#Ceiling Paint J

[canadian-pug-cartel]

These magicians and their found family have got me in a chokehold

[gutsby]

Make It Stick

Pairing: Old!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel never thought he’d need a vasectomy. Then, one night, he accidentally finishes inside you.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected-peepaw-p-in-v (I’m sorry). Accidental creampie. Age gap. Cumplay. Breeding kink. Ovulation has led me places I wouldn’t go with a gun.

Note: Convergence is a painting by Jackson Pollock. We studied it in high school and I thought it looked like jizz idk

Word count: 4.7k

Prequel | Part 1 | Part 2

He should’ve gotten snipped when he had the chance.

Should’ve taken the plunge, faced his fears of needles and fluorescent-washed doctor’s offices like any man his age could have done and gotten the damn vasectomy. Now he was here, nearly two decades older and still none the wiser in this cold, dead world with a pretty young thing like you between his sheets. In lieu of elective surgery, Joel Miller had only to grit his teeth, bite hard, and repeat over and over again in his head, desperate:

‘Don’t cum, don’t cum, don’t cum, don’t cum, DON’T—’

Words like those normally worked. With women that weren’t you, they tended to serve him exceedingly well.

But you were just so tight. And wet. And welcoming. And try as Joel might to pretend like he got laid on a regular basis, the truth was that he didn’t. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t seem to think straight when it came to this fixation he’d developed for you, so, instead, he let his dick do all the decision-making whenever he found himself around you. Ten times out of ten that ended in:

“J-J-Joel—oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—I’m gonna CUM.”

And that made it worth every last life-endangering drop.

Feeling how your flushed, lithe body came apart beneath his touch. How you needed him. How your eyes grew to half the size of your face and you gaped up at the man, lips parted, like you couldn’t even comprehend how the friction of seven inches could make you feel so good.

If he had it his way, he would’ve loved nothing more than to show you that feeling every night, and twice the next morning if his hip wasn’t giving him too much trouble.

But, at present, the man had bigger fish to fry. Like not becoming a new father at fifty-nine if he could help it.

With the last two fluttering pulses of your heat, and almost going cross-eyed from the pleasure as he felt it, Joel yanked his big, slippery cock out of your body and made a fist around his member as he always knew to do. Tugged and pulled and grunted above you—‘Sweet girl, you’re so fuckin’ good to me’—and watched your tits and your belly for the milky white ropes to ensue.

Strangely, though, your skin stayed the same.

No cum-spray Convergence appeared before him, no opaque and cloudy fluids dribbling down your ribs, nothing. Your stomach was as bare as the rest of you, save for a few beads of sweat, and that was all there was.

Joel shook his dick harder, confused. Beneath him, you were still coming down from your high smiling ear-to-ear and staring blissfully at the ceiling. Your chest rose and fell, rose and fell in quick succession, and while you endeavored to recollect your mind, Joel was losing his.

Where the FUCK was his cum?

In no naked horizontal tango to date had Joel simply…cum without noticing. Shit like that just didn’t happen to men, least of all to ones his age, so when he’d wrung his poor cock like a sodden towel and still saw nothing come out, he felt his stomach turn and plummet inside him.

He dropped to his hands and knees in less than a moment and lowered his head between your legs.

“No, Joel!” you squealed, giggling. Kicking your feet, “Another round and I’m gonna combust, you old perv!”

But Joel wasn’t looking to get his dick wet again. He was inspecting you. Or trying to, anyway. Quickly realizing he couldn’t see a thing in the darkness, he let out a breath through his nose and lifted you off the bed. Your naked frame thrown over his shoulder, bare hip beside his head and your strangled, muffled cry of, ‘What the hell, Joel?!’ hardly seemed to register with the man carrying you off.

You were toted to the bathroom. Joel was about to ease you down on your feet. Then, appearing to change his mind at the last second, he set you onto the sink instead. Your skin bristled with indignation, anger. A little arousal.

“Last time we did it on a sink we broke the faucet,” you reminded him, feigning more dismay than you really felt inside. If anything, you liked it when your fossil-age fuckbuddy switched things up. You were just exhausted.

Heedless of your words, Joel kneeled on the floor and pried your legs apart before him. When you swatted at his silver-flecked head, he brushed your hand away.

“Hold still,” he grunted.

“How come?”

“‘Cause I said.”

How quickly he commanded that tone of a father.

“Wanna sleep,” you groaned, about to roll your eyes.

But you couldn’t deny you liked being doted on by him.

Joel’s touch was gentle. Probing. Spidering down the most sensitive parts of your bare lower half, between your thighs, and slowly coaxing you closer to the edge of the sink. Your breath hitched when you saw his head tilt.

He appeared to be deep in thought—a rare sight for anyone who’d seen Joel Miller in the postcoital state. Most every time he’d blown his load before, the man was dead asleep within ten minutes. His joints could barely hold himself upright after a half hour of plowing the back forty, much less carry you, too, so you were puzzled now.

He thumbed at the seam of your cunt, and you whined:

“Jo-el—”

“Can ya…push, baby?” His eyes flitted up quickly.

“Push?”

“Yeah, just…” With a look you couldn’t quite read, he placed the palm of his other hand on your belly. Then, pressing, “Like this. Like you’re squeezin’ somethin’ out.”

You cocked a brow in muted confusion but did as he asked. You watched his gaze, and it stayed on you.

Or, rather, on that soft and pliant spot between your legs the old man seemed to favor so much. On any other occasion, in a position like this, he surely would’ve been wearing a smile. Tonight, his lips curled into a grimace.

And twisted even further when you ‘pushed’ like you did.

At first you felt nothing. A gentle clench of your walls supplied little more than a sense of having been stretched—no novel concept to you, who’d spent the last three-and-a-half months or so getting fucked by the finest AARP affiliate alive most every night. It wasn’t until you clamped down again that you got the feeling there was something else. Something thick and warm and slow as molasses trickling out from between your folds.

You let out a low, tender, ‘Mmph’ without meaning to; it felt kind of nice. Beneath you, Joel’s face turned grave.

He watched as his spend oozed out of your freshly-fucked hole and thought of vasectomies again.

You were young—too young to know better. Too sweet and naïve to see any peril in spreading your legs for a man like him, in a world like this. And Joel swore he’d be careful. But no post-apocalyptic birth control method was perfect, or even close to it, and it was clear he’d relied too heavily on reflexes to keep him from cumming inside you. Joel was old—too old to be doing this shit.

Too grown and well-versed in sex to be making mistakes as stupid as that. His brow pinched in, and he drew his next breath as if the air around him was growing scarce.

“Joel, what’s—”

“When’s the last time you— you— uh…bled?”

Hardly more in control of his face than the rate his heart went thudding in his chest, Joel winced at the end. This time, you were the one to knit your eyebrows together. You could tell by that tight, discomfited tone he wasn’t talking papercuts, but were still unsure of his purpose.

“Like two, two and a half weeks ago. Why?”

Well, fuck.

Joel buried his face in his hands. You scooted closer to the sink’s edge, thinking little of his cum leaking out.

“Why?” you tried again. Softer this time.

An old, weathered head lifted to greet you. It was bleak.

“You see this?” Joel paused. Swiping his finger through the viscous white substance that had trickled out on the counter, in a puddle now, “Y’know what it means, right?”

You let his look, and the question, remain suspended in air for a second. Then another. Then you shrugged.

“Yeah. But…you’re old,” came your answer at length.

You’re old.

Joel and you both knew as much, but the former wasn’t quite following your train of thought. Still wanting to try and mitigate damages while he could, though, Joel reached for the roll of toilet paper that was fastened to the wall and tore himself a strip. He bunched it up and, reaching for one of your knees to spread you further for him, took to daubing the tissue across your entrance.

“What’s me bein’ old got to do with anything?” A little sharp, then, seeing you flinch when he drew too close to your clit, “‘m sorry, baby, just— gotta get this out of you.”

You made a face but let him continue anyway. Your eyes followed each movement of his hand, and reflexively, the muscles in your thighs tightened. Why bother with this when the man has so many better uses for his hands?

For a second, your eyes fluttered half-shut.

“Maria says old folks are, uh…infertile. Got something to do with a middle pause,” you said, breaths labored.

Joel stopped just long enough to shoot you a look.

“Menopause,” he corrected, all too matter-of-fact, before returning to his work, “is a woman thing.”

What the hell were they teaching in Jackson’s sex ed classes, anyway? Then Joel remembered how his brother sincerely believed that women peed out of their vaginas until he was twenty-three, and the thought of you not knowing the ins and outs of male virility wasn’t the most far-fetched idea in the universe. Besides, sexual health wasn’t exactly the community’s highest priority when the world around it was in a perpetual state of decay and hordes of fungus-faced fuckers ran rampant in the wild.

He curved a tender, careful finger against the ring of muscles framing your sex, trying to absorb more cum, and your grip on the edge of the countertop tightened.

“S-So, you—” You swallowed, throat constricting a little too, “You’re sayin’…men can make babies…whenever?”

You sounded so innocent as you said it. Joel wanted nothing more than to club himself over the head for being the cause of this predicament—of being such an instrumental part of the perceived corruption, as it was.

Meanwhile, your head was swimming in filthier thoughts.

Deeper, Joel, keep…pushing in…dee-e-per. You would have scarcely had more luck giving a fuck what Joel was talking about now than if he’d just said the room was on fire. By his voice, you knew you should’ve been paying attention, but the dexterity of his fingers was too much. He was caressing the first couple inches of your inner walls, attempting to scrape what bits of his release he could get unstuck from the flesh, but it seemed he was succeeding mostly in just turning you on. Rendering you deaf to the drone of his words as you pictured him pushing something else inside your tight, throbbing—

“—whole lotta problems for us if you’re, uh…ovulating,” Joel finished, expression taut and oblivious. You hadn’t heard the first part of that sentence and didn’t care to.

“Ovulating,” you repeated slowly. Indifferent.

Joel carried on without a hitch.

“Kids just ain’t fit for this world. I know you know that.”

You nodded along, not hearing a word.

“And if you’re— if y’ever did consider, maybe…”

Your lungs took an extra sharp inhale when Joel’s fingers coaxed out a warm, sticky glob of his load, and he petted your folds with his thumb. Then let out a breath himself.

“…y’oughta start a family with someone your own age—”

That part snagged your attention. Too swiftly, it came:

“My own age?”

Sighing, in spite of those welts of pleasure so heightened by his touch that the space between your legs began to throb and ache. Hardly possessed of more sense to form words that weren’t just echoes of his own, you tried communication from a simpler source—your foot.

You nudged his shoulder, and Joel looked up.

“What?”

“What?”

Parroting was, evidently, a hard habit to kill. Your toes curled into the bare skin of Joel’s shoulder, and when he re-inserted his finger, you ground your heel even deeper.

“When’s that ev…ever stopped us from doing it before, hm?” you said, tone strained but laced with some humor too, “Thought you liked sayin’ you’d make me a mama.”

Joel’s face flooded pink at the recollection—as a matter of fact, there had been several such memories. Instead of answering immediately, he just averted his gaze again. He anchored one hand to your thigh, and with the other teased out another string of your shared arousal before wiping his finger on the tissue, clinically, and repeating. All he had to offer in reply after was: ‘That’s different.’

And it was, to some extent. Joel wasn’t blind to the sea of uneasy looks that trailed behind you both whenever you walked the streets of Jackson together. How wide the eyes would get when instead of observing some filial display of affection play out before them, as expected, you’d loop your arms around his waist and take his lip between your teeth as you kissed—‘Can we please go home now, baby?’—that Joel was certain he’d been cemented as the resident pervert among everyone in town. Just how much worse that reputation was liable to get if there ever happened to be a round and swollen belly between that embrace someday was unthinkable. Dirty talk was one thing; parenthood another entirely.

This is for the best, became the low, grating refrain in his skull. Why he dug so hard, pushed so far inside the wet, velvety interior of your body without a thought for his own desires in that moment; he had to cull every trace of himself out of there, before he had half a chance to think.

“Baby, hey, hey, no—” Joel cut in a second later, abrupt.

No, no, no. You weren’t thinking either. Wrapping your hand around his wrist, pushing his fingers deeper inside.

Smiling a little, too.

“What are you— no, honey, don’t— you can’t,” Joel’s words splintered in every direction, watching you plunge his own index and middle fingers into the slick and the warmth he’d just been trying to get his cum out of. He looked up and saw your lids were heavy, about to close.

“What are you doin’? This ain’t…no, baby, it ain’t…safe.”

Back to sounding like a dad in no time at all.

“What’s wrong with leaving it in a bit longer? Feels nice.”

You had no idea what you were talking about. Joel pulled back on his hand and, in less than a second, had it freed.

“I just told you,” he huffed, “You’re too young—”

“I’m plenty old, Joel,” you returned, eyes snapping open, “You’ve shown me that more times than I can count.”

Joel was silent, stunned. He rose to his feet as your eyes seared holes into his, and for a second, he was uncertain whether to take a step back or reach out for you again.

“Baby…”

To his surprise, something like hurt surfaced behind your eyes. You set your lips in a tighter line, and your grip on the counter grew firmer just the same. He would’ve taken that move as his cue to lean in gently, slot his body between your thighs, and venture an apology of some sort, when the next thing you did stopped him cold.

Without a word, you slipped your free hand between your legs—eyeing Joel closely, almost scornfully, as you did.

You took your middle and ring fingers and sank them into your cunt. Not intending to let a drop of his spend leak out, you wedged them in as far as they’d go. Joel watched. Gawked. Once sufficiently pleased with the look of shock taking over his handsome, aged features, you withdrew the fingers. You brought them up to your mouth, wrapped your lips around the tips, and sucked.

It was a rare thing to get a taste of you and Joel together like this, so you savored it. You moved your mouth further down to drink it all in, peering up with wide, indulgent eyes and a look that was meant to punish.

Feels nice.

Tastes alright, too.

You’d licked the last bit of this glaze off your hand when your stomach clenched. You knew it would happen. Full as you were, you feared your body still hungered for more. As such, it hardly came as a surprise when next your muscles tensed, and you shifted closer to Joel.

“Maybe I don’t want babies with someone my own age.”

