#that was just another consequence of bottling everything up... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

satowooo · 1 year ago

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i. imgonnagetyouback

The one and only son of the Gojo clan had fallen quite hard, completely and utterly, to a lowly woman who came from the dirt, and got his heart broken by her. Years had passed, he was still as angry since the day you left, but he only wanted you back.

contents. modern au, gojo satoru x reader, angst, not proofread.

Whether I'm gonna curse you out or take you back to my house, I haven't decided yet but I'm gonna get you back

next chapter

It was pathetic. The sight of Gojo Satoru, a well-respected son of the Gojo clan, was down on his knees right in front of you, begging you to stay, a daughter of a mere servant.

It made him look pitiful and weak, a miserable prince who had his heart shattered by a low class woman like you. But he didn't really give it that much of a thought, ever since he first laid eyes on you. He didn't care what people might've said from the very first time, and he proved it to you a million times as he stubbornly and desperately showed you how much he loves and adores you. So, begging down on his knees is not that much of a deal now, no?

“Stand up, please.”

But you were firm, closing your eyes as you let out a shaky breath. You hated seeing him like this, but you were left with no other choice. Your love for him could risk even the dangers of your life, and you were sacrificing him to save him.

“I do not wish to be with you any longer, Young Master.” You said, uttering his title in a whisper. “What we had was wrong. It was a mistake on my side. And I thought I was in love with you, but it was just a pathetic infatuation and I realised that another man best suits me, and it's not you.”

Your words were nonstop, every single thing that you uttered was shattering his heart into pieces. But Satoru furiously shakes his head, his hands trembling on your lap as his forehead falls on your knees.

“T-that’s not… T-that's not true…”

You remembered everything from that day. Every little detail, every word, every touch, every action, of what had happened stayed forever in your mind. It never fails to shatter you. To make you cry every single time that you thought about him as you lie in the confinements of your small room.

“I have done what you asked for. What else do I need to do–” A whimper escaped your lips as a hand flew over your cheek. Breathing heavily, you felt the sting on your skin as you looked back at the person who had been the cause of your pain.

“Pack your things, and never show your face again.”

Gojo Satoru haunted your dreams and nightmares. He managed his way in your heart, and refused to leave. He was the ghost of your tragic love story, you could only wish that you never should've picked up the pen. It's already been two years since you left, and even until now, your heart only beats for one man and it will always be for Satoru.

So what are you going to do when he comes up at your door, claiming what used to be his?

It all happened so fast that your head can't fathom how you ended back to the place of your nightmares. The Gojo clan's mansion. The place where it all started between the two of you.

Every corner of this place was filled with memories of you and Satoru, all the good and bad. But what you remembered most was the torture, the consequences you had faced for falling in love. You felt like all your scars were slowly tearing apart, opening the wound that was almost healed as you looked back to the man who stood in front of you.

You never should've been back in this place.

“I expect you to work immediately.” Satoru's voice was different. It was laced with authority and demand, not the sweet ones that you remember back when he was yours. “Remember, your family is in the palm of my hands. Try to escape, and you'll face the consequences.”

His eyes looked at you with anger, a pent up emotion that he bottled up all these years. His hands were balled on a fist by his sides, almost trembling, but he wouldn't let you see just how much you still have an effect on him.

Right now, all he feels is anger and hatred for what you did. For leaving him. For running off with another man. For loving him only to break his heart. For letting him hold on to your empty promises.

For those two years, he only loathed you and he's not going to be a forgiving man, he'll make sure you regret. He'll make you beg on his knees, the way he did for you.

“I expect you to be in my office in five.”

Now, you're back to square one. Working as his maid was already bad enough back then, so what's going to happen now that you're back to serve him again?

You can't help but notice how much he changed. Somehow, you can tell that he was still the same, only that he was only mad at you. It was obvious already how he's showing indifference only to you but not to anyone else. His bubbly personality that used to welcome you with warm embraces is now replaced with an angry demeanour of a man who cold-heartedly took you away from your family and took you back to the house where you suffered.

How unfair.

This was not your Satoru.

As soon as Satoru turned around and left you standing, he heaved out a breath that he didn't know he was holding. His heart felt like it was trying to escape from his chest. For the first time since you left, he finally felt his heart beating again.

All throughout those years that you were gone, he relentlessly looked for you. Trying to search your face in unfamiliar places, sometimes getting himself into trouble when he mistakes someone for you. Everyday, he was turning angrier and angrier when you never showed up, while all he needed was proper answers and explanations. He hated all the memory that you had left, and how it tore him to pieces that all of it was just a lie.

He couldn't believe you had the nerve. A woman like you with no name for herself, telling him that a relationship with him was just a mistake as you sought another man. Gojo Satoru was everything anyone could have asked for, so how dare a woman like you? How dare a woman he loved…

Everything comes crashing down into his mind once again. From the first time he saw you and how you've caught his eye. His heart starts to beat frantically, his breath caught into his chest, his tongue tied together. Satoru slumps into his chair as he closes his eyes, letting the memory sink in.

“Who is that woman?” Satoru asked an older servant, seeing your unfamiliar face walking around the garden in a maid uniform as he stared down at you from his window.

“That's [M/L/N]’s daughter. She's here to take her place while her mother is recovering.” The servant answered as she poured him tea.

Satoru watched as you walked quietly, your movements looked calculated and careful. He watched your finger touch a ragged cloth, gracefully cleaning the dirty tables.

From afar, he can see how your skin looked soft and pale. You were a bit thin and looked weak. He can only assume that he could break you with one twist.

Your face didn't have any emotion in it which intrigued him. Even your lips were downturned, like you hated every second of working in his place. You caught his attention in a matter of seconds, a curiosity growing inside him while he watched your every move.

He noticed the way your mood changed when his family's dog, a small golden retriever, came running to you. A smile formed into your face and he swore he could feel all the flowers blooming all around the place. Everything seemed to have lighted up, his heart began to drum in his chest as you kneeled down to the dog, petting and rubbing the cute animal between your hands.

What's so fascinating about you?

He swallowed hard. Satoru felt like a teenage boy realising that he was staring a little too hard. He felt like a stalker for watching you, shivering at his thoughts.

But he wanted to meet you. Something was pulling him to be close to your presence. A magnetic force was drawing him to come near, and it was the very first time that he ever felt like this.

But he'll take his time first. For now, he's going to settle on just watching you from afar, memorising every detail of you, until he is ready.

A knock on the door woke Satoru back to his senses. He straightened up on his seat, erasing the memories out of his head as he coughed. “Come in.”

But how can Satoru completely forget?

You walked inside in your maid uniform, the same dress that you used to wear, and it only took Satoru a matter of seconds for all your pasts to remind him of how much he loved you. He felt a pain in his chest, and for a moment, he wanted to fall back on his knees and beg for you to love him again. But even you had changed.

Satoru was also back to square one. He looks at you, reminded of the first time he had seen your face. The lack of emotion, the frown, the gaze that used to intimidate him, and the wall you had built between the two of you was palpable.

“Take a seat.” Satoru gestured over the chair in front of his table.

He watched you carefully as you stepped inside his office, striding forward with a sense of hurry as you obviously refused to seat. You stood in front of him, an emotion in your eyes that he can't seem to read.

“I have to get back to my family–”

“They are fine.” Satoru immediately cut you off, his voice ringing over your ear. He looked at you with a glare, venom laced in his voice as he says, “You are bound to stay here, as I said so–”

“You can't keep me here!”

Your scream shocked the both of you, but Satoru kept a straight face as he stood up slowly. He chuckled with malice, staring at your helpless state.

“What makes you say that I can't?” He smirked. “I own you now. Every single thing that's yours is also mine, even your family.”

Your eyes fell to the floor, your hands trembling at your side. Your knees felt weak underneath his gaze, burning and crushing your soul.

Everything he said was true. You were in so much debt ever since you left the Gojo mansion, your family almost falling apart if he didn't show up to take you. And now he's claiming every single bit of what's yours, not leaving a single piece behind.

Satoru made it clear when he took you here. He'll pay for everything to save you and your family. Your mother's hospital bill, your father's gambling debts, your brother's education, their food, house, electricity, and all their livings, because you couldn't pay them off by yourself.

So now you're trapped. He's got you wrapped around his fingers.

“You need me, Y/N.” You closed your eyes at his voice, shaking your head in denial. “You can't afford to live without me, and that's the truth.”

It was the truth, Satoru taking her away from her old life.

You were doing just fine when he was gone. But now you don't know anymore.

this is the part 1 of my mini (?) gojo series! i hope you'd like it and anticipate for what's next to come 🥺🫶🏻 [M/L/N] also stand for "mother's last name" in case you didn't knowww ^.^ I also hoped you understood the flashbacks and such.

this is just a prologue of the main story, sooo the real story starts at part 2.

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nyxs2 · 6 months ago

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Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 6/?)

Choosing your poison is easy; it's living with the consequences that truly haunts you. Silco's venom is intoxicating, and deep down, you know it will be the death of you, yet you find yourself craving every drop.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 7,6K

Warnings: smut, resolved sexual tension, light bondage, unprotected sex, creampie, praise kink, biting, possessive behavior, you are a prostitute, slight hints of reader's past, sex and restrained freedom being terms of a agreement, Silco (and Sevika) POV

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

━━ Sevika's Pov ━━

Sevika had two absolute certainties in life. The first was never to hesitate, because in the undercity, one second too long could cost you your life. The second, even more important, was never to meddle in Silco's personal affairs unless he directly ordered it. These seemingly simple rules had ensured her survival and her position alongside the most powerful man in Zaun. So why, in the name of everything sacred—or profane, in this case—was she standing there, hand halfway to the door of his office, reconsidering what seemed to be a trivial task?

The noise on the other side made her hesitate. Wood creaking, muffled but rhythmic. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on in there. Sevika raised an eyebrow, already feeling a mix of embarrassment and exasperation bubbling up. Seriously, boss?

She huffed as she debated internally whether it was worth interrupting or if it would be better to just come back later. She opted for the latter. It was safer—for both of them.

Turning back down the hallway, she spotted two guards posted near the stairs. "Hey!" she called, her deep voice cutting through the silence. "Don't let anyone upstairs, especially that blue-haired brat."

The two nodded without question, though one of them looked briefly confused before returning to his watch. Sevika didn't explain. It wasn't necessary, and she didn't have the patience to deal with stupid questions.

Back at the bar, she plopped herself down on one of the stools, resting her right forearm on the counter as she observed the nearly empty room. The night was already wearing thin, with only a few stubborn, lonely drunks still clinging to their bottles and cigarettes. She allowed a tired smile to slip, one that quickly turned into a low, ironic laugh.

If someone had told me Silco would ditch his paperwork to fuck, I'd have laughed in their face.

It was surreal. The man was the very definition of a workaholic, always with his head buried in conspiracies and strategies to keep Zaun under control. But two months ago, everything changed. Out of nowhere, Silco approached her asking about a decent brothel in the city. She didn't question it, because, after all, who was she to judge? Everyone needs a little relief now and then.

But things had taken an unexpected turn. She knew the girl—maybe too well. Those big, deceptively innocent eyes always hiding something. Sevika had always known there was more behind that angelic façade. Maybe that's exactly what had drawn Silco in. And, frankly, she even agreed: good taste couldn't be denied.

The sound of a glass sliding across the counter pulled her from her thoughts. The bartender was looking at her, wearing the expression of someone who already knew what she wanted. Sevika grabbed the glass and downed the amber liquid in one go.

"Another." she ordered curtly, pushing the glass back toward him.

As she waited, Sevika let her eyes wander around the room, though her mind was still stuck on the scene. Silco, so methodical, so controlled... and now? Succumbing to his own desires. He wasn't even completely sure that it was the same woman from years ago, and yet he orchestrated all of this to have her around. She wasn't sure whether to find it amusing or concerning.

Whatever he's scheming, it better be worth the effort.

When the next glass arrived, she held it between her fingers, swirling the liquid before taking another long sip. At least tonight, she'd allow herself a few moments of peace.

"Tough night?" the bartender asked, his tone casual, as if he already knew the answer.

Sevika grunted, not even bothering to look up. Small talk was far from her priority. She emptied the glass in one gulp, feeling the warmth of the whiskey burn its way down her throat, momentarily easing the irritation brewing inside her.

"Is it true Silco's keeping a girl up there?" the bartender let slip, leaning over the counter with barely concealed curiosity. His voice was low, but the words carried too much weight for Sevika's liking.

She paused, spinning the empty glass between her fingers before glaring at him over the rim with evident impatience.

"Who told you that?"

"One of the morning shift guards." the man shrugged like it was no big deal. "Said they were ordered to let a woman in but not out. Thought kidnapped folks stayed at the warehouse, not here."

Sevika scoffed, rolling her eyes as she poured herself another drink. It was always the same with people like that: gossips who didn't know when to keep their mouths shut.

"She's different."

The bartender simply nodded, wiping the counter with a rag that, to Sevika, seemed more dirty than useful. Finally, silence returned, and she silently thanked the universe for the reprieve. Or at least for a few seconds. Because, of course, he couldn't keep his mouth shut for long.

"Wait! That woman, is she THAT... prostitute?" he asked, his voice laden with a curiosity that bordered on offensive.

Before Sevika could deliver a cutting response, a high-pitched voice sliced through the room like a knife.

"What's a prostitute?"

Sevika turned her head toward the voice, as did the bartender, and both found Jinx standing at the damned bar counter, hands on her hips and her eyes sparkling with curiosity, as if she were genuinely interested in the answer.

"How the hell did you get here at this hour?" Sevika asked, slamming her glass onto the table with force. Her patience, already worn thin, was nearly gone. "Shouldn't you be in your room or, I don't know, in your cage?"

Jinx made a face, an attempt at intimidation that wouldn't have scared a mouse.

"I don't live in a cage, you one-armed brute."

Sevika rolled her eyes. "Great. Just what I needed." without another word, she slid off the stool, grabbed the girl without any care, and slung her over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"Hey! Put me down, you savage!" Jinx started thrashing, kicking the air and grumbling like a feral cat.

Sevika kept walking, unbothered. She was used to the brat's dramatics, but her patience wasn't infinite, especially after the night she'd already endured.

"Keep squirming like that, and I'll let you fall flat on your face." Sevika muttered, an empty threat she'd never dare follow through on, considering how much Silco doted on the girl. "You're not going upstairs."

Sevika thought about how the situation had spiraled into something even more ridiculous than she'd anticipated. Not that she really cared about Jinx—"Babysitter? Not a chance in hell."—but the last thing she wanted was to deal with the trauma of a kid discovering what her "dad" did behind closed doors. Even Zaun had its limits to chaos.

Jinx ignored the threat entirely, her fists pounding against Sevika's back with as much force as her skinny arms could muster. "Why not? Is it because of that prostitute? I don't even know what that is!"

"If you stop squirming, I'll tell you on the way."

To Sevika's surprise, Jinx actually went quiet.

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

Silco looked at her body, her hair spread over the table as he thrust into her from behind. He loved how her skin felt against his, and the way she moaned softly whenever he touched her. Her body was so soft and warm, and he couldn't get enough of it. He held her wrists tightly behind her back as he pounded into her, his hips slapping against her ass with each thrust. Silco could feel his own pleasure building up inside him, but he held back, wanting to make this last as long as possible. He wanted to savor every moment of having she beneath him, submitting to his every desire.

Silco's thoughts were a jumbled mess of lust and desire. He loved how responsive she was to his touch, how she seemed to melt under him as he claimed her body. He knew he was being rough with her, but he couldn't help himself. The rough, animalistic nature of their coupling was a stark contrast to the refined elegance of his office, and he reveled in the delicious contradiction.

As he fucked her harder and faster, Silco leaned down and bit her shoulder, leaving a mark on her skin, which made her whine even more. He loved the idea of claiming her, of making sure everyone knew that she belonged to him now. She was his, and his alone, and he would make sure she never forgot it.

"My lovely dove." he growled into her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "All mine."

Silco felt her body trembling beneath him as he continued to thrust into her, his grip on her wrists loosening slightly. He could feel her pushing back against him, her hips meeting his with each stroke. He released her wrists completely and pulled her back against his chest, wrapping one arm around her waist and the other snaking up to grip her throat lightly. He didn't squeeze, just held her in place as he slowed his pace, savoring the feel of her tight heat surrounding him.

Silco's mind drifted to thoughts of the future, he would keep her by his side for a long time, that was for sure. He had no intention of losing her and even though his thoughts darkened, imagining every single thing he would do to her, Silco found himself becoming increasingly tender with her. He wanted to worship her body, to show her the depths of his desire even though she was angry with him and technically just doing her part of the deal. But for now, he contented himself with the feel of her in his arms, her body pressed against his as he continued to thrust into her.

"That's it..." his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered to her. "You're doing so well for me."

He wondered if she knew what she was getting herself into, if she understood the depths of having made that deal. She herself had said that accepting something from him was not so different from agreeing with the devil, which ironically she had done. But then again, he didn't really care. All that mattered was that she was his now. The thought sent a shiver of excitement down his spine, and he thrust harder, deeper, claiming her body as his own.

Silco's hand slid down from her hip to between her legs, his fingers finding her clit. He rubbed slow, firm circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. He could feel her tensing beneath him, her breath coming faster and harder. He knew she was close.

He leaned down and nuzzled her neck, his lips brushing against her skin as he whispered to her. "You're so beautiful like this." he murmured, his voice low and husky with desire. "It's okay... Let go. I've got you."

Silco continued to rub her clit, his fingers slick with her arousal. He could feel her tensing beneath him, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. And then, with a final thrust of his hips, he felt her coming undone. Her walls clenched around him, her body shaking with the force of her orgasm. He held her close, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist as he continued to thrust, drawing out her pleasure for as long as possible.

Only then, when he knew she had finished, did he allow himself to let go. With a harsh groan, he buried himself deep inside her, his own release pulsing through him. He collapsed against her back, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

Silco pulled out of her slowly, savoring the feeling of her walls fluttering around him as he withdrew. He stood for a moment, watching as she collapsed onto the table, her body spent and limp. He couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction, of pride, at having brought her to such heights of pleasure.

He moved to his chair and sat down, his gauze never leaving her as he fixed his pants. She looked so small, so fragile like this. It was a stark contrast to the strong, defiant woman he knew

He leaned forward and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her off the table and onto his lap. He didn't care about the mess, about the fluids smearing across his pants. All he cared about was having her close, feeling her warmth against his skin.He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight against his chest. He could feel her heartbeat, slow and steady, matching his own. He knew he should let her go, let her clean up and rest. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. He wanted to keep her here, in his arms, for as long as possible.

Even though the weight of exhaustion clawed at his every muscle, Silco refused to relinquish her. His arms remained locked around her, firm yet careful, as if afraid she might slip away the moment he loosened his grip. The embrace was neither casual nor fleeting—it lingered, speaking volumes in the silence. It was an act that could mean many things: dominance, possession, a fleeting moment of vulnerability. But most disturbingly, in a way so distorted it almost felt like sin—affection.

Her head rested against his shoulder, her breathing still uneven, the faint tremor in her body betraying just how far she'd been pushed. He rested his chin on top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair.

She was undone. Raw. Stripped of the mask she so often wore—the provocative, infuriating facade that seemed designed solely to challenge him at every turn. Here, in his arms, she was something closer to her truest self, a woman laid bare by the weight of her own humanity.

And God help him, he enjoyed both versions.

The stubborn, sharp-tongued temptress who dared to stand toe-to-toe with him, who infuriated and intrigued him in equal measure—that version of her was a spark, a fire he couldn't help but want to stoke. But this? This quieter, unguarded moment? This was something else entirely. A glimpse of the woman beneath the armor.

His hand moved almost unconsciously, fingers brushing against the damp strands of her hair before trailing down to rest at the nape of her neck. His touch was uncharacteristically gentle, a rare softness that would have shocked anyone who knew him. And though he told himself it was a fleeting act of charity, of magnanimity, the truth was far more selfish. He simply liked holding her this way.

"You'll ruin me."

Her voice was barely a whisper, so faint it might have been lost in the stillness of the room if not for the fact that Silco was holding her so close. It was raw, unguarded, and it hung in the air between them like the blade of a guillotine, poised to fall.

He didn't respond. He didn't need to. Her words weren't a question, nor did they require an answer. They were a truth, a bitter acknowledgment of the tangled web they'd both willingly stepped into. And it wasn't as if he could deny it, anyway. Ruin was inevitable, and it was something she had said herself during their earlier clash. This was simply the echo of her own warning, now laden with the weight of their proximity.

Silco tightened his grip around her in lieu of words, pulling her just a fraction closer, as if to say, Yes, I will. And you'll let me.

"Rest." he commanded, his voice softer now, though still tinged with that unyielding authority that brooked no argument. His hand splayed firmly across her back, anchoring her against him. "For once, don't argue. Just rest."

Without resistance, she surrendered to sleep in his arms, her breathing evening out as her body grew heavy with exhaustion. Silco stayed there, unmoving, his eyes half-lidded as he stared out into the dim haze of Zaun's morning light filtering faintly through the industrial gloom. The sounds of the city, muted and distant, echoed faintly through the room: the hiss of steam pipes, the clatter of machinery, and the occasional murmur of voices far below. It was a sound he'd grown so accustomed to that it often faded into the background, yet in this moment, it seemed louder, more insistent.

His eyes drifted to the ceiling, tracing the familiar cracks and shadows that had once provided solace in the solitude of his nights. But this morning, they seemed to mock him. Unbidden, the memory crept in — that bridge, the suffocating smoke, the acrid sting of betrayal. He could almost hear the anguished screams and the crackle of fire, smell the blood and oil mingling in the air. That day had been a reckoning, one where every choice he made seemed to collapse beneath the weight of inevitability.

The bridge where Felicia died.

The bridge where Vander betrayed him.

Silco's jaw tightened, and he exhaled sharply through his nose, as if expelling the memory itself. He would not dwell on it. What was done could not be undone, and revisiting the past served no purpose. Regret was for the weak, and Silco had no patience for weakness — not in others, and certainly not in himself.

Still, the ghost of that day lingered at the edges of his mind, a specter of all that had gone wrong. Choices that had seemed so clear, so righteous at the time, had led only to ruin. The kind of ruin that left scars too deep to heal, both on the body and on the soul.

His fingers twitched slightly, tightening their hold on her for just a moment before loosening again. She stirred faintly in her sleep but didn't wake, her face soft and unguarded in a way that tugged at something deep within him.

Ruins were where he had been forged. And if ruin was where he would return, he would do so on his own terms.

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

You felt your body sinking. The underwater currents were relentless, tossing you back and forth like a lifeless ragdoll as the darkness closed in around you. You realized the faint shimmer of the surface was growing farther and farther away. But, strangely, there was no panic. There was no desperation to fight, no frantic hands trying to reach for that light. Something inside you decided that here, in the depths, would be your final resting place.

The silence of the water, the relentless cold, the sense of abandonment. It all made a morbid kind of sense. You let your arms float beside you, surrendering to the darkness that clouded your vision.

But then, something changed.

You felt a tug at the collar of your shirt—rough and unexpected. There was no gentleness in the motion, only urgency. You tried to open your eyes, but the water burned your retinas, leaving everything blurred. Still, you could tell you were rising—fast. The muffled sound of the water became a chaotic mix of bubbles and currents. Something—or someone—was determined to save you.

"Stay with me, little one. Hold on."

Then you finally managed to open your eyes. The cracked ceiling, marked by softly dancing shadows, was the first thing you saw as you returned to reality. There was no longer the sensation of being submerged, nor the voice that had seemed so close just moments before. Vander's voice had felt so real, but now it was just a distant echo, as unreachable as the rest of your memories. A deep emptiness settled over you. It had been so long since you'd felt something like this. Maybe since... Well, better not to think about it.

Sitting up slowly, you took a better look at the room around you. It was comfortable, simple, functional. It had everything a room needed but lacked any personal touch, giving it a cold, almost impersonal feel. The lighting was far too dim for your taste, with shadows pooling in the corners.

That's when you noticed: your clothes were arranged neatly, as was your lower body, with no trace of what you had done hours earlier on that damned table. Silco had likely cleaned and adjusted everything. He'd even ensured you rested without wrecking your back, unlike before on the couch—ironic, coming from someone like him. On the nightstand, a pitcher of water and a glass waited for you, without notes, without explanations.

You poured yourself a glass, feeling the cool liquid soothe the dryness in your throat as you leaned back against the headboard. The weight of the situation finally hit you. You were screwed, weren't you?

For someone who prided themselves on being immune to Silco's games, who claimed—proudly—that they'd never be manipulated, here you were: completely caught in his web. And worse, you were here willingly.

But it had to be worth it. It had to be.

Your mind spun, piecing together the fragments of information you had gathered so far. Silco and his supposed "daughter." Jinx. It was impossible to ignore the gaping hole this story left in your reasoning. Silco had no wife, and absolutely nothing about the man suggested he could have maintained a relationship close enough to father a child. In fact, you might be the closest thing to that.

So why had Finn hinted that Jinx was a scandal?

You pieced the fragments together hesitantly, almost afraid of what it might mean. What if Jinx was... Powder?

The thought was absurd. Or, perhaps, not so much. After the night of the massacre, the only bodies reportedly found were those of Vander, Mylo, and Claggor. There was no trace of Violet or Powder. It was unlikely that both had survived, but unlikely didn't mean impossible.

What if Powder was alive? What if Silco had found her in the chaos and taken her in? The idea was horrifying, yet it made a disturbing amount of sense. Could that be the origin of the scandal? That Silco had taken Powder, turning her into the weapon he now called Jinx?

