#also... distracting myself from... the thing... that is coming soon...

[louisontheinternet]

Sister Daniel, the icon of all time!!! in colour now!!

[despairforme]

[love-quinn]

— STEEL CUT.

summary — pope's still fairly new to domestic life with you, but he thinks he's getting the hang of the whole thing. being a good boyfriend is fairly easy with how lovely you are, but sometimes he learns things about you that still surprise him.

word count — 2.3k words

note — reader has sensory issues that can be related to autism, or anxiety or whatever you'd like to interpret it as. i based her lowkey off myself in that i also hate things with bits or chunks in it and i think oatmeal is evil. i hope you enjoy it <3333

“What’s the difference?”

“How should I know?” Andrew’s got a bowl in his hands and he’s frowning at you over the sink. You don’t generally like it when he frowns, but that doesn’t stop you from teasing him. “I’m not the cops.”

You roll your eyes pettily from where you’re sitting at your kitchen counter. He’s doing the dishes while you nurse a glass of water like it’s a cup of coffee. You’re dressed in one of his sweatshirts and a pair of sleep shorts, and Andrew’s counting down the plates before he can come and kiss your cheek good morning. You’d given him one on your way past to the fridge, but he’d been so distracted making sure the spoon in his hand was just sudsy and not dirty that he hadn’t had the finesse to capture one of his own. 

“How should you know?” You quip, looking down at the way your finger is almost unconsciously tapping against your glass. Your nail polish is almost all the way chipped on both hands; you’re going to have to reapply soon. You’ll let Andrew pick the colour. “You were the one who was in a gang.”

He puts the last plate on the rack to dry, reaching down to wipe his hands dry on the dish towel you keep there. “I wasn’t in a gang, I was in the mob.”

“Spoken like someone who knows the difference,” you grumble, picking your cup up with both hands. 

Andrew finishes wiping his off, stretching out his shoulders from being hunched over for so long. “I hate having wet hands,” he flexes his fingers, cracking each bone at the knuckle. He notices the sound makes you cringe and doesn’t bother with his second hand.

“There’s gloves under the sink,” you muse around a mouthful of water. 

Andrew only been living in your place for a few weeks now but he’s clean enough that he’s seen the rubber gloves you keep stored neatly in a plastic drawer under your kitchen sink. “Aren’t those for making sure you don’t like, burn your skin off with bleach, or something?”

He’s rounded the bench now to kiss your cheek as he’d wanted to, stealing a kiss on the other side as well for good measure. “Not only,” you say, spinning in your stool. “You can use them for the dishes, I don’t mind. Or we can get you your own pair?”

You take his hands in yours casually, swinging them between your bodies with a rocky rhythm as you look up at him. Your hands are cold from where you’ve been cupping your glass. His are warm from the water. “Why would we do all that?” He muses. He’s a grown man. He can handle having his hands wet, even though he can feel each droplet of water against his skin, the way they react to the grooves and callouses of his hands, as surely as if your hands were on him. Your hands don’t usually make his skin crawl the way that does, however. 

You quirk your head, looking up at him standing above you. He wants to lean down and kiss you, but he’s not sure if you want that. You’re a very affectionate person, both physically and non, but sometimes he seems to catch you in a bad way and you wince at the feeling of his skin against yours. He’d vowed from that first time to never make you dread the rise of his hand for any reason, and since then he’s been a lot more careful around you. 

You almost cried when you realised. 

You know that Andrew’s doing mental hurdles in front of you - courtesy of the mob he’d been in until recently. You’ve never met the rest of the Cody family, you’re not sure where they think Andrew is, and you’d prefer not to know. You don’t know about the infamous Pope Cody beyond what Andrew’s told you, and you don’t know about the things those hands have done that would make him so convinced he could hurt you.

You’ve taken extra care over the past year to become more visibly comfortable around him and you hope he understands the amount of trust you hold in your heart for him.

“Because you said you don’t like the feeling?” You slip off the stool so you can stand to kiss him.  “Does there have to be another reason?”

He pulls you in to his chest and kisses the top of your head. You love Andrew, fully and entirely, so you let him get away with not answering. You know he’s got a lot going on up there in that head of us, and most times he needs a minute or a week before he can articulate what he’s feeling. He never seems to mind when you’re upset and muddling through your feelings, and you’re hoping with enough time and compassion that he’s able to follow suit one day.

“You’re too nice to me,” he mumbles, nose pressed to your hairline. You can feel his breath fanning down the planes of your face. 

You press your cheek to his chest in a concentrated to feel his heartbeat under your ear. He’s perceptive enough to stay still while you orient yourself, even adjusting his arms when the angle becomes awkward. You hear it speed up when you get into place, knowing it’ll slow down when he realises you’re not moving. “You did the dishes, I think we’re even.”

His voice is low, not quite sad, just thoughtful in a way he’s been more often lately. Like he’s turning over the shape his life has taken in his hands and can’t quite figure out a comfortable way to hold it. “I don’t want you to think you’ve gotta… fix stuff for me. I… I’m a grown man, I can handle a little bit of water.”

You lean back enough to look at him. “I know. My capable man,” you squeeze his biceps teasingly. “Want to because I love you-”

“I love you.”

“And if it bothers you then I want to fix it. That’s all.” You smile simply at him. You want to spend the rest of your life with him. You have the next forty years to get him to wear gloves. 

He kisses you again, smiling back you. You feel the curve of his mouth against yours and the feeling makes you warm.

“You want breakfast?” he asks. He did the dishes, you know you should reasonably offer to make him something, but the way he’s rubbing your arm and smiling at you feels so nice all you can do is nod. “Oatmeal?”

He steps back to start the process and you sigh morosely, coming to sit back down on your stool with your water. He pulls the box out and doesn’t get any further than that before you’re speaking up. “Did they not have the one that I usually get?”

Seeing your face, Andrew can tell he’s definitely done something wrong. He holds the box in his hand dumbly. “This is the one you usually get.” He checked the brand of the one in the recycling when he’d gone to the store. Shopping is usually something you usually do, but you’d had an appointment during the time you’d usually go and Andrew had offered to do it for you. All he’d wanted was to take something off your plate, and he’d wanted you to see that you could trust him with that. He wasn’t going to be some useless husband, especially since you’re the main breadwinner of the house while he’s getting his HVAC certification (at your encouragement - he had all the skills already). 

You hold out your hand to take it from him and tap a finger at the smaller label under the brand name. “These are steel-cut.”

He looks at the oats like they’ve betrayed him, not holding up their end of the bargain. “And you don’t like those ones,” he surmises. He clearly doesn’t get your choices - oats are oats - but he’s trying to wrap his head around it. 

“They’re evil,” you say gravely. 

Andrew laughs, not unkindly, eyes creased. “Evil?”

“They’re out to get me.” You nod seriously, putting the box down on the counter. 

He looks really disappointed and for a moment you almost want to tell him it’s fine. But, like, if he goes through the effort of making the oats you aren’t going to eat them. It’s not conducive to either of you. “I looked for the ones you like,” he says, frustrated. “They all look the same.” His shoulders are tight, and he’s not looking properly at you, like he’s expecting you to make fun of him.

“Hey, Andrew,” you coax him back over to you. He comes dutifully, like a dog that’s been scolded. “I’m not mad at you. It’s okay.”