Either one of your knees were nudging his hips. Drawing him in. Joel appeared to waver for a second, unsure, but the look on his face made it clear this was mostly a matter of a delayed reaction. He couldn’t get his legs to move because the rest of him was still in awe. Staring at your lips, where the residue of his spend was glistening, then to your eyes, which were no less inviting, then up to the crown of your head and over it, to fix his stare on the mirror behind it. You watched him watch his own reflection with a look that was both hard and unkind, breathing slow. When he didn’t stir from that position after a minute, you touched a hand to his lower stomach.

And, brushing the heel of your palm against what felt like a hundred grey hairs in the old man’s happy trail—your favorite ones—you smoothed a caress along his belly, back and forth, before moving it left. Your hand came to rest on a mound of muscle and fat sitting right above his hip. Love handles, Joel had remarked one morning with vague distaste. Love handles, you’d repeated, beaming. You held on tightly now, appreciatively, and used your well-loved wall of flesh to pull him closer. As with any beckoning of yours, Joel didn’t have so much as half a mind to resist. He did, however, refuse to meet your gaze while you tilted your hips and spread your legs wider, before winding your ankles around the backs of his legs.

“Don’t you think I’d look pretty?” You pouted up at him. Your folds made a light, warm suction rubbing along the front of Joel’s cock—of course he’d grown hard again, and you could hold him, point him down to that wet embrace awaiting him patiently at the edge of the sink.

Joel cursed under his breath.

“‘Course I do…” he said, voice hoarse, “Y’always look—”

“I mean…with your baby inside me, Joel. Right here.”

As if to put a finer point on your words, you nestled the head of his cock inside the first inch of your body. Joel had to seize the laminate underneath you and grit his teeth to keep from letting out a groan too loud. That tip may as well have been a first-rate conductor of heat, and your warmth the thing that might send him spilling again

“You don’t—” Joel choked out, nearly incensed, “—don’t know what the hell you’re sayin’, baby. What that means.”

In truth, there wasn’t a world Joel Miller could imagine where a girl like you could give more than a passing thought to getting knocked up by him—a man his age. What good would it do? You had your whole life laid out before you like a four-course dinner spread; there was no sense whatsoever in letting the meal go to waste on him.

He communicated as much by moving to pull out.

You met the effort with a push of your own, sinking down another inch or two on his shaft and smiling when you saw his eyes roll back in his head at the dizzying friction.

“I know more than enough, old man—” Grin stretching ear-to-ear as you dug your heels in his ass and tugged him deeper, “—who do you think taught me all this?”

Of course, it had been Joel.

Always, always him—the only one, in fact.

Your walls drew him in like a hug. For once, Joel conjured up the strength to take a look between your lower half and his, and when he did, the next moan was inevitable. It trickled through his lips. Your body looked sublime swallowing a third of his cock, and it was almost as though a maggot had crawled into his brain, chanting:

‘Make her full. Make her yours. Tell any man who’d even think of looking her way she belongs to someone else.’

He couldn’t.

Joel would never be so selfish. Just think of her youth.

But when his gaze drifted back to yours, every thought and any word besides seemed gently to melt away. Beneath him, your eyes were two pools of desire.

“You like this…don’t you, Joel?” Your voice was tiny.

“I do.”

In fact, he loved it.

“Then why can’t we?” Why shouldn’t we?

Minuscule now, the words that reached him barely exceeded a whisper. It was as though the moment itself had drained all fear from your face—and out of Joel, all common sense from his brain—leaving you both to stare at the other with shared, stupid, anoetic looks of bliss. The man who had you beat by thirty-odd years seemed nearly of the same mind, with almost identical ignorance.

Idiocy.

“Just once?” Joel croaked.

Somewhere underneath, unseen, you smiled.

“Just one?” you murmured back.

He sank in another inch. When your walls contracted around him, Joel’s hands found your hips by force of habit and pushed your back against the glass behind it. The mirror was cool, and inside you, Joel was throbbing.

“Once,” he repeated, not thinking too deeply.

“One,” you said, with a world of more purpose.

Joel relinquished the last three inches, and with it, all of his resolve. The handsome, scarred, and plainly greying features all twisted as one, and the expression that you knew too well to mean that the man was feeling good took on the slightest hint of guilt. He gripped you tighter.

“One?” Joel panted. Confused.

He pulled out halfway just to find his home again. Your pearly slick mixed together with his spend, and both coated over Joel’s shaft in a pretty, generous sheen.

“One more of you, I mean.” You sounded too sweet. There was no way in hell you’d actually meant it.

Joel’s cheeks flushed again, but he didn’t stop, either.

“Baby…” he trailed off instead. He pushed in, pulled out, felt your tender little hole make an ‘o’ around his shaft, and then he kissed the edge of your left cheek—maybe to rein in the need in his words before he spoke again: “One’a me takes and I’m givin’ ya fifteen more, y’hear?”

The smile he received told him as much as he needed to hear. He probably wouldn’t have believed it even if you’d said the words yourself. Joel’s thrusts sped up, and as the pleasure distended in the pit of his stomach with the friction and the feel, his words flowed a little more freely.

In disbelief, “Wanna be a mama that bad for me, huh?”

Your grin grew bigger. You nodded your head.

“Make your old man a daddy, is that it?”

Exactly. Senseless as it was, your look said it all.

To have slipped between the grooves and ridges of Joel’s brain and caught wind of even a fraction of the things he wanted to do to you then, a smarter girl would have run. Would have shoved him back out as swiftly as she’d let him in and told him no, that’s gross, and gone home. And, had the grey matter floating inside your own skull not been so completely dominated by primal need and wanting, that’s likely what you would have done, too. Instead, with a head full of lewd, youthful stupidity, you seized the black-grey curls dangling at the nape of his neck and drew him closer. You spread your legs wider.

“That is what you’ve wanted this whole time, right?”

Under his scruff, a muscle tensed as Joel bit down.

That’s all he’s ever wanted.

Let the neighbors talk.

Let them say what they wanted to say—it was probably all true to the point they were trying to make, anyway. That Joel was a pervert, of course. That you were naïve, also true. That you would look too good not to stare in a white cotton frock with a bump underneath, absolutely. These were the ideas permeating your brain and his while Joel took a firmer hold of your sides and brought his nose to rest against yours. With every stab of his hips, he pressed kisses to your soft, parted lips, speaking low:

“That what you want, too, darlin’?” More serious now.

The head of his cock nicked a sensitive ridge inside you, eliciting a whimper, but you nodded. You nodded again, feeling the brush of his stubble at your mouth and your chin, and nodded again when he bottomed out, stuffing you tight. It felt a little more momentous than any other time in the past, now that you were picturing a fullness that wasn’t just him. Him and you: a concrete being to soothe the sting of his absence long after Joel withdrew.

Something to stick.

“Please say it, baby.”

Someone to call yours.

“I want it,” you said, sounding desperate.

A coil was just starting to form in the place you felt him. Drifting up, pulling tight, making your eyes go glossy and wide while they stuck to Joel’s and begged him for more.

“Want what?” He sped up, and his thrusts got sloppy.

“Want you,” you breathed, “Inside me, Joel, please.”

As if predicting your next thoughts, the man lowered his hand to your belly. You hadn’t even noticed the smallest bulge had taken shape beneath the skin. Joel slowed, momentarily, then rubbed the base of his palm against the mound where your body was obliged to make room for his cock inside you. He drew soft, tender circles there and, with the motion, sent stars flying before your eyes.

“Good girl,” he murmured, “Right here?”

“Ri— right there. Right there.”

Joel adored that sound. The soft, elated look, the gentle knoll of flesh in a bump below his hand, the whimpers rolling off your tongue repeatedly, quicker and quicker the more the pleasure inside you continued to build. Joel’s release was coming soon, too. For the hundredth time that night, he silently wished he were a little younger; so he could fill you up once, twice, twenty more times until your insides were stuffed and painted white. As if reading his mind, as he had for you, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss.

“Hope our baby has your eyes,” you murmured to him.

It shouldn’t have had such a strong effect—but of course, it did. Joel pictured the small, sweet infant with irises that shone a bit like his, and his stomach caved in.

Tonight, tomorrow, or ten months down the line, he was getting you pregnant. He’d clear his whole schedule for it

“That right?” And now he couldn’t stop the smile as he spoke, leaning even further in, “What about their nose?”

He kissed the tip of yours.

“Hope they get this.”

He kissed either one of your cheeks.

“These too.”

You had to fight back a laugh while his scruff tickled skin. Two deep strokes away from the brink of release and he still somehow always stayed in tune with your needs.

The threat of your peak was perilously near. Joel’s spend and your slick, tender glaze made a chorus of sounds at each thrust, and the deeper he went, the bigger it swelled. Your smiles couldn’t stay for much longer when the feeling inside you both was being amplified like that. Sensing this, Joel took hold of your face and slipped his touch to cup your chin. He made you tilt your head up to him, as if to ask again, ‘Are you sure?’ and when you nodded, his lips twitched again. A fleeting hint of a grin, like he couldn’t be more eager to finish now if he tried.

Holding your face, cock swollen and throbbing and desperate between your walls, he felt a familiar twitch.

There it is.

[s0dium]

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒?!

A/n: Thank you for everyone's patience while I've been on this hiatus. I hope this makes up for lost time Warnings: Dom!xreader, fingering, oral, cum eating, blowjobs, squirting, voyeurism, breeding kink, mating press, doggy, face sitting Characters: Geto Suguru, Gojo Satoru, Sukuna Ryomen, Toji Fushiguro

Toji- Blowjobs/Cum eating

Toji plugs your nose when he cums in your mouth and makes you gargle it until its dripping down your throat.

He is such a meanie:((

He laughs at how your face scrunches up from the bitter taste of him and how glassy tears roll down your puffy cheeks from the sheer brutality of thrusts into your mouth.

You would think that he'd be done after he busted a load into your mouth? Wrong. He pushes his length deeper down your throat almost making you gag.

"F-fuck baby, that's it, j-just keep doing that."

You still your movements for a brief moment, letting Toji's dick weigh heavy on your tongue while you look up at him through glassy eyes and wet lashes. Immediately, your head grows fuzzy and your ego swells when you catch how his face is tilted toward the ceiling, his eyes scrunched closed as if he's too afraid to open them. He's close. You can tell. Toji's mouth is slightly open, and you can see his tongue darting across his lips, wetting them as if savoring every sensation. Oh how you wish you could touch yourself right now, roll your clit with your index finger and savor this moment. Unfortunately, you got your hands, or rather your mouth, a bit too full.

You let the hand on the back of your head push you flush against Toji's groin, shoving his member impossibly farther down your throat and your nose into his dark happy trail. His musk is strong of old spice and salt. Spit slips from your lips, warm and slick, as it dribbles down your chin.

"Did I say you can stop? You trying to tease me baby?" Toji chuckles but you don't miss the way he almost tumbles over his words. You got him good.

He sits on the edge of the bed, hand on the back of your head guiding you up and down his length while you kneel between his legs on the floor. Every second you're fighting the impulse to moan, knowing if you do you'd probably gag. You even have to drop your jaw to accommodate his sheer size. As it moves in and out, there's an unmistakable saltiness and warmth against your tongue, and the way his mushroom tip hits the back of your throat knocks the wind from you. You can’t help but focus on the sensation—the way his cock fills your mouth, the slight friction as it moves, and the way your tongue instinctively curls and flattens around it.

You allow your tongue to flop out, the warmth of your wet muscle gliding across the underside of his dick makes his thighs shudder. Then, all of a sudden, he grabs your hair and shoves your face into him. You gag at the sudden intrusion down your esophagus, but Toji merely groans, reeling his hips back and thrusting into your wet mouth with primal vigor.

"Gonna cum baby, just take it ok?" He curses under his breath before wiping a tear from your eye with his thumb. "You're taking it like a champ."

You sit there helplessly as he uses your mouth like a sex toy. Heavy tears stream down your puffy cheeks and you have to dig your nails into his thighs to prevent yourself from gagging.

"Fuck fuck FUCK." With a loud groan and a particularly powerful thrust, salty fluid fills your mouth. You can feel his dick twitch as it spurts ropes of thick cum to the back of your throat and paints the roof of your throat.

Your instinct is to swallow. But you don't dare to. You're better trained than that.

"Show."

Obediently you open your mouth, sticking out your tongue to showcase his milky white cum covering your wet muscle.

Toji grins. He presses down on your tongue, letting the cum drip onto his thumb before pushing it back in.

"Swallow."

Gojo Satoru- Face sitting

For all his yapping and bragging Gojo Satoru is a service dom (though he will never ever admit it)

He's so smooth talking you into it

"Baby, baby, please, I always make you feel good don't I?"

"Shit baby, you're so messy."

You can barely hear Gojo's voice over your moans strung out on your lips. You can't think, fuck, you can so much as breathe as his tongue laps and licks your quivering hole from under you.

Gojo moves with a slow, deliberate rhythm, each stroke of his tongue sending waves of heat and electricity through your body. The sensation is overwhelming, warm, a perfect blend of pressure and softness that makes you melt. You can feel every movement, every flick and swirl around your clit, every time he enters in you with an unhurried intensity, drawing out the pleasure until it feels almost fucking unbearable. Remember how only a few minutes ago you were terrified of crushing his face under your weight? How stupid were you to think that would stop him, that any of your protests and concerns would prevent the Gojo Satoru from devouring you until you sobbed.

"Stay still f'me wont you."

You feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, a teasing contrast to the cool air around you. His hands grip your hips firmly, grounding you on his mouth, grinding you on his mouth, so your legs rest on either side of his head, your body responding instinctively to ever prod, nip and suck of his tongue.

"G-gojo please wa-" You cut your self off with a low whine when his soft lips wrap around your pearl and gently sucks.

“Mmmmm” Gojo moaned against your pussy making your stomach twist. “Taste like heaven babe”.

Geto Suguru- Breeding kink

As said multiple times before, above all else Geto Suguru is a family man.

Sure, he loves fucking load and load of cum into you until it drips out from your cunt like a milky white river

But what really sets him off is the idea of you fully and round with his kids. Oh boy. He really cant help himself.

Maybe there is something deeply fucking wrong with Geto Suguru. Maybe there is a fuck up in his brain chemistry that makes him think about stuffing you with his cum 24/7 until your begging for him to stop. Otherwise, he is afraid that there is no excuse for how he is acting right now, how he is fucking you in this moment, like an animal in heat.

