Got Possessed. Drew This. Bon Appetit

Tsukishima: Ok, listen up you little shits.

Tsukishima: Not you Yamaguchi, you’re a pearl and we all happy that you’re here.

TWENTY DEGREES — VERITAS RATIO

contains: female reader, reader sits on dr ratios lap, established relationship, spoilers for dr ratio character story iii, reverse comfort, soft dr ratio, lots of banter, this is a public threat to the aeon nous: acknowledge my man before we have issues. thank you!!!

veritas has been silent. there’s a letter on his desk when you come in, one that’s a bit crumpled at the corner as though it were clutched tightly in a fist. and veritas—well, veritas has been silent since you walked in.

“hello, love,” you murmur, coming behind him to gently knead at his shoulders. they seem tense—perhaps a bit extra stiff at your touch. you frown as you murmur, “bad day? have your students been giving you trouble?”

he’s quiet for a long moment. enough that you wonder if he’ll respond at all, until a sigh breaks the silence. “there’s been an invitation,” he murmurs, slowly reaching for the letter and handing it to you.

against the signs, the rigid the posture and heavy silence, the suffocating tenseness and lifelessness of the room, you seem to brighten. to have hope. veritas is a genius—a genius that is renowned far and wide among the cosmos, and should be recognized as such. an invitation surely means he’s been recognized by nous.

it’s what you—it’s what he’s been waiting on for so long. despite the signs that should tell you no, everything about veritas and his brilliance allows you to hope yes.

perhaps that’s why it’s all the more crushing when you notice the words interastral peace corporation at the top of the paper.

“the ipc?” you ask carefully, skimming the invite, “the intelligentsia guild. i see.”

“well, do say something,” he laughs, self-deprecating and bitter as he sets his pen down. “it’s not what you were expecting, i suppose?”

“oh, veritas,” you say softly, pulling his chair from his desk and letting yourself sit on his lap. he’s silent—as silent as when you walked in, as silent as someone who harbors the crushing weight of defeat, as silent as someone who has no hope left for goals—no, dreams that are just a fingertip’s bit out of distance.

“it is an opportunity worth taking, i suppose,” he gives you a tight, barely visible smile, “if by now i have not caught nous’s gaze, then it is safe to assume that i never will at any point. it’s alright, darling.”

veritas, despite all he is, is your lover first. before he allows himself to be a genius or doctor or professor, he makes sure to love you before all. you think it’s one of the reasons it’s so easy to love him yourself—but sometimes, you wish he didn’t love you so much. not enough to plaster on a fake smile and even faker words so as not to worry you, even as his every aspiration falls through the slips of his fingers like drops of water he’ll never be able to grip onto.

“it is alright,” you nod, “but not because the intelligentsia guild is all you’ll amount to—i know what you’re thinking, veritas,” you say sternly, poking his forehead. he frowns at the sudden gesture, only to stiffen momentarily as your hands gently cup his cheeks. “it’s alright because you have shown enough people that you are worthy of any acknowledgment from nous. many men have been bestowed upon such a gaze for far less—it’s okay, veritas, and it’s okay because it is simply that your talents are meant to align with a path that doesn’t follow nous. and i am proud of you regardless of that path.”

he lets out a soft, amused huff at that through his nose, closing his eyes as he hums, “such careful words. am i that delicate? it is alright to deem a failure as just that—a failure.”

“you are not a failure, veritas,” you scold firmly, “not to me or anyone who’s seen an ounce of your achievements. for such a smart man, you really can say such silly things.”

“i wasn’t referring to myself,” his lips tug upwards a bit more, eyeing you fondly, “but it is a rather…comforting feeling to know you think so passionately of my previous achievements. i only meant a failed attempt is still a failed attempt despite the other successes, i’m afraid. it seems i’m destined for failure at receiving such an acknowledgment—but the intelligentsia guild is better than nothing.”

“is a genius only a genius if an aeon says so?” you ask softly, pecking the corner of his lips.

“of course not,” he answers instantly.

“then you believe yourself to be one, no?”

“of course, darling,” he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer against his chest, “just not a genius worthy of higher praise, perhaps.”

“does the gaze of nous mean more to you than mine?” you ask with a kiss to his cheek.

he looks at you as though you’ve grown two heads. “such odd questions run through that head of yours,” he murmurs.

“answer the question, veritas. would the praise of nous mean more to you than mine?”