“You made a face.”

“Not a mad one.”

“I didn’t want to call you while you were busy and sound like an idiot who can’t even buy his girlfriend oatmeal.” He huffs, shifting awkwardly. “Just wanted to do something nice for you.”

“You do so many nice things for me,” you muse. “I wouldn’t have minded if you called about the oatmeal.”

He shrugs, finally looking from the box to your face. “So, what’s the difference?”

You turn it over in your hands. It’s still sealed. You’ll have to look at the return policy. “The texture?” you try to explain like it’s not something you know deep and innate, have always known. Like it’s just occurring to you now, slightly embarrassed at the big deal you’ve made. “They’re chewier, kind of lumpy? The ones I usually get are smoother, they don’t feel weird in my mouth.”

“It’s not the taste?”

You rub at your arm the same way he does at night when he’s trying to help you fall asleep. 

“No, they taste the same, or like, similar enough that it doesn’t bother me.” You bite your top lip, suddenly itchy in the way you only get when you’re being scrutinised. “Sometimes I get a little particular about stuff. So, I make sure it’s like, exactly the way I like it.”

Andrew knows this about you, but he’s never really put two and two together. Like the way you always ask him to cut the tags out of your shirts, or one time he’d washed one of your sweaters in with his load and you had thanked him for it and then washed it yourself with your own detergent. One time he had watched you fish out every chunk of strawberry in a tub of yogurt before you’d eat it.

He had found another brand without the chunks after that, and you seemed to like it more. If it meant you didn’t have to spend fifteen minutes before eating doing all that, he didn’t care.

He also sees the way that you roll up his socks in his drawers so they’re not creased weird when he goes to put them on, or the way you swapped the type of water jug in your fridge to one with a handle because he didn’t like the way the callous on his thumb rubbed against the glass. The way you’re so quick to offer to buy him a pair of gloves.

You’ve interpreted his silence as judgement - irrational, you know, Andrew thinks the absolute world of you - and are talking again to fill the gap. “I know it’s like, high maintenance, and annoying, and doesn’t make sense-”

He kisses you, his trip around the counter giving you enough warning that you have time to push him off if you want to finish your sentence. “You’re exactly the way I love you,” he says. You smile, bashful and beautiful. “You’re worth the effort.” The irony is not lost on either of you, but it just makes you happier that he seems to believe what he’s saying. You really really do love him. He says it confidently, as if it’s something he’s always known about you. 

Your mouth is sweet and shy against his, his hands hovering at your waist like he doesn’t quiet know how to handle you anymore. Gentle in the way that only he knows and never makes him resent you. “You do it for me,” he points out, waving off your earlier shyness.

“Yeah, but you are high maintenance,” you tease. “You make me brush your hair for you.” It’s to award him a certain level of gentleness he’d never had without strings. You feel giddy whenever he asks you to. 

“I’m delicate,” he says matter-of-factly. “I… I didn’t realise how you were,” he feels like a bad boyfriend as he’s saying it, but the feeling of you in front of him, still with that soft look on your face spurs him on. “I thought you were just cute about that stuff.”

You look offended, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. You love him so much it makes something in your chest jolt loose. “I am cute about that stuff,” you push your face into his shirt, still somewhat embarrassed. “I’m cute about everything.”

Andrew’s hands start rubbing your back in a way that might put you to sleep. 

“I’m still not eating those,” you point blindly behind you where the box of oatmeal has been discarded.

He laughs and you feel it in your face, listening to the vibrations of his voice. “Yeah, alright. I’ll go out later and get you some. I promise to call if I can’t find it.” He adds the last part at the feeling of you pulling back, knowing exactly what you’re about to say. “Want some yogurt instead?” You nod happily.

You both resume your earlier positions. You finish off your ice water and he finds the yogurt you like in the fridge. A quiet settles over the kitchen, just the sound of metal on glass or the ice in your cup clinking. 

He’s about to speak up again, toss you some affection, let some of it loose where it’s been pooling behind his chest. 

You beat him to the punch. “So, was it like, a Mafia, or is that it’s own thing?”

[nexusofbirds]

Headcanon that it’s a milestone in the Batfamily for each Bat to find Bruce’s contingency plans and realize Bruce has made one for them too.

—

Dick is in his third year as Robin, and is searching the Batcomputer

Dick: Contingency plans? Huh. Flash, Superman, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern… ME?

Bruce, walking in: Are you ready for patrol, chum?

Dick, snapping his head toward Bruce and pointing at the screen: Explain!

Bruce: Oh, my contingency plans? I make those for everyone in the Justice League.

Dick: I’m not in the Justice League!

Bruce: But you were trained by me, which makes you better than some of them.

Dick: But I wouldn’t become evil!

Bruce, coming to stand next to Dick so that he can scroll down: I don’t think I would either, but I have a contingency plan for myself in case I do. See?

Dick, muttering: You’re so paranoid.

Dick: Wait, you actually think I’m enough of a threat to make a plan for me?

Bruce: Of course. You’re my son.

Dick, getting a little teary-eyed: Oh. Thanks.

—

Tim is in his second year as Robin and has heard about Bruce’s reputation for making contingency plans, and wants to see them for himself

Tim: Here it is! Contingency plans. Let’s see… why the fuck am I on here?

Tim, clicking on his plan to read it: A weaker fighter—uncalled for—who relies more on intellect and strategy than raw strength. Create a trap with an overwhelming number of variables. While he is distracted, disarm and restrain him.

Tim, leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms: That wouldn’t work… probably… would it?

Tim: I’ll make a better one, just in case.

Later

Tim: Hey, Bruce, I updated your contingency plan for me.

Bruce: You found that?

Tim, kind of proud now: Yeah, and I figured if you think I could be a threat, then you should probably have a better plan. I thought of one that would work.

Bruce, reading the plan: Tim, this says to fake all of your loved ones' deaths and to get someone to shoot you while you’re grieving.

Tim: I know. If I become evil, you need to kill me because I’ll escape any prison you put me in. I’m pretty susceptible to bullets, so this should work.

Bruce: …good thinking.

—

Bruce is typing up Cassandra’s contingency plan

Cass: That won’t work.

Bruce, flinching in surprise: Cass, what are you doing here?

Cass: Observing. That plan won’t work. It relies on you taking me by surprise. That’s unlikely.

Bruce, sighing and deleting what he’d written because he knows she’s right: I know. Are you not offended I’m making a contingency plan for you?

Cass: Maybe. You’ll find out soon.

Bruce, worried: Oh.

—

Stephanie has been Batgirl for a year

Steph: So, Bruce, I was on the Batcomputer, and I couldn’t help but notice you have a contingency plan for me in case I go a little nuts.

Bruce: Yes.

Steph, pleased: When did you decide you needed a plan for me?

Bruce: Three months ago.

Steph, less pleased: Wait, but Dick and Tim both said they found theirs when they were Robin.

Bruce: Yes.

Steph: Fuck you, old man.

Bruce: …

Steph, realizing what she just said and hurrying away: I’ll be going now!

—

Damian is three months into being Robin

Damian, hanging from the ceiling of the Batcave, looking down at Bruce working on the computer: Hm. A contingency plan for me. A respectable decision, Father.