Honestly, it's was a miracle you even managed to stay conscious.

“Fuh-fuck I-I cant- fuck -please Sugu~” Tears swelled in your eyes, staining the pillow your face is buried in as you struggle to remain on all fours. Fucked good? Try being fucked stupid, you can't even form a coherent thought from the delicious collision of Suguru tip against your cervix. The friction is enough to make you scream but you've been doing that for hours now, your throat is too hoarse to even moan at this point.

"What princess," Suguru coos, rocking his hips into your creamy cunt from behind, doggy style, the fap fap fap sound of his pelvis against your ass filling the air. "You want me to, what? Stop?"

In one quick motion, your body is flipped over, his cock not once leaving you empty for a second. He pushes you into a mating press; knees held against your shoulders to expose your entire lower half to him, the perfect view of the hole Suguru currently has his dick buried inside. The sight of you leaking around him makes his toned stomach tighten from arousal.

“Fuck doll your killin' me.”

You let out a groan of your own at how the curvature of his dick digged itself against your g-spot, scraping against your vaginal walls every time he backed his hips up. The shuddering of his legs against you let you know he is on the verge of going over the edge. You need to be filled, oh god you need his cum spilling inside you.

Eager to be the cause of his orgasm, you buck your hips forward against him helping him to get himself off to your soaked insides.

"Shi-Im gonna-" Suguru cuts him self off with a low groan as he pushes himself flush against your pussy and throws his head back in the air. You can feel the warm liquid inside you, strings and strings of hot cum filling you up as he held you in his arms. It made your body shake, his load weighing at your stomach like it was forming a bulge with how much there was.

Sukuna- Fingering

Sits you in his lap on his throne while he is having a meeting, and fills you with his fingers.

The fingers are so thick and long, two is enough to have you creaming.

You are going insane.

You needed more, more friction, more speed, more impact. One of Sukunas fingers wasn't possibly good enough, at least with how painfully slow he was moving.

You paw at his kimono, slightly tugging on the robs why he continued to discuss with some dumb advisor something you couldn't be bothered to focus on. If it weren't for the blanket covering his movements you are sure that random guy would run right out the door, which is something you were considering.

 More, more, more. The thought consumed you, your toes curling and uncurling over the blanket as you buried your nose into Sukunas chest.

"Kuna..." You let out a low whine, low enough so only he could hear. "Please..."

Sukunas expression doesn't change, he doesn't even look at you, but his hand movement does. Without warning he slips another thick finger into your creamy cunt and curls, massaging your spot with the pads of his fingers.

You can't help but rock your hips back and forth, trying to suck him in deeper. You don't even notice that the advisor has left until you feel Sukunas breath against your ear.

“Greedy little thing.” Sukuna chuckles, intently watching the pleasurable facial expression you make as you fuck your self on his hand. He starts pumping his hand in earnest, covering your mouth with one large tattooed hand when you start crying out, jerking in his hold. It’s too much, the feeling of his thick fingers pressing into your sensitive walls, the wet little pap pap pap of his palm hitting your clit, the blinding ecstasy that’s coming closer and closer.

Your about to warn him that something feels weird when it hits you. As the wave crashes within you, it radiates outward, a ripple that electrifies the air, catching you in its grip. Your breath hitches, a sharp gasp and a loud moan escapes your lips, and suddenly everything around you pulses with the same rhythm, each beat perfectly aligned with the surge of ecstasy rushing through your body. You don't even notice the water gushing out of your pussy, soaking the blanket and Sukunas hand. Your skin tingles as though you’ve been swept up in the aftershock of their orgasm, and you have to bury your head into Sukuna's robes to ground yourself from the pleasure.

"Such a good girl," Sukuna coos, "Now I just have to fuck you don't I?"

[lumosou]

୨୧ — Breathing After the Ashes. 𖦹 , ✿ + ꕤ

ꕤ — Character(s) ; Harry J. Potter x Fem!Reader

ꕤ — Synopsis + Wc ; In the quiet after the storm, Harry learns to feel again—through stolen touches, whispered truths, and the solace of you. Together, you find warmth in the wreckage, and a reason to hold on. 7.9k

ꕤ — Discretion ; 18+ MDNI! angsty feelings alllll around, some fluff but mostly angstyish, the smut is so gentle and soft!!!!! mostly healing sex between reader & harry, they both need therapy.. penetrative sex! kisses as well 🫡

ꕤ — A/n ; this fic is lowkey my child but i also lowkey hate it! wtf! the pacing is kinda awkward and also repetitive bc this is genuinely the longest thing i’ve ever written and idk how to deal w it, bare with me i promise ill get better as i go 😭 i do hope u guys enjoy it somewhat!! reblogs and feedback are so so appreciated 🫶🏻

; masterlist.

The Great Hall wasn’t the same anymore. The enchanted ceiling still glowed with its usual charm, painted in amber hues that mirrored the late summer sunset, but the light felt muted somehow, swallowed by a weight too stubborn to dissipate. It hung in the air like smoke from a dying fire—bitter, clinging, impossible to outrun.

Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, the hum of voices around him blurring into an indistinct murmur. His eyes stayed fixed on his plate, laden with food he didn’t remember serving himself: roast chicken, mashed potatoes, a gleaming crescent of gravy. None of it tempted him. The thought of eating made his stomach twist uncomfortably, a dull ache that spread through his chest.

The war was over. Voldemort was gone, his name no longer a curse. This was supposed to be the part where relief set in, where everything hurt a little less. Instead, Harry felt as though he was still wading through the rubble, shoulders bowed under the crushing weight of those who hadn’t made it. Colin Creevey. Remus. Tonks. Fred. Their names were a mantra he couldn’t stop repeating in his head, their faces seared into his mind’s eye.

His grip on the fork tightened until it dug into his palm, the bite of metal a thin distraction.

“Harry.” Hermione’s voice was a soft thread that tugged him out of his spiral. He looked up, startled, to find her hand brushing against his arm. Concern clouded her features, her brows knitting together. “You don’t have to stay here. If it’s too much, you can—”

“I’m fine,” he snapped, sharper than he meant to. The words came out like a reflex, cutting her off mid-sentence. Hermione flinched, pulling back her hand, and for a fleeting moment, guilt gnawed at him. But he shoved it down. He didn’t want her worry, her pity. He didn’t want any of it.

Ron shifted beside him, chewing on a hunk of bread like it was his way out of the tension. He didn’t speak, though Harry could feel the sideways glance he shot him. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, until Harry let out a slow, controlled breath and placed his fork on the plate. The metallic clang rang louder than it should’ve, making him wince.

The scrape of his chair against the floor cut through the noise of the hall as he stood abruptly. “I need some air,” he muttered, already turning away.

He didn’t wait for Hermione to protest or Ron to offer some half-hearted comment to fill the space. His feet carried him toward the door, away from the low hum of conversation and clinking dishes. Toward the one place in all of Hogwarts where the noise couldn’t follow. Where he could finally, maybe, breathe.

─────────────

The Astronomy Tower had always been Harry’s escape. Perched high above the rest of the castle, it was the only place where the world felt distant enough to bear. The sprawling grounds stretched out below him, bathed in the purples and blues of dusk, and for a brief moment, the sight eased the tension coiled in his chest. He leaned heavily against the stone railing, its chill biting through his sleeves, and the wind making his already wild hair even messier. It carried the sharp, clean scent of freshly cut grass, grounding him in the present even as his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

The sound of footsteps startled him—not loud, but enough to break the fragile stillness he’d sought. He turned sharply, hand brushing the wand tucked in his pocket, only to pause when a voice cut through the quiet.

“Are you hiding too?” you asked, lingering near the top of the stairs. The dim light softened your features, but it didn’t quite mask the curiosity behind your words. There was no malice in your tone, only a quiet humor that made his shoulders drop slightly.

“I wasn’t hiding,” Harry said automatically, though even to his ears, the denial sounded weak.

You tilted your head, unconvinced. A faint smile ghosted across your lips, but your eyes remained guarded, unreadable. “Right. You’re just conveniently up here, avoiding everyone, the same way I am.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, his fingers brushing the edge of the railing. He didn’t respond, unsure how to defend himself—or if he even wanted to. There was something about the way you stood there, hands loosely at your sides, your voice soft but steady, that caught him off guard. It wasn’t pity or prying curiosity, just… understanding. Like you could see the weight pressing down on him and felt no need to ask what it was. Like maybe you carried some of it yourself.

He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking back to the horizon. “I guess you’re not.. wrong.’’

You stepped closer with quiet purpose, each movement deliberate, as though gauging the fragile equilibrium of Harry’s silence. He didn’t flinch or shift away, didn’t so much as glance at you. His gaze stayed locked on the horizon, but you could feel the weight of his awareness, the way the air between you seemed to hold its breath. When you finally stopped beside him at the railing, the stillness wasn’t stifling. It was tentative, balanced, as though it might shatter if either of you spoke too loudly.

“It doesn’t feel like the same place, does it?” Your voice was soft, your eyes fixed on the horizon as the last threads of sunlight dissolved into the hills. The sky deepened into shades of indigo and amber, blurring the edges of the world.

Harry nodded, though the motion felt stiff, half-hearted. “No,” he said, but the word came out hollow, too small to carry the weight behind it.

You leaned forward on the railing, fingers brushing the cool stone. “It’s strange,” you murmured, more to the sky than to him. “You think coming back will fix things, like the castle will just… feel the same. Like being here should make it easier. But it doesn’t. It’s all still different.��

Harry turned his head slightly, his gaze catching yours out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t mean to linger, but your words struck something raw, something he hadn’t managed to put into words. You’d said it so simply, yet it was exactly what had been clawing at him for months.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s not the same.”

Your eyes flicked to him, your expression unreadable. “And neither are you.”

The observation hit like a hex, sharper than you’d probably meant it to. Harry’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists against the stone. “Nobody is,” he said, his voice low and edged with a bitterness he didn’t entirely mean to direct at you.

But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t back away or apologize for the truth in your words. Instead, you tilted your head slightly, a flicker of understanding softening your tone. “I didn’t mean it as a bad thing,” you said, your voice gentler now. “War changes people. It has to.”

He wanted to argue, to say something sharp and deflective, but the words caught in his throat. Because you weren’t wrong. He wasn’t the same person who had fought his way out of the Chamber of Secrets or stood in front of the Mirror of Erised. He wasn’t sure who he was now—just that he wasn’t enough.

The silence stretched again, but this time it felt different. Not heavy, not empty, but something quieter, more bearable. Your arm brushed his lightly as you leaned forward on the railing, the contact fleeting yet somehow electric. He stiffened, his pulse jolting unexpectedly, and he waited for you to pull away. But you didn’t.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” you said after a moment, your voice low, steady. “I just thought you might not want to be alone. Sometimes it helps.”

He swallowed, his throat dry, and tried to muster some kind of response. He wanted to tell you he didn’t need anyone, that he was fine—had always been fine—on his own. But the words wouldn’t come. Maybe because they weren’t true.

“Thanks,” he said eventually, his voice barely audible, as though saying it too loudly might break whatever fragile thing had settled between you.

Your lips curved into the faintest smile, one that felt less like triumph and more like an offering. You leaned back against the railing, gaze lifting to the stars beginning to scatter across the night sky. They blinked faintly in the deepening dark, small points of light that somehow didn’t feel so far away.

For the first time in weeks—months, maybe—Harry let the tension in his chest ease just a little. The world still felt impossibly heavy, but next to you, it didn’t feel so crushing.

Maybe you were right. Maybe not being alone did help.

─────────────

The two of you stayed there, side by side, the silence between you settling into something quieter, more natural. Harry’s hands curled around the cold stone of the railing, the familiar feel grounding him as his eyes traced the lines of the grounds below. The weight on his chest hadn’t vanished, not completely, but your presence dulled its sharp edges, made it something he could carry, if only for a little while.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Your voice cut through the stillness—not loud, not accusing, just curious.

Harry turned his head toward you, startled by the observation. But you weren’t looking at him. Your gaze stayed on the horizon, your features lit faintly by the glow of the rising stars.

He shrugged, the motion small, self-contained. “Guess I don’t have much to say.”

You hummed softly, the sound low and thoughtful, almost like you were agreeing with him. “Sometimes it’s easier that way,” you murmured. “Less to explain.”

His grip on the railing tightened, knuckles pressing white against the stone. He wanted to ask how you could say something like that, how you seemed to know exactly what he was thinking when he hadn’t even said it aloud. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Some part of him was afraid that asking might shatter whatever strange, fragile understanding hung between you.

“Not everyone sees it that way,” he muttered instead. “Most people just want me to talk. Like if I say something, it’ll fix everything.”

You turned your head then, and he felt your gaze settle on him—steady, unflinching, impossible to avoid. “They probably think it’ll make them feel better,” you said, your voice calm but edged with certainty.

Harry blinked, the words landing harder than he expected. He hadn’t thought about it like that before, but of course, you were right. People didn’t just want him to be okay—they needed it. They needed Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, to be fine so they could tell themselves that things might still go back to the way they were.

“But it’s not about them,” you added, your tone softening just slightly, as though you’d noticed the way his jaw tightened. “It’s about you.”

The words struck something deep, loosening a knot he hadn’t realized had been pulling him taut all day. He turned to look at you fully now, his gaze searching your face for something he couldn’t name. But you weren’t watching him like everyone else did. There was no pity in your expression, no awkwardness. Just quiet understanding.

“Why are you up here?” he asked, the question spilling out before he had time to think better of it. He didn’t want to talk about himself anymore, didn’t want to keep peeling open wounds that hadn’t even begun to heal.

You hesitated, just for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to answer. Then your lips quirked into a faint smile—tired, almost self-deprecating. “Guess I needed to get away too. Being around people all the time… it’s exhausting.”

He nodded slowly. That, at least, he didn’t need explained. The noise, the questions, the endless parade of looks that didn’t ask but expected—it was suffocating. Up here, though, the castle below felt distant enough to forget, just for a little while.

“It’s different up here,” he said after a pause, though he wasn’t sure he’d meant to say it out loud.

You glanced at him again, your expression softer now, as though something in his words had shifted the space between you.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he added quietly, surprising himself with the honesty of it.

You blinked, tilting your head like you hadn’t expected it either. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the tension in his chest eased, just a fraction. Whatever warmth flickered there wasn’t tied to the war or his title or anything he’d done to save the world. It wasn’t about being Harry Potter. It was just you.