You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to organize your thoughts. It was all speculation. You had no proof, just disconnected hints. But it didn't matter. You would find out who Jinx was, no matter the cost. And if there was even the slightest chance of finding Violet or Powder, you wouldn't waste it. You had made a promise to Vander on his deathbed. You would find and protect his daughters, and Silco might just be the key to achieving that.

If the hunt for Jinx led nowhere, you could still use Silco's resources covertly to track down anything about them. Even if it was just their bones so you could finally have some closure.

You didn't know how long you sat there lost in thought until your own body protested from staying in the same position for too long.

Rising from the bed with your resolve renewed, you stretched slightly, your muscles still complaining from the strain. You crossed the room toward the door, but before you could touch it, it was abruptly opened. Standing before you was that same tattooed man from the previous morning, his face carrying the same expression of near-permanent indifference. He tilted his chin up in a simple gesture before saying:

"Silco wants to see you."

Without even waiting for your response, he turned and began walking down the corridor. You hesitated for a moment but eventually followed. As you walked, you noticed how the Last Drop was surprisingly busy for that time of morning. Men and women were engaged in various tasks, carrying crates, adjusting equipment, and speaking in hushed tones. It was a completely different scene from the almost ghostly atmosphere of the day before when you had arrived.

Not that you were surprised by this change, not after everything Silco had been pulling.

You arrived at the infamous door to Silco's office. The tattooed man knocked twice, firmly, before announcing: "Sir, I've brought her."

The response came almost instantly, and the door opened, revealing a familiar figure.

Ah, yes. Her.

The woman was there, her imposing presence intact, though her eyes carried a weary air, as if she hadn't slept in weeks. There was something both unsettling and captivating about her posture—her shoulders squared, her chin slightly tilted upward, as if daring the world to knock her down. For a brief moment, your eyes met. You held her gaze, tilting your head slightly, until a memory flashed in your mind like lightning.

Oh...

Now you remembered where you knew her from.

She seemed to notice your realization, but said nothing. She simply stepped aside, creating space for you to enter the office.

You crossed the room with the confidence of someone who felt at home—even if you weren't. Your steps echoed lightly in the space as you stopped in front of Silco's desk. He held some papers in his hands, apparently reports, his eyes scanning the text with calm precision. He didn't bother to look at you, as if your presence was expected but not significant enough to interrupt his focus.

You stopped in front of him, crossing your arms and shifting your weight slightly to one side. "Should I assume I've been summoned for something important, or did you just want my company this morning?"

He merely gestured with his hand, dismissing the two people still in the office. Yet, even as the door closed, he remained in that position for a few more seconds, calmly finishing whatever was written on the papers before setting them aside. Only then did he lean back in his chair.

"Well, keeping me company is part of your new job, isn't it?" His voice was low and velvety, carrying a familiarity that bothered you as much as it intrigued you. With a lazy gesture, he indicated the chair in front of him. "Sit. We have matters to discuss."

Without wasting time, you settled into the chair, crossing your legs in a deliberate motion, assuming the posture of someone ready to play at the same level. If Silco wanted to turn this into a performance of business negotiations, you wouldn't fall behind.

"I've been thinking." his voice smooth as silk. "Perhaps our agreement needs a few... adjustments. Some additional clauses, so to speak."

Silco leaned back slightly, his fingers interlaced beneath his chin, the posture of someone entirely in control of the situation. "But before we get to that, I think it's wise to review the main terms of our current arrangement. Just to ensure we're aligned."

You shrugged with feigned indifference, though irritation pulsed beneath the surface. Of course, you knew every line of that damned agreement. How could you forget something that had been presented more as an ultimatum than a real negotiation? When Silco proposed the deal, you barely had a chance to voice your opinion. Not that your opinion would have mattered much—the power in that room belonged exclusively to him.

If he wanted to, he could have simply imprisoned you, tied you to a bed, keeping you captive by force. In fact, considering Silco's style, perhaps he still might—but in a twisted way, involving power games and sex.

When he presented the contract the night before, the scene was almost comical. You weren't even remotely surprised to see that he already had the document prepared, flawlessly drafted, waiting only for you to sign your name. However, what truly surprised you was that he agreed to some of your conditions, though they were few.

"Go ahead."

Silco then pulled the paper from the drawer, placing the document on the table with the two signature spaces clearly visible: one with his name, marked by that precise and meticulous handwriting, and the other with your name, marked by the nervous haste of your rushed signature.

"You agreed to spend three weeks of each month at my service." he began to read, his voice low and laden with an authority that sent shivers down your spine. "You will serve me in whatever way I deem necessary. This includes physically, of course. In return, I will provide you with everything you need, as well as ensuring your safety and comfort."

He paused, his eyes following the text with the precision of someone who had recited these words countless times. His expression was one of absolute delight behind the indifferent façade; you could tell he was savoring every syllable he uttered. Every detail seemed carefully crafted to trap you.

"And during the fourth and final week of that same month, you will have your freedom. I will not touch you, nor demand anything from you. You will be free to do as you please, within reasonable limits."

Silco pushed the folder toward you, the gesture as casual as it was threatening. "Naturally, you will have an escort at all times. To ensure your safety and to prevent you from deciding to run. After all, I wouldn't want to lose my new toy so soon."

You took the contract, your eyes scanning the words you already knew. But before you could even pretend to conduct a detailed review, Silco's voice cut through the air again, laced with something almost playful.

"Now, dove." his soft tone masked the venom behind his words. "Please, say out loud what the consequences are for breaking your part of the agreement."

Your gaze shot up from the paper to him. Your superficial reading stopped at that sentence, your fingers clutching the document tightly enough to crease it slightly. Of course, he was going to demand this. It was Silco's arrogance at its peak, forcing you to admit the terms you despised aloud. His smile widened as he noticed your hesitation. He was savoring the moment—every second of your reluctance was a small victory for him.

"If I break the agreement, all the freedom granted to me will be revoked. I will be under your constant supervision, without any autonomy." you wanted to kick him under the table, but you forced yourself to continue without resorting to violence. "And I will be subject to whatever punishments you deem appropriate, with no right to question or refuse them."

You hated the way he looked at you in that moment. That intense, cruel gaze that made every hair on your body stand on end. It wasn't just the intensity—it was what lay beneath it. There was something deeply wrong about the satisfaction Silco displayed, the twisted pleasure in reminding you, silently, of the reach of his power in Zaun—and now, over every aspect of your life.

He tilted his head slightly, the treacherous smile playing on his lips. "And?" he pressed, his voice low, its softness nothing more than a façade. "Don't keep me waiting. Say the rest."

You swallowed hard, choking down the rising urge to unleash a string of curses at him. Instead, you responded with a coldness you didn't truly feel.

"You would burn the brothel."

The words were difficult to say, but you forced them out, trying to mask the vulnerability they carried. In Zaun, few things could really hurt you. With no family and no significant ties left, you believed you were beyond the reach of emotional threats. But then, there was the brothel. And Silco knew it.

Not that you particularly liked the work of being a prostitute. As you had told Silco the day you first met, it wasn't as though you had much of a choice. It was a job that didn't attract attention, and that was exactly what you needed.

But the brothel wasn't just a workplace. The people there, even if they weren't your closest friends, were something you could call your community. Co-workers, confidants on hard nights, people who had shared the same roof with you since Babette took you in. She gave you a chance when no one else would—a place to stay, a job to support yourself, a sense of stability in a world that seemed to crumble around you. And now, because of you, the brothel was in danger. Just like Kate had been... and you knew how that ended.

He leaned back in his chair with the confidence of a king on his throne, intertwining his fingers beneath his chin. "Ah, yes. The brothel. Such a charming establishment, isn't it? It would be such a shame if something were to happen to it."

"Just say what you want to add, Silco."

The words came out steady, but you knew they weren't enough to fool him. Silco always caught the nuances—the smallest cracks in your façade, the ones you tried so hard to hide. And there he was, with that almost imperceptible smile, carved perfectly to provoke you. It was the kind of expression that made you feel as though, somehow, he was always in control.

"Always so direct." he murmured in that slow, deliberate voice, reaching for a cigar from the drawer. The way he handled it was almost theatrical, every movement carefully calculated to stretch out your anxiety. "Well, the proposal is more of a suggestion. I believe it would be far more convenient if you moved into one of the rooms at the Last Drop. During the weeks you're serving me, you would stay there."

You blinked. Once, twice. His words echoed in your head as you tried to absorb the weight of what he was saying. When you agreed to the arrangement, there had at least been one small consolation: the idea that, at the end of each day, you could return to the place you called home. Your little space. Your bubble of freedom. A place where you could continue your investigation far from Silco's watchful eyes and maybe remind yourself that you were still a person, not just his "property."

But now, even that illusion was being taken from you.

"This is your way of keeping me under custody?"

Silco laughed. A low, rough, and dangerously amused sound that sent a shiver down your spine. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he watched you with an unwavering gaze. The intensity of his orange irises, like burning embers, held you captive even when you wanted to look away.

"Keeping you under my custody?" he repeated, with a mock indignation so convincing it was infuriating. "Dove, you've wounded me deeply with such a heinous accusation. I thought we had something special here."

He lit the cigar with a silver lighter, the metallic click echoing in the heavy silence of the room. The scent of tobacco began to fill the air, mingling with the almost tangible tension. Silco took a deep drag, exhaling the smoke with a sigh that seemed laden with satisfaction.

"But, if you insist on putting it that way..." he let the sentence linger, releasing another slow puff of smoke before continuing, as though savoring the moment for as long as he could. Dragging it out too much for your taste. "Yes, I suppose that's exactly what I'm doing."

You couldn't stop yourself from rolling your eyes—a gesture meant to be full of disdain but softening into an ironic smile you couldn't quite suppress. There was something about Silco—that poisonous mix of brutal honesty and blatant manipulation—that left you unsure whether you should hate him or just play the game alongside him.

Somehow, his cruel transparency made it impossible to be as angry as you should have been. Deep down, what you really wanted was to cross the desk and punch him, but instead, you just raised an eyebrow, defiant.

"You're unbelievable, you know that?"

You stood up from the chair calmly, your eyes locked onto Silco's as you made your way around the desk. He, of course, followed every step with that sharp, almost predatory gaze. As you rounded the desk, you noticed the subtle way he adjusted in his chair, shifting slightly to track your movements as though he anticipated exactly what was coming next.

Without hesitation, you climbed onto his lap, sitting as if it were the most natural, casual thing in the world. Ironically, it was. Silco had, in an unexpected way, become your favorite "seat" and you were sure he was well aware of it.

"So." your tone deliberately provocative as your hands came to rest on his shoulders, "I don't think I have any other choice but to accept this clause. Although, I do have a few conditions."

Interest flickered in his eyes, but it was in the blue one that you noticed something new. His pupil dilated slightly—a reaction you'd never observed before. A small detail, but one that, in that moment, felt like a silent triumph. Silco leaned back in the chair, his body relaxing as though he'd already won the argument. He brought the cigar to his lips, taking a long drag before exhaling the smoke to the side, away from you. It was an unexpectedly considerate gesture—almost... sweet, if you had the nerve to admit it out loud.

His free hand, however, didn't waste any time. His fingers began to wander over your body, gliding along the curve of your waist, lingering at the line of your hip, before settling firmly on your thigh. The touch was possessive, demanding, as if he wanted to remind both you—and himself—that, in this moment, you were his.

"And what might these conditions be?"

You didn't answer immediately. Instead, you reached out and, without a hint of shame or hesitation, took the cigar from his hand. Silco's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't protest. You brought the cigar to your lips, inhaling with the ease of someone who had done it a hundred times before—even though it was your first.

The bitter taste filled your mouth, and the smoke wrapped around your senses. You exhaled slowly, letting the smoke escape deliberately as you kept your gaze fixed on his. There was something intensely intimate in the exchange, a sexual charge you hadn't planned but now felt inevitable.

"I want permission to roam freely around here." you said at last, your voice calm but carrying an undeniable tone of firmness. "After all, when you don't need me, I'll need some way to entertain myself, don't you think?"

You smiled—that mischievous smile that had gotten you into trouble more times than you could count. It was the same smile that, in a way, had landed you in this situation with Silco in the first place. "A fair request, in my opinion."

Silco remained silent for a moment, his eyes locked on yours. He seemed to be considering your words, but you could tell it was more than that. He was savoring the scene—every detail about you. The way you held the cigar, your posture on his lap, the interplay of smoke curling around your face... He seemed entranced.

"Permission to wander freely, hm?" Silco finally broke the silence, his voice heavy with provocation as his fingers on your thigh tightened their grip slightly. "I suppose that's reasonable, but don't think for a second that I won't be watching you."

You maintained your composure, letting the cigar's smoke fill your lungs before leaning slightly closer to him. As you exhaled, you released the smoke near his lips, watching as his blue eye darted momentarily to your mouth while the orange one stayed fixed on you. It carried a silent threat, a void of unspoken challenge that seemed to dare you to keep testing his limits.

"That's more than enough for me."

Boldly, you let your lips brush against his in a touch so fleeting it was almost ghostly, before pressing a gentle kiss—light, without any intent to deepen it. But as you began to pull away, you didn't get far. Almost instantly, Silco's hand gripped a fistful of your hair, firm but not harsh, pulling you back to him.

And it was he who deepened the kiss.

Silco's lips crashed against yours with a demanding, possessive force. There was nothing gentle or hesitant about it; he was taking what he wanted, and you knew in that moment, it was you. His tongue invaded your mouth with unrelenting confidence, exploring and claiming every inch. The taste of smoke lingered on his tongue, the bitterness of tobacco blending with an unexpected hint of sweetness—a contrast as singular as Silco himself.

There was something more in that kiss, something that sent shivers racing through your body as he held you captive within it. The last time the two of you had kissed, it had been different: rage had clouded your mind, turning the contact into a fierce clash. But now... now it was something else entirely. There was still roughness—Silco wasn't a man who did anything softly—but the hatred, the defiance, was absent.

If someone asked why you had kissed him, you could lie. You could claim it was a calculated move to ensure he wouldn't rescind his agreement to your request. A strategic play, nothing more. But deep down, you knew that would only be half the truth. The reality was, something within you had driven you to do it, to seek out that connection again, even if you didn't want to admit it.

You provoked him because you knew Silco would take the lead. It had always been that way. No matter how much you wanted to, it was never going to be you who initiated. Not with him. The power always had to appear to be on his side, even when you managed to twist it to your advantage.

The cigar slipped from your fingers, hitting the ground with a muffled thud. You registered the faint sound, your mind distantly aware of the minimal chance the ember might start a fire. Yet you didn't move to pick it up. Instead, your hands rested against Silco's chest, attempting to support your weight and keep your body from fully collapsing against his. Though, by the way he pulled you closer, it was clear that idea didn't bother him in the slightest.

A rough sound escaped Silco's lips—a low, restrained groan that you almost thought you'd imagined. Almost. His grip on your hair tightened, angling your head perfectly so he could deepen the kiss even further. His other hand wasn't idle; it moved slowly along the length of your thigh, his fingers pressing into your flesh with enough force to leave a mark.

When Silco finally broke the kiss, his lips began to trace a path along your jaw to your neck, his breath hot against your skin. You couldn't stop yourself—your body arched toward his, as if responding to an unspoken command.

"Don't provoke me, dove," he growled against your skin. "You know very well what happens when you do."

You laughed, but the sound came out short, almost breathless. It was hard to concentrate when Silco kept trailing kisses down your neck, occasionally interrupted by sharp nips that left your skin throbbing with sensitivity. One particular bite was harder, enough to draw a small gasp from you. Your body reacted instinctively, jolting slightly in his lap—and that was enough to elicit a sharp intake of breath from Silco.

From the way his eyes glinted and his grip on your thigh tightened, you knew he was just as affected as you were.

"Why not?" you murmured, a mischievous smile playing on your lips as you tried to catch your breath. "We're already in position, after all."

Silco pulled back slightly, just enough for you to see his expression. The gleam in his eyes, especially the blue one, was a dangerous mix of amusement and something darker, more intense. It was as if your words had sparked a new idea in his mind, one he was clearly considering with.

"Why not, indeed?" his hands slid to your hips, gripping them firmly as he pulled you even closer, as if it were possible to get any nearer. "Especially when you seem to enjoy this position so much."

Your fingers traced the contours of his face, exploring the unique texture of the scarred skin. When you reached the rougher, uneven area, you noticed something you hadn't before: a slight layer of powder there, likely applied to soften the appearance of the scar. You frowned slightly, intrigued. A question hovered on the tip of your tongue, but you decided to save it for another moment. After all, provoking Silco was always more interesting.

The prolonged touch seemed to captivate him, his gaze locked on yours as you explored his face with your fingertips. A charged tension lingered between you, and you realized that, in that moment, he was completely at your mercy—even if he hadn't noticed it himself.

"Well..." your voice carrying a faintly teasing tone, "You're the one above everyone in Zaun, so it's only fair someone gets to be above you, isn't it?"

With a mischievous smile, you shifted your hips slightly, emphasizing your words with the movement. The effect was immediate. Silco drew in a sharp breath, his own hips moving almost instinctively to match your motion.

"Someone has to keep things balanced around here." your tone suggesting the idea amused you. "Besides, you don't seem the least bit bothered by it."

His hands gripped your hips more tightly, his fingers digging into your flesh in a possessive gesture that nearly knocked the air out of your lungs. He stared at you now with an intensity that made your heart race. There was nothing innocent about that look. On the contrary, the gleam in his eyes seemed almost profane, as if he were contemplating something both sinful and indulgent.

He leaned forward, his lips brushing against your ear. The closeness sent a shiver through your skin, and his voice, low and gravelly, seemed designed to ignite something inside you.

"Bothered?" he murmured, each word weighted with a gravity that made your stomach flip. "Not in the slightest, dove. In fact, I'd say I'm enjoying the view from here. The way you look at me from above, with those eyes..." he paused, his warm breath fanning over your skin. "It's enough to bring a man to his knees."

You couldn't help the smile that curved your lips, a hint of amusement and even satisfaction at having him in this position. But the smile lasted only a second. Before you could even respond, you felt his fingers gripping your chin, firm, almost possessive, tilting your face so he could look directly at you.

The tone of his voice shifted. The soft murmur now carried a raw authority, irresistible, as though he'd decided exactly what would happen next.

"But I prefer you in this position."

The intensity of his words made something in your chest tighten—not with fear, but with anticipation. In that moment, you knew exactly where this was going. He tilted his head slightly, as if savoring your expression before continuing.

"Now, be a good girl and get on your knees."

Part 7

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please read. I said I'd be back and I'm going to give you a spoiler: the next chapter it will be completely in Silco's POV and with a dose more smut than it normally would have. So suggest kinks that you'd like to see written in this series (I already have what I want to write in mind, but if I see an interesting idea that fits I'll add it, remember I can always use your idea in another chapter) And yes, in this story we fuck with Sevika! Remember when Babette tells VI that she's a regular customer at the brothel? I took this canon very seriously, but don't worry, there won't be a love triangle. Btw did you like Jinx's quick appearance in the chapter? (and yes, technically she would know what a prostitute is, but in my canon I can imagine VI punching Mylo at the exact moment he opens his mouth to explain. Our VI would protect our little and innocent Powder) I'll probably be back next year so HAPPY NEW YEAR! See you again in 2025.

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#silco x you #silco x reader #smut #reader insert #no beta we die like silco #arcane fanfic #arcane #arcane silco #minors dni

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moonzzip · 4 months ago

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spill the tea | kwon jiyong

a/n – so, I wrote this during class, I couldn't pay attention, I was thinking too much about jiyong. I don't know if I'll do another part, it depends on your reaction, initially, I don't plan on doing pt.2, I'm enjoying doing a bit of angst so much, i don't understand... again, I just wrote what came to my head, the english is still kind of... bad, but I hope you like it!

everything has been lightly reviewed, please let me know of any grammar error/incorrect word!

summary: jiyong is anxious, very nervous about appearing on stage again in front of so many people, but you appear.

pairing: jiyong x gn!reader

warnings: a fair amount of self-deprecation, abusive work, mentions of anxiety, reader has confidence issues, angst, fluff

lowercase letters, word count: 1,1k (again)

spinning the rings on his fingers, jiyong’s palms sweat, and he unconsciously wipes them on his light pink pants. looking around absentmindedly, his thoughts race a mile a minute, and he exhales hurriedly.

hearing two soft knocks on the door, he looks at it, a bit confused.

“jiyong-nim?” you whisper, peeking in with only half of your face visible, your body still outside.

the man nods, giving you permission to enter. you smile softly and finally step inside.

“excuse me…” your voice is gentle, barely above a whisper, not wanting to be a bother. “since i know you like tea, i decided to make some and bring it to you.”

in your hand, you hold a metallic thermal bottle, and in the other, a small, delicate package of chocolate cookies you had baked just a few hours ago.

you can’t help but wonder how he must be feeling, returning to the stage after so many years. being part of his personal staff, you and the team always communicate with him directly.

well… not you. the others.

you never had the courage—nor the opportunity, really. not for lack of trying, but because of someone specific.

of course, the great g-dragon would have a highly qualified team of professionals. but you never felt like one of them, and that person made sure to remind you of your “proper place.” the moment jiyong turned his back, all of her frustrations were dumped onto you. maybe you were hired as a verbal punching bag for the “blessed being” without realizing it. it made you wonder if you had remembered to read the fine print.

she didn’t even bother to call you by your name—always using other names, but never yours.

of course, you had thought about reporting it, but someone as insignificant as you in this industry, compared to her—who is beloved and has more connections than you could count—who’s to say she wouldn’t send someone to get rid of you while you’re in the bathroom? you never know. you know they would never fire her. you losing your job would be much easier than any close employee of jiyong’s facing consequences.

you? a new hire? who gets stepped on by senior staff? reporting her and expecting her to be fired for abuse of power and verbal harassment—if that’s even considered a crime? never. only in your dreams.

you’ve always known that keeping quiet avoids unnecessary arguments, even if you constantly bite your tongue to hold back a sharp reply. you need this job to survive. the salary is too good, and you think you can endure a certain level of mistreatment. at the end of the day, you’re working for g-dragon.

kwon jiyong.

so, you put up with a little more.

you’ve always been someone who minds their own business, who hates being a burden, who puts effort and dedication into everything you do. that’s what got you here, and you won’t let nerves over trivial things get the best of you.

sometimes, you stop and wonder if it’s worth tolerating such ridiculous treatment. but then you remind yourself—you’re on your own. you handle things as best as you can with what you have.

just you and yourself.

you don’t remember having any true friendships you’d take with you for life. maybe some colleagues, but nothing like “i need a shoulder to lean on, can i talk to you?”

you don’t dwell on it. you don’t even seek that kind of connection anymore—you gave up long ago.

you care too much about what others think of you. you like leaving a good impression—being seen as reliable, always prepared, capable of doing whatever is asked of you.

but you also let people step on you—on your pride, almost on you, literally.

when did that become “okay”?

you have no idea. it feels like it’s always been this way. you’re invisible. never invited to anything. you watch others having fun, calling each other out for drinks, and you can’t even picture yourself in a situation like that.

honestly?

you silence your thoughts for now.

you hand him the tea and cookies, and he stands up, bowing politely, ever so charming. a small smile grace his beautiful face, bringing a subtle glow of admiration to your own, soon he sits down again.

“i tried making passion fruit tea with pomegranate… passion fruit helps with stress and mood, pomegranate helps with the throat in case of hoarseness or pain, and also—”

jiyong watches you ramble (your voice still soft and low, almost a whisper), his lips forming a small pout, eyes slightly wide, eyebrows subtly raised. one hand rests on his chin, legs crossed, elbow propped up.

for the first time since arriving here, he finds himself distracted, momentarily forgetting his nerves and anxiety.

thinking back, he realizes he has never interacted with you directly.

of course, he’s seen you around—always busy, whether carrying heavy boxes, taking notes from a distance, staying late to fix a loose button or sequin on his outfit, bringing drinks, coffee, and snacks for everyone (never personally handing them to him), and countless other tasks that he’s almost certain aren’t your responsibility.

he’s never seen you with anyone. a friend, or something like that.

not that he had noticed before.

but, you know, when people are close, it’s something you can feel.

jiyong’s thoughts (just like your rambling) are abruptly interrupted by the loud, sudden swing of the dressing room door.

both of your heads snap toward the sound.

“jiyo-ssi!! you’re up next, it’s packed today, hurry up!”

ah, it’s her. the very person who used you as her personal punching bag.

without so much as a polite greeting, she shoves you aside and grabs jiyong’s arm.

still surprised, he simply looks ahead as he’s dragged away in a rush.

you just stare down at your hands, now clasped together in front of you, until—

“___?”

startled, you look up—and see g-d smiling at you.

in your eyes, he glows.

“thank you so much. i feel a lot better now.”

his voice, deep yet gentle, carries the words, and suddenly, the world seems more colorful as you both look directly at each other.

have you ever noticed how beautiful his eyes are?

and then, the door closes.

you stay there, frozen, until your legs weaken, and you crouch down, placing a hand over your racing heart, butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

“…but you didn’t even drink the tea…” you murmur, embarrassed.

a/n – thanks for the positive reactions on 'thinkin' bout you'! I'm glad you liked it, it just makes me want to write more. this time I heard JK's 'still with you', it brought up a lot of feelings and I ended up pouring it all out in the reader's self-deprecating parts. Sorry not sorry. sorry again for my english, feel free to correct me kindly!

#gn!reader #gdragon x reader #bigbang gdragon #bigbang x reader #jiyong x reader #g dragon #kpop #kwon jiyong x reader #G dragon x reader

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spookyrea · 1 year ago

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... Though I'm Not That Flexible

(part 2 following You Can Wrap Me 'Round Your Finger)

You prepare to tell Loki you love him. Much to his embarrassment, Loki has to tell you something, too.

