“Okay, okay, let the adults have a turn,” Tommy says, breaking through the crowd and pulling T.K. into a warm, soft hug. “Welcome back T.K. It’s so good to see you well.”

T.K. hugs her back, a little extra tight. He’s very aware that he’s not the only one who lived through several days of trauma because of that pond. This woman’s hands saved his life, kept his heart beating long enough for help to arrive. Even when the question of whether he’d live had been answered, there was still uncertainty about how functional he would be. That he’s back at work like nothing ever happened is astonishing. It’s a triumph for both of them.

“Cap I don’t—“ The words stick in his throat because how do you thank someone for doing what she did?

She pulls back and squeezes his shoulders. “I know baby,” she says softly, eyes looking a little moist. “It’s okay. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Tommy looks past him and T.K. turns to find his dad. “C’mere kiddo,” he says warmly and T.K. ducks his head, slightly embarrassed by this display of fatherly affection in front of his team. “Love you,” his dad murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to his hair before patting him sharply on the back. “All right team! Let’s celebrate the 126 being finally, officially back together!”

T.K. takes a photo with the cake to send to Carlos before they cut into it. Paul makes sure T.K. gets the piece with Elsa’s face on it and they all talk and joke and laugh like no time has passed at all.

When the bells go off he feels a thrill go down his spine, excitement tinged with a little bit of nerves. “You ready?” Nancy asks as they climb into the rig.

“You know it,” he says with a grin. “Cap?”

Tommy buckles in. “Let’s roll.”

“Yeah!!! TNT is back in action!” Nancy honks the horn as they roll out of the garage and peal off toward an elderly slip and fall.

It’s a relatively easy call, a good, low stress reintroduction to the job. They drop the woman off at the hospital with a possible concussion and sprained ankle and are on their way back to the station when another call comes in for a fire in a single family home.

They meet up with the rest of the crew at the address, where they find a relatively small, but smoky kitchen fire. They’re not needed beyond basic first aid and are sent to a call for a choking at a restaurant next.

T.K. is practically buzzing with energy by the time they finally get back to the station an hour later. Some of it is probably sugar from the large piece of cake he downed before they started, but he’s also flying high on the joy of saving people. He’d known he missed the job, but he hadn’t realized quite how much until he’d snapped on his gloves and started taking vitals again.

He bounces out of the ambulance into the bay, already knowing that he’s not going to sleep at all tonight. Maybe he can persuade Mateo to pull a Mario Kart all nighter with him.

It’s past ten but the rest of the crew is still up, most of them in the showers still trying to get the stench of the kitchen fire off. T.K. is on his way to grab a second piece of cake when he hears Judd call his name from the doorway to the locker room.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“Found something that belongs to you,” Judd says, an odd smirk on his face.

“Something that belongs to me?” T.K. wrinkles his nose. He’s barely been back five hours, what could he possibly be missing already?

As realization dawns he rolls his eyes. “Is this a welcome back prank? What’d you do? Put my keys in jello? Hide a fish in my locker?”

“Nope,” Judd says. “You’d better go check your bunk though. It’s waitin’ for ya.”

His bunk? What the hell? Giving Judd a final suspicious look he heads for the bunk room.

He enters with caution, aware that this is likely a trap. When his eyes adjust to the darkened lighting he finds Judd was right; there is a familiar lump that most definitely belongs to him curled up in the middle of his bed. T.K.’s heart stutters and he crosses the room in only a few strides, sinking down onto the edge of the mattress.

His hand automatically goes to Carlos’ forehead, fear that his boyfriend has somehow become ill or injured in the hours since he left home at the forefront of his mind. “Babe,” he says worriedly, brushing his fingers across Carlos’ face and down his neck.

Carlos’ eyelids flutter and he blinks up soft, brown, confused eyes at T.K. before quickly pushing up to a sitting position. “Hey,” he says, a little breathless as he tries to recover from his late night nap.

“Baby, are you okay?” T.K. asks, his fingers still worriedly searching for signs of fever or injury.

“Yeah, yes, I’m fine,” Carlos says, clearing his throat and scooting back so there’s some space between them.

Relief extinguishes the spike of adrenaline in T.K.’s veins and he relaxes a little as curiosity takes over. “What are you doing here then? Did something happen at home?”

Carlos’ face takes on a slightly evasive look. “No, everything’s fine at the loft.”

“Then why are you asleep in my bunk?”

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I was just waiting for you.” The words are quick, almost defensive.

“Waiting for me?” T.K. frowns. “Did you come all the way over here just to make sure I haven’t passed out or something? Seriously Carlos, we talked about this. I promised I would be careful.”

“No, that’s not—I wasn’t—“ Carlos huffs in frustration and T.K. tries to read the look on his face without success.

“Baby, what is it?”

Carlos looks down at his hands and mumbles something that T.K. doesn’t catch. “What?” he asks, confusion and concern clouding his happy back-to-work buzz.

Carlos sighs and meets his gaze, embarrassment all over his face. “I said, I missed you.”

T.K. softens at these words. “You came all the way over here because you missed me?”

“It’s stupid,” Carlos says, his discomfort at this vulnerable admission written into every line of his body.

“No,” T.K. says, scooching a little closer to him. “No, baby, no. It’s not stupid.”

“It is stupid,” Carlos says. “I’m a grown man. I should be able to spend one night without my boyfriend.”

“It’s okay,” T.K. says with a chuckle. “We’ve spent a lot of time together lately. It’s cute that you got lonely without me.”

“This was dumb, I’m gonna go.” Carlos starts to get up, but T.K. catches his hand.

“No, stay for a little bit.”

Carlos sinks back down reluctantly. “Isn’t everyone coming up soon? It’s late.”

“They’re still cleaning up downstairs. And Judd knows we’re up here. He’ll probably make them give us a few minutes.”

He grabs Carlos’ arm and pulls it around his waist, scooting backward toward the center of the small mattress and pushing against Carlos’ body.

“What are you doing?” Carlos asks in confusion.

“Come on, snuggle me. You drove all the way over here, might as well get some cuddles to remember me by in our bed tonight.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, come on.” T.K. wiggles his butt invitingly until Carlos slides down and spoons him the way he wants. “See? Better already, right?”

Carlos huffs a laugh against the back of T.K.’s neck. It’s a tight fit, both of them on this twin size firehouse mattress, but they squirm around and manage to find a position that’s comfortable enough.

T.K. waits, feeling Carlos relax against him as the minutes pass uninterrupted. His own eyes feel a little heavy; it would be so easy to fall asleep like this. Sleeping on the couch at his dad’s for months had been devastatingly lonely. At the time he’d tried to pretend it wasn’t; that he was glad there was no room for Carlos when he laid his head down at night.

But in the months since, he’s recognized how horribly isolating it was. He’d taken a lot of extra shifts because it was easier to sleep in beds that Carlos had never touched.

These memories stir a thought. “You haven’t been alone at the loft since I came home from the hospital,” T.K. says softly.

He feels Carlos stiffen a little behind him. “Yeah, I guess that’s right.”

“It must have been hard before, all those nights when I wasn’t there,” T.K. says, focusing on every tiny movement and breath happening behind him. In all their many conversations the last few weeks, they’ve mostly talked about what broke them up in the first place and how to keep it from happening again. Carlos has avoided saying much about the actual time they spent apart. T.K. is pushing at a tender spot, one that Carlos has been loathe to talk about in lieu of “moving on” instead. But his boyfriend is here seeking comfort for a reason and T.K. can’t let him go home without uncovering what it is.

When Carlos doesn’t speak T.K. pushes a little harder. “I had my dad and Mateo, but you were there all by yourself.”