“of course not,” he indulges you, rolling his eyes as he raises a questioning brow at you.

“well then,” you grin cheekily, “it seems you’ve already gathered the highest of praise in the cosmos.”

“and who’s would that be?” he snorts, humoring you.

“mine,” you pout, “you already have my praise, you fool.”

“and it is the highest praise of the cosmos,” he agrees, leaning in to kiss you softly, sighing against your mouth as you fingers weave into the waves of his hair, stroking the dark locks and trailing to the nape of his neck.

“i’ll tell you until you believe it,” you murmur against his lips, kissing them briefly between the words, “that you’re not a failure.”

“how can i be? when i have such brilliance in my arms,” he murmurs, letting out a soft sigh in content as your nails gently scratch over his scalp soothingly.

“surely i can’t be at the top of the list of your achievements,” you roll your eyes, “you have eight phd’s, for crying out loud.”

“you sell yourself short, darling,” he chuckles, “even a man with twenty degrees still couldn’t hope to understand your many…eccentricities.”

“veritas!” you huff, slapping his arm, making him chuckle.

veritas, before he is a genius, before he is a man who aspires to claim the highest of achievements a scholar can hope achieve and join the ranks of genius society, is your lover first. there is little to be disappointed in when even despite every failed attempt, you still cozy yourself into his arms, covering him in your warmth and sheltering him in your touch, safely kept away from all the self destructive thoughts.

“now, now,” he grins teasingly, “i only meant you’re worth more than twenty degrees. it’s a compliment.”

“don’t think you can sweet talk me, you treacherous man,” you sulk, “i am the greatest gift any man could hope to receive.”

“as much as it pains me to agree with you, i’m afraid you’re right.” he shakes his head, the beginnings of a smile forcing along the edges of his lips as he looks at you with something crossed between wonder and affection.

“i’m proud of you, veritas,” you remind him one more time, softly, “not simply because i love you. because you impress me every day, in ways no one manages to.”

“is that so?” he tilts his jaw, letting you kiss the angle of it sweetly.

“yes,” you whisper in between feather-light kisses.

“then that is enough,” he closes his eyes.

nous when i catch you nous. when i catch you nous. when. i. catch. you. nous. 🔪

Slater’s Fics

Frankie Morales

Softener (AO3 Version Here): Frankie Morales x f!Reader [SMUT] 

Keep reading

Sometimes, Jason Todd gets this haunted look in his eyes. You don't quite know where he goes. Well, you have a vague idea, but you don't know.

You don't know what he's remembering when his hand starts to shake in yours. You don't know what he's feeling when his pulse starts to jump against his skin. You don't know what he's thinking when his breathing starts to shallow.

A part of you is glad not to know. What he has told you horrifies you, haunts your nightmares when his side of the bed has long since gone cold. When he's away from your side, protecting the city from the very monsters that tried to break him.

But a bigger part of you wants to share in his burdens. You want to help him carry the weight of his past, the memories that make his skin go cool and clammy despite his every effort to appear calm and collected.

But how can you protect him from what stalks him in his own mind? How can you soothe the scars that aren't physical, ease the thoughts he can't bear to say out loud?

You don't think you can.

But Jason holds your hand just the slightest bit tighter when you shift your weight, the only sign he gives that he's begging you not to go. His eyes, so desperate and distant, soften and clear just a little when they finally meet yours.

He comes so willingly, when you offer your shoulder for him to tuck his face into, to let him rest his weight againt yours and hide away from the world for just a moment.

And you know that you can't fix everything, nor can you fight all of his demons for him. But you can make it easier for him to find his way home.

You can hold him together, wrap your arms around his shoulders and keep him here, in this moment, with you, until there's not a doubt in his mind that you'll wait for him.

You'll stay, anchoring him to here and now, for as long as it takes for him to steady the racing of his heart in his chest. You'll always stay right where he needs you.

aaaaah I'm so glad your askbox is open!! Could I possibly request Gaz and some body worship please?

➸ battle ready (gaz x gn!reader)

a/n; drabble/short fic !! you didn’t specify who was getting worshipped, so i made this about gaz getting worshipped :p enjoy! — pudgy, muscular men agenda btw

[warnings; extremely suggestive, soft, fluffy.]