Bruce, looking up, remembering the time Cass also caught him writing a plan: How does this keep happening?

—

Barbara has been Oracle for a while

Barbara: Bruce, I just thought you should know that using a city-wide EMP isn’t going to work as a contingency plan for me.

Bruce: It won’t?

Barbara: Definitely not.

Bruce, frowning: Did you have a better suggestion?

Barbara: If I turn rogue? Hope I see reason. Or find a way to temporarily disable all electronic devices. That’s on and off planet.

Bruce, unhappy: …I’ll have Tim look into it.

—

Duke is talking to Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian

Duke: I found the weirdest thing on the Batcomputer today. Bruce has a contingency plan for me.

Dick, patting him on the back: It was about time you found it!

Damian, nodding: Congratulations. I’m sure you’re pleased.

Duke: Uh, not exactly. Kind of offended, actually.

Tim: Eh, you’ll get over it. We all find our contingency plans pretty soon after joining.

Jason, who has never seen a contingency plan for him: The fuck? No we don’t?

Tim: Aside from Steph, we all found ours as Robin.

Jason, confused because he looked through the contingency plans as Robin, and he wasn’t on there: Uh, no?

Dick, frowning: You didn’t find a contingency plan for yourself when you were a kid?

Jason: No. There wasn’t one—I looked.

Damian: Unlikely.

Duke: You sure you didn’t just miss it? There’s one for you now.

Jason, shocked: He added one? When?

Duke: I think it said it was updated last week. Not sure when it was made.

Bruce, walking in: Hello.

Jason, glaring at Bruce: When did you make a contingency plan for me?

Bruce, thinking: A few days after learning you were Red Hood, I believe.

Dick, Tim, and Damian: Shocked gasps

Dick: You didn’t have one for him as Robin?

Bruce: No.

Jason, hesitantly: Why? You seriously made one for Timmy over here—

Tim: Hey!

Jason: And not me?

Bruce: I had ideas. I just didn’t foresee needing them, so I never made an official file for you.

Jason: …

Dick: You trusted him that much?

Bruce: Yes.

Jason, turning his head away: …should’ve made the damn plan.

—

Realistically, I think if Bruce were making contingency plans for the entire Batfamily, he definitely wouldn’t have skipped over Jason, but this is more interesting imo, so here we are.

[lisawoogafics]

𝔟𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡: roronoa zoro/reader

summary: after being rescued by zoro during a raid in whisky peak, you find yourself joining the straw hat crew. slowly you begin to notice the quiet, unconventional ways zoro shows he cares — whether he admits it or not. when he takes it upon himself to teach you how to fight, you never expected to need it so soon. and when things go wrong, it turns out you weren't the only one who had caught feelings along the way.

cw: live action!zoro. slowburn, hurt/comfort, violence, blood & injury, town raid, canon divergence, slight angst, fluff

You found yourself craven into a dark corner in your room. pirates invaded your town and you were preparing for bloodshed. screams and chaos could be heard from outside your small cabin and it only seemed to be getting louder as the rogue pirates approached the cabin

Thud the cabin door came flying down and a body thud onto the floor above the door. a rogue pirate knocked out. and a mysterious figure behind him stepping in. Green hair. three swords attached to his hip. sharp jawline and dark, concentrated eyes.

His eyebrows furrowed as he looked around for something, someone. As his eyes trailed around the room they finally landed on a figure, you. He walked over with determination and confidence. I cowered even further if that was possible, trembling as he stood in front of me, towering over me. As he crouched down, I clutched my chest. That's when his voice spoke.

"Get up, it's not safe here" His deep, commanding voice echoed.

I looked at him confused, wasn't he also a rogue pirate?

"What?" I spoke in a soft, meek voice.

"Get up." His voice echoed more assertively.

I blinked once, twice. "Okay.." Pause. "Who are you?"

His mouth quirked ever so slightly, almost amused by the comment as if he was used to people knowing who he was. He extended his arm as an offer of help. I hesitated for a moment, cautious of his intentions. Still not knowing if he was a rogue pirate. But something in my gut told me I could trust him.

So I did.

I followed behind him, staying as close as possible. As we stepped foot out of the cabin I looked around and destruction was visible everywhere. Rubble was piled on top of broken houses, people crying everywhere. What caught my eye was the bodies, I was mentally preparing myself to see my neighbours, friends. I wanted to close my eyes. But the more I looked around, the more I realised the bodies went of people I knew. It was the bodies of the rogue pirates.

My train of thought was interrupted when a surprisingly joyful man came rushing over "Zoro! Are you ready to go?" The cheery voice spoke. Zoro stayed silent and looked over at my direction. "The rest of the civilians are gathered over there" He nodded towards the area.

I turned towards the group over civilians huddled near the edge of town. I looked towards Zoro, before walking towards the group. But a voice interrupted my movement "Hey, you're coming with us right?" The cheery man spoke, his eyes filled with complete sincerity I turned around surprised. I opened my mouth slightly before closing it.

"Coming where?"

"We're leaving soon" He spoke again, already seeming distracted as he turned towards the ship. "Actually— Sanji is probably cooking up a meal right now—"

"Luffy." Zoro's voice, flat.

Zoro didn't say anything else, he looked at me once, briefly before heading back towards the ship. Luffy gestured a "let's go" and that's how I found myself following the straw hat pirates.

Months went by since my town was raided by rogue pirates. It was the worst time of my life, my village was destroyed and many lives were lost, it took weeks for my people to even restore an ounce of their once trusted economy. But while there was many bad things that happened, the best thing happened to me as-well. Meeting Roronoa Zoro and his crew.

His captain Luffy and Usopp—still confused about that—invited me with open arms, Luffy is so charismatic and made me feel right at home. His other crewmates Nami and Vivi felt like the sisters I never had, they taught me everything I needed to know about navigation and especially how to stand my ground.

Nami gave me lesson on the dynamics of a ship and I tried my best to contribute to the crew, although I was mainly in charge of caring for the ship while they went out to islands. Sanji, oh Sanji, he is such a romancer but he is a damn good cook, he is able to whip up the most delicious meal possible from scraps. One time when we were lacking in supplies he made the most incredible soup. I'm still craving it as we speak.

And chopper, the most sweetest little deer. He is quite the emotional character but he can make anyone's day better. And Usopp tells the best stories, the crew are lucky to have a brave warrior like him on board.

Lastly, Zoro. He's very nonchalant. He keeps to himself, doesn't talk much but he's around. Whether training or bickering with Sanji he's always close by. We hadn't spoken much since he had found me but I feel his presence near me when we're around.

Nami had instructed me to tie a knot near the deck of the ship as the crew were on a nearby island scouting for supplies. She had helped me previously, giving me step-by-step instructions but I had always fumbled on the last part, the actual tightening of the knot. I sighed frustrated, my fingers kept getting caught in between the rope. I could feel myself getting more and more frustrated but my train of thought got interrupted when someone grabbed the rope and tightened it in one swift motion, I looked up it was Zoro. Before I could even have a chance to thank him he walked off as the other crew boarded the ship. Nami made her way over, her face gleaming with proudness. "This is a really good knot, you're learning well"

Another incident was with Sanji's cooking, he handed the crew his new recipe including some new exotic fish from the deep blue. I looked down at the bowl, and gave a polite smile thanking Sanji for his efforts. I stared at the bowl and there was a beat, then two, I've always had a distaste towards fish. Just as I was about to pick up the fish, my bowl was removed and then replaced a bowl of chicken. I smiled and looked up to Sanji to thank him for remembering but it wasn't Sanji, it was Zoro. He didn't even provide acknowledgement of the situation, just prodded the fish and ate it in one go. My shoulders slumped in relief as I ate the chicken.

