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kids usually scare me but this was adorable!!
bring your child to work day: zayne and his daughter spend a day at the hospital
fluff, dad!zayne/reader (a little bit), ~2.2k
warnings: reader only makes a small appearance it's mostly about zayne + his daughter spending quality time together tbh, allusions to zayne + mc's lore (no specific memory idt just the overarching theme of their story), zayne is a devoted girl dad bc i believe in girldad!zayne...
a/n: mc/reader + zaynes daughter is named zenith here bc i liked the idea of them sharing an initial 😭 meaning the highest point/the point right above you in the sky bc i think thats what she would be for zayne+mc like one of the best moments of their lifetimes :( anyway it's mentioned in the fic but shes the spitting image of zayne thats his mini-me fr
“good morning,” zayne says, passing by the nurses’ station without much fuss. it’s an ordinary wednesday, after all.
“morning,” greyson echoes with a curt nod, his eyes still focused on the files he’s reviewing from an overnight patient.
“mornin’!” a third voice calls happily.
greyson freezes, his papers falling unceremoniously on the floor. “huh!?” he exclaims, a little too loud for a hospital corridor.
however the chief pays his outburst no mind, and he suddenly sees why, greyson’s gaze finding the little girl perched on his boss’ hip. of course, he remembers, it’s “bring your child to work” day. but for some reason, he never thought that zayne would actually bring his child to work. perhaps that explains why he’d made sure no surgeries were scheduled for this day weeks ago.
zayne strokes her dark hair, brushing a loose strand from her pigtails behind her ear. “this is dr. greyson,” he speaks softly, pointing in his direction. “dr. greyson, meet zenith.”
“nice to meet you!” she exclaims, waving a chubby hand in the air, paying no mind to his wide eyes and slack jaw.
she can’t be over four judging from her height, and, of course, greyson knew zayne had a daughter, but he didn’t really know. he remembers you mentioning her at your appointments, the photos on his desk and, of course, zayne’s paid time off actually being used at personal all time highs (which had already been on the incline after you moved in and then got married) since a few years ago, but it still feels surreal to actually see him with his child.
if she has any opinion on greyson’s lack of response besides the cartoon birds that would appear around his head if they were in an animated tv show, she gives no hint. instead, she smiles brightly, her green eyes sparkling as she takes zayne’s glasses off his face and fists the lenses, trying to rotate them in her tiny hands and fit them on her own face.
somehow, with the much too large frames perched on her nose, she looks even more like her father. everything, from her dark hair tied with ribbons to her hazel eyes, the curve of her brow and little nose, she is her father’s daughter to a t. perhaps the only un-zayne-like thing about her is the permanent cheeriness in her gaze and her gummy smile. that she must’ve gotten from you. while greyson has definitely noticed how his boss has become a little less taciturn and stern over the years, he would be lying to himself if he said he ever thought zayne would become even a miniscule fraction as bubbly as the daughter he holds close right now.
“i didn’t know you were bringing your daughter in today!” greyson exclaims, the realizations of today finally settling and coming together in his mind.
there’s a fondness in his eyes as he glances to zenith, his lips quirking the slightest bit upwards. “she’s been asking for weeks to come with me; i figured now would be the best time with the other kids here. i know you’ve seen the schedule for today, but—”
“oh my god!” yvonne gasps, speeding towards the trio gathered. “you brought your daughter, dr. zayne!” she extends her hand to the girl, which she happily takes. “i’m yvonne, i work with your dad.”
“i’m zenif,” she babbles, her syllables getting caught on her missing tooth.
simultaneously both greyson and yvonne coo at the little girl.
“aren’t you the cutest thing? i’ve seen so many pictures of you but you’re just the dearest little one, hm?”
and word of mouth travels fast, because, soon enough, a whole crowd has come to fuss over the most adorable little girl who looks exactly like the aloof department chair and has the sweetest smile. she graciously accepts their compliments with quiet ‘thank you's' and hides her face in her father’s neck and shoulder, causing even more ‘aww’s to fall from his colleagues’ lips. when the attention dies down, zayne finally gets to his office, nearly an hour later than he usually would have by now, but he can’t even be annoyed. his little girl is the most precious; of course, he would react in the same way.
he shuts the door behind them and puts his bag down by his desk, moving zenith so she has a place on his lap when he sits down. “what would you like to do today, hm?” he asks, booting up his computer and finding a pile of files from the depths of a drawer.
“what do you do?” she asks.
he hums. “well sometimes i see patients who don’t feel well, sometimes i do surgeries on them so they feel better, and sometimes i have to do paperwork. i don’t have any patients or surgeries scheduled today, so we can do whatever you want; how does that sound?”
“what about paperwork?” she exclaims. “you said that’s what you do?”
“would you like to do paperwork with me?”
she nods firmly. “i wanna spend time with daddy!”
his heart softens, his already abnormally warm (at least for work standards) gaze growing even more endeared by his precious, favorite little girl. “you want to spend time with me?”
her head bobs and she wraps her arms around his neck, resting her cheek on his shoulder. “of course! i love you, daddy.”
pressing a kiss to her cheek, he can’t help a smile. of course he knows she loves him, loves spending time with him. when he’s home she’s practically glued to his hip. and he tries his best to make sure she knows the same. but sometimes it’s just nice to hear it from someone you love. ��and i love you, princess.”
it used to be a foreign expression on his tongue many, many years ago, before you’d returned to his life, and especially before she came into his life. but as time flew by, thanks to you and your help, he’d grown familiar, comfortable, fond with it. while he knew you didn’t mind him not saying that as much as other boyfriends and husbands might from all your conversations, knowing he expressed how much he loved you and then some through other ways, he knew she might not have understood just how her father expressed his feelings and fondness at her young age.
so beyond his quiet actions, he makes sure to tell her. whether it’s a post-it note in her lunchbox, right next to the heart-shaped sandwich with the crusts cut off, just how she likes it, whenever it’s his turn to make her lunch, or a birthday card she’ll know how to read one day, he tries to tell her through words too. ‘i love you’ went from an expression he seldom said or heard, to one he couldn’t get enough of, whether it be from your lips or hers, and one he always wanted you both to know.
“let’s see what kind of paperwork we can find for you, then.” coincidentally a knock sounds from the other side of the door. “come in.”
“they brought some donuts and coloring pages out in the lobby,” yvonne says, popping her head in. “i figured you’d both be interested.”
“thank you, yvonne.” when the door shuts, zayne leans back to look at his daughter, brushing her hair. “what do you think about that? do you want to take a look?” with her eager nods, zayne stands.
“i wanna walk,” she pouts, tugging on his once crisp button-up, and he puts her down accordingly, taking her small fingers in his.
they make their way hand in hand down the corridor, drawing even more endeared coos from the staff until they reach the table. kneeling down to her height, he points at a smaller kids table in the corner.
“how about you get some coloring sheets and crayons? i can get you a donut and we can head back and do some paperwork,” he explains.
she happily obliges, skipping over and inspecting the books with a familiar seriousness (which also makes the other staff coddle her just as much as her bright smiles. “aren’t you so precious!?” “she’s just like her father!” zayne can’t help the small quirk of his lips when he hears how cute they find his daughter, because she is, speaking from his personal experience.). meanwhile he grabs a strawberry donut with sprinkles and a chocolate one, both her favorites, placing them on a napkin and grabbing a few extra knowing how she takes after you in terms of her messiness.
meeting her in the corner, he bends down, taking a quick look at the drawings she’s taken. “find anything you like?” he asks.
raising her pages to his eyes, she beams. “they have the bears!”
he smiles softly, tucking her loose hair away. “yes, they do,” he hums. “who knew?”
it totally wasn’t like he’d ordered specific character coloring books when it was time for the cardiology department to refill their kids’ activity section. it totally wasn’t like he’d looked for some ones he knew his daughter would love. it wasn’t like that at all; zayne maintains he’s as impassive and serious at work as ever…he’s lying to himself.
when she gathers her crayons, the duo make their way back to his office. the day flies quickly by, her babbles and light, curious questions bringing a new level of comfort and joy zayne never thought he’d get from his job. he loves what he does, of course, but everything just seems more enjoyable and memorable with his daughter by his side. or rather, with her on his lap, in her own little world of just her and her beloved dad, oblivious to the seriousness of the paperwork her father is dealing with as she busies herself with her own “paperwork” and scribbles vibrant colors all over the once black and white image.
and zayne thinks he would be perfectly content if it were to stay like this forever. even with all his prizes and awards, nothing could compare to the reward and title of being your husband and zenith’s father.
he lowers his pen to the desk from his fingers, using his free hand to rest his head as he admires the precious life before him. “i love you, princess,” he murmurs, pinching her cheek.
“i love you too, daddy!” she turns to face him, crumbs of donut glaze still around her lips.
he takes a napkin and dabs at her face before checking his watch. you’d said you’d meet them around now… “how about we get lunch soon?”
right on time, a knock sounds from the door, which opens to reveal you. “how are my favorite doctors doing?” you exclaim.
“mama!” she cheers, hopping off zayne’s knee and running into your waiting embrace.
kissing her head, you give her a squeeze. “how’s work with dada going?”
“i love it here! daddy colors and eats dessert all day,” she cheers.
glancing to your husband, you chuckle. “is that so?”
he makes his way towards you both, giving you a peck as you stand, your daughter now on your hip. “something like that,” he mumbles.
“then maybe i should become a doctor too,” you tease. “is now a good time for lunch?”
he nods, opening the office door once more and allowing you to pass first.
“i wanna become a doc-tor, too,” zenith ponders, suddenly serious with her small fingers tapping at her chin as she thinks, a habit no doubt from her father. “then daddy and i can color and eat snacks together forever!”