You gave him a small, knowing smile, and for a moment, the weight of everything slipped from Harry’s shoulders. The ghosts quieted, the endless expectations faded, and the hollow ache that lived in his chest dulled just enough. Up here, with you beside him, the rest of the world felt far away, like it couldn’t reach him.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you said lightly, leaning back against the railing, arms folding across your chest. The breeze stirred your hair, the faint scent of pine and earth clinging to it, and Harry found himself watching the way the dim light softened your features.

“The Boy Who Lived doesn’t strike me as someone who needs anyone.”

Harry’s lips quirked into a faint smirk, but the warmth of it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Is that what people think?”

You tilted your head, considering. “People think all sorts of things about you. Half of it’s probably rubbish.”

That drew a soft laugh from him, low and unexpected. The sound sat strangely in his chest, but it didn’t feel unwelcome. “You’re probably right.”

You glanced at him then, head tilted, your gaze curious but not intrusive. It wasn’t the sharp, prying look he was used to, the one that demanded answers or apologies or pieces of him he didn’t have to give. Instead, it was quieter, like you were searching for something without expecting him to offer it. Harry shifted under the weight of it, his fingers curling tighter around the railing, but before he could say anything, you spoke again.

“Sometimes I think people forget you’re just… human.”

The words caught him off guard, sinking into him like a stone dropped into water. You didn’t say it with pity or reverence—just a soft kind of honesty that made his breath catch. It was like you weren’t talking to Harry Potter, the Chosen One, but just Harry, the boy standing beside you on a cold, quiet night.

For a moment, he couldn’t respond. The silence between you stretched, filled with a thousand things he wanted to say but couldn’t find the words for. “Sometimes I forget that too,” he said finally, the confession slipping out before he could stop it. His voice was barely audible, and yet it felt louder than anything he’d said in months. “It’s like… if I’m not fighting or fixing something, I don’t know who I’m supposed to be.”

You turned to face him fully now, your expression soft but steady. “Maybe you don’t have to figure that out right now,” you said. “Maybe it’s okay to just… be.”

The simplicity of it stunned him. Just be. As though it were that easy. As though he could strip himself of everything he carried and exist without purpose or expectation. Harry’s grip on the railing tightened. “I don’t know if I even know how to do that anymore.”

“Maybe you don’t have to do it alone.”

The words hung in the air between you, weightless and heavy all at once. Harry’s gaze lifted to meet yours, his heart stumbling in his chest. You weren’t looking at him the way most people did, like he was a puzzle to solve or a hero to rely on. You were looking at him like he was… enough.

He swallowed, his throat dry. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Your lips curved into a soft smile, but there was something in your eyes—something faintly sad and yet unwavering. “Because I think you need it.”

The knot in his chest twisted, a sharp ache he hadn’t felt in years threatening to rise to the surface. He blinked hard, pushing it back, refusing to let it crack him open. Not here. Not now.

His hand moved almost without thinking, brushing against yours where it rested on the stone. It was a light touch, tentative and fleeting, but enough to send a jolt through him. He froze, half expecting you to pull away, to retreat the way everyone else eventually did.

But you didn’t.

The touch lingered, delicate and unspoken, neither of you pulling away. It wasn’t an accident, nor was it intentional in a way that required words. It just was, the kind of quiet moment Harry didn’t know how to name—simple, yet heavy with meaning. His gaze dropped to your hand, where your fingers just barely grazed his, and something unfamiliar stirred in him, warm and disorienting.

“I’m not used to this,” he murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them. The night breeze nearly carried them away, but you heard him.

You turned your head, curiosity softening your expression. “Used to what?”

“Someone just… being here.” He let out a dry laugh, short and humorless, as if mocking himself. “Most people either avoid me or expect something.”

Your fingers shifted, brushing his more firmly, the subtle movement grounding him. “I don’t expect anything, Harry.”

His name, spoken so gently, without expectation or weight—it shouldn’t have struck him the way it did. But it lodged in his chest, the simplicity of it making his stomach twist. You weren’t trying to be anything other than honest, and somehow that made it worse.

He looked at you then, really looked at you. The moonlight played across your features, softening the edges, casting faint shadows against your skin. Your gaze met his and didn’t waver, holding steady in a way that made his chest tighten. There was something solid about you, something he couldn’t explain but couldn’t deny either. An anchor, maybe, in a world that had only ever felt like chaos.

“I don’t know how to…” The sentence faltered, crumbling before it could finish. Harry shook his head slightly, as if that might hide his frustration. How to what, exactly? Let someone in? Say what he was feeling? Be himself again?

“You don’t have to explain anything,” you said, like you could read his mind. Your voice was low, steady, but kind. “I meant it. You don’t have to do this alone. Whatever this is.”

A lump rose in his throat, the kind that tightened every word into silence, but he nodded, managing a quiet, “Thanks.” It felt small, inadequate, but you didn’t seem to mind. You just gave him a smile—small but warm, like the kind of light you don’t notice until it chases away the dark.

For a while, neither of you said anything. The silence wrapped around you, not heavy or cold, but something softer now. Warm, even. Harry let himself sink into it, his shoulders easing, his usual tension slipping away bit by bit. He glanced down at the grounds, the glow of the castle windows below casting long, soft shadows over the grass.

“Do you ever think about leaving?” you asked suddenly, your voice breaking the quiet but not shattering it.

Harry blinked, caught off guard. “Leaving Hogwarts?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… walking away. Starting over somewhere far from all of this.”

He hesitated, the idea catching him in a way he wasn’t expecting. The thought of leaving everything—this castle, its whispers, the weight of who he was supposed to be—was both terrifying and strangely tempting. To go somewhere he could just be Harry, without the war, without the name, without the constant pull of the past.

“Sometimes,” he admitted, the word quiet but honest. “But… I don’t think I could. I don’t know who I’d be without all of this.”

You nodded, like you understood. “Maybe that’s something you figure out with time.”

There was no judgment in your voice, just patience, and that startled him more than the question itself. Harry turned to look at you, searching your face for something he couldn’t name. You weren’t pushing him. You weren’t rushing him to have answers he didn’t have. And somehow, that made him ache.

“What about you?” he asked, the words coming out before he could stop them. “Would you leave?”

Your smile was faint, wistful, like the question had passed through you a thousand times already. “I think about it. But I always come back to the same answer.” You paused, your gaze slipping to the horizon. “I don’t think running away fixes anything.”

He nodded slowly, letting the words sink in. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

You laughed softly, and the sound caught him by surprise. It wasn’t loud, but it was real, and it made something in his chest ease. “Only probably?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile finally breaking through. “Fine. You’re definitely right.”

“There you go,” you teased, your tone lighter now. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

It was strange how the conversation shifted, how the tension between you melted into something easier. Lighter. For the first time in longer than he could remember, Harry felt himself relax into the moment, his guard lowering just enough to let the night and your presence settle over him. For once, the weight on his shoulders didn’t feel so crushing. For once, the world outside the two of you could wait.

─────────────

The hours blurred together, the sky above deepening into a velvety indigo scattered with stars. The castle had fallen silent, the faint hum of voices and clatter of dishes from the Great Hall fading into memory. You hadn’t moved far from him, and Harry found himself noticing—really noticing—how the quiet didn’t feel oppressive anymore. It wasn’t heavy or suffocating. It was just… there. And for the first time in what felt like forever, it was bearable.

When you turned to him, your gaze was steady, searching but not invasive. “Do you think you’ll ever feel normal again?”

The question caught him off guard. It wasn’t laced with pity or weighed down with expectation—it was just honest. Simple. It twisted something inside him all the same. Harry swallowed hard, the knot in his chest pulling tighter.

“I don’t know what normal is,” he admitted, his voice low, like he was confessing something fragile to the night itself. “Maybe I.. never really did.”

You nodded, like that answer didn’t surprise you. Like it wasn’t the wrong one. “I think a lot of us feel that way.”

You didn’t push, didn’t prod for more, and that—more than anything—made him want to keep going.

“When it ended…” He trailed off, his eyes dropping to his hands on the railing. They looked unfamiliar, scarred and pale against the stone. “I thought it would stop. The hurt. I thought I’d feel relieved.” His jaw tightened, and the next words slipped out like they had been waiting for years. “But it didn’t. And now I don’t know if it ever will.”

The admission hung in the air, raw and vulnerable. Harry’s fingers curled against the railing, the cold bite of the stone grounding him. He didn’t look at you—he couldn’t. He didn’t know what he’d see in your eyes, and some part of him was afraid of it.

“You lost so much,” you said softly, your voice steady but laced with something achingly gentle. “It’s okay to feel like that. No one expects you to just move on.”

Harry let out a hollow laugh, bitter and quiet. “Everyone expects me to be fine. To be Harry Potter, the one who saved everyone.” He gestured vaguely to himself, his voice cracking under the weight of it. “They don’t want to see this. Whatever this is.”

“I do,” you said, your voice unwavering.

The words hit him like a punch to the chest, knocking the air clean out of him. His head snapped up, his eyes meeting yours. There was no hesitation in your expression, no doubt. Just quiet sincerity, so clear and certain it left him breathless.

“Why?” The question fell from his lips before he could stop it.

You shrugged, a faint, bittersweet smile curving your lips. “Because… you’re more than what everyone sees. And because I think you deserve someone who doesn’t just want the shiny bits of you.”

Harry stared at you, his chest tightening painfully. He didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know how to process something so simple yet staggering. No one had ever said anything like that to him before—at least, not in a way that felt this real.

The air between you shifted, heavier now, like it was carrying something unspoken, something fragile but undeniable. You weren’t touching, but Harry could still feel the warmth of you beside him, like a presence he didn’t want to lose. His heart pounded harder, the sound of it loud in his ears.

“I don’t think I deserve it,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible.

Your brows knit together, a flicker of sadness crossing your face, but you didn’t look away. Instead, you stepped closer, close enough that he could see the faint curve of your lashes, the soft press of your lips. “I think you do.”

Harry inhaled sharply, his grip tightening on the railing as you moved into his space. His pulse thundered, and his mind raced with the weight of the moment, with how close you were, with the quiet pull of something he wasn’t sure he had the strength to reach for.

“I don’t want to screw this up,” he whispered, the words raw and fractured.

“You won’t,” you said softly, your voice steady but kind. “But you don’t have to decide anything right now.”

His eyes flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes, and he felt something shift in him—like a thread unraveling after being pulled too tight for too long. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached out, his fingers brushing yours again.

This time, you didn’t just let the touch linger. You let your fingers twine with his, warm and certain, the weight of it enough to crack the walls he’d been holding up for so long.

Harry’s breath hitched as your fingers laced with his, the touch so simple yet carrying the weight of something he didn’t quite know how to name. It sent a ripple through him—a warmth that started in his chest and spread outward, leaving a faint ache in its wake. His grip tightened slightly, hesitant but sure, and he drew in a shaky breath, trying to ground himself in the moment.

You didn’t push him, didn’t say a word. You just stayed there, steady and close, your thumb brushing softly over the back of his hand. The stars above blurred into the edges of his vision, the castle fading into shadow. The world narrowed until it was only you, your touch, and the quiet hum of something unspoken between you.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, his voice low and uneven. His green eyes searched yours, wide and vulnerable in a way that made his chest feel both too tight and too open. “I don’t know how to let myself… feel like this.”

You didn’t flinch or pull back. Instead, you gave him a small, steady smile, your free hand lifting, hovering just near his arm, a silent question. “You don’t have to know how. You just have to let it happen.”

Harry exhaled, shaky and raw, but didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned closer, his forehead almost brushing yours. His heart pounded so loudly it drowned out everything else, but for once, he didn’t care. He was tired of holding himself together, of keeping everyone out, of pretending he didn’t need this.

And then, almost instinctively, he closed the space between you.

The kiss was gentle, hesitant, like he was afraid of breaking something fragile. Or maybe breaking himself. But the moment your hand slid to his cheek, grounding him, something inside him unraveled. He pressed deeper into the kiss, his other hand rising to rest lightly at your waist. It wasn’t desperate or hurried—it was slow, deliberate, filled with everything he couldn’t put into words.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, pulling him closer, and Harry felt something crack open in his chest. It wasn’t pain, but a kind of aching relief, as though he’d been holding his breath for years and was finally allowed to exhale. For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t drowning.

When you finally pulled back, your breaths mingling in the cool night air, Harry didn’t go far. His forehead rested lightly against yours, his hand still at your waist, his fingers curling slightly against the fabric as though afraid you might disappear if he let go.

“Sorry,” he murmured, though there was no regret in his voice, only uncertainty. “I… I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t apologize,” you interrupted, your voice soft but certain. Your hand slid down to rest over his chest, where his heart still raced beneath your touch. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

A quiet laugh slipped from him, more a sigh than anything else. “I’m not used to this.”

“Neither am I,” you admitted, your fingers tracing small, absent shapes against the fabric of his shirt. “But.. I think we’re allowed to have this. Even after everything.”

Your words settled deep in his chest, heavy and grounding in a way that didn’t feel like a burden. He didn’t know if he fully believed you—not yet—but for the first time, he wanted to. He wanted to let himself try, to let himself have this, even if it scared him.

“Stay,” he said quietly, the word barely above a whisper. It wasn’t a question. It was a plea.

Your lips curved into a small, tender smile, and you nodded. “I’m not going anywhere.”

─────────────

The space between you thrummed with tension, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable but electric, alive with everything unspoken. Harry’s hand lingered at your waist, the tips of his fingers brushing against the fabric of your shirt, hesitant but wanting. His other hand gripped the railing behind you, steadying himself as he leaned in, his lips hovering just shy of yours. Your heart pounded, loud enough to drown out the quiet of the night.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you tilted closer, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt, clutching the soft cotton as though it might keep you tethered. His breath ghosted over your lips, warm and uneven, and when he kissed you again, it was different this time—no hesitation, no doubt.

It started slow, the way it had before, soft and searching. But when you pressed closer, your body molding against his, something inside him gave way. The kiss deepened, shifting into something more urgent, more unrestrained, as if the careful control he had been holding onto had finally slipped. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you flush against him, and for a moment, nothing else existed but the heat between you.

