#this is a slow burn if you hadnt already guessed

[saatoruus]

summary ⭑.ᐟ beach episode gojo ... youve been out in the heat all afternoon n the sight of you licking and lapping at an icecream be brought you had his patience snapping ...

wc. 1.1k

warnings ! fem!reader, needy gojo, dirty talk, lovedrunk, sloppy kissing, throating a popsicle, no sex but filth ! mdni

a.n ´ˎ˗ super loosely proofread, i got so carried away brah.. ignore any shitty formatting and or wording i am sotired LMFAO this was supposed to be shorttttt and an icebreaker !!! this man is plaguing my mind orz reqs open sooonn !

satoru was always so attentive, even before becoming your boyfriend. he loved being your little lapdog, fawning and doting, offering whatever he thought you might've needed in that moment; in this case, being an outstretched milkpop, fresh out the wrapper.

one thing you had picked up on insanely quickly was satorus fragile resolve at anything visual - the mere sight of you often times had him unable to pull his eyes off your soft features and dick perked in his pants; those hips he had held bruisingly tight more than a hundred times, the gentle curve of your waist up into the swell of your breasts. it really didnt matter what you were wearing, he was lovedrunk off you at all times, anywhere.

this however meant when you wore things intended to show skin, he was like a drooling, greedy animal that hadnt had the pleasure of a meal in days.

satoru had been desperately trying to keep his wandering eyes on anything but how your ass looked in the tiny little bikini thong all day at their sweet summer outing to the beach, your choice of bikini leaving extremely little to his imagination. the subtle bounce of the girls—your breasts, which he loved so dearly—every time you laughed or moved had him reeling and adjusting his hard length in his trunks whenever he had the fleeting chance, the aching in his groin ever-present.

he had been in the ocean for a majority of the time in fruitless attempts to keep his horny brain from your sweet form, wet white hair sticking to his forehead every time he deemed his thoughts.. mostly appropriate enough to return beneath the parasol with you, never for long. he had been having real trouble all day resisting the urge to flip you over into the towel and rail the fuck out of you, or perhaps crawl over your face-down sunbathing form; his desperate, greedy dick pressing at the bikini thong covering your dripping hole. this was a private beach, after all, rented by mr. gojo himself for your shared holiday, it wasn't like anybody was around to drink up the needy sounds and whines youd let out other than him.

the sweet treat was already beginning to bead and melt at the bottom due to the heat, urging attention as you took it, that knowing arch of your brow more than evident in the grinning face of satoru; who was sat on the other end of your towel in his trunks, sunglasses perched down his nose as he peeked over em, clearly eager to get a glimpse at your sweet tongue lapping up and enjoying the icecream. he was still slightly damp from his most recent retreat into the waves at a particularly vivid thought of you laid out nude beneath him. the gesture was truly too calculated, your favourite brand of milkpop in your hand. vanilla, despite you liking the strawberry one more... could've guessed why he chose that one out of the three flavours.

if it was a little show he yearned for so desperately, it wouldn't hurt to tease just a little.. those bottomless blue eyes were practically sparkling in the dim shade of the parasol overhead, gleaming and burning into your face as lips parted; tongue trailed out along the underside of the milkpop as it found its agonizingly slow way over the soft muscle and further delving into the warm wet of tight throat. stray drips of melted icecream were pooling at the corners of your mouth, caused in combination by the suns heat and the unmistakable one, near equal, emanating from your parted lips; making his heart thud heavily against his ribs in restraint to keep his own lips off the dripping mess down your chin.

the display had his jaw in the sand, massive eyes zeroed in on the way your pink muscle chased along after the sweet cream-coloured liquid at your lip. the frazzled, red-cheeked face before you coaxing a triumphant grin over your features despite the determination to remain steely. he was just so eager.. like a little white puppy waiting for a treat being tossed his way.

clearly, the nonchalant act wasnt going well, nor getting him far whatsoever. especially not currently, judging by how you took the milkpop fully in before him, making his white brow quirk in annoyance and aching need to claim that throat for the umpteenth time. it should've been him!

"baby, y'know ah.. if you really wanted to cool down.." he started, pink blush creeping up his pale neck and into his face all afternoon, tenfold next to you. heere we go.. that hand on your hip, thumb rubbing mindless circles into the warm sunkissed skin there, his grin flashing and low eyes searching the expanse of your body; soft skin finally within his grasp after he held off so long, so long.

that lovedrunk look on his face told you everything you needed to know, a mirrored grin on your face as the agonising bridge between you was bridged; half-melted icecream retrieved by his large hand as gojo finished it off for you, leaning to share the sweetness of the treat, tongues cold—not for long, pressed together greedily.

satoru kissed you like you were his life essence, leaning impossibly close to drink up anything and everything you'd give him, two pairs of soft lips pressed up sweetly; he practically tied your tongues together in his eagerness, both hands tugging you closer by the hips - a huff of breath.

—snap !

it wasn't long at all before your bikini had been tugged off with ease, the center string connecting the two small triangles of pink fabric broken in his hastily fierce grip, greedy mouth leaving yours to travel down across whatever patch he could reach—far too desperate to feel you around his begging cock to think straight; hungry lips sucking brief, fleeting little marks into the valley of your breasts and down your front until the inside of your knees were hooked over his shoulders.

"you got someth'n way sweeter f'me, pretty girl.." and his breath huffed out hotly over your thinly veiled core with each word, panting like a hungry dog at your entrance, his eyes trained on the unmistakable growing damp spot beckoning him from beneath the fabric, that broad grin spreading across his face, the one you loved. "can't take the teasin'.. y'know that, sweetpea.. m'gonna ruin this pretty pussy for keepin' me waiting.."

you likely wouldn't be heading inside out of the heat anytime soon ... hopefully you'd be able to walk by that time—though knowing your boyfriend, he'd have to carry you like always .

© saatoruus ! do not repost, translate, plagiarize or use my work anywhere

[ipromiseicanexplain]

Until I Found You - Chapter 2

Notes: darkiplier x reader, getting into it now ;) but very slowly

TW: guns, violence, blood

Wilford wanted to throw you a party. Something about celebrating how you’re at the manor now, finally. He had written out invitations for everyone that said that the party started at 5 pm. You spent most of the day in your room, as you hadn’t gotten used to the new situation you were in yet. Eventually, your stomach grumbled, forcing you to go downstairs in search of food. There were what seemed like thousands of balloons tied to the bannister. You ran your fingers through the strings of the groups of balloons that were tied, watching them bounce into each other as you moved them. Once you got downstairs you saw that there were even more decorations, just everywhere. Streamers, balloons, anything you could think of. Wilford was already down there setting up a table in the middle of the living room.

“Y/N! You’re the only person that’s come down to enjoy the party so far.”

“It’s like 2 pm, the invitations did say 5. I was coming down to grab some food,” you replied.

“Well perfect! I have a bunch of food right here!”

“Oh no, this is your food for the party, I couldn’t-” you were cut off by endless amounts of food being put in your hands. You sat eating with Wilford for about an hour. He told you all of his plans for the party. You helped him set up a few more decorations (not that you thought he needed more, but you didn’t tell him that).

After that was done, he left you downstairs and started collecting the other egos and brought them down into the living room. Dr Iplier and The Host looked the most uncomfortable and they sat together talking quietly. The Jim’s were documenting the occasion. Yancy and Illinois were bickering over what music should be played. Yancy wanted some show tunes while Illinois wanted some soft jazz. Wilford walked in wearing a pink satin shirt, and took the controls from both of them and played some 80s disco music.

He walked over to you and asked you to get Darkiplier from up in his study. You walked up the stairs, hitting the balloon strings back on the way up. You walked down the long hallway and knocked on the door to his study. He told you to come in. You slowly opened the door and entered the room. On the right side of the room, there was a dark wooden desk he was sitting at with a couple of leather seats opposite him. On the left side of the room in front of the door there was a small round table and a few tall bookshelves filled with books. They all looked old but well kept and you wondered what stories they were filled with. You look back to his desk and found him looking up at you. You realised you hadn’t spoken since you’d been let into the room. You shook your head trying to shake the embarrassment off.

“Oh, Wilford asked me to get you to come downstairs.” Darkiplier sighed.

“I see. I’ve already told him multiple times that I have too much work to do.”

“Oh- sorry. I- I didn’t know, I’ll just go then” You started to close the door and head back outside when Darkiplier started speaking again.

“You were looking at my bookshelves?”

“Uh, yeah, it's- you have a lot of books,” You said as you opened the door again. He chuckled.

“That I do. Do you enjoy reading?”

“Yeah. I love reading. Do you mind if I-” you trailed off, gesturing to the bookshelf. “Not at all.”

You stepped fully back into the room and closed the door. You walked closer to the bookshelves as he stood up from his desk. You ran your fingers through the air in front of the books, slightly afraid to touch them. You skimmed through the titles. He had all sorts of books in here, there would be something for everyone.

“You can borrow a couple if you’d like” You jumped. You’d sort of forgotten that he was there.

“Really?” You stayed a few minutes longer to pick out a couple of the books you thought you would like. You were just about to thank Darkiplier and leave him to go back to the party downstairs when you heard a smash from downstairs followed by some gunshots.

Darkiplier turned his head toward the door at the sound and brushed past you. You placed the books on the edge of the table and followed him. You caught up to him at the top of the staircase but he put his arm out to stop you from heading down.

“No, you’re staying up here.”

“But, what if-”

“Stay. Here.” He took a moment to give you a short look to let you know he was serious. You stayed in the hallway pacing, fearing that someone had gotten hurt. You couldn’t take it anymore, and you made your way downstairs. You got to the doorway of the living room to see Wilford shoot someone a couple of times before wiggling his gun at their dead body.

“It’s rude to turn up uninvited to a party.” You glanced around the room, scanning everyone. It seemed like no one had gotten hurt, no one except the intruders of course.