In all senses of it, you loved Kyle’s body. Starting from the top, you love his prominent nose, the way it dips into his philtrum and cupid’s bow, his full lips. His strong brow bone and his wrinkles along his forehead, the smile lines ingrained in his face. The two small atrophic scars below his eye is something you always adored. 

You love the way Kyle’s jaw curves, his big brown eyes. Fuck, everyone knew you couldn’t say no to the man when he would flash you a pretty smile paired with his eyes.

You trail your mouth down his neck—God, his neck. You’d never tell him in fear of him finding it stupid, but you love his throat and shoulders. Strong and full of power—his Adam’s apple jutting out against your lips. You love his throat because inside is his vocal cords—you could get drunk off of hearing him talk, hearing him laugh. Kyle’s joy means so much to you, so much more than he will ever know.

Kyle murmurs your name softly as your lips trail across his collarbone, nearing his chest. 

You love his chest, wide and muscular with a little bit of pudge (well, he has some pudge everywhere); enough muscle to overpower and destroy, enough pudge to know he’s eating right and taking care of himself. You let out a soft sigh as your lips brush against a nipple before you press soft kiss to the skin right below his left pec, following the random pattern of beauty marks and freckles across his torso.

Kyle’s hand comes up and rests on your bare back as you trail over to his arms. You love his arms—you love his everything, to be fair, but the pure power from his arms drives you out of your mind sometimes. The muscles, his strong bicep flexing and molding into his triceps—you wanna bite him, honestly. Bite him and never let go. Especially when he wears t-shirts that hug his arms.

Trailing down his upper arm, over his inner elbow to his thick forearms. The muscles and tendons underneath the skin you appreciate like they’re a fine instrument; aren’t they, for a man like Kyle? His fingers, his precision. You press kisses down his forearm, between his veins until you get to his wrist. Kyle looks at you and his eyebrows twitch as he watches your tongue and drag across his pulse point, against his wrist bone.

It sends a shudder down his spine as your lips move to his palm. Kyle’s hands are incredible; rough to the touch yet so gentle with his lover, you. His calluses scratch you gently when he rubs your back, but his palm is so careful with you. Kyle uses his hands to break so much, but he uses them to preserve you—you and your grown together home.

“What’re you doin’?”

Kyle’s voice breaks you out of your near hungry trance, your eyes flickering up to his. He isn’t upset in any sense; he’s nervous, really. Kyle adores attention, but.. you’re being so slow. Meticulous and careful. 

“Appreciating you.” You murmur against his palm, brushing your nose against it before moving over to right below his sternum. You’re met with a quiet yet sharp inhale from the man below you, the muscles tightening as you press slow, gentle kisses down his stomach. Kyle’s stomach is built yet a small layer of fat exists over his abs, the man built for force and survival instead of showing off like bodybuilders.

You catch his eyes and hold his gaze as you kiss down below his belly button before his head rolls back with his stomach tightening.

Kyle groans as you pepper kisses lower and lower. This isn’t the first time you’ve done this, and certainly will not be the last. Not by a long shot.

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。MAD — AL-HAITHAM.

contents. alcohols consumption (drunk! al-haitham), post argument, fluff, ft. kaveh a real one for dragging home a heavy ass muscle man

al-haitham is good at holding his alcohol—at least, he is unless you’re in the middle of an argument. if you’re both arguing, then he seems much less likely to stay sober.

tonight for example—you open your bedroom door when kaveh (not so quietly) awakens you with his incessant knocking, grumbling under your breath as you reach for the door knob and twist. before you can even fully open the door, a very drunk and very heavy al-haitham is handed to you to hold steady.

“here, he’s your headache now,” kaveh huffs, crossing his arms, “i was supposed to be the heavy drinker of tonight,” he glares at al-haitham (who doesn’t help himself any further when he glares right back), “my day was far more stressful.”

“what draft are you on with this client?” you ask sympathetically.

kaveh flares his nostrils as he grumbles, “six!”

“maybe seven will be the charm,” you hum, chuckling, “i’ll get this headache of mine to bed.”

“please do,” he nods, “and i wish a terrible hangover on him in the morning too.”

with that, the door is shut, and you hear kaveh walk off and slam his as he grumbles some more about the drunk mess in your arms. at least you and kaveh have that much in common tonight—a shared irritation for the akademiya’s ever so charming scribe.

(truthfully, it’s hardly an accurate description at the moment—al-haitham’s charms are currently little to none after earlier.)