(aka - frost giant biology is weird and Loki has to suffer the consequences) (and you're kinda into it) (oops)

Chapter 2 / 2 -- read it on AO3 here

Word count: ~9k

Warnings: 18+ !! fem reader; courtship/nesting behaviour, smut (and I mean... smut)

You watched Steve haul himself into the boxing ring, internally groaning at the thought of going toe-to-toe with the Man with a Plan himself.

Loki hovered at your shoulder looking decidedly out of place in a button-down and trousers; he was off the training roster for the week after Bucky had benched him for his ‘poor attitude’. The only people currently brave (or stupid) enough to spar with him were Steve and Thor, the latter of whom was banned from sparring with Loki indoors because of, to quote Pepper, the 'Thor-And-Loki Event' in June.

Privately, you agreed with Bucky’s assessment – Loki had been acting strange lately. Clingy, extra affectionate but equally as moody. Any time you tried to pry you were met with the same response – that Loki was “fine” and “had complete control” over the situation.

Sometimes the best option with Loki was to let him come to you. His desire for absolute control was multi-faceted, but it usually worked out best if he could ask for help and feel like he had an explanation as to why. You knew from experience that hounding him could dig up raw insecurities about worth and ability. So - you made the most of it; if Loki was going to be clingy, he could at least be useful and clingy.

“Hold these, please.” You pushed your towel and water bottle into his hand. Loki accepted them with only minor complaint, tucking them under his arm to make room for everything else you were sure to pile onto him.

Steve rattled the ropes fencing him inside the boxing ring. “Come on, soldier. Don’t keep an old man waiting.”

Loki stretched to hide his sparkling fingertips; you knew his seidr well enough by now to recognize how Steve’s shoelaces unraveled with a mind of their own.

With his arms raised like that, there was no denying Loki’s ‘growth-spurt’ – the buttons on his shirt strained to stay in their buttonholes, gaping a little across his chest. You fought back a grin, watching a young intern (definitely part of Tony’s university pipeline program) spill water down her front while admiring the pull of yet another too-small shirt. A few of her friends giggled, their faces downcast but their gazes teasing, peering up through their eyelashes every few seconds.

“What?” Loki glanced over his shoulder in the direction you were looking.

“Nothing. Some kids are staring at you, that’s all.” You honestly weren’t offended - you remembered what it was like to want Loki from afar, and you weren’t blind. You knew passersby were going to gawk and shoot him longing stares. Loki, however, seemed uncharacteristically upset. His eyes narrowed, upper lip curled slightly in dissatisfaction, and he turned back to you with his shoulders drawn taut. He hooked his fingers in the pocket of your hoodie – Loki’s hoodie, actually, since yours seemed to have mysteriously disappeared – and tugged you into his chest, pressing a firm, dry kiss to your mouth.

You blinked dazedly at him once he’d slunk back. “Is this one of those ‘obviously not interested’ moments?”

He shrugged. “Something like that.”

“People stare all the time. It’s nothing new.”

“I know.” A pretty pink blush was creeping up his cheeks, warming his pale complexion. “I just thought it pertinent to make my intentions crystal clear.” Then, after a beat- “Do you think anyone would notice if I locked the changing room doors and had my way with you?”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course they would. Now– help me up. I have a senior citizen to cream.”

If anyone was getting creamed, it was you.

You circled the boxing ring on shaky feet, watching Steve round on you with that quiet cockiness of his. He flicked his stupidly perfect bangs out of his stupidly beautiful eyes and mimed a one-two punch combo while you considered giving into the universe and letting your limbs turn to oatmeal. Bucky sat in a folding chair on the sidelines, picking your scrimmage apart with his stupidly brilliant and equally beautiful eyes.

You hated them.

Bucky picked up on details you would never have noticed – your uneven stance, the angle of your elbow when you raised your fists – and, while helpful on paper, it only served to raise your blood pressure by a few degrees. Not helped by the fact that Bucky seemed to know what moves Steve was going to make before he did, so could comment on your form before you’d even finished a move.

PAL whistled encouragement when you just barely blocked a left hook. Tony had set him in Bucky’s lap so he could watch you and Steve train. (“He’s so little. He can’t see over anything.”) At least PAL liked you, even if he was out for blood.

“I agree with the pest, darling. You should wring his neck,” Loki offered from the sidelines. He leant his head on his forearms where they were draped over the ropes, his bored expression betrayed only by the way his brow furrowed whenever Steve got too close to landing a hit.

(You were admittedly not very good at hand-to-hand combat. As a telekinetic, your fists were usually a last resort in the field.)

“This would all be so much easier if you stopped - hey! - swinging so much.” You swept the back of your hand across your eyes, hoping to clear the sweat pouring into them. “Also, has your stuff been going missing lately?”

“Kind of defeats the whole purpose of combat training.” Steve frowned, then threw his body weight into a kick to your chest, which you only barely dodged. He stumbled but quickly corrected, spinning to catch your right hook effortlessly. “But no, nothing’s gone missing lately. Well, my veggie straws have been disappearing but I buy those because Bucky insists he doesn’t like them and then sneaks them from my cupboard. Has he been breaking into yours too?”

You squirmed, planting your feet and leveraging your upper body to try and pry out of his hold. Unfortunately for you, Steve was two hundred and seventy pounds of solid steel pretending to be flesh, so you might as well have been a leaf trapped under a fourteen-wheeler. “No. My pillows keep disappearing.”

Your feet briefly left the ground when Steve lifted you by the wrists. He dumped you unceremoniously on the padded floor of the boxing ring and proceeded to loom over you, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and fatherly rage. “Someone’s been perving on you?”

You pushed yourself upright, wincing when you felt your muscles protest the movement. “I don’t know!”

“Weird. Maybe you have a secret admirer. Loki!” Steve mimed an elbow drop but pulled his weight at the last second; he rolled to the side and sprawled out, all six-feet-four-inches of him laid out next to you without having broken a sweat. “Keep an eye on your girl, ya’ hear?”

Loki visibly preened at the idea of you being his girl. You felt a whisper of seidr across your cheek, a sparkling green kiss so fleeting it could have been a trick.

Steve squinted up at him from the floor of the boxing ring. “Are you bigger?”

“You’ve gotta start throwing punches, kid.” Bucky interrupted from the sidelines. PAL bobbed his head in agreement. “Look, I was just like you. A sharp shooter–”

“I’m telekinetic.”

“My point still stands. I did all my best work from a hundred yards away. But sometimes, in the field, you’re gonna have some guy get in your space and wail on you, and I need to know you won’t just fold like a deck of cards when that happens.”

“I’m sorry I’m not built like a tank, Bucky.” You swiped the edge of your shirt over your forehead, grimacing when the already-wet material slid over your damp brow.

“I’m not saying you have to put on a hundred pounds of muscle. Just-” Bucky slipped under the rope and into your personal space, rounding on you from behind to wrap his flesh arm around your throat. His other hand shot out and circled your wrist, holding it at an awkward angle so that your muscles locked uncomfortably. “Just play dirty. If I get this close, I will kill you. So what are you going to do about it?”

You hissed, jerking under his metal hand. “Ow, Bucky, I get it–”

It took all three of you a moment to register that the noise rumbling through the air was coming from Loki. The fluorescents overhead flickered in waves, darkness ebbing and flowing from a point above Loki’s head. They buzzed and crackled unnaturally with displeasure. Bucky’s arms dropped away to put a bit of space between your bodies. Loki’s eyebrows drew tight in the middle, a scowl twisting his pretty face.

“Hey, My Chemical Mischief,” Tony yelled from across the gym. “Cool it with the dick measuring contest, will you? We get it, she’s a kept woman - I don’t think Barnes wants any of that.”

Thor laughed. Racking his barbells, he straddled his padded bench and flicked sparks of electricity from his fingertips, a strange side-effect that manifested whenever he strained himself. He taunted something to Loki in their mother tongue and the effect was instantaneous; Loki gaped at his brother, his growling cut short, and hurled something – an insult? – back.

With a few words they reduced the other to adolescents. Though none of you mortals could even hope to dissect their twisting language, it was clear that the two of them were rehashing centuries of arguments all at once.

Loki reeled back when Thor, his nose tilted to the ceiling, punctuated a sentence with a nod in your direction. “You will do nothing of the sort,” Loki snapped in English.

“Loki.” Exasperation dripped from Thor’s tone, mingling with the kind of joy that came from lecturing a younger sibling. He folded his arms and shot Loki a smarmy do-as-I-say glare. ”This is only going to end in disaster.”

Loki’s jaw snapped shut with a click. His pinched expression seemed to push Thor to hysterics. Thor goaded him on, wagging a callused finger; Loki’s hand fisted at his side as he moved to strangle his brother.

They must have been terrible pests on Asgard.

In English, Thor continued: “I have never been happier that you were adopted. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. You’re preening. ”

Loki crossed the gym in a few long strides, a veritable storm cloud brewing over his head. The air crackled, ozone heavy in the air; the difference in pressure caused the open changing room door to slam shut, as if a draft had kicked up. Tony hopped to his feet, pointing between the two brothers. “Nuh uh. You guys take it outside. I am filled with too much scrap metal for you two to be throwing thunderstorms around inside. Again. ”

Loki grabbed his brother by the scruff of his neck. Thor stumbled, still laughing, and tucked his shoulder into Loki’s chest as if to throw him over it. Loki hissed something unintelligible - Tony hollered something unrepeatable - and then the two brothers blinked out of sight in a flash of bright green.

You ran into them in the lobby on your way back from the corner store that evening. Both of them were soaking wet, their plainclothes plastered to their skin. Loki brushed by you with a stormy expression, anger rolling off of him in palpable waves; Thor followed a few feet behind, decidedly more jovial. Loki called over his shoulder: “do not say anything, Thor. I’m handling this.”

They left a trail of rainwater in their wake, their shoes squeaking across the marble floor. Thor clapped you on the shoulder as you passed and, through the widest grin you’d ever seen, said: “my darling friend – make sure you use protection.”

A flash of green sizzled across Thor’s knuckles; he yanked his hand away with a shout, raising his hand to examine a line of fresh, pink welts. Loki hissed at him; Thor cast you a sideways look, then winked. To his brother, he called: “I am always right, am I not?”

Loki snapped his fingers, calling Thor to attention like a master might call their dog to heel. Except Thor was the oldest, and had a petty streak longer than the continental United States, and his younger brother’s displeasure clearly brought him unbridled joy, so Thor slung one arm around your shoulder and gave you a squeeze, rubbing his prickly cheek against yours for good measure.

You squirmed under his arm. “Is this another Asgardian thing?”

Thor answered “no” at the same time that Loki answered “yes”.

Loki stormed back to your side and wrenched his brother away, speaking in a low tone. Fixing his brother with a scathing stare, Loki rubbed his thumb over your jaw, then rode his hand down the curve of your neck to sit on your shoulder, as if to wipe the physical evidence of his brother’s touch from your skin.

Thor sidled up behind Loki and scrubbed a hand over your cheek; Loki, hackles raised, elbowed his brother in the side, setting off a chain reaction of flying fists and snapping teeth.

Your groceries were definitely melting. “I’m gonna go. Uh, Loki, you can… You can come upstairs when you’re… done…”

Loki, who was trapped in a headlock by his older brother, nodded jerkily to you. “Of course, dear– Thor. You foul–”

You watched as your boyfriend transformed into a glossy black snake. He fell to the marble with a sad, wet slap and played dead, lolled tongue and all.

Luckily, your ice cream was mostly salvageable.

The shower was hot. Maybe a bit too hot. Steam cloyed, clouding your periphery and leaving you feeling flushed. You contemplated switching the tap a half an inch toward to the right, but then you risked overshooting and being too cold.

“I’m being called away,” Loki said by way of greeting. He was still a bit damp; his hair had just begun to curl around the ends. The steam, its attention caught by the open door, billowed around him on its escape path. “I was going to tell you earlier, but my brother had other plans.”

“Oh, that’s not fair. Close the door, please?”

“Right. Sorry.” The door slipped shut with a click. Loki hoisted himself onto your bathroom counter, his hands clasped loosely between his knees while he watched you rinse the last suds from your legs. “Believe me, darling, I don’t want to leave you, but it seems that Fury wants my head on a stake.”

“Thor, too. What was that about?”

Loki waved a hand. “Brotherly taunts. Now would you hurry up? I want to ravish you before I’m a decrepit, thank you very much.”

“Give me a minute.” You turned your back to him for a better angle under the shower head. You heard the shower door slide open – you assumed so that Loki could ogle you properly – then startled when his shadow crossed over you.

“Loki!” You shrieked, cringing when wet cotton slid over your belly as he wound his arms around your waist. “You’re fully dressed! You can’t– bad! Naughty!”

“I was already wet. Now I’m warm and wet.” He tsked, rubbing his cheek against the curve of your shoulder with an arrogance only a prince could muster. “I just couldn’t resist.”

“You’re going to regret this.”

“Truthfully, pet, I don’t think I’ve ever felt less remorse in my life.” His wet fingers fumbled with the top button on his shirt. The plastic was slippery and the buttons small, so it took more than a few tries to get the first one out; by the time he had wrenched the third free, he was cursing. “Ok,” he said around a laugh. “Maybe I’m a little remorseful. But this is your fault, let it be known.”

“My fault?”

“Yes.” Two more buttons down. Loki growled, then tore the rest of them out with a firm jerk of the button placket. They scattered, bouncing off the tile with tiny sounds, and Loki struggled to pull the sleeves off his skin. “You’re so beguiling. I’m– I can hardly tear myself away.” He threw the shirt through the open shower doors, then considered his trousers. “Oh, nevermind.” With a flick of his wrist, the last of his clothing melted away. “Why do I even bother, honestly?”

You tipped your head back against the shower wall and hummed, enjoying the simple pleasure of Loki’s nearness. He was a vision under the spray, dark hair plastered and curling over pale skin and pink lips parted, glossy with water. When his fingers crept over your hip to tease the skin under your ribs, your chest soared, the hollow space between your lungs aching ice cold.

(You loved him).

(You promised yourself you would tell him when he returned from whatever mission Fury had assigned, come hell or high water - and you almost believed it.)

When you opened your eyes, you found Loki to be looking at you with the most peculiar hunger. “What?”

“I can’t look at you?”

“I wouldn’t call that ‘looking’. I would say you’re eating me with your eyes.” You rolled your shoulders, then reached around him for the tap. “I’m starting to feel a bit dizzy. Let’s dry off and you can tell me all about why Fury is taking you away from me.”

“You mean you let me suffer through that whole ordeal for naught?”

“I didn’t ask you to climb in here fully clothed. Now– chop chop, loverboy. You’re closest to the towels.”

He left in the early morning. It seemed to take a great deal of physical effort for him to extricate himself from your bed, even greater than it did on Sunday. By the time he had slipped into his last piece of armour, his breath was short and tense, and his mouth turned down in a harsh curve.

“Are you okay, sweetheart? You don’t seem yourself.”

“I’m fine. Just don’t… Just wait for me, okay?”

You were a couple seconds behind, your brain still heavy with the early hour. “What do you mean, honey?”

Loki shook his head. He leaned his weight on the edge of the bed and curled over you, pressing a dry kiss to your cheek. “Don’t worry yourself. Go back to bed.”

“I can help–”

“I have it all under control. I’ll be back in a few days.” He said the last part like he was trying to convince himself more than he was you.

Only three days later and you were going a little stir-crazy. Maybe whatever clinginess-disease he had had rubbed off on you.

You couldn’t take it anymore – you missed your boyfriend. He had been scheduled to return that morning but another impromptu snowstorm had pushed his arrival back by a day, leaving you with an empty afternoon to putter. But once your laundry was done and your shower scrubbed, there wasn’t much left to do besides twiddle your thumbs and marathon episodes of Forensic Files.

You took the elevator to his floor and let yourself in with a spare key. Your shoulders dropped, an unregistered tension draining as you breathed in the familiar smell of Loki’s cologne and lavender incense. There was a certain comfort in the menial reminders of him – his shoes by the door, his coat on the rack. You tossed your keys on the kitchen counter. “So much for man-eating wolves.”

You half expected his fridge to be barren, considering how much time he had spent over the last week in your apartment, but you were pleasantly surprised to find it well stocked – too well stocked. Whatever occasion he was preparing for was unknown to you, but he seemed to be anticipating an apocalypse or city-wide shortage of seasonal fruits and vegetables. You helped yourself to some from a pre-cut container and shuffled toward his bedroom to take a nap.

You stopped dead in your tracks under the threshold.

“You are the pillow thief.”

Fabric was draped languorously from every surface - a stack of quilts over his desk chair, pillowcases folded neatly on his dresser. The curtains were drawn tightly, two or three panels layered on top of each other to block out as much natural light as possible. He appeared to have gathered every pillow in his apartment - and a few of yours - and piled them in a semi-circle against the headboard. A few had fallen to the wayside, at the foot of the bed or scattered across the carpet, and a great spread of throw blankets was draped across the comforter. You could just make out the corner of one of your t-shirts peeking out from his pillows.

There was a decidedly two person-sized divot in the centre of it all, like you were meant to burrow in together.

“What have you been up to, my darling boy?”

You crawled across the covers and peeled them back, layer by layer. More of your shirts tumbled out, as well as a hoodie and a cashmere scarf. It was bewildering to say the least, but not entirely out of the norm for Loki. (He once spent two weeks meticulously replacing all of your cutlery with a mismatched charity shop set, so what was a little blanket theft, really?) You just couldn’t quite put your finger on why he had chosen this prank, nor why he would bother to build a veritable nest out of his spoils.

Tired and more than a little giggly, you tucked yourself between two comforters and curled up on your side. You’d have to ask him when he got home.

(In his defense, it was really comfy).

You blinked awake to the sound of your phone vibrating. It took you a moment to find it among the layers of blankets and pillows but eventually you wrenched it free and swiped accept. “Hello?”

Loki’s voice carried through the little speaker. “Where are you? You’re not in your apartment.”

You rubbed the sleep out of your eyes. “That’s because I’m in yours.”

There was a long, drawn out silence. Then, “you’re what?”

“I’m in your apartment. Which– you have so much explaining to do.” You pushed yourself out of his bed. Through the phone, you heard FRIDAY greet him and a familiar jingle when Loki punched the button for his floor.

“I… You weren’t supposed to see that.”

You laughed. You could hear him struggling to find his keys, his anxiety palpable even through the phone. “Loki, was this some sort of prank to keep me from refusing to sleep over?”

“No, it…” His keys ground in the lock. “It was…”

You pulled the door open for him. He blinked owlishly at you, his phone pinched between his shoulder and his cheek.

“Hi,” you said, and your voice echoed through his phone.

He ended the call. “Hi.”

The two of you walked together, Loki on tentative feet while you guided him, pulling on one of his harness straps until you were through the threshold. His bag slid from his shoulder with a thud; he was still wearing his armour, which you smoothed your fingers under and began to unclasp piece by piece, setting it on the table by the door.

“Loki,” you glanced up at him through your eyelashes. “Do you want to explain the nest in your bedroom?”

His shoulders tensed. “Thor, you bastard.”

You worked one of his leather straps free, tossing it aside. “What?”

“Just - ignore this,” he said. “Go back to your apartment. I have to go kill my brother, and then burn everything I own, and then maybe I’ll be able to scrounge up the dignity to see you before sunrise.”

He made an aborted movement to turn out from your arms, but you reached out with your mind and slid the deadbolt in place before he could slip through the door. “Nuh uh. What does Thor have to do with this? Is this about your fight? I haven’t spoken to him since I ran into you two in the hall.”

“Wait.” It was your turn to face Loki’s ire, it seemed, because he whirled on you, his finger raised accusingly. “How did you know about the nesting then?”

“I was joking.” You pulled the final knife sheath free, leaving him in his leather breastplate and heavy wool trousers. “I mean, you piled all of our collective pillows into a queen-sized bed. Do you mean to tell me you’re actually nesting? Is this another Asgardian courtship thing I should know about?”

“I-” Loki looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him up whole. A familiar curl of self-consciousness had begun to spoil his expression. He turned his cheek and spit out a curse. “Nevermind.”

“Loki, please.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Fine,” you huffed. “If you tell me your secret, I’ll tell you one in return.”

If there was one thing Loki loved more than self-pity, it was being let in on a secret. His eyes bolted up from glaring a hole into the hardwood to catch yours, assessing your deal. “Do not make bets you cannot pay, darling.”

“I already have the perfect secret picked out. Explain.”

He watched you for a long time. Eventually, with a very careful, measured tone, he opened his mouth to speak. “I’ve never… Oh, this is humiliating.” Loki scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Asgardians know very little about Jotun customs. It’s… We didn’t have much need to study them, outside of battle. But it’s common knowledge that frost giants… mate for life. They pick someone to bond with and when they’re serious… In the spring… ”

“Loki,” you cooed. “Humor me.”

He groaned and slunk to his knees before you. His forehead pressed against your hip while both his hands curled around your calves to steady himself. He mumbled something unintelligible against your leg.

You ran your fingers through his hair. “What was that?”

Loki sighed. “When they find a suitable mate they try... I’m… My biology is trying to entice you to tie yourself to me. Forever.”

“So the nesting thing? And the um… the clinginess?”

He toyed with the edge of your t-shirt. “Yes. I… I get quite upset when you don’t respond favorably to my… advances .”

“I picked up on that. Wait,” you pinched the meat of his bicep. “Is this why you’re getting bigger?”

“It appears that my glamours are failing, yes.”

“So what you’re telling me is that you’re growing in some new plumage to woo me with?” You trailed your finger along a featherlight path over his jaw. Lowering your voice, you couldn’t help but tease him a little. “Are you going to sing for me next?”

A scowl twisted his expression into something mean. “You forget who you’re speaking to, mortal.”

His tone did nothing to dissuade you. So rarely were you the one with the power to tease and you intended to take advantage. “Anything else I should know?”

“Well, if I’m already speaking candidly…” It came out bitingly, Loki’s voice laced with a burning mix of self-deprecation and frustration. “I can hardly think about anything else other than bending you over every available piece of furniture and fucking you until one of us passes out.”

“Loki,” you warned as his fingers wormed their way under the waistband of your pants. “We’re finishing this conversation.”

“Later, darling.” He pushed them down an inch and pressed his mouth to your hip. “Let us at least enjoy my biology for a little while.”

“Loki.” The air crackled, seidr whispering across your skin where the two of you connected as he considered testing your resolve. You felt the phantom impression of hands around your wrists, which you shook off with a glare. “Down.”

His lip curled in displeasure but he obeyed, sitting back on his heels. “It’s infuriating. Let’s just pretend it’s not happening.”

You joined him on the floor, drawing your knees up to your chest. “What does it mean to… ‘mate’?”

Loki’s shoulders rounded and bowed; he tilted his face away from you, hiding his expression behind a wall of thick, black hair. “You just… are. You’re partners for life. A family. I’m not sure there are words in any mortal language to explain the breadth of it.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “It seems my biology has decided that you’re a good match for… that.”

“Loki…”

“I love you.” He said it so plainly, as if he was commenting on the weather. Your heartbeat turned hot and dizzy as you watched his long fingers trace the floorboard, his words rattling around in the space between your ears – I love you, I love you, I love– “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. You’re wearing my ring, and my knives, and my clothes. You smell like me–”

“Wait–”

“I built you a nest. I’m not human. Your priorities are in desperate need of reassessment if that’s the part you’re uncomfortable with.” Loki rolled his eyes, that bit of familiar petulance peeking through his foul mood. “Anyway. It makes sense that my body would choose you. That I would… would want to convince you...”

“You know you don’t have to convince me.”

Loki picked at a knot in the wood, a loathsome smile curling the corners of his mouth. “Oh, but I do.”

You couldn’t bear the distance any longer; you crawled the last couple of feet to wrap your arms around his chest. He tipped into you, pressing his cheek against your shoulder and drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. Yet, despite his pain, a part of you sang as you stroked a line down his cheek. You were loved and in love – what greater joy was there than that?

Not for the first time in your relationship, guilt welled up in your chest. Being in love with Loki felt a little like learning a new language; he was so capricious, so aloof, that you sometimes felt like you were left out of a joke when he teased you, or flirted, or sidled up to touch you. It often wasn’t until afterward that you became aware of the fact that he was being sincere, that his teasing was earnestness wrapped up in a barbed tongue.

His fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt. You might not have always understood his advances, but you would try to. For him, you would always try.

“Is there some sort of ritual involved? Do I have to cover myself in runes or something?”

He shook his head against your chest. “I think it just… happens. I’m not sure. There are very few intricacies about frost giant habits with which I’m familiar. But based on how my body is responding, I would assume it boils down to ravishing you on every surface available to me.”

You hummed. “And what will happen if we ignore it?”

Loki, turned mute by anxiety, drew a line down your arm with his knuckle. Finally, he mumbled, “I’ll be fine. I’ll just be very… sad. For the next few days.”

“Sad?”

“I know logically that you’re not, but it feels… Like you’re rejecting me.”

“And how do you want me to respond?”

He sneered again and ducked his head, dragging a hand over his face frustratedly. “I want you to bare your throat to me.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up inside of you. “What?”

The glare Loki shot you was bitterly cold. “Do not pretend that you misheard me.”

“No, no, Loki,” you reached out and twined your fingers together. “I mean, surely there’s more than that, right? You want me to do the same things for you? To- to nest? I’m not going to hunt a stag or something for you but I can definitely, like, go to the butcher and get you a prize cut.”

Loki shook his head. “I just want you to accept. To accept me .”

“And the throat…?”

“I can’t stop thinking about it.”