“And now look what you’ve done to our carpet,” Wilford continued. You noticed the red starting to stain the white fluffy carpet. Darkiplier turned to look at Wilford and noticed you standing in the doorway.

“I told you to stay upstairs.”

After the short lecture Darkiplier gave you, you went back upstairs and went straight to bed. You couldn’t sleep. Too many questions filled your mind. Who were these people? What did they want from me? How did they know where I was? It dawned on you that staying here might put everyone else in danger. Especially if these intrusions were a common occurrence.

[rowanwhitethornisbae]

Liabilities Chapter 4

A/N: Sorry for taking so long for this next update!! Warnings for this are the same as all other chapters. Beware this is heavy chapter! I promise it pretty much goes completely uphill from here. 

liabilities masterlist

Rowan Whitethorn had never been this bored in his entire life. Or at least since 8 o clock, when Aelin had kissed his cheek and abandoned him to suffer through calculus all alone. She had been bouncing on her toes all morning, nervous beyond belief about seeing Lorcan for the first time since they'd slept together. Rowan had tried to calm her nerves while simaltaneously trying not to vomit and the thought of his two friends doing ... well that.

Now, he was sitting in the back of Mr. Faliq's class, doodling aimlessly on the front of his textbook. Math had never been Rowan's best subject anyway. Infact, the only reason he'd taken it was so that he and Aelin might have at least one class together. With her wanting to be a doctor and him wanting to be a lawyer, their senior year courses didnt exactly cross over. Unfourtunately, it hadnt worked out, and Rowan had a whole semester to suffer through whatever this was without his best friend beside him.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, the bell to signal the end of first period sounded throughout the room. Rowan was out of his seat and across the room before the rest of class had even begun packing their books. Once he was out in the hallway, he felt like he could finally breathe again. Rowan really needed to think about dropping that course, he'd even take art at this point. An image popped into his head of the last thing he'd tried to paint, a picture for Aelin that had turned into more of a brown blob than anything. Laughing, he walked down the hall towards Aelin's class. Students were beginning to pour out of classrooms and he spotted his friends down the hall.

They were standing by Lorcan's locker, the tall male leaning his head against the wall. He looked positively miserable as he toyed with the strap of his bag, doing practicaly anything to avoid Aelin's gaze. Still, she was looking right at him, gesturing wildly with her hands. Rowan hung back for a moment to watch, not wanting to interupt. After a few more seconds of talking to no one, Aelin socked Lorcan in the arm. Rowan could almost here him groan as he finally looked down at Aelin. She looked relieved as she launched into speaking all over again. When she was done, Aelin paused, apprehension shining in her eyes. Lorcan hesitated a moment before sighing and folding her into his arms. Her shoulders slumped with relief as she hugged him back. When they finally pulled away, Aelin was positively beaming and Rowan couldn't hold back the smile that tugged at his lips in response.

Still smiling, Aelin grabbed Lorcan's hand and pulled him down the hall towards Rowan. Just before they got withing hearing distance Aelin said something to Lorcan that made his head tip back in laughter. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they reached Rowan.

They stopped infront of him and Lorcan looked up at Rowan slowly. Aelin surveyed the two males tentatively, as if preparing to seperate a fight.

"Hey." Lorcan said at last, his low voice rougher than normal.

"Hey." Rowan replied, nodding his head slightly.

Just as the silence became unbearably thick, a cheerful voice broke through the haze.

"Hey guys." Fenrys said, throwing his arm around Aelin. "I haven't seen any of you since the party, how were your weekends?"

"Totally normal." Aelin blurted at the same time that Lorcan said. "Nothing special."

Fenrys brows narrowed but he didnt push it. "Um okay. What about you Rowan?"

"Shitty." He admitted, avoiding anyone but Fenrys' gaze.

"Aw sorry about that man. I saw you leave the party alone, that sucks. It's been a while since you got laid huh."

Rowan couldnt stop the blush forming. "Uh yeah I dont know, I guess it depends on your definition of a while."

"Wasn't the last one Remelle?" Fenrys asked. Gods sometimes he just wanted to punch Fenrys out.

"Remelle." Aelin blurted. "Rowan that was all the way back in July. Its been like three months."

He was definetly blushing now. Remelle had been his last failed attempt at getting over his being in love with Aelin. He’d thrown up as soon as he’d left their room and from that moment on just touching other women had made him feel slightly nauseous. 

“Yeah well I just haven't really clicked with anyone since I guess.” He stumbled over his words. Lorcan was shooting him a knowing look that Rowan pointedly ignored. 

“Whatever.” Fenrys said shrugging. “Where’d you two disappear off too. I could've used some help with clean up.” 

Instantly all three of them looked down at their shoes, shoulders tensed. After a few seconds of awkward silence, Rowan decided to put everyone out of their miseries. 

“They fucked.” He said, his voice carefully exempt of any emotion. 

Fenrys mouth fell wide open. “What.” He paused. “Um Wha- How?” At last he sighed. “WHAT THE ABSOLUTE FUCK.” He half yelled. 

A few freshman walking by giggled and scurried down the hall. 

“Well we were both drunk and not really thinking and somehow we ended up in his bed. But we’re good now so let’s just all forget it ever happened okay?” The plea in Aelin’s voice tightened something in Rowan’s chest. 

Fenrys, who was still staring at Lorcan, his jaw practically on the floor, said nothing. Lorcan swore under his breath and grabbed Fenrys, dragging him down the hall away from Aelin and Rowan. Good, let Lorcan deal with his best friend and Rowan would deal with his. 

They walked down the hall in silence for a few seconds. Rowan fought to hold back everything he wanted to say. He could feel their friendship slowly falling apart, like a burning house. Yet he couldn't say or do anything out of fear that the whole thing would come crumbling down with one wrong touch. Instead, he allowed himself to focus on the pattern of footsteps against the school tile floor. He watched Aelin’s hands swing back and forth, shaking violently. 

“Aelin are you okay?” He asked tentatively. 

She jerked her head towards him, then down to her hands, and then back up again. Eyes still on him, she pulled her sweater down to cover her shaking hands. 

“Um yeah its just... well I stopped the drugs and everything very suddenly and it’s a little hard on my body.” 

“How hard.” He asked, concern shining in his bright green eyes. 

“Most people phase out of the shit I did slowly. Stopping it all at once is hard.” 

“That’s not what I asked.” He didn't raise his voice but his tone was firm in the way that demanded answers. 

She took a long breath in through her nose. “Some vomiting, cold chills and sweating, a pounding headache, shaking, a couple fucked up dreams.” 

“So you’re in withdrawal.” 

“Yeah from like three different things at once.” Aelin let out a small laugh, as if this was all funny for her. 

“Do you want me to take you home?” He offered. 

“What no.” She rolled her ankle around in a circle. “I’ll see you at lunch.” 

Then she was gone. 

----------------------

Rowan Whitehorn had thought calculus was the worst class he’d have to suffer through. French, made that course look like a fucking summer breeze. Honestly this class wouldn't even have been that hard if he could speak the language at all. Aelin and him had always wanted to go backpacking through Europe, so when he said he couldn't speak French, she practically signed him up herself. 

“Rowan.” A voice snapped him out of his daze. The principal was standing in the class doorway, panting, as if she’d ran here. The look in her eyes made Rowan’s heart lurch forward in his chest. 

“Yeah,” He said, already walking towards her. 

“Come with me.” Then they were walking swiftly down the hall.

“What’s going on?” A part of him didn't really want an answer. 

The principal swallowed and began jogging down the hall. “It’s Aelin.” 

A part of him had already known. Had wanted it to be false, but known all the same. Still, it didn't stop the panic that seized him so completely, had him practically running down the halls now, feed sliding on the freshly cleaned tile. 

The rounded the corner and Rowan stopped dead on his feet. There, sitting against the wall just outside her art classroom, was Aelin. Her arms were wrapped around her petite frame, as if she could hold herself together. She was shaking uncontrollably, her head buried in her knees. Even from a few metres away, Rowan could hear how she tried and failed to gulp down air. There were no tears on her face, just blind panic. Fenrys was kneeling in front of her, a panicked expression on his face and he tried to calm her down. 

Rowan ignore the small puddle of vomit on the floor as he pushed Fenrys away and kneeled before Aelin. He was close enough now to hear her muttering something, words he couldn't decipher. 

Ever so carefully, he grabbed her violently seizing wrists and pried them from her knees. Her hands were freezing cold, and Rowan resisted the urge to drop them. Instead, he covered them with his own and waited for her to look at him. 

“Aelin” He said softly, failing to hide the pain in his voice. “Look at me love.” 

She didn't. Some of the shaking in her hands had ceased though, becoming more tremors than anything. 

“Aelin everything is going to be okay. I can help you alright. I just need you to look at me.” 

Slowly, so slow that he felt as though time itself had been warped, she lifted those blue eyes to his own. He stared at her broken face, letting her know that he saw every part of her and was not afraid. 

“Just breathe with me.” He took one of her hands and placed it against his chest. “Just like this.” 

He inhaled slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. After a brief second of hesitation, Aelin did the same. 

“Good.” He murmured softly, and repeated the action. “You’re doing so good.” 

He continued to breathe in and out until Aelin’s own breath had steadied. Even then, he refused to remove her hand from his chest. 

At long last, she spoke. “I don't know what happened.” The words came out scratchy. “One second I was painting, green flowers like your eyes. Then someone spilled red paint on the floor. It looked like blood Rowan. Like his blood all over the tile. Suddenly the walls started closing in and I couldn't breathe. There was blood everywhere and he was dying all over again and I just couldn't fucking breathe.” A strangled cry broke from her lips on the last words. 

“We’re going to go home now okay? I’m going to take you home.” He paused to weigh her reaction. She tried to stand up but her legs were shaking so much that it didn't work. Instead, she collapsed back down withe another small broke sob. Rowan’s fucking heart was shattering. 

