rithty

Imagine dating the Zayne Li, prodigy doctor, a man as renowned for his achievements as he is fawned over for his looks. He's tall, dark and handsome, and he's a doctor, and he's completely, utterly perfect. Sculpted from smooth ice, a man steady in both his words and his actions.

Oh, he makes you feel like you're at the top of the world. Flowers for every occasion, candlelit dinners whenever both of your schedules line up. The occasional velvet box of jewellery snuck into your dresser (he knows if you prefer gold or silver, what type of jewellery you wear the most; he always gets it right), the stacks of pancakes on the table ready for you on his days off. He gives you more than you ever thought you'd have.

But imagine that maybe, just maybe, you don't feel like you measure up to him. That everytime he kisses you or reaches for your hand in public, the eyes that settle on you are less than welcoming, that people look at you with curiosity, as if they too were wondering if you were good enough.

You were pretty. You were accomplished in your own field. You were proud of the things you had achieved.

But you weren't her.

Precious MC, with her beautiful hair and her eyes that lit up whenever she saw Zayne. She was a Deepspace Hunter. She was beautiful, and physically stronger than you despite her heart defect; she had known Zayne since childhood whereas you'd met him only years back. You were always falling short when you stood beside her. Slipping off the edge, watching as people's eyes went from you to her and Zayne. Perhaps they thought you were the third wheel. Or that you were the personality hire in their relationship, the not-enough one in the throuple. Or that you were some friend MC and Zayne felt bad for and let tag along everywhere.

They just had this... connection you didn't. Writers would call it kizuna, the bond between people, the connection. Or the red string theory. Meant for each other. Utterly, hopelessly intertwined and in love.

Fuck the red string theory. You knew Zayne loved you, you could hear it in the way his voice mellowed when he said your name, the way he looked and sounded when he was under you or over you, the way he always knew when something was on your mind.

But you were scared that maybe, just maybe, he loved her a little bit too.

It was a concept you were having to grapple with more and more recently.

Missed dates, his rare days off spent with just her, showing up to lunch and dinners late because she'd been injured or because she'd had something on her mind that apparently only he could understand, silly little things he made for her with his Evol because she had a penchant for them. Snowmen. Cats. He'd never made you any of that.

But then again, you'd never really asked him to.

No, you weren't jealous, you told yourself when you hung up the third phone call this week, his apologetic voice still echoing in your ear.

I'm sorry for missing lunch, MC had an impromptu checkup scheduled. I'll make it up to you next week.

You hung up the phone weary, throat dry, missing the times when he'd always find time for you, when he'd call you My Love as frequently as if it were your real name. You couldn't even remember the last time he'd called you that. The last time you two had kissed.

Or the last time you'd slept next to him in bed. Or even slept with him. Meals would be short, consulted in silence. You'd start tell him about your day and fall silent at his noncommittal hums. When you asked him to come to bed, he'd be sitting at his desk, reports scattered in front of him, the name on them familiar.

MC.

He'd text her through the night, kiss your forehead absentmindedly when you told him he should sleep, and then turn over so his screen was out of reach.

It felt like...

It felt like he was leaving.

He wasn't cheating on you, of that you were sure. Zayne was a man of his values, and steady in the decisions he took. He wouldn't have done that to you. No matter what he felt- he was detached and cold in his actions, but equally as moral. He wouldn't.

But he was pulling away. And you knew it. As plain as the promise ring in your drawer that you hadn't been wearing the last month. It was as obvious as that.

You didn't want to believe it, but there it was, plainly in front of you the next time you took a walk through the neighbourhood, to clear your mind. Just a walk, you'd told yourself, trying to get everything off your mind. You'd turned the corner, music blasting in your ears, and there they were. Zayne and MC in your favourite cafe, in the table you and Zayne always sat at, the one with the velvet seats near the window. He was smiling. Smiling. And her hand was on his, lightly, as if it meant nothing, as if such fleeting affectionate touches were normal between them. As you stood there, he made no move to push it away. He merely tilted his head, taking in her words, the cadence of her voice.

As he had done for you.

Before.