“is that so?” you ask, but you can’t help the smile you shoot at your husband.
she bobs her head, a determined furrow in her brow. “i wanna be with mama and daddy forever.”
zayne has a warm fondness in his gaze as his eyes find his daughter. she looks up to him with wide eyes and her gummy grin, reaching her small hand out for his own, which he happily obliges. her tiny fist wraps around two of fingers, and he briefly wishes that she could stay his little girl for eternity. she doesn’t need to know how hard her dad’s job actually is, how much work he had to put in to get to where they are now, the sorrows of her parents’ past. she is a precious gem, the shining peak of all your shared lifetimes.
this one existence, finally at peace, a happy ending for you and him, domestic bliss with the two, now three, of you, he thinks it’s worth every tear that’s been shed before. and maybe in another universe and lifetime, the you’ll get another happy ending. he thinks that even if it’s a simple life, as long as it’s with the two of you, it’d be one he cherishes and treasures close to every fiber of his existence, one he would fight all there may be to remember, for no god could tear his devotion. maybe he’d even bet every splintering past life that led to this one was worth the years he’s gotten to spend with you in this one, and the years still to come. so he hopes she stays as optimistic and bright as ever, that you stay by his side in this heavenly life he could only once dream of. after all, ice is made of crystals.
#this works better than any natalist agenda ive seen#like i wouldn't contribute to the declining birthrate if he fathers my child#—ki reads
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when a love triangle has a sweet unproblematic lead but the other lead is emotionally constipated and morally gray 😔
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Loophole (Zayne x F!Reader, 18+)
Summary: Zayne has an Evol flare-up while you’re visiting Snowcrest. You’re a good friend, so you help him out.
It doesn't mean anything if you don't move, right?
Rating: Explicit (Minors do NOT interact).
Word Count: ~6800.
Tags/Warnings: Female Pronouns and Anatomy for Reader, Reader is MC, Caretaking, Friends to Lovers, Inappropriate Doctor/Patient Relationship, Childhood Friends, Bickering, Cock Warming, First Time, Vaginal Sex, Photography, Unsafe Sex, Porn with Feelings, Switching. Post-chapter 4 spoilers.
Read it on Ao3 Here!
“Let’s get you inside.”
The cold weather poses something of a threat to Zayne, you've realised.
He'd never admit such a thing, of course, but if he hadn't wanted you to make such an observation, he shouldn't have made it his responsibility to impose such an unexpectedly strong presence in your life.
A year ago, you barely knew him. To say he kept you at arms' length was an understatement, but with everything that's occurred in recent months — with such a void left in your life from the loss of Caleb and Grandma — and the ugly mysteries eclipsing once-happy memories — your doctor, of all people, is the one dedicating almost every minute of his time outside of work to trying to fill that void. It's not like he talks your ear off — he's Zayne, after all — but he makes a noticeable effort to make himself accessible to you whenever he can.
He's been a good friend to you at the sacrifice of his own comfort.
In the seven months that have passed since the explosion, you've had more exposure to Zayne than you've had any of your other friends. He rarely strays from his quiet stoicism, but it's far easier to read him. These days, you can't believe you once thought him intimidating. The softer aspects of his personality aren't offered willingly, but accidentally. A slip of the tongue here, a too-long stare at a community cat there, a smile he doesn't think you notice. He masks his requests for you to visit him in his overtime hours as nagging reminders for you to water the plants. He never asks you to bring him dinner, but there's always an extra seat pulled up at his desk when you arrive with it unannounced.
You’re sure he likes it well enough; getting to know you after all these years. You’re just not sold on how fond he is of you knowing him.
It shows stark on his typically taciturn features. Streetlamp light bounces off fluffy snow at all angles in the little village laneway, illuminating the man with an almost healthy glow as he walks stiffly beside you, right hand clutched against his side and his left doing all it can to keep from crushing the bones in yours.
“I’m fine.” He insists while you lead him up to the cabin, grimacing at a sudden chill of wind passing over the porch. There's a certain tone he uses when he's putting on the bedside manner. As a patient, you'd be soothed. As a friend, your patience wanes. He's not fine.
”I’ll get a fire going.” You mutter, ushering him inside. He tries amidst obvious pain to be gentlemanly, waiting for you to enter first, but a scowl on your part has him conceding defeat and ambling through the door. “Get in the shower. Can you turn it on by yourself?”
There’s no more warm light from the street in here. Dr. Noah likely would have fallen asleep hours ago, shortly after you’d left for dinner. Still, even in the dark, you can sense the irritation in him.
“You act like I’m frozen solid.” He retorts on his way to the bathroom, knowing better than to stick around despite the attempt to uphold his pride.
”Get your butt in the shower before I throw you in there myself.”
The warmer months gave you no initial reason to suspect anything, but as the weather worsened and temperatures dropped, Zayne began to feel more on-edge. You’d bore witness to his attacks in the past, but he was no more willing to share his condition with you beyond the odd occasion of being unable to switch it off after a battle. You knew what it looked like when his Evol was acting up. It almost caused a fight, the first time you asked about it. Then, when it became clear you weren’t simply going to leave him to his own devices whenever he was displaying the signs, Zayne steadily, reluctantly, began to let you assist. He couldn’t stand it — he still can’t, you’re sure — not playing caretaker for once, but the two of you found a rhythm; keeping an eye on his temperature, steering clear of fluctuations, little remedies that help him bounce back quicker when his Evol gets the better of him. It became second nature to you, like carrying an Epipen for a loved one at risk of anaphylaxis.
You won’t lie, though. It pisses you off. He’s a constant nag when it comes to your health regarding your heart condition, but there was no allowable mention of his condition when he brought you to Dr. Noah. Not that your opinion counts for anything, apparently, but what idiot cashes out his annual leave for an extended stay in a tundra when he's so prone to such reactions?
It had shocked you even more when your friend declared he’d be staying back for the foreseeable future, conducting research for the old man on a solo expedition on Mt. Eternal. Your friend — the one who'd taken it upon himself to be a stand-in for your lost family — alone, in the worst possible place he could be in his condition.
It was unthinkable.
Four weeks was your breaking point after you’d returned home without him.
Sure, he responded to your texts within seconds. Reception wasn’t good enough for calls, but he made sure to give you no logical reason to worry about him. It didn’t help. Once your dreams started to take the shape of him disappearing into the mountains, you cut your losses and decided to visit for the weekend.
Just as well, considering he’d been massaging his wrist in your periphery for the entirety of your first day. Still, he'd insisted on showing you around Snowcrest, spending as much time away from Dr. Noah's cabin as possible. You knew his tells. He was bordering on a flare-up and hiding it from you. Had he mentioned it and agreed to stay in tonight, you might not of had to drag him home with frost seeping out of his clothes and a foul mood. Instead, he chose to be proud about it.
Idiot.
God knows what could have happened to him if he hadn't come down from the mountain to spend the weekend with you.
He’d never let you get away with such stupidity, and it’s hard not to hold it against him. You came here out of worry in the first place, and the visit isn’t doing a thing to set your mind at ease.
You tend to rekindling the dimming embers in the fireplace, content to mind your business once you hear the shower turn on. At least he’s doing what he’s told.
The living room heats up steadily. New flames settle into a longer-lived glow. You get yourself changed into more suitable bed wear; a commandeered hoodie from your doctor’s medical school era, large enough to reach halfway to your knees. The frayed cuffs have since lost their elasticity and there are a few choice stains, and most condemning, the drawstrings have been chewed to tassels — but god, if it isn’t comfy. Time stretches on, and while the worry gnaws at the back of your mind, you leave Zayne to his privacy. So long as you don’t hear a thump, you’re content to imagine he’s probably just in there being mad at himself over not being the sensible one for once.
Zayne keeps himself locked away for the better part of an hour, in the end. Even Pie pads out into the living room to investigate what you’re doing up alone in the middle of the night before a scritch sends the fox on its way back to bed.
You’ve slid most of the way off the couch by the time the man emerges from his room in fresh pajamas. With your back to the rug, you watch him approach stiffly, slowing to a halt upside-down. He’s still rubbing at that wrist, you note.
“You’re still up.” He mutters, brow knitted in discomfort.
There’s frost on his neck. His lips are blue. It wasn’t even this bad when you were outside. A pit forms in your stomach.
Then, his wake hits you. Cold air, chilling you to the bone, and you sit up in a flash.
“Zayne—“
He silences you with a little hand motion, stepping around you to seat himself as close as he can to the fireplace.
“You’re half-frozen.” You continue when he offers you nothing else. Crawling onto the couch beside him, you reach up to tug at the collar of his sweater, trying to inspect the severity of the attack. “God, you should have said something.”
“I thought you were asleep.” He replies quietly. “I’ve seen — how much it takes to wake you-“
Zayne flinches from your touch when your fingertip skims his neck. The most aggressive warning to stay back that he can risk without waking his mentor. You ignore him, of course. You always do. Sitting close, you press yourself to his side on the couch, guiding his right arm between your thighs. Your fingers lace between his from both sides, covering as much surface area as possible as you use your body to fend off the cold.
A moment is all it takes to see some of the tension in his face disappear. He breathes through the pain, eyes closed, and you shift your gaze to the fireplace to give him his privacy with it.
”You’re in so much trouble when this passes.”
A short, sharp chuckle slips through Zayne’s teeth. He nods once. “I know.”
You sit together like this for a long while, letting him sap the heat from your body to combat the flare-up. If not for the fire, you’d be shivering. It takes time, but eventually Zayne’s breathing evens out. His face relaxes, bit by bit. His half-frozen arm feels just a little cold to the touch.
Neither of you part. Not just yet. There’s too much left unsaid, and Zayne takes far too much solace in quiet to make the first move.
You let your temple drop to his shoulder. “Snow village dates are nice, but most girls would say yes to ‘Go Fish’ and hot cocoa if it means their date makes it through the night.”
After a second, Zayne rests his head against yours.
He inhales.
He pauses.
Then…
“I wanted you to have a nice time. I didn’t think it through.”
…God, he’s such a sweet man. It’s not wonder he’s got you wrapped around his finger.
There’s such a sense of finality to the way he says it. You suppose it’s not necessarily a wrong way to think of it, but it’s not his fault. Sure, it’s your last night together for what may amount to months, and he was stupid enough to think he could get away with poking the bear, but you’d rather have him come home alive and well. Not a victim to his own Evol.
It doesn’t sit right with you to let it end like this. The moment he’s recovered, he’s going to insist you both go to sleep. You’ll take the guest bed, and he’ll take the pull-out trundle, and he’ll remain there, soundless with his back to you. In the morning, you’ll say your goodbyes, and that will be that. The next time you see him will probably be for a check-up, and he’ll spend the entirety of the ECG acting like you’re mere acquaintances again.