You ran your finger along the edge of your t-shirt, where it sat snugly against your collarbone, and watched his pupils dilate. Wordlessly you tugged on his hand, drawing it up to your neck, and placed it there loosely. “That’s it?”

His hand tightened, fingernails catching ever so gently against your skin. “You heard the part where I said that frost giants mate for life, yes?”

You nodded. “Mhmm.”

As if possessed, Loki leaned forward to nose at your pulse point. “So you understand that this… this is forever.”

“And ever and ever?”

“Brat.” His teeth scraped across your skin. “I’ve grown tired of this one-sided vulnerability. I believe you promised me a secret, pet.”

“I did.” You took a deep breath. “I love you, too.”

His fingers stilled around your throat. He seemed to not even breathe as he considered your confession. With a calculated effort, Loki peeled his hands off your neck and his voice, deep and rumbling with restraint, cut through the silence. “You should run.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Unless you want me to fuck you here on this cold, hard floor, I suggest that you run back to that pretty little nest I made you.”

A hot flush washed over you, starting in your cheeks and pooling in the pit of your belly. Loki leaned forward and sweetly kissed your collarbone, then reached up and tore your t-shirt down the middle.

“Loki!”

He smiled against your cheek. “I wasn’t joking, my love.” He sat back on his haunches and folded his hands in his lap, his gaze simmering with something molten hot. Though he moved slowly, projecting a characteristic aloofness, you could see the tendons in his neck straining as he worked against instinct to hold still. He grinned, all teeth, and jerked his chin toward his bedroom. “Run.”

You scrambled to your feet. The hardwood was slippery under your socks. You took a couple tentative steps backwards, watching the way Loki’s eyes raked over you like a butcher pulled pork. Your skin buzzed under his gaze as if you were standing under a powerline, electrified by a well of energy crackling overhead.

His control was crumbling by the second. The faucet was leaking– Tony had promised he’d have someone over within the week to fix it – and the water beading on its edge began to sizzle and pop, blinking out of existence in green bursts. The microwave display went black as Loki’s seidr overwhelmed the kitchen’s circuit breaker; the hum of the refrigerator died with it, plunging the room into an unnatural silence, so heavy that you could hear your own breath catching in your chest. Loki shifted his weight to his knees.

Your heart thrilled.

You broke in unison; you started to run at the same time that Loki sprang to his feet. A laugh bubbled up out of your chest; you reached out with your mind and swept the cushions off the couch, pelting Loki with them before he could reach you. He swore, and a tongue of emerald light crackled at your ankles, nearly tripping you. You stumbled but managed to make it over the threshold of his bedroom door. Something collided heavily with the wall behind you, followed by the sound of debris coming loose and littering the floor.

You landed with a bounce in the center of the bed, sending a cascade of pillows tumbling to the ground. Loki appeared moments later, breathing heavily and bracketing the door with his arms. He must have tripped during the chase; dust and bits of drywall covered his left arm. His irises had disappeared, carved to mere slivers by his blown pupils. Your breath caught in your chest when you noticed the line of his cock, hard and wanting, straining against his pants.

You shrugged out of your ruined shirt while Loki stalked across the small bedroom, still dressed for battle. He swatted a discarded pillow out of the air when you used your powers to raise it, then shredded another one in an eruption of light and feathers when you tried to catch him from behind. A low purr rumbled through him, melting into the hum of his seidr as it thrummed through the air.

Sensing he would tear through every scrap of fabric you managed to throw up between yourselves, you yielded slowly, tipping your chin back, drawing his attention to your throat.

Loki’s body hit the bed with a muffled thump. He crawled up the length of you on shaky limbs, pressing a grateful, sloppy kiss to your mouth before moving down to your pulse point. Burying his face there, Loki dropped his full weight on top of you. “You really should not indulge me. I might never let you leave.”

“I’ve always been terrible at saying no to you.”

He laved at a spot on your neck. His hips pinned yours against the mattress, shifting against you aimlessly as his arousal heightened. Experimentally, you pressed your leg into him; a groan tumbled from his mouth before he closed one hand around your thigh and rutted up a little more purposefully. “Love. My little love.”

Loki pushed up to his knees and pulled on the strap holding his breastplate in place. You sat up on one elbow and pinched your bra clasp with the other hand. It had only just come undone when Loki worked his hands under the band and tugged it off of you roughly. You tsked in retaliation, then pulled his armour over his head. Just as soon as it hit the floor, Loki was crawling backwards, sliding his hands down your thighs with a heavy reverence.

Your pyjama pants joined the scattered mix of armour and plainclothes on the floor. Now that you were completely bare, Loki slunk up to admire you, leaving a wet trail of kisses over your body until he reached the thin skin over your pulse. One of his hands pushed your knees apart to draw featherlight circles across your inner thighs.

You tugged on his hair, trying to convince him to lean up and kiss you properly. Loki grumbled but did not concede; his left hand slipped from between your legs and took your wrist, jamming it against the headboard before returning to run circles around your clit. When you pulled, you found your arm immobilized; a tangle of green light pinned it in place above your head.

“Rude,” you gasped. Loki smiled against your neck, dragging his chin through a trail of his own spit.

“Evil,” he agreed.

“Can you at least- at least take your pants off?”

The air shifted; when you glanced down, you were pleased to find that Loki had magically done away with the rest of his clothing, giving you an unobstructed view of his lithe body. You hummed, satisfied, and slid your free hand down his back to palm his ass.

Loki lazily drew his middle two fingers up and down your slit, toying with you in a display of casual dominance. Occasionally he would dip into you, pressing only far enough to leave you wanting before retreating to trace an intricate pattern of knots between your thighs. Despite the hard weight of him, nestled in the cradle of your hips and burning hot with desire, he seemed determined to take his time tangling with you. You rocked your hips, seeking some sort of pressure or friction, and were met with a haughty grin against your breast instead.

You babbled. You begged. The fingers between your thighs patronized you, pressing but never breaching, circling but never stroking.

Finally, though you suspected it was due to his own neediness and not the way you were pleading, he raised his head to kiss you, sliding his tongue, hot and possessive, over yours. Between the teasing pressure at your cunt and the burning weight of his cock against your hip, a desperation paced in the space between your ribs that left you aching, left you wanting. You tugged a little more firmly at your restraint. When that didn’t budge, you worked your free hand under him to run your fingers up and down the underside of his cock.

The bedside lamp buzzed and flared. Loki nipped at your bottom lip. “I’ll take away your other hand if I have to.”

And yet, despite his warning, Loki slid his fingers inside of you, a little deeper, curling slightly, and pressed at that soft spot you needed him to touch. A smug curl of delight rose in your belly, that you could make him so docile with a touch. You closed your hand around his cock and pumped him slowly, testing your sway.

“Pet,” he pleaded. “Just let me take my time with you.”

You bit back a sigh when he sat up, blinking wide cow-eyes down at you with an expression bordering on insecurity. “Please, Loki. My love.”

He choked out a whine. His eyes shut tightly for a heartbeat, eyebrows creased deeply in the middle. Your hand slipped free from the headboard – victory – but before you could really enjoy your freedom, Loki flipped you over on all fours.

“If all it took to domesticate you was a four letter word, I would have said something sooner.” One of his hands came down in a warning tap against the side of your thigh. You gasped out a laugh, turning your cheek to catch a glimpse of him. His fingers were splayed over his eyes, partially obscured by his wild hair, and his mouth had turned up in a grin, his usual cool demeanour betrayed by a giddy kind of anticipation. You pressed back against him. “Is this the part where you fuck me?”

He tugged you upwards, manhandling you onto your knees in front of him. You felt his chest mould to your back as he shuffled closer to slot his cock between your thighs, tauntingly, sliding through slick, heated skin, his cockhead bumping against your clit with every pass when his hips met the plush of your ass. “Oh, I’m not going to fuck you, darling.”

You reached between your legs to guide him inside you, but Loki snatched your hand by the wrist and held it there, so his cock glided just along your fingertips, occasionally catching at your entrance only to pull away at the last second.

“I’m going to lay claim to you. I’m going to breed you,” he panted against the shell of your ear. Your thighs clenched tight when Loki pressed the heel of your hand against the lip of your mound, applying pressure to your aching clit. “I’m going to ply you until you are limp and then I’m going to fill you until you are dripping, understand? I’m going to mark you so thoroughly that you will never be rid of me.”

He pressed even harder, rolling your hand by the wrist. His eyelashes brushed the heated skin of your cheek as he pressed his face to yours, drinking in the closeness of your body. “And when all is said and we’re sated, I’ll make love to you. And that’s a promise.”

Your eyes squeezed shut. You whimpered, your back arching into him while he worked you higher and higher. Loki murmured praise against your skin. “Okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”

He smiled against your shoulder. “Excellent.”

One of his arms hooked under your breasts, holding you up and flush against his chest. The other tilted your hips back, so you were nearly sat in his lap.

“Can you…” Loki huffed out a laugh against your skin. In a small voice he asked, “Tell me you love me again?”

There was no universe where you could deny him that. “I love you. Loki, I love you. Loki–”

Your eyes squeezed shut as he fed you his cock, inch by delicious inch, until you were fully seated against him. He swore, then growled out another stuttering laugh. A hot breath washed over the shell of your ear as he tucked his chin against your shoulder, and an experimental roll of his hips had you jolting in his arms, your toes curling when he slid over that spongy, sensitive spot inside of you.

“God,” you gasped.

He hummed in agreement, slipping his free hand between your legs to apply a firm pressure to your clit. His head rolled against your shoulder as he started a slow, teasing pace. “Pretty thing,” he cooed.

You felt his eyebrows furrow against your back. His mouth dropped open, panting hot air across your shoulder blades. Your hands shook, fisting in the bedsheets; you felt tears well behind your eyes as sensations overwhelmed you, a bit of pleasure and a bit of pain. You choked out a moan, a gasp, his name cut short.

“Loki. Please. I can’t.”

“You can,” he said against your shoulder. The hand between your legs grew a little desperate, sliding in tight circles while the rest of him worked you at his mercy up and down his cock. “You’re going to be good for me, aren’t you? My pretty little mate,” he continued. “You are, I know you are. You’re going to come for me, and then you’re going to take what I have to give you. You’re going to let your mate fill that little cunt of yours and you’re going to be grateful, hmm?”

You gasped, squeezing your eyes shut. You were teetering on the edge of a knife, a knot in your belly drawn tight but threatening to unravel at any moment. A gasp tore from your chest when Loki changed angles, pulling you down with more force while leveraging his body weight to thrust into your harder. Your head tipped back onto his shoulder and you squealed, one hand flying behind you to anchor yourself against his hip.

“Yes,” Loki gasped. “Yes, that’s it darling.”

Relief washed over you for a heartbeat, a small coil shattered as Loki worked himself into you. You rocked back against him, writhing in his iron grip. The pressure on your clit eased away for a moment before doubling down, his middle two fingers burning molten pleasure in their wake as seidr sparked over your skin from his fingertips. Chasing relief in your body, he mouthed at your shoulder a little mindlessly. Your name tumbled from his lips, a plea, for what you weren’t sure.

Small sounds were punched out of your chest with every thrust, growing in volume as he went on and your body buzzed with overstimulation.

“Please,” you begged. One of your hands curled around his forearm, gripping him tightly, while the other fisted in one of the long-forgotten pillows. “Please. Please, Loki.”

Your legs clamped shut when your orgasm finally crested. Loki swore, tumbling, stuttering to his own edge before plummeting; he tugged you down and held you there, spilling inside you with a shaky groan.

Finally, he lifted you off his lap and slid out of you. You tried to turn over in his arms, but he tipped the two of you onto your sides and held you in an iron grip against his chest. He mumbled something foreign in your ear, intercut by the occasional sigh or a press of his mouth to your sweat-slick skin.

You tried again to turn around but Loki held you still. “Give me a minute,” he panted.

You squirmed. “But I want to kiss you.”

Loki leaned over your shoulder and kissed you, his eyes squeezed shut. Hardly satisfied, you tried to hold him in place, but your exhausted limbs were no match for him; he slunk back out of sight only a moment later.

“Loki,” you whined. His arms tightened.

“I’m not… myself right now.”

Slowly, you rolled over in his arms to face him and soothed your hands up his chest. An attractive flush coloured his pale skin, spreading from the top of his stomach to the highest points of his cheeks. You picked a flake of drywall out of his hair.

His eyes were downcast, shuttered and turned away so you couldn’t see into them. “I don’t want to frighten you,” he mumbled.

You tilted his face up; his eyes had changed, the irises gone red. They weren’t quite gemstones, or cherries, or robins or cardinals. The same red as poppies, maybe. Startling against his pale skin, framed by thick, dark lashes, but so deeply endearing, swimming with emotion as they flickered back and forth over your face.

You must have been quiet too long; Loki huffed and buried his face in his pillow.

“No, wait,” you said. “Come back. Let me look at you.”

“No. I can’t bear it.”

“Stop being dramatic. Let me look at my pretty boyfriend.”

“Your pretty boyfriend is out of commission, I’m afraid.” His voice was muffled. He patted the bed until he found the comforter, which he then pulled over his head petulantly. “He can’t seem to control himself right now. He’ll come out later.”

You wormed your hands under the blanket and pulled it back from his face. Loki sighed and peered up at you from behind his pillow, his eyes barely open to slits to glare at you. You pushed a curl off his forehead, followed by a dry kiss to his cheek. “You know your eyes change colour all the time, right?”

“But the green is handsome. Intimidating,” he grumbled. “This is…”

“Gorgeous.”

“Horrifying,” he countered.

You pouted. “That’s my mate you’re talking about.”

That seemed to break the spell he’d fallen under. You felt the gentle brush of his fingers first, then the smooth slide of his hand down your side to hook around your hip. He drew you into his chest so he could press a sweet kiss to your shoulder. “Hi.”

You returned his smile. “Hi.”

“You’re really not afraid?”

You pushed a stray pillow off the bed, trying and failing to extricate one of the blankets to drape over your bodies. Loki had been right about one thing - it was freakishly cold this week, and the chill was beginning to needle your sweat-damp skin unpleasantly. “Honestly, I’m more worried about the food in your freezer going bad. You blew a fuse in there.”

“Midgardians. You have no sense of self-preservation.” Loki reached out to help tuck you in.

“Mhm… Coming from the guy whose favourite schtick is ‘pretend to grovel until you think up a better plan’.”

“That is, by definition, self-preserving.”

“Whatever. You blew a fuse. And maybe fixed the leak?”

“I also punched a hole through the wall.”

“Tony is gonna be so mad at you.” You scraped your fingernails across Loki’s scalp, drawing a deep rumble from his chest. “Ok, five more minutes and then we need to get cleaned up.”

“I think you’re mistaken, pet. We’re not leaving this bed for the rest of the week.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not risking a UTI for that.”

Loki groaned. He pulled his mouth from your neck just long enough to kiss you. “Fine. Shower?”

“Yes, but we’re just showering. I don’t want to get waterboarded like last time.”

“Of course, darling. Not in the shower.” He kissed you again, slowly this time, coaxing your lips apart with a thumb on your jaw. When he finally pulled away it was with a hiss and a sticky, wet sound. “Although I do intend to bend you over the sink so you can watch yourself fall apart first.”

“Oh?”

His red eyes found yours. They narrowed, sparkling with mirth, as he gathered you up in his arms. “Tell me again,” he purred, “how much you love me. I might just have mercy.”

You did.

He didn’t.

Not that you minded.

#loki x reader #loki x y/n #loki smut #loki x you #loki fanfic #loki x female reader

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etherealperrie · 2 years ago

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Anywhere With You

Chapter 1: "it's time to go"

Coriolanus (Coryo) Snow x Reader Word count: 2.4k Contains: pre-hunger games Coryo | longtime friends to lovers | Coriolanus being soft for the one he loves | mentions of minor tbosas characters | immense amounts of fluff and comfort | slight tbosas spoilers (but not really)

Want More? Chapter 2

“The Plinth Prize is no longer.” Dean Highbottom’s voice echoes through the stadium of students, the weight of his words settling amongst the first three rows of Academy standouts. Gasps and whispers fill the crowd, the hair on the back of your neck standing at attention, the buzz of others’ words sending chills down your spine. You don’t dare look at Coriolanus, instead letting your eyes fall shut.

“You’ll face one more test to prove your worth,” the Dean continues, making his way up to the podium at the front of the hall. “After all, you are our most promising students. This is in your DNA.”

Swallowing hard, you force your eyes open, a sick feeling reeling in your stomach. This was supposed to be the end. This was supposed to be the start of your summer with Coriolanus – the time before University. The day that was supposed to change both of your lives for the better.

Murmurs fill the quiet space in between Dean Highbottom’s dramatic pause, stopping not only to drag out this horrific explanation but to soothe himself with a bottle of morphling. You’d never once wished to try the drug, but today, with your vision of the future thinning before your eyes, you’d gladly share the vile with him.

The feeling of skin brushing against yours turns your attention from the front of the room to the chair next to you. Coriolanus. You can’t hold back anymore. You didn’t care who saw, or what they thought. You watch his jaw twitch, his eyes still facing forward as his hand grasps yours, his thumb pressing slow, gentle circles into your skin. He’s holding it in. Another hurdle yet for him to surpass. When you squeeze his hand in return, an involuntary response, he lets out a shaky breath, his eyes flickering to you for only a moment.

Coryo.

Not Coriolanus Snow. Just your Coryo for that moment.

The eyes of your fellow classmates burn at the back of your neck. They all knew Coriolanus was meant for that prize. Top student with stellar marks, after all. Only you knew, though, how badly he needed it. How badly Tigris needed it. The Grandma’am. You, too. This day was supposed to change everything.

Indeed it had.

“On this day of the 10th annual Reaping for the Hunger Games, you all are no longer students, but mentors.” Dean Highbottom continues speaking, pulling you from your own head. Coriolanus shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his free hand tugging at the collar of his shirt. A shirt he’d nearly outgrown, even with Tigris’ adjustments. His other hand never releases yours, his thumb continuing to trace up and down your skin, working to calm you. In any other circumstance it might have worked.

“Each of you will be paired with a tribute from the districts and act their mentor leading up to and throughout the Games.”

“For what purpose?” you ask. The question leaves your lips before you have a chance to even think. Before you have a chance to consider the consequences. What harm could an innocent question have? It was innocent, of course. A student simply inquiring about the new assignment. Certainly nothing more. Most definitely not an imposition of the justness of withholding the Plinth Prize and meddling in “game” that was nearing its natural end. No one in the Capitol had watched the games in years, they were savage. Inhumane. Disconnected from the current state of affairs; the war had been over for years.

Deep, dark laughter fills the room, an unfamiliar voice echoing off the walls. Chills crawl up your spine, a shive running through your body. Everyone's heads whip around, a tall figure entering the auditorium. She slithers down the aisle towards the podium, stopping just in front of your chair. You slip your hand out of Coriolanus’, but he refuses to let go now more than ever. His grasp tightens on you and you notice him shift forward in his seat. It’s now your turn to soothe him, running your thumb over his.

“For what purpose?” the woman before you mimics. You swallow, noting her duochromatic eyes. Her makeup is severe, her hair frazzled, her hands draped in bright red latex gloves. The faint sound of hissing grows louder as she takes another step forward. A snake is wrapped delicately around her wrist, flicking its tongue, slithering over the shiny material. “My dear, remind me. What are the Hunger Games for?” She speaks softly, but in the silent room, her words are clear to all.

“I– well, they’re to –”

The woman shakes her head, clicking her tongue. “You see? We’ve already forgotten.” She turns to Coriolanus, a smile spreading over her lips. “Mr. Snow,” she says. “Why don’t you remind your –” her gaze drops to your intertwined hands, “classmate what the Hunger Games are for.”

Coriolanus shakes his head, looking at you then back to the woman. You weren’t sure who she was, but she knew Coryo. But then again, that came with the territory of being a Snow. He could never escape the history and prowess of his father, no matter how hard he tried. And believe you, he’d tried.

“You tell us they’re to punish the districts for the war.”

“Precisely, Mr. Snow. We all seem to have forgotten what this all is for. And that is where each of you come in.”

“Ah, Dr. Gaul, thank you for providing that insight,” Dean Highbottom interrupts, turning the attention back to the center of the room where the woman – Dr. Gaul – sulks away to join him. Coriolanus leans back in his seat, his breathing heavy. He releases your hand and leans in to place his hand on your thigh. The feeling of his warm palm through the fabric of your uniform lets you take your first deep breath since arriving.

He’s with you.

The remainder of the day goes by in a blur. When you emerge from the Academy, the afternoon sun is beginning to set. You, Coriolanus, and your classmates had each been assigned a tribute. A tribute to make a spectacle of. A tribute to use then sacrifice into the slaughter in order to obtain some prize. It made your stomach turn, the idea of being forced to take the small boy you’d been ‘given’ and parade him around only to send him to his death. A small boy no more than thirteen. A boy you were meant to despise simply because he’s district. But this boy, nor any of the tributes – especially the small girl assigned to Coriolanus – had seen the war, they hadn’t caused it. They were collateral in the Capitol’s game of control. Control they garnered with false promises of the prize. A prize that neither you nor Coryo thought actually existed.

“Who’s to say they don’t dangle it in front of us again?” you ask later that night, standing beside Coryo at the sink while he washed out the pot of potatoes and cabbage Tigris cooked. “That they don’t give us another assignment – another hurdle – to obtain the prize. Just to use us for their bidding?”

You slide behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist. He sighs, setting down the pot and turning to be face to face with you. His hands wander around your waist, pulling you tighter to him.

“Those poor kids are going to die for nothing, Coryo. And we’re to blame,” you cry, resting your head on his chest. He takes a deep breath and presses a kiss to the top of your head. You fit into him so perfectly. The steady, rhythmic beat of his heart in your ears grounds you, tethering you to the moment.

“It’s not your fault,” he whispers. “Dr. Gaul is clearly mad. The way she taunted you?” He pauses, sucking in a breath. There’s a few beats of silence before he speaks again. “I don’t know what she’s capable of, but if she’d have laid a hand on you, I-”

You lift your head to look up at him and lift your hands to place one on each side of his face. His eyes, a blue so clear you can see right into his soul, meet yours.

“I know, Coryo, I know.”

“We have to get out of here,” Coriolanus says. His gaze still holds yours, his demeanor serious.

Your brow furrows. “Get out of where? The Capitol? Coryo, where would we go?”

“Sejanus talks of a place up North, somewhere off the grid where nomads persist.”

“You can’t be serious,” you say, letting your hands fall from his face.

You wanted out. You’d heard rumors of this place up North too, but assumed it was fictitious – maybe a story the districts orchestrated to provide some hope after the war. You’d been taught to be grateful for a life in the Capitol, after all, your name would never be reaped. But the longer you spent here and the older you grew, the more the story of the Capitol and its protection seemed to fall apart. Today had been further proof. Putting the lives of district children in the hands of Capitol children for the sick purpose of entertainment and control.

Coryo turns his head to look out the floor to ceiling windows of the Snow penthouse. Coriolanus had many thoughts about his home, not all of them poignant and kind. He hated the way his home had crumbled throughout the war. Sure, it wasn’t as luxurious as it had once been, but you had an unspoken appreciation for it, knowing that everything within these walls shaped him into the Coryo you loved.

“If we go back to the Academy tomorrow, we’ll never escape. I have a sinking feeling about this game, love. I don’t want Gaul and her creatures hurting you and who’s Dean Highbottom to miss either of us? The miserable bastard will be three morphlings gone by the time the games begin.”

“What about Tigris? The Grandma’am? What about my family?”

Coriolanus sighs. “I’ll make arrangements with Pluribus tonight, he’s always done well to take care of us before.” Coryo reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, taking a pause to caress the side of your face. “And I’ll go wherever you go. If you want to stay, I’ll remain here with you. Whatever you decide, I’ll be there to protect you. This,” he whispers, running his thumb over your bottom lip, “is the most important thing to me.”

When your eyes meet his, the defense falls away. He sometimes wished you didn’t have such an effect on him. He never struggles keeping things in, or keeping the world out of his head. But with you – those eyes – he couldn’t hide. He’s grateful for it, really, before you he’d never had a soft place to land. But now, with your hands caressing him, he knows he’s found it.

You could imagine it. The thing you’ve always wanted, a life with Coryo. A life without the influence and ever-looming threat of the Capitol. Of their control, of the stress of finding a way to the top. Coryo wanted the same thing, a life with you. A life where you two were free to be whomever you wanted; a simple life where you could eat what you wanted, when you wanted, and spend your days lying with one another and living amongst others peacefully the way you imagined you would when the war first ended.

“I can’t go back there, Coryo.”

“Then tomorrow morning, we’ll go.” He says it so matter of factly. As if it’s all going to be okay. You choose to believe him and sink into the strength of his chest, wrapping yourself around him tightly. He chuckles, bringing some levity to the decision the two of you just made. “Why don’t we bask in one last hot shower, hm?”

You follow him down the hallway to the bathroom, his foot kicking the door shut in one swift movement. He reaches into the deep green tiled shower and turns on the water, running his hand under to test the temperature. You’re out of your clothes within seconds, eager to shed the identity of the Academy. Coryo does the same, eyeing you with a grin as you step past him and into the shower. He’s so himself here, stripped before you, not carrying the weight of the day, letting it all wash away from him as he ducks beneath the water, dampening his curls.

Without thought, your hand is in his hair, pushing the light blonde strands away from his face, those piercing blue eyes wandering every inch of you. He breathes into your touch, his hands following his gaze, mapping every inch of your body as if committing it further to memory. They say it’s the things we love most that destroy us and – god – he was certain you destroyed the parts of himself that he sometimes feared. With you, he was just Coryo. Your Coryo. And starting tomorrow you could be each others forever.