Sanji walked around and noticed Zoro's bowl and uttered a small "Hey, Mosshead. I thought you hated Fish?"

I was training with the mast of the ship, using a wooden stick and smacked the mast with the most inexperienced skill. I tried to use Nami's fighting technique but I was no where near flexible enough. I was panting and sweating as I hit it over and over again but I was exhausted.

I had my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath when a small cough alerted me. I stood up, sweat pooling down the side of my forehead.

Zoro.

I gave an awkward smile as he had his hand on one of his blades.

"Training?" He spoke, his eyes darting away before returning to me.

"Attempting" I lightly joked. He didn't smile though, just acknowledge my poor attempt at humour. He stepped down from the ship and walked towards me.

"Your posture is wrong. You need to straighten your back, like this" He walked over boldly and gently placed his hands on my back straightening it. I froze as I felt his hand on my lower back adjusting my posture. I could feel the warmth spread from his hand and I furrowed my eyebrows, a nervous habit and planted my feet down, my back now straight. He stepped away, eyeing my new posture.

"Try again this time."

I paused for a second, losing train of thought before adjusting my wooden stick clumsily, it felt stupid. I struck the mast, swinging the stick left and then right after I felt like the demonstration was over I turned around and gave a something smile.

He cocked his eyebrow and looked away before returning his gaze, he unfolded his crossed arms, grabbing one of the other spare wooden sticks nearby. "You're doing it wrong." He spoke plainly. "You're pulling from the wrong place. Loosen your grip, stop acting like you're afraid of dropping it. If you're using all your strength just on the swing you'll be useless in ten minutes."

"Like this." Zoro swung with precision, his skills were unmatched as he swung the wooden stick. I watched in awe as the stick thumped and thumped. The stick hit the mast, sending a vibration across the ship. My eyes began to drift from the stick to his bicep, the way the curve of his shirt would crinkle as his muscle flexed every time he struck. I felt my mouth dry slightly as I gulped. After he felt like it was enough he withdrew the stick.

Incoherent words mumbled as I lost track of focus. I blinked before looking back up at him. Oh god, was I staring? "Sorry, what did you say?"

He shook his head slightly before speaking again "Spar with me"

I did a double take. "Spar? with.. you?" I let out a nervous chuckle politely declining. "I couldn't— I can barely hit the mast properly there's no way I can keep up with you"

"Prepare your sword" My stomach flipped as his deep voice rung assertively, leaving no room for an argument

"Okay." I spoke ever so softly.

As I prepped my sword, I straightened my posture and positioned it, mirroring Zoro's position. Then our swords clashed, I stumbled back a bit from the intensity of his strength. "Woah—"

He seemed to notice he went a bit too rough before speaking

"You need to hold your ground more." I blinked for a second before nodding my head.

"Hold my ground, okay, yeah."

Our swords clashed again and I was able to parry some of his moves, but as he manoeuvre around me I lost my footing and tripped. I was almost convinced I was about to faceplant onto the ground but a tight grip held around my waist, pulling me up. His grip didn't loosen as I stood there, his around still wrapped around my waist as we regained our breath. I could feel the panting of his chest pressed slightly against my back. After a what felt like a long silence I finally mumbled. "Thank you" I stood there slightly frozen. The stillness of his breath unphased "should've held your ground"

We headed towards a new island, a marine base, to restock for supplies before heading to Alabasta but things went south. Our crew got split up when we were attacked by some Baroque work agents, Nami and Vivi were split one direction, Sanji, Usopp and Luffy and Chopper and Zoro. I was left alone to fend for myself. It's not their fault, there was a big explosion blast and none of us could see through the thick cloud of smoke. I was just unlucky enough to head into a direction no one else was going.

I found a nearby cave and stumbled inside, still coughing from the heavy cloud of smoke. My hand held onto the wall of the cave as I steady my breathing but that wave of calm was shortly interrupt. "Well, well, well, what do we have here? A straw hat pirate coming right into my cave?" A Baroque Agent? Great, just what I needed.

I grabbed onto the sword holstered on my belt, before he could speak another word I swung immediately. First rule, don't let them strike first, catch them off-guard. My sword skills were still new, I was no where near good enough to hold against my own but I was somehow doing okay. My sword clashed against their own.

I felt him stumble slightly, it wasn't much but it was something. Our swords met against with a harder clash. He was stronger than me, I could tell from the first clash. I planted my feet on the floor, trying my best to regain my balance and hold my ground. I spread my feet a bit wider, adjusted my posture and lowered my weight. If I couldn't defeat this pirate with strength, I had to use my wits instead. I moved around instead, parrying his heavy attacks. I let him come forward, so I could try and redirect his attack elsewhere.

It was working. Until it wasn't.

He feinted left, and I went with it until he caught onto my strategy and before I could defect, his blade struck. I hissed through my teeth, losing my balance. But I couldn't stop, there was no room for error here or I would be dead. So I used my remaining energy and struck. This seemed to catch him completely off guard as I knocked the weapon out of his hand. My eyes widen when I watched it hit the floor and that's when I landed my final swing, slashing it against his chest. I watched his body immediately slump to the floor.

I held onto my fresh wound as I glared at them on the floor, I groaned from the burning sensation. I should've seen that feint coming, Zoro had used the same move on me twice prior and I had fallen for it both times. I looked down at my hand and it was covered in blood, I cursed myself for being stupid enough not to see it coming.

I put my sword back in the my holster and limped to the entrance of the cave. That's when I heard the bushes rustle. I mentally prepared to either fight or flee, if that was possible. As I was contemplating my options a familiar green haired man appeared. My body sighed with relief as I stumbled forward. "Zoro—"

Zoro's eyes widened as he rushed towards me. "What happened?" He held onto me, his arm wrapped tightly around my waist keeping me upright. Chopper followed shortly after sprinting over to inspect the wound, Chopper opened his pouch, shuffle through his medical supplies without hesitation. "You should of waited for back up." He scolded. I held myself together for as long as I could but the wave of tiredness hit me and before I knew it, I passed out.

I woke up in the familiarity of the ship, I groan slightly looking down at the patched wound. I looked to my left and there was a beaming chopper. "You're awake!" He beamed, he grabbed my hand with his tiny ones, staring at my through glass eyes. "Zoro, she's up!" before my eyes could even adjust to the light I watched Zoro sit up, scooting the chair across the wooden floor bringing it closer to the bed.

The chair was close enough that it must have been there for a while, there was no other explanation for where it ended up. Chopper was already rambling, lifting the edge of the bandage to inspect the his work, a concealed sense of pride gleaming through him. I sat up slightly uncomfortable as readjusted the bandage. My eyes slowly trailed to Zoro as I noticed his eyes staring intensely.