“Can I pick you up?” He asked. Her small nod was answer enough. Leaning down, he curled one arm under her legs and the other below her neck. Still shaking slightly, she buried her head in his chest, as if hiding from the rest of the world. 

The principal was still staring at them in shock. Fenrys must've gone to get Lorcan who was now watching Rowan and Aelin with pure devastation on his face. “We’ll be by later.” Lorcan said as they passed. 

“Alright.” 

When they reached Rowan’s car, he placed Aelin in the passenger seat before climbing in as well. 

“Thank you.” Her words carried some of that fearless strength and determination he’d missed. “For everything. You have no idea what it means to me. I honestly don't think i’d still be here without you Ro.”

“Anytime.” He tried not to focus on the deja vu of this situation. Tried and failed to forget that it was barely two days ago when he’d placed a shaking Aelin in the front seat of his car. He was always saving her, not that he had minded much before. But now, as they pulled out of the parking lot, Rowan wondered if maybe there was more out there.

--------

tags: 

@queen-of-glass

@courtofjurdan

@fictional-horan

@bamchickawowow

[quillsareswords]

Coping

Damian Wayne

(angst)

Vampire Reader, because I have a problem.

Coven: for all purporses of this fic, a Vampire coven is an organized underground society of Vampires. Often take pleasure/amuse themselves by partaking in violent and cruel acts toward Humans.

WARNING: USE OF UNIDENTIFIED DRUG AS A COPING MECHANISM (ESCAPE).

Prompt List // Masterlist (in bio)

When Bruce had told you what happened, it'd knocked the breath clean out of you.

When you'd tore off on your bike, helmet strapped on, eyes glowing a dangerous shade of red behind a dark visor, no one had moved to stop you.

When you cut all communication, they started to worry.

When the waterfall parted and the doors drew open, everyone had sucked in a breath.

You wouldn't look at them. You couldn't. Your eyes remained on the cement floor before you. Your tongue locked behind fanged teeth.

You could feel their stares. Bruce, Dick, Alfred, Barbara, Tim. All of them staring at you with horror, disappointment, and fear in their eyes. Dick's eyes were glistening with tears—you could see the shine out of your peripherals.

Your grip on the rear gasket of your helmet tightened, nails digging into the plastic. Not that it particularly mattered, anyway. The bloody crack down one side, peppered dents, and shattered visor put it beyond repair.

Heavy footsteps echoing angrily through the otherwise silent cave, you marched right through the small cluster they'd formed. You still couldn't bear to see their faces.

Bruce called out to you and stormed toward the elevator. At the wide doorway to the Medbay, Alfred waited dutifully as you passed. He would have treated the many cuts and bruises newly littering your skin, or stitched the holes in your jeans, your jacket, or your shirt, had you stopped. But you didn't.

Again, Bruce called you. He called you by a moniker you no longer deserved. This time, you could hear his boot steps gaining on your own.

Then, his hand his on your shoulder, and you're stopping abruptly to spin on your heel. You smacked his hand away, fury burning red-hot in your eyes. "Don't fucking touch me," you snarl.

His mouth hangs open for a moment. He recovers quickly. "Where is he?" He sounds breathless, and he looks tired. Terrified.

You all but leap away from his touch as he reaches to grasp your forearm. The rest of his family gather behind him, all anxious eyes and shivery hearts. You look away. Hurl your helmet across the cave with as much rage as you can pack into the motion. It shatters like glass and leaves an indentation where it hits the wall. "Gone."

Bruce let's out a breath that shakes as hard as your hands. "Gone?"

Dick braves a few steps forward. "What do you mean, gone?"

You bear your fangs and shout your answer, "Dead, you idiot!" It's angry and raw and pained. The word reverberates off the rock walls, echoing back in your ears like piercing needles.

You can't stand the look on Bruce's face, or the pain in Dick's eyes. You turn away, crossing the short distance to the elevator back up to the Manor. You punch in your code and slide in before the doors are comple open.

You should have known better. You should have been there. You should have seen this coming.

You'd warned him about that damned building at least a hundred times. You'd warned all of them. As unassuming as those dirty brown and red bricks looked, the horrors they held were beyond their pay grade.

You knew, though. You'd seen it.

It was a nest, you explained. An old, multipurpose building bought by a suspicious little group decades ago. Likely by the founder, but you weren't sure. A Coven, you'd said. Nothing to play around with.

You'd seen the spark in his eyes. A challenge. You did your best to stomp it out as quickly as you could, and you succeed. You made him promise that he'd stay away from it. And he never broke a promise to you, as cheesy as it seemed.

You had been keeping tabs on them since you'd moved to Gotham, a few years back. It was after they'd approached you, knowing you had a few strings to pull inside the circle of local vigilantes. You'd never liked Covens, but you were fairly new in town and decided that it was worth seeing how others like you acted around one another here. When you'd seen the horrors within those brick walls, you'd turned down the offer for a place among their ranks on the spot.

You should've known they'd turn their eyes on your partner. You just hadnt thought they'd be so bold.

They knew you, after all. They knew what you were capable of. That's why they invited you. They knew your power.

Or at least, now they did. With a building of bodies and blood and flames licking at those filthy bricks, you were sure they knew.

The steel doors pulled apart, a grandfather clock sliding to the side. You moved out and down the hall as quickly as you could with a new limp.

Hours later, you're locking a deadbolt to a dingy door in a dark apartment.

The first thing you did was shut off the heating. You didn't mind the cold—you hadnt since you were Turned—but Damian did. The warmth only reminded you of him.

Next, you unlaced and kicked off your boots, then tossed your jacket toward the kitchen counter on your way through the doorframe.

Then, you find yourself staring blankly into the freezer.

A to-go box, a tub of ice cream, a shelf of tofu, six ice packs, and a bottle of rum.

All of it his.

You slam the heavy door and growl. You growl, because if you don't, you'd whimper.

Finally, you're relacing your boots and marching back out to the city in a different leather jacket.

• • •

Even from across the street, the strong scent of alcohol burns your nose. Red eyes hide behind dark glasses, picking carefully through a steady stream if exiting patrons.

In such a bad part of Gotham, you aren't questioned about such dark glasses so late at night, nor your lonesome leaned against a brick wall in a dim alley.

Finally, your eyes find one man, stumbling about like a newborn fawn, dopey grin, and sloppy words spoken to the breeze.

You push off the wall and cross the slow traffic on the street.

For nearly three blocks, you tail him. Waiting for a buddy to catch up, a phone to ring. Your suspicions are confirmed when no such thing happens.

At last, he all but collapses against the cement wall of a building, obviously fighting for consciousness.

You move in.

As he begins to fall to the ground, you catch him by the collar of his shirt and swiftly haul him into the nearest alley. You slump him behind a dumpster and crouch next to him.

"Sorry bud," you grumble, ripping the collars of his coat and shirt from the base of his neck, "but I could really use a pick-me-up."

Teeth sink into flesh with a sickening noise. Blood draws immediately, spilling out just a little faster than you can drink it. You gulp it down with a desperation you haven't felt in years.

Eventually, the intoxication hits you. Your mind grows fuzzy at the edges, and thoughts become sluggish and tired.

When you've had your fill, you brace yourself against the wall for stability to stand.

You breathe deeply, taking in all the wild, horrid smells of this wretched city.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Your head turns slowly, to peer over the arm still braces against the wall. You arch an eyebrow, glasses slid lazily down your nose. Tim Grayson. No, no. That's not right. Tim. Tim Bake. Drake. Tim Drake. You snort. "What does it look like, Red?"

You can imagine the horror in his eyes as he stares at you from the other end of the corridor. His quiet for a long few seconds. "I thought you laid off the, uh . . . live feeding."

You pushed off the wall, found your balance with little difficulty, and whipped the excess blood from your mouth with the sleeve of your jacket. "Yeah. I did." You stalked closer, hands shoved deep into your pockets. "About the same time I took up the whole hero gig." You waved your hand around in a general sense, before returning it to your pocket. "For obvious reasons."

You stopped a few feet in front of him.

His grip on that bo staff loosened. The sneer of disgust at his mouth softened. You wonder if he can see it in your face.

You're both very quiet for a very long time.

Unfortunately, it didn't last. "You know," Tim started, voice timid and soft, "he really loves you." He'll be back. For you, if nothing else."

You rolled your shoulders. Shifted your gaze. That rock is awfully neat.

"Did you . . ." Your eyes meet his, briefly, before he continues. "Did you see it happen?"

And just like that, whatever buzz you've built up off drunk man's blood subsides. You go rigid again, and your hands are shaking again.

He deserves to know.

"Yeah," you whisper, voice curling like smoke in the air, but it's not in the same way Tim's breath does. "I was so close I could have touched him."

He doesn't reply.

You shrug off the chill that runs down your spine. Your eyes glow a little brighter. "Shouldn't you be patrolling?"

Tim glances back down the alley, the way he'd come. "I was. Then I heard there was some shady person hanging around a bar down the street . . . I'm guessing that was you?"

You nod.

"Right." His eyes drift back to the man slouched beside the garbage. "Is he, uh–"

"No." Liar.

He nods stiffly.

You blow a hard breath through your nose. "I'd better be on my way."

"Uh, hold on," he grabs your arm before you turn away completely, but the look you throw him has him shuffling a step or two back. "Bruce wanted me to tell you, if I saw you, that he wants to talk to you."

You roll your shoulders higher, turning back down your side of the brick passage. "Tell him to shove it," you growled.

"You aren't the only one who lost him, you know," he says suddenly.

You try hard, you really do. But in the end, you've already got him pinned to the wall. When you speak, it's dangerously low and he can't tear his eyes from yours, gleaming threats under moonlight. "You weren't there. You didn't have the chance to stop it." Your teeth were bared, pink-stained fangs on full display and you snarled. "It wasn't your fault."

Forcefully, you released him. Hands shoved back in your pockets, a silent promise to your lover lingering in the back of your mind, you stalk off again, vanishing around the corner and into the shadows.