The warmth of the water combined with the feeling of his skin pressed against yours is heavenly. The steam rises, fogging up the glass as you tip your head back to dampen your hair. Your eyes fall shut, letting the water run down your body. Your body awakens when Coryo’s lips meet your neck, peppering kisses up your jawline until eventually, his hands are tangled in the ends of your hair, lifting your head back to meet him. Sighing, your body alight with warmth and desire, Coryo presses his lips to yours. There’s a quiet moan that you can’t make out as distinctly his or yours, but a shared expression of your feelings.

Something about this being the last night with life as you’d known it changes the kiss. There’s no hesitation, but no urgency either, your bodies intertwining in a way they haven’t before. As if there was nothing and nowhere else that mattered. You’re typically both so consumed with academy assignments, or house work, or recovering from whatever the day brought you. But tonight, with tomorrow on the horizon, it was simply you and Coryo.

#etherealperrie #my writings #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #TBOSAS #TBOSAS fic #Coriolanus snow #Coriolanus snow x reader #Coryo snow #Coryo snow x reader #Tigris snow #the hunger games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes fanfiction #tbosas fanfic #Coriolanus snow imagine #Coriolanus snow fic #Coryo snow fic #tom blyth #sejanus plinth

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stuckinmymind22 · 6 months ago

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zoro x gn! reader

wc: 663

this is the first part of a series "you're in love with me" where you realize that they are in love with you can call them out on it

thanks for voting on this one, i had fun with it, sorry it took so long, i got busy with the holidays, but it’s here now 💕

ace's is done and will be up probably tomorrow and i'm gonna start on sanjis, but lmk if you are interested in any other characters

mildly proof read lol

this goes one of two ways, in both you're being called stupid, both included

it's a chose your own adventure babe!

zoro has been acting strange recently- he was almost too quick to come to your aid, even if it was something you both knew you could handle alone. he’s also been making sure that you eat. recently he brought up a plate for you when you were on duty in the crow’s nest. sure, the tips of his ears and the apples of his cheeks were tinted pink, but that was easy to write off as a consequence of the alcohol that was surely in his veins. but he didn’t leave right away like you thought he would, he stood on the ladder without moving until he saw you take your first bite. on the last island there had been a miscalculation in your provisions and the ship was running dangerously low on alcohol. there was no doubt that the crew was going to run dry shy of meeting their next destination, which was a bigger deal to some of the straw hats than others. it all brings you to the moment he offers you a sip of the last bottle of sake. you’re speechless. you always thought that hell sure would freeze over before he shared his booze and here he is willingly offering you some. you’re trying to figure out what was going on in his head, why he has been acting so strange, then it hits you. “you’re in love with me.”

denial is a river in egypt

“did you hit your head or sum?” he asks, trying to remain as impartial as possible, but you didn’t miss how he nearly choked at your words. “no, zo, this makes sense,” you say connecting the dots, "you've been acting real weird about me recently, this explains it." you aren’t about to back down from this, not after you wanted this for so long, not until he admits it to himself. “you’re being an idiot,” he rolls his eyes, “do you want some or not?” with a smile you grab the bottle out of his hand and take a swig, sitting down next to him. “i don’t mind you know,” you say taking another sip, “that you love me that is” zoro is confused why he is so drawn to the dangerous smile that plays on your lips. he shakes himself out of it snatching back the bottle and taking a long gulp. you get pulled away by luffy wanting something, but he still feels your presence. little do you know how those words haunt him for the rest of the night. fuck, you might be right

he's down bad and he knows it

“n-no I’m not,” zoro sputters, his face alight, “are you stupid or something?” “no, no, this is why you’ve been acting strange,” you say, the weight of your revelation still sinking in. “that’s why you haven’t let me out of your sight for the past week, right?” you don’t give him time to respond (not that he would be able to formulate a coherent response anyway). you continue listing all of his abnormal behaviors and fail to notice how his face grows redder with your every word. poor zoro is sinking into his seat hoping to disappear he’s so uncomfortable. he’s certain that he messed everything up and has no idea what to do now. he knows that you’re right of course, it’s kept him up at night, kept him from his precious naps. it took him a while to realize why you never left his mind, and the determining factor came from the fucking cook spewing some bullshit to a pretty woman on the last island. just when he is certain that he ruined whatever relationship you could ever have you turn to him with a big smile. “it’s a good thing you are though, or else this would be awkward,” you tell him, before he can even think to question what you mean your lips are on his and his brain malfunctions. maybe it’ll be alright.

masterlist

#gn reader #one piece headcanons #zoro headcanons #zoro x reader #zoro x you #zoro roronoa x reader #zoro roronoa x you #one piece x reader #one piece x you #canon post

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queercoshon · 20 days ago

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Here's the full thing. I do plan on making 2 other versions of this, one of them more feedism-oriented. This one is purely intox, and the first time I've done so, so please let me know what you think!

Friday night is when you can revert back to your true nature.

And that is a drunk hedon.

You spend all week primmed up and put together, managing the responsibilities of a job, a household, a social life. You're relied on to make decisions, to follow them through, and subsequently handle any consequences that may arise.

But after your first toke and shot of the weekend, none of it is your problem. You feel the tension unwind from your shoulders, your back slouch a little more into the couch, and your pinned up smile melt into a real one. Now you can let go.

You could put on the tv, or listen to music and make art, or just scroll the internet, and let your desires take over.

You take a hit of your joint, sipping your first drink of the night between inhales. The smell of smoke wafts away along with the day's worries. The drink is chugged back to time it with the last embers burning out.

The high starts to screw your smile sideways, and you quickly take down another drink. Now is when the fun challenge of the weekend begins; get fucked up as quickly as possible but delay passing out as long as possible.

You feel the alcohol start to spread warmth from your stomach up to your cheeks, but it's not working fast enough, so naturally you need a shot. And maybe another, just in case.

You set up your space with easy access to your bong, edibles, a case of cans (24 pack; you've learned a 6 pack won't get you to 8pm), the still mostly-full bottle of vodka, and any other essentials like snacks and water.

You set up your movie and pull up its drinking game rules, and crack another can.

You drink more than the rules dictate, and open another one fifteen minutes in. An edible ends up in your mouth. That'll be a nice surprise in about half an hour.

As you watch you feel your mind start to get fuzzy. The lights of the tv are a little softer, the jokes a little funnier, the couch a little comfier. High energy thoughts can't even enter your brain, so they can't nag at the back of your mind and dampen this evening.

Close to the end of the movie your first bout of hiccups wracks your body, making you hold your belly and giggle. You've made a tradition now where as soon as the first hiccups stop, you take another shot. This "shot" is you chugging from the vodka bottle, going until the burn in your throat is too much.

Finding the remote to put the next movie on is hard, and so is operating the buttons, but you have lots of practice now and get it with little issue.

There's a drinking game for this movie too, but it's a lot harder to remember the rules and sometimes remember that you're playing. Don't worry, you're still drinking at a steady pace. Such a steady pace that halfway through the second movie you start to question what the hell is happening (you've seen this movie a few times already.) You giggle as you try to follow the plot, and you giggle as your body fights gravity trying to reach the bong.

Several rips later you lay melted into the couch, red eyes staring at the flickering tv. You think your mouth is dry from cottonmouth, but you've also been sitting there slack jawed and drooling just a bit. Alternating between your water and beer is remedying it, but it's also blurring your vision and sending heat to every extremity.

How long has the movie been finished? The screen has been recommending what to watch next for a while, but you've just clued in on that. Time to move on to something else.

The cans littered on the couch clank as you shift your body to get up, rocking up and nearly tumbling onto the coffee table.

Whoaaa, everything is swaying, like being on a cruise ship in choppy water. Miraculously, you bend over and pick up the half empty beer case without ending up on the floor. You put the vodka bottle in the box as well, having enough mind to keep one hand free to catch your falls.

One step, two steps, a little stumble to the side and back. The bedroom feels so far away. A particularly dangerous wobble makes you hug the hallway wall, using your shoulder to guide your melting body.

You make a quick stop to the bathroom and as you wash your hands you get a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your eyes are bloodshot, but it's hard to see that as your eyelids droop, adding to the doped up look of your screwed smile. Your mirage sways because you do, the act of standing still far too complicated a task to manage.

Walking isn't any easier, but you make it to your bedroom without incident. You turn on some fairy lights and some music and lay next to the beer case in bed. Everything swaying gives the comforting inertia of laying in a hammock being rocked by the breeze. Breathing comes easy as you fully relax, only able to feel the dull fuzziness of intoxication.

You want more. So you sit up just enough not to choke as you drink and brink the vodka to your lips. That burns feels like pleasure now, and the shudders that traverse your body when you finish spur you on to drink more.

You scroll online lazily and admire everyone else getting wrecked tonight. A bold competitiveness rises up in you, determined to stay ahead of the others. You sit up more so you can feel the effects of the alcohol more, and it doesn't take long before you start to careen sideways, booze zapping all ability to stay upright.

Someone challenges you to walk to the other side of your room and back, and to chug vodka halfway through, if you make it that far.

Your legs tangle as you try to roll off the bed, but you manage to land on your feet. And then your butt as you fall back onto the bed. Attempt two gets you up, but you nearly topple over when you lean to pick up the bottle.

The world is a tilting balancing beam, and you're sure you're going slide off sizeways. You stumble sideways, back and forth, so much that you easily double the amount of steps it would have taken to get there in a straight line.

The wall meets your shoulder unceremoniously, and you lean on it like your life depends on it. Your balance certainly does; there's no way you're freestanding anymore.

The burn of vodka is triumphant, as is the spittle connecting between the neck of the bottle and your poisoned lips, as is your first step back towards the bed.

The second step is where you falter. No longer do you have the support of the wall, so your body quickly accepts help from the floor. Luckily you don't buy good vodka in glass, so the plastic bottle bounces harmlessly away.

Crumpled and dumb, you lay there giggling and wiggling, the pleasure of being so drunk and out of control brushing over your skin. Reaching for the bottle takes a few tries between your compromised folded position and your heavy disobeying arm, but you manage and tip it back, getting most in your mouth, but a good amount dribbles down your cheek and chin.

Hic! Your body jerks from the sudden spasm, limbs following through with the last of the twitch. Hic!

You try to roll over, but you can't even move you head and keep your eyes open at the same time. Gravity pins your shoulders back, forbidding enough momentum to get to your side.

So you just lay there, an entire bottle of vodka and countless beers pulsing through your veins and the power of joints, edibles, and the bong clouding your stalling brain. You don't need to think, you just need to feel.

You feel your head loll side to side, giggling as the world shifts. You feel your diaphragm hitch with every pesky hiccup and the contents of your stomach slosh with every involuntary movement. Most of all, you feel heat wash over your body in crashing waves, soaking your mind in nothing but pleasure, sending sensitive tingles down your spine, and a lusting desire for more.

Your beer is on the bed, and your toys are in the drawer beside it. Getting there might actually be impossible. For now, at least.

Conciousness starts to slip away from you, and you make a promise to yourself to move once you come to. You'll still be drunk as a skunk and unable to walk, but you might be able to crawl by then. Then you can get a head start on your Saturday activities.

You're so out of control that you're passing out on your floor, unable to move the few feet to your bed. Hedonistically sloshed for pleasure, but so fucked up that you can't do anything after the build up. Moans spill out of you as you try to squirm, just making yourself frustratingly more turned on.

But those moans quickly silence, because your debauchery has finally completely taken you over, leaving you passed out on the hard floor, drool dripping from your gaping mouth, eyes rolled back, and despite your state, arm reaching towards what should have been your next drink. What will be your next drink. When you're sober enough to move, but not enough to think.

There's no need to think.

#queer int0x #alcohol int0x #weed int0x #w33d int0x #int0x story #drunk story #drunk belly

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untolduttering · 6 months ago

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What Would I Do Without You?

Summary: You struggle with your emotions immensely, bottling them up and worried about being a burden. This has negative consequences, as it usually does, and it causes you to snap at Sanji.

Tags: Sanji x gn!reader, established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort, self-loathing, reader is bad at feelings

Word Count: 4.8k

You were getting quite tired of the predictability of the human body and the human mind. There was a routine here, one you couldn’t break, and whose existence made everything all the more rotten. Small things would smart—dropping an apple as you helped bring the groceries onto the ship, a rope snapping as you tried to tie down a sail—and when that little hurt happened, it stacked itself on top of the previous one. It grew higher, the tightness in your chest winding and winding, the ache in your teeth growing as they clenched harder and harder. Until one more small thing made it all topple. And then your lip was curling and your teeth were snapping, all without your permission. You hadn’t even noticed the size of the stack and the weight it was causing until your own shame made you look back at it. The big thing now sitting exposed, having been hidden by the smaller things, and now faced with it, made you start running all over again. Ignoring it and pushing it somewhere else.

Yes, it was quite an exhausting and rotten routine. But an animal you were, and habits die hard, and so you started it from the top.

It was your worst trait, but thankfully one that didn’t show itself all too often. On the Sunny, surrounded by such an understanding and loving crew, it was difficult for any sort of anger or hard feelings to linger. There was bickering and fighting, mostly playful, that created a loose and welcoming atmosphere. Darker thoughts didn’t sit at the forefront. But maybe that’s what made them so dangerous at times. You let them stay passive, and that’s how they sink their claws in.

Luffy did not invite people into the crew based solely on their usefulness. He sometimes had a position in mind, but more times than not, it wasn’t even something that crossed his mind. His requirements were of a different caliber, some of it could be pinpointed, other aspects eluded the rest of you. Being on the crew meant you were family, and family did not care whether someone was useful or not, they simply loved you for you.

You, no matter how much you believed in that fact, always fancied yourself the exception because it was difficult not to. Luffy had a knack for choosing the exceptional, the absolute best. Each member on the crew was so unbelievably good at their one thing that they surpassed every other existing person who did it. And for most, being the best wasn’t even their dream, it just seemed to be the natural spot for them. You didn’t want to disregard all their efforts and hard work—it wasn’t easy for them to reach this point—but damn was it difficult to not think they were born for this. And you were born for nothing, it seemed.

It’s not that you were a hindrance. Anything that had been asked of you got done and adequately so. But that was the thing. Adequately so. Everything you did was so terribly average. You maintained what was already in place, never making something new or helpful. And they could all maintain the ship just fine, your hands were just another pair, ones that weren’t crucial. Ones that didn’t do anything special.

Their lack made you want to help more, in any way that you could. You’d lean over Nami’s shoulder, enamored by the charts and maps that she’d made. You’d stand on tip toes to get a look at whatever it was that Franky was working on. Person to person, you offered yourself. And sometimes they accepted it, and other times they didn’t. And both circumstances only served to highlight your uselessness. Too many hands in a kitchen could make for messy work if they didn’t know exactly, to the minute detail, what they were doing. It may take longer for one person to create a new sort of bullet, but too many muddled the process, and an unskilled hand making a mistake forced the other to halt their progress and fix yours. So you knew that when your help was accepted, it was because the task wasn’t all too crucial. It was something anyone could do, and if you made a mistake, it was one that didn’t matter all that much.

So that stack started as an itch until it became a sharper point over time. Every unintentional rebuff that had to be ignored because there was no insult behind it, simply fact, and no one could be faulted for that hurt. And worse, you feared if you ever brought it up, it would only make you seem too sensitive, more difficult, and someone to work around. That thought always made you burn the most, the fear that your own insecurities might tear down all that had been built and create an insurmountable rift between you and those you cared for most.

No, no, you could deal with the routine. Push it all down and find a way to keep your mouth muzzled. If only it were that simple. If only you could predict your anger that well.

As well as you thought that you hid it, Sanji had a chef’s nose, and could sniff out even the slightest shift in your mood. It was equal parts endearing and terrifying, because not even you felt it at times, and he’d know before you did. The most difficult part was telling him what was wrong. Your brain was a whirlwind of doubt when it came to your self-worth, and so even the smallest of confessions felt detrimental. What could this admittance change? What would change? Something always shifted when someone spoke out loud, and sometimes it was hard to discern just what that change would be. And it was worse when your guess was wrong, and you were either left to choose between accepting the misconstrued opinion of you and allowing yourself to be viewed incorrectly, or desperately trying to explain yourself and potentially dig a deeper hole.

So more times than not, you chose to pretend, and assured him everything was fine. And that slight bit of disappointment in his face always made that tear inside you rend deeper. It felt like telling him was just as doomed as not telling him. It felt like you were always going to fail him.

Which made it so much worse when it was his small action that made the tower crumble, and your teeth sink into him.

It had been a long two weeks at sea. The days moved slowly, each one copying the last, its consistency like the ticks on a clock. All meals were shared like usual, the conversations and close quarters creating a blanket of warmth and familiarity. You leaned into the voices swirling around you, or avidly answered someone’s question, all while playing with Sanji’s hand or the chain he wore on his waistband. It was the time in between those moments that usually turned dreadful. You had hobbies you enjoyed, reading in the aquarium for hours at a time or enjoying the sun as you drew. Sometimes you spent that time in the company of another; reading as Sanji toyed with recipes or as Nami worked at her charts. Letting the sounds of Franky hammering away lull you or the music from Brook wrap around you. Practicing with your blades to the sound of Zoro’s breathing and weights clacking. But even the comfort of that shared space would eat away at you because they were always doing something useful, creating or studying or finding. While you were just there. Sometimes you wanted to talk, bored by what you had for your entertainment but they needed to focus, and so you would set out to walk around. Again.

You felt like a ghost, wandering the ship, exploring the same whorls on planks of wood and counting the same fish in the aquarium, waiting for someone to go on break and bring you back into existence.

Sanji was your most stable rock. He’d hunt you down and bring you in from your drifting, asking for you to join him in the kitchen, or on the deck, or in his bed. Whatever he thought would bring you from the depths of your mind the best. He’d brush his fingers down your face, and further ask what was bothering you. But the right words never came to mind, nor the want to burden him, and so you’d just say you were taking a walk, that was all. And it wasn’t always as effective as you wished.

The call of land sighted brought new energy into you. Some time on different ground would bring a welcomed distraction. You hoped for one with a bustling city, or at least a quaint little town, but fate liked to toy with you at times, and instead it was an uninhabited forest. You’d take what you could, though. Adventuring through the lush landscape could still be nice; the forest looked beautiful from the ship. You disembarked as soon as the plank had dropped, eager to move your legs through unfamiliar territory. From behind, you heard Sanji call out to you. “Wait for me, my dear!”

You slowed your steps until he was by your side. He brought your hand to his mouth and added, “Wouldn’t want anything terrible to happen to my darling angel.”

His words grated along your spine. Usually, they would have you blushing and smiling, his mouth on your skin electric. But maybe you hadn’t slept enough or eaten enough, because this time they set your teeth on edge. Did he think you couldn’t take care of yourself? So useless, so untalented with the blades strapped to your body, that he had to babysit you? You swallowed it all down and forced a smile. “Of course not.”

Further in, your laces caught on a stick, which caused you to stumble, barely even a misstep really, but Sanji caught you anyway, slipping his arm around your waist without missing a beat. A warm gesture made sour by your mood, and you didn’t hesitate to pull away from him, mumbling your thanks as you did. You could walk just fine for fucks sake.

Since you were ahead of him now, you missed the way his face fell, the way his eyebrows twisted up in confusion. You continued on, however, pointing out something in the trees like everything was fine.

He didn’t try to touch you again, and you thought you could feel his hesitance to do so. He still walked close to you just in case—he was always incapable of keeping himself away from you—but didn’t say anything himself.

It was an odd and uncomfortable silence that followed, one that you weren’t used to having with Sanji. It wasn’t as though you spent all of your time talking; you would sit in a companionable quiet often, as you each worked at your own respective tasks. But this one was charged, and you already felt the hollow pit in your stomach growing. There wasn’t anything you felt you could do about it, however, as the burn of anger was just a little stronger.

As you forged ahead, you caught an odd sound in the air. A sort of soft thump that had lasted but a second. You paused, wondering if you really had heard anything at all, when a rustle of leaves followed. It did not come from behind you, where Sanji trudged along, but instead to your left. You drifted your hand to the knife strapped to your thigh, ghosting your fingertips along the handle while considering the foliage. Another rustle.

Sanji saw your stance and asked, “My dear?”

A flash of white and suddenly a mouthful of fangs was lurching towards you. You whipped your knife out, blade facing down and sharp side outwards, ready to slice at the throat that sat nicely at arm level. Sanji, however, had always been faster; his leg striking out, foot connecting with a loud crack to it’s skull. It’s head snapped to the side and fell with a thud to the ground. His arms were wrapped around you an instant after, pulling you close to him as well as away from the body. It had been a mountain lion.

“Are you alright, my love?” he asked. He tried to cup the back of your head so that he could look you in the face, but you stubbornly stared at the ground instead.

“I had it,” you said.

“I’m sorry?”

“I fucking had it,” you repeated. You planted two hands to his chest and shoved, hard. Once separated, you took a few more steps back to increase the distance.

“Oh,” a pause. “Well, I just, I wanted to make sure nothing bad happened. And it would have been so unfortunate for you to get blood on your nice clothes!”

“Because I can’t handle myself.”

Sanji’s face blanched. “No! No, I’m sure you can, I just—”

“You think I’m useless. ‘I’m sure you can.’ Don’t fucking mock me,” you hissed.

“That’s not at all—”

“No. You all think it. I see it, I can feel it. I simply don’t compare. I drag you all down. Have to stop whatever the fuck you’re doing to save me from that.” You flung a hand out towards the cooling corpse. You paced around, refusing to look at him and see what effect your words might be having. “Cause I’ll just make a goddamn mess of it, won’t I?”

Your limbs started to shake as you spoke, your throat getting tighter and tighter. You balled your hands into fists, nails brutally digging into your skin. Your chest heaved from your panting. A sudden need to hide, to run, filled you. You couldn’t stand to have Sanji looking at you. His gaze was burning, making you writhe in panic and shame.

“Y/n,” he said, taking a step towards you.

“Go away. Go make lunch or whatever.” Your breath hitched at the last word, a sniffle sneaking its way through. You bit down on your lip, furious with your body for betraying you. “Just fuck off.”

You stormed off before he could say anything back. Sticks and branches whipped across the exposed parts of your skin as you hurried your way through. You needed to move, to not think, to try and get rid of the awful feeling curdling your insides. Sanji did not follow, and it may have been what you wanted. You weren’t sure. It would have been worse and made it better if he had. You shook your head, you didn’t know what you wanted at all.

You eventually stopped at a fallen log and plopped down onto it. You buried your face in your hands and an unbidden sob tore up and out. You choked on the feeling, unprepared, and the one that followed hurt your throat just as badly.

What on earth was wrong with you? How could you have said that to him and shoved him like that? The disgust you felt with yourself was palpable. He did not deserve a single one of those harsh words, but you had thrown them at him anyway. It wasn’t even his fault but you treated it like it had been. He’d just been the closest target when it all suddenly snapped, and you had been gross enough to tear into him.

It was a long while before your sobbing ceased, leaving you spent and boneless. You thought of how you should probably make your way back, but still didn’t move. Your shame kept you rooted to the spot. You let your feelings get to you, and now you've ruined it all.

It was only when the shadows had started to grow longer and longer—when the bare spot on the log from your picking off the bark was just a little too large—that you decided you needed to go back. The warmth had left the forest and the sky was turning from that clear blue to a lighter purple. It wasn’t doing you any good to sit here, and it especially wouldn’t to do so all night. You picked your way back, wary of any errant roots or rustling leaves.

——

You slipped your way into the kitchen and stood in front of the door for a moment, simply watching Sanji as he moved. The dining room was dark—the only light coming from the kitchen—leaving you plenty of time to sulk in the darkness. He glowed under the warm, yellow hue as he cleaned, wiping down the counters after moving all the plates to the sink. A cigarette hung loosely from his lips, and you could see the growing stack in his ashtray that sat at the edge of the counter. Your stomach twisted, knowing you were at fault for all of them. Your heart hurt even more when he finally stopped in front of the sink, his hands clinging to the edge and his shoulders dropping, and let out a long sigh.

You walked up to the counter and settled yourself on the seat. You kept your head hung low in shame, and so you missed the way Sanji nearly jumped out of his skin.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” you apologized before he could say anything. “I know that none of what I… accused you of was what you meant. That wasn’t fair of me. I’m sorry.”

It was all you could get out before your throat started to close dangerously on you. You swallowed hard in the ensuing silence. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze the longer it went on and soon made to leave. He didn’t have to forgive you, you knew. All that was important was that you apologized and left the rest to him. You didn’t deserve his absolution anyway.

“You’re not useless.” His voice stopped you short. “I don’t believe that and neither does anyone else on this crew.”

That wasn’t what you had expected to hear, and wasn’t necessarily the conversation that was supposed to be had. You shrugged, rubbed your ear on your shoulder, not knowing what to say.

“You contribute plenty,” he continued. “You pull your weight in every adventure, you hold your own. You help maintain the ship and offer your help to us all constantly.”

“Everyone does that,” you said. “I don’t have a role here. There’s nothing special or important that I do. You could replace me and it wouldn’t make a difference at all.”

Another beat of silence. “Have you ever noticed how little sound you make?”

You lifted your head enough to look at his throat. He’d unbuttoned the top few, leaving his skin exposed, you noticed. It sat low enough that you could see a bit of his chest hair peeking through. You shrugged again. There were times you walked up to someone on the ship, scaring them as they hadn’t heard you. You felt some guilt more than anything each time it happened.

“That’s been useful. You sit down in a bar and no one thinks anything of it, and then they spill out all the information we need. And you bring it right back to us.”

“Unremarkable and easily forgotten. Right. Great. I knew that,” you huffed.

“Stop that.” He tried to harden his voice, but with you, it would always come out softer. “Don’t go twisting my words again. That’s not at all what I meant.”