“We don’t have to talk about this.”

There’s tension in Carlos’ voice and T.K. awkwardly rolls over until they’re facing each other, refusing to back down. “Did you talk to anyone? All those months apart? Have you told anyone how that felt?”

The lines of Carlos’ brow are tight, like he’s struggling to keep his feelings tucked down deep inside of him. “It’s in the past T.K.”

“If it’s in the past, then why are you here?” he asks, keeping his voice gentle.

Carlos swallows, his eyes closing like he’s in pain. There’s a long moment of quiet and T.K. wonders if he’s going to have to let it drop for tonight. But then, “You were gone. There was no one to tell,” Carlos finally says.

That’s what he’d been afraid of. Carlos hadn’t told his family, T.K. already knew that. And he’s far too polite a person to air his grievances to any of their friends, especially since most of them are also T.K.’s colleagues. T.K. is his person. The one he feels safe with. When T.K. walked out of that loft he hadn’t just left Carlos, he’d taken his entire support system with him.

“I’m here. Tell me now,” he says. “Please?”

Carlos’ eyes drop to the third or fourth button down on T.K.’s uniform shirt, the words too difficult to say to his face. “Those nights were awful,” he tells the button. “I would lie in bed, hating myself for pushing you away, furious at you for leaving me. I was—god—I was so lonely, T.K. I wanted you back so damn much it hurt.

He finally lifts his eyes a little and they look haunted, like mentally he’s reliving those awful, dark hours. “I know this isn’t the same. I know you’re just here at work, but sitting there in the quiet tonight, all by myself…”

“It felt like I’d left you all over again,” T.K. finishes for him.

“Yeah, kind of.” His mouth twists and he shifts uncomfortably. “I know this isn’t the same thing. I kept telling myself I’d see you in the morning, but I couldn’t sleep and I couldn’t stop thinking and I just…I wanted to see you.”

“You can always come see me. If you need that reassurance, I will give it to you.”

T.K. takes Carlos’ hand and kisses it before pressing it over his heart, pounding forcefully with grief over mistakes and lost time beneath his ribs. His other hand he secures on Carlos’ hip, his thumb moving back and forth soothingly. “I am here,” he says firmly. “I am coming home to you. Every day. And every night. From now on. You’re not alone in that loft anymore, Carlos. I might not be there all the time, but I will always want to be. It’s our home. I don’t want it to feel like anything else ever again.”

Carlos gives him a lopsided smile. “Me neither.

“Come here.”

He pulls Carlos into his arms, holding him tightly. The tones go off and Carlos tries to let him go but T.K. tucks him in tighter. “It’s just fire, not us,” he says, feeling slightly guilty that he’s glad his teammates are running back to work because it means no one is going to bother them for awhile.

They stay curled up together for so long, that T.K. wonders if Carlos is going to go back to sleep. But finally he pulls back, his body relaxed and loose. “Better?” T.K. asks.

Carlos nods. “Yes. Thank you.” His gaze turns more serious, assessing. “How are you? Are you feeling all right? How’s the shift been?”

T.K. chuckles. “I’m not the one who fell asleep in my boyfriend’s work bunk. Yes, I’m fine. The shift has been amazing. I missed this so much.”

“You haven’t gotten lightheaded or dizzy? You’re not too tired?”

“No. Not even a little.”

“Good,” Carlos says, relief smoothing out the last of the lines that crease his brow. “I know I’m being selfish, wanting to keep you home with me, but I really am glad you’re back. That all of you are back. It was nice to walk in and see the whole crew together again.”

“Yeah,” T.K. agrees, a warm bloom in his chest.

“I should get going,” Carlos says. “You need to get at least a little sleep tonight.”

“Come on. Since my dad is gone we can raid the secret candy stash before you go. I’ll even let you have some of my Sour Patch Kids.”

Carlos wrinkles his nose as T.K. pulls him to his feet. “I don’t know how you can stand those things.”

“They’re delicious! First they’re sour, then they’re sweet!”

“It’s almost midnight. Didn’t you have cake earlier too? Please tell me you ate a vegetable at dinner.”

#Tarlos #911 Lone Star #Post Ice Storm #This Belongs to You #Emotional Hurt/Comfort #Lonely Carlos

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countrymusiclover · 2 days

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8 - Life Used to be Simple

Part 9

A Wolf Among Dragons

Tag list ( just ask to be added ) @tallrock35 @kmc1989 @starkleila @noirrose21-blog @lover-of-books-and-tea @immyowndefender @iamavailablesstuff @plaguecourier

My boots clicked against the heavy marble stone as I walked alongside the young dragon prince Aemond. Normally I felt some comfort around the young man but now it felt differently. I felt like someone was pushing down on my stomach making it hard to breathe now when I’m around him.

“My lady, we've been strolling for nearly an hour and you’ve not spoken a word. Must I assume you don’t wish to stroll with me.” He broke the uncomfortable silence that could be felt between us.

Tucking some hair behind my ear I kept my gaze trained forward as we kept moving. “I must confess I am rather tired, my prince.”

“We can stop and rest if you wish.” He commented back at me.

Shaking my head I wished he would understand that I wasn’t comfortable around him. Halting in my tracks I huffed, dropping my shoulders heavily. “I wish to retire to my chambers now.” I quickly spun on my heels in a hastened manner to leave yet he managed to snag my wrist in one of his hands keeping me from doing so.

“Lehna, wait.”

I attempt to yank my wrist from his grasp but he holds a slightly tight grip. “Aemond - I. Please let me go please.”

“You’re acting cold to me and I want to know why. Have I done something to offend you?” His voice was filled with care I could tell. I just couldn’t bring myself to be honest with him like I had always been.

No matter how much I despised being in a marriage with Daemon I had no real way out of it. We were wed under the eyes of the Gods and nothing would change that.

Rolling my eyes I tried a second time to break free from the princes hold on me. “You’ve done nothing to upset me, my prince. I am really just needing to retire for the day. Now please let me go - urgh!”

“Stop lying to me, Lehna.” Aemond snapped back at me.

Throwing my freehand up in the air I was surprised he was able to notice. “How do you know I’m lying? You know nothing about me.”

“You’ve never lied to me before so I must assume that you’re lying when your voice gets a higher pitch to it.” He enfired with the slight raise of his eyebrows. He was much more clever at figuring things out then his older brother Aegon, which was very obvious in the short conversations I’d shared with the second born prince.

“You don’t deserve to know anything about me - it’s improper since I have already been wed off.” I sharply growled back with bared teeth.

Aemond gently kept a hold on my wrist speaking quietly with a shrug of his shoulders. “I do know some things. Not enough to build a life together but I suppose I must find a way inside your head if you won’t let me in on your own accord.”

“I’m done having this conversation with you.” I shoved him as much as I could, finally managing to free myself from his grasp. Sadly I only took two short steps forward before I felt arms wrapping around my waist and I was spun around before my nose brushed against his. “Ahh! A - Aemond.”

“Tell me you feel nothing for me and I will walk away.” He takes a step closer, nearly closing the entire gap between our bodies. He tilted my chin up with his freehand making me meet his gaze. He leans forward barely keeping his lips from mine.

“I only have feelings for my lord husband.” I gulped trying to come up with the right words to say to him.

Aemond narrowed his one good eye on me. “You’re lying. I know you don’t care for him.”

“I have no feelings for my husband so I must have feelings for you. Pfft that’s the most ridiculous defense I’ve ever heard.”

The young prince runs his thumb over the side of my face, a gentle manner compared to the rough side he usually showed everyone else around the court. “If you had no feelings for me you would’ve already come out and said it. You’re denying the question so I know you are lying.”