Your hands slid up his chest, fingers trailing over the steady thrum of his heartbeat. He felt so solid beneath your palms, so real, and yet the way he kissed you was anything but careful. Your hands found his shoulders, clutching tightly as he kissed you harder, his need for you palpable. One of his hands left the railing to thread through your hair, his fingers tangling there with a kind of reverence that sent a shiver down your spine.

The rough stone at your back was cool, grounding, but it was nothing compared to the warmth of Harry’s body pressed against yours. He seemed to be everywhere at once, overwhelming in the best way.

“Is this okay?” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough and unsteady.

You nodded quickly, your breath catching as he kissed you again, more certain this time. “Yes,” you managed to whisper, your voice trembling. Your fingers slid to the nape of his neck, brushing against the soft, slightly damp strands of his hair. “More than okay.”

That was all the encouragement he needed. His lips left yours, trailing down along your jaw, slow and deliberate. When he reached the curve of your neck, the heat of his breath against your skin sent a spark shooting through you, and you couldn’t stop the quiet sound that escaped your lips.

The noise seemed to break something in him. His hand slid lower, from your waist to your hip, his thumb grazing the bare skin just above the waistband of your jeans. His name slipped from your lips without thinking, and Harry groaned softly, the sound reverberating against your throat. He pressed you more firmly against the railing, his body bracketing yours as though he wanted to block out the rest of the world.

His mouth continued its path along the line of your throat, slow and reverent, stopping just above the collar of your shirt. Every kiss left a trail of fire in its wake, every touch pulling you deeper into him.

“Tell me if—” he started, his voice hoarse and uneven, but you cut him off, your hands gripping his shirt to pull him back up to kiss you again. This time, you were the one who deepened it, letting him feel the weight of everything you couldn’t say. He responded instantly, his hands roaming over your waist, your hips, your back, as though trying to memorize the shape of you.

You broke the kiss only when you couldn’t breathe, your forehead resting against his as you whispered, “Not here.”

Harry froze for a moment, his breath heavy against your lips, his eyes locked on yours. They were dark, intense, filled with something raw and vulnerable. You half-expected him to hesitate, but instead, he nodded, his hand sliding down to find yours. His grip was warm, firm, and steady, like it was the only thing anchoring him.

“Come on,” he said quietly, his voice low and sure.

You didn’t need to ask where. You just followed, your hand in his, trusting him completely.

─────────────

Harry led you through the castle’s dim corridors, his hand steady in yours. The silence wasn’t awkward—it buzzed with anticipation, each step echoing softly against the stone walls. His grip was firm but gentle, grounding you in the moment, though the occasional brush of his thumb against your skin sent a quiet thrill through you, making it harder to focus on anything but him.

He didn’t tell you where he was taking you, and you didn’t ask. You trusted him completely.

When he stopped, it was outside an empty classroom near the Charms corridor. The door creaked softly as he pushed it open, revealing a quiet space bathed in silvery moonlight pouring through tall, arched windows. The room was unremarkable, desks and chairs pushed to the sides, but it felt secluded—safe. A haven away from the weight of everything outside.

Harry let go of your hand only to close the door behind you, locking it with a flick of his wand. The soft click echoed in the stillness, and your pulse quickened as he turned back to face you. His gaze met yours, sharp and intense, and for a moment, you felt frozen under the weight of it.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice low, almost uncertain.

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you stepped forward, your hands finding the front of his shirt again, pulling him down into a kiss that left no room for doubt. His lips met yours hungrily, and his hands found your waist, anchoring you against him. This time, there was no hesitation in the way he held you, his touch firm but reverent, like he’d been waiting for this moment as long as you had.

The kiss deepened quickly, the tension that had simmered between you all night spilling over like floodwaters. His hands slid up your back, pulling you closer, his body pressed against yours like he couldn’t bear even a breath of space between you. Your fingers found the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward, and he broke the kiss only long enough to let you pull it over his head, the fabric falling to the floor.

Your gaze drifted over his chest, tracing the faint scars etched across his skin, each one a reminder of everything he’d endured. The moonlight highlighted every line, every curve of muscle, and for a moment, he looked vulnerable—unsure. His chest rose and fell quickly, his nerves evident, but you didn’t let him linger there.

Your fingers brushed over his scars, soft and deliberate, and you leaned in to kiss him again. He melted into it, his hesitance replaced by a quiet urgency as his hands slid to your hips. His lips left yours to trail down your jaw, finding your neck, his kisses slow and infused with something akin to hunger. The heat of his mouth against your skin made you shiver, your breath catching as his fingers found the hem of your shirt and lifted it.

You raised your arms to let him pull it off, and when he stepped back just slightly, his gaze lingered on you in the moonlight, reverent and full of something raw that made warmth bloom low in your stomach.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, as though he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say it aloud.

Before you could respond, he kissed you again, his hands wandering your sides and back, like he was mapping every inch of you. You barely noticed the edge of a desk pressing into the backs of your thighs as he guided you backward, his movements growing bolder with each passing moment.

Your fingers drifted down his chest, following the ridges of his muscles until they found the waistband of his jeans. You worked the button free, and Harry let out a low groan, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath warm against your lips.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice strained, his green eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart stumble.

“I’m sure,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of nerves and desire coursing through you. “I want this. I want you.”

Something in his expression shifted, the raw emotion behind his gaze making your chest ache. He kissed you again, slower this time, as though he was trying to pour every unsaid word, every feeling he couldn’t name, into the press of his lips.

His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you onto the desk with ease. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, the warmth of him against you making your breath hitch. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered sound felt all-consuming, pulling you deeper into him.

The world outside disappeared. There was no war, no expectations, no fear. Just Harry—the feel of his hands, the heat of his mouth, the quiet way he murmured your name like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight you both carried didn’t matter. In this moment, there was nothing but the two of you, and that was enough.

Harry’s hands gripped your thighs firmly, his touch grounding and electric all at once. His kisses grew hungrier, more insistent, his mouth moving against yours like he’d been holding back for far too long. The edge of the desk pressed into your back, but the slight discomfort melted away beneath the heat of his body pressing against yours. Everything about him—his hands, his lips, the low, ragged sounds he made—consumed you entirely.

Your fingers worked at the top of his jeans, fumbling slightly in your haste. Harry groaned softly against your mouth as you finally managed to pull them down, his breath hitching sharply when your hands slipped below the waistband of his boxers brushing against the heated skin just above his throbbing length. His hips jerked slightly at the contact, and the sound that escaped his lips was low and guttural, sending a rush of heat spiraling through you.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you. His green eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, and filled with something raw that made your pulse stutter. His hands slid to your hips, fingers brushing against the hem of your jeans. “Can I?” he asked, his voice low and rough, barely steady.

“Please,” you breathed, lifting your hips to help him.

His gaze stayed locked on you as he slid your jeans down, the fabric brushing against your skin in a way that left you shivering. The look in his eyes made your breath catch—a mixture of reverence and want, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. His hands trembled slightly as he tossed the jeans aside, and the way his gaze raked over you, slow and deliberate, made warmth bloom low in your stomach.

“You’re…” He trailed off, his words faltering as his eyes met yours again. He didn’t need to finish the sentence; the intensity in his expression said everything his voice couldn’t.

You reached for him, pulling him closer until his bare chest pressed against yours. The heat of his skin against yours sent a shiver through you, and when his hands slid back to your thighs, parting them just slightly, you gasped quietly. His lips found yours again, slower this time, deeper. Each kiss was deliberate, filled with a need that made your whole body tremble.

One of his hands slipped between your legs, his fingers brushing against the fabric of your underwear. The touch was tentative at first, testing, but when a soft moan slipped from your lips, his confidence grew. His fingers pressed more firmly, tracing the heat of you through the fabric, and you arched into his touch instinctively, the sensation overwhelming.

“God, you’re so—” Harry broke off with a groan, his free hand gripping your thigh tightly as you rolled your hips against his hand. His breathing was unsteady now, ragged and uneven. “You’re perfect.”

The words sent a jolt of pleasure through you, making your pulse race. You reached for him, your fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers, finally pulling the restrictive barrier between the two of you down. His forehead dropped to your shoulder as your hand wrapped around him, the heat and weight of him making your own breath falter. He let out a strangled moan, his hips rocking instinctively into your touch.

“Wait,” he murmured, his voice tight, like he was holding on to the last threads of control. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands trembling as they moved to your waist. “I want to—can I—”

You nodded quickly, your cheeks warm, reaching for him again to help guide his length inside you. The desk creaked faintly as he stepped closer, his hands finding your hips as he lined himself up with you. He hesitated, his eyes meeting yours, and for a moment, the world stilled.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice softer this time, steady but full of emotion.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice sure despite the nerves and anticipation rushing through you. “I want this, Harry. I want you—all of you.”

That was all he needed.

Harry leaned in, his lips finding yours again as he pushed forward, slow and purposeful. The initial stretch made you tense, your fingers instinctively tightening against his shoulders. But then his breath brushed warm against your cheek, and the soft, shaky sound he let out as he slid deeper sent a ripple through you, easing the tension and replacing it with something else entirely—something that left you breathless.

“You okay?” he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours. His voice was tight, laced with restraint, and it made your heart ache in the best way.

“Yes,” you whispered, your nails digging lightly into his skin as your body adjusted to him. “Just… don’t stop.”

His jaw tightened, and he nodded, his hands trembling slightly where they gripped your waist. He started to move, his hips rolling in a slow, achingly delicious rhythm that made your breath catch. Each motion sent a wave of heat building steadily through you, your body arching instinctively toward his as though you couldn’t get close enough.

“God,” he groaned, the sound rough and raw as it left him. His hands slid down to your thighs, lifting you slightly to meet his thrusts, and the shift made you gasp. Your head fell back against the desk as the new angle sent a spark shooting through you. “You feel so—”

The rest of his words broke off into a low curse, his lips finding your neck again as his movements quickened. The world beyond the room ceased to exist—the only things that mattered were the soft creak of the desk beneath you, the heat of his body against yours, and the quiet, desperate noises that escaped him with every thrust.

Your hips tilted to meet his rhythm, and the friction left you dizzy, sparks lighting beneath your skin. Your hands slid into his hair, tangling in the messy strands as his face buried in the curve of your shoulder. His breath was hot against your skin, and each groan that escaped his lips sent a shiver coursing down your spine, your body arching into his as the pressure low in your belly coiled tighter.

“Harry,” you gasped, his name tumbling from your lips like a plea, raw and unrestrained. His response was a groan that seemed to echo through you, his hands gripping your hips tighter, his touch almost possessive as he pulled you closer.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmured, the words rough against your skin, reverent and awed. His voice broke slightly as he added, “I—I can’t…”

“Don’t hold back,” you whispered, your voice trembling but sure. Your hands slid down his back, clutching at his waist to anchor yourself. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

For a brief moment, his pace faltered, his forehead pressing against yours as though grounding himself in the moment. And then he kissed you again, hard and desperate, his lips crashing into yours as though he needed you more than air. His rhythm grew uneven, each thrust deeper, more precise, until the tension inside you snapped.

The wave that crashed over you left you trembling, your body shuddering in his arms as the heat and intensity overwhelmed you. His name slipped from your lips again, barely audible, as you clung to him.

Moments later, Harry followed, his movements faltering as he buried himself in you one final time. A low, guttural sound escaped his lips as he trembled against you, his forehead dropping to yours. His breaths came fast and ragged, his chest heaving as he held you close, his hands gripping your hips as though afraid to let go.

For a long time, neither of you moved. The room was silent except for the soft hum of your breathing, the faint rustle of fabric as Harry shifted, wrapping his arms more securely around you. He pulled you close, his body still trembling faintly, and you rested your head against his shoulder, your fingers tracing aimless patterns across his back.

“Are you okay?” he asked after a moment, his voice hoarse but filled with quiet concern.

A soft smile tugged at your lips, and you tilted your head just enough to brush a kiss against his neck. “More than okay,” you whispered.

Harry let out a quiet laugh, low and warm, his arms tightening around you. “Me too,” he murmured, his lips brushing lightly against your temple.

Finally, for what seemed like an eternity. Everything felt right, it felt okay. Like harry could just..exist again.

﹙@ 𝗹𝘂𝗺𝗼𝘀𝗼𝘂 ﹚

[danyasblogsblog]

MA MEILLEURE ENNEMIE SIMON RILEY

based of the ‘lovers to rivals’ storyline of jinx and ekko from the series ‘arcane’ if you are HELL BENT on no spoilers for arcane, dont read!!

warnings : mentions of suicide, lovers to rivals trope, reader is a traitor to tf141, angst, beating, killing yk obvi

- you and your once-lover, simon ‘ghost’ riley, re-unite, but not in the way either of you had ever hoped.

the rival between you two was famous between the opposing teams.

the look of pure love and admiration once in both your eyes when you looked at eachother, now replaced with a cold, agitated glare.

but the way your body tensed up when you heard the name, simon riley, was what really got everyone going.

makarov’s shadow stretched upon the walls as his hands lingered over the paintings that scattered around the room. the glass of them reflected off the dim, cheap light in the meeting room, that flickered every few minutes. “the history.. you two have. is it still of any use?” his voice was slow, and you knew what makarov was trying to get you to agree too.

“i wouldnt want to talk to him. its a waste of time, this meeting, sir. captain price could tell him the same thing and he wouldnt agree.” you said, a sharp exhale leaving your mouth. “very well.” makarov’s voice was pointed, and you could tell he wasnt exactly pleased with your answer. not that you could care though- in your eyes, simon wasnt worth your time. but was it the same in your heart?

you stood up and went, the floorboards creaking under your weight as you got up. the dim lights in the meeting room captured your legs’ movements as a looming shadow whilst you turned the door handle and closed it behind you.

your mind flashed to the image of your once- lover. his brown eyes softer when he saw you. the way he would fumble on the battle field when he heard your voice on the comms. the way, sometimes. you missed him.

you remembered the way the task force would tease you two when you had been lovers.