What you had just apologized for. You really were hopeless, if you were going to say sorry and then just continue to be awful. “Right. I’m sorry.”

You saw him lift his hand towards you, but stopped to grip the counter, his thumb pressing circles into the surface as though he were feeling at the grain of the wood. “It’s okay. You have a way of pulling words out of people, too. When you ask for locations, for information, from people at the market, they’re happy to give it. You walked right up to an enemy once and he gladly told you all we needed to know. The rest of us aren’t always so successful.”

You frowned, continuing to stare at his hand. “The rest of you are plenty good at it, especially you and Nami and Robin.”

“Mmmm. Robin-Chan is very good at it, just so smart and beautiful, but the more the merrier, right? And Nami-san is quite the charmer, that absolute beauty, but she did get snappy last time… and I had to yell at the guy.”

You remembered. Nami had put on a good show, keeping her voice saccharine sweet and leaning forward enough to give him a good look down her shirt. The man didn’t budge though, just frowned deeper. She had indeed gotten snappy, and the guy got snappy right back. And Sanji had not hesitated to dig into him. “Yeah, you and your attitude problem.”

“Huh!?” You could imagine how his mouth dropped open. “Attitude problem?”

The corner of your mouth lifted. “Yeah, you get so snarky.”

“I only gave that brute what he deserved. What every brute I meet deserves.” You heard him mutter the word snarky to himself.

“Yeah,” you agreed. “You do.”

You dug a fingernail into the wood of the counter as the conversation trailed off. It was solid and your nail did nothing at all to it, but you worried away at it anyway. You still couldn’t look at him. There was more to it that he wasn’t seeing. This wasn’t something you were ready to let go of yet. He was painting you in too nice of a picture and it didn’t feel right.

“It’s just…” you started. “I don’t do anything useful on the ship. I’m not—I’m not contributing or doing anything productive with my time. You,” you lifted your hand to wave it at him, “cook for everyone. Nami makes maps, Brook plays music, you’re all doing something to— to improve. And I don’t.”

There was a pause again, as he weighed his words. “I see you do plenty to improve yourself, but I don’t think that’s where you should put your worth, necessarily. Tell me, what does Luffy do that’s so productive?”

“Well, that’s not—” you sputtered. “He isn’t like— I mean he’s the captain and he’s just him— He does some chores sometimes—”

“So do you think he’s useless? That he’s not contributing?” Sanji asked, cutting you off.

“No! No. He does a lot for us, he’s done everything for us, so I don’t expect more from him.” It was hard to put into words, the weight that Luffy carried, and the significance of his actions for his crew. But you didn’t have to word it right, for Sanji to know. You knew he understood perfectly.

“So why do you expect more of yourself?”

You didn’t think it would do much to argue anymore. There was a whole list you felt you could give, but you could also bet that Sanji would find a rebuff to each one. It felt a little nice, to think that he was always thinking the best of you, even if you didn’t agree, didn’t deserve it.

“I respect you an awful lot, Y/n. You are right where you are supposed to be.” His voice was soft, and he had leaned closer to you to say it.

Your eyes burned terribly and your lower lip wobbled dangerously as his words filled you with an almost unbearable warmth. There was a painful squeeze in your chest at hearing the exact words you needed to hear, from one of the mouths you wanted to hear it most from.

Sanji cupped your cheek, trying to finally bring your gaze to his, but you staunchly refused. “Come to bed with me then, yeah? You must be so tired,” he suggested.

“Oh Sanji, I’ve been rotten. I don’t deserve to share your bed.” It was difficult to speak around the thickness of your throat, and you could tell by the sound of your voice that there was no hiding the tears that threatened to spill over.

Sanji threw himself around the counter, unable to resist keeping his hands off of you any longer, and wrapped an arm around your waist. With his other hand, he forced you by the chin to finally look him in the face.

“Don’t say such a thing, there isn’t anything about you that could ever be considered rotten. It feels like blasphemy just to utter the word anywhere near you, when it has so little to do with you.” He brought his thumb to wipe away the tears that began to fall down your cheeks, and then dusted his fingers down your face, caressing you gently. “And you deserve even more than my bed, more than I can give you, but I want you all to myself anyway. Sharing it with you is the least I can do.”

“But I was mean—” your own hiccup cut you off.

“Because you were hurting and didn’t know what to do about it. That’s an easy thing to forgive.”

You couldn’t take it any longer and buried your face in his chest. He was just so understanding, so unbelievably sweet. He picked you apart so well, able to find the root of it without much effort. You didn’t deserve such pure love. Why didn’t he get that? He had never spoken to you the way you had to him. You’d been awful. You knotted your fists into his shirtfront, pulling him in as close as you could. You didn’t know how to handle such goodness, your body shaking with your sobs, and so all you could do was hold and be held.

Softly, Sanji cooed at you. Words said directly into your hair so that he could kiss your head danced around, a litany of “it’s okay” and “I’ve got you”. He squeezed you impossibly tight, as though he wanted to take all your hurt from you, and cupped the back of your head.

Only once your breathing slowed and ceased to only a few soft hitches and your grip went from brutal to lax on his shirt, did Sanji ask, “Is there anything you would like?”

You would like a lot of things, but at the moment, you did not feel you had a right to any of them. But you’d be selfish and take what was offered. “Sleep.”

“We can do that.”

“And maybe…” you frowned. You really shouldn’t be asking for more. Not now.

“And maybe?” he prompted. “Anything at all, I promise.”

“Hold me. And, I don’t know. Kiss me a little.” You toyed with the soft fabric between your fingers. “I appreciate you, I swear. I do like when you help me, save me. Stop me from tripping. I don’t want you to stop touching me.” Your voice went higher as you fought more tears. Fuck, you had just stopped, but your lip was ready to wobble anyway. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

He brought both hands to your face and immediately peppered you with kisses. “Oh, my love, of course I’ll do so. Just breath, okay? Breath.”

You sniffled and swallowed hard, nodding and trying to do as he said. “Do you still like me?” you asked.

His chuckle was a soft exhale, tickling your skin as he had not stopped kissing you. “Yes!” he spoke in between each one. “I always have and always will. There is nothing that could stop me from liking you, from loving you.”

A shaky inhale and exhale. “Okay. Okay.”

“Yeah,” he said back. “However, if I may suggest, are you sure you’re not hungry? I could bring your food to our room if you’d prefer. You skipped lunch and dinner. You had me worried.”

Your stomach rumbled at the reminder of food. “Oh. Maybe. Yeah. And I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant to.”

“It’s alright. Just… be angry here next time? Where I can know where you’re at?” he asked.

“Well, I don’t—” another hiccup. “I don’t plan to get upset, but yeah. I’ll do that.”

He pressed a long and lingering kiss to your forehead and breathed out, “Thank you.” He squeezed you against him, bringing you as close as possible for this hug, before he lifted you up and started the journey to your room.

“I love you,” you mumbled into his neck.

A smile stretched from ear to ear on his face. “I love you too.”

The rest of the night was spent in each other’s warmth and care. He fed you himself, adamant that you let him pamper you so. It was nice, since all that crying and the deliciousness of the food made it difficult to keep your eyelids from fluttering shut.

When you drifted off, it was to Sanji’s steady breathing and the soft beats of his heart, his arms firmly around you as he held you close.

#one piece #one piece x reader #black leg sanji #vinsmoke sanji #sanji x reader #I have so many feelings about this but I must refrain from rambling

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indecisive-capricorn · 1 year ago

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Yandere Cullens Family's Reactions to You Attempting to Escape:

WARNINGS: Yandere, running away, mature language, manipulation, toxic relationship, gaslighting, etc.

SUMMARY: You tried to run away from your kidnapper lover but your attempt failed and now you have to face the consequences of your actions. Problem is, how will your beloved yandere react to it and what are the punishments that lie ahead for you?

AUTHOR'S NOTE: We had the Volturi guards and now, we'll have the Cullens! I guess, I'm in my active writing era for tumblr, so don't be surprised if I end up posting a whole lot more. It can be about Twilight or even other fandoms. I'll definitely be posting more for Miguel O'Hara too. Also, I was supposed to post this later on but it got put on queue and I didn't know how to put it out of the list, so I apologize if it seems a little rushed.

MASTERLIST & REQUESTS: Before you go, have a glass of wine or better yet, recommend a good bottle. any kind of message is always a delight.

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EDWARD CULLEN aka THE MIND READER

He's a mind reader. That is the only thing you need to know about him to know that it's useless to even try to escape because Edward is already reading your mind to see the potential plans of your escape. He'll do everything to ensure you won't escape and if you managed to find a single hint that could bring your hopes up to do so, he'll immediately eliminate it by fixing the problem. If you had somehow— no one knows precisely how —managed to find an escape, then just know that he'll find you soon enough. Not even just because of his abilities as a vampire since he can easily track down your scent with them, but also because well— he can read your mind. Edward will know where you desperately want to go to and he'll know about the decisions that you'll make as you try to escape. So, good luck but it's practically impossible, unless you managed to outsmart him by thinking of some sort of distraction. But yeah, it's almost impossible because he's constantly reading your mind! Very nosy indeed for a vampire but even worse as a yandere vampire.

CARLISLE CULLEN aka THE DOCTOR

He would be disappointed. Carlisle isn't the type to get angry at people, but he would get disappointed in you when you try to run away because he thought you knew better than to do that. Honestly, out of everyone in the family, Carlisle is the yandere who gives the most freedom to his darling partner. Carlisle gives a lot of trust to you but after your attempt escape, which was most likely ruined because of another family member, he will definitely be keeping a closer eye on you. Carlisle will either give you a scolding after your escape or he will be quite silent while checking if you got any injuries while being outside. The latter is actually scarier than the first because it's unusual for Carlisle to be giving you the silent treatment and it would mean that he would be more cautious and give you less freedom from then on. However, instead of immediately locking you up in the house after your attempt escape, Carlisle will show you all the reasons to keep you in the house. It could be by showing you the wounds and deaths caused by a rogue vampire or even just by bringing you to the hospital to show you the potential wounds you could get by being outside.

ALICE CULLEN aka THE PSYCHIC

Same situation as Edward. She's a psychic. Alice can easily check through her gift when you feel even the slightest want to go against her. She'll immediately fix the problem and spend more time with you and be much more attentive too. However, if you decide to rebel against her far too many times, she might just let you attempt an escape. Under her watchful eye, of course, since she doesn't want anything to happen to her precious darling but Alice is sure she can make an accident or two happen around you or maybe worsen your day with some horrible mannered humans to get you thinking that going outside and rebelling against her isn't worth it. She'll be faking her worries when you finally decide to come back home to her and she'll fuss all over your health. Alice might hide it from you but she is strategic and quite smart, especially when it concerne you. Your attempt had also given Alice a chance to guilt trip you into being her personal dress up doll. Not that you already weren't before, but things are certainly much smoother if you follow her order like a sweet darling right?

ROSALIE HALE-CULLEN aka THE BEAUTY

Rosalie would be scoffing at your attempt. She's definitely annoyed and angry at you, but she is also blaming herself for it. Rosalie should have known you would try to escape and she probably had a feeling on that as well, yet she still decided to trust her darling. You could say that she considered it as a test to see your loyalty to her, one in which you had failed horribly. After she has finally calmed down from her anger, which could take a few days, she will return to you with a sweet smile and continue treating you as her precious jewel like she usually does. Now, you can ignore her attempts to win you back over with her charms and even insult her for it, but do remember that Rosalie could be the sweetest person in the world towards her darling, constantly spoiling you with affection and cherishing you with her gentle words. Her actions causes you to be awfully conflicted about your want to escape because why would you want to get away from someone who loves you more than anything in the world? Your doubts could be added if you had terrible partners in the past.

JASPER HALE-CULLEN aka THE SOLDIER

Jasper will definitely be hurt. I mean, which yandere wouldn't feel hurt at some point if their darling tries to escape? But out of everyone, Jasper is the one who shows it the most. He's trying so hard to adjust for his darling on everything. He had made renovations to his home, specifically to accomodate to your taste and comfort. He had to endure more trainings to keep his blood thirst under control because he doesn't want to hurt you, and so much more. Jasper doesn't expect you to return anything, not even your affections since he understands he needs to earn it, but you attempting to escape is almost like you were dismissing all of his efforts in one go or even worse, you didn't give a shit about them in the first place and that was what probably hurted him the most. Jasper will probably get stricter with you after that. He had tried to be fair and tried to respect your space before and to be quite honest, he is the yandere who gives the most freedom to you after Carlisle. His only rule was for you to not leave him. But you had to break the rule and now, you'll pay for the consequences.

ESME CULLEN aka THE LOVER

Esme has the same reaction as Jasper. She's hurt but she is also confused as well. Esme is really patient and she understands that you needed time and space to adjust living in her house, your new and sudden home that was completely foreign to you, and she's trying hard to get you adjusted and be as comfortable as possible. Like Jasper, she's doing everything she can for your comfort but unlike Jasper, she expects your acceptance in return. It's not as if she is expecting it in a cruel type of way with the mindset that she's doing something for you, so you should do something for her. No, Esme is nothing like that. However, Esme made sure she was doing everything right and she expected for your relationship with her to go more smoothly, not for you to suddenly escape. Your failed escape made her think she did something wrong, but she's confused because she had done everything right so far. Esme never forced you to return your affections, she wanted to slowly earn it, which is why after your failed escape, she had a talk with you and asked you why you tried to leave. Esme knows that she's flawed but she wants to improve herself and do everything she can to fix the problem but in no world would she ever let you go.

EMMETT CULLEN aka THE JOKER

Emmett is silent. He was so fucking silent that it actually scared you more than if he got angry at you and he had never gotten angry at you either but it's probably much better than the silent treatment you're getting. No teasings or even some bad jokes. Heck, not even his cheesy pick up lines. Emmett still takes care of you and spend time with you during his silent treatment though. He still cooks meals for you and cuddles with you while watching a horror movie, which is actually his favourite activity to do with you, but he still didn't say a single word. And it was starting to get to you as well. You had no one else besides Emmett in the house, sometimes his "siblings" would visit, but they don't talk much with you and you were beginning to slowly grow insane from the lack of conversations. It didn't matter how long it took but after some time, you broke down and begged for Emmett to speak to you because if the silent treatment continued on, you were sure you would go completely insane. Emmett was surprised when you begged him but he was pleased as well. He was silent all this time in order to make him more tolerable to you, but Emmett also knew that he would eventually break you and hoped it would be enough to get you to want to talk to him.

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1-800-local-slut · 2 months ago

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Hi so I saw where you asked for invincible requests and I humbly ask for mark or any of the variants that you feel comfortable writing with black reader. Having them either help take her with her braids out or them being the type of boyfriend to learn how to braid for her. Reader can be another hero or a civilian I just really want a soft moment between them where he’s enjoying spending time with her.

Thank you thank you thank you!!!

Hi my love! Thank you for being so patient, I'm struggling with finals and work and everything coming up right now lol. But thank you for this request, I love it!

No Goggles! Mark Grayson! x Black! Mermaid! Reader

Notes: This Mark seems to be very hyper compared to the other Mark's (minus Mohawk Mark) so I tried to incorporate that into this! Reader is from an underwater kingdom. Her father was a merman, her mother is a human. She has water-based powers, and different anatomy than a regular human but she looks human!

༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺

"My hair is longer than yours." Mark trolled from where he laid behind you. You were sorting out your hair, sectioning the strips you would need and placing it onto the hair stand next to you and rolled your eyes.

Only in his dreams, did Mark have more hair than you. Not to brag, but you were proud of your progress. After years of meticulous care, your hair was mid back length when straightened; a feat you thought you'd never reach. Mark kept his hair in a short but natural hair style with two pieces that hung down over his face and functioned like bangs.

Either way, you ignored him poking fun at you and continued on with your hair. Mark does not take well to be ignored. He was just...active. It wasn't his fault; Mark gets hyper when he's bored. And when he's over and you're not paying any sort of attention to him he gets bored.

As you worked your way through thick swamp that was your hair, Mark fidgeted around your bedroom. He was touching things on your bookshelf, sliding your window open then shut, turning your LED lights on and off (resulting in a forming headache), lighting your candles before blowing them out again, playing with your seashells. After you snapped at him to quit it, he found his way back to your bed.

"Babe this is taking forever." He moaned, long legs splayed across your sheets and his arms outstretched on the bed. The perfect space for you to go lay in.

"It takes a long time, you know that." You responded, focused on tying one quarter of your hair into a silk scrunchie.

"Why didn't you just go to Molly?"

"Because I don't have three hundred dollars to pay her for some boho braids. And her name is Mara. I think you knew that." You admonished him lightly, while he crossed his arms and pouted. He sat up in bed like a mummy while his eyes raked over your head. You had a lot of hair; that's how you always dreamed it would be. And if a consequence of that was your hair taking forever to do then so be it.

"You're still taking too long. I could be done by now!"

"You barely have hair." You teased at his gloating. You went back to ignoring him before he let out a huff of boredom and plopped back onto the bed.

Your laptop played some show that held your attention, but it was not doing that for him. You reached for your spray bottle to wet your hair before you had to blow dry it, only to find it empty. Mark was making some obnoxious sound while repeatedly slapping his hand over his mouth. If that kept him busy enough to stop bothering you, then you weren't about to ask him to go do something. Knowing him he'd get distracted halfway through and you'd find him rummaging around in your kitchen making some sort of snack.

Clenching your fist over the top of the bottle, a small stream of water flowed from your palm as you kept your mind steady to make sure the pressure wasn't too much. Squeezing your fist helped prevent further mess. Everything was going fine. Things were peaceful until they weren't.

Specifically,, until Mark decided this lack of attention would not do. It wasn't until you felt something wet and slimy go over your ear lobe, that you even noticed he had gotten up.

You heard his gremlin like laugh as you froze in disgust.

"DID YOU JUST LICK MY EAR?!" You screeched, hand flying to your ear to see if that just happened. The wetness of your skin was proof that Mark did in fact just lick you.

"No, I don't know what you're talking about!" He laughed.

Too much was going on. He was acting out, no doubt because he missed you and wanted your attention, but being annoying none the less. Your hair was taking forever to blow dry and detangle and protect from the heat, your back hurt. Your entire body felt sore from exhaustion, even the gills on the sides of your ribs hurt.

You were so close to singing a sweet siren song to lull him to sleep so he'd be quiet. If only he hadn't expressed his distaste for it in the past.

When he realized you weren't screaming at him in mock outrage, or laughing while attempting to playfully attack him, he stopped. Like a beach going completely still before a tsunami hits. He was bracing for the storm.

You felt like a pot left on the stove too long. You were starting to boil. A tense silence filtered over you two. Mark picked at his nails, terrified. Were you going to punch him? Throw an icicle at him? Or worse- break up with him?

No instead, you took a moment. You took a moment to remember that this was Mark. Your Mark.

He's annoying, he takes nothing seriously, he has no concept of personal boundaries. He'll bite you, lick you anywhere (like your foot one time which had you very startled), he'll even hold your hand while you try to take a shit. He's always by your side.

Yes, he's annoying. Yes, he's a pain. But you need that. Because Mark balances you. Despite your water-based powers, you were not a very 'go with the flow' person. Type A in every sense of the word, once getting so stressed that you almost had a heart attack over chicken pot pie. You were an uptight perfectionist, and Mark is always able to help you unwind.

He's always there to make you laugh when things fall apart. You failed your driver's test?

"Who gives a shit about driving? You're a mermaid, that's cooler than driving."

You fucked up and burnt dinner?

"I didn't want to hurt your feelings, but I totally wasn't looking forward to lasagna. Let's order some Chinese food, I'll get you that chicken you like." Even though he was so excited to walk around the grocery store and help you pick the perfect ingredients.

You went out to dinner with a group and feel bad about not liking the food? Who's in your face making ugly expressions at you mimicking disgust at the meal until you laugh? Mark. Who's obnoxiously rubbing his body against you in a horrible fake dance until you laugh? Mark.

So sometimes he gets a little hyper. He needs you to bring him back to Earth. He needs that. He handles you being uptight. You handle his...everything. Sometimes he just needed a challenge, why not give him one?

༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺

"Okay wait I think I got it-"

"OW! I don't know if you know this, but my hair IS attached to my scalp!"

Mark waded through the pools of your hair, attempting to add the braiding hair to your actual hair. He yanked too hard, which resulted in your butt leaving the chair.

"Oh shit! You're okay, you're okay I promise." He hushed, pressing kisses to your scalp while you whimpered from the pain of being lifted from your chair by your hair.

Over the course of your relationship, you learned a few things. One of them being that Mark was good with his hands. While this was a punishment for his obnoxious behavior (shoving his tongue in your ear was the final straw), it kept him relatively calm. It was something for his mind to focus on.

"STOP STOP STOP!" You cried, grabbing his wrist and yanking your head from his grasp. His hands went up over his head in a cartoonish fashion.

You paused the tutorial, suspecting she was going too fast for Mark to follow. You waited for the throbbing in your scalp to stop while Mark made a face reflecting just how sorry he felt for causing you pain.

"Let's try again, okay?"

He nodded, while you unbraided your hair and motioned him to the front. Perhaps the back was too risky. He needed to be in the front where you could see him. More specifically what he was doing to your head.

"Okay. Do you see what I'm doing?" You asked while taking a small section of your hair that you had pre-parted for him.

"I see." He bent down, eyes squinting in focus. Your nimble fingers moved slowly as you put your hair into a braid, feeding in pieces of the false hair slowly.

He let out a soft sound of realization before he popped back up. Pinching the hair in place you silently placed a hand on his hardened stomach.

"No, pay attention. If you get too excited, you will hurt me."

He nodded and resumed closely watching your demonstration. After all, that's how you got hurt just a few minutes ago.

He watched you work on the braid, while your fingers quickly picked up speed. He kept his eyes on your fingers, even though you could practically see his brain attempting to keep his focus.

It was hard for him, but he did it for you. As you finished the braid, you noticed him glancing at the braids you had done and the piece you just did.

"You forgot the little dangly piece." He frowned, calloused hands finding your other braids and running the free piece through his fingers.

"I know, I just need you to understand how to do the main braid." You tapped the braid, and he nodded, still frowning.

"Can you show me how to do the dangly piece?" He asked, with a childlike disappointment. Despite his whining, Mark did love your hair in all its styles. You smiled, because it feels nice to know you man loved your hair as much as you did. No matter how much he complains about how long it takes.

"Of course I can baby."

༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺

"Smile." Mark mimicked a cheesy grin, as he held the camera for you. It was 6 AM. The Sun rose behind you in the roof top, and you looked like shit. But Mark would be dammed if the first time he did your hair he didn't get pictures.

You were exhausted, your head throbbed, and your eyelids felt heavy. But you were done. After ten long hours, you and Mark did it. You finished your hair. Little dangly pieces and all.

#black reader #x black reader #x reader #fem reader #multifandom account #requests open #invincible x reader #invincible fluff #mark grayson x black reader #invincible x black reader #x black fem reader

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mummyemmatojames · 21 days ago

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50. A Shift in the Grounding: Pull-Ups Put to Use

Hello, dear community! Emma here, your Mummy-in-training, with an update on our MDLB and FLR journey as James’s week-long grounding continues. After the first night, I made a tweak to the pull-ups rule that’s changed things in a way I didn’t expect—and it’s lit something inside me. I’m still processing it, and I’d love your thoughts on this twist!

Night One: A Dry Surprise

The first night of James’s grounding went as planned—6:30 PM routine, pull-ups (Drynites) under his pajamas, bottle instead of nursing, 7:30 lights out. When I went in to get him up the next morning, I was surprised—he was dry. I’d half-expected the pull-ups to be used, given how he’s been sneaking to the toilet at night lately, but nope, they were clean. He woke up quick and asked to go to the toilet right away, all sheepish and squirming. I said yes, figuring it was fine—he’d slept through, no fuss. But later, I regretted it. What’s the point of putting him in pull-ups as a consequence if he just holds it and uses the toilet anyway? It felt like he was dodging the lesson, and I didn’t want this to be a hollow rule.

Night Two: Making Sure They’re Used

So, last night—night two—I decided to make sure the pull-ups did their job. I upped his fluids to guarantee he couldn’t avoid it. After his bath, I had him drink two full bottles of water from his dinosaur bottle while we sat on the couch—about 16 ounces total, which is more than usual. Then, during his bedtime routine, I nursed him for a long time—maybe 15 minutes—letting him take all the milk I had, feeling that let-down as he settled in my arms. I finished with a bottle of formula, another 4 ounces, and tucked him in at 7:30. Before I turned off the light, I leaned down and whispered in his ear, “Pull-ups don’t come off until they’re used, little one. That’s the rule now.” He didn’t say anything—just blushed hard and pulled the covers up—but I could tell it sank in.

This morning, I went in to get him up, and there he was—saggy and wet, just as I’d hoped. The Drynites were heavy, sagging under his train pajamas, and he was lying there, all vulnerable and cute, waiting for Mummy to change him. His hair was wild, his eyes soft and a little embarrassed as he mumbled, “Morning, Mummy.” I smiled, helped him out of bed, and peeled off the wet pull-up, cleaning him up with wipes before getting him into fresh clothes. He didn’t fight me, just stood there, quiet and small, letting me take care of him. It was such a special experience—seeing him like that, soggy and dependent, lit something inside me I can’t quite explain.

How It Felt

I couldn’t stop thinking about him all soggy and wet today. There was this rush—part pride, part tenderness—seeing him so fully in his little boy space, relying on me completely. It wasn’t about humiliation for him (though he was clearly shy about it); it was about the dynamic clicking into place. He’d acted like a drunken toddler at dinner, so I treated him like one—and this morning, he was one, waiting for Mummy to fix it. It felt powerful, like I’d taken back control after that chaotic night, and it deepened our bond in a way I didn’t expect. I kept picturing his saggy pull-up all day, that cute, vulnerable look, and it’s stuck with me.