“You can spat off whatever you want, Aemond. It still doesn’t mean shit if it’s not true!”

“So you're saying you feel absolutely nothing when I do this.”

Knitting my brows together I didn’t understand what he meant by that until he pressed his lips passionately down onto mine. “Aemond, what are you meaning by-“

He tugged my flesh against his chest making me yank my wrist from his grasp, leaving my arms to have the ability to move freely. Resting my hands on his chest our eyes met when he rested his forehead against mine before harshly kissing me again. Leaning up on my toes I yanked the collar of his tunic bringing him forward deepening the kiss.

In an instant it was like a million flames were spreading through my entire body. An unknown fire or desire whatever you wish to call it. Certainly it was never something I had felt when I was forced to kiss Daemon.

Experience in the act may impress some ladies. But I’d rather chase this unchecked feeling.

Slowly wrapping my arms around his neck I broke the kiss reconnecting our lips in a fiery kiss. Aemond moaned into the kiss till we finally broke it needing to catch our breath unfortunately. “Lehna-“

“Don’t speak - just.” I leaned back on my toes, raising my hands up to hold his face in my hands. Scanning my eyes over the eye patch and scar on his lost eye. I wished things were easier then this, cause I knew I had to push him away. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I just can’t.”

Aemond called my name yet didn’t try to reach out and physically stop me this time. This time he simply watched me and my gown skirts disappear from his view once I rounded one of the large pillars entering the castle. “Lehna!”

Zooming through the castle hallways of the Red Keep and I didn’t stop till I reached Helaena’s bedchamber. Kicking opened the door with my foot the doors slammed against the wall and I shrieked, covering my eyes at the sight before me. “Laena - seven hells!”

“How dare you come in unannounced before the future king!” Aegon sharply took a step backwards from his position about to kiss his sister Helaena until I walked in and interrupted them.

I gulped nervously remembering this was common for the dragon family even if it wasn’t common for my direwolf family. “I’m sorry, my prince.”

“Tell your friend to knock next time, Helaena.” Aegon stomped past me slamming the door behind him after he had exited.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt - uh whatever that was.” I nervously spoke, finally meeting my friend’s gaze.

Helaena clasped her hands together crossing the room to be nearby. “He came in and told me our mother was planning on making us marry when the time comes after our father has passed. I am actually grateful you interrupted us. I didn’t wish to kiss him.”

“Maybe the Targaryen tradition will get broken for you.” I touched her shoulder gently and she sent me a smile before I told her the reason I had come inside her room so abruptly. “Laena, I have a favor to ask of you as my only friend.”

She takes my hands in her own. “What is it?”

“I need you to take me on your dragon somewhere out of King's Landing. I need to see someone I’ve heard rumors about throughout the castle.”

“Dreamfyre. Who must you need to see so desperately?” She asked me in a softly toned voice.

Blinking through some tears by mentioning his name I did my best to not think about Daemon at that moment. “I need to see the girl that was originally supposed to marry Daemon until my father sent in my name to your father. I need you to take me to see Rhea Royce.”

“I’ve never been out of the keep, Lehna.” Helaena nervously muttered showing me she was slightly worried.

Intertwining my hands with hers I sent her a half smile hoping she believed that I needed her help with this. I needed to talk with someone who got out of marrying the man I was wed to. “Helaena, please help me. I need to go talk with her and you’re the only person I trust to ask this favor of.”

Finally to my relief the princess nodded her head yes in agreement.

Hopefully she had some advice to give me.

I needed advice on whether or not I should ignore my feelings for the young prince or deny what I was feeling for the rest of my life.

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melon-fodder · 3 days

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Love You to Death • T. Hiragi

Warnings: angst, crying, insecurities, light sexual content

Word Count: 1k

Note: a @pixelcafe-network challenge! I was given the song Love You to Death by Type O Negative and did not think I’d make it in time, but then I decided harness my bad brain day into something creative. Some of the lines are taken by/based off of the lyrics. Dividers by @/adornedwithlight.

You struggle with it. Often. Wondering if you’re good enough for him—knowing you’re not.

He’s so strong, so honorable, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders while caring for you. You’re just another stressor, just another stomach ache.

Usually you can keep your doubts to yourself, work through them and rationalize. If Hiragi didn’t want to be with you, he wouldn’t be, right?

But there are some days when he can just tell. It’s the set of your jaw, the sag of your shoulders, the way you take things the wrong way and then punish yourself for it.

You don’t deserve him, and he deserves so much more than you.

That’s what you believe, anyway.

Hiragi on the other hand…

“Stop being so fucking mean to yourself,” he tells you, begs you. “Hate when you get like this. What can I do?”

“It isn’t about what you can do, Toma. It’s about what I can or can’t or should do. It’s—” you hiccup, frantically wiping at falling tears. You hate crying because of shit like this. You’re already such a burden, and now it feels like you’re manipulating him. “It’s all the ways I should be better for you.”

“You’re perfect for me,” he insists, taking hold of your wrists to pry your hands from your eyes. “Look at me.”

You don’t, not until he gently takes hold of your chin. “Baby… if I wasn’t happy, I’d talk to you about it. I promise.”

All you can do is try and fail to swallow the lump in your throat.

“Wish you’d do the same. Just talk to me.”

“I am happy with you. You make me happy. And you—you do so fucking much for me. I’m just s-so scared that one day you’re gonna—gonna realize that you’re tired of putting up with my bullshit.”

Your voice is all over the place, wet and warbling, squeaky then silent. You can’t control it, can’t control anything about yourself, it seems.

“I’m not putting up with anything,” Hiragi tries, “I’m not makin’ any sacrifices.”

“I don’t believe you,” you respond quietly. It’s not angry, nor is it argumentative. It’s a statement of fact because— “I don’t understand how you could, like, not get frustrated with me.”

Hiragi chuckles, the hand on your chin has moved to the back of your head to lightly scratch your scalp.

“Oh, I get frustrated with you, make no fuckin’ mistake. Just not for what you think.”

You stay silent, just stare at his handsome face, enjoying the weight of his hand in your hair.

“It’s not your little piles or your forgetfulness or your inability to be on fuckin’ time to anything,” he lists, and you clench your teeth to fight back more tears. “I don’t care about those things. Not anymore, anyway. It’s when you let shit fester and start spiraling and you don’t talk to me.”

You rest your head in his hand and shut your eyes, not surprised when you feel him wipe away the droplets streaming down your cheeks.

“Can’t help it,” your murmur. “Chronic overthinker.”

“Yeah, I’m well aware,” he says, and when you crack your eyes open again you see him smirking.

Fingers dig into your scalp with a little more force, scratching and making you hum in contentment. When he speaks again, his voice is laced with something a little more serious, a little more desperate: “How ‘bout you let me turn that brain off for a bit. Let me prove I mean what I’m sayin’.”

It’s hard to stay sad when he’s looking at you like that, brown eyes darkening a shade, sharp teeth nibbling on his lower lip.

“What’d you have in mind?”

Hiragi doesn’t answer, just pulls your face to his for a deep kiss. He licks the salt off your lips while wiping your puffy, tear-stained face with his thumbs then carefully pushes against you so that you lay back on the bed you’ve spent the last hour crying in.

“I love you so much,” you feel more than hear, the shape of the words molding to your mouth, wrapping around your heart and squeezing.

A knee between yours, he lightly presses it to your core, letting out a quiet groan when you grind down on it.

“Just tell me what you want, baby,” he breathes, kisses down your neck, tongue tracing the curve of it before he stops to suck a bruise onto your heated skin. “Your wish is my law.”

“I want…” you pause for a shaky inhale then guide his face back up to yours. “I just want you to love me. Forever. I don’t wanna lose you.”