No, you’re not losing momentum.
You’re not sure if it’s warmth in general, or if it’s a reaction specific to you — through trust, or the Aether core — there’s just no telling. Zayne keeps his cards too close to his chest for you to ever be sure, but you do know for certain that you hold the quickest remedy. If it’s just warmth, he never lets anyone but you get close enough to supply it. If it’s trust, likewise. The Aether core? You’re the only one.
“What are you—“
Zayne stiffens when you climb into his lap. He winces in discontentment; at such an intimidate proximity, at the physical danger he still poses, at the feeling of your thighs astride his. He doesn’t look pleased in the slightest, but still, his knees shift together, offering you a more comfortable perch on which to explain yourself.
You can feel the cold still radiating from him, fighting his body to keep from regulating its own temperature. It’s unpleasant, the way the chill claws at you, reaching across the expanse of your front. The joints in your hands already ache just from holding his arm to your chest. It’s imaginable, what it must be like to host such an Evol. What it must be like to have your own flesh freeze from the inside-out on a whim.
“Not done keeping you warm.” You answer simply, making a conscious effort to keep your teeth from chattering for his sake. He’s exercising enormous restraint not flinging you off of him already. You shouldn’t push your luck by sending him into any more of a panic.
“It’s not safe for you to be this close.” Zayne protests.
“Then I’m making you safe.”
This time, a growl escapes him. Pain cuts his patience with your impudence short. “You’re going to get yourself hurt—“
Zayne’s words die in his throat when you drape yourself over him, chest to chest, arms languidly curling over his shoulders. He goes completely silent.
“Aren’t you always telling me you can control it, anyway?” You muse, relaxing into him, moulding yourself to his body. The white frost that blooms beneath his skin begins to fade from his throat, unable to contend with the warmth of your breath. “If you didn’t want me doing this you shouldn’t have shown me how well it works.”
“That was after the aid of a hot shower.” Zayne argues. His logic might apply for that aborted attempt at an early-morning hike, but it falls flat tonight. “I was trying to warm up after the shower.”
Yeah, look how well that turned out. He’s as bad at lying as you are.
“So you’re saying I ought to have—“
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“If it’s not helping, Zayne, tell me.”
“…It’s helping.” He mutters.
You declare your victory with a hum, tucking your face into the collar of his sweater.
Even his scent is cold, somehow.
Beneath you, Zayne shifts, conceding defeat. You feel his lips ghost the side of your head. Considering — then retreating from a kiss — opting instead to rest his chin on you. His affected arm remains wedged between you, while his free hand comes to rest on your waist.
Minutes pass. Zayne’s breathing steadies to a resting rhythm. Eventually, the ice retreats into his flesh, disappearing with only a lingering chill. It shifts, marking the man’s return to normal, but he doesn’t announce anything. Instead, he tugs his arm out, only to wrap around you, surrendering to the moment.
“Do you have plans, while I’m away?” He asks.
“Tara’s been looking at the blank spots on my calendar, so I’ve probably got things on without knowing, yet.”
“Blank spots.”
”Yeah. Some of us have those.”
”Sounds like you don’t know what to do with yourself without me.”
“Please. I won’t have to worry about you bullying me. Maybe, y’know, I’ll do just fine without you.”
A chuckle escapes him. Tentatively, he toys with the fabric of your hoodie. “You’re not going to wash this at all, are you.”
Heat climbs up your neck at the suggestion. Of all the night clothes you had to bring, why did it have to be something you’d stolen from him?
You’re no coward. You rise to challenge. “Can’t miss you when it feels like I’ve got you with me.”
“I know you’ll miss me,” Zayne retorts, and wow, he’s really angling for a comeback after having you subject him to being taken care of, “But that’s no excuse for poor hygiene.”
“Poor hygiene—!”
You lean back to glower at the man, only to find him smirking up at you.
“I’ve half a mind to expect to find you asleep on the platform when the train pulls in, simply because you were too excited to wait at home for me to drop by.”
Your ears are positively scalding. You feel yourself shrinking, suddenly not so confident taking up as much space in the room. How does he have you so well figured out? Are you really that much of an open book? Compared to him, sure, but you’d hoped you carried a little more mystery about you than sitting on a station platform for a quasi-boyfriend-without-benefits like a dog.
Even if that is the case — does he really have to rub it in your face?
He can’t get away with this.
Speaking plainly, Zayne’s warmed up plenty. There’s no real reason for either of you to remain this close, and yet — despite lauding himself as the rational half of this friendship, his arms almost keep you from moving any further away.
His expression doesn’t falter with your silence, remaining ever-undisturbed. It unnerves you. His smiles never last more than a second, and you can count on one hand the amount of times he’s looked you in the eye with a pleasant face on. He’s on a power trip. If you don’t cut him down right this second he’ll go nuclear. He’ll leave you hanging with a ‘goodnight’ and a kiss on the forehead and you’ll both never speak of tonight again.
This is it. This is the last straw. Tonight, you leave him hanging.
“You want me to miss you so fucking bad, huh?” You accuse him, tapping a finger to your chin as you pretend to wonder. His eyebrow ticks. “Is that what you’re into? Man, you medical staff are all so power hungry.”
Zayne looks thoughtful for a moment. A thumb idly traces back and forth along your skin, barely tucked beneath your hoodie. It’s such a cautious touch. You wish he wasn’t just all talk. “Perhaps you’re easier to deal with when one considers you might actually like getting bossed around.”
There’s no hiding the erection that sits wedged between you. There’s no ignoring the heat that pools in your core every time it strains against your cunt, blocked only by his sweatpants and your underwear.
There’s no way he can’t feel your heart beat throbbing against him.
And yet — he pretends not to be taking part in any of it.
You think about it for a moment.
Then, you roll your hips forward, slowly, gently. Your nerves spark as your clit finds the pressure it needs against the underside of his cock.
It takes everything in your power to keep from doing it again.
A tiny shiver makes its way out of Zayne. Frustration, perhaps. You angle a knowing little smile at him, and his throat bobs. He knows he’s been caught.
Checkmate.
“Doctor Zayne, are you getting off on this?” You ask, and his face flushes scarlet. His eyes widen, caught off-guard by you finally crossing the threshold.
”I…don’t know what you’re talking about.” He answers lamely, pointedly avoiding looking down.
“You are!”
“Not so loud. It’s n-… it’s nothing.” He insists in a hushed voice, shooting a look over your shoulder before he’s satisfied that the coast is clear of anyone who might be privy to what the two of you are doing. “Just a biological reaction to stimuli.”
“Which stimuli?” You ask, feigning curiosity. “The cuddling, or this?”
To stress your point, you do it again, biting back the swell of enjoyment at the way his lips part of their own accord. A little hum spills forth, and his own hips chase the motion, just for a second, before he halts.
“Please.” Zayne murmurs, moving to hold you still. Inching you back onto his thighs, condemning himself to reveal two little damp patches. One where the grey fleece of his sweatpants pulls most taut. The other a little lower, where you’ve been rubbing your cunt along his clothed shaft.
“You need to learn when you’ve teased enough.”
What — fall back? Now? When all your nerves are alight?
Your tongue wets your lips as you take in the sight of him. Well on his way to wrecked, but not quite there. His expression remains otherwise impassive, but his pupils are far too blown to help him maintain the facade.
“You’re one to talk. Can’t hack it when it’s not you in charge?” You challenge him. “You’re not usually one to shy away from uncharted territory.”
You can’t help but reach out, itching to touch him. Fingertips smooth along his length, feather-light from the bottom up. His cock twitches when you reach the tip, begging for more.
“Ah—“ Long fingers snatch at your wrist, holding you fast. “Try no man’s land.”
“It’s nothing.” You assure him. “You said it yourself.”
Nothing. No different to how he so often strays into treating you, with all his dates and touches. Nothing, midday naps and linking your pinky-fingers as you walk together. Nothing, like the spare clothes you both reserve a drawer for.
“Just warming you up. That’s all.”
Zayne’s chest expands. His gaze fixes on your fingertips curling insistently at his waistband despite his grip keeping you at bay. “That’s all.”
Disbelief? Determination? Disappointment? You’re not familiar enough with how each of these sound in his throat to properly identify it, but Zayne’s grip on your wrist releases nonetheless. He opts to help you make more comfortable work of his track pants, pushing them down just a little to allow you easier access. There’s no presence of approval at how greedy you are about it, pawing and snatching at your prize while he tries to remain nonchalant.
You do try to give him the dignity of privacy by not looking down when he settles and you finally wrap both hands around his cock. He’s already indignant as it is, and the rumble that vibrates deep in his chest as your fingers close around him isn’t helping.
Oh — maybe just a little tease.
“Hey.” You chide, grinning. His eyes crack open, just enough to narrow at you. “Don’t make it weird. I’m a professional.”
It earns you a scoff. Zayne’s fingers, settled on your thighs, give a retaliatory squeeze, thumbs pressing just hard enough into your adductors to skirt on discomfort. He watches you tense at the feeling, and sensing an opportunity to shift the attention back off himself, decides to squeeze harder.
You finally flinch with an “Ow!”, and the man smiles to himself. Mission accomplished. He lets go.
”You’re the professional? How many surgeries have you performed?”
”How many have you performed?”
”…A lot, genius.”
“Didn’t you tell me that some of your worst patients are doctors themselves?”
“Your point being?”
There’s no point — at least not in arguing with him. He’s only trying to distract you. You shift over him, and his attitude dissolves. He leans back, maintaining as much distance as he can — or perhaps to watch, as you tug your underwear to the side — line yourself up — and sink down onto his cock.
Zayne’s chest expands, but he makes no noise. His eyes close. His lips part. A minor crease forms between his eyebrows. It might as well be a sob. You’d use such a reaction against him if you weren’t more concerned with suppressing your own, lest he catch you out. Your cunt burns from the sudden, full intrusion, and his diverted attention gives you the moment you need to grow accustomed to it.