“simon, shes your missus. dont be shy.”

the cheers of the boys’ agreement to price’s statement echoed in the empty safe house. continuous hours had been spent here in this room, joking and shitting around because there was quiet literally, nothing better to do. simon’s eyes, the only visible part of his scarred face, rolled. your quiet giggles as the commotion continued were heavenly sounds to simon.

chuckles escaped everyone’s lips as he grumbled, standing up to give you a kiss on the crown of your forehead. roars of laughter and cheers bounced off the walls. they were all like a family to you.

the family you once had.

they didnt know you were a traitor at that moment.

the memories plagued the back of your head as you walked to your barracks. the next mission you had was extra special- and you knew it was no coincidence that makarov had chosen you for this mission.

you had to sneak into the task force’s safe house over the border of georgia and ukraine. it was a difficult mission- practically suicidal to go through with due to the high stakes, travelling, and of course, task force 141. but you knew only the best, most trusted soliders of makarov’s would be chosen for this task. you knew this was a big deal, and you werent gonna give this opportunity up.

you sat on your thin mattress, your palms digging into your thighs as you thought of how you were slowly forgetting simon’s voice. the deep, gruff voice that soothed you to sleep so many times when nightmares embedded themselves into your head. almost forgotten.

your cracked lips parted as you thought about johnny, kyle and price. how they would kid around with you, treating you like your younger sister. the friendship you had with them was something special- but you couldnt let it happen. after all, it was your destiny to be a traitor.

your eyes scanned the room. the familiar scent of it was nothing new to you. the small cracks in the walls where the ceiling met the wallboards had paint barely clinging to it, and they just waiting for an opportunity to fall. your eyes landed on your sneakers, and old pair, from years before. they still fit, so you decided to just keep using the pair. but that wasnt the only reason.

the fairy lights shone in the dark sky, an embracing contrast. the slow french song blared from the speakers, drowning out most noise. most noise.

simon’s lips tickled your ear as he leaned into your scent, his mask lifted just above his mouth. his face showing was something only you and the task force could see, even if it was only the bottom half, and the scars that littered his jaw were something that truly showed his vulnerability around the people he trusted. you knew simon wouldnt just let anyone see the most sacred parts of his face, but he could trust you. or thats what he thought.

your heart thumped against your chest as you laughed at the cheesey, not at all funny jokes he whispered in your ear. over his shoulder, simon could see johnny and price drunkly giggling at kyle chugging whiskey. ouch. that would definitely come back to bite his ass tomorrow.

your sneakers stepped on his feet as you adjusted to the dance, mumbling a ‘sorry’ as you moved yourself away a bit. simon’s arms, which were wrapped around your waist, allowed themselves to squeeze tighter around your figure, trying to keep you as close to him as possible. “stay close to me.”

the moment felt long lasting, and the feeling of simon gently swaying you to the music made your heart thump harder around your chest. you were lost in your thoughts and love for him until…

“get a room!”

johnny’s voice boomed over the speaker just loud enough so you and simon could hear him. the cackle leaving your lips left your cheeks hurting, as you threw your head back in joy. simon chuckled, his lips curling up slightly. but his eyes werent on johnny, and it wasnt his annoying joke that made him laugh. the look of you genuinely enjoying yourself made him pleased. as if, all the pains he’d been through were worth this moment.

╰ ─┉─¡! • !¡─┉─ ╯

the safe house was cold and damp, and the chilly winter air snipped at your nose. you and your team had decided to split up, and your gun was clenched tightly in your hand, the sweat on your palm rubbing uncomfortably against the cold metal. you slowly let yourself creep around the walls of the desolate, but large, building. the large, glass-shattered paintings looked glossy as the moonlight shone against them. the peeling wallpaper were, most definitely, years old. your free hand rubbed against your jaw, the anxiety of the situation clear as your gut twisted every step you took.

then suddenly, you heard it.

a voice, sharing their bold opinions.

a voice, so familiar.

a voice that, once guided you through painful losses.

the voice of your once-lover.

you tip toed slowly to the direction of the melodic phonics leaving simon’s mouth, your gear shuffling against your vest every time your foot gently touched the ground. your breath hitched as the sound got louder the closer you got the furthest door. your eyebrows knitted and furrowed, as the voice you had once almost forgotten, was now in your ear. you could hear other voices in the background aswell, familiar too. the scottish accent and the voices of your father-figure and best friend let themselves revel in your head as you gently pressed your ear against the door. could it really be them?

then it all stopped.

you could hear a clatter coming from the other side of the house, echoing through the ripped wallpaper and cracked walls. you could hear a meek voice on your comms from your teammate, announcing that you guys had to run.

your footsteps guided you backwards slowly, until you were full on running, sprinting out of the house. suddenly, the long corridor to the exit seemed so far, and the paintings of people laughing and sipping wine taunted you as your feet picked up the pace, pounding against the ground.

you knew the task force had heard it, because if you could, theres no way that they couldnt. you reached the end of the corridor, but the door was locked. you fumbled with the knob, pulling and twisting until it damn near came off. you could barely hear anything over your wild panting, and you could only think of who was going to open that door. would it be price, the man you thought of as your father? could it be kyle, the man who trained you and gave you all the jokes you had now? or would it be your once-lover, simon, the man you once talked about marriage and children with?

you wiped your still-sweaty palms on your clothed thighs, before trying to jiggle the knob again, your desperation seeping through your, usually, stone cold appearance. you swapped your gun to your other hand, using it to try and pull the door open.

your pants and quiet pleads were pathetic, honestly. you kicked the bottom of the door, praying that the wood was moulded and would be easy to kick open. but you remembered that life wasnt so easy.

over the sounds of your heavy breathing, you could hear the faint sound of the door on the opposite side of you open with a slow ‘creeeeaaaakkkk!’

you could feel your heart practically sink.

you slowly turned around, your eyes laced shut, not ready to see who was standing before you on the other side of the hall. you could barely hear anything over the sound of your heart thumping against your sternum, as if it was trying to escape.

your eyes opened.

the tall, broad man with brown eyes was the harsh welcome you were met with. simon’s eyes, once so kind and forgiving to you, were empty and glaring.

a small laugh escaped your lips, realising the gravity of the situation. you got caught. it was the first time simon had seen you since you disappeared.

you remembered leaving in the middle the night for makarov’s helicopter when you found out there was written evidence supporting the fact you were a traitor. nobody could risk you being tortured, especially since you were such an asset to makarov.

your eyes creased as you let your lips curl upwards, pressing into the sides of your face.

“my best enemy,” you chuckled. “im here to greet you!”

your words were cruelty said, and the tone of amusement masked how nervous you truly were. a snicker pulled itself out of your mouth, reverberating at the back of your throat.

“why’d you do it?”

simon’s voice was no longer the sweet, melodic thing it used to be. now, it was harsh, unforgiving and unwelcoming. jeez, you thought, is this even simon?

“you know what they say,” you took a step forward, a chuckle leaving your lips. “keep your enemies close.” a wicked grin cast itself upon your face.

simon lunged towards you, but not in the way someone would a hug.

the wild look in his eyes. you knew he wasnt fucking around.

he tackled you to the ground, practically flying onto you. his, already battered, fists landed themselves onto your face, smashing themselves into your cheeks and mouth, wiping the crooked smile of your face.

the face he once kissed.

the face he once loved, so dearly. trusted so much, when everything seemed so impossible. the face he took pride in showing off, flaunting you practically everywhere.

the smile he once loved, was replaced with the smirk of a devil.

simon looked down onto your, already bloody, face. the crimson leaked from your busted lip and your nose. your mouth was like a mirror of the glass-shattered paintings on the walls, but instead of a little smile, you had an afraid wince casted upon your features.

the look of fear in your eyes was almost impossible to ignore. you let simon’s deep brown eyes meet yours, and the hateful, malicious look on his face softened so quickly into one of hesitation and regret.

he watched the blood trickle down your chin as you whispered a ‘please’ with the strength you still barely had in the moment. after all, simon’s punches werent some shit to giggle at.

his eyes met yours, and he practically melted. the memories flooded back to him, you could tell.

but he didnt know about how your gun was still in your hand, and how it was basically lingering behind his back.

the worst to both of you, was, indeed, you and i.

ma meilleure ennemie.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Trey Clover: Eyes Up Here

Wow, glasses off Trey? He’s still making the same one brow lifted smirk though 😂 HE KINDA LOOKS LIKE SEBEK WITHOUT THE GLASSES... I don’t know how to describe this artwork + this voice other than saying “Trey fans all want one thing and it’s disgusting”/j; he just seems to attract people that are really into the beefy dad types.

Trey’s Campwear jacket also had Painted on it. I wonder if that’s a brand in the Twst world? And his cardigan is the color of dentist scrubs—

Rise and Shine!

Mornings were a blur. Not that they went by fast, but they were literally a blur.

When Trey woke, his surroundings were smears of color. Slapped together indiscriminately, no clear form or boundaries between the hues. It’s not until he slipped his spectacles on that everything cleared up, sharpening into proper shapes and recognizable objects.

Running a hand through his short hair, he gave a yawn as he wandered into the washroom. The ceiling was curved and patterned like the sky. Paired with grass-like tiles and flowery sinks and lamps, the space created the illusion of stepping outside.

The washroom was shared among all of the dorm's residents. A few of them had been so bold as to leave their toiletries around: deodorant sticks, labelled bottles of shampoo and conditioner. But there was never any mistaking of Trey’s things for another’s.

He was the only one with an entire case to carry his dental hygiene routine. There was: a main toothbrush (changed to a new one every 3-4 months, or whenever he noticed significant bristle damage), several specialized toothbrushes (one for the back, one for scraping the tongue...), two spares, a selection of flavored toothpastes (fluoride added), and three containers of floss.

No mouthwash though--"It washes away too much," Trey would tell anyone who was willing to listen, "the bad bacteria and the good. All the saliva and mucous. We need those things to have a healthy, thriving oral microbiome."

“There are 810 rules by the Queen of Hearts,” the Heartslabyul students often joked, “and just as many steps in the vice dorm leader’s teeth cleaning routine.”

"Come on, guys. It's not that long," he'd say. "The dentist recommends two minutes, twice a day. I only take a little more than that to make sure I get in all the crevices..."

Trey counted the seconds as he ran his toothbrushes along his teeth, his gums, his hard palate, his tongue and under it. Five minutes, including flossing and rinsing.

See? Not that long. He’d have to tell his dorm mates when he could.

He held out a hand in front of his mouth and exhaled. A puff of air was trapped for just long enough for him to catch a whiff of minty freshness.

Alright.

Satisfied, he left with his bag and books.

Students peeled down Main Street, on their way to class. He was one of hundreds, living his ordinary life.

And he liked it that way.

Trey squinted. A circle in his vision was out of focus.

He removed his glasses to check for imperfections. And, sure enough, there was a bead of water in the middle of his lenses—likely a stray fleck from when he had been diligently cleaning his mouth. In a blink of that blurred world, he wiped the glasses up and placed them back on his nose.

Everything returned to full clarity.

“Good morning, Trey-senpai!” a voice called out to him.

He slowed his walk, allowing you to match his pace. His mouth cocked to one side as you pulled into view. “Morning.”

There’s a faint cloud hanging around him. Something sweet, yet also bright. Minty sugar, you think, leaning into it. Mmmmm.

“Did you eat breakfast?” Trey asked, and you laughed.

“That’s so dad of you to say.”

“Breakfast is an important meal of the day.” Trey adjusted his frames. A flash of white-his teeth. “So? Did you?”

“Wellllll…” You let your voice trail off.

The white had vanished behind his lips, but your gaze still lingered there. You knew you were staring, but you couldn’t tear yourself away.

“Hey now.” He tapped the rim of his glasses. “My eyes are up here.”

“Oh, sorry!” you startled, face warming. “It’s just… you have a really nice smile. It’s hard not to notice it.”

“Is that right?” He chuckled, easily laughing—not at you, never at you, but with you. “I’m flattered. Most people don’t seem to appreciate one.”

“No one in your dorm?”

“No. I’m pretty sure most of the guys in Heartslabyul think what I do’s a little excessive. Even Riddle doesn’t totally get it.”

“They must be jealous. The results speak for themselves.”

“That’s kind of you. Hey, you know what?" Trey leaned down, cupping a hand to his mouth. His voice was amplified in your ear.

Your heart leapt, thudding like the feet of a rabbit scampering down a dirt path. Your flesh was on fire, though Trey laid not a single finger on you.

"Y-Yes?!"

"I think you have a really nice smile too."

He smirked—and fireworks went off in your head. One, two, three. Colorful flowers blooming in the sky.

Your hands flew to your cheeks, as if that would somehow help to cool you off.

“Haha, are you embarrassed?” Trey’s eyes crinkled, as they always did, when he was amused. “I’m glad I got to see it up close and personal for myself. It was worth it.”

“M-My eyes are up here,” you managed to shoot back. Scathingly, you hoped.

His responding grin was crooked. For a second, you saw the him that hid behind humility, the not-so-kind Trey. His kind, toothy smile laced with a trace of poison.

“My bad. I see now I should’ve been nicer to you.”

“Was that a dad joke?!”

“Maybe. Who’s to know?”

[chasingyuyu]

To Light a Candle - J. YH

Masterlist

Featuring Jeong Yunho as father!stefano

Title : To Light a Candle

Year : 1937

Location : Bologna, Italy

Word Count ~ 9.8k

Genre : drama, romance

Pairing : father!stefano x atheist!reader

Summary : Y/N, an atheist woman hardened by life’s hardships and disillusioned by love, doesn’t believe in fairytales or happy endings. The universe seems to mock her when she stumbles upon Father Stefano, a young Catholic priest whose unwavering faith and compassion are everything she’s spent years rejecting. As their paths cross, the tension between her cynicism and his gentle belief grows, Y/N's life taking an unexpected turn.

Warnings : anxiety and mental health struggles, religion and faith conflicts, past trauma, themes of self-worth and identity, slow-burn romance with emotional tension.

Notes : This work is not read proof. Requests are open. Hope you enjoy!

The rain hit the cobblestones like applause, steady, relentless, drowning out the noise of the world. Y/N’s shoes squelched with every step, her coat soaked through to the bone as she staggered down the narrow alleyways of Bologna. She didn’t care where she was going. The streets all looked the same in this city–gray, ancient, indifferent.

She stopped in front of a pair of massive wooden doors, the intricate carvings half-hidden by the shadows of the night. A church. Of course. The universe had a sick sense of humor.

Y/N hated churches. She hated the smell of incense, the cold judgment of the marble saints, the way the silence pressed on her ears like a vice. And yet, as the rain showed no signs of letting up, she muttered a curse under her breath and shoved the door open.