Hiragi’s face softens. He sighs thoughtfully, blinks at you slowly before lowering himself to kiss you with a tenderness that makes you want to cry all over again.

“I do. And you won’t. There’s not a bone in my body that wants to leave you.”

His last kiss lands on your forehead, and then you’re both gazing at one another in a way that would make your friends dry heave.

“Close your eyes now, princess,” he says, voice low and full of desire, “m’gonna love you to death.”

You don’t fight him, don’t try to argue that you’re the one who should be begging him, serving him. No, you let him descend on you, let him do whatever he pleases because he makes you feel so good.

His tongue spells out sweetly sinful words on your most sensitive flesh, his fingers insistent and appreciative as they curl into spaces you only bear to him. He moves slowly and deeply, pouring himself into you in more ways than one—adoration and fondness and promises spilling inside of you in warm, blissful release.

As promised, Hiragi manages to turn your brain off, that network of unfathomable connections rendered absolutely useless as he destroys every doubt and self-loathing habit by way of mind-numbing, toe curling orgasms. You suppose there’s a reason the French refer to them as little deaths.

“Good enough for you?” he asks teasingly when you’re both breathless and dazed. His lips are pretty and kiss-swollen, a slick mess dripping between the two of you.

“Too good,” you reply, a lopsided smile spreading across your face. “Too good to me.”

Hiragi raises an eyebrow. “But not too good for you, right?”

“Right,” you nod. “Just perfect for me.”

#hiragi x reader #hiragi toma x reader #wind breaker x reader #wbk x reader

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em-harlsnow · 11 hours

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i’ve said it before but i’ll say it again, people need to talk more about the dugouts scene with ian and mickey when ian hits him. im tired of people acting like mickey’s the only violent one in the relationship.

(note: i’m not justifying anything mickey’s done, i think he’s done some terrible things to ian, but i want to talk about ian for a minute. also i love ian, im not hating, im just tryna hold him accountable for the stuff he’s done as well)

because during the scene at the dugouts, mickey tries to help ian by telling him not to drink. now, i get that the whole caretaker shtick can get annoying. but mickey has never taken care of anyone but himself (and even then, barely) and the fact that he wants to take care of ian is a big deal given his past. also the fact that he feels SAFE enough to try and help ian and show his more vulnerable side.

i know ian was in a bad place generally, as well, but that doesn’t excuse abuse. because ian punches mickey hard in the face for CARING, and when mickey doesn’t rise to it and won’t hit him back, i think ian assumes mickey doesn’t think he can fight anymore because he’s bipolar. he thinks mickey is treating him with kid gloves. and maybe he is, but he’s also just trying to love ian.

so mickey doesn’t hit back, he just lets ian punch him. so then ian starts yelling at him, insulting him, calling him a faggot just to get mickey to punch back. and mickey does, and they fight. but the fact that mickey’s been abused his whole life, likely been verbally and physically abused for showing any vulnerability… the scene just really fucking hurt. it hurts that it’s the first time mickey feels safe and comfortable enough to be soft with ian and gets hit and shouted at for it, by ian, when he’s already had that his whole life.

it’s like every time he takes a step forward he gets hurt. and that makes me sad.

i understand ian in that scene, i really do, just like i understand mickey when he beat the shit out of ian at the buildings. does that justify them? fuck no, they both did really shitty things to each other.

anyway, the dugout scene turned out okay in the end, so that’s a bit better.

#shameless #gallavich #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #ian x mickey #shameless opinions

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lovecla · 4 hours

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TAKE YOUR PAIN AWAY | quinn hughes.

00.3. your last day with quinn

➴ warnings: mention of a restrictive diet, constipation.

➴ word count: 1.7k

➴ author’s note: this was supposed to be a cute, hurt/comfort chapter but. i listened to madison beer while writing this so things took a turn and now it’s just depressing. at least there’s still some hurt/comfort here :,)

౨ৎ

2017, SEPTEMBER.

YOU were having the worst day ever.

It was a Friday, and one of those days where anything that could possibly go wrong, went wrong. First, you woke up at half-past five with a fever that made your entire body shiver. Your pajama was glued to your body, sticky with sweat. You sat on the bed, immediately regretting it because your head started spinning and suddenly you needed to throw up everything you’d eaten for dinner last night.

You felt like shit even when you managed to shower, sitting on your bathtub and letting the tears fall from your face. You felt so tired. It had already been a very stressful week, with your Mom forcing you to attend castings and auditions, making calls here and there so you could get the jobs she wanted for you, controlling everything you ate and drank.

On top of all of that, Peter and Quinn were leaving for college and you were sure you had never felt so alone before.

Quinn became your favorite person in the entire world when you both met four years ago. He was so important to you, and even though sometimes your heart didn’t understand what exact feelings you had for him, you needed him in your life.

The friendship you’d built over the past four years meant the world to you. How he took care of you, and how he tried to balance his career with still trying to be present in your life. How he would always ask about how you were doing in school, or about your dreams and wants. How he had introduced you to his family and how Jim and Ellen were nice to you, letting you come over to do your homework with Jack or Luke.

How sometimes you’d find Quinn practicing in their homemade ice rink, and you’d watch him for hours, impressed by his moves and skills. How sometimes you’d notice his hair falling out of the helmet, the sweat decorating his face and his blue, greenish eyes that would stare at nothing but the puck.

So when you found out he was leaving for Michigan? It hurt more than anything else, even if you were extremely happy for him.

You got out of the shower, feeling your body hurt everywhere. You were thankful that your classes didn’t start until next week and you didn’t have any auditions today so you could just jump right back in your bed.

Which was exactly what you did, sleeping like the dead after letting your tears fall for a bit more.

You woke up a few hours later, with a soft touch on your arm. Opening your eyes and immediately feeling them getting wet, you saw Quinn standing beside your bed.

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” he said, smiling. “Maria let me in. You didn’t come say goodbye to me.”

Your sick, tired brain took a little while to process what he was saying. Until you looked at the digital clock that sat on your bedside table, reading 11:34 a.m., Friday, 6 September.

Fuck.

You tried to get up, but your body still felt heavy. You were still shivering underneath the covers and your throat hurt.

“Maddie?” You could see he had stopped smiling.

You tried to smile, feeling the need to reassure him. “I’m sorry. I forgot to set an alarm,” you lied, trying to get up again and, thankfully, succeeding this time. “I’ll be downstairs in just a minute. Sorry.”

Getting up didn’t exactly mean success, since your legs failed after five steps and now you were on the floor, with your knee hurting like a bitch.

“Maddie, what,” Quinn said, quickly coming to your rescue, like he often did. You had a headache? Quinn had the right medicine for it. You hurt your finger? Quinn wrapped your hand with a bandage. You were hungry? Quinn was already in the kitchen making your meal. “What’s going on? Are you sick?”

“No, just— I just woke up.” You didn’t know why you kept lying to him and you felt like shit, but it was his leaving day. The Hughes were moving back to the US, so that Jack and Luke could join the NTDP in Michigan and Quinn could go to UMich. And it couldn’t get worse, not really. “I’m fine.”

“I can tell when you’re lying, Madison,” he hissed, angrily. You frowned. Quinn had never gotten angry at you, not even when you managed to ruin his hockey uniform with glitter. “You’re sick. Did you eat?”

“Yeah,” you mumbled, as he walked you to bed again. “I am fine, Quinn. It’s just constipation or whatever.”

“Stop acting like this is nothing, Madison.”

“Stop calling me that,” you frowned, annoyed for no real reason. You were going to miss them so much.

“It’s your name, isn’t it?” He raised his eyebrow.