Once you’ve gotten over the initial shock of the feeling, you brush any intrusive thoughts aside. It doesn’t matter if he’s one of your oldest and closest friends. It doesn’t matter if he’s your doctor. You were already squarely planted in conflict-of-interest territory the moment he took you on as a patient.
You try to ignore your own desire. Your body catches up with your actions quickly, igniting touch-starved nerves that you’ve long-fantasised him satisfying. Heat builds inside you at a nervous system realising you’re finally giving it what it wants, and it only screams for more. Of course you’ve wanted Zayne. You adore him, but he’s not the kind of man who could balance a friendship with benefits; if anything, he finds a way to be the inverse of such a thing. He gives you everything in the way of a relationship except sex, and with him steering so clear of crossing that boundary with you, you have to tread carefully.
As much as you want to, this is delicate.
“My point is: zip it and let me take care of you.” You manage.
Besides, its not like you’re actually having sex with him. He’s continually pushing the boundaries of platonic with all his touches and hugs anyway. It’s not like he has a leg to stand on if he wants to protest what sitting on his cock might mean for your relationship. Hell, this isn’t even the first time he’s been hard when you’ve had his hips pinned down with your own.
If anything, you’re doing the guy a favour by taking the responsibility off him to go this far.
Zayne doesn’t bounce back as quickly as you do. His eyes remain scrunched shut, his core engaged beneath your palms as you brace your weight to settle into a more comfortable position in his lap. He looks worried. Apprehensive.
“Doctor Zayne?” Concern begins to creep in, just a little. “Okay, you can say something now.”
“Please,” He grits between his teeth, and relief floods your body as some semblance of calm returns to his expression, “Don’t call me that — like this.”
“Like what? I’m just warming you up, remember?” You offer a smile when he opens one eye, mood shifting to quizzical.
“You’re so immature. And for the record, this constitutes malpractice. You’re a terrible doctor.”
”Trust the process.”
”Fine. What’s the course of treatment?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing.”
You can’t help but chuckle at such quiet outrage. It’s getting easier to read him. Relaxing against his front, you ignore a little gasp on his part to loop your arms around his neck again. Dishonest pretences be damned, this really is doing the trick. “All you need to do is stay still.”
Zayne weighs up his options for only a moment before giving in. His arms slip around your waist. His chin hooks over your shoulder, just barely nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He’s breathing in your scent, and the following exhale into your skin has you stifling a shiver.
Then, there’s a flex within you.
“Hey!” You choke, “I said stay still back there!”
“Quiet down. It was only a reflex.” Zayne defends, a little too cavalier to fly under the radar. “Besides, I’m not the one squirming.”
“I’m just getting comfortable. Your hips are pointy.”
Zayne’s hips slot up into yours, and the feel of him nudging just a little deeper has your eyes stinging. You fail to stifle a little squeak, and you’re shushed for it immediately.
“Just getting comfortable.” Zayne’s words lick at your ear, and the sound of him sends shivers through you, pooling between your legs, pleading with you to satisfy the ever-nagging want to start riding him. “You’re like a vice.”
He has to know how much of an effect he has on you. There’s no way he doesn’t.
You don’t respond to his attitude — however, the condemning, responding, constricting of your insides around his cock surely doesn’t go unnoticed, and with a hollow breath, he lifts you, just a little, enough to draw back and push back in. He’s slow about it; infuriatingly so, almost like if he inches in and out at enough of creeping pace you’ll either not bother to be strict with him, or you’ll simply abandon your own rules in favour of crossing the boundary he’s silently begging you to cross for him.
No. He’s not getting the upper hand here. Not when he gets to pretend all his little actions are forgettable. Platonic. Accidental. Misunderstood. There’s only so many times a guy can subtly grind on someone during a spooning session and claim ignorance when called out about it.
You lock your feet beneath his knees, and sink down onto him, hard. Pleasure blooms. Your cunt aches for more. A sharp breath escapes Zayne, threatening to blossom into an appreciative groan that would only serve to tempt you without your hand clapping over his mouth and a ‘shh!’.
“You can keep still, or this stops.” You announce in a whisper, and he watches you defiantly from behind your hand.
Zayne’s gaze eventually breaks away from yours. Conceding. For now, at least. You lower your hand from his mouth, and relax, reaching across the cushion to pluck your phone from the couch and check your messages.
Already, he’s bothered by your lack of undivided attention.
“You’re on your phone.” He huffs.
“I’m not rewarding your behaviour.” You reply simply.
“You’re not implying that behaving differently would warrant a reward, are you?”
That’s for him to figure out.
You shift your weight maybe just a little more than you need to, indulging in the feeling of his cock shift with you, within you, pressing insistently against that one spot that almost has your constitution coming apart at the seams. Zayne trembles momentarily beneath you, swallowing hard. He’s keeping his cool well enough, but as you settle into the new angle, no longer moving, his frustration makes itself known with another twitch inside you.
If he keeps doing that, you’re not sure you can hold out.
“You really think this is helping?” He asks, voice tight.
“You don’t believe me?” You pout, tapping your home screen and opening your camera app. “Fine, let the expert see for himself.”
Switching to selfie cam, you watch as the man glances at his image on the screen for half a second, before tearing his gaze away. Not a shocker, you reason. He’s probably never seen himself with a hair out of place. Flushed cheeks and dilated pupils? You might as well have shown him a traffic collision.
“Aw, come on. Look how much colour’s come back to your face.”
Zayne musters the courage to look up, but not at the phone. His eyes narrow at you. Accusatory. “I’m not interested in giving you blackmail material.”
“What? Get real. There’s nothing incriminating going on. Especially not when you angle it like this.” You switch on a filter and lean down into the man. “See?”
Curiosity gets the better of him, and his head tilts to get a better look at whatever scheme you’re cooking up. On the screen, both your flushed faces smooth out, blushing perfectly. Cat ears and whiskers. Cheek to cheek. Just another one of your countless selfies with completely platonic friends.
You take the shot. The shutter clicks.
“Cute.” Zayne mutters drily.
“You think so?”
“Only how much fun you seem to be having of it.”
Your brow knits. “Oh yeah? All right, stick in the mud, you take over.”
He gives too much away at that response. His long fingers immediately slip over your hips. He’s readying to flip you onto your back before he notices you’re holding the phone out to him. Then, knowing he’s shown his hand, he has no choice but to recover his pride.
Much to your chagrin, Zayne plucks the phone from your hand, aborting whatever miraculous step he’d been about to take. A corner of his mouth ticks, minutely. He angles your phone away from you, tapping and swiping. His own phone buzzes. Then, he casts the device at the other end of the couch, out of your reach. “I think it’s getting a bit late for screens.” He murmurs. Fingers smooth up and over the swell of your hips. His long arms uncoil from your waist, releasing you as he leans back. Leaving you with a lonesome chill. “And you ought to be going to bed.”
Is that…rejection? Has he just been humouring you up until this point?
You tilt your head. “I’m sorry. Is this not okay?”
“This is fine.”
He looks at the fireplace. Stoic as ever.
“Then what?” You frown.
He doesn’t respond.
Your throat runs dry. Dread creeps up through your heart.
“Hey. Talk to me.” You urge, smoothing your fingers along his jaw, and he leans into your palm.
Seconds pass. Zayne finally regards you again. There’s an acknowledging incline of his head — almost a polite bow. A pre-emptive apology for what he’s about to say.
“What happens after this?” He asks. “Do we part ways at the train station in the morning and the next time we see each other, it’ll be as doctor and patient?”
Oh.
“Is that what we are to you?” You ask, not entirely sure if you want to know.
He dodges the question the best way he knows how: with rationality. “I feel that if that scenario is what you want, we should say goodnight. My understanding of our relationship won’t change, I promise you, but if this goes further, at least one of us is going to feel differently. It would be better if there were no misunderstandings between us.”
Something tightens in your chest. Something dreadful and lovely all the same, anxiety and anticipation at the prospect of a tipping point, at least before saying goodbye. Trust Zayne, of course, to turn to smoke and mirrors when it comes to a confession of feelings, but you’ve known him long enough to see how far out of his comfort zone all of this is.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” You ask, aborting an attempt on his part to avert his gaze with a finger beneath his chin.
His expression remains inexplicable. Then, there’s that little tilt of his head. The quirk of an eyebrow. “Your assumption is correct.”
The apprehension that’s been building in the back of your mind disperses the moment he says it. Your resolve all but disappears.
“My understanding,” You begin, reaching up to cup your hand over the other side of his face, “is that I’ve wanted you ever since I walked into that restaurant last year.”
Zayne doesn’t hesitate. His mouth finds yours in a heartbeat. Previously unsure hands pull you against him, locking you in his embrace. He’s so awfully gentle about it all despite your combined strength. Such a gentleman. It comes as no surprise that he shudders at the intrusion of your tongue past his lips — what does surprise you is how quickly he catches up to your pace. Inviting you in. Slipping an arm lower to brace your weight, and you feel yourself being pulled up off of his cock, just until only the head remains at your entrance.
The loss of him has you incensed. He keeps you from sinking back down, and your protesting whines are suffocated with another kiss. All he’s left you with to express yourself is your hands, and you seize the opportunity, combing your fingers through his hair and tugging, just slightly at the roots.
He breaks away with a little noise. Not pained, but shocked. Another one of his spots, you reason, and he’s just as displeased that you’ve found it.
“You don’t know when to quit.” Zayne pants. His fringe dusts your forehead. “What — what were we saying about bad behaviour going unrewarded?”
You’re too mindless right now to play any games. There’s no more thrill of the build that you can handle. Not after this long.
You break, instantly.
“Please —“ You whimper, almost trembling in his grip, trying in vain to take him back in again. “Zayne, I need it — please—“
Zayne relents right away. He gives you what you want, lowering you, burying himself in you to the hilt. Then he lifts you again, building into a steady rhythm.
”You’re so — you’re so frustrating.” He manages between kisses. “Should’ve told me this is all it takes for you to do as you’re told.”