Tim watches you go.

• • •

Your head is absolutely spinning. You feel dizzy, despite laying perfectly still on your beat up sofa. Colors and shapes swirl behind your eyelids, entertaining you easily in the silence. Your mind is numb, vague thoughts blurring around the edges.

God you love this. You'd never done drugs like this before, partly because you were young and partly because it wasn't who you were. But you needed something stronger than second-hand drinking. You couldn't keep seeing his face. You couldn't keep hearing his voice.

So here you were, half asleep on your empty, dark apartment, exactly a week after that night. You didn't know that, though. You were blissfully unaware of the date, the time, and the dimming sunlight creeping beneath and above thick, drawn curtains.

Your jacket is still half on from the night before, boots still loosely laced on your feet, one flat on the floor and the other tossed over the arm rest opposite your head.

Your lips are parted in a dopey smile, fangs only barely visible through the crack.

You jolt at the knocking.

Red eyes snap open, lips clamp shut. Colors and shapes just barely line you vision and you silently search for the source of the noise.

Your eyes hit the door, finally, and you see the shadow shifting in the crack of yellow light beneath the door.

Standing from the couch is a task of it's own, as you have to take a good minute to find your balance. Whoever it is knocks again. Boots barely leaving the floor as you cheat steps, you make your way to the door and flip the deadbolt, before you haul the door open.

Dick stands before you. His clothes are rumbled, and he looks as though he'd rather be absolutely anywhere else.

You have to squint against the buttery hallway light, using a flat hand to shield your eyes from what seems to you like a bare bulb. "What?"

He looks a little startled. You aren't sure why.

(In reality, he hadn't anticipated your eyes to be do dark around the edges with days old makeup, or your complection to look so sickly.)

Your jacket has fallen down on one side, now bunched around your elbow. You make no move to fix it, obviously leaning against the door for support.

He stammers before he answers. "Are you okay?"

You know there's a reason he's asking you. There's something big that happened, but you aren't sure what it is. Was it recent? What's it about? "Yeah?"

He blinks at you dumbly once, twice. "Really?" He runs a hand through uncombed hair. "Nobody's heard from you since the, uh . . . since last week. I thought I'd check on you." He doesn't meet your eyes.

You rest your head against the door, too. "Uh, thanks, I guess." Your eyebrows slump together.

Now his gaze flickers to yours. "Are you sure you're okay? You seem a little . . . out of it."

You nod, wood scratching your scalp. "No no, yeah, I'm totally good. Little high, is all." You shrug, as if you've said nothing out of the ordinary.

His eyes blow wide. "You–You're–? High?"

"Mhmm."

Again, he stares. "Are you serious?"

"Well," you make a face, "yeah. What do you do when you wanna, uh . . . I don't know. I had a reason, but I kind of forgot it." Your head raises from the door and you snap your fingers. "That's it! I wanted to forget something."

A blank stare hits you. His jaw is left slack by astonishment. Shock? You aren't sure.

"Anyway," you scratch the back of your head, "what did you come here for?"

This seems to rouse him from his daze, but the expression that replaces it pulls at your heart. He seems disappointed, maybe even a little sorrowed. "I, um. I wanted to check on you after what happened to Damian."

There it is.

Your mood sours immediately, stills and snipets if memories flashing through your mind like a messy animation. Your eyes hit the floor as his screams rip through your subconscious. Eyelids squeeze shut.

Your thoughts are still muddied. It feels like trying to pull something free of tar.

"(Y/N)?"

"You should leave."

"But–"

"You should leave," you repeat, eyes cracking open just enough to see his. You ignore the blurriness and the knot in your throat. "Now."

He nods silently. He understands. "I'll come back in a few days," he warns. You nod.

Your deadbolt is back in place before he's to the elevator.

Peering around the apartment, at the dark shadows lining every wall and outlining every piece if furniture, the mixed drink on the coffee table, the empty vile beside it; your press your back against the door.

Your gaze turns to the bedroom door, still closed from the night you left. You haven't had the strength to even near it.

A dim, deep red light casts odd shadows over his face, especially from where you lay beside him. His eyes look odd, too. You aren't sure if you like the way his features appear, bathed in red.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks you, eyes meeting yours in the semi-dark.

You continue to trace careful patterns into the back of his hand the nail of your middle finger, cradling it in your other palm. "Nothing worth talking about," you assure quietly. "Just you."

"Are you insinuating that I'm not worth your words?" He cracks a grin, though it's lopsided and tired. He's been out all night. The sun is coming up, and yet he's only just going to bed.

You opted to call it an early night. The shine in his eyes had you sure he needed the company.

You'd always been good and weeding out the good night's from the bad. Maybe it was just because you'd experienced them yourself, or maybe you were just more observant than you should be.

You chuckle softly. "Well obviously. Why do you think our schedules contrast do much?"

He smiles at you directly. He's silent for a moment. It's long enough that your gaze moves away from your hands and his to his eyes, to see if he's fallen asleep. You find his eyes staring deeply into yours.

"I love you so much," he states, voice all velvet and honey, every syllable dripping adoration.

You scrunch your nose. "And I love you more than the stars and the moon, but what's got you saying it now?"

You only ask because he isn't typically so forward about it. You've always had to look for it, seek it out between lines of poetry or small favors or little gifts. His love is always coded and complicated, and it's part of why you love him so dearly.

He doesn't answer you. Instead his eyes refocus on your hands. He focuses on the shapes you're drawing. He listens closely to your breathing.

He's never going to tell you that he came so close to death only two hours before hand. He'd felt the icy grip on his heart, threatening silently to freeze it completely.

You enjoy the quiet moments before you both nod off.

You tear your eyes from the door. Focus on the floor. Focus on breathing. Focus on the sound of blaring horns and roaring engines outside. Focus on anything but the laughing silence.

And laugh it does. It cackles at you, howling with a malicious roar, hell-bent on pounding the understanding into you: you're all alone now.

No one is coming for you now. No one is going to pick up the phone now. No one is going to be sliding into your bed at noon. No one is going to surprise you with hand crafted chocolates you can actually enjoy. No one is coming home.

You squeeze your eyes shut again. You can't go in there. You've been sleeping on the couch for the past week, blankets thrown over every curtain hanger to keep out the sunlight. You've done it to the entire apartment. The second bedroom, the bathrooms, the living room, the attached kitchen. You'd come to associate the sunlight with him.

From sunkissed skin to stories of life before cloudy Gotham, your mind thought sunlight and Damian was never far behind.

You can't take it.

You cross the room in a blur, picking up the glass from the table and hurling it at the opposing wall.

It shatters on impact, splattering dark red liquid down the wall and splintering glass all over the wooden floor.

• • •

Your posture slouches as you trek down a wet sidewalk. You don't know exactly where you are, which isn't the best idea, but then again, you haven't been having many of those lately. You aren't even paying attention to anything around you. Music playing through your headphones, eyes trained straight ahead.

The people around you don't spare you much attention. Some darkly dressed seventeen year old shuffling around in a hoodie is the least of anyone's concerns, this time of night. You know this. You use this.

At the sound of a particularly sharp car horn, your eyes jolt sideways, mostly out of instinct. Just some bastard too impatient to wait for the light to change.

You take the moment of broken concentration to look around some. You're a few blocks from that building, you realize.

You turn immediately. Start walking the other way, keeping your distance from the buildings and the main stream if people by walking right next to the road. Sure, you're gonna have to dodge a few street signs but–

"Josephine!"

Your eyes jump again at the shriek. Your body goes rigid, your mind recognizing the panic in the man's voice instantly after patrolling for too many years.

You haven't been out properly since that night, and you aren't sure if you ever want to out again. But those instincts never seem to leave. There's no off day once you've gotten into the swing of things.

You see it before you realize it. Across the street, a little girl, about seven or eight, with dark hair and brown skin, chasing after a robotic dog as it turns and rolls right into the road.

Before your even have the chance to regard the situation, you're charging into traffic. You hoodslide a towncar as the horn blares, and then you're leaping out if the way of a Ford. You race through the temporarily empty lane, and then you're bringing down and scooping the little girl and her toy up and ducking off the road completely.

You set her down in front of the stricken looking man, who proceeds to thank you profusely. You forge a tight lipped smile and tell him it's not a problem, that you're just happy to have been fast enough.

And once again, you're on your way.

By the time you make it home, the sun is starting to think about rising, and your playlist has cycled through twice. You unlock your door with a dry throat, a blank white plastic bag in the crook of one arm.

The room is dark when the door opens, but you smell a person the second the hallway light spills in.

You don't tense. You recognize the remaints of expensive calogne before you even get in the door. "Morning, Bruce." You lock the door behind yourself and flick on the kitchen light.

He still stands in the shadowiest part if the large room, behind the armchair by the window. "We haven't heard from you in two weeks."

"Dick came by," you stated. You kept your back to him, pretending to be too busy putting away two pints of A Positive.

You can't look at him.

You can't look at his face, especially. It's too similar.

And besides that, you already know why he's here. His son is dead, and you are the only one who knows what happened.

"That was six days ago." You hear the give in his tone. He doesn't want to talk about this any more than you do, but he has to know. He moves toward you. "You were supposed to come back. Tim said he told you."

"He did," you assure, getting a glass down from the cabinet by the refrigerator, mostly empty plastic sack in your other hand.

You hear anger seeping into his voice. "Do why didn't you?"

Hesitance. The glass is on the counter, but you aren't pouring yet. Your eyes are on the splash back in front of you.

"(H/N)–"

"Don't call me that," you growl. His steps stop. "Don't call me that."

"(Y/N)," he corrects, "I have to know what happened to my boy."

Your shoulders slump. You have to flatten your hands on the countertop to ground yourself. The bag of red liquid lays on the counter beside the glass, waiting to be poured. You stay that way for a good minute, weighting your words carefully. You reach back into the fridge, but your hand hesitates over the bottle.

Fuck it.