He’s been quieter today—still grounded, still asking permission for everything—but less furious than yesterday. The earlier bedtime and pull-ups are wearing on him, but he’s complying. I gave him a cuddle after lunch when he earned it, and he softened a bit, leaning into me without a word. I think he’s starting to feel the weight of this grounding, even if he hates it.

Why This Matters

The pull-ups started as a consequence—to curb his nighttime toilet excuses and tie into the “drunken toddler” lesson—but this tweak made them more than that. Making sure he used them wasn’t just practical; it was emotional. It’s pushed him deeper into his little space, and it’s given me this new layer of Mummy care I didn’t know I’d love so much. I’m not backing off the rule now—five nights left, and I’ll keep the fluids high each evening so he wakes up wet and waiting. It’s strict, but it’s working—he’s not sneaking out of bed, and he’s feeling the grounding in a real way.

What Do You Think?

I’d love to hear from the community—have you used pull-ups like this in a grounding and felt that same spark? Did making them “used” change how your partner took the consequence? For those who’ve leaned into this kind of vulnerability, how did it affect your dynamic long-term—did it stick as a special thing, or fade? And if you’ve got tips for balancing the sternness with softness—like more cuddles to offset his shyness—I’d be grateful. This lit something in me, and I want to keep it meaningful for us both.

Thank you for being here as I navigate this shift. James is still my little boy, soggy pull-ups and all, and I’m finding new joy in this Mummy role every day.

With all my love, Emma (aka Mummy) 💕

#mdlb relationship #mdlbmommy #ab dl mommy #ab dl lifestyle #diapered little #diaper regression #goodnites #ab dl diaper

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glader13 · 7 months ago

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Chasing Memories of You pt. 3

Miguel x Reader

Part 1

Part 2

Part 4

“Lyla,” his voice slurred, “Play file zero.”

Lyla came to life, her frown deep as she saw Miguel surrounded by bottles. His eyes were hazy and drunken as he held a picture frame of you. Lyla wanted to say something but she knew that any word would spark an argument, with Miguel thinking that Lyla is trying to make him forget you. She pulled up file zero, which is multiple files of you and Miguel getting to know each other. They’re scattered, but each file shows a deeper connection between you two.

The first file begins to play and Miguel instantly recognizes your New York, seeing you fly in your black suit, the spider symbol in gold flashing in the sun. Your mentee, Gwen, was flying next to you in a red and black suit. It was here when he met you, answering the call of an anomaly in your universe. He viewed another one, instantly knowing which memory this was. You stormed into the medical area, to where Miguel was resting, insisting that he was acting reckless trying to save you, that he wasn’t thinking about his daughter, who needed him to be around. The argument was cut short when he pulled you into him, kissing you for the first time, breathing that he also needed you around.

Goosebumps then, but nothing now. He watched these files so many times, that all that they had created was a hole, numbing him. Taunting him of a reality that he’ll never have. As he drunkenly scrolled through the files, he came across one labeled as surprise. Even in his hazy mindset, he knew that he had never seen this before. He opened the file seeing more videos of you. He clicked on the first one, holding his breath as he saw you appear in front of him. He sat up, his mind gaining the clarity that it desperately searched for.

“Miggy, wait,” you mumble, pushing his mouth away, “I think I’m going to puke.”

He instantly got up, before walking you to the bathroom, asking you what you ate earlier. You told him the same as usual, but for the past few weeks, you’ve been avoiding greasy food, and eating more salads and bowl-type foods. Anything that you ate could set off your nausea, but at the same time, you wanted to eat everything.

“This has been happening a lot back to back recently,” Miguel said from the other side of the door, “It’s probably something that you’re eating.”

“Maybe the food in 2099 is made so poorly that if you aren’t used to it, it makes you sick,” you joked.

“Like your poisoned food is any better,” he said which caused you both to snicker.

You finally came out of the bathroom, telling him that you still felt the same. He kissed your forehead, asking if you wanted to sit on his balcony. You snuggled further into his hoodie as the two of you looked over Nueva York, the sounds of the city were peacefully quiet, as if a hush went through, and the neon hues washed you in warmth. You snuggled closer to Miguel, and he wrapped his arm around you, pulling you further into his side. He softly kissed the side of your face, before trailing down to your neck. You could feel the worry fall off him and onto you. In between the kisses, you felt him stare as if he could see what was ailing you. He’s on eggshells, the funeral was just only months ago, and he hasn’t let you out of his sight. He frets over you about anything, trying to control every aspect to mitigate any possible consequences.

“I think you should see a doctor,” he says softly, “I want you to be healthy.”

“I am,” you kissed him, “But what if it’s not anything serious?”

“Then what would it be?” His question was fragile, threatening to break under a possible reality. You stayed quiet, not wanting to voice that possibility, especially when he was still trying to heal.

“Nothing, I’m fine Miggy,” you smiled, “Come on, let’s go back to bed.”

He should’ve known then, he should have picked up on the signs: the nausea, the pickiness of your appetite, the slight plumpness of your body. If he had known, if he wasn’t blinded by grief, he could have protected you, the both of you. He would have put you on fewer missions, and made you do more lab work, hell he would have taken your watch away so you wouldn’t be hurt by an anomaly. He saw another file, his hand moving faster than his mind, as he clicked the file. Watching memories of you compares to a dark paradise, filling him with poison that he knows stops him from healing.

“Lyla,” she appeared next to you in Miguel’s bathroom, “where’s Miguel?”

“At HQ,” she said, “Want me to get him?”

Your eyes widened as you quickly said no, your hand clutching around something that Lyla couldn’t make out. She appeared closer to your hand to see, but you moved whatever it was to your chest. You let the toilet cover down, sitting on it, hunched over, quiet. You tapped your foot on the ground, your mind a mess while your mouth was unemployed. You wanted to throw the damn thing away, the reality threatening to make your lunch come up. Two months, the funeral was two months ago and you’re … You shook your head, ignoring Lyla’s words about your heart rate. You softly rocked back and forth, before getting up and pacing around his bathroom. One hand still clutching the small, but very significant change of your life, as you bit the inside of your cheek. You didn’t catch your reflection in the mirror, not feeling brave enough to do so. You tasted the salt from your tears, as you slid to the floor, what if he hates you, resents you for a mutual, intimate action? What if he makes you get rid of it, makes you choose? What will happen then?

“How accurate are your tests?” You shakily breathed.

“What tests?” And with her question, you reveal the pregnancy test. Her quiet was deafening, sinking you further before she answered that it was accurate, the most it’s ever been. But to ease your worry, she did a bioscan of you, confirming that you are pregnant.

“Well,” she began slowly, “Congratulations, but how did this happen?” You shot her a look, which caused her to sigh, “I know how, but when?”

“It was when,” you began to search through your memories, peeling back the layers of your brain, to the moment when the two of you were alone, “I don’t know Lyla, I don’t know what to do, the one person that I need, I can’t tell.”

You cleaned your eyes, thinking of what to say to Miguel, imagining how he would react. Would you have to leave him, be alone with your child? Your mind could only imagine Miguel’s face twisted in disappointment, or even anger. He’s going to hate me, was the only thing that you could think despite your heart trying to tell you otherwise. You felt as if you were in a headlock, not knowing if you should go or trust Miguel.

“You are going to have to,” Lyla said, “You’re going to start showing.”

“I… I know, but Lyla, you can't tell him,” you cleaned your eyes, “Please.”

“Of course,” she smiled.

You finally felt some comfort in the silence before you spoke again, “Do you think I should surprise him, with dinner, or a party?”

“Party,” Lyla smiled, “And we can get a confetti gun filled with pink or blue confetti.”

You nodded, cautiously smiling, your mind filling with the possibilities of a new future. Finally, everything felt like it’ll be okay. A new beginning for you both.

Miguel turned it off, unable to look at your face, unable to bear looking at the hesitation on your face about telling him about your pregnancy. It’s unbearable with you being gone. He took another swig of his bottle, feeling another memory from his mind appear, rolling slowly like thunder approaching a city. He was able to figure the rest out, how you were going to break the news of your pregnancy, a surprise party. But that day will be forever stained with your blood, the loss of his second family. That day, that memory, always bubbles up, it can never be defeated by the alcohol, by how many villains he beats into a pulp, by each thought of seeking another just so his bed won’t be empty. It’s always there, chained to him. He can never seem to forget.

He stood at the door to your apartment, taking a shaky breath. He’s going here to think. To think of how to tell your family that you’re dead, that he failed to protect you. He leans his head against the door, trying to collect his breathing as more tears fall from broken eyes. He didn’t bother to clean his eyes or nose, which made everything hurt all the more. He was startled by pink and blue confetti, and voices yelling “congratulations”! Miguel took a step, looking around as he felt the urge to vomit. In silence, he took note of the various baby decorations, pink and blue streamers hanging from the ceiling and on the wall. The table had small sandwiches and chips with the dessert being small pink and blue cupcakes. He saw lettering decorating the wall, condadulations, Miggy!

The smiling faces were choking him, closing in on him. He felt his breathing become shallow and shorter as if he was exhaling every time he inhaled. He leaned against the door, struggling to look at faces, especially your parents, he couldn’t tell them that he failed his promise.

“Where’s my daughter?” your mother laughed, she was holding a cake, “She was supposed to come with you.”

Miguel began to take large breaths, as he couldn’t stop his tears, the inky hands of grief pulling him down. He sunk to the floor, holding himself feeling a sick realization that this was how you were going to break the news of your pregnancy. At a party, not in his arms, dying. He painfully tore his eyes away from the ground looking at your mother, and he was drowning again, this is how you would’ve looked, aging with beautiful and graceful features. She knelt in front of him, telling him to breathe, as he was barely aware of her cleaning his eyes with a napkin. He pushes her hand away, he doesn’t deserve that kind of treatment, not after ruining her life forever, “I’m sorry,” he choked, “I … I failed her. I’m sorry,” he repeats, holding your mother.

“Miguel,” your mother’s voice is still kind, though there was a worried edge in it, “Miguel, breathe okay. Whatever argument you two got in will work itself out, it’s just her pregnancy.”

Oh, he wishes it was an argument. That means that he’ll be able to have you back in a matter of moments, he’ll argue with you about anything if that means he’ll be able to hold you again. She said to relax again, telling him to breathe, and he finally gave in to the despair, “She’s dead. She … died in my arms. There was an attack … I couldn’t save her in time.”

Your mother’s face paled, all the light, all the life, drained from her face. Her body slouched, the only sound was the plastic plate hitting the floor. Miguel couldn’t say anything, but how could he? Who would want to be comforted by their child’s murderer? Your father filled the silence, stepping past his wife and pulling Miguel up by his shoulder. Your father’s face was the opposite, lit with a fury that can only be caused by grief. Miguel forced his eyes to stay on his face, as your father demanded what happened. As he demanded to know why he let you die. Your father repeated the same questions, each time getting closer and closer to Miguel. Miguel felt as if he was set on fire, feeling nothing but hopelessness. Nothing else mattered, all was obsolete. Your father repeated the same question, but to Miguel, it sounded distant, as if someone was yelling at him behind thick walls. Even if he heard the question, he couldn't care less, your father isn’t the only one who’s grieving. The world was spinning, yet shattering around Miguel, he was lost in a haze. The last kiss that you gave him, your lifeless body, crushed him. Two people died when you permanently closed your eyes, you and the man who he thought he could be. He was right there, on the edges of his fingertips. Ready to be everything that you wanted, that you needed. But your death makes being dead alluring. You made death look like mercy, a dark paradise.

Miguel’s focus on you was shattered when your father’s fist connected with his face. The shock caused him to fall over, his hand covered in red from his nose. Your father shook off your mother as he stepped over Miguel. “You should have stayed away from her,” your father sneered, “Then she would still be here. You should have taken her place. She should be here in front of us, not you.”

“You don’t think that I agree with you,” was all Miguel said.

Miguel and Gwen stayed outside the medical room as your parents grieved over you privately. He couldn’t do anything, he wanted this day to be over, he wanted to go back in time and correct this mistake. He wanted to be the hero that you always thought he was. But you were the hero, always saving him, and he hates you for it. If you didn’t save him, then you would be here, and that’s all that would matter to Miguel. When his memory fails him, will your love abide? Looking at you, he knows that he’ll love you for a long time. If his mind fails to remember, his body and his heart will remember.

“Is everything going to be okay?” Gwen asks him, her eyes begging for a sliver of hope, “Are we going to be okay?”

Miguel blinks away some more tears before he looks at her, and he breaks. She seems so small, holding herself against the wall. Her small, huddled frame reminded him of Gabi when she was upset. He would kneel in front of her, clean her eyes, and tell her that everything was okay. He found himself doing the same thing, slipping so easily into father mode. It wasn’t hard for him, as your mentee, Miguel and you were her second set of parents. Going to school events and even covering as her guardians so her parents won’t know about her slipping grades or missed classes.

“Hey,” he said, cleaning her eyes, “We’re going to be fine. We’re going to get through this together,” he hugged her, “I promise.”

Just as he did with Gabi, to make her less upset, he would lie. He kissed the top of her head, repeating another lie of comfort as he focused on your dead body. He wanted to say I don’t know if we’ll be okay, at least he knows that he’ll never be. Without you, the darkness eats him, he’s not himself, and he won’t be ever again. He’ll love you for a long time, he’ll miss you for a long time. A wound that he’ll never heal from.

And now, he’s forced to watch videos, these memories of you that he’s slowly tainting with the desperation of guilt. He can’t let go, and he won’t let go. He knows that you would want him to, but he won’t. He’s in a daze, and he needs you, but you’re so far away. Across a sea that he can’t cross … unless. In his room, the soft beeping of his watch caught his attention, he stared at it feeling something be planted. Thinking of all that it could do, thinking that it was how he met you. He thought of HQ, of all the Spiders there, how they all traveled by that watch. Would it be possible … if there are Spiders from different Earths, then … He got up, opening a portal to HQ. He can end this, end this feeling of being alone. He’ll have a chance to go home. To be closer to love.

He realized that he was only someone with you. That only you loved him naturally, and he needs you, he has always needed you. This time, he won’t leave you alone, you’re his sun and stars, the air that he breathes. He’ll never leave you alone again. On his screen, he ran multiple tests, screening each Earth for your DNA, and bio-scans, essentially screening for you. He was in a headlock, trapped by you. He thought that he was better than this, but grief, no desperation was stronger. Desperation to protect, to bring back something that has been lost. Miguel finally felt something break, no, not break, he felt something resolve, grow stronger.

He will have you in his arms again, he can start again. He will start again.

The screen started beeping, indicating a match. He zoomed in on that Earth, moving past the people, his eyes quickly moving over the faces of strangers. He did another scan, this time to pinpoint where you were, which was a TV studio. Miguel felt his heart in his lungs, he wasn’t even sure if he was breathing, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready to see you in real time. He opened your location, and his breath was gone. He was gone, he fell to his knees, silent tears on his face, it felt like ages since he last looked upon your face. You were beauty beyond words, a force in the room. You were a goddess, dressed fittingly in white. He closed his eyes as he listened to you talk during your interview. He felt it all ending, his senseless grief, the hole in his heart was closing the more that he listened, swaying to your words as he was drunk.

He felt as if he was in church, on his knees in reverence and you were who he was praying to. When you would look into the camera, he felt your eyes, he felt your soul, and it was warm, feeling like home. He reached out, aiming to touch your face, only for his hand to go through the projection, your image briefly flickering. A bitter reminder of reality. At least he won’t be chasing memories of you anymore, closer to love, he found you again. And, in time, he’ll do more than monitor you as if you were a machine. He’ll join you, he won’t leave you alone anymore. That sea that separated the two of you disappeared.

“I’m coming home, my love,” he whispered to the projection, he whispered to you.

A/N: Writer’s block has me in a mf chokehold, I fear. Also, do people still read Miguel O’Hara fics???

171 notes · View notes

cryoculus · 19 days ago

Text

— TRACK 05: INHERITANCE ⟢

a tropical island getaway in the middle of the tour is just the thing everyone needs, but work will always come before play. at least, that's what you keep telling yourself.

★ featuring; mydei x f!reader

★ word count; 6.8k words

★ tags; rock band au, found family, hostile acquaintances to friends to lovers, grief/mourning, angst, slow burn, eventual smut

★ notes; i'm barely active on tumblr and it Shows LMAO T T so sorry, i spent most of my time on twt if you wanna chat!! also, i actually finished this entire series on ao3 very recently, and i was SOOOO EMOTIONAL AAJAHSDJSDF but i'm still going to gradually upload chapters here so no worries :3c

★ header art cr; sarhiyu on x & ig

TRACKLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

The tarmac shimmers in the heat as the plane touches down, wheels kissing the runway with a gentle thud. You blink against the sudden glare. The sun here is relentless, poured straight from a bottle of gold. Palm trees sway in the distance, lazy and unbothered. Even the wind seems drunk on salt and sunlight.

On the island of Lethe, everything smells like sea spray and sunscreen and something floral you can’t place. The airport buzzes with the usual traffic. Someone in a bucket hat is live-streaming on the arrivals ramp. Another is dancing barefoot to music leaking from their phone speakers.

You’re with the band, cutting through the buzz as a unit. Backpacks slung over shoulders, dark glasses pulled low. Someone across the terminal clocks your group, whispers something, lifts a phone.

Cipher smirks. Phainon rolls his eyes. Mydei just keeps walking.

The road to the Mnemosyne Music Fest winds along cliffside bluffs and past dense groves of olive trees. On the horizon, the sea glitters like it’s holding its breath. But several minutes later, the bass starts to reverberate. Softly at first, more a feeling than a sound, like thunder rolling beneath the ground. You lean your head to the window, watching the festival bloom from the island’s center like a mirage made of strobe lights and smoke.

By the time the shuttle pulls up to artist check-in, the bass has settled into your chest like a second heartbeat. You barely make it two steps off the shuttle before someone with a neatly-pressed suit and a headset materializes with the speed and grace of a professional chaos-wrangler.

“Flamechasers?” she asks, already checking her tablet. “Perfect. My name is Delia. Welcome to Lethe.”

Delia starts walking, and you all instinctively follow.

“Now, I know you’ve heard it already, but humor me, it's tradition. Lethe is an island built for forgetting. People come here to lose themselves—no clocks, no headlines, no consequences. But Mnemosyne is the exception,” she says, glancing back with a grin.

Then, Delia sweeps an arm toward the sprawling festival grounds ahead, where towers of scaffolding shimmer with silk, and sound bleeds like perfume into the sun.

“That’s the joke, right? Mnemosyne, from the ancient Lethean word for memory, is the one thing this island lets people keep.”

She turns to face you, her grin widening. “You’re here to be unforgettable. Let’s make sure of it.”

Once Delia has made sure you’re all settled comfortably in the hotel reserved exclusively for artists, the band drifts toward one of the outdoor lounges. The salty breeze ruffles papers and hair alike as you settle into plush chairs, the distant hum of festival prep buzzing beneath a lazy sun.

Phainon flips open the music festival brochure the front desk handed out, reading aloud with a touch of skepticism, “Three days of music, madness, and memories. Sounds almost too good to be true.”

“Three days of heatstroke and schedule slips, more like,” Aglaea mutters behind her sunglasses, already tapping furiously on her tablet.

Tribbios fans herself theatrically with a laminated itinerary. “Speak for yourself. I packed three outfit changes per day.”

Garmentmaker’s voice hums quietly, crisp and matter-of-fact. “Based on current environmental variables and historical festival data, probability of human overheating is approximately 87.3%. I’ve allocated a portion of my processing capacity to monitoring your collective risk of heatstroke. Please notify me before spontaneous combustion.”

Cipher lets out a bark of laughter. “See? This is why you’re my favorite glorified thermostat.”

“Flattery detected. Logging under ‘suspicious behavior.’”

Sometime later, you slip away from the lounge, claiming the heat’s making you dizzy. No one questions it, not with Cipher trying to stack drink umbrellas on Phainon’s head and Aglaea muttering war crimes into her tablet.

The path curls around a sun-drenched courtyard, quiet except for distant basslines and the soft rustle of palm fronds. You find a little pocket of shade under a trellis dripping with bougainvillea and sink onto a low wall, thumb already flicking your phone awake.

You scroll past missed emails, a dozen unread group chats, until you land on the one that matters.

Me: you weren’t kidding

Me: lethe is as unreal as people say it is

Hyacine: called it. what’s it like?? tell me everything.

Me: like someone turned up the saturation and forgot to turn it back down

Me: everything smells like limes and suncream

Me: we haven’t even played yet and i’m already overstimulated in three languages

Hyacine: you have NO IDEA how jealous i am btw

Hyacine: you get to go to mnemosyne for free

Hyacine: actually you get paid for it wtf

Me: cause that’s...my job???

Hyacine: btw, how are you?

Hyacine: my inbox has been suspiciously quiet since you guys played in carmitis

Hyacine: last time that happened was back in aidonia

Hyacine: and you already told me That story

You hesitate. The breeze tousles your hair, carrying the sharp tang of sea salt. You glance back toward the lounge, where you can just see Mydei’s silhouette through the open archway. He’s half-reclined, sunglasses perched like armor, listening the other members’ nonsense with his usual impossible calm.

Me: we’re okay? mostly?

Me: this isn’t another aidonia sitch don’t worry

Hyacine: but something happened, right?

Me: ...you can tell? through text??

Hyacine: i’m your best friend, of course i can

Hyacine: so are you gonna spill or do i have to pry the truth from your cold dead hands

Me: morbid

Me: but

Me: it’s mydei

Hyacine: 🙄🙄🙄

Hyacine: what did the big brooding blonde do this time

Me: not what he’s called

Me: but i don’t think i can stomach having to immortalize it in our text history

Me: you free for a call?

Hyacine: for gossip? ALWAYS

You slip back inside just long enough to grab your keycard and disappear down the corridor. Past the opulence and the endless designer sandals slapping against imported tile. The second you shut the door to your hotel room behind you, the world narrows.

Cool air, drawn curtains, the hush of ocean outside. You kick off your sandals. The carpet’s soft beneath your toes. Your phone’s already buzzing in your hand. You sink onto the couch, phone tucked between your cheek and shoulder, and for a moment, your breath catches. This couch is too similar. Or maybe it’s just you.

“Okay,” Hyacine’s voice crackles to life in your ear. “Talk. Now.”

You let out a quiet, stunned laugh. “Hi to you too.”

“No time for pleasantries. You dropped the it’s Mydei bomb and then asked for a call. That’s the equivalent of yanking a fire alarm.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve, blinking up at the wide Lethean sky through the sliding doors of the balcony. The silence stretches.

“It wasn’t… anything, really. It was after the show in Carmitis. He came to my hotel room. Late at night.”

“Oh,” Hyacine says, voice low and alert. “That kind of late?”

You close your eyes. “There was wine. We were on the couch.”

The pause that follows makes you think of the gears turning in your best friend’s head, and when they finally do click, she says your name like a mother reprimanding her difficult teenager.

“Please tell me you at least used protection.”

Okay, you expected Hyacine to be surprised—maybe gasp, maybe tease you into oblivion—but you didn’t expect her to jump straight to scandal. The implication alone makes your face burn, shame rising hot in your chest like a swallowed sun.

“Hyacine, it’s not like that,” you say quickly, voice dipping, toes curling hard into the rug beneath you. “He said the others were being unbearable at the afterparty, so he just helped me work on that demo. The one I accidentally dropped in the cloud? Mydei hasn’t let me live that down since.”

“Late at night. With wine. In your hotel room. On a couch.”

You wince. Out loud, it sounds... awful. Incriminating in a way you didn’t account for.

“We didn’t—” You catch yourself, struggling for precision. “Nothing like that happened, okay? We might have been a little tipsy on that absurdly fancy pomegranate wine he brought. But we were working. Seriously. Believe it or not, the track actually sounds cleaner now than it did before he heard it.”

Hyacine exhales, not quite convinced. “But it’s not the song that’s got you all tangled up, is it?”

Leave it to Hyacine to go straight for the jugular.

You sigh. “You know how in some moments, it’s not a kiss, but it might as well have been?”

The memory tightens in your chest. It’s been days, and still the look in his eyes flashes back at the worst times. The glint of something more than just mere interest.

If things were different—if you weren’t you, and he wasn’t him—would you have leaned in? Would he have?

But wishing on hypotheticals doesn’t change the aftermath. It just leaves you aching over answers you’ll never be brave enough to chase.

Hyacine doesn’t say anything at first. You hear the faint rustle of her moving around, probably flopping back against her bed, earbuds crackling a little in your ear.

Then: “Okay, not to be that person, but... I’m gonna be that person.”

You brace for impact.

“He was an asshole to you at first, but people change, yes?” she starts with an infuriatingly chipper tone. “Mydei’s hot, he clearly respects your music, and he brought wine. If the universe handed you that moment on a velvet cushion, why didn’t you take it?”

You bite your lip. “Because it’s complicated.”

“In essence, all things are complicated,” she counters. “Doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.”

You pull your knees up tighter to your chest, pressing your forehead against them for a second. The air in the room suddenly feels heavier, like the pressure’s changed.

“It’s not just that he’s in the band,” you say quietly. “It’s that we work together. We live out of the same tour bus, share the same stage. If something gets messy between us, it’s not just awkward, it could wreck the whole dynamic.”

You let the silence sit. Just for a beat.

“I know where I stand with them now. I’ve worked hard to be part of this. I can’t risk blurring the lines just because... he looked at me like that.”

“What if you don’t take that risk, and regret it anyway?” she asks gently.