More. You need more. Heavenly as it is, it’s not enough, just having him in you. You push back, and Zayne takes the hint. He’s said his piece. He lets you take the lead again without a fight, admiring the view as you roll onto the balls of your feet, gripping the back of the couch to keep yourself stable. The new angle feels deeper, each stroke rolling drifting sharply over your nerves as he brushes that spot inside you. It takes a moment for Zayne to kick into gear, brain short-circuiting as he watches you squat on his cock, taking what you need from him.
Then, he leaves you to support your own weight. Fingers wrench at the front of your hoodie, yanking it up to your sternum, and his tongue sweeps a nipple. In the time it takes for you to react, his other hand has snaked between you, between your legs. His thumb rolls over your clit just as he latches onto your nipple and sucks. The keen barely escapes your lips before Zayne’s hand claps over your mouth, continuing his assault.
It goes from too little to too much. It creeps up on you so fast, so suddenly, and there’s nothing you can do but ride through it. A muffled hum is all the warning you can give him. Your pace staggers as the burn in your thighs catches up to you, but Zayne only goes faster, rubbing merciless little circles into your nerves. His hips roll up into you, compensating as best he can for your loss of control. Finally, the band snaps, and you sob against his hand, spasming around him, tears pricking at your eyes with the intensity of it all. You go positively boneless, and Zayne breaks away just enough to let you collapse into his chest as he carries you through it, breaths quickening as the lingering spasms of your orgasm invoke his own.
“Fuck, I’m—“ He barely stammers, releasing you only to coil his arms around your torso again, readying to pull out.
“Not going anywhere.” You promise, clinging to him. Your fingers comb through his hair, tugging again, and a whimper dies in Zayne’s throat. He buries his face into the crook of your neck. His hips roll up into you once, twice, thrice more, and then he goes still. Buried in you to the hilt as he tips into oblivion.
He’s so subtle about it that you barely even realise he’s coming. Maybe it’s the effort not to wake Dr. Noah. Maybe it’s like this every time. Having him hold you with such desperate reverence while he does his best not to judder in stark contrast to to the feeling of him pulsing within you, you reason you’d like to find out. He hides his face from you throughout, only pulling his forehead from your clavicle when the aftershocks have come and gone.
Zayne looks lovelier than ever like this — coming out of a blissful haze, gazing up at you with cautious adoration. His focus flickers between your eyes and your lips. His chest expands and collapses like he’s like a 5-miler, but his breaths are smooth.
Even now, he’s trying to maintain a cool composure.
“Forgive me.” He mutters, not quite meeting your eye.
Your head tilts. Chasing him. “Huh? Why?”
“I exercised poor judgement. That was rotten of me. I should have known better, given I’ve never prescribed birth control to you.”
“You really think I’d come to you for birth control?” You snort.
Zayne’s brow creases. An incredulous look totally undermined by how positively wrecked he looks right now. “I am your physician. Or has your other doctor friend decided to become real after all?”
Your fingers comb through his hair again. Despite a pleasant sigh on his part at the sensation, his expression remains steeled.
“Hey.” You finally manage to capture his gaze, only for any tells to evaporate. “Could you tell me something?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Are you more jealous that I might have had sex with someone who wasn’t you, or that I might have gone to another doctor?”
Zayne considers his answer for a long moment. His head tilts in that particular way it does when he has to make a decision, eyeing you expectantly. Punishment for daring to push him out of his comfort zone.
He presses a hand to your forehead.
A thoughtful hum escapes him.
“Curious. Your temperature’s dropping. On second thought, you should stay another day so I can observe you.”
“You’re avoiding the question!”
“Here. I’ll keep you warm. You can install those camera filters on my phone to pass the time.”
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ive developed an addiction to love and deepspace
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i caved.... dr. ratio.................. he's so AAAAAHH
#—ki's ramblings; wip#im glad i dont have to pull for him#i dont need more dps but hes pretty ill take him#pretty in an obnoxious snob type of way
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why do people never know what they want to eat :/:/ not a good time
#AND WHEN YOU SUGGEST SOMETHING#they go#“no i dont wanna eat that”#WDYMMM SO WHAT DO YOU WANT????#???#—ki's ramblings
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sometimes u just sit there and think... gilbert blythe...............
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Just thinking about the first time Levi gets a grey hair.
He’s standing in front of the bathroom sink with his toothbrush in his mouth, eyes barely giving his reflection a fleeting glance.
Mentally, he’s going over his tasks for the day. The cleaning he needs to do, tea orders he needs to make to keep the popular blends in stock for the next week, that light in the display case needs changed.
He’s so absorbed going over his checklist that he doesn’t immediately clock your stare.
You’re standing next to him, toweling off your face after washing it in the sink. Your normal morning routine. Nothing out of the ordinary until he notices you’ve stopped. His gaze finds you in the mirror, your inverted expression full of surprise and a little bit of amusement.
After a full three seconds, he finally spits into the sink.
“What the hell are you looking at?”
Your smile grows, but you spring back into action like his voice has broken some sort of spell.
“You have a grey hair.”
“What?” His brow furrows immediately, and suddenly he’s meeting his own reflection in the mirror, much more interested than before. He turns from left to right. “Where?”
Two fingers reach and pull up one offending strand from the rest and sure enough, it’s grey.
You giggle at the scowl that forms on his face. “Should I pluck it out?”
He smacks your hand away. “No, go away.”
“It’s kind of sexy,” you say in a thoughtful tone. “You know, for an old man.”
Wiping off his face, he stalks out of the room, but not before mumbling a low ‘creep’ under his breath.
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— a rush, a glance ; dan heng.
╰‧₊˚✩ॱ˖ honkai: star rail — dan heng — 3k words.
╰‧₊˚✩ॱ˖ summary — you might have fallen at the first kiss — well, technically, CPR — and you couldn't grapple with the fact. but perhaps the struggle went both ways.
╰‧₊˚✩ॱ˖ content — awkward pining for each other, like a lot of being awkward, trailblazer reader, lots of blushing, allusions to dan heng's past, reader is such a simp, kissing.
When you came to, you felt a foreign weight on your lips — soft, warm, and candy-like in that it was sweet. Your eyes fluttered open and you were gazing into a pair of blue-green irises, harbouring a ceaseless depth you could see yourself getting lost in. In a rush, your senses fully came back to you and you inhaled sharply, felt his nose graze yours, felt the heaviness of his palm on the side of your face, tilting it towards him.
When you tried to speak, your lips brushed against his. His body tensed, and like you, his limbs were those of a statue, stubbornly still, cast in place.
So, this was what a kiss felt like.
A higher-pitched voice shocked you back into sobriety. Drunk on the feel of him against yours, everywhere he had not touched felt colder, and the points of contact were molten. "You're awake! Dan Heng, your CPR actually worked!"
The second figure pulled him off of you, air rushed into your lungs immediately and you let out a sigh. Dan Heng cleared his throat, throwing his gaze to the side. The apples of his cheeks burned red.
He was beautiful, almost otherworldly so.
He sighed often.
You picked up on it early on. Dan Heng sighed a lot when March uttered something outlandish, before tasting Himeko's coffee, or as you barged into the Archives to browse through his notes. He didn't have to be in a certain mood to sigh and you began to be able to differentiate between exasperation and contentment and neutrality. Sometimes, he sighed affectionately, out of amusement.
And sometimes, you were the root of it, and it had you feeling like a feather, like you could be a pair of wings soaring through the star-littered cosmos.
"You would think—" A sneeze. "—that with a Stellaron in me, I should at least be immune from a cold."
He sighed, shaking his head. Was it empathy? No. His lips were pulled into a tight line, an attempt to conceal — Amusement. You pouted even as your insides felt warmer, lips tingling with the memory of pressing against his.
"Let's go back to the Express for now," he said, supplied with a worried glance. "We'll find something for your ailments."
Jarilo-VI was a snow-blanketed planet, showered by constant snowfall. The perpetual cold was biting and cruel on the Trailblazers, particularly you. From the moment you landed, you hadn't been able to breathe through your nose.
"We shouldn't," you protested. "I'll be okay once we get to the city. With the stellaron crisis, I should be the least of our concerns."
Unconvinced, Dan Heng lingered even as you had already trudged onwards, snow crunching underneath your boots. You abruptly came to a halt, tilting your head back and he assumed you were anticipating another sneeze, but you continued to follow through, falling backwards. He dashed to catch you before you fell to the ground, calling your name in a low, worried tone.
"I'm alright," you said, even though you were fully leaning against him for support. His hand was warm and solid as it held your shoulder, pressing you to him to keep you from lurching as you were unsteady on your feet.
"Can you hear me?" His voice sounded far away, as if you had a film over your ears. You could barely open your eyes, the white brightness of everything was a blinding stab to your vision.
You hummed in confirmation, but the next sentence he spoke fell as incoherent mumbling in your ears. Dan Heng's face scrunched as he took your temperatures, his cold hand stung by the heat of your forehead. "You're burning up."
"You're just really cold."
Then there was nothing. You didn't remember much — if anything, you had no recollection of what happened after. When you came to, there was a familiar weight on your hand and a familiar scratch of your sheets against your skin. Your eyes, though bleary, could gather that you were back in your room on the Express. You moved to pull your hand to rub your eyes; all it did was stir Dan Heng's sleeping form, sitting at the side of your bed. His grip tightened, long-fingered hands locking around yours.
"Dan Heng?" Your voice scratched against your throat, coming out in a hoarse croak. "What happened?"
Dan Heng buried his face into the crook of his elbow, letting out a soft hum. Not fully awake yet, he stayed clutching your hand, which was getting sweatier by the second. It was too casual; you didn't touch each other this way. Every time you did, it felt as if your stomach was flipped inside out, bleeding acid into your veins.
Your free hand reached to touch his head, nudge him awake, but the moment you made contact, you couldn't resist brushing your fingers through the black strands. So soft, too soft. To your delight and horror, he leaned into the touch, like a nuzzling cat. With a content sigh, he slipped into a shallow slumber once more.
You sat up, leaning closer to let your gaze rampant on his features: the long lashes fanning his cheeks, the hook of his nose and his lips. His lips.
"We're back!" March's voice echoed from the other side of the door. You jolted backwards, falling over the other side of your bed to the ground with a loud thud. Dan Heng sat up, startled. Your door slid open as you were scrambling to get off your butt. "___. Dan Heng. How has it been without me?"