“you’re not doing yourself favors,” you turn your attention to you boyfriend, who stumbles a little as he buries his head into your neck. it’s a tad bit adorable—but then you remember the know-it-all attitude from earlier and decide you’re mad again. “disrupting my sleep for your lightweight habits isn’t a good way to apologize.”

“not a lightweight,” he slurs—and then he pulls away and pouts, “still mad?”

“yes.”

“are you sure?”

“very.”

“‘s not nice,” he huffs, burying his face back into your neck.

you can feel the way his lips are curled into a pout as they kiss your neck, and even though you’d like to say you have better self control, you can’t help but wrap your arms around him. it’s just to keep him from falling, you reason—just because you’re mad at him doesn’t mean you want him to potentially fall and break something, and that would only mean taking care of him more, which you do not need right now.

“you know what else wasn’t nice? telling me i’m wrong when i’m right,” you huff, “and then arguing that i’m wrong even though you know i’m right.”

“said i was sorry,” he almost whines—drunk al-haitham has at least a few perks. one of them is how much more affectionate he is, peppering kisses along your jaw until he finds your cheek. “you’re soft,” he hums, “love you.”

“you smell like beer. go to bed,” you grunt, trying (and failing) to pull away and guide him to the bed. you don’t make it two steps before he’s latched back to your body.

“say it back,” he gasps, “say it.”

“al-haitham,” you groan, “you can’t be serious—”

“haitham,” he corrects, “supposed to call me haitham.”

“would you like to sleep on the couch, haitham?” you ask with a dry smile on your face, eyes narrowed as he shakes his head. he tucks it into the crook of your neck, sighing happily as he inhales your scent.

“no, ‘s not good f’my back.”

“your back is the least of your concerns right now,” you mumble bitterly. “okay, let’s get you undressed.”

“you’re not mad?” he brightens up immediately at your words, taking them entirely out of context. his lips lean in to press against yours as his hands snake under your shirt, making you huff and slap his hands away as you turn your head and force his lips to meet your cheek.

“oh, i’m still very mad. don’t even think you’re getting anything tonight,” you scold.

for the nth time tonight, he pouts. and truthfully, you’re only human at the end of the day. if the akademiya’s usually stoic and composed scribe—who happens to be your equally as stoic and composed boyfriend—seems to pout this many times in one night….well, it would make anyone’s resolve crumble. even someone who’s angry after an argument—someone much like you.

“you’re a lot cuter when you’re drunk, you know that?” you giggle, poking his cheek lightly. he hums, nuzzling the tip of his nose against your skin as he leans more weight into you.

“aren’t i always cute?”

“not when you’re stubborn.”

“‘m cute,” he argues, “y’think ‘m cute, right?”

“no,” you grin, just to tease him. it’s a bit fun—pulling those wide eyes and curled lips from him, pulling that slightly crestfallen look that only a drunk al-haitham would let you witness.

it’s not too mean to let yourself indulge in this just once, is it?

“don’t be rude,” he slurs, “love you. say it back?”

“say please,” you tease, chuckling as your fingers thread through his hair.

he seems to brighten when you offer him a bit of affection, leaning into your touch as he sighs happily. “please,” he says politely, pressing a kiss to your skin before adding, “‘m sorry,” for good measure.

“how sorry?”

you plan on dragging this out for as long as you can—is it morally correct to take advantage of your drunk boyfriend? perhaps not….but no one is perfect, and you’re no exception.

“really sorry,” he mumbles, squeezing your hips.

“sorry enough to do the dishes for the week?”

“mhm,” he nods.

“kaveh’s too,” you add, with a satisfied grin on your face.

he nods, mumbling a quiet, “okay. kaveh’s too,” without question.

“how much do you love me?”

“a lot,” he says slowly, and by now, he’s leaning enough weight in you that you can tell he’ll fall asleep any moment. so you chuckle, pulling him along slowly before letting his body hit the mattress.

“this is my side of the bed,” you mutter with a roll of your eyes, but he doesn’t seem to hear you as he closes his eyes and sighs when your hand cups his cheek and rubs the warm, flushed skin. “do you love me more than you love being right?”

“mhm,” he hums, half awake as his eyes droop, “say it back now.”

“i love you too,” you finally crack, leaning in and kissing his lips briefly, “even if you’re rude and impossible.”

“‘m still cute,” he rebuttals, “right?”

“oh yes,” you giggle, “the cutest.”