“Why are you being so mean?” You whispered, feeling your eyes tearing up again, the fever making you shiver.

He stopped scowling for a second, softening his eyes at you. He sat beside you, placing his hand on your thigh, which you promptly grabbed. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to be mean. It’s just— I hate when you act like what happens to you isn’t important.”

You squeeze his hand, feeling less cold now.

“You’re like my little sister, so watching you sick is just as upsetting as it is with Lukey or Jack,” he chuckled, laughing like he hadn’t just shattered your feelings right there.

You didn’t know exactly what you felt for him, but you knew for a fact it wasn’t that silly admiration you had for him when you were little. You were fifteen now, and just when you were supposed to crush on the boys at your school, you were always comparing them to Quinn instead. And Quinn is always better than them.

Not to mention that he’d been getting cuter. He was losing his teenager features and it didn’t help it with your little infatuation for him.

Hearing him confirming that you were nothing but a family member to him stung. This was definitely the worst day of your life.

“Right,” you whispered, releasing his hand and wrapping your arms around your body. “I don’t think I’ll be able to go downstairs and say bye to you all. I’m sorry for that.”

“We’re only leaving at night so don’t worry. We’ll make sure you’re feeling better until then.” He replied, getting up.

“Where are you going?” You asked, confusion taking over your face.

“I’m gonna ask Maria to make some soup for you while I go look for some cold medicine,” he put his hands inside his jeans pockets, something he did often, and smiled at you. “Do you think you’ll be fine here for ten minutes?”

You nodded, watching as he poked your cheek before leaving your room.

You laid down for a while, trying to organize your thoughts. You still didn’t understand what the Hughes leaving meant to you, only that you’d miss them like they were your own. Because for a while, that’s what they were.

You must have snoozed again because next thing you know, Quinn was shaking you lightly again. You opened your eyes, staring at him.

“Maria made you chicken noodle soup and I brought you juice and pills,” he pointed at the tray on your desk, smiling.

You got up, sitting up against the headboard, and thanking him as he placed the tray on your lap.

“Mom would probably kill me if she knew I’m eating noodles,” you joked, coughing loudly. Ugh.

“I won’t tell her a thing, promise,” he quickly said, sitting on the chair beside your desk, resting his hands on his knees, as he watched you eat. “Can’t believe we’re actually leaving.”

You chuckled. “Yeah.”

“You will come to visit us, right?”

You placed your spoon inside your bowl again, staring at Quinn’s face, trying to memorize all of his features at once. His upper lip, slightly thinner than his bottom one. His wavy, brown hair, messy and untamed, so beautifully shaped. His eyes, darker than Luke and Jack’s, but still bright and vibrant. His nose, big and cute and your favorite feature on his face.

Oh, you were going to miss him so much.

“‘Course I will,” you mumbled, shoving the last spoonful of soup into your mouth. Lying to Quinn always felt wrong. “I’m… I’m gonna miss you,” His eyes softened, and before he could speak, you continued. “You made my life so much easier. You and your family are so important to me so thank you.” You felt your eyes watering, and you looked up. No crying in front of anyone.

“Oh, Maddie,” he got up, removing the tray from your lap and putting it back on your desk, so he could sit beside you. “There’s no need for tears.”

You tried to give him a reassuring smile and tell him you’re okay but you only managed to let more tears fall from your eyes.

He placed your head on his shoulder, pulling the blanket until it reached your chin, covering you completely. Then, he gently grabbed your hand underneath and held it tightly.

“I’ll be only an one hour flight away, Maddie. Our house is your house too.”

You sniffled, feeling your body starting to hurt again.

You wanted to tell him that you didn’t want him to leave, that you needed him in your life and that you loved him. A young, unripe love that made your chest hurt every time you thought about it.

But you knew that you were just being selfish. Ever since you met him, you knew Hockey was his life. It is his favorite thing in the world, and it means a lot to them.

So you would never tell him anything. No. At least one of you deserved to be happy.

“I know,” you mumbled. “Can I take a nap?”

He chuckled beside you. “Yeah, ‘course. Not before you take your medicine though.”

You rolled your eyes, hiding the rest of your face under the cover, hearing Quinn’s soft laugh.

Little did you know you’d keep that sound safe and secure in your heart, for the rest of your life.

#quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes #quinn hughes x y/n #quinn hughes x oc #quinn hughes x you #quinn hughes x model!fmc #quinn hughes au #quinn hughes angst #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes smut #quinn hughes imagine #TYPA

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eurydicees · 3 days

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3 or 20 with skts for the things you said prompt!!

i've been having a hard time recently so i gave all my issues to sakusa. i hope this turned out ok <3

as simple as brushing your teeth, or: some ways he learns to love you

summary: kiyoomi does not know when he last brushed his teeth. atsumu is kinder about it than expected. they love each other. prompt: things you said too quietly / things you said that i wasn’t meant to hear pairings: established kiyoomi sakusa/atsumu miya words: 1917 warnings: discussion of some not so pretty body stuff (kiyoomi doesn't brush his teeth for a while and they talk about it. that's the whole fic.), a one-line mention of throwing up after drinking

“It’s bothering you again, isn’t it?”

Kiyoomi flinches, tearing his gaze away from himself in the mirror. He hadn’t heard Atsumu come over to their bathroom. He had left the door open, just intending to grab some lotion before exiting again, and Atsumu must have caught sight of him from the hallway.

Living together has been good mostly, even if that was slightly unexpected. Sharing his space has never come naturally to Kiyoomi, but Atsumu has been as accommodating as he can be and so allowing his boyfriend of two years a place in his apartment so far has been a net positive.

It’s only been a few months though and Kiyoomi forgets sometimes that Atsumu is there. He forgets that when he stares at himself in the mirror and makes faces at his reflection, there’s the risk of Atsumu catching him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kiyoomi says stiffly. He turns away from Atsumu to look at his reflection again. “Nothing is bothering me.”

At the edge of his peripheral vision, Atsumu crosses his arms, leaning against the arch of the bathroom doorway. “Babe, something is always bothering you. And I see you grimacing every time you bite something too hard. Don’t think I don’t notice. Your teeth are hurting you again.”

“My teeth are fine.”

Atsumu is frowning, Kiyoomi knows he must be even if he isn’t looking at the doorway. “You don’t have to lie to me about it, Omi. If you’re in pain then—”

“I’m not in pain,” Kiyoomi snaps. It comes out harsher than he wanted it to, but standing in their tiny bathroom with its bright white lighting and wide, imposing mirror, he’s beginning to feel a little like a caged animal. “I told you. My teeth are fine.”

Atsumu is quiet for a minute, and Kiyoomi almost thinks he’s going to change the topic. But then again, Atsumu Miya has never once been able to let something go. “How long has it been then?”

“How long has what been?” There’s a crisp annoyance in Kiyoomi’s words.

“Since you brushed your teeth.”

Kiyoomi stills. He feels a little breathless as he runs his tongue over his upper row of teeth. He can feel the buildup of plaque and a tooth juts out at an odd angle, a product of not having worn his retainer as a teenager. Another tooth is starting to feel much sharper than it used to. “That’s none of your business.”

Atsumu snorts. “As the guy kissing you on the daily, it feels like a little bit my business.”

“Well no one is fucking forcing you to do that!” Kiyoomi’s snap is cold and cruel, like a slap to the face or like biting straight into ice.

Atsumu recoils, uncrossing his arms and straightening up. “No, no one’s forcing me to do it, I like doing it. I’m just—brushing your teeth is kind of a significant self-care thing, Omi.”

And suddenly Kiyoomi is so fucking tired. “Just leave it alone.”