"___?" Dan Heng's voice had deepened into a sleepy rasp. "What — Have you recovered? You are on the floor because...?"
March chuckled, muttering something about your silliness as she circled around your bed to help you up. Your cheeks flushed, going lightheaded from standing up too fast and being throttled by acute embarrassment.
"I was startled and fell down," you protested. "Thanks to you, March."
"How is that my fault?" March pouted.
"I need to check your temperatures," said Dan Heng. He paused, clearing his throat, hand hovering hesitantly. "May I?"
You leaned your body forward, over your single bed, and he reached over to press the back of his hand on your forehead, on your neck, before dropping back to his side. His phantom touch remained, causing you to crease your brow. "Hm, I think the fever has gone down."
"That's good news," said March. "We were all worried sick. Dan Heng hasn't been sleeping much. He won't even leave until Mr. Yang dragged him out."
You turned to look at Dan Heng. He stared back, like he was caught doing something he shouldn't, and briskly looked away.
Clearing his throat, he said, "March, is everyone back? I need to talk to Mr. Yang about the... mission."
March waved her hand. "I'll go! I'm glad you're all better now, ___. The Express was too quiet without you."
"That's not—" Dan Heng started, but March was already retreating, the door slid shut behind her. "—necessary."
You wrung your fingers together. "I'm sorry for causing a lot of trouble. Thank you for taking care of me."
Dan Heng hummed as he stretched his neck, tilting his head towards his left shoulder, and then right. "I would not have let you freeze down there. March is correct in that it has been a bit quiet since you fell ill."
"She's livelier than the both of us combined. She doesn't need me to cook up a ruckus," you joked.
"You're not wrong." A fond smile appeared on his lips.
Out of curiosity, you asked, "Did you carry me all the way back?"
"To the best of my abilities, yes," he replied. "I'm just glad you are well. It was quite a scare. You've been in-and-out of consciousness for two days. Himeko, Mr. Yang and March had gone ahead to investigate the stellaron disturbance."
"I'm sorry," you apologised again. "Why do I always fall unconscious when you're around?"
"There's no need to apologise," he reassured. "And as for your question, I have been wondering as well."
His sighed, lips quirking into an amused smile. You were a feather, you were soaring.
"Do you have an entry about me?" You wondered, face hovering over his shoulder as he navigated the Data Bank, tapping and swiping at the screen with his long fingers.
"It is a work-in-progress," he replied. He was skimming through the data he had gathered about the Xianzhou Alliance, but you were hardly paying attention. You tilted your face to the side slightly, taking in his profile, noticing the smudged red under his eye, the intricate swirls of his earring. Oblivious, he asked, "What else would you like to see?"
"What's your favourite entry?"
"Well—" A mistake. He turned his head to the side, ending up face-to-face with you. Breath ghosting over your face, he stiffened, hand gripping the edge of the desk. You were stunned frozen in place, not unlike the ice statues littering the snow plains of the Jarilo-VI.
His eyes were blue and green and clear, the unbroken surface of a lake.
"You're really pretty," you blurted out. Your eyes widened as you straightened up, placing your palm over your mouth. Dan Heng pursed his lips, pink dusting his cheeks. "Shit—sorry. I don't know why I said that. Sorry."
"No, it's — it's alright," he said, quelling your sputtering. "That was flattering."
"Oh."
"I do find you... to be 'pretty' as well."
"Oh." What does that mean? You laughed, the sound off-kilter, borderline disorienting. The stuffy atmosphere in the Archives must be getting to your heads. "I think I need some air, don't you?"
He frowned. "We can leave the door open, if you wish."
"It's okay!" You were already stepping backwards, stumbling over the steps. You pointed at the door with your thumb without turning around. "I'll just—I'll check on everyone at the parlor."
Desperate to leave, the small square of his room was closing in on you. Your chest constricted, squeezed by a slither of not-so-unpleasant emotions. You felt full. You felt empty. You felt like lurching out of the window to gaze directly at the stars, or running to your room and scurry under your bed.
You found yourself face-to-face with the door and tried sliding it open, failing to do so.
"Is it locked?" He asked, chair scratching the flooring as he stood. Before you could reply, his long legs carried him towards you in an instant. You felt him behind you — around you. The brush of his arm was electric through your clothes as he pressed the dial of the door to unlock it.
You could have done that yourself.
The door slid open smoothly, but you stayed rooted in place for a beat or so. Until he called your name and your entire form seized up, like a startled squirrel ready to bolt. Everything was warm, your face, your neck, the tips of your ears.
As you dashed out of the Archives, you thought you might be coming down with another fever.
The night before your planned arrival at Xianzhou Luofu, you were unable to sleep. Trailblazing expeditions had a way of lighting your nerves, turning you into a bundle of nervous energy and anticipation. Sleep evaded you, or perhaps you were driving it away with all the tossing and turning.
To your surprise, your phone lit up — an unmissable flash in the dark interior of your room. You stretched your hand, reaching out to your nightstand. Your heartbeat thumped wildly at the name which appeared, hand sweaty as you tapped your screen.
Dan Heng
Are you awake?
Should you ignore it? You had been avoiding being alone with the Xianzhou native as of late. Not to his fault. You were the weirdo, this much you were aware. Gnawing at your lips, you typed out:
yes
Would it be an inconvenient time to talk?
not at all
should i find you at the archives?
No.
Give me a moment.
A moment passed, there was a knock at your door. You called out for him to come in. Your door slid open with a loud rumble — perhaps not so loud during the day, but the early dawn hours had a tendency to distort one's senses.
"Hello," you greeted. He was briefly illuminated by the light flooding in from the hallway before your door slid back to a close. His hair — usually a perfect fall of jet black strands, had pieces sticking up. His bangs were swept up as well, revealing his forehead. He had shed his robes and tunic for a sleep shirt and trousers. It was the first time you'd seen him so unkempt, as if he was peeling back a layer of himself, showing you a part not meant for just anyone.
"Hello," he said, not knowing what to do with himself as he stood by your bed.
Obviously you were not going to invite him to bed. You didn't have that kind of friendship where you could lie side-by-side on a bed too small for two and be fine. At best, your palms would sweat and shake just from your shoulder being pressed against his. At worst, your heart might palpitate and burst.
"We can sit down," you suggested, pointing at the window seat, a few steps from your bed. It wasn't like March's, crowded with stuffed toys and yards of blankets. You hadn't had the time to find things to fill it, only a cushion with a couple of pillows in one corner.
He hummed and followed you as you sat down, crossing your legs, facing out towards the glass. He joined you, leaning against the backrest, legs stretching across the floor as he looked into the darkness of your room.
You could hear him swallow.
"You wanted to talk?" It was so quiet that you spoke in hushed tones — as if the whole universe was asleep, and you were the only ones awake. A thrill sizzled in your blood. The air was crackling with something like potential.
"Since you're departing in the morning," he said, sighing — Distress. "The Xianzhou... I'm afraid you will discover things about me that would alter the way you, and everyone, view me."
You could feel his gaze on you even when you were so intent to avoid it, opting to trace patterns connecting the stars outside.
"Alter how?" You asked.
"Who knows? At worst, you might find me abhorrent."
"Whoa, that is a strong word." Naturally, you were curious. What had he done? Theft? Mutiny? Murder?
"Appalling? Horrid? The adjective hardly matters." He leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. His voice was unapologetically bare, a vulnerable thing. "I find myself dreading that prospect."
Finally, you turned to look at him, studying the far away look he had. It tugged at your heartstrings. You reached for his hand, which was pressing against the cushion, propping himself up. "I could never hate you."
His head swiveled, there was bewilderment in his eyes, either from your admission or the sudden contact. You couldn't tell.
"There is little truth in that."
Despite his skepticism, he sat up straighter, turned his palm over to hold your hand in his and squeezed.
"You underestimate just how much I like you, Dan Heng." His eyebrows hiked upwards. Abruptly, cautiously, you added, "Just how much everyone likes you and appreciates you for what you do here."
He sighed — Unreadable, this time. "I guess we will know when the time comes. I suppose I should leave you be now."
He withdrew his hand and with it, his vulnerability, as he stood up, brushing himself off. You scrambled, turning around to face him fully, hands desperately clutching around his arm before he could leave. During the day, you weren't sure you could be so daring. But it was past midnight, the world caught between dreams and truths. Your breathing picked up as you spoke, trying to seize the chance before the moment passed. Word after word tumbled out of your lips in quick succession.
"I mean what I said. I think whatever it is you did, I will somehow justify it in my head. I like you too much, in a way that's foolish enough for me to do everything I can to keep liking you. If that makes sense. Even if the entire world makes an enemy out of you, I'll always have an excuse for you."
He looked at you — really looked. His scrutiny was so intense that you averted your gaze to the floor. It didn't last long before he placed his fingers under your chin, coaxing you to look up gently.
"And that is the truth?"
You nod. "Nothing but the truth."
"You like me," he repeated, breath fanning your face. The closeness with which you were staring at each other was thrilling, like the disorienting lurch of the Express during a warp. "In what way?"
"Whichever way you would accept."
His hand was shaking as much as yours. "Then what would you accept from me?"
It felt like a cresting wave, like the ringing silence between an explosion and the sound, the empty seconds between lightning and thunder. You held the key to let it crash and strike, indulge yourself in it.
And so you did.
"A kiss, for starters."
The floodgates opened, waves crashing, a pleasant relief in your heart as he leaned down and gave you what you asked for. His lips — warm, soft and candy-like in that it was sweet — moved over yours. You were full and heady, the simultaneous familiarity and unfamiliarity gave you a rush. He did not let up, pressing forward, hiking a knee on the cushion, between your thighs. His hand slid up your waist, brushed the side of your ribcage, settling at your jaw. The other braced himself on the windowsill as he hovered over you. Your hands tugged at the hair on the nape of his neck. You felt him sigh into your mouth — Content.