“good,” he nods. and then his eyes close, and he’s snoring lightly, cheek still pressed against your hand.

you’re supposed to be mad, maybe even give him the silent treatment for a bit—but then you watch him sleep peacefully, the smallest of smiles pulling at his lips when your fingers thread through the sweaty locks of hair. regretfully, you can’t stay mad, not when it’s al-haitham—and especially not when it’s drunk al-haitham.

“you’re such a headache,” you mumble, kissing his forehead before joining him on the bed and tucking into his side.

and when he wakes up in the morning, with what is hopefully the awful hangover kaveh wished upon him, you’ll make sure to remind him of his agreement to do the dishes. kaveh’s too.

if u try to tell me al-haitham isn’t a clingy and affectionate drunk, ur wrong. he’s so babie after he drinks

welcome to remy’s kitchen!

a masterlist of all works written by yours truly

Appetizers (blurbs, headcanons, metas)

Jason Todd loves looking at you

Thoughts about Catholic!Jason Todd

Jason Todd would kill for you

Thoughts about domesticity with Jason Todd

The secret of you and Dick Grayson

Entrees (full length fics)

kindness you can’t afford (Jason Todd x fem!reader)

darling, won’t you take me home? (Jason Todd x fem!reader)

i love you, i’m sorry (Jason Todd x fem!reader)

turn me into something tragic (Jason Todd x fem!reader)

Desserts (18+ content, MDNI)

Jason Todd is a powerful man (you make him weak)

a love like religion (Jason Todd x fem!reader)

—DOUBT [ alhaitham x reader ]

doubt— what a confusing emotion.

alhaitham x f!reader | wc: 1.8k+

warnings: angsty on alhaitham’s end but overall pretty fluffy, idk what part of my brain this came from, part of a series but can be read as a standalone!

Alhaitham very rarely feels unsure of himself.

With everything he does, he calculates it carefully, weighing the pros and cons, contemplating if the risk is worth it, and finding which action is the most appropriate— he’s consistent with the way he acts and is confident with the measures he takes. All he needs is his brain; if he can logically use the process of elimination, he can logically assess the best course of action for any situation.

Except for when it comes to you.

He walks back from his washroom to the main dining area, only to find you chatting up a storm with Kaveh; you had offered to walk him home from work since the two of you had gotten off at the same time, and he excused himself to freshen up— he assumes that Kaveh got home from his workout just in time to find you at the table.

“Haitham,” You beam at him, waving at him to come over, and he can physically feel his heart soften, “You didn’t tell me that Kaveh was your roommate!”

“It’s not really something I like to tell people.” He mutters, and Kaveh shoots him an offended look before turning back to smile at you. From his angle, he looks like a two-faced weasel. Alhaitham sits down at the table, making a point to sit next to you instead of his roomate.

“He acts like I wanted to be seen here either,” Kaveh grumbles without malice, “Should've told me he had someone over!”

“Kaveh was just telling me about his studies around Gurabad’s Ruin,” you grin at the man sitting next to you, “Kshahrewar sounds so different from Haravatat.”

“In a bad way, I assume.”

“You’re just pissed that Haravatat is just as boring as you are,” Kaveh glares at him, and his eyes flit to you, “Y’know, it’s never too late to switch Darshans! You’d fit right in.”

“I think I’d rather die than go back to study at the Academy,” You raise your hands in innocence, a nervous chuckle playing on your face, “I did my due time.”

“You’re always welcome to join me!” Alhaitham clenches his hand, he swears Kaveh side-eyes him with a smirk on his face and he feels something bubble inside his chest, the bastard is doing this on purpose— “There are tons of runes down there, you’d love it!”

“I would love to, but Gurabad’s Ruin is way too far away,” You shudder, your legs ache just thinking about it, “The trek through the sand sounds like a nightmare.”

“It's also dangerous, stop being so irresponsible, Kaveh.” Alhaitham cuts in rather irritably, “Not everyone has a Vision, you have to think about the rest of society too, the world doesn’t revolve around you and your architecture projects.”

He pauses, feeling the unsettling silence befall the table. Your body is turned towards him, your eyes wide in both wonder and concern— Kaveh has the gall to laugh as if Alhaitham just said the funniest thing in the world, “Who pissed in your cereal, Haitham?” He makes sure to enunciate his name, “Didn’t know Gurabad’s Ruin was a sensitive subject, my bad.”