You grab it by the neck and twist off the cap. You half off your glass, and leave the bottle open on your counter. You open the bag and add it's contents to the glass, emptying the bag and filling the cup.

You aren't even sure you'll get a buzz off of this, but you're more than willing to try.

Bruce watches you carefully from the end if the counter on the other side.

"Drink?" you offer, holding out the bottle of rum where he can see it. It almost feels wrong, to offer up something of his so freely.

He pauses before he answers. "No."

You bob your head. Turn around. Lean against the counter. You swirl the concoction idly. You still don't look at him. You keep your gaze on the painting in the living room, through the wide gap in the wall between the counters and the cabinets.

You remember when he was still painting it.

"I told you all not to go around that place," you begin. Your voice is gravely and sharp, a hardness he hasn't heard from you in a long while guarding your words. "This is exactly why."

"What is it?"

You take a long drink. You revel in the burn it leaves. Your eyes glazed over. "A Coven nest. They gather there, live there, thrive there. It's like a church for a particular group." He crosses his arms and leans against the wall. "They do things there I hope you never see.

"You see, a lot of vampires like to believe they're above humans. That they're inferior. Some Covens use them like animals. Bull fights, gory plays and musicals. You've seen Interview With a Vampire, yeah?"

He nods.

"Kinda like that. Sometimes worse, sometimes not as bad. I've been watching that particular Coven since I got to Gotham. They approached me shortly after I started the gig, wanting to know if I'd join them. I turned them down, obviously." Another long drink.

"I told Damian and the rest of you to stay away from that block. It's crawling with Vampires like that. I didn't want to see any of you getting snatched or worse. I should have wiped them out then and there, looking back. But I didn't. Just watched. Kept tabs.

"Then you called me. Told me he was gone without a trace, and you said he'd been down at that old car rental place. I knew the area. That's why I didn't wait for details.

"When I got there, they already had him tied and ready for something. I still don't know what they were planning on doing with him. I didn't ask questions, because I didn't have time. They jumped me the second I got inside. I had most of them dead or dazed by the time I got to the Big Kahuna."

When you didn't continue, Bruce prodded. "And?"

Your voice came back quiet. "And I wasn't fast enough." You downed the rest of your drink and slid it towards the sink. You misjudge the trigectory, and it slides off the edge and crashes to the floor. You stare down at the chunks and splinters of pink stained glass darkly. Emptily. "I couldn't get to him fast enough, and Regdoral killed him right in front of me."

Bruce was silent for a long time. Neither of you moved to clean up the mess you'd made. "When we went to check the building–"

"I know."

He follows your gaze. His words are softer than you expect. "What happened next?"

You chuckled, but there was no humor there. "I snapped," you shrugged. "I slaughtered every one of them where they stood. Burned every one of them in the Crypt."

Bruce doesn't speak.

Your next words are hardly a whisper. So light and airy that Bruce has to strain to hear them. "Did you find him?"

He goes quiet as well. Then, "Yes."

You close your eyes. Bite your lip. You pinch your palm. Anything to jolt your mind away from him. The memory of that silver sword gliding through him with a sound that still turns your stomach.

"Why did you leave him?"

You pick at a spot on the lip of the counter. "I dunno. I guess, maybe, some part of me hoped he'd beat me home. Maybe he'd been faking his death for one reason or another. Maybe I thought if–if I didnt–"

You sniffle. Your teeth sink into your lip and red spills down your chin and over your tongue.

Bruce shifts his weight. He wants to comfort you, but he doesn't know how, or if you'd let him. He doesn't what to do.

Your legs are shaking as hard as your hands, but they don't last as long. Your knees give out, and you go sliding to the floor, tears streaming freely down both cheeks.

Neither of you move for a long time. Neither of you speak. Not until you stand, shakily, supporting yourself with the counter.

"Bruce," you all but croak. He turns his eyes on you. "I miss him so much."

"I know," he replies quietly, risking a few steps toward you. "We all do, (Y/N)." He rests a hand on your shoulder. He's testing.

You slip forward from the counter, wrapping shivering arms around him in a desperate pursuit of comfort.

He gives it willingly, hugging you tightly.

You cry. He cries. All in a dark, bitter silence that traps you in a place you once knew as a home.

PART II COMING SOON

[dr0wning-in-hell]

Obsessed - Peter K.

Summary : Y/N over hears Peter talking about their relationship and finds out that Peter feels like she’s more than he can handle.

Word Count : 1.7k +

Warnings : angst, sad!reaer, little bit of a douche bag!peter, sad stuff, 

Pairing/characters : Peter Kavinsky x reader, 

Prompt : none, this is actually what happened to me and being called obsessive. 🙃

A/N : Hope ya’ll enjooyyy. And also I still need help coming up with book title ideas so if you have ideas or want to talk about it with me, please message me directly or through asks!!

New masterlist | requests | prompt list

She was never supposed to hear it, but she did. She hear what he said about her, and it hurt more than having your heart wrapped straight from your chest, but at the moment that’s the feeling Y/N was having. 

Her boyfriend, Peter Kavinsky, was talking to a group of his lacrosse friends in the hall way during school, and one of his friends asked how him and his girl were. They had been dating for a little over six months, and even though they hadnt said those big three words, Y/N knew she loved him.

“So, Kavinsky, how are you and Y/N?” He casually slipped it into their conersation. They were just around the corner from where Y/N’s locker was and she had just arrived there with her friend Laura Jean at that exact moment he asked that question. 

“They’re talking about you.” Laura Jean whispered. Y/N ignored her and moved a little closer to hear what they were saying. 

Peter let out a long sigh, the type where you knew something was wrong from the start of it. “It’s good I guess, she’s just- she’s a lot to handle.” Y/N looked back at Laura Jean who had a raised eyebrow. “She’s always wanting to talk on the phone or hang out with me, and sometimes I actually can’t because of practice and family things, but other times I just don’t want to. It’s almost like she’s obsessed or something.” The jock shook his head, “She’s a great girl and all but man, sometimes I don’t know how I ended up with her.”

Y/N’s world stopped. Her heart stopped beating, her longs stopped taking in oxygen. Everything just stopped. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Peter Kavinsky, thought his girlfriend was too much for him to handle. Sure Y/N texted him a lot, but what else was she going to do when she had no one to hang out with or talk to? When her homework was done, or when she was having a bad day? Is wanting to talk to your boyfriend obsessive? Is wanting to see them obsessive?

“Wow, did he seriously just say that about you behind your back?” Laura Jean whispered again. Y/N gave a slow nod. She couldn’t find it in her to say anything, not now, not after what she just heard. “We should go.” Y/N nodded again, and walked away with her friend, her heart aching and her eyes blurred with salty tears. 

The pair of girls walked to her car, not waiting for Peter like they usually do at the end of the school day. Y/N didn’t know if she could face him now after he said all those horrible things. After she heard what Peter said Y/N really thought about it. Sure, she texted him a lot, but it’s not like she spammed his phone demanding where he was, who he was with, and what he was doing. If he was with his friends she’d leave him be, maybe send a picture or something she thought he might like, or send a good morning or goodnight text, but she was not the type to stalk his every move. 

“Am I really obsessive?” Y/N said out loud on accident. Laura Jean looked over at her friend while she drive, a frown laying on her lips. 

“No, you’re not Y/N, don’t think that just because Peter said that makes it true.” 

“But, he said it, he thinks it, I mean, what if I am obsessive?” Y/N looked at her friend, who was now focused on the road.

“You are not obsessive, Y/N, okay? You care about Peter, you want to talk to him about things when you feel like no one else will understand but him. You give a shit about him and what he does and if he’s okay. Some people would kill for someone to be like that for them.” Y/N didn’t say another word, not even really knowing what to say.

Meanwhile, Peter had waited almost fifteen minutes for his girlfriend so he could give her a ride home. Peter began to worry when she hadn’t showed up his car, his mind thinking up the worst possible situations before thinking of the most reasonable. Giving up on waiting Peter started his car and drove out of the parking lot and headed to Y/N’s house to see if she was there. It didn’t even occur to him that she could have heard everything he said about her. Before driving off Peter sent her text messages and even called her to see if she was okay and know where she was, but there was no response. 

Laura Jean dropped Y/N off at her house, leaving the girl alone to wonder if she was obsessive. Y/N’s parents had gone into work that day, so she was home alone until they got back. She put her back on the kitchen table and pulled out her assignments and began to work on them, even though there was no point since she was so distracted thinking about Peter’s words. 

In her daze of distraction Peter had pulled into her driveway and knocked on her front door. The pounding sound broke her daze and she slowly walked to her door, hiding her body behind the door and looking through the peephole to make sure it wasn’t a stranger. Y/N huffed when she saw that it was just Peter. Y/N opened up the door, letting him in without a word. 

“Where were you after school? I waited in the parking lot for fifteen minutes!” Peter said a little aggressively.

Y/N shrugged and went back to the table, “I had Laura Jean drive me home. Didn’t want to bother you.” Y/N said dryly.

Peter rose an eyebrow, “I always drive you home, why would it bother me?”

“Don’t know, don’t want you to have to handle too much.” Y/N worked on her homework, eyes glued to the paper to keep herself from looking up at the boy and crying. 

“Okay, what’s wrong? Why are you acting like this?” Peter really didn’t get it, he didn’t know that she heard everything that he said about her.  Y/N shrugged, keeping quiet and continuing to work, Peter’s heavy hand on top of her’s is what made her stop writing. “What’s wrong.”

Y/N pulled her hand from under Peter’s, “Nothing, I’m fine.” If he thought she was obsessive and didn’t like him always trying to talk to him, then maybe she wouldn’t. Peter wouldn’t let it go and Y/N knew that. 

“Well why didn’t you answer any of my calls? Or my texts?” Peter asked yet another question, but he couldn’t see that the answer was already there. 