Now he barely listened to what you had to say. Or do. He didn't look at you the same way, he never talked. He was always busy. Just when it came to you, though. Not when MC called. He always went running to her.

So you packed your bags. You left before he came home.

It hurt. Your vision blurred with tears while you stuffed clothes into your bags, straightened your side of the bed. His side was cold, had been for a while now. You still paused to write a note, omitting the heart you'd always scribbled into the margins for him when you used to write him notes.

Back when he'd still been in love with you.

And you left.

You stayed at your friend's house for a week, trying to get over him. Then another passed, and another. He texted you, called, even showed up twice. You could tell he was hurting, and that hurt you too, just not as much as it had last month, when you had been the second choice.

You had always been the second choice. Always. Just not when it came to him. But that had changed, too. You thought Zayne and you would have lasted forever.

Guess you were wrong about that, too.

Imagine the moment he finally realised he'd lost you. When you were too far gone for him to beg back. The moment when you moved into a new apartment. The moment when you finally unfollowed him on Instagram.

The moment when he saw you smiling with another man, eyes crinkled and grin as wide as it had been when Zayne had been with you, laughing at the man's jokes.

Zayne watched as Caleb led you away, your fingers intertwined with his.

He'd had you first. But he'd lost you first, too.

A/N: I just needed to get this out of my brains (I blamed Youtube Music who played a forgotten sad song that was on my playlist), english is not my first language and its been so long since i write (my thesis didn't count) so excuse my bad writing. Enjoy!

Pairings: Zayne x Reader, Zayne x Non-MC reader, Caleb x MC, Caleb x Non-MC reader

Tropes: childhood friends, friends to strangers to lovers (maybe), coming of ages, hurt/comfort, angst, unrequited love

Warnings: verbal bullying, emotional detachment, depression (more to be added because im bad at tagging)

After the gods of twilight fell, all that remained was a thick dusting of gold on someone's lashes.

"You want to see if my tears are made of gold? All right, I'll cry for you next time."

you’re trying to fold laundry, a mountain of his black shirts and your softer things, and he’s being a pest. a large, immovable pest. he’s leaning against the doorframe of the bedroom, just watching you with that lazy, heavy-lidded gaze, a smirk playing on his lips. you’re already stressed from the day, the damn grocery delivery was wrong again, and his mere presence, so calm and amused, is grating. "could you not?" you snap, not looking at him, aggressively shaking out one of his shirts. "you’re just standing there, it’s creepy." his smirk only widens. he pushes off the doorframe and comes to stand behind you, his chest to your back, his big hands sliding around your waist. you stiffen, still annoyed. "toji, i’m busy." he just hums, nuzzling into the space behind your ear, his stubble scratchy. "know you are, sweetheart. just watchin’ my wife work. ain’t a crime, is it?" you elbow him lightly, but he doesn’t budge, just chuckles, a low rumble against your spine. he loves this, loves the way your irritation makes you all sharp edges and fire. he’ll stand there and take your little jabs all day, just to feel the heat coming off you.

another happens in the car, after some stupid fundraiser thing he was forced to attend. you’re fuming in the passenger seat, arms crossed, staring out the window at the blurring city lights. "i can’t believe you," you seethe, your voice tight. "you spent the entire night by the buffet, shoveling crab puffs into your mouth like you’d never eaten before. i was talking to the satoru’s wife and you just made that gross grunting noise when i introduced you." he’s driving one-handed, the other resting on the wheel, looking utterly pleased with himself. "was hungry," he says simply, like that explains everything. "and that woman talks too much, my grunt said more than her entire speech." you whirl on him. "you are impossible, you freak!" he just glances over, that infuriating, fond glint in his eye. "your freak, baby." and damn him, because he is. he loves the way your anger makes your eyes flash, the way you get all worked up over things he considers trivial. it’s a world he’ll never quite understand, and he adores watching you navigate it, even if you’re navigating it right onto his head.