Chopper's rambling continued "It was deep but clean, you're going to be fine, you just need to rest and not do anything stupid—"

"So tell Zoro that too" I murmured, still feeling his intense gaze on me.

Chopper giggled at the sentence, Zoro's expression didn't change but something shifted slightly around his jaw.

"I should go tell the others you're awake" Chopper announced, already halfway to the door on instinct, the way Chopper always seemed to know when to leave a room even if he didn't know why. The door clicked shut behind him.

The silence settled.

"We checked the cave." Zoro finally spoke. His elbows were on his knees, eyes on the floor somewhere near the bed. "You handled yourself."

I smiled despite myself. "Was that a compliment?"

"Don't make it weird."

"I would never."

Another silence. This one was different from the first — it had weight to it, the kind that meant something was sitting just underneath the surface of the conversation. I watched him turn something over in his head, the way you could always tell with Zoro because he went very still.

"You should have waited." He said it quietly. Not a scold this time. But an undertone of something else.

"There wasn't exactly a waiting area in the cave."

He looked up at that. Held my gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Then he looked away.

"The feint." He said. "You fell for it."

I blinked. "...how did you know that?"

"Because you fall for it every time." His voice was even. "I've done it to you in sparring. Twice."

I stared at him. He'd thought about the fight — reconstructed it, figured out exactly how I'd gotten hurt, traced it back to something specific he recognised. He'd been sitting in that chair running through it while I was unconscious.

I didn't know what to do with that so I said nothing.

"Next time" He said, standing up slowly, like the conversation was concluding on his terms. "Don't fall for the feint."

"Zoro."

He stopped.

I didn't really have a plan for what came after saying his name. I just knew I didn't want him to leave yet and it had come out before I could stop it. I could feel my own heartbeat doing something inconvenient.

"Thank you." I said. "For staying."

He didn't answer right away. He looked at me for a moment — that long unreadable look — and then something in his expression did something very small and very brief that I almost missed entirely.

"Get some rest." He said.

He left the door slightly open behind him. He always closed doors fully.

I stared at the ceiling for a long time after that.

Author's note: hii everyone!! this is my first fanfiction & i'm very nervous about how it's going to turn out. if this goes well i'll end up making more! any constructive criticism is greatly appreciated as i'm open to learning and perfecting my craft. as many new writers know, so many drafts have been made and deleted so being able to even just post this is achievement yay. semi proof-read

[muggle-the-hat]

anyway you can probably tell but i was searching my own blog (for an old personal post that i can't find at the moment) because I wound up reblogging some of the better posts i found along the way

all I wanted to do was find that one post where i relayed a conversation my wife had where I basically came home and said "sooooooooo I might have a crush on (name)" and her response was either "finally" or something very similar which i shared in the first place because it was funny compared to the monogamous social expectations we all grew up with

anyway I'm either grayro or demiro and don't tend to develop crushes quickly, but also because I rarely see that friend I had a crush on, I haven't had a ton of interaction with him since having that realization, and without interactions to feed my crush it had seemed to wither away back to plain old friendship

...

nope

that is not what happened

[lov3notts]

ᝰ.ᐟ nerd!theo first tutoring lesson with you

18+ MDNI PLEASE!!!!

he was so yummy in my head i couldn’t keep him all to myself<33

Navigation; masterlist; nerd!theo intro coming soon

Theo arrived at the library's private study area with his usual armful of textbooks and notes, already mentally organizing the tutoring session ahead. Ancient Runes wasn't difficult—not for him, anyway—but apparently you'd been struggling enough that Professor Babbling had assigned him to help.

He'd tutored plenty of students before. This should be routine.

But the moment he rounded the corner and saw you sitting there, something in his brain short-circuited.

You were leaning back in your chair, one leg crossed over the other, fingers idly tracing the edge of your textbook. The late afternoon light streaming through the window caught your features perfectly, and when you looked up at him through your lashes, a slow smile spreading across your lips, Theo forgot how to breathe.

"There you are," you said, your voice warm and smooth. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."

"I—no, I wouldn't—I mean—" Theo's carefully prepared introduction died on his tongue. He stood there like an idiot, textbooks clutched to his chest, staring at you.

Your smile widened, something knowing flickering in your eyes. "You okay, Nott? You look a little... flustered."

"I'm fine," he managed, but his voice came out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat and moved to sit across from you, but immediately regretted it. This close, he could smell your perfume—something subtle and intoxicating that made his head swim.

"So," you said, leaning forward onto your elbows. The movement made your shirt dip lower, and Theo's eyes dropped before he could stop himself. "Where should we start?"

He forced his gaze back to your face, but that wasn't much better. Your lips were curved in amusement, like you knew exactly what you were doing to him. "Chapter seven," he said quickly. "The translation exercises."

"Mmm, sounds thrilling." You pulled the textbook closer, but you didn't look at it. You were still watching him, head tilted slightly. "You know, I've heard a lot about you, Theodore Nott."

"Have you?" His mouth was dry. Why was his mouth so dry?

"Oh yes. Everyone says you're brilliant. Top of every class. Completely focused on your studies." You paused, your smile turning almost predatory. "They also say you're quite the player. That you've been with half the school."

Theo's face burned. "That's—that's not—people exaggerate."

"Do they?" You leaned even closer, and Theo caught another wave of your scent. Your face was so close, your lips looked so plump and soft, just starring at them make his head dizzy. His trousers were getting uncomfortably tight. "So you're telling me the rumors aren't true? You're not secretly hooking up with girls left & right?"

"No! I don't—I don't have time for that sort of thing."

"That sort of thing," you repeated, clearly amused. "You mean sex?"

The word on your lips made heat flood through him. Theo shifted in his seat, trying to be subtle about it, but the movement only made his growing erection more obvious. "I mean distractions," he said weakly.

"Ah." You sat back, and your eyes—those devastating eyes—dropped deliberately to his lap. "And yet you seem pretty distracted right now."

Theo's heart stopped. He looked down and immediately wanted to die. There was no hiding it—his cock was straining visibly against his trousers, the bulge prominent and unmistakable.

"I—that's not—" He grabbed his textbook, trying to cover himself, but you reached out and gently pushed it back down.

"Don't," you said softly. "I want to see."

Theo made a sound somewhere between a whimper and a groan. "This is inappropriate—"

"Is it?" You were smiling again, but there was heat in your expression now. "I think it's flattering. I've never seen you like this before, Nott. You're always so composed, so in control. But right now?" Your eyes dragged slowly up his body. "Right now you look like you're about to fall apart."

"I'm not—I can handle—" But he couldn't finish the sentence. His cock throbbed, and he had to bite back another sound.

"Can you?" You stood up, and Theo's breath caught as you moved around the table. You didn't sit next to him—that would have been too much—but you perched on the edge of the table right beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from your body. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're struggling."

"Please," Theo breathed, though he wasn't sure what he was asking for.

"Please what?" You reached out, fingers ghosting along his shoulder, down his arm. The touch was feather-light but it sent electricity through him. "Please stop? Or please keep going?"

Theo couldn't answer. His whole body was trembling, his cock aching so badly it was almost painful.

"You know what I think?" you continued, your voice dropping lower, more intimate. "I think those rumors about you are completely wrong. I don't think you're a player at all." Your hand came to rest on his thigh, not quite high enough to touch where he desperately needed it, but close. So close. "I think you're completely inexperienced. I think you have no idea what to do with this."