“If it’s been so long that it hurts to chew, then I feel like I’m right to be worried.”

“It doesn’t hurt to chew.”

Atsumu sighs, and Kiyoomi loves him for caring, he does, but he didn’t—he didn’t ever want to have to have this conversation. He knows it’s disgusting. He’s perfectly well aware that it is. He also knows its unhealthy, and he knows that he should just go to a dentist who will tell him to stop being a disgusting fucking child and brush his teeth. Not in those exact words probably, but it would sting like that.

“Omi. Babe. Kiyoomi.” Atsumu steps forward, and Kiyoomi doesn’t react, doesn’t turn as Atsumu puts a hand at his elbow. “Why are you fighting me about this?”

“I’m not—”

“Kiyoomi.”

Atsumu is serious, drawing a hard line in the sand with just the tone of his voice. He actually wants to talk about this and Kiyoomi kind of wants to cry or lash out or storm off and he doesn’t know which of the three will hurt least.

“It’s disgusting,” he murmurs, low under his breath. He doesn’t think he actually wants Atsumu to hear it, doesn’t want him to know: know the truth of the mouth he kisses, know the shame of the boy he thinks he loves. “I know it is. You don’t have to tell me.”

Atsumu steps closer, moving to stand behind him and hooking his chin on his shoulder. “Didn’t catch that first part, baby. What do I not have to tell you?”

His words are suddenly achingly soft and crying is starting to seem like the best option. Kiyoomi doesn’t deserve this tenderness. His teeth hurt and he doesn’t deserve Atsumu’s kindness, much less this intimacy.

“I’m disgusting,” Kiyoomi says, louder, and his voice cracks. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

In the mirror, Kiyoomi sees as Atsumu lifts his head with the concern in his expression only growing. He puts his hands on Kiyoomi’s waist and guides him in spinning around so they face each other. “You aren’t disgusting.”

“I don’t remember,” Kiyoomi says quietly, “when the last time I brushed my teeth was. And now they’re—fucking rotting out of my mouth and you’re never going to want to kiss me again and—”

“Kiyoomi.” Atsumu doesn’t wait for him to finish panicking, cutting off the ramble before he can truly begin spiraling. “Breathe. You’re okay. Your mouth is not rotting and I am always—always—going to want to kiss you.”

Kiyoomi looks at him then, really, truly looks at him, at all of the worry and the love in the lines of his expression, and then he feels the tears start to spill over. He squeezes his eyes shut, suddenly feeling so fragile and so far past broken.

“I’m trying,” he chokes out. “But I’m—it’s—it’s gross and—”

“Breathe,” Atsumu says again, running his hands in smooth, even motions up and down Kiyoomi’s arms. “I’m not gonna deny that it’s kind of gross, baby. But it doesn’t make you disgusting and it is never, ever going to make me love you less. There is nothing you could do to make me love you less, no matter what habits you have or don’t have that I don’t get. Okay?”

Kiyoomi swallows. His voice small, he whispers, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Atsumu says firmly. “Do you want to talk to me about it now? For real, without lying?”

“I don’t know why it’s so hard,” Kiyoomi confesses. He’s staring at Atsumu’s mouth, at his unchapped lips and the gentle curve of a smile that perpetually rests there. “I know it’s disgusting and I know it’s unhealthy but I hate the sensation and so I can’t make myself do it. Despite being an adult and despite it—hurting. And the longer I wait, the worse it feels to try. And there’s blood and it hurts and—I can’t make myself do it, so I just don’t, and—and I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Atsumu says first. He puts a hand on Kiyoomi’s cheek to wipe away some of the tears. At some point, he had stopped crying and now he’s left feeling like a small child worn out from a meltdown. “I’m just trying to understand. I’m not judging you.”

“You are,” Kiyoomi snaps, wrenching himself out of Atsumu’s grip. “Everyone does. Don’t think I don’t notice.”

Atsumu looks at him for a long, tense moment. Then, “And when have I ever been like everyone else? Omi, I just don’t want you to be in pain anymore.”

“I’m dealing with it.”

“You aren’t and you know it.” Atsumu takes a small step forward again, pressing Kiyoomi against the sink. He takes his hands and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “You’re so thorough in every health thing but this. What makes this so different?”

“I don’t know,” Kiyoomi murmurs, looking down at their clasped hands. Shame washes over him like a river, like muscle memory, like déjà vu. “It just hurts. Whether I do it or not. So I don’t. I’m sorry, please don’t—”

Atsumu hums a little, low in his throat and Kiyoomi cuts himself off. “Stop apologizing. I’m not upset with you. I just hate that you’re hurting and I can’t do anything about it.”

“It’s my own issue,” Kiyoomi mutters. “Consequences of my own actions. Lack of actions.”

Atsumu takes a slow breath. “Maybe, but I’m still going to be here for you. That’s kind of part of the deal of dating me, Omi. You’re stuck with me.”

Kiyoomi snorts. “Okay.”

“What if we do it at the same time every night?” Atsumu offers. “Together.”

“Maybe.” Kiyoomi shrugs noncommittally.

“It’s a yes or no question, babe.”

Kiyoomi takes a breath. Atsumu is smiling, hopeful with his stupid perfect teeth all on display. Kiyoomi kind of wants to kiss him but his own mouth is disgusting and so he doesn’t.

“It’s going to be gross,” Kiyoomi says. “There will be blood. There always is.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t want you to see me like that.” It’s murmured under his breath, low and unsure of itself. “All…gross.”

Atsumu lets go of his hands and puts his own hands to Kiyoomi’s cheeks again, cupping his face in his palms. For a moment, Kiyoomi is so small there, and so protected.

“Kiyoomi Sakusa,” Atsumu presses a kiss to his forehead, soft and cold. “I want to love you for the rest of my life. That means there will be moments when one or both of us do gross things, or embarrassing things. And none of it will change the fact that I love you. If brushing our teeth together will help get it done, I don’t care if I see any blood, or plaque, or old food, or whatever. I just want you to be healthy, and not hurting.”

“One time I did it, I cried myself hoarse,” Kiyoomi says. It’s plainly spoken, matter of fact, but even Kiyoomi can hear the insecurity in it. “It’s pathetic.”

“You watched me moan and groan for a week after I slipped and fell at a meet and greet in front of some fans. It was pathetic, and I know you still love me.”

“It’s dirty. Disgusting.”

“You held my hair back while I vomited for an hour after drinking too much with Bokuto. You were very brave and sweet about it, even if you made fun of me the entire next day. And you still love me.”

“It’s different.”

Atsumu sighs. He leans forward, resting their foreheads together gently. “Omi. Let me see you. Let me help you. It won’t change my opinion of you. Trust me.”

Kiyoomi makes eye contact for a long, quiet, heartbreak of a moment. Then, finding nothing but honesty and love in Atsumu’s gaze, he closes his own eyes. “I love you.”

“I know.” Atsumu’s breath is warm on his cracked lips. “So will you let me be with you on this?”

Kiyoomi exhales slowly, measured and controlled. He’s been wearing face masks more constantly than usual recently, and a not insignificant part of that is the desire to hide his teeth. And fuck, he’s tired of hiding, and he’s tired of his mouth aching, and he’s scared and he feels dirty and gross and—

“Omi?”

And Atsumu loves him. Is here with him, without shame. Just with love and care.

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi says quietly. “We have to do it now or I’ll never do it. But okay. Okay.”

When he opens his eyes, Atsumu is smiling. “Okay. Let’s do it then.”