It creaked like a beast stirring from sleep, echoing through the cavernous interior. The scent of wax and damp stone hit her first, followed by the flicker of candlelight that painted the walls with a golden hue. Y/N paused, dripping on the polished floor, glaring at the crucifix as if daring it to strike her down.

“You’re late for Mass.”

The voice came from somewhere to her left, low, warm, with the faintest hint of amusement. She turned sharply, her wet hair plastering itself across her cheek, to find a man in a black cassock standing by the pews. He wasn’t what she expected. Too young to be a priest, she thought. Or maybe just not tired enough.

“I’m not here for Mass.” She snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through the quiet. “And you don’t need to tell me I don’t belong here. I already know.”

He raised an eyebrow, stepping closer, his shoes making soft thuds against the stone. “This isn’t a nightclub, signorina. You don’t need a membership card to enter.”

She let out a hollow laugh, the sound ricocheting off the high ceilings. “Well, aren’t you a modern priest? What’s next, a cocktail hour after confession?”

“Not a bad idea.” He said lightly, though his eyes studied her carefully. She was trembling, whether from the cold or something deeper, he couldn’t tell. “But I’d still prefer to know why you’re here.”

“Because it’s raining!” Y/N shot back, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. “And I needed a roof. Happy?”

His lips curved into something resembling a smile, but it wasn’t patronizing. It was soft, patient, like he was letting her win a game he wasn’t interested in playing. “The rain has a way of leading people to unexpected places.” He said. “I’m Father Stefano, by the way. And you are?”

“Leaving.” The girl replied, though her feet remained planted. Her defiance faltered as her eyes darted to the flickering candles. For a moment, her expression cracked, just a flicker of vulnerability before she pulled her walls back up.

“Alright, Leaving...” Stefano said, the humor in his tone just enough to disarm her. “You’re welcome to stay until the rain stops. No sermons, no strings attached. Just a dry pew and a bit of quiet.”

Y/N hesitated. Quiet wasn’t something she was used to. Her mind was usually too loud, a relentless cacophony of doubt, anger and the kind of loneliness that gnawed at her ribs. But the warmth of the church, the steady glow of the candles and the calm presence of this infuriatingly unbothered priest... it wasn’t the worst place she could be.

“Fine.” She muttered, brushing past him and collapsing into a pew at the back. “But don’t get any ideas. I’m not confessing. And I’m definitely not praying.”

Stefano didn’t respond right away. He simply nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a beat longer than necessary before turning back toward the altar.

“Stay as long as you need.” He said over his shoulder.

Y/N leaned back against the pew, arms crossed, trying her best to ignore the warmth seeping through her damp clothes. She wasn’t staying because of him, she told herself. She was staying because the thought of stepping back into the rain felt like a punishment she didn’t deserve.

Her eyes wandered across the high ceilings, where painted angels gazed down at her with pity she didn’t ask for. The candles flickered at the altar, their soft light dancing in the shadows, but it wasn’t enough to distract her from the weight pressing on her chest.

“You’re staring at the ceiling like it owes you something.”

His voice broke through her thoughts, startling her. She glanced over to see Stefano standing near the altar, his cassock flowing as he moved. He wasn’t looking at her, not directly, but there was something about his presence that felt... intentional.

“Maybe it does.” She replied, her tone sharp enough to keep him at arm’s length.

He paused, tilting his head as if considering her answer. “And what might that be?”

She didn’t respond immediately, her gaze dropping to the marble floor. “I don’t know. An explanation, maybe. For why things are the way they are. For why it feels like... like I’m being punished for something I didn’t do.”

Her voice cracked at the end and she hated herself for it. She wasn’t here to bare her soul to some priest with kind eyes and too much patience.

“You think you��re being punished?” Stefano asked, his tone gentle, but not pitying. He stepped closer, keeping a respectful distance. “By God?”

She laughed bitterly. “I don’t believe in God, Father. But if He’s up there, He’s got a cruel sense of humor.”

Stefano didn’t flinch at her words. Instead, he took a seat on the edge of a nearby pew, his hands resting loosely in his lap. “It’s okay to be angry.” He said quietly. “Even at God. Especially at God. I think He understands better than we give Him credit for.”

“Wow...” Y/N said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’re really selling this whole ‘faith’ thing.”

“It’s not about selling anything.” he replied simply. “I’m just listening.”

That caught her off guard. She had spent her entire life around people who either wanted to fix her or fixate on her problems. Stefano, it seemed, wanted neither. He just sat there, waiting, as if the silence didn’t bother him at all.

For a moment, Y/N considered leaving. Walking out into the rain and disappearing back into the chaos of her life. But something about the way Stefano sat there, calm and steady, made her stay.

“What’s your deal?” She asked finally, breaking the silence.

He raised an eyebrow. “My deal?”

“Yeah.” She nodded, gesturing vaguely at him. “You’re not like... the others. Most priests would’ve either shoved a Bible in my hands or kicked me out by now.”

Stefano smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “I guess I’ve learned that people aren’t usually looking for answers. Sometimes, they just want to be heard.”

“Sounds like something they’d teach you in priest school.” She muttered.

“Not exactly." He said, his tone softening. “I had to learn it the hard way.”

Y/N looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time. There was a sadness in his eyes, something deeper than she had expected. It wasn’t pity—she could handle pity. No, this was something else.

“What happened?” She asked before she could stop herself.

Stefano hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. “That’s a story for another time." He said, standing and brushing off his cassock. “But for now, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. The rain doesn’t seem to be letting up anytime soon.”

And with that, he walked back toward the altar, leaving Y/N alone with her thoughts.

She hated how curious she felt. Hated how his quiet presence made her feel something she couldn’t quite name. But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like running away.

The rain pounded against the stained-glass windows, each drop a reminder that the storm outside was far less intimidating than the one raging within her. Stefano didn’t push her to talk, didn’t offer any sermons or platitudes. He moved around the church quietly, lighting candles, adjusting books on the pews and straightening the altar cloth. It was almost annoying how at ease he seemed, as though the world wasn’t falling apart around them.

When the rain finally slowed to a drizzle, Y/N forced herself to stand. Her legs felt stiff and she could feel the eyes of the carved saints watching her every movement.

“I’ll go now.” She said, her voice sharper than she intended.

Stefano looked up from where he was kneeling near the altar. “The doors are always open, signorina.”

“Yeah, well, don’t expect me back.” She shot back, turning toward the door.

“I won’t." He said simply.

That stopped her in her tracks. No argument, no insistence that she should come back, no promises of salvation. She turned her head slightly, just enough to catch him watching her, his expression unreadable.

“Good.” She muttered, pushing the door open and stepping into the damp night. "Oh, and Father?" She turned to look back at him. "I'm Y/N."

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It had been weeks since Y/N stumbled into the church. Weeks of telling herself she wouldn’t go back, that the moment was a fluke, an accident born of rain and bad luck. But no matter how far she wandered through the city, she couldn’t quite shake the memory of Stefano, the way he had listened without judgment, the calm steadiness of his presence.

She told herself it didn’t matter. She had more important things to worry about, like finding her next meal or a place to sleep that wasn’t a park bench. Yet, when she found herself walking past the church again one crisp autumn afternoon, her steps faltered.

The doors were wide open, sunlight spilling into the dim interior like a hesitant guest. She hovered at the threshold, torn between curiosity and pride, when a voice interrupted her internal battle.

“You don’t need an invitation to come inside.”

Stefano’s voice was warm, familiar and it startled her. She looked up to see him standing in the doorway, his cassock swapped for a simple shirt and slacks. He carried a basket of fresh produce, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms dusted with flour.

“I wasn’t going to.” Y/N lied, crossing her arms defensively.

“Of course not.” Stefano said, a hint of amusement in his tone. “You were just... admiring the architecture?”

“Something like that.” She muttered, her gaze flickering toward the basket. “What’s with the groceries? Thought priests lived off bread and wine.”

He laughed softly, a sound that caught her off guard with its ease. “I help cook meals for the orphanage down the street. Today, I’m making minestrone. Would you like to join me?”

Her stomach growled at the mention of food, betraying her. She clenched her jaw, hating how transparent she felt under his calm gaze.

“I don’t need charity.” She snapped.

“It’s not charity.” He replied evenly. “It’s dinner. And I could use an extra set of hands in the kitchen.”

For a moment, she considered refusing. She didn’t want to owe him anything, didn’t want to feel like a stray dog he was taking pity on. But the memory of her last proper meal)–stale bread and half a bruised apple–made her hesitate.

“Fine." She said finally. “But I’m not peeling anything.”

Stefano smiled, stepping aside to let her in. “Deal.”

The church kitchen was small but warm, the scent of fresh basil and simmering vegetables filling the air. Stefano handed her a knife and a cutting board, instructing her to chop carrots while he stirred the pot.

“You’re awfully trusting for someone who just handed me a weapon.” Y/N remarked, eyeing the blade.

Stefano chuckled. “I have faith you’ll use it wisely.”

“Big mistake.” She muttered, though the corners of her mouth twitched upward despite herself.

As they worked, Stefano didn’t pry or ask questions. Instead, he told her stories–about the children at the orphanage, the elderly nun who ran it and the stray cat that had made itself a permanent resident.

“You talk too much.” Y/N said at one point, though her tone lacked its usual bite.

“Do I?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes. It’s exhausting.”

“Noted.” Stefano said, his lips twitching into a smile. “Would you prefer silence?”

She paused, the knife hovering over the cutting board. “No.” She admitted quietly.

They finished the soup in companionable quiet, the kind that didn’t feel oppressive or awkward. When it was done, Stefano ladled a generous portion into two bowls and set one in front of her.

Y/N hesitated, the steam rising to meet her nose. “This doesn’t mean I’m coming back." She said.

“I know.” He replied, taking a seat across from her.

“And I’m not peeling anything next time either.”

“Understood.”

Despite herself, she smirked, picking up her spoon. The soup was warm and comforting, the kind of meal that felt like a hug you didn’t know you needed.

For the first time in a long time, Y/N didn’t feel like running.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Y/N didn’t intend to get involved with the orphanage.

In fact, she tried her best to avoid it. After that evening in the church kitchen, she made a mental note to steer clear of Stefano, his kind eyes and his frustrating way of making her feel seen. But it was hard to avoid someone who seemed to know the streets better than she did.

The next time she ran into him, it was on a narrow cobblestone alley near the bakery where she scavenged day-old bread. Stefano was crouched beside a small boy with dirt-smudged cheeks and mismatched shoes, tying a loose shoelace while the child babbled about something Y/N couldn’t quite hear.

She paused mid-step, her instincts screaming at her to turn around and disappear, but Stefano looked up and spotted her. His smile was as warm as the sun peeking through the clouds.

“Y/N.” He called, straightening up. “Perfect timing.”

“For what?” She asked warily, keeping her distance.

“This is Luca.” Stefano said, gesturing to the boy. “He’s one of the children at the orphanage.”

Luca grinned at her, his two front teeth missing. “Are you the lady who helped Father Stefano cook soup?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “How do you—”

“He told us.” Luca interrupted proudly. “He said you’re very good at chopping carrots.”

Her lips twitched, though she fought the urge to smile. “Is that so?”

Stefano shrugged, the picture of innocence. “I might’ve mentioned it.”

Before she could reply, Luca grabbed her hand with surprising confidence for a boy his size. “Come with us! Father Stefano is taking me to get a new book. I want to show you my favorite one!”

Y/N glanced at Stefano, who looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. “He’s persistent.” He said, as if that explained everything.

“I noticed.” She muttered, but Luca’s grip was firm, and before she knew it, she was following them down the alley.

The bookshop smelled of old paper and ink, a comforting blend that Y/N hadn’t realized she missed. Luca darted between the shelves like a whirlwind, pulling out books and chattering to Stefano about each one.

Y/N hovered near the door, feeling out of place among the neat rows of novels and the quiet hum of conversation. Stefano didn’t push her to join them, but every so often, he would glance her way, a silent invitation in his gaze.

Eventually, Luca ran up to her with a battered copy of 'The Adventures of Pinocchio'. “This one’s my favorite.” He announced, holding it out to her.

Y/N took the book hesitantly, running her fingers over the worn cover. “Why?”

“Because it’s about a boy who makes a lot of mistakes, but still gets a happy ending.” Luca said matter-of-factly. “Do you like it?”

She stared at the book, her throat tightening. “I... I haven’t read it.”

Luca’s eyes widened. “You should! Father Stefano can read it to you if you want. He’s really good at the voices.”

“I’ll keep that in mind." She said, her voice softer than she intended as she glanced at the priest.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

By the time they left the bookshop, Y/N had somehow been roped into visiting the orphanage.

“It’s just for a quick tour.” Stefano said as they walked. “No pressure.”

“Sure...” She said dryly. “Because you’re not the least bit manipulative.”

He smiled, unbothered by her sarcasm. “Not manipulative. Just persuasive.”

The orphanage was a modest building tucked away on a quiet street, its walls painted a cheerful yellow that stood out against the gray stone surrounding it. Inside, the air buzzed with the sounds of children laughing, arguing, and running down the halls.

Y/N stood awkwardly near the entrance, unsure of what to do with herself as Stefano greeted the nuns who ran the place. Luca immediately disappeared into a crowd of kids, holding up his new book like a trophy.

“Would you like to help serve dinner?” Stefano asked, turning to her.

Her first instinct was to say no, to bolt for the door and never look back. But something about the way he asked–like it wasn’t a big deal, like she wasn’t some project to fix–made her hesitate.

“Fine.” She muttered. “But don’t expect me to be good at it.”

The evening passed in a blur of noise and activity, leaving Y/N more drained than she expected. When the children had finally scattered to their rooms and the last of the dishes were washed, she found herself lingering in the quiet kitchen, unsure why she hadn’t left yet.

Stefano was at the table, carefully folding a pile of napkins. The room was lit by a single oil lamp, casting soft shadows across the worn wooden surfaces.

“You’re still here.” He said without looking up, his voice steady but not surprised.

“Yeah, well... I didn’t want to walk home in the dark." She muttered, though she wasn’t entirely sure it was true.

Stefano nodded, finishing his task before meeting her gaze. “Fair enough. Sit down for a bit, then.”

She hesitated but eventually sank into the chair across from him. The silence stretched between them, not quite comfortable but not unbearable either.

“Why do you do it?” She asked suddenly, her fingers tracing patterns on the tabletop.