The accuracy of your assessment made Theo's face burn hotter. "That's—you can't just—"

"Am I wrong?" Your fingers traced small circles on his thigh, and Theo's hips jerked involuntarily. "Tell me I'm wrong, Theo."

He couldn't. The words wouldn't come.

"Oh my god," you breathed, and there was genuine surprise in your voice now, mixed with something darker. "I'm right, aren't I? You've never—Theo, have you ever even touched yourself?"

The humiliation was overwhelming, but somehow, the way you said it—with fascination rather than mockery—made it bearable. Barely. "I've been busy," he said defensively. "I have priorities."

"Priorities," you repeated, and then you laughed—not cruelly, but with delight. "Theo, you brilliant, ridiculous boy. You've been so focused on your studies that you've never even jerked off?"

Hearing you say it so bluntly made his cock pulse. "I don't—I haven't needed to—"

"Until now." Your hand slid higher on his thigh, and Theo gasped. "Until me."

"Yes," he admitted, the word torn from him. "Until you."

Your smile was triumphant. "Do you have any idea how hot that is? That I'm the first person to make you feel like this?"

Theo shook his head mutely.

"Well, you are." Your hand moved to his belt, fingers tracing the buckle. "And you have no idea what to do about it, do you?"

"No," Theo whispered.

"Poor thing." But you didn't sound sympathetic—you sounded hungry. "You must be aching. It probably hurts by now, doesn't it?"

"Yes." The admission came out as a whimper.

"Do you want me to tell you what to do?" Your fingers popped the button of his trousers, and Theo nearly came right then. "Do you want me to teach you how to make it feel good?"

"Please," Theo begged, beyond caring about his dignity.

"Okay," The endearment made him shudder. "First, you need to actually touch it. Can you do that for me?"

With shaking hands, Theo reached down and pressed his palm against the bulge. The pressure made him gasp, his hips bucking up into his own touch.

"Good," you praised, and the approval in your voice sent another wave of heat through him. "That feels nice, doesn't it? But it'll feel even better without all these clothes in the way. Unzip for me."

“H-here? i-in the library?”

“Don’t you want to feel good? besides this is a private area that only you have access too. Perks of beings top student.” you end with a smirk on your face.

“o-okay”Theo fumbled with his zipper, finally getting it down. His cock was straining against his boxers now, a damp spot visible where he was already leaking.

"Fuck, look at you," you breathed. "You're so hard it looks painful. Get your hand inside, Theo. Touch yourself properly."

He obeyed, sliding his hand into his boxers and wrapping his fingers around his cock for the first time with real intent. The sensation made his head fall back, a broken moan escaping his lips.

"There you go," you encouraged. "Now stroke it. Up and down, nice and slow at first."

Theo's hand moved clumsily, but even the awkward friction felt incredible. He'd never felt anything like this, never imagined it could be so intense.

"Tighter," you instructed, your own breathing getting heavier. "You can grip it tighter than that. And twist your wrist a little when you get to the top—yes, just like that."

Theo followed your directions, and the improvement was immediate. "Oh—fuck—"

"That's it, love. You're doing so well." Your hand was back on his thigh, squeezing encouragingly. "Faster now. Find a rhythm that feels good."

His hand sped up, his breathing coming in short gasps. The pleasure was building, coiling tighter and tighter in his lower abdomen. "I think—something's happening—"

"You're going to come," you said, and the certainty in your voice somehow made it more real. "When you feel it building, don't stop. Don't fight it. Just let it happen."

"I can't—it's too much—" Theo was trembling, his whole body tensing as the pressure became unbearable.

"Yes, you can." You leaned in close, your lips nearly brushing his ear. "Let go, Theo. Come for me."

Your words, your voice, your proximity—it was too much. The coil snapped, and Theo came with a strangled cry, his release spilling over his hand and onto his trousers. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed through him, more intense than anything he'd ever experienced, leaving him shaking and gasping.

When it finally subsided, Theo slumped in his chair, utterly spent. He was vaguely aware that he'd made a mess, that his hand was covered in his own release, that his trousers were ruined. But mostly he was aware of you, still perched on the table beside him, watching him with dark, satisfied eyes.

"Well," you said after a moment, your voice slightly breathless. "That was educational."

Theo let out a weak laugh. "I can't believe I just—in the library—"

"I can." You reached out, gently brushing his hair back from his sweaty forehead. "You needed it. And I'm glad I could help."

"Help," Theo repeated, finally meeting your eyes. "Is that what we're calling it?"

Your smile was wicked. "What would you call it?"

"I don't know." He looked down at himself, at the evidence of what had just happened. "Life-changing?"

You laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Good. Because we still have that tutoring session to finish. And something tells me you're going to be much more focused now."

Theo groaned. "I need new trousers first."

"Probably." You hopped off the table, then leaned down to press a kiss to his temple. "Same time next week?"

As you walked away, hips swaying deliberately, Theo realized that maybe being a little less focused on his studies wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

Especially if it meant more tutoring sessions with you.

ᥫ᭡reblog's & comment's are appreciatedᥫ᭡

©lov3notts ,do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

[abyssyby]

to be devoured, to be held

— a storm brews in your head as you grapple with the longing to take up a little more space in sylus’s life— would he mind?

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: something i conjured up @ 2am thinking about spending time with sylus fresh-relationship, when things are still a little fragile & a little unsure. struggling w this myself, to all who do— you are allowed to take up space. you are enough. fueled by the singular image of sylus chasing fingers with kisses. also!!! the free 5 star henckskd i canT WAIT 😫. enjoy! ❀-urs

sylus x reader | angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, self-conscious reader, overthinker sylus, longing, smoochie kisses, face masks!

Sylus is visibly busy. He doesn’t move much when he works, resembling more a statue really— one carved with passion and love, if you were to gush. 

Were it not for the rapid flickering of his eyes and the tack-tack-tack of his fingers on his keyboard, you’d wonder if he was even breathing. 

Your gaze lingers on the thin-framed glasses you gifted him, now perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t need them, you’d think regeneration would grant him immunity against mere blue-light, but he wears them anyway. A silent gratitude, a heart-fluttering token of you in all his endeavors. Your fingers itch to push them up just that little bit. 

But he’s busy. 

You linger by the door of his office. Meticulous as you take in the set of his jaw, the slight pout of his lips, the subtle crease in his brow and his soft, disheveled hair. You swallow down the burn to run your fingers through the cloud-like tufts and smooth them away from his forehead. 

He’s busy. 

“Sweetie.” You stiffen, pulled from the haze by low, thundering endearment. His eyes never leave the screen, his fingers never cease typing. But you know he’s got every intention of luring you in like a siren. 

“Mm?” you reply, clearing you throat. How you can make a simple hum so utterly pathetic, you’ve no idea. Your face heats, your scalp prickles. Your gut churns at how little of him it takes to undo you.

But he only smiles, just the slightest bit. Eyes require strain to capture its split-second existence. “Need something?”

Your eyes widen. Oh, the last thing you want is for him to think you’re insensitive and entitled enough to distract him. “No— no! I’m okay.” 