“Phone was charging.” It wasn’t a complete lie, it was upsatairs charging, but she really just didn’t want to talk to him at that specific time.  There was silence, and Y/N couldn’t stop herself from asking the next question, “Do you actually want to be with me still, or do you just feel obligated to be in this relationship?” 

Peter stopped for a second. He didn;t understand why she was asking that question, but soon enough he would. “Of course I still want to be with you, why would you think I wouldn’t?” 

“Oh maybe because you think I’m obsessive and I’m too much for you to handle.” The words slipped from her mouth easily. 

Peter stared at her blankly as realization hit him. She heard everything he said at the school, and now he didn’t know what to do. “Y/N/N..” Peter began to say, but she just held up her hand to stop him.

“There’s no need to explain, I’ll just leave you alone from now on. It’s okay.” Y/N looked at his stunned eyes and then back down to her paper, holding in her breathe and barley breathing as she waited for him to say something. 

“Baby, I’m sorry, I didn’t- I don’t know why I said those things.” Peter was trying his hardest to explain but it’s hard to make it seem like you didn’t mean what you say, when you really do. Y/N was still silent. “Y/N/N, baby, please say something.”

Y/N just shrugged, refusing to look up, “I have nothing to say, Peter. You got what you wanted, I won’t talk to you as much. I won’t send you pictures as much. I won’t send good morning or goodnight texts. I’ll be the type of girlfriend that doesn’t care if you’re okay or not, I won’t ask to hang out. It’s okay, you don’t need to stay now. I’m sure you’d rather be with your friends anyways.

Peter’s head was spinning. He loved everything about Y/N, all the texts, all the pictures, everything he said that bothered him, he actually adored. So why? Why did he say those things? 

“Y/N, I love you, I didn’t mean those things I said.” Peter’s hand was now resting on top of Y/N’s again. 

“How do I even know you mean that? Hard to know what you really mean anymore.” Y/N sighed and looked at their hands, eyes burning with the tears she was holding back. “You should go, Peter. I have work to do.”

Peter didn’t want to go, he didn’t want Y/N to believe any of the stuff he said about her. He wanted to be there, he wanted to talk to her, he wanted to  just be with her. Now Peter Kavinsky knew what it was like. What it was like to be in Y/N’s shoes. 

[dyaz-stories]

“you’re the only delivery person who gets to my house in any semblance of the word fast which is why i keep requesting you but you don’t believe me and tease me constantly about it” AU

AU by @dailyau and @demineil. Enjoy!

Modern AU, Inukag and Mirsan, crack-ish I guess. Just a short little something because I liked this idea ^-^

Word count: 1,636

Kagome practically jumped when she heard her stomach grumbling. In a daze, she looked at her computer screen, glancing at the time for the first time that day.

10 p.m.

Shit. When was the last time I ate? I don’t remember eating at noon… Did I even eat this morning? Oh, mom is going to kill me if I lose any more weight!

But more importantly (though ‘murder by Mama Higurashi’ was pretty bad) she was so hungry it hurt. Food. Now. She needed to it. She got to her feet and walked in her kitchen, only to find it painfully empty. Riiiight, she hadn’t gone out all week because she was working on that never-ending thesis. She cursed inwardly. Looked like she had to order some food, again, but quickly because otherwise she was going to faint.

She grabbed her phone. She knew just where to call, but…

She hesitated briefly before shaking her head and dialing the number of the closest pizza place.

“Hello, Shikon Pizza here, what can I do for you?” the elderly voice of Kaede greeted her.

Kagome smiled in relief. She liked it better when it was Kaede — the other woman who picked up the phone, Kikyo, was terribly intimidating.

“Hi, it’s Kagome Higurashi, I was hoping I could…”

“Of course, Kagome,” Kaede interrupted her fondly. “I’ll take care of everything. I suppose you want me to send Inuyasha?”

Kagome closed her eyes. She could already feel herself blushing. But the truth was, at least Inuyasha was fast as hell. Kaede was terribly slow (but why did a woman that age insist on riding a bike anyway?) and Kikyo wasn’t particularly fast either, while Inuyasha had the advantage of his demonic speed.

“Yes please,” she mumbled.

“Then consider it done!”

Kagome sighed as the old woman hung up. She glanced at her clothes and frowned, stepping into her room to get dressed. Not that there was much of a point at this time of day, but at least that would be one less thing Inuyasha would comment on.

The first time, he had been unbelievably rude to her, and she had promised herself she would never, under any circumstances, have him again. She had even taken the time to write herself a note to ask for someone else.

Unfortunately, situations like this night were becoming more and more common as her deadline got closer, and the time right after, she had actually asked Kaede if she could send him. He had gotten there incredibly quickly, and well, she was fucking hungry.

He had been even more rude that time, with a hint of confusion behind it though, and Kagome had sworn, again, that he wouldn’t be back.

But, again, her stomach had won that battle.

The third time, he had been much more intrigued and almost defensive. That had been easier — she had been able to get rid of him fast and to eat.

Afterwards, though, it hadn’t been that easy. He had started doing that thing where he towered over her a little more, and he grinned (which tended to let his fangs appear and for some reason she loved that), and his voice got deeper and somewhat sultry and then how was she supposed to focus on her thesis when her senses were filled with him and and and ugh.

Yes, she thought he was handsome. His golden eyes, particularly, filled her dreams, but his white hair, cut short, and his lovely dog ears didn’t leave her indifferent either. Maybe, some other time, she would even have asked him out.

But she had work to do. She really, really couldn’t get into anything right now, much less in a relationship with a moody, though terribly attractive, man. She was sighing heavily when she heard the doorbell.

She glanced at her clock in disbelief — how does he do that? — then walked, maybe a little too fast, to open it.

Sure enough, there he was, with a smug smile, and looking at her like he was going to devour her whole.

Honestly, she’d let him.

If she didn’t have a thesis to finish.

“Hungry?” he practically purred, holding out the pizza.

Oh, if only he knew.

She reached out, only to have him put it out of her reach. She rolled her eyes.

“Starving, actually,” she replied, annoyed. “I haven’t eaten all day. Could you…?”

“Sure thing,” he answered, waiting for her to get her money.

“You’re the fastest delivery man around,” she mumbled, feeling her cheeks burning any way. She wasn’t too sure why she always got the need to justify herself. Maybe she didn’t want him to think she was desperate girl, doing everything she could to get a chance to hit on him. Maybe she was trying to convince herself, because she genuinely enjoyed seeing him.

“Yeah, you say that every time,” Inuyasha answered, his voice dryer than it usually was.

She looked up at him and noticed his frown, but more importantly, the way his ears drooped a little.

Oh, no. She didn’t want that. It hurt her more than she had expected and she hated it and…

“I have a thesis to finish,” she blurted out.

“Oh?” Inuyasha asked, cocking an eyebrow. His ears perked up just a little, and even though Kagome was terribly embarrassed at this point, she swallowed and kept going.

“The deadline’s really close and that’s all I’ve been doing.”

“Oh.”

“So I really don’t have time for anything right now.”

This time, Inuyasha gave her a toothy grin, and for a second, she wondered about how his fangs would feel against her skin if— Your thesis, Kagome.

“But after that…”

“Yeah?” Inuyasha leaned in. Being taller than her, he was easily towering over her, and the closer he got, the harder it got to think and be coherent.

“After that, I’ll be free.”

“Huh,” he said. “But that’ll take you a while.”

She breathed in deeply as he got closer, one of his clawed hands toying with her hair.

“I mean, it’d be nice if I got, I dunno… A reason to wait.”

Kagome blinked. Despite herself, images of her giving Inuyasha an embroidered handkerchief passed in her mind. Ugh, this thesis was killing her. She never wanted to hear about Feudal Era, whether it was in Japan or in Europe, ever again.

She bit her lip, eliciting an almost immediate growl of Inuyasha. “What do you have in mind?”

He took that as a permission. He crashed his mouth on hers, and he smiled when he heard her sigh desperately. She got on her tiptoes to try to get as close to him as possible, their bodies reacting almost desperately to the other’s embrace.

Way too soon, Inuyasha stepped back, leaving her with weak knees.

“If you need some distraction ’til you finish your thing, you’ll know where to find me,” he said, his words teasing but his voice letting on more of his emotions.

Kagome nodded wordlessly.

“But then I’ll want you all for myself.”

Oh. Oh God.

She wanted to finish that stupid thing more than ever.

“It’s so nice to meet you Kagome!” Inuyasha’s best friend, Miroku, hold out his hand while his girlfriend, Sango, gave her a bright smile. “We’ve been so curious about you!”

“Miroku’s a real gossip,” Inuyasha told her with a frown.

He looked all grumpy, but Kagome knew he’d been dying to introduce her to his friends, and at the same time, terribly stressed to do so. She had come to see that that was very like him. He would always act annoyed when he was afraid something would go wrong, at the risk of making it go wrong that way.

“How did you two meet?” Sango asked. “Inuyasha wouldn’t tell us!”

“I had a very good reason,” he growled.

“Oh, well you see, Inuyasha was the delivery guy and I always requested him because he was the fastest one…”

“Sure you did,” Inuyasha said, grinning, but Sango couldn’t help but notice how fond his smile was.

“I did,” Kagome sighed. “I swear. Anyway, after a while…”

“The seventh time she requested me, actually,” Inuyasha corrected her.

“You counted?”

At that he only responded with a ‘Keh!’ and looked away, with maybe the smallest of blush on his cheeks, and it was only Sango’s foot furiously crashing Miroku’s that stopped him from commenting ‘Oh how adorable!’

“The seventh time I requested him,” Kagome continued, smiling widely and discreetly reaching for her boyfriend’s hand to give it a squeeze, “I told him that I actually had a thesis to finish so I couldn’t do anything right now, much less see someone. And then he said he’d wait.”

She giggled, keeping for herself the heated kiss they had shared afterwards. Sango bit back an ‘Awwww’, knowing it would only embarrass Inuyasha further. That being said, she had no idea why he hadn’t been willing to tell them. What was the problem with that story?