You wanted him, all of him, and you knew that you needed to only ask, and he would give it.
dan heng maybe makes me a little breathless. maybe a little bit. just maybe a tiny teensy bit. i tried to keep him in character as much as i can but i kinda suck at that so im sorry. thank you for reading ♡ im trying to build my ruan mei nowadays bc i impulsively pulled for her
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Dying thinking about gojo literally pinning and hardcore simping for reader, literally showering reader in praise, flattery and gifts because he no longer gives a damn about hiding his feelings, almost proposing to reader whenever he can and reader's just... completely clueless about it💀 and she thinks it's just gojo being friendly. Poor man would be absolutely devastated when he goes one day "[name] i'm in love with you" and she just goes "me too, i love all my friends!" 💀
she loves me, she loves me not! — gojo satoru x fem!reader
contents. fluff, lovesick!gojo (what’s new), highschool!gojo, he’s pathetic but in love your honor, oblivious!reader, ooc gojo i got carried away soz
notes. anon, when i first read your ask i literally started giggling and kicking my feet. that. is. so. gojo coded.
“please reject gojo and put him out of his misery,” utahime implored, taking hold of both of your hands. you think she’s asking, no, begging you to. beside her, shoko nods vigorously.
“but why?” you furrow your eyebrows, perplexed by their sudden request. “i can’t reject someone who doesn’t like me.”
shoko giggles at your comment. her laughter only wanes when she notices the dead serious look on your face. “... you seriously have no idea what we’re talking about?”
“not really,” you shrug, criss-crossing your legs to find some comfort on the hard wooden floor in shoko’s small dorm. it was late, past midnight, and the three of you had a shared mission tomorrow, but for some reason your two friends managed to rope you into their drinking circle.
utahime and shoko exchanged a significant glance, their unspoken communication raising your curiosity. utahime takes a long sip of her beer.
“hopeless. they’re both hopeless,” your short haired brunette friend lamented, pinching her nose bridge. it leaves a faint pink mark.
intrigued, you lean in closer towards the two, “care to elaborate?”
“you’ve never once questioned satoru’s borderline inappropriate behavior?” shoko asks you earnestly. you ponder for a moment, trying to recall any moments in the two years you’ve known the snow-haired boy.
“satoru is satoru…” you mumble, shaking your head in denial.
utahime’s eyes bug comically. she slams her can of beer harshly on the ground. you wince at the loud noise of the metallic can hitting the floor.
“you’re kidding. even i can see through that jerk!” utahime’s black pigtails sway wildly.
“[name], how about what happened in shinjuku last week on our day off?” shoko quietly reminds you of last weekend when the two of you along with satoru and suguru decided to empty your pockets in one of tokyo’s largest entertainment wards.
utahime’s head whips back and forth from her best friend to you, “eh? what happened?!”
from behind the dressing room curtain, you voiced your concerns, “shoko, i don't think we can afford designer clothes on our student budget.” the cream-colored silk dress you wore clung to your body, its price tag undoubtedly surpassing a year's worth of your student earnings.
“don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” shoko’s voice carried a knowing smile. “just come out and show me the dress!” you think satoru’s carefree attitude is rubbing off on her.
with a nervous sigh, you emerged from the dressing room. the dress fit like a glove, accentuating your body in just the right places.
bright flashes from shoko's phone startled you, and she chuckled deviously while rapidly typing. she tossed her phone onto a luxurious cushion, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of exposure.
“you look so sexy. even better than the model.” she gives you two thumbs up, eyes roaming your figure. you feel flushed at her praise.
“as flattered as i am, there’s no way i can afford this,” you look down at the dress, lips downturned. “i’d be in debt for life.”
“no need to worry,” shoko winked, leaving you confused. given that her income was similar to yours, it didn't make sense for her to be able to even dream of shopping designer.
a soft thud interrupted your conversation. you turn around to see a blue lollipop rolling on the expensive carpeting of the store.
“suguru, are my eyes deceiving me or is that an angel?” satoru's mouth is wide open as he shamelessly checks you out. he takes one of his hands and places it over his heart, gripping the fabric of his white shirt. the windbreaker he is wearing rustles at his dramatic movement.
“i think… i’m experiencing a heart attack! shoko help!” he kneels in the middle of the store dramatically. shoko shares an unamused look with suguru. the pair nod before simultaneously kicking satoru.
during all of the commotion, you stand awkwardly in the million yen dress.
“satoru, are you okay?” you watch him take the two blows from your friends, concern evident in your voice. he grunts softly before gently taking ahold of your hand.
“no,” he croaks with a playful glint in his eye. “i’m wounded and there’s only one way to fix it.”
you look at him, your gaze heavy with concern.
“i’m afraid you’ll have to kiss me for the pain to go away.” he added, blinking at you expectantly with his blue eyes.
you lightly shove him away from you. “you’re an idiot.” satoru laughs loudly.
“that’s what love does to a man.”
“yeah, yeah. i’m going to change out of this dress, don’t get into any more trouble while i’m gone.”
satoru’s grip on your hand strengthens, halting your actions.
“how much?”
“excuse me?”
“the dress. how much for it?” he stands up to his full height, reminding you of the obvious height difference between the two of you.
you're at loss for words. gojo was crazy, but definitely not crazy enough to spend a million yen on a silly dress.
shoko happily chimes into the conversation. “one million yen. it’ll be two million yen with the rest of my purchases though!”
suguru’s calm demeanor is replaced with shock. the black haired male’s jaw drops, “two million– satoru, you’re seriously not thinking about–”
“hah? who said i’m paying for your stuff?” gojo makes an ugly face at shoko.
she raises her hands innocently, “it’s not my fault the dresses come in a set. if you want to see your beloved [name] in that dress you’ll have to pay for mine as well.”
you watch shoko and satoru engage into a silent argument. the tension in the fitting room section is so thick, you think it’ll take a special grade weapon to slice through it.
trying to alleviate the mood you tell gojo, “satoru, you really don’t have to–”
“i’m buying you that dress.”
“o-okay.”
half an hour later, satoru happily strolls out of the store with an arm around your shoulder like he’d just won the lottery.
perhaps gojo is just naturally flirty, you had tried to reason to shoko and utahime.
it’s been a week since the eye-opening conversation with the two and you’ve found yourself on cleaning duty with said snow-haired boy. it was a miracle that satoru even showed up. he had a tendency to skip his turns, often resulting in a long lecture from yaga.
as the two of you worked silently in the empty classroom, you couldn't help but admire the setting sun. its golden rays painted the sky with hues of pink and orange, casting a warm glow over everything. unknowingly, while you gazed at the sky, gojo's gaze was firmly fixed on you.
breaking the silence, he asked, "have you ever thought about getting married?"
his question caught you off guard, causing you to momentarily pause from wiping the windows.
“not really,” you replied, biting your lip gently. “unless my family decides to arrange a marriage. you know how unforgiving the world of jujutsu sorcery is.”
gojo's grip on the broom tightened, his eyes locking onto yours with a newfound intensity.
"we should get married y'know," he blurted out.
the piece of cloth you were using slipped from your hand in shock. surely, he couldn't mean what he was saying. after all, the two of you were only second years.
“what?”
“i’m saying i think i’m in love with you.”
“oh.”
silence engulfs the room once more before a soft giggle escapes your lips.
satoru can only watch, entranced.
“that’s good to hear! i love you too– and suguru and shoko! perhaps the four of us should all just get married.” you chuckle into your hand.
satoru can't help but stare at your hand in envy. perhaps if he were the palm of your hand, he’d be able to feel the touch of your lips.
but he couldn’t. he was cursed as a man with an overpowered innate technique, and despite it all he couldn’t even gain the one thing he desired. gojo satoru watched you, eyes filled with a mixture of longing and defeat.
his devastation does not go unnoticed by you.
you were under the impression that he was grumpy because yaga had forced him into cleaning with you.
"cheer up, satoru! if we finish early enough," you continue, your tone highspirited, "we can go to the new crepe shop that opened last week. my treat!" you winked, and that immediately caught his attention.
“like a date?” his eyes sparkled with hope.
you shrug, a smile on your face. “i suppose if you look at it from a certain perspective…”
“great, it’s a date!”
good things come to those who wait, satoru thinks, humming happily as he starts to sweep the room at an inhumane pace.
maybe in ten years time the two of you will be happily married with eight kids, he smiles to himself.
#this was so adorable#i love love love love pining#i especially love when its them pining for the reader#i also tend to be oblivious but like on purpose iykyk#ill never get over my gojo phase i fear#—ki reads
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babe wake up new valorant cinematic just dropped!!
RECKONING // Episode 8 Cinematic - VALORANT
header from new valorant cinematic, cypher and omen :)
highonhumans on twitter
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college au percy jackson being on the swim team... romcom-esque fake dating.... i cannot get it out of my head.
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i am a sucker for drunk!reader being taken care of (mostly bc im an annoying drunk to deal with). i LOVED this!
intoxicating.
premise. your boyfriend dumps you and says he doesn't love you anymore. of course, being the petty bitch that you are, you have to prove that you don't need him in your life either. and of course, intense emotions often lead to rash decisions, so you go to a bar in hopes of finding a new man.
somehow, even when all you've managed to do is scowl at anyone who approaches you and mope at the bar counter, you still manage to get one.
Wriothesley has dealt with his fair share of unruly drunks before, but they were something more along the lines of aggressive and sloppy, not depressed and sappy.
He finds that he'd rather manhandle angry alcoholics than a person who makes a slobbering mess all over his shirt, clinging to his arm and sobbing to his sleeve. Your body starts to sway even when he supports your weight, your footsteps unstable as your attempt to walk in a straight line fails entirely.
Okay, so maybe you are sloppy after all.
Wriothesley sighs and tightens his grip on your shoulders. There's no point in losing his patience with a drunk person. He didn't even mean to pick you up, it's just that as a police officer, his sense of responsibility makes him want to fix a troublesome situation whenever he sees one. Even when he isn't on duty, he often leads disruptive drunks out of bars and restaurants, forces them out when he has to, and is always on the receiving end of owners' gratitude.
However, he has no experience dealing with drunks that just got dumped by their boyfriend and chugged away the sorrow with alcohol. You know, like the one dragging their feet as he drags their inebriated body away.