His brow raises. The clacking beneath his fingers is silenced. Once shifting eyes now focused on you. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “Yes. I’ll go.” 

You’re turning away before he catches a glimpse of the tingles you feel beneath your skin. You shouldn’t disturb him. He had come home late last night. Slipped into bed to hold you for an hour at most before you felt him drift away once more. Back into his office. To his very important schedule. 

The lump in your throat is remedied by a big gulp of water but the irritation for your self-pity is a fire you cannot easily douse. 

You should be grateful that he accepted you into his home for the holidays. Overjoyed that he’d become more comfortable with your intimate (albeit shy) advances like fingers caressing his own, and lips brushing on any exposed speckle of flesh of his you see. He always indulges you with a shudder and a controlled breath. 

Looks at you like you’d wronged him, like he’s piously holding back unforgivable sin should he touch you back. 

And yet, your chest aches at the lack of attention. You grind your teeth. Dramatically and truthfully, you’re starved, thirsty, and craving for his regard. But how greedy would you be to demand that of him.

Digging your nails in your palms, you relent. He has enough on his plate. He invited you in despite his work schedule. Because you insisted, asked, wanted. And now you must adjust. Be mindful. Behave.

The skin of your cheeks is agitated, you’re sure, when you run your fingers down your face. In hopes to silence a groan. Annoying. Can’t help but be. You’re annoyed— with him, with his work, with yourself for being annoyed. 

Not knowing that as soon as you fled from the threshold, Sylus was quick to stand and follow after you. Had it not been for the shrieking of his infernal phone, you’d be eating your words and thriving in your greed for him by now. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

In three hours, you’ve successfully explored the base in efforts of distracting yourself or making yourself useful— hit the underground gym, sketched the pristine dragon statue down the hall on a piece of sticky note, made an ice cream sandwich, taken a shower and applied your skincare. 

And he— he’d been standing from his desk every few minutes to look for you. But deals were falling through, there are new programs to be coded and all his men were apparently incompetent today. 

He caught glimpses of you— your hair disappearing around corners, your humming as you doodled and made snacks, your silhouette through fogged glass. But something always pulled him away— another problem, another issue, something infuriatingly needing his attention. 

And if he were just so terrible, he’d throw the entirety of Onychinus away just to join you in the shower. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

The clay mask is tightening on your face when you exit the kitchen. Just beginning to crust at the edges, but goopy still. You might have mixed it wrong. The cucumbers you cut out rest on your cheeks for now, until you no longer need to navigate your way through the winding halls from the kitchen back to Sylus’s bedroom. 

A groan escapes your throat as you throw yourself into his plush mattress and silk sheets— knocking the breath out of you at the impact. Gravity pulls your spine down, pops each vertebra into place in a glorious melody of release. Then, you flip the cucumbers over your eyes and draw out a long, loud exhale.

Ten minutes, your app said, orange little happy face promising the silence of your thoughts. Ten minutes of focusing on your breath and your fingers and your toes and your skin. Ten minutes of listening to the sound of a ticking clock you otherwise would never have noticed. Of resisting the urge to twitch a muscle. Of constantly reminding yourself to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders. Ten minutes of—

“A salad.” 

The bed dips on your side and your breathing— that you’ve been working so hard on— ceases. You feel his hot fingers on your arm, trailing, trickling down to your wrist and over your open palms. Drawing shapes. Making a home. “How appetizing.” 

You don’t need to remove your cucumbers to know the look he has on his face. Cocky, teasing and deep with that unspoken desire. “Got a moment away?” 

He hums. Fed up, he made one final call and warned his partners that if they did anything to disrupt his time with you again, heads would roll— or something along those lines. His phone rests ominously silent in his office. 

Yearning for him all day and finally having him, you are overwhelmed— his touch burns you, and you slip your wrist from his grasp without thinking.

He tries hard not to let that affect him. He is thankful for your lack of vision right now, because the scowl he gives you borderlines on homicidal. 

There is a cant to your tone— one you could not quite be rid of from your initial irritation despite it slowly fizzling away in his presence. One he bristles at. 

“You’ve had a lot on your plate.” you simply state, a supposed expression of sympathy. I feel bad for your workload, I’m sorry I cannot do anything to lighten it. 

But your lips had twitched, pressed into a firm line. This reads like criticism to him— You’d ignored me all day and now, now take this distance as consequence. He swallows. “I have.” 

You rise from your position. He’d laugh if he didn’t feel liquid dread swirling in his stomach now. You pulled away— you don’t want to be touched. Your tone— you don’t want to hear his excuses. He’d scorned you, and now knows not what to do with his lungs or limbs.

“Hungry?” you ask, a cucumber slipping down your eye to your cheek, finally revealing his perplexed gaze and— oh, no. He’s upset. Your mind connects it to your initial worries: of wanting too much, of clinging and pulling him away from the important things. And now he’s here, not there. Had he picked up on your discomfort? Were you so overbearing that he felt the need to check on you? You avert your gaze. 

“I— I made ice cream sandwiches.” because being useful right now seems like the best route. Offering him something he can take and consume for his benefit— that will soften the blow somehow. Make you worth his time. 

And he broods, swallowed in his own clouding thoughts, and follows you to the kitchen. “Alright.” 

The sandwich is a scoop of cookie dough squished between two graham crackers. You put a little mint leaf on top to make it look cute (Keiran commended this detail as Luke choked on it). 

You place it on a plate and serve it to Sylus quietly. 

He barely looks at it. No, he’s too busy, busy, busy with you. What you’re thinking; what you’re feeling. What you think— what you feel for him. “Sweetie—“ 

“It’s cookie dough.” you blurt to fill the deafening silence. Unintentionally loud, drowning out his gentle coaxing. “If— if you want vanilla, there’s vanilla. And, sorry, I don’t know if you like chocolate, but we have some. There’s strawberry too.” 

Sylus furrows his brows. Were you so upset that you didn’t want a word out of him? “Okay.” 

“Enjoy,” you say.

He frowns. “I will.” 

And as he eats, his gaze never leaves you. You in that ridiculous clay mask with cucumbers on your cheeks. In his shirt and your hair in a mangled twist. Your beautiful, divine self— upset with him.

Was it how he failed to approach you throughout the day? Was it something more specific? Something he said? The way he probed for your needs? How he didn’t look at you when you stood by his door? How he didn’t reach for you when you passed his office several times more?

He’d thought you’d wanted space. That you’d appreciate a day without his coddling and clinging, after being so ecstatic about you spending the holidays with him. He asked if you needed something, didn’t he? Asked and, inside, desperately wanted you to say ‘yes, you.’ But now… now?

“It’s delicious.” he finally comments. Shamelessly pushing, testing this boundary you seemed to have put before him. Ever so carefully. Not wanting to make it feel worse that it already does. He must show you how he appreciates you being here. 

“Oh?” 

“I’d like another.”

“Mm.” 

Shit. Has he miscalculated? “I mean… share one with me?” 

Your eyes widen. “Ah.” 

“Or, or not.” He’s fumbling. Tripping and falling over himself but who cares. He can’t take the bile rising up his throat with the way you look at him. Brows scrunched. Hesitant. Wary. It’s sending him into a spiral. “Just… sit with me, please.” 