“Wait, so he was your deliveryman?” Miroku asked.

Sango and Inuyasha’s eyes met. Holy shit, no, she had to stop him…

“Yes, he was,” Kagome answered.

“So it’s just like a porn flick!”

He knew Sango was going to kill him for that, but the look on her— Oh, Inuyasha was not happy with him and Sango did look like she was going to murder him.

Well, he’d better start running then.

Kagome shook her head as his girlfriend caught him and Inuyasha and her both started growling and shouting at him.

“I mean he’s not wrong though,” she mumbled to herself.

Especially for the sex.

Inuyasha’s ear flicked and Kagome couldn’t help but smirk when she noticed his eyes widening.

She understood why he had teased her so much in the beginning. It was so much fun.

[theharellan]

Was it Only a Kiss?

repost of a thread from @theshirallen​‘s old blog. set a week or so after their arrival at skyhold, solas approaches ian with the intent to bring up the kiss they had shared on the evening of corypheus’s attack on haven.

unfinished. updates will post in the thread tag.

Solas

A week had passed since they had come to Skyhold. Slowly, the debris had been cleared from the main hall and repairs were begun. All around him were the sounds of work. At first it began with bent backs and physical toil, and he watched as apprentice mages struggled to carry burdens magic might bear. When Solas first cleared the door to the rotunda with a gesture, matters changed. More mages gingerly coaxed a pile of rubble onto a tarp for others to haul it off with ease later, or drew dust from forgotten corners with a wave of their hands, rather than break their necks trying to reach with feather dusters. Suddenly, it was as if the mages had magic, rather than weapons.

The development was almost enough to distract him. It occupied him, yes, guiding unsure hands with a firm voice, but his eyes flickered towards the courtyard, towards the healing tents, often enough that week that he could not fool himself into forgetting. He had more that the path before them on his mind, something as terrifying as it was exciting. Someone that made him feel lighter, even on this side of the Veil, even at the mere sight of him.

Yet since arriving they had scarcely spoken, any conversation interrupted by Ian being called away by new stragglers finding Skyhold, whose need was far more urgent than Solas’s. The eagerness with which Ian took his leave made him second-guess himself, wondering if the affection he had felt in their kiss at Haven was a figment of his own imagination. This world offered no answers, the Veil drew heavy between them, and each coy word exchanged left him more exasperated, more eager for an answer.

A week, he decided, and a week he waits. ‘Til new arrivals trickle and the work slows, and Skyhold begins to look more like herself again.

On the seventh day, Solas finds himself glancing down towards the courtyard with more frequency than usual. When he spots Ian sitting idle, he wastes only enough time to brush anything that clings to the front of his sweater before he descends down towards the healing tents. His hands tangle together behind his back, feet brushing bare stone before they nestle upon worn grass. The path through the courtyard is already worn by soldiers’ boots, Solas leaves less of a mark on his path towards Ian.

The smell of pipeweed is in the air, freshly burned, and he feels almost guilty for interrupting a moment Ian no doubt stole for himself. It does not stop him, however, nor silence the gentle cough he clears his throat with to attract the other elf’s attention.

“Ian,” he began, a simple start he had debated to himself for days. To use his name, or something else… “Do you have a moment?”

Ian

The events that have transpired since the attack at Haven run together when he stops to think–a blur of cold winds and warm blood. Ian has seen little of the Inquisition’s new home since their arrival–indeed, has seen hardly anything besides the canvas spread of the healing tents and an occasional glance at a cloud-spattered sky. The stains on the backs of his hands, the way blood grits under his nails. Tired smiles on his patients faces–those that they’ve managed to help. The others…

He hasn’t seen much of Skyhold, yet. There is much to be done, and more every day.

He’s grateful, even through his weariness. That he is busy means that the Inquisition’s forces have survived, and he has always preferred the weariness that comes with tending the wounded than the heartache that accompanies tending to the dead.

The days blur together–the nights, too. Ian loses count of the sunrises, would fail to notice them save for the brilliant way the light mounts the ramparts to announce the coming day.

The urgency of his work begins to slow. Wounded arrive in straggling groups, and between their need he finds himself with time to sit, to breathe. Not to think. When he thinks, everything runs together in an unintelligible blur, and he remembers a clumsy kiss when the world had felt more certain.

Nothing feels certain, right now, and when he has time to think he considers the fool he’s made of himself. Solas has been busy–everyone has been so busy, but if Ian has time to breathe, that busy might have finally found itself a pace–but Ian knows it’s too much to hope the fool in him is forgotten. His heart tightens, fear and frets worrying about in his chest, and he tries to turn his thoughts.

A moment to himself, and he almost spends it letting his jumbled thoughts work him into tighter knots. Almost. He counts the seconds between his breaths, and pulls his pipe from the pouch at his hip, letting his eyes close when the smoke warms his lungs.

He tries to turn his thoughts, but he does not imagine the sound of his name. His heart–so recently calmed to a reasonable pace–leaps into his throat, and he can’t help the way he jumps, half-turning in his start, grateful he hadn’t been in the middle of an inhale.

“Solas!” Despite himself, he tries a smile. “You startled me.”

“I–” It feels desperate, the way his mind flies–trying to think of something, anything, to keep him from having to make a further fool of himself. Nothing occurs to him; there are no excuses to be made that do not ring as what they are. “Yes. A few moments, even.”

Solas

His ears flatten at the reaction: the smile that turns Ian’s lips, but does not crinkle the corner of his eyes, the beginning of a thought that does not end as it began, as if Solas had successfully cornered him. It is not an idea that settles well, and his stomach turns with nervousness. “If you would rather spend them alone, you will hear no further argument from me,” he says. “But we have scarcely spoken since we have arrived, and I confess, I have missed the sound of your voice.”

It is no idly spoken compliment, but the truth. Regardless of how his plans unfolded (and how often does everything fall neatly into place for him?) he will be grateful if something similar to the rapport they had before can be achieved. Solas steps several paces closer, hands hidden behind his back. “And it occurred to me– you likely have not had much time to see Skyhold. I remember you mentioned a garden in the Anderfels, and thought you might enjoy seeing what will become Skyhold’s.” The rubble had been cleared just a day ago, and no work has begun. It will be quiet, albeit overgrown, tangled from decades (centuries) of disuse, but he is confident Ian will see its potential.

Solas unclasps his hands, stretching one out towards Ian for him to take. Tugging him off the ground is like lifting a feather, and he tries not to imagine what would happen if he pulled Ian a few inches further towards him. He releases his hand, though the sensation lingers even in Ian’s absence. It flexes by his side absently, as his eyes lift towards the the entrance to the main hall, open for the first time in ages. “This way.”

His feet brush grass tips as he moves back the way he came, now with Ian at his side. His hands rediscover the spot behind the small of his back, and his mind rushes as everything he has been meaning to say hounds him at once.

Before another word leaves him, however, a question occurs to him: “How have you been?”

Ian

“No. I’ve–I’ve missed your company.”

He taps his pipe–nearly finished anyway–over to clear the ashes, tucking it away in his belt before gesturing, plaintively, for Solas to help him up.

Solas’s hand against his nearly stops Ian’s heart. He’s pulled to his feet and somehow loses his breath in the motion, a sudden swoop that lifts him beyond what heights he can reach on his own. Solas’s words simultaneously ease and agitate his fears–the lightness in his chest and head are disorienting, but he cannot help but take note of how quickly Solas releases his fingers.

“There’s a garden here?”

It’s an alluring thought–almost so much that he might forget how difficult it is to hear past the rushing in his ears. Those ears cant forward as he lengthens his step to bring him even with Solas.

“I–busy.” His ears fall again, and he grimaces. “I do not know if I can say I would rather I was not needed–I can better serve the wounded than the dead–but Haven…it’s been a very long time since…since I’ve seen…” Denerim, he thinks. The last real battle he’d been in. “But I have my health, yet. And my…my skills.”

Solas

Ian’s confession, soft though it may be, rekindles lost confidence. ‘Pride’ may be his name, but it is not blind pride. He is under no illusion that his company is universally pleasant, and if he were one moment spent with Sera will quickly rob him of that delusion. He smiles, gladder now than it was before, heart swelling foolishly. “Not a garden, but a potential one. Inquisitor Cadash expressed interest in using the space as such. For the moment it is still what nature made it.”

But most of all it is quiet, with less of a chance of prying ears hearing what he has to say. That is one thing he will miss about Haven, the snow always seemed to dampen the sound, and midnight chats were intimate even if someone slept in the hut beside them.

They pass banners freshly planted in the earth, Inquisition heraldry crowned with dwarven metal. A reminder, for any who try to forget the Herald is no human. “Haven was a terrible thing to live through,” he responds gravely. “And I fear it will not be the last battle before our goal is realised, but now that Corypheus has revealed himself he has lost the one edge he had in this fight. We will not be taken by surprise a second time.”

Skyhold’s doors welcome them, and as they enter a handful of faces turn briefly from their work to smile in greeting. The main hall still bears marks from an age of neglect, but light shines in from the windows upon the second floor. Yes, perhaps it highlights the cobwebs that persist, but it is not nearly as stifling as it felt a week ago. “I set up a workspace, should you find more time to spare in the days to come,” he says with a gesture to their right. The door is thrown open, inside a pile of debris is still shoved against the wall, but a desk has already been moved in. “It is rudimentary at the moment, when work on the main hall is finished I hope to do more with it.”

His arm sweeps around Ian’s shoulder, brushing them, guiding them to their left. The door to the gardens is still beaten and bent from the rocks that had been piled against the frame, but it opens with a gesture, magic greasing old hinges. “But this is what I wanted to show you…”

Beyond the door, a rudimentary path has been carved through rotted wood and crumbled stone, towards what will one day be a garden. From here he can see vines that have grown over the walls and up the columns that align the walkway, curling towards the heavens. Solas pauses, allowing Ian to pass through first.