then there’s the real fights. the ones that aren’t about crab puffs or laundry. the ones where real, genuine hurt is involved. you’re crying, and you’re angry that you’re crying, and you’re yelling, and he’s just… taking it. he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, head down, listening to every word. he doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t try to defend himself. because this? this is different. this is your heart laid bare, and the anger is just the wrapper for the pain. and he loves that, too, in a much deeper, more fucked up way. he loves that you trust him enough to show him the raw, ugly, real parts. that you know he can take it. that you know he’ll still be there after, to pick up the pieces he probably broke. when your voice finally cracks and the fight drains out of you, leaving you shaky, he’ll finally move. he’ll pull you into his lap, your face against his neck, and hold you so tight it’s almost painful. "i know," he’ll murmur into your hair, his voice rough. "i’m sorry, wife. i’m so sorry." he’ll sit there and rock you until you’re both calm, worshipping the very anger that he caused.

and oh, when that frustration translates to the bedroom. it’s his absolute favorite. when you shove him back onto the bed, your eyes blazing, and climb into his lap, all that pent-up energy looking for an outlet. "you’re gonna sit there," you command, hands on his chest, "and you’re not gonna move." his grin is pure sin, all sharp canines and dark promise. "yes, ma’am." and then you’re riding him, not for his pleasure, but for yours. taking your stress out on him, using his body to work out every last bit of that mad. your nails dig into his pecs, your hips grind down hard, almost punishing. and he’s in heaven. head thrown back, a guttural groan ripped from his throat as he watches you, all furious and beautiful above him. "that’s it, sweetheart," he’ll rasp, his hands coming to grip your hips, not to guide you, just to feel the force of your movements. "use me, take it all out on me. fuckkk, just like that." he loves being your tool, your stress relief. he loves the possessiveness in your anger, the way you claim him so aggressively.

the morning after a fight, he’s always extra clingy. you’ll be making coffee, still a little quiet, the remnants of last night’s tension a fine mist in the kitchen. he’ll come up behind you, his arms winding around your waist, his face burying in your neck. he doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just holds you, breathing you in. "made your coffee extra sweet," he mumbles against your skin, a peace offering. you sigh, leaning back into his solid warmth, the last of your anger melting away. "you’re lucky i love you," you mutter, but there’s no heat left in it. he nuzzles closer, a contented sound in his chest. "the luckiest." he’s whipped, utterly gone for you, and these moments of quiet after the storm are what solidify it for him. he craves the entire cycle—the spark, the explosion, and the calm, tender aftermath that only the two of you share.

it’s the little things, too. when you get mad at a video game and chuck the controller at the couch (never at him, you’re not stupid). he’ll just blink slowly from his spot, stretched out like a big cat, and say, "controller do somethin’ to you, baby?" and when you huff and pout, he’ll reach out and hook a finger in the waistband of your sweats, pulling you down on top of him. you’ll struggle for a minute, all irritated squirms, but he just holds you tighter, laughing into your hair. "my angry little wife," he coos, and it should be condescending but it’s just unbearably fond. he’ll kiss your temple, your cheek, until you stop fighting and go boneless against him. he finds your tiny, everyday frustrations endlessly entertaining and endearing.

and he loves pushing your buttons on purpose, just to see you get that look. he’ll deliberately leave his wet towel on the bed, right on your side. he’ll drink the last of the orange juice and put the empty carton back in the fridge. he’ll come in from a job and track a little dirt on the clean floor. all just to see your nose scrunch up, to hear that indignant little gasp before you start in on him. "toji fushiguro! what is wrong with you?" he’ll just lean against the wall, crossing his arms, a picture of pure masculine satisfaction. "lots of things, wifey. you married ‘em all." he’s baiting you, and you both know it. it’s his fucked-up version of foreplay, his way of ensuring he’ll get that specific brand of fiery attention later. he’s a simple man with complex wants, and the biggest one is you, in any mood, but especially when you’re all his, even in your rage.

a/n: i feel like this was way too much?!?!

"Isn't this enough exploring? We're way too far."

"Hush," You threw your hand in an airy wave, indicating him to be quiet. "We're not that far, I can still hear Hange from here."

Reblog with your favorite image of Levi, I’ll go first !!!!!!!