Alhaitham bites the inside of his cheek to not say anything he know he’ll regret with you there, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. “I should go,” he gets up, the chair squeaking as it scrapes against his floor before his eyes flicker to yours, “Have fun, you two.”

He storms out of his house a hurry, feeling a wave of nausea wrack through his body as he slams the door and makes his way down to the pavement that lines the exterior. His heart clenches when he pauses, turning around against his better judgement— Kaveh always complained that his choice in furniture and decor is ugly, was he right? What would you prefer? He takes a few steps back, his eyes wandering the outside of his home (Could it use flowers? The hanging ones or the ones planted in the ground?) before his front door clicks open and you rush out of his house. You squeak when you realize he's right there, slowing your velocity a little too abruptly, tripping over your robes before you steady yourself right in front of him.

“Hey,” you manage a small smile that clashes your worried expression, “What happened in there? Is everything okay?”

Alhaitham's mind hurts, the question that's been burning in his mind searing fire into his skull, he has to take a deep breath to think clearly.

“I asked you before, why do you like me?”

Your smile freezes, you never thought that question would be the one to come up.

“…Because you’re smart?” You mumble unsurely, your hand fidgeting with your robes. Just as he had asked before, you answered, hadn't you?

“So is the rest of Sumeru.”

“…You’re pretty.”

“That doesn’t really say much, does it? What, am I funny to you too? Is it just the “handsome, funny, and smart” qualities that do it for you?”

“Alhaitham.” You warn him sharply, and he flinches despite how much he wants not to.

“…I just need to know,” he closes his eyes to deal with the ache he feels in both his heart and head, “Rationally, what it is that makes you have romantic feelings for me.”

It was a thought that consumed his mind ever since he and you had gotten involved in that matter, and he feels as if it's eating him alive, tearing into his brain matter. It's not like he's wrong (he knows he's not, not when he's spent so many sleepless nights thinking about it), you really could've chosen anyone your heart desired and they'd be bound to fall for you.

You make enough money on your own (not that you'd ever be the type of person to be after his Mora), your status in the Akademiya is high enough that being in a romantic relationship with him wouldn't raise it all that much, it's not like he's an extremely kind person like Tighnari, he's not humorous like Cyno (at least Cyno tries), and, as much as he hates to admit it, he's not as academically gifted as Kaveh. Honestly and rationally, a small part of him thinks you'd be better off with Kaveh, he's far more outgoing than Alhaitham is, his genius is unparalleled, the two of you have been friends since you were students, you—

“Are you jealous?” Your question is blunt, and Alhaitham can't help but admire you more, even in his distressed state.

He likes this about your relationship, you rarely ever hold back what you're thinking even if it might be against your better interest— it helps him, he thinks, it helps him understand how he's feeling, it helps him understand how you're feeling, surfacing those hidden emotions and social cues he can somehow never seem to get.

“Maybe.” He admits, his eyes shifting to the concrete. He's not sure whether it's jealousy or insecurity, most likely a mix of both, but they're rather similar in his mind, meshing together into doubt.

Doubt— what a confusing emotion. It's a small seed before his mind brushes past it, and he can't help but nurture and grow it, just like all of his other thoughts. Ugly and childish emotions aren't above him, and he's only human afterall, he knows he can't be expected to not be above it despite how often he tries, and yet, it's so incredibly disappointing when he lets it slip through.

“I like you because you're Alhaitham,” you reply with the same amount of confidence you've had this entire time, which is very little, “I'm not sure what to say.”

He gets it, he really does. He likes you romantically the same way, but the difference is that you're you, and he's just him.

“...I think the thing that caught my attention was your lack of ambition.” You admit, in hopes that it'll lift his perpetually unsatisfied expression, “I like people with a lack of ambition.”

It's Alhaitham’s turn to be caught off guard now, his mind wandering to all sorts of places with the new piece of information you so kindly fed him. What did you mean by that?

“Hey, don't be so sullen,” you tease him, mimicking the words he told you a few weeks ago, “Shouldn't you just be happy that we're together like this? You don't have to be a researcher all the time, you can be human too.”

“Researchers are human.” He huffs, one hand reaching to brush his hair from his forehead.

“You sure don't act like it.”

The mood finally lightens, and you step forward, wrapping your arms around his torso and squeezing him gently. He’s about as stiff as a board, and you giggle. “Hug me back, Haitham,” you lean your head on his chest, “You'll feel better, trust me.”