Ian

He follows Solas, though his own strides gain less ground. Whether or not Solas notices, Ian is uncertain. He pauses as they turn, and Ian closes the distance even as he shies away from the rise of stone walls. Solas’s workspace is spacious, high reaching walls and a circling stair, but he feels it tightening his throat as he takes it in. Skyhold is still a castle, and her walls are thickly mortared, and he prefers the courtyard and the canvas tents to the stones that circle him now. With the doors flung wide, he hasn’t far to look to find relief, but it will take some adjustment before he can convincingly portray anything but ill ease.

Solas’s touch at his shoulder is gentle, and prevents his thoughts from wandering too far. Ian follows his gesture, forcing a steady breath through his teeth  as magic wills an aged door to yield. Something akin to a path expands beyond the threshold, soft dirt sighing beneath Ian’s boots as he follows its wanderings. Solas hangs back, gesturing for Ian to step ahead, and Ian is glad to return to the mountain air and the feeling of sun on his skin. It has only been a matter of moments, but he turns his face upward to let the rays brush his cheeks before he truly attempts to take in the garden.

“Oh…” It isn’t quite an exclamation, isn’t quite a sigh. The utterance is one of quiet wonderment, though the garden is, as Solas had warned, more as nature has made it than anything. Dark vines wind up partially crumbled columns, broad leaves disguising the stone as though behind a curtain. Grasses burst in uneven, ambitious clumps, stretching to reclaim what had once been paved. Tiny, unruly wildflowers–weeds, refusing the confines of any recognizable sense of order–scatter the field, thickest where the sunlight splashes.

Ian’s fingers catch at his lips, and he can feel the stretch of his smile beneath them. He almost wishes that the Inquisition might leave this place untouched, though he knows that an organization will have to present a ‘proper’ garden, if a garden they have at all. “Oh…Thank you. For–for sharing this with me. I have–I have been so…thank you.”

Solas

From behind, Ian’s pleasure is still obvious. The tension that had coiled in narrow shoulders loosens, now, as though sinking into a bath. Unsatisfied with the view, Solas moves forward, drawing level with the other elf. The garden is spared only a passing glance. Lifted hands are not enough to disguise the smile that steals across his face, eyes crinkling at their corners. The sight coaxes an affectionate smile from Solas. “Ara melava son’ganem.” Elvhen comes to him first before he adds, in a quieter voice, “You’re welcome.”

With some effort, he tears his eyes away from Ian and onto the garden. It is different than he remembers, but few things in Skyhold are the same. Human stonework has claimed it, but still its elvhen origins linger in the air. He wonders what Ian sees, what colour the blue wildflowers are to him, what emotion he thinks of when he beholds them. It is tempting to ask, but he pushes through the temptation, knowing the answers will only distract.

He allows his hand to touch Ian’s arm in passing as he continues on into the untamed garden. “I remembered what you said about gardening in the Anderfels,” he begins. The break in the wall that should allow him to pass through has been blocked by a bush, and so, instead, he climbs over the pony wall that has kept back as much nature as it could. Some vines have stolen over it, brushes his toes as he swings one leg over, and then the other with a soft grunt. “Then I imagined what you could accomplish here, where the environment is not so unforgiving.”

Grasses bend in his passing, either through magic means or the weight of his feet. Through the weeds he spies stone benches whose seats have been stolen by ivy. He half-turns, under the pretense of seeing if Ian has followed, but truth be told he more wished to set eyes upon him again.

The pretense does not last long, his gaze lingers, and his smile broadens. “And I thought the wildflowers might find a companion in your face. It seems I was correct.”

Ian

Fingers brush the fabric of his sleeve, and something warm and cold thrills up his spine. He stills until the touch passes, holding his breath as if it might aid the moment’s endurance. The warmth that blossomed shifted, taking root behind his ribs. When he inhales, the world spins, just for a moment, until the touch has ended and Solas has braced himself against a wall, heaving himself over. Ian hesitates, hovering until Solas has cleared the wall before he follows. He pulls himself up, but doesn’t quite drop over to the other side, perching on the wall amongst the ivy, one knee hugged close to his chest.

“You–um.” Ian’s voice catches, and his hand rises again, lips trembling against his fingertips. His fingers curl, and he tries again. “I didn’t–you remembered.” He tries to recall precisely what he had said, knows it had been a passing comment. Hardly worth hearing, let alone committing to memory. It’s surprising, though not unpleasant. It leaves him off balance, heat rising across the bridge of his nose and over his cheeks, and he ducks his head when Solas turns to watch him.

He’s still looking down when the compliment catches, and the heat in his face spreads until his ears burn too. He pulls his knee closer, toes curling within his boot. “Solas…” He tries to begin, but his voice rings of pleading, and he isn’t certain just what he is pleading for. Ian’s mind reels as he tries to reconcile the sensation of fingers at his arm and the unabashedly forward nature of Solas’s words with the silence that had persisted ever since arriving at Skyhold. There’s a certainty in his gut that competes with the fluttering in his chest–this sureness that Solas has brought him here to rebuff him against this hope that perhaps he has not. He doesn’t try to speak again, only shakes his head a little, eyes downcast until he sees little but the trailing ivy that creeps past his perch and the wild tufts of grass that meet the wall at its roots.

Solas

It isn’t the reaction he had hoped for, his name whispered against the wind. Yes, his cheeks grow red beneath the vallaslin that spans his face, but one can blush from shame as easily as they can flattery.

Solas looks down, penitent, though it is not an apology he gives shape with words, and so means nothing in this world. Once, it might have flooded the world around them with contrite thoughts, and the blue flowers might have turned white out of sympathy. Upon the wall, Ian seems to curl in upon himself, knee tucked against his seat upon the wall, back bent over his leg. It is a distressing sight, and the blood in his veins seems to sour. In the pit of his belly, anxiety coils, until it feels potent enough to melt his stomach lining.

He had been hoping to lead Ian in gently, like a bath ran too hot, but seeing him now, he reconsiders. Perhaps, for both their sakes, it is better he take the plunge.

“I do not idly forget moments shared with you,” he says, soft, but strong enough to carry. His chin lifts, the sun breaking the shadows on his face. He retraces his steps towards the wall, careful to follow the path he had carved a moment ago. There are moments spent with Ian that bring him shame to think about, now. Moments where he had looked at his face and was not quite sure if what he saw was an echo of what was, or else an illusion. Where what he sees now was not even considered.

He stops short of Ian, hand reaching out to place upon a column that has seen better days, its edges eaten by rain.

Haven feels close by at Ian’s side, even upon this side of the Veil, where it is still buried beneath a mountainside of snow. While Ian’s gaze is at his feet, Solas keeps his trained upon where their eyes ought to meet. He can feel his heartbeat in his fingers, but the ground beneath bare feet steadies him.

It has been seconds since he last spoke, but feels a lifetime before he opens his mouth to add: “I have not forgotten our kiss.”

Ian

Solas’s words are delivered gently, offered in a soft tone that almost sounds as an apology. But what has Solas to be sorry for, save–save that Ian’s worries are well-founded. He feels his shoulders fall, and swallows an apology of his own, knowing that the words will trip against his teeth and worsen the situation.

He hears Solas’s return, the pivot that carries him back across the garden until he stands just beyond the wall where Ian perches. Absently, he wonders just how he manages to hear the pace of bare feet and the soft yield of new grass when his own heartbeat thunders wildly within his skull. His face burns, and teeth drive into his lower lip as he forces himself to breathe past the worry that tightens his throat.

The next words spoken, however, startle his heartbeat still. Silence overwhelms the drumming in his ears, muffles its sensation in his chest, and despite his anxieties, he finds his gaze lifting, eyes wide behind his blush. “I–oh. Ah–” The words catch, stumbling as he’d feared–as he’d known–they would, and he bites his lip again, trying to rearrange his thoughts into something resembling coherence. “I thought, maybe–maybe you wanted to. Forget, I mean.”

Gloved fingers curl into the fabric of his trousers, thigh tight against his chest where he hugs his knee. He searches Solas’s face, unable to quite meet his eyes but seeking hints of Solas’s intention all the same. “I didn’t–um. I don’t…I had–had thought, maybe–but…but it’s alright. If you–I mean. We don’t have to talk about it.”

Solas

It isn’t until teeth drag over freckled lips that Solas realises he is staring. He jerks his gaze away, his own teeth mirroring Ian’s body language. Since their moment in Haven, he had found himself lapsing into a habit only reserved for deep contemplation, only it was not ancient tomes on his mind of late. “Wanted to?” he echoes, soft. “I doubt I could, even if I did.”

Perhaps part of him does. The sensible part, that does not judge with what he feels, but measures every action against a grander scheme. Words come to him, unbidden, the one that came them voice forgotten to him:  ‘ I would sooner mistrust in calculations, particularly if no heart might temper their direction.’ It was not logic that led him down the path he walks now, but feelings. Feelings too potent to ignore.

“Had the night gone differently, perhaps I would have said this then, rather than now. Then again– it has given me time to think.” Were the world right, they might have had centuries, not months, to grow the seed they had unwittingly planted that day Ian had returned with questions, and not accusations. Adrenaline lights his blood aflame, as though the few steps over to Ian had been a marathon.  One hand reaches out to the wall beside Ian, to hide how it tremors, and he allows his gaze to drop to watch it.

“I have seen centuries from the Fade, heroes and villains whose names are written in books across Thedas, but you…” His face is hot, cheeks mottling a unflattering pink, but he pays it no mind, eyes lifting to see the same blush paint Ian’s cheeks. “I have not seen your like since my deepest journeys into the very heart of the Fade, and had not thought to see again. The memory of your kiss,” he adds, lips parting in a grin brought on by the mere thought, “I will treasure it, even if you meant for it to be only a kiss.”

The thought dampens his spirits, but they are truly spoken.

“Though, it would be dishonest if I did not admit to hoping you meant it as something more.”