“Do what?”

“All of this.” She said, gesturing vaguely. “The orphanage, the soup, the... whatever it is you do every day. Don’t you ever get tired of trying to save people?”

Stefano leaned back in his chair, studying her with that infuriatingly calm expression. “Sometimes...” He admitted. “But it’s not about me. It’s about them.”

“That’s such a cop-out answer.” She said, rolling her eyes.

He laughed softly. “Maybe. But it’s the truth.”

Y/N frowned, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “I don’t get it. You don’t even know me and yet you’re–” She stopped, searching for the right word.

“Persistent?” He offered.

“Annoying.” She corrected, though her tone was less sharp than usual.

Stefano chuckled, folding his hands on the table. “You remind me of someone I knew once. Someone who thought they didn’t need anyone, that they could carry the weight of the world on their own.”

“Let me guess.” Y/N said dryly. “You swooped in and saved them too?”

“Not exactly.” He said, his gaze softening. “But I helped them see that they weren’t as alone as they thought.”

Y/N’s throat tightened, the words hitting closer to home than she wanted to admit. She looked away, her eyes landing on the flickering flame of the lamp. “I’m not looking to be saved, you know.”

“I know." Stefano said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t care.”

She swallowed hard, the weight of his words pressing against her chest. “You’re really bad at minding your own business.”

“It’s a terrible habit.” He agreed, his lips curving into a faint smile.

Despite herself, Y/N felt the corners of her mouth twitch. She quickly masked it by standing up and reaching for her coat. “I should go.”

Stefano stood as well, but he didn’t try to stop her. “The doors are always open, Y/N.”

She paused in the doorway, her hand resting on the worn wood. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

But as she stepped into the cool night air, a part of her wondered if maybe, just maybe, she didn’t mind the idea of coming back.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The rain came back with a vengeance two nights later.

Y/N hadn’t meant to end up on the church steps again. She’d sworn to herself after that evening at the orphanage that she was done with Stefano and his relentless kindness. But as the storm rolled in, soaking her to the bone and turning the streets into rivers of filth, she found her feet taking her there anyway.

By the time she pushed open the heavy wooden doors, she was shaking from both cold and exhaustion. The church was dimly lit, the flicker of candlelight casting long shadows on the walls. She hesitated just inside, unsure if she was intruding, when a familiar voice cut through the stillness.

“You’re drenched.”

Stefano stood at the altar, his cassock loose and his hair slightly mussed, as if he’d been running his hands through it. His expression was unreadable, but there was no mistaking the concern in his eyes.

“I didn’t come here for you.” She said defensively, though it sounded weak even to her own ears.

“I didn’t say you did." He replied, stepping down from the altar. “Come on. There’s a fire in the rectory.”

“I’m fine!" She snapped, but her trembling hands betrayed her.

Stefano didn’t argue. He simply waited, his calm presence somehow more infuriating than if he’d tried to insist. Finally, with a defeated sigh, she followed him through a side door and into the rectory.

The small room was cozy, with a crackling fire and a simple wooden table cluttered with books and papers. Stefano handed her a dry towel and gestured for her to sit by the hearth.

She hesitated, hating how vulnerable she felt, but the warmth was too tempting to resist. She sank into the chair, wrapping the towel around herself as she stared into the flames.

“Do you want tea?” He asked, already moving toward a small kettle.

“Why do you care?” She muttered.

Stefano paused, his back to her. “Because someone has to.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut. She bit her lip, refusing to let him see how much they affected her. “I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity." He said, turning to face her. “It’s just... care.”

She laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and brittle. “Care? You don’t even know me.”

“Then help me understand.” Stefano said softly, his eyes locking onto hers.

For a moment, she wanted to run, to throw up every wall she’d spent years building. But something about his voice, his presence, made her stay.

“I don’t need anyone to save me." She said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I know.” Stefano replied. “But that doesn’t mean you have to carry everything alone.”

The dam cracked, just a little. “You don’t get it.” Her voice cracked, her hands tightening around the towel. “I’ve tried. I’ve tried to fix things, to be better, but it’s like every time I get close, something pulls me back under.”

Her voice broke again and she hated herself for it. She hated that she was falling apart in front of him, of all people.

Stefano didn’t speak right away. Instead, he pulled a chair closer and sat across from her, his presence steady and unshakable.

“It’s not about being perfect.” He said quietly. “It’s about trying. And letting people help when you can’t do it alone.”

She shook her head, tears burning in her eyes. “I don’t even believe in God. What am I doing here?”

“You’re here because you’re tired.” Stefano said simply. “And that’s okay.”

The honesty in his voice, the lack of judgment, made her chest ache. She looked away, the firelight blurring in her vision.

“I don’t know how to stop running.” She admitted, her voice so soft she wasn’t sure he’d heard her.

“You don’t have to figure it all out tonight.” the priest said gently. “But maybe... maybe you don’t have to run alone.”

Y/N closed her eyes, letting his words sink in. For the first time in years, the thought of staying still didn’t feel like a trap.

And as the rain pounded against the windows, she let herself believe, just for a moment, that maybe Stefano was right.

As the minutes ticked by, the warmth of the fire and the rhythmic patter of the storm lulled her into a strange stillness. It was as if the world had quieted around her, leaving only the soft crackle of the flames and Stefano’s steady presence.

Her body betrayed her exhaustion, sinking deeper into the chair as her eyes grew heavy. She fought it at first. After all, sleep was a dangerous thing, a state where her defenses crumbled and memories had a habit of sneaking in uninvited. But here, cocooned in the unexpected safety of the rectory, her resistance faltered.

Stefano hadn’t spoken in a while, but she could sense he was still nearby, perhaps reading or praying silently. That thought, oddly enough, didn’t irritate her. If anything, it anchored her, the knowledge that someone else was awake, someone who wasn’t asking anything of her.

Her lashes fluttered shut despite her protests and her breathing slowed.

Stefano looked up from his place by the table, his gaze softening when he saw her. She was curled in on herself, her knees drawn up slightly as if to shield herself from a world that had been too harsh. He noticed how her face, always so guarded, had softened in sleep, the tension melted away by the fire’s warmth.

For a long moment, he simply watched, his own thoughts a quiet murmur of prayer and questions.

Rising silently, he fetched a blanket from a nearby shelf. With the same care one might show a fragile relic, he draped it over her, tucking the edges gently around her shoulders. The gesture wasn’t calculated or deliberate; it was instinctive, driven by a need to offer comfort where it was so clearly needed.

When he returned to his seat, he found his gaze drifting back to her. She had mentioned she didn’t believe in God, but there was something deeply sacred about the vulnerability she showed now, even if unintentionally. Stefano wasn’t sure what to make of it.

The storm outside began to ebb, the rain now a faint drizzle. The room was quiet save for the occasional crack of the fire, and Stefano leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment.

He told himself he was only staying awake in case she stirred or needed something, but a part of him knew it was more than that. He wanted to be there, wanted her to wake to the same calmness she’d fallen asleep in.

And for the first time in a long while, Stefano found himself silently asking a question he couldn’t easily answer: Was this where he was meant to be?

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The storm had passed by the time morning arrived, leaving the world outside washed clean and glistening under the early light. The rectory was quiet, the air carrying the faint scent of burnt wood and something earthy, like rain-soaked stone.

Y/N stirred first, the blanket slipping slightly from her shoulders as she blinked herself awake. For a moment, she was disoriented, her surroundings unfamiliar. But then the memories of the previous night came rushing back—the fire, the storm, Stefano.

She sat up quickly, her eyes darting around until they landed on him. He was sitting by the table, head bowed, his fingers lightly gripping a rosary. The beads glinted faintly in the sunlight streaming through the small window.

She froze, unsure what to say. She wasn’t used to waking up in places like this, under blankets that didn’t feel like shields or traps.

“Good morning." Stefano said softly, not looking up.

Her breath caught. It wasn’t his voice—it was how calm it sounded, like he’d been waiting for her to wake but didn’t want to rush her.

“Morning." She muttered, her voice thick from sleep.

He glanced at her then, a small smile tugging at his lips. “There’s tea on the stove. It’s still warm if you’d like some.”

She shifted awkwardly, clutching the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “I, uh... I should probably go.”

Stefano nodded, but he didn’t look disappointed. “If that’s what you want.”

His response threw her off once again. She'd expected an argument, some polite insistence that she stay longer. Instead, he rose from his chair and moved to pour a cup of tea, setting it on the edge of the table nearest to her.

“No one’s keeping you here." He added, his tone light. “But you don’t have to leave right away."

Her heart betrayed her, skipping a beat at his words, causing her cheeks to flush. Stefano chuckled softly, his laugh warm but not mocking.

“Fine.” She grumbled, standing and letting the blanket fall back onto the chair. She crossed the room and picked up the teacup, avoiding his gaze as she took a tentative sip.

The tea was earthy and slightly sweet and it warmed her from the inside out. She hated how much she liked it.

They sat in silence for a while, Stefano returning to his seat by the table and Y/N perching on the edge of the chair nearest the fire. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t quite easy, either.

“I’m sorry." She said abruptly, the words spilling out before she could stop them.

Stefano looked up, surprised. “For what?”

“For... falling asleep here. For... last night.” She said, stumbling over the words. “I didn’t mean to–”

“There’s nothing to apologize for." He interrupted gently.

She frowned, her fingers tightening around the teacup. “Why are you like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like... you don’t expect anything in return.” She said, frustrated. “Like you’re just... good.”

Stefano smiled faintly, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not as good as you think, Y/N. I’m just trying to be present. For you, for anyone who needs it.”

She shook her head, setting the cup down with a little more force than necessary. “It’s not normal. People aren’t like that.”

“Maybe they should be." He said simply.

His words hung in the air, and for once, Y/N didn’t know how to respond.

Stefano watched her for a moment longer, then stood and began tidying the table, giving her space to think. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, his movements calm and deliberate.

Y/N sat with the empty teacup in her hands, staring into its depths as if it held answers to questions she hadn’t dared to ask. Stefano, now occupied with clearing the table, moved around the room with an ease she found infuriating. He wasn’t awkward or stiff, even in her presence and that calmness unsettled her.

Her stomach suddenly betrayed her, growling loudly in the otherwise quiet room. She winced, clutching at her midsection as if that could silence it.

Stefano glanced up from where he was folding a dishcloth. His expression was neutral, but there was the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. “Hungry much?”

Y/N’s cheeks burned and she looked anywhere but at him. “I... maybe. Just a little.”

“Good.” He said without hesitation, moving toward a small cabinet. “You should be.”

She blinked, caught off guard by his easy response. “Why is that good?”

“It means you’re comfortable enough to admit it.” Stefano said matter-of-factly, pulling out a loaf of bread and a small tin of jam.

Y/N opened her mouth to argue, but no words came out. She watched as he set the bread on the table, slicing it with practiced precision. The smell of fresh bread filled the room, making her mouth water despite herself.

“I don’t need much.” She said quickly, as if to justify her earlier confession.

“You’ll get what you need.” Stefano replied with a small smile, handing her a plate with a thick slice of bread, a smear of jam glistening on top.

She hesitated, eyeing the plate warily.

“It’s just bread." He said lightly, taking a piece for himself.

“Yeah, but you’re weird about bread." She muttered under her breath.

Stefano chuckled, a genuine, warm sound that made her feel both exposed and oddly at ease. “Not all bread is sacred. Sometimes it’s just breakfast.”

Her lips twitched despite herself and she finally took the plate. The first bite was tentative, but as soon as the flavors hit her tongue, she realized how hungry she really was. She devoured the slice in quick bites, her appetite overriding her self-consciousness.

Stefano didn’t comment, eating his own piece at a leisurely pace. When she finished, he handed her another without a word.

“Thanks." She said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re welcome.”

The simplicity of the exchange felt... odd. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but foreign. She was used to everything being a transaction, even kindness. But here he was, giving her bread and tea as if it were the most natural thing in the world, expecting nothing in return.

“More tea?” He asked after a moment, his voice light.

She nodded, a tiny smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The days after the storm had passed were quieter, filled with the usual calm that Stefano had long been accustomed to. Y/N, though still uncertain about what she had felt the night before, had started to come around more often. She wasn’t staying in the rectory, but she would stop by to help him with small tasks, trying—unsuccessfully at times—to hide the anxiety that always simmered beneath her calm exterior.

That afternoon, Stefano had asked her to accompany him to the market to pick up supplies for the upcoming week. It had seemed harmless enough, a simple errand—but as soon as they left the quiet of the rectory and entered the bustling streets, something in Y/N snapped.

The noise was too much–the crowded squares, the chatter of vendors, the clatter of carts, the children laughing too loudly–it all felt like a wall pressing in on her, suffocating her. She kept her head down, her breath growing shallower with each step.

Stefano, walking just a few paces ahead, didn’t seem to notice, his attention absorbed in the details of the market: the bread, the vegetables, the vendors waving at him in greeting. His calmness, the easy flow of his movements, made her feel even more out of place.

"Y/N?" Stefano's voice pulled her out of her spiraling thoughts. He turned back to her with a soft smile, a basket in his hands, his eyes warm with quiet understanding. "Are you alright?"

But the warmth in his gaze only made the pressure in her chest worse.

"I'm fine." She snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. The words tasted bitter in her mouth, but they were already out. "Can we just finish this? I don’t need your... your pity."

Stefano’s expression faltered, his brows furrowing ever so slightly. He stepped back toward her, but this time, his hand didn’t reach for her. Instead, he gave her space, his eyes studying her carefully.

“We've had this conversation before. I’m not pitying you, Y/N." He said, his tone gentle but firm. “I’m trying to help.”

"Well, I don’t need help." She said, her voice rising now, the words spilling out faster than she could stop them. “I don’t need anyone’s help! I don’t need your help! You think you can just... be kind and it fixes everything? It doesn’t! It doesn’t make me feel better! It doesn’t make the noise go away or the emptiness inside me go away! It doesn’t change anything!”

Her chest tightened as her words tumbled out, her face flushed with frustration and something darker, something deeper that she had been burying for far too long.

Stefano looked at her, his expression unreadable for a moment, and for a terrifying second, Y/N thought he might just walk away. But he didn’t. He just stood there, his gaze softening.

“I... I’m sorry.” She said, the harshness in her voice fading as quickly