He gingerly follows your order, one arm wrapping around your upper back and the other near your shoulder.

"Just so you know," you close your eyes, "I'd never go for someone who insults Haravatat. In his neverending quest to piss you off, he forgot that Haravatat is my Darshan too."

"Calling me boring is fine but calling Haravatat boring isn't?"

"The difference is that you're actually boring."

He sighs while you laugh, burying your nose into his chest. The sun is low in the sky, yet, he doesn't feel cold.

“Why are you attracted to those without ambition?” He can't help but ask, it's odd, especially for someone of your stature, wouldn't you like someone that shares the same passion as you?

“Sumeru is a dangerous place.” Your voice comes out softer, and he takes into account the recent events with the Fatui— “Powerful people with that sense of ambition are what make it all that more terrifying.”

He thinks back to the betrayal that Khajeh and his actions caused to the entire Darshan of Haravatat, the shock it must’ve been to those who were unaware of the corruption of their sages, and by extension, the government that they not not only part of, but were also upholding. A part of him irrationally regrets being in the heat of the action with Azar and the Traveller instead of being with you, but he supposes the way you sink against his body means that he’s made up for it.

Touching you doesn’t send electric sparks up his spine anymore, no, it pulsates heat and warmth through his entire body, and he pulls you closer to him. His head rests on yours and he lets out a huff of contentment, closing his eyes— it feels far more intimate than anything he’s ever done before, but he feels like he’s never been uncomfortable with you— strange and foreign, maybe, but never uncomfortable.

“Kaveh is staring at us through the doorway,” he mutters lowly as a not-so-sneaky Kaveh ducks behind the frame, “Would you like to go back?”

“Kaveh will be fine,” you smile impishly, “Besides, you’re the only one who can hug me like this, wouldn’t you like to show him that? Just to put your mind to ease?”

Alhaitham doesn’t feel that doubt that plagued his mind anymore, and he feels like he’s breathing in fresh air for the first time. A smile makes it's way onto his face as he realizes that he doesn't care what Kaveh thinks anymore, that your relationship is perfectly stable, and that the front of his house is fine the way it is. He doesn’t mind letting you think the seed of doubt is still there, though, not when your body is willing to mold against him so perfectly.

“Yes, yes I would.”

“he’s breathing in fresh air for the first time” and he’s just sniffing y/n’s perfume like a mad lad 😔 reader's line about ambition is based off of heongyeon from mr. queen!

ALSO good news i just got a computer after being without one for months and i’m typing so fast so we’re def hitting that one oneshot a week goal thank god

122524. i keep thinking about how tsukishima kei is perceptive but is awe-struck when he meets you because you’re worse. because you’re far more understanding and painfully receptive to harsh truths. you’re sharper but much more softer. and when you meet him, that awe-struck would slowly turn into something unsettling because of how casually intimate you are with your friends—with him.

you pat him in the back. or just rest your hand there. give him a look, a half-smile and eyes wholly meeting his. i’m here. “look, it’s your favorite,” or “you sound like this song.” you eat lunch with him, he doesn’t know if you’ve purposely situated yourself by his side but he dares not ask. you include him in your book shoppings, and you’re not fazed when your friends cancel in the last minute. you say he should bring his friends—he could only scoff at you and shake his head no.

and even though you give so easily—even though tsukishima kei holds no such attachment to miniscule gestures, or trinkets, the ones you would slide or plant in his palm not as a gift but just a normal thing to do as friends— it still feels weird. feels…nice. there’s warmth in it, a genuineness he can’t find in the common.

your definition of friends is blurry to some. thus, people would think you’re flirting with them. and they fall for you in the process. everytime this happens, he’s already prepping for midnight snacks & creative witty jokes as your name shows up on his screen. calling him. he’ll listen to everything: how you hate it when people think they’re special just because you gave them your undivided attention, how they think you owe them when they’ve showered you enough affections, for you to reciprocate them, for you to feel something over such trivial things.

that’s not how you operate, he knows. you give and give and give. you only take what your hands can carry, but it’s ironic, how you can receive harsh truths over someone’s heart ready to take care of you. how you’ll choose to have this casualness than to think about a love for a lifetime’s worth.