You shut your eyes. Because you already do.

Hyacine doesn’t push—thank gods for that. The silence stretches, soft and companionable, like it always has between the two of you. You let your head rest back against the pillows, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Somewhere below your window, the music festival continues its slow, decadent unfurling. Bass thudding like a distant pulse.

You think about the reporter.

The one who found you in Carmitis. The way his words had curved just a little too knowingly when he mentioned your name. That flicker in his eyes like he was connecting dots you didn’t even know were on the page. He hadn’t published anything. Maybe he won’t. Maybe it was just curiosity. But still, the memory leaves a cold smear down your spine.

You don’t tell Hyacine.

You want to, so badly, but the words wedge behind your ribs like splinters. She’d understand. She always has, but something about it makes the whole thing feel too real. As if saying it out loud would crack open a dam you’re not ready to deal with.

So instead, you say nothing. But you pick at the thread on your sleeve again, unraveling it loop by loop.

Maybe Hyacine hears the shift in your breath, or maybe she just knows you too well, because she speaks up gently. “You don’t have to decide anything right now, you know.”

You smile, small and grateful, even if she can’t see it.

“I know.”

The next time you all regroup, sunlight slants through the hotel’s breezy conference alcove, hitting floral shirts, mesh tops, and damp hair still drying from quick showers. Everyone’s changed and freshened up. Cipher’s traded her cargo pants for iridescent shorts, Castorice looks like a model in soft cream linen, and even Phainon’s sandals somehow make him look annoyingly editorial.

Aglaea is already standing at the head of the table, tablet in hand, expression sharp beneath wide sunglasses. Her hair’s up. Her patience, clearly, is not.

“Alright, listen up,” she begins, tapping the tablet with an acrylic nail. “Here’s the rundown for the next seventy-two hours. Don’t make me repeat this.”

A low ripple of amusement hums from the group.

Aglaea swipes once, then continues. “Day one—that’s today—you’re free until sundown. That means: no obligations. Use the time to explore, hydrate, and pretend you’re normal people. Tonight, however, there’s a private beach party for all artists on the lineup. Attendance is expected. You don’t have to mingle, but you do have to show face.”

“Do we have to swim?” Cipher asks. “Because I packed exactly zero waterproof mascaras.”

“Gods, no,” Aglaea replies. “But wear something stylish enough to get you photographed and breezy enough to run from said photographers.”

She taps again.

“Day two, that’s performance day. You’ve got one of the evening slots. Prime time. There’s a morning tech run if you need it, and I recommend it, even if you’re hungover. We want this smooth.”

Murmurs of acknowledgment rise. Garmentmaker makes a few whirring noises that you chalk up to them taking note, Castorice nods, Anaxa lets out a disinterested huff.

“Day three,” Aglaea concludes, “is another free day. You can all enjoy the festival as you see fit, but don't go off-grid. Keep your phones on in case we get a media request or photo op. Festival ends at midnight. We fly out next morning.”

She turns off the tablet with a brisk snap.

“Questions? Complaints? Attempts at rebellion?”

Silence.

Then: “Can we drink tonight?” Phainon grins.

Aglaea deadpans. “Just don’t die. Or embarrass the label. That goes for all of you.”

The moment she dismisses the meeting, the band fans out like schoolkids at the final bell.

“Three hours before sundown,” Tribbios calls after you all, already tugging her sunglasses into place. “Don’t make me track you all down in a city like this.”

Cipher doesn’t need to be told twice. She loops her arm through Anaxa’s and flashes a grin sharp enough to slice. “C’mon. Come be strange with me.”

Anaxa sighs in that long-suffering way only he can manage, but he doesn’t resist. Garmentmaker glides after them without a word, tablet spinning lazily beside them, every step as serene as it is otherworldly. Just like that, you’re left standing in a rare pocket of silence at the edge of the dispersing group.

Until—

“You coming?”

You glance up. Phainon’s already a few steps away, Castorice beside him, her blouse catching the breeze like something out of a magazine shoot. He’s looking over his shoulder at you, one hand casually tucked in his pocket.

“We were thinking of checking out the temple district,” he says. “Apparently one of the priests only speaks in riddles.”

You blink. “Wait, actual riddles?”

Castorice’s smile is easy, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “The cryptic, needlessly poetic kind. It’s a Lethe thing.”

You hesitate for half a breath, then shrug. “Yeah, alright. Why not.”

Lethe is absurd. Half its architecture is classical marble, half neon graffiti. You pass fortune-tellers beside frozen daiquiri stalls. Women in lamé bikinis lounge beside old men reading epics aloud on street corners. The air smells like citrus and incense and something archaic.

By the time you reach the temple, you’re sweating through your tank top, clutching a paper fan from a stall labeled Cooler Than Thou.

The temple itself is a hush of cool stone and shadows. The so-called riddle-priest waits on a raised dais, draped in a shawl of peacock feathers and wearing mirrored sunglasses that reflect the whole room back at you. Somehow, they radiate gravity and absurdity in equal measure.

Phainon volunteers first.

The priest inclines their head. “A path you seek, yet stand in place. What moves not, yet takes you far?”

Phainon pauses. “Memory?”

A slow smile. “Accepted.”

Castorice steps forward next.

“You have me now, though not before. A key to locks, a cost to more.”

She hums for only a moment. “Experience.”

“Accepted.”

Then it’s your turn.

You step forward, palms a little clammy on the fan’s cheap plastic handle, and the priest looks at you like they already know every answer you might give, and every question you haven’t admitted to yet.

“A bridge I build not, yet I cross. I linger only where you look.”

You freeze.

For the smallest sliver of time, you’re not in the temple at all. You’re back in the dim golden haze of the Carmitis hotel room. Mydei’s eyes are on you—amber catching low light, his hand hovering just barely over the curve of your knee. That pause between heartbeats. That sense of almost. Not a kiss, but close enough to burn like one.

Your breath catches.

“…A thought,” you murmur.

The priest bows low. “Accepted.”

Later, you find yourselves perched on temple steps, sipping neon drinks from hollowed-out lychees. The Lethe skyline glows faintly rose-gold in the distance. Phainon’s doodling something in the corner of a map. Castorice has her chin on her hand, watching the crowd drift past like tide foam.

You exhale. “Okay, that was weirdly existential for a daytime activity.”

“Mm.” Castorice hums. “That’s Lethe. The longer you’re here, the less you know if you’re dreaming or reminiscing.”

You don’t say it, but you feel it—that slippage between memory and moment. Between that hotel room in Carmitis and the faint touch of golden eyes across a wine-soaked haze.

Somewhere across the island, Cipher is probably bribing a street vendor for an authentic peacock feather fan. Anaxa’s likely watching with half-lidded boredom while Garmentmaker documents the chaos, snapping a photo every five steps. You like to imagine Tribbios and Aglaea are letting themselves have a little fun too before everything shifts back into gear tomorrow.

Mydei’s nowhere in sight.

For now.

The sun bleeds low over the horizon by the time you’re back at the hotel. Your skin smells like stone and sun, and your feet ache in that oddly satisfying way—proof you were alive somewhere interesting. The others filter in with various souvenirs: temple charms, mystery bruises, melting popsicles.

Right on schedule, the private beach party unspools beneath a sky rinsed in pink and lavender. String lights loop from palm to palm.

Everyone looks a little too good. Which is to say: perfectly Lethean.

You arrive with the others in staggered pairs and groups, dressed to match the heat. Somewhere down the shore, Cipher is doing cartwheels in the surf while Anaxa stands with his arms crossed like a chaperone from a gothic novel. Garmentmaker’s already dancing with a crew of avant-garde performance artists in strobe-lit body paint.

There are faces you recognize immediately. Chart-toppers, cult favorites, artists you used to stream at 2AM in your bedroom. Some you never thought you’d see in the wild. But the one who draws your eye most effortlessly is her.

Thalia.

Lethe’s hometown icon, synth-pop darling, and unapologetic glitterstorm in human form. She’s draped across a beach lounger like it’s her rightful throne—sunkissed legs crossed, rhinestone-framed sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose, a high braided ponytail flicking with every turn of her head. The kind of beautiful that looks staged even when it isn’t.

A handful of other artists orbit her, laughing too loud at stories you can’t hear. You spot three names from the festival roster among them, nodding along like she’s reading the stars.

The band begins to splinter off eventually, like light hitting a prism.

You sip something peach-colored and questionably alcoholic, drifting from group to group. The music is good, the ocean breeze better. Someone compliments your outfit; someone else tries to guess what band you’re in or if you’re an up-and-coming solo act. You don’t mind either. For a moment, it’s easy to just be—a body in motion, part of the pulse.

Then you feel it.

It starts as a flicker at the edge of your awareness, something quiet but undeniable, like gravity shifting beneath your feet.

You turn, and he’s just... there.

Mydei stands at the edge of the crowd like the universe pulled back a curtain just for him. His linen shirt is unbuttoned halfway down, ocean breeze catching the hem and fluttering it around his waist. But it’s the tattoos that strike you like a match.

They’re sprawling. Red ink, the shade of fresh embers, winding from his shoulder across the hard plane of his chest and down both arms. Ornamental and sharp-edged, they curl like flame and bloom like battle scars. You wonder, for one irrational heartbeat, if they burn when he’s angry.

Then there’s his face.

Hair windswept. Golden eyes locked on you like they’ve found the answer to something that’s evaded them for years. He’s not smiling, exactly, but there’s a pull at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t push through the crowd. Somehow, people part without realizing it, until he’s in front of you, close enough that your breath hitches.

“You looked like you were trying not to be found,” he says.

You laugh quietly. “Was I?”

He tilts his head. “If you were, you’re terrible at it.”

Gods, he’s beautiful up close.

“So,” you murmur, “are you checking in on me? Or did you just get bored?”

“No. I just got curious,” he says, gaze still locked to yours.

Before you can ask what that means, a new voice slices into the space between you.

“Oh hell, you two are even prettier up close.”

You blink, caught off guard. But when you turn to face who it is—

It’s Thalia.

The synth-pop goddess herself, holding a drink garnished with something bright and sugary. Her braid swings as she plants herself beside you, sunglasses pushed to her forehead and eyes full of something you can’t name.

You open your mouth, half a greeting, half a question, but she speaks first.

“I’m not trying to crash,” Thalia says, holding up her hands. “I was actually looking for Aglaea. We’ve worked together a few times. Strict, terrifying, brilliant? That one?”

“Uh,” you manage. “She’s probably inside.”

Thalia hums. “Of course she is. Anyway! The Flamechasers, huh? Didn’t know you were all so unreasonably hot in real life. I’m kind of a big fan.”

You laugh in disbelief. “Seriously?”

She grins, then taps her phone awake and flips it around. There, clear as day, is the last thing you ever expected to see.

Flamescapes.

Your old fan account.

The carefully captioned photos, the dissected lyrics, the theories that caught fire in the comments. The username you buried when you joined the band. It all rushes back like a storm surge, and your mind isn’t sufficiently barricaded.

Your lungs forget how to pull air, but Thalia beams like she’s just shared a fun little secret.

“I’ve had notifs on for years,” she says, all sparkle and sincerity. “Best account for anything Flamechasers. Whoever runs this? Genius. Like they see things no one else does.”

You feel something seize in your chest. Then twist. Then splinter. The background noise distorts, laughter smears into static. Thalia’s perfume turns cloying. The heat bears down harder as your fingers twitch at your sides, desperate for something to grip.

Beside you, Mydei lingers like a presence you just can’t filter out.

You don’t meet his gaze—you can’t—but you feel the air shift, the way it always does when he’s focused on you. As if he’s picked up on every frayed edge you’re trying to hide.

You force a smile. “Yeah,” you say, tight and paper-thin. “I’ve… heard of them.”

Thalia pouts. “I was supposed to go to the Okhema stop, but it sold out in five minutes. Five. Aglaea wouldn’t even pull some strings for me. Can you believe that?” She flicks her braid over her shoulder with a huff. “So when I heard you were playing for Mnemosyne? I was ecstatic. Plus, you’ve been making waves lately, haven’t you, Diana?”

You nod. You smile again. You lie with your eyes.

But Mydei sees the cracks.

He’s been still at your side this whole time, but now his gaze ticks toward you, calm but alert. He doesn’t say anything right away, just watches you without pressing, and in the pause between Thalia’s last word and your answer, he leans ever so slightly closer.

“Want to get some air?” he says, gently. A soft out, offered like a secret.

You blink, and it’s like the noise catches up all at once. “Just a sec,” you say, somehow managing a smile. “Sorry, I—one moment.”

Thalia barely notices, already caught in another conversation. “Sure, babe! I’ll be right here!”

And then you’re moving. Mydei walks beside you, not too close, not too far, cutting through the crowd with easy steps that people naturally make space for. He doesn’t touch your elbow or press a hand to your back. He just makes room. By the time you’ve stepped into the quieter curve of a colonnade, the shadows cool your skin. You pull in a breath that doesn’t catch halfway.

Still buzzing, still overheated, but much clearer.

He waits until the silence stretches comfortably, then glances at you.

“You looked like you needed an exit.”

You nod, exhale slowly. “Thanks.”

The quiet that follows is softer now. Quieter in your chest, too. The chaos feels like it’s behind a pane of glass. You lean a little against the cool stone behind you, letting the salt air thread through your hair. Then Mydei glances sideways, casual but with a thread of thought behind it.

“Do you want to go for a swim?”

“What, now?”

He shrugs. “It’s Lethe. Time doesn’t really apply here.”

You smile despite yourself. “The sea’s probably rough. High tide.”

“There’s a pool,” he offers, tone easy. “Mine’s private.”

You stare at him for a beat. “You got a suite with a private pool?”

“Guess they liked my face.”

You scoff, pretending to be betrayed. “So that’s where the budget went.”

“I’ll let you borrow it,” he says. “Limited-time offer.”

There’s a beat where you should laugh, or tease him back, but you just watch him. He’s not pushing, not even leaning in. Just offering, like he has been all night. Still, as you murmur, “Alright. Why not,” there’s a quiet twist in your stomach that doesn’t come from nerves.

You wonder, without wanting to, if this will end where you think it might.

If he is thinking about that too.

If you’d stop him.

You don’t have the answers. But you follow him anyway.

Mydei’s suite is bigger than it has any right to be.

Sleek walls bathed in soft gold light, a minibar that could pass for a full kitchen, and floor-to-ceiling glass that folds open onto a private pool glowing faintly under the Lethean moonlight.

You’re in the water now, floating with your arms lazily outstretched as you stare up at the sky. The salt’s long gone from your skin, replaced with the quiet lull of chlorine and soft-lit luxury. Whatever had coiled in your chest earlier is unwinding, inch by inch, tension pulled out like thread.

Inside, through the open partition, Mydei’s propped up on the couch, laptop balanced on his knees. You can hear fragments of sound every now and then—reverb, a bit of static, a clipped vocal he’s likely trying to stretch into something new.

He’s not watching you, but he’s here. Still present, still easy in his body, but tuned into something else. Something that sounds like warmth, if you had to name it.

The part of you that walked here wondering if this night would turn into something else—the part that imagined steam and lips and skin—has gone quiet now. Not because the idea’s disappeared, but because he’s shown you something else instead.

He noticed you needed out. He gave it to you without a question.

Now he’s in his own little world, looping chords and catching melodies like fireflies, like maybe he’s trying to make something soft enough that it’ll reach you without asking why you needed it. That makes the guilt punch harder. You sink a little deeper into the pool, eyes closing briefly against the burn behind them.

Mydei doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know it was you. That the account Thalia flashed like a fan badge of honor was your second skin for years. That you lived and breathed his band long before you ever stood on their stage. That every lyric you used to decode, every candid you posted, every piece of art you uploaded at 3AM was a shrine to this—to him.

He’s sitting there, completely unaware, just trying to make you feel better.

You turn onto your back again, arms floating wide, as if the water could hold more than your body.

If you tell him, you don’t know what it’ll break. But not telling him at all?

That’s starting to hurt too.

You don’t notice the soft shuffle of bare feet across the deck. Your mind’s tangled in its own shadows—guilt gnawing quietly beneath the surface—when the water beside you stirs gently, not from your own movement.

Then—

A soft clink on the side table. A warm, calming scent curls through the night air.

Mydei crouches by the pool’s edge, setting down a small tray with careful hands. Two delicate porcelain cups, steam still rising in thin tendrils. A shallow dish of fresh-cut fruit, each piece skewered with quiet care. Biscuits arranged with almost embarrassing precision.

Your eyes flicker briefly to the absence of his shirt, revealing the strong lines of his torso and the tattoos etched across his skin, but you barely register it.

“You looked like you hadn’t eaten,” he says, almost sheepish. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I just guessed off the room service menu. Hope chamomile isn’t too boring.”

You blink once. Twice. Your heart stutters in a way that has nothing to do with panic this time.

“I didn’t even hear you—”

He gives you a look. “You were somewhere else.”

You don’t deny it. Instead, you drift closer to the edge as he straightens, placing his laptop on a small table by the lounger. With a few taps, music spills into the quiet: a low, beatless blend of synth and strings, ambient and soft. The kind of thing that would normally play in some high-end spa, but here, it just feels thoughtful.

Mydei dips his feet into the water, one knee bent casually as he leans back on his hands.

You prop your chin on your arms at the edge of the pool and stare up at him, heart feeling heavy and oddly full all at once.

“You’re being really nice,” you say, quiet.

He glances down at you, one brow raised. “Is that a crime?”

“No. I just didn’t expect it.”

“Didn’t think I had expectations to live up to.”

There it is again. That calm intuition of his that doesn’t pry but always seems to hit close enough that you flinch. Mydei doesn’t press or try to unravel you and what happened during that conversation with Thalia. He’s simply making space. Offering warmth without asking for anything in return.

You curl your fingers around the edge of the pool and smile faintly.

“Chamomile’s not too boring,” you say. “It’s perfect.”

He doesn’t answer, but he does smile back. Then, he leans closer to pluck one of the skewers, handing it down to you like this is normal.

But you don’t feel normal at all.

You chew slowly, the fruit sweet against your tongue, and watch the way the ambient light plays across his profile. There’s a calmness to him here, under the low glow of the moonlight, face half-shadowed, eyes soft. The same hands that wrote half of Heaven on the Horizon rest open beside him, steady and warm.

The silence should be awkward. But it’s not.

It’s safe.

“Are you always like this when someone’s freaking out?” you ask lightly. “Or is this special treatment?”

He gives a small laugh. “Only when I don’t know why they’re freaking out.”

You almost flinch. He doesn’t say it like an accusation, more like a soft truth laid out in the open. Mydei doesn’t press—he never does—but the silence that follows settles beneath your sternum and stays there. You glance at the laptop’s idle screen, noticing the way he hasn’t touched it since you started talking.

Your voice is quieter when you ask, “You were close to him, weren’t you?”

He doesn’t pretend not to know who you mean.

“Hephaestion,” Mydei says. “Yeah. I was.”

Something in his voice shifts—just a fraction, but it pulls your chest tight. You can feel it coming now, and maybe that’s why your stomach’s already twisting.

“Do you want to know?” he asks quietly. Level and honest.

You don’t answer right away, but you nod.

Maybe it’s time someone told you the entire story, not just fragmented half-truths.

“Do you ever talk to him?”

“Sometimes. Not often.” He leans back in his chair, eyes still on the horizon. “Things got messy. Not between us, exactly. But… label pressure, timing, everything else.”

You stay quiet. Let him choose the pace.

“He didn’t leave because of the fights. Or because he hated where the sound was going.” Mydei finally glances at you. “Caenis told him to end it. His relationship with his girlfriend. Most of the execs said it was bad for our image. That it would mess with the trajectory we were building.”

A bitter little breath escapes him, it almost sounds like a laugh.

“He didn’t. When she got pregnant, the label wanted it covered up, wanted him to walk away, and he told them to go to hell.”

There’s no drama in the way he says it. No fire. Just fact. You can barely breathe.

“So he left?” you ask.

Mydei nods slowly. “They made it impossible for him to stay. He knew if he kept fighting it, we’d all go down with him. So he took the hit. Walked out, gave up everything, and didn’t even ask us to back him. What Cipher accused Aglaea of in Aidonia wasn’t the entire truth. She was just as forced to watch him go as the rest of us.”

You feel the ache of it settle in your throat.

You don’t realize how tight your hands have curled until you loosen them underwater. There’s something too familiar in what he’s saying. In the secrets people carry and the cost of telling the truth. Suddenly… you understand why Mydei didn’t pester you for answers.

Because he knows what it's like to carry something that isn’t yours alone to share.

As he gathers his thoughts, you tilt your head up toward the night sky. Like some cosmic joke, however, that damn demo that brought the two of you together in the first place starts playing on his laptop. Why he has the chaotic version downloaded, you have no clue, but the moment feels to fragile for you to call him out.

Surprisingly, Mydei comments on it first.

“Before he left, Hephaestion wrote one last song. Left the lyrics in the studio like he had no plans on finishing it at all,” he tells you quietly, sinking further into the water.

“That was the original sheet we built this one from. This song.”

It sinks in slowly, like warmth spreading from a bruise.

Of course.

Of course it was this song.

No wonder you’d been able to slip into it so easily, like it already knew you. The way the lyrics opened up under your hands like they’d always belonged there…

Because it was a song about standing tall in the wreckage. About shedding shame. About no longer asking for permission to be who you are. You’d thought you were the one giving it shape. But maybe, all along, it was giving you something too. Something you didn’t know you needed. Maybe that’s why it still hits you in the chest every time you hear it.

Because Hephaestion started it, and you finished it.

Two people, years apart, writing their way toward the same truth.

“He never said goodbye,” Mydei adds quietly. “But he did leave those lyrics behind.”

Then, softer, as if the memory still stings:

“I think that was his way of saying it.”

You stretch your fingers out beneath the surface, slow and careful, like touching light through murky glass. The silence between you sharpens.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, turning just enough to see him in the corner of your vision. “For trusting me with that.”

Mydei doesn’t answer right away. He stays half-submerged beside you, arms draped along the ledge. But you catch it—the subtle dip of his head. The shift in his breathing.

“I know it probably wasn’t easy,” you add. “And you didn’t have to. But… I’m glad you did.”

He exhales, a soft ripple across the water. “You’ve never asked for anything just to be nosy. Felt like maybe you’d get it.”

And you do. You really, truly do. Not just the story or the loss that comes with it, but the silence that followed. The price of choosing someone you love when the world demands you prove your loyalty elsewhere.

You drift a little closer, not enough to touch, but enough to feel the heat of him through the cool of the water. “I didn’t know I was part of something bigger when I touched that song,” you say. “But now it feels like… I was supposed to be there. Like I was meant to hear what he left behind.”

Mydei tilts his head toward you, eyes half-lidded in the low light.

“You were,” he says. Simple. Certain. “It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

Your throat goes tight. You blink up at the sky, hoping the stars can hold the tears back.

Maybe the song saved you both.

Maybe not every inheritance is a burden.

Some are a kind of trust left behind in the dark, waiting for the right hands to carry it forward.

The silence settles again, like the world’s caught its breath along with you. But then, your phone buzzes from the edge of the pool, the sound sharp and sudden against the hush. You flinch, water rippling outward from your movement. Mydei lifts a brow as you reach for it, droplets skimming down your arm as you fumble with the screen.

TRIBBIOS.

You swipe to answer.

“Hey,” you say, still a little breathless.

“Finally.” Tribbios’ voice is all exasperation and edge. “Where are you? Do you have eyes on Mydei? He’s not answering his damn phone and Aglaea’s having a minor spiral.”

You glance at him. Still in the pool. Still right here.

He raises both hands like guilty as charged and mouths, Sorry.

“Yeah,” you say, trying not to sound like you’ve been through something tectonic. “He’s with me.”

“You’re what—” Tribbios stops herself. “Okay. Good. Just get back soon. Please. The celebratory cheers for all Mnemosyne artists is coming up soon.” Before you can answer, she adds, “And tell Mydei if he ghost-schedules one more vanishing act, I’m replacing his shampoo with glitter glue.”

Then she hangs up.

You stare at the phone for a beat.

“…Should I be worried?” Mydei asks dryly.

You shake your head. “Only if you enjoy showering.”

He huffs a laugh. And just like that, the spell breaks, but the truth stays between you anyways. You pull yourself out first, water sheeting down your skin, cool night air grazing every inch of you. You pause just long enough to shake the water from your hair before noticing—

Mydei’s gone still behind you.

He’s not being obvious about it, but his hands are braced on the edge and he’s blinking at the stone tile like it holds some deep philosophical truth. It’s only when he finally climbs out after you that it occurs to you:

He is very deliberately not looking at you.

The realization catches you off-guard. You’re both used to leather and layers, always half-armored even under stage lights. But this? Bare skin, damp curves, nothing to hide behind? This is new. And judging by the tension in Mydei’s shoulders, he doesn’t know what to do with it either.

His gaze flicks up as he grabs two towels from the nearby lounge chair. He offers one out, almost too quickly. “Here. You’ll get cold.”

You reach for it, brushing his fingers in the exchange.

“Thanks,” you murmur, clutching it to your chest before starting to dry off.

But even with your back turned, you can feel him still fighting not to stare.

And truthfully?

You don’t entirely mind.

“I’m gonna go find my shirt before Tribbios sends a drone,” Mydei mutters.

You nod, wrapping the towel tighter around yourself, heart thudding with something that’s not quite leftover emotion. As he walks away, damp hair sticking to the curve of his neck and towel slung haphazardly over one shoulder, you wonder—

Just how much longer can you pretend the water between you is purely metaphorical?

TRACKLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

#honkai star rail #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #mydei x reader #mydei hsr #mydei x you #mydei #cryoculus

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