The hoarseness of his voice is enough to make you soften. Something in you clicks, and your anxiety makes way for his. Work must have been a lot, you think. And he doesn’t deserve your insecurities getting the best of you when he needs you. 

You do as he asks once you take a strawberry sandwich out of the freezer and settle with your own fork. 

“The twins told me you liked strawberry best.” you start, voice now calmer than it was before. Returning like the gradual seeping in of the tide. Sylus— oh, Sylus revels in it quietly. “But I remember you snuck spoonfuls of my cookie dough from my fridge when you were at my place.” 

The acid neutralizes. “Oh?”

“And I thought,” he watches you take a bite, how your plump and shiny lips close around the fork. “What if that was another one of your cover ups? You are particular, yes, but never polarizing. 

“We had this whole debate on whether or not you’d like the strawberry more than the cookie. Luke was very adamant about you only having one favorite.” you cut another piece of the sandwich and bring it up to his lips. An offering. A truce. An understanding. “But if you’ve influenced me to be anything— it’s to be greedy.” 

He takes a bite from your fork. Curling his lips and dragging it over where yours had just been. He is zeroed in on your face, reading every tick, every twitch. And ultimately searching for any absolution. 

He catches your wrist, prays you don’t pull away, and removes the fork from your fingers in favor of his face. He presses his hard edges into the softness of your palm and closes his eyes at the contact. “Tell me what I did so I never do it again.” he breathes.

You frown, blindsided by this reaction— he’s… worried? Anguished and anxious because he thought he was at fault for something? “What?” 

He opens his mouth to explain again but you drag your thumb over his lower lip. He is compelled to silence. “I’m not upset with you.” 

He’s breathless. Clinging to your warmth. “Then what—“

 His lingering stare, almost a scowl, so focused on the micro expressions he cannot read. His sudden distance: a courtesy. It clicks— his upset really just… dejection.

Oh. 

He thinks you were punishing him. 

The thought slams into you, hollow and sickening. So afraid of asking for too much, of being too much— that you never realized how it projected onto him. What it looked like from outside the eye of the hurricane. How it would have made him believe… How could you have let him think—? 

The weight of it presses down, suffocates you harder than the insecurity ever did. You would never— never. But you share this, this inability to comprehend how utterly forgiving and needing the other is. 

So wrapped up in pondering a space you don’t deserve, you’d done this. That space, now, he is mourning. Begging you to fill again, as he drowns in desperation to fix a mistake he never made. 

“I thought I was being a burden.” you mutter, searching his eyes for confirmation that never arrives. “That I was lingering around you too much, hovering and you’d had enough—“

His brows furrow bringing an intensity in his eyes that worsens the caving in your chest.  He exhales then, more than air— everything that has choked and squeezed him inside.

“No. Never.” he cuts you off quickly, too overwhelmed by fear and sorrow and relief to even be the least bit composed. Oh, he was so relieved. His lips chase and kiss the tips of your fingers like a man starved. He mutters, low and clear against your skin, “Could never have enough of you, beloved.” 

You melt into his touch as he circles his arms around your waist and finally pulls you against his warm body. His breath tickles your neck as he presses his face into your shoulder, inhaling the scent of body wash, shampoo and you. “I am yours for the rest of the week.”

“No, stop that.” you argue, but your tone does not reflect. It dissolves, melts away. “Sylus, I’m not asking…”

“Neither am I.” he states, sturdy vibrations traveling from his lips down your spine. “I need to make you greedier. Be greedier for me.”

Your lips press together in a shy smile and you feather them over his pulse point. You seize control of your fingers. At last, you get to push his glasses up his nose, press on the fat of his jutted lip, ease the crumple of his brow and run your fingers through his soft, unkempt hair— just before you kiss him. Consume him. Devour him.

Sylus corrodes at the edges, unmoored at the feel of your lips on his. He presses, holding you to him, needing to be closer, closer, closer. To taste. To feel. To have. 

Putting your each wretched thought of unworthiness to shame. Silenced. Dust.

When you pull away, your eyes take a while to adjust, still giddy and tingling from the static in the air. He lingers, nuzzling into your skin, nose skimming reverently along your cheek. Once your vision returns you let out a genuine giggle. 

He swoons at the sound. Half lidded eyes and lips curved into a stupid smirk, asks, “What?” 

Your laugh escalates into a shriek as he dips to kiss you again and again. “Stop!” 

He’s grinning. The epitome of sunlight. “Why?”

You’re in tears at his appearance— light green smears of clay over his lips and cheeks, a stray cucumber hanging off his jaw. Shaky fingers go to right him, wipe away the remnants of a passionate kiss. Meanwhile, he turns to nip at your wrist and kiss your palm, and you think fondly: it is impossible to clean him up here. He is impossible.

“Come on.” you say instead, dragging him by his fingers which he meticulously intertwines with yours.

He follows, wordlessly, obediently. More than overjoyed to be led to— it does’t matter. He would be led anywhere as long as it were you. He savors how he can press on the soft skin on your palm, how he can so easily stop you in your tracks to kiss you soundly. All because he can. He can and he will. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Not long after, you’re wriggling in his iron grasp, tickled by the movement of his digits on the dips of your waist. You hiss, “Hold still!”

“I’m not the one squirming here, sweetie.” he chuckles, breathy and deep. His hand slides up the curve of your back and up the length of your arm, drawing one up over your head to pin you to the wall. “My little bird, trying to get away? Won’t you check your work?”

“You’re doing this on purpose.” you say pointedly, a fond grin on your gracious lips he cannot help but devour. You stop him in his tracks as he leans down, “We just got you cleaned up!” 

“I can clean up again.” he insists, leans again. To his displeasure, you turn your head to dodge him.

“Let me kiss you.” he whispers, begging with no sense of subtlety. Laid bare and open. With only the thought of tasting you. He nods to the jar in your hand. “Before you put that on me.” 

You click your tongue, but inside your belly swoops at his open expression. Head fuzzy with affection. “You said you couldn’t wait.”

“Your touch is enough to intoxicate and persuade. I am yours all week..” he purrs. He hopes you allow him a kiss— the sudden need make his ears pink. “Sweetie?” 

“One.” you relent, and he is quick to accept. Pressing his lips to yours lightly, to your surprise, as he swallows your gasp in delightful satisfaction. 

He pulls away clean, none of your replenished mask on his face. Then he drops his hands to cage your thighs on the sink you sit on. His eyes glint playfully as he inspects your flustered state, “Done playing around? I can’t wait.” 

You scowl at him— like he didn’t just beg you to… you sigh in kind exasperation and get to work.

To say he was putty in your hands was an understatement. Sylus has always been sensitive, that is a fact, but at every touch of your fingers on the bridge of his nose, the brush of the pads of your thumbs under his eyes, the scrape of your nails just under his jaw make him lose a shuddering breath. The devotion trickles down your spine like rain. 

When you place the cucumbers on his cheeks, he smiles, earth-shattering and gorgeous. Such a powerful man in a matcha-green clay mask. “There.” 

“Now we match.” he says so tenderly it aches. Every valve gives way.

For the rest of the afternoon, you are both in clay masks. Cucumbers over your eyes; happily wrapped around each other in bed like the greedy scum you are. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ more sylus thoughts ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

thank you for reading!