you deserve it, though. a love for a lifetime’s worth. to meet your gentle hands and knowing gazes and easy laughs. a love that doesn’t feel like a chore, just a normal thing to do, a habit—like you and your trinkets that you save.

in the distant, kei thinks you’re afraid of a few harsh truths. if there’s a light in your kindness, there’s a dark and hollowness that comes with you, too. your big heart means a bigger pill to fucking swallow.

you’re his harsh truth. but one he doesn’t choke on. only aching in some vague, hidden way.

and kei knows he’s a fool for it.

for letting himself get tangled in the ache. for leaning into the quiet way you fill the room—not with noise, but with presence, with weight. the kind that sneaks up on him when he’s least prepared, the faint murmur of your voice pulling him out of his head, or your hand always resting somewhere on him; on his shoulder or his back or even atop his hand at random.

you don’t try to fix him, and maybe that’s what draws him closer, what keeps him tethered to you despite the sharp edges you unknowingly press against his ribs. you see through people too easily, yet never pry. you offer but never push, even when he knows you should.

that hollow kindness of yours, the dark undertone of it, really perplexes him. there’s a careful distance you keep, no matter how much you give. you’re too soft with the world and too harsh with yourself, like you’ve already decided there’s a limit to how much you’re allowed to take. somehow, kei becomes part of that equation—close enough to feel the warmth of your light but never bold enough to reach out and hold it.

he tells himself it’s better this way. that your strange intimacy is manageable only because it’s casual. that you’d pull back if he ever pushed.

but the truth—the harsh, undeniable truth—is that he doesn’t know how to navigate this thing you’ve become to him.

it’s not friendship, not really. friendship doesn’t taste like the bitter pang of jealousy when someone else claims your attention. it doesn’t feel like this quiet, bone-deep longing to hold onto every piece of you before it slips away.

and kei is perceptive enough to know that it will slip away. that one day, your hands will stop reaching for him, your laughter will echo somewhere he can’t follow, and all he’ll have left is the memory of trinkets he didn’t think to keep.

but not yet.

for now, he lets you be his harsh truth. the ache that he doesn’t choke on, the weight he doesn’t know how to carry but refuses to put down. because for all the hollowness you carry, you’ve filled something in him he didn’t even realize was empty.

and that’s enough.

for now, at least, to have you so casually is enough.

it’s better than losing you completely. to sit with you in the silence, in this limbo he doesn’t want to name.

he won’t pry if it means keeping you close.

what a strange, cruel truth to admit—that he loves you only for an inch, not ready to take the mile.

i dont have the spiritual writing energy to expand this all im feeling rn is yearning 😆 i’ll reblog this if i find the time to write the whole version. merry christmas! 🎁

Kyle Gaz Garrick who hides the constant nightmares he has from you.

Ever since the helicopter incident, things have been different for him.

He isn't sure if he's really 'traumatized' as the feelings come and go.

Some days he feels like open spaces are closed in on him and suffocating him

some days he feels like running quickly up the stairs as he feels like he could fall through them any moment

some nights he wakes up with the same memory from where he was upside down and shooting terrorists

Sure, he boasts about it. Who wouldn't? Managing to live to tell the tale and knocking bad guys out all the same time while he was under stress and pressure?

And yet if doesn't stop the adrenaline he felt rushing through him, how he had to push himself aside for a moment and focus on the mission at hand and worry about the situation later

Now he sat on the couch, not wanting to wake you up with something so little, something he could handle

He's a grown man afterall

He had made sure to leave the room as quickly and as quietly as possible and yet you still managed to wake up, feeling the lack of his warmth and just him in general

Tiptoeing your way into the living room before frowning at the sight of your boyfriend with his head in his hands, hunched over in the dark.

You couldn't see a thing yet the pit in your stomach grew and grew with each moment

"Kyle?"

He looked up quickly when he heard your voice. You turned the lights onto see his face, making your frown tug a little lower when you saw how tired he looked

"Shit, sorry. didn't mean to wake you up, love"

You sighed and sat next to him, letting him lay on your chest.

His arms wrapped around your torso as he started to relax when your hand rubbed circles on his back, a comforting silence filled the air as you two enjoyed eachother's company

You didn't expect him to open up to you yet nor did you force him. You just wanted to be there for him in his darkest moments like he always was for you

He buried his face into your shoulder, soon falling asleep there before you started to feel yourself drift off as well

He was unsure of a lot of things, but he was sure of one thing:

You were his light