At first, he thought you were hitting on him when he felt your head lean on his shoulder in the bar. It's a common strategy, one that he's dealt with enough times to know when someone is just pretending to be drunk and trying to get his attention. He was still thinking of what to say when tears actually rolled down your cheeks and you started retelling your life story that he never asked to hear about.
Wriothesley isn't actually trying to listen, but he still gets the gist of it. It would be hard not to when you're still prattling on about it beside his ear as we speak.
“He said...” You hiccup, warm liquid seeping into his shirt as you sob into his arm. He hopes that's from your tears and not your snot. “He said he doesn't feel anything for me anymore...”
So you glammed up for tonight and tried to have fun at a bar so you could prove to yourself you didn't need him in the same way he didn't need you. He can already recite the story perfectly from the amount of times you told him. Your plan is irrational at best, and he doesn't see himself doing the same if he were ever to be in the same situation, but he can't berate you for it. Not when you looked so miserable and hopeless to the extent he didn't think it would be safe to leave you alone back at the bar.
“You can't force yourself to be happy,” Wriothesley grumbles, finally giving up on carrying you by the shoulder and instead hoists you up on his back to give you a piggyback ride. Your shoes slip off your feet, so he sighs as he crouches down to pick them up. “At times like this, you should find other ways to feel better.”
Your body jolts against him as you hiccup once again. “Like what?”
“Dunno.” He shrugs, and he can feel you gradually getting used to being carried. It takes only a bit more for you to melt against his body, your chin snugly tucked in the juncture between his neck and shoulder. “Watch movies at home in your pajamas, I guess. Treat yourself to good food. Go on a trip. You look like the type to enjoy that. Much safer than getting involved with guys when you're still emotionally unavailable.”
You sniffle. “Romance movies only remind me of him. Eating at restaurants will make me remember the dates we've gone to. And going on trips will make me wish he's there with me.”
Why do they have an argument for each point I make? And I never said anything about the movie having to be romance. “Well, you still have to go through that,” he gives up on making you think otherwise. “But one day, you'll feel a little better about it. Maybe you'll want to start dating again when you watch that romance movie, or you'll want someone else to eat with on that restaurant you once went to. And when you're on a trip, maybe you'll even think you want somebody special to go with you.”
You go quiet. For a moment, he thinks you've fallen asleep. But then your head slowly rises from his shoulder, dazed eyes peeking at him unsurely. “You really think so?”
“It won't be easy,” Wriothesley says, because nothing ever is. “But you want to say you don't love him anymore, right?” He glances at you, at the dry tear streaks on your cheeks, at what glitter remains around your eyes from all the times you've rubbed away your tears.
For the first time that night, he sees you smile. “Yeah... I want to say it without feeling hurt anymore.”
He turns away, and he feels himself smiling without meaning to. “That's good.”
“...So do you like watching romance movies? Or eating [hometown] cuisine?”
“...No?”
“Then I'll settle for a movie you like. And I can make good food from anywhere.”
“...Are you hitting on me? Using my advice?”
“Is it working?”
Wriothesley laughs, looking at the person he's carrying on his back, who he is escorting to his apartment because you lost your keys and your roommate won't be back until tomorrow, whom he wrapped his leather jacket around because he felt you shivering against him, and who caught his eye the very moment he entered the bar.
“That's not a no.” He knows you're pouting even when he isn't looking anymore.
“Yeah,” he agrees with you, almost indulgently. “It isn't.”
When you wake up in an unfamiliar bedroom, dressed down to your undergarments and a t-shirt you definitely do not own, and with hardly any recollection of events from the past night, you think you've made a terrible, terrible mistake.
But then you spot the hangover medicine on the bedside table, your alcohol-spilled clothes drying in the laundry room, and possibly the most gorgeous man you've ever seen cooking breakfast in the kitchen, so whatever you did last night couldn't really be that bad.
“Oh, you're awake,” he says once he notices you standing in the middle of the room, completely awestruck. You don't even know what you should be staring at; his chiseled face, his strong arms, his tight tank top that faintly traces his muscled torso, the gray sweatpants that-
Okay. You are not going to look anywhere below his waist.
“Yeah,” is all you can manage, simply glad you didn't fuck up that one syllable. You feel like you're on the verge of either saying something really stupid or making really weird strangled noises. You prefer the former, if you can help it.
“Sit.” He pulls one chair from the dining table, gesturing for you to take it. You meekly take your seat, eyes shifting everywhere but his face. “You're rather quiet today,” he muses, taking one glance at your reddening face as he fixes the plates of pancakes in front and across you.
“...How was I yesterday, then?” You ask, though you don't actually want to hear the answer.
The man hums in thought, taking his sweet time while pouring coffee over two mugs. “Troublesome,” he decides to say. “You nearly puked over my rug, after all.”
You sputter, making all kinds of apologies and promises of compensation when all of a sudden, he laughs. “Nah, I'm kidding. But this means you don't remember anything at all, right?” He sits across from you, sliding the mug to your hand.
“No...” You take a sip, but you barely register how it tastes. “I remember ordering a lot of drinks, but that's pretty much it.”
“That's a shame.” He sighs, leaning back on his chair as he sips coffee. “I suppose that means our dinner plans are void, then.”
“Absolutely not!” The words come out of your lips before your brain-to-mouth filter processes it fully, your hand slamming down the mug on the table in protest. “Uh... that is... if you're available whenever...” You get a hold of yourself and feel your cheeks burning in shame.
He doesn't try to hide the amused smirk on his face. “Sure. I'll be looking forward to your hometown cooking, then.”
Just what on earth did you do last night...?
???
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kaz & a crying!reader? <3
—comfort crowd; kaz brekker.
╰‧₊˚✩ॱ˖ six of crows — kaz brekker — 0,9k words.
╰‧₊˚✩ॱ˖ summary — kaz attempts to comfort you.
╰‧₊˚✩ॱ˖ content — unspecified reason for your crying, awkward kaz, platonic but also slight pining
Three raps at his door and Kaz had no idea how or why it immediately clicked that it was you. He had barely said the words 'come in' before you were already nudging the creaking hinges open, bursting into the room the same way you had into his life — an unstoppable, unruly force he felt nearly hopeless against.
"What do you need?" He asked in his usual indifferent rasp, dark eyes glued to the ledgers strewn on his desk. By the end of the night, he would have them all sorted — all tidy in the organisation system he had created for all the administrative files he had to run the Dregs. For now, they were piles and piles of barely readable garbage from incompetent members that caused him to pull at the roots of his hair.
Three beats. Too long of a silence from you. He finally set down his pen and looked up.
You stood with your back pressed against the door, heaving as if you'd run down the length of the East Stave. He exhaled through his lips, jaw open as he took in the red rimming your eyes, the damp glisten of your cheeks and the harsh, repeated swipe of your palms over them. Your eyes caught his and your shoulders shuddered as you sniffled.
"You're crying," he said, somewhere between a statement and a question. You had never cried. Not when you broke a bone in your arm and Inej had to set it back with a makeshift splint. Not when you thought you were going to die, waging a war against forces so powerful they bend the air in your lungs and the blood in your veins. Not when you recounted how everyone you'd ever known seemed to be eager to be rid of you before you met the crew. You were never a crier. At least not in front of an audience. And yet, here you were.
You inhaled and opened your mouth to say something, but all that came out was a pitiful whine, followed by a series of sobs that seemed to be out of your control. Kaz felt a heaviness settle over his chest, compressing the air in his lungs.
"I'm sorry," you croaked out in-between hiccups. "I just didn't want to be alone."
For all your successes and failures, it was at this moment that Kaz realised that neither of you were invulnerable and that both of you were just people — without the might of a king or the power of a grisha. He wished he had some comfort he could offer, sweet nothings he could whisper, but all he knew were sharp threats and matter-of-fact remarks. He could only manage to say, "You have no reason to apologise."
You wiped at your nose. Kaz stood up, his chair scratching across the floor panels and approached you, handing you a neatly folded handkerchief.
"I'm going to rub snot all over it," you warned.
He winced. "It's yours now. Do not return it."
"Saints, this is embarrassing." You let out a half-giggle cut off by a sniffle. "I'm pathetic."
"What happened?"
"It's stupid."
"And I will let you know if I think so."
You looked over at him, shaking your head. He pursed his lips, but nodded. He did not ask more questions, instead he stood there leaning against his cane as you hiccup and sniffled as if someone had just died. All the while, he had a strong urge to pinpoint the name of whoever caused so much tears — and he wanted to make it hurt.
His hand that was not clutching his cane moved, almost on its own accord, and hovered awkwardly in-between you. He wanted to withdraw; he did not. He found himself having to navigate such antithetical wants often when it came to you. He lets his gloved hand come up to the crown of your head, mechanically patting it before pulling away.
You laughed — still puffy-dyed and sniffling, but you laughed. The corner of his lips quirked up to form a lopsided smile.
"You're bad at this, you know?" You joked, then added with more sincerity. "Thank you."
"I thought I was 'bad at this'?" He raised an eyebrow. He felt lighter now that you weren't a sobbing mess, that he could offer some sort of comfort.
"You are, but that doesn't mean I don't see you trying."
A beat of silence, dragged on for too long. You cleared your throat, clasping your hands together. "Alright, well. I'll get out of your hair."
As you moved to open the door, Kaz interjected, "If... my presence is a comfort, you can stay. I might need an extra pair of hands with the ledgers."
He spoke with choppy pauses, as if he was having problems organising a word after the other. You watched him bristle, coughing into his fist as he waited for your response.
You blinked. "I — Well, I would appreciate the company."
He stared at you in silence, anticipating a but that never came. You pulled out the chair across from his at his desk and sat down, turning to look at him over your shoulder with a quizzical look.
"Kaz?"
He stepped towards the desk, stumbling slightly, which made you rise from your seat in concern. He waved you off, managing to get to his desk and sink into his chair. You frowned as you looked through the papers. What a mess.
"This is going to be a long night, isn't it?" You sighed.
"You're telling me." He found that he was looking forward to sorting through the mess of paper.
sorry if there's any weird formatting i typed this on mobile and tumblr is sometimes whack. thank you for the request and i hope you liked this. im trying to get back into writing. also i hope everyone's having a good start of the year.
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