#my writing #haikyuu #sakuatsu #kiyoomi sakusa #atsumu miya #sakuatsu fic #hq sakusa #sakusa kiyoomi #miya atsumu #hurt/comfort #im gonna be honest. i wrote this in like fifteen minutes because i haven't brushed my teeth in too long and its getting bad.#and projecting my issues onto kiyoomi sakusa is my number one coping mechanism.#sigh.#i hope you enjoy anyways! sorry i keep writing you like. fucked up skts fics.#also. yet another fic handwritten at work. i should be fired.

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clonedchaos · 2 months

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Welp, as I was googling some images for Yasammy week, I came across a thread and turns out one of my favorite Jurassic YouTubers is homophobic and a Yasammy hater…

(More ranting in the tags)

#Guess I’m not watching his content anymore #I literally don’t care that he’s a Christian just stop spreading misinformation #I guess he would hate me for liking girls now #I’m so tired #and just a bit pissed off ngl #homophobia tw #Stop saying Yasammy was forced #They’re one of the most natural ships I’ve seen in media #Once again they wouldn’t care if one was a boy #I’m not even gonna watch the entire video on it #But I scrolled through the comments and… yeah…#Not what I wanted to see after my work shift #Jwcc #jwct #rant #yasammy #I’m going to pour my heart and soul into Yasammy week #I’m feeling spiteful rn #jurassic world camp cretaceous #not gonna send any hate his way but I just needed a place to vent #Klayton Fioriti #I no longer recommend his content…#Common L homophobe #Legit give me a reason as to why Yasammy is poorly written other than “they’re both girls #think of the kids watching this”#☝️🤓#No one is turning your kids gay Karen #Cry about it #womp womp #im so freakin heated rn

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fumifooms · 23 days

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Dungeon lord Chilchuck

What would his wish as a dungeon lord be? What would he be like? Headcanons & speculation post for fun. But I’ll start with analytic lead up because that’s always fun for me, though feel free to skip and skim.

When it comes to what Chilchuck’s dungeon lord desires could/would be like we have mainly 3 hints: His nightmare, his succubus and what the winged lion says to him.

Why: — From what we see nightmares are based on the person’s worst fears and insecurities, both Laios’ and Marcille’s nightmare were closely tied to their dungeon lord wishes (Laios’ dream monster being summoned to crush the ghosts of relationships that represented the pressure to fit in and belong, Marcille seeking control over death and aging through magic to avoid loss), the fuel behind their desire/goal if you will. Fear and deep-seated desires are seemingly closely tied, something also supported by Thistle and Mithrun’s reigns as dungeon lords (Thistle proving his worth through fulfilling his given duty + protecting his loved ones, being listened to instead of having to listen, Mithrun escaping rigid two-faced elven society and living in a wonderland where he has no enemies and he’s loved, free from everyone he knew yet propped up by the person symbolizing his brother being chosen over him, the bastard child).

— I’ve talked about the significance I assign to the succubi often by now, but rundown: What we see of each character is all very telling if you care to listen, it shows not only someone’s "ideal form" but what they want from it. Izutsumi’s is familial, offering a hug and comfort, Marcille’s is romantic with a character she knows and loves, offering a kiss on a hand and a connection regardless of how distant it actually is, and Laios’ is platonic, arguable at first but then Laios’ fear of judgement is placated and he is offered the picture perfect friend group that accepts his interest (if you want my full look at Laios’ succubus go here). They take on the most alluring form, most ideal person of their victim, even uncovering deep subconscious desires, so precisely and effectively to the point it leaves victims physically frozen before the object of their desire. Succubi and the demon are themselves tied in lore and it’s easy to see how similar their core skill are. Succubi don’t give a good idea of what a character would wish for on their own but they certainly give hints on what they crave, regardless of how you want to read it.

— Last bit is self-explanatory. To placate Chilchuck and win his compliance over, the monster that reads your soul like an open book offers to give him something specific. But! It’s also important to remember that the lion isn’t offering to fulfill Chilchuck’s dream world wish here, it’s a second prize, because his goal with what he promised Laios is that they’d stay in this world, away from everyone and everything else. Chilchuck wants to get away but is kept back, and it’s here the lion placates him with "hey it’s okay! You can’t do that but I can still give you this! This is enough right? It’ll make everything easier on you".

What each bit says: — Long version in another post. Tldlr: His daughters and family are obviously important to him, and this reinforces that he takes on the role of protector a lot, he’s constantly worried for his party members’ lives and implicitly his family’s. Safety and stability, both economical and otherwise, are his core values and goals, and he berates both others and himself if someone fails on those fronts. Here, there’s the fear of not being enough, of not having been able to protect, and of course of loss.

— Chil’s succubi are obviously sexual, and not only that but agressively and straightforwardly so. It’s not like Marcille’s where there’s personality involved, all they do is give him sultry looks and pretty smiles before jumping on him. His succubi aren’t like Izutsumi’s, always the same exact person and appearance, so it’s not someone but an appealing general idea. The idea of a sexual being he can regard as simply a gorgeous piece of meat and a good time no strings attached. In my interpretation, especially with my reading of Laios’ succubus where even with deep-seated desires negative emotions can be too intense to effectively freeze a victim, I think this doesn’t contradict his character. Relationships have been painful to him in the past, in the succubus scene when his wife gets mentioned his immediate reaction is to yell "Don’t bring her up now!", like with his habit of drinking and as a tallman liking his senses feeling dulled, it’s about not having to feel emotions with how difficult they are to deal with sometimes and just feeling good, or at least not having to think, for a while. If a succubus showcases someone’s ideal connection with an ideal person, then Chilchuck’s is with a pretty person that doesn’t stir any negative memory or drama, someone low stakes and low maintenance that doesn’t require him to manage or talk out feelings because there’s none involved in the first place.

— Once more, wife and family are important! He does long for his family, not only his wife but his daughters, and vice versa. This suggests not only that he wants good relationships with them but that he wants them to be with him, a family life. Far from the cut communication they all more of less have during canon, and perhaps far from their life pre-canon when he worked away from home a significant amount of time. We’ve seen recreations of people by the winged lion before with doppelgangers and monsters (naga), and though he claims he can make satisfying imitations, what we’ve seen is that they base themselves on the best memories of that person, like with Marcille’s dad, or twist behavior to be more pleasant, like Mithrun’s lover (and possibly twist appearances depending on the person’s view of them, but that’s Mithrun analysis). The line does suggest Chilchuck would want his family members as they are in reality and not idealized versions, but the circumstances are chaotic and urgent enough in the scene (and again the lion isn’t fulfilling Chilchuck’s wish but trying to make him content for Laios’) that it could just be the winged lion saying what he needs to to convince him the fastest possible, and like we see with Laios that can crumble to give way to deeper or more complex desires.

On top of that we just have general info on Chil. How does Chilchuck deal w his issues? What does he like to do? He likes alcohol and ignoring his problems. We have to remember there is a split between what someone would consciously wish for and what their soul uncontrollably irrationally craves. As always with Dunmeshi, there’s a narrative of irrational deep-seated desires vs active wants, what you crave vs what you strive for, what you dream of vs what’s actually good for you, the animal vs the human inside you, heart vs mind. Chilchuck craving a harem of hot babes in his fantasies but wanting his family life & wife back again is not mutually exclusive. You may crave becoming a monster and tasting what humans are like a little but still want to save the world & your friends more.

Btw can we adress the irony of him terrified of being the last one alive, of being left by his daughters and wife, of having left and coming back home one day to see everything gone or rampaged, yet not caring about dying of liver failure himself, knowing every time that he enters a dungeon there’s a real risk he may not come out. Die somewhere I can’t see you. I prefer leaving you than being left behind. He’s selfish and shortsighted like that… Chilchuck is selfless in many ways of course, but perhaps also due to his own relationship with his parents, he often undermines the effects he has on others in his relationships, both the good and the bad (he talks himself down about being cowardly and greedy yes, but never hints at his bad health habits, alcoholism and starving himself, may have affected his loved ones, doesn’t question his wife falling into a bad mood the night before she left, and talks about the possibility of dying here and there very casually, though obviously he tries his best to stay alive when it doesn’t concern his health).

Chilchuck king of "Let me just avoid and ignore my problems surely they’ll go away, things might work out and if they don’t well tough luck I’ll survive and I probably deserve it anyways". If I don’t look at it it will dissapear <3 Why care when you can simply not think about it.

You might not understand Mister "my love will stay strong through months of work travel and also 4 years of separation" and Mister "well idk my siblings and me are kinda strangers and my dad is dead but that’s kinda whatever", but typically relationships need some form of maintenance and emotional availability…

The actual headcanons finally

I kinda have 2 routes in mind for dunlord Chil and both of them are centered on "I care too much, i wish things were easy", so first is a lot like his succubi, it’s full on indulging in his guilty pleasures like alcohol and bodies and it’s to keep him in a constant state of thrill and euphoria and distracted, unfeeling about stuff that really matters. "Nothing matters except that I’m enjoying the moment!" vibe. He gets to live a life worthy of Dionysus, with alcohol and women and debauchery and like— never having to think again, never having to feel anything but pleasure again, never have to feel guilty or shitty or angry or sad. He has a harem and gets everything on a silver platter.

Breaking news demon magic-induced rush of euphoria and power still not enough to cure this man of his self-hatred nor his capacity for thought!! But in his case a state of euphoria is what he seeks I think, to kinda mask or replace the Everything Else.

The other is what I think closer to what canon suggests, with what WL implied too with "I’ll make you a new wife and kids like the originals!! 😊", it’s a (spoilers) Wandavision type thing where it’s a slice of life where he’s never at work and always at home and the family eats lunches at the dinner table together and everything and everyone at any moment is just. Happy. No issues. It was all a dream, this is real and everything is fine and your family is perfect and happy. I like to think the timeline would be wonky, his daughters would fluctuate in age, but he’d want to be there for what he missed, would want them to still rely on him and look up to him like when they were young, would like to forget that they’re now independent adults and the distance that grew between Chilchuck and his siblings is happening between them as well. Chil would want doppelgangers of his family imo, at its core just a general wish for a peaceful happy family life with no drama, no need to compromise, a little paradise of unconditional love and no consequences. It’s for sure straightforward, but Chilchuck is a man with straightforward desires…

But see Chilchuck is a greedy man, and he wants it both ways without having to sacrifice anything or expanding any efforts himself. He wants to have his cake and eat it too. I think playing with these two opposite directions and mixing and matching is most fun. Him leading a life where he indulges in all his worst habits while still having everything he wants… Him getting to have BOTH his wife and any woman he can imagine up, his life like two sides of a coin he can flip at any moment where he’s partying then he’s at home enjoying the quiet and his toddler daughters playing with toys on the carpet. Christ when you remember it’s all an illusion that’s terrifying, the doppelgangers and succubi from the winged lion playing chilchuck ping pong.

A safe little haven both security-stability wise and emotionally. Gets to have both the relaxing and the thrilling in any dose he wants, mixed or separatedly. What I’d argue he had pre-canon too: Can live it up in taverns away from home, stays away from home for long periods of time, and can come back to home aka the symbol of relaxation and safety whenever he decides to. Something he can leave and come back to at will, an anchor he can trust in (until it’s taken from him and his wife leaves. Or in his worse nightmare people rush in and kill his daughters). The ideal of a house and family to a working man, perhaps…

I think it’s fun to think on wether or not these desires would be interesting at all to the winged lion… In canon he seeks out "rare/complex desires", common simple things like I imagine riches, sex, substances and pleasure would be are boring to him, he’s eaten those so many times already. So perhaps he wouldn’t last long as a dunlord, the WL would want to eat him fully quick, can’t keep him interested or waiting long for a meager meal, too much effort raising the cattle and too low quality meat. By making it more twisted or layered Chil’s desire would become more desirable to the demon, it’s part of what’s fun with the third option to me. But whatever. Has he ever eaten a guy with this much repression and self-sabotage... Like trying to get the meat out of a walnut, enrichment…

Other dunlord Chil takes I’ve seen that are fun and good:

@feelo-fick and @pluvio-floret have a dunlord Chilchuck AU project dubbed "tragedy AU" where Chilchuck is said to be "on vacation", in a weird delirious state, only half-there half of the time… From which he doesn’t want to wake up </3 Quoting Feelo, this is why the vacation thing is only a half-joke cause he is 1) letting all his responsibilities go 2) indulging in himself and 3) "spending time with his family" <- lie but you get what i mean. Additional comments that have me vigorously nodding: because changing is hard why cant things just be okay right now without the effort !!! Life is hard he’s so so tired he just wants to feel good… he just wants life to feel nice and easy for a sec while he can learn to breathe again and lose the stress and trauma he’s accumulated…….. spoiler alert yes !!! in fact a depressed person can suck themselves into their job and lock out the world who wouldve thought !!!

And then Cabinette I know posted about his dunlord take once but I don’t have the link, in which Chil has a lot of nosebleeds because of mana overload which is fun and interesting to think about imo~

In dunmeshi, where characters get underground pockets of the world as their playground disconnected from everything outside and the rest of the world, it’s important to remember to face reality even if it has conflict and people with different views and stances from you, it’s something Chilchuck and Marcille and everyone needed to learn, and the thing with a dungeon lord AU is that you imagine a timeline where he fails to <3

A timeline where his dungeon lord wish is to desire nothing bc hope and want has only ever hurt him would also go so hard. Very universal thing though I suppose.

… And this is why a Chilchuck-centric Coraline AU is really really interesting and fitting and topical— Ok that’ll go in a separate reblog/post at @Fumiku I need to let this end

#Dungeon meshi #chilchuck tims #Analysis #dungeon lord chilchuck #Spoilers #dungeon meshi manga spoilers #Wish we could put just parts of a post under a ‘click to read more’ box that scrolls open and closes neatly #Bc 3/4th of the post is just extra explanation for ppl who don’t See The Vision already but like that’s not what i wanted most of the post #to be really gdbdg #Headcanons #You could say the family also represents something he’s built up with how own hands. If he has self-worth issues and thinks he’s a screw-up #in the virtue/honor and likability department especially— his family destroyed/killed also represents the one biggest good thing #he’s done/created crumbling also. Like his wife leaving without a word while he trusted their relationship this can hugely impact #one’s sense of identity and self-worth and what you’re living life for. In his case it’s not too surprising he turned to simple #physical pleasures for comfort and enjoyment. Like with tasting good food having moments feeling good keeps you going #He always focuses on the bad relationships bring and never the good aghhhh #The reverse of Marcille who often idealizes. They both ignore problems in their relationships in opposite ways.#What do you mean why do i bring up marcille. Okay yes this’ll get a marchil Fumiku short brainstorm reblog as well #Chilchuck is so… curse of having feelings and not realizing the extent of them. Underestimating how much you care #It’s either ‘i’m fine who cares’ or falling into the pits of despair and blaming himself n spilling his whole bag no inbetween #Dunmeshi succubus #Fumi rambles #boy that’s what this boils down to i suppose #Family angst “Hey I came back home from work and i’m tired so don’t talk to me about problems or anything k? I’m here to relax smh damn”#< unwilling to admit he has issues he should be working on or that some things are affecting others negatively #Chil you are so enneagram 6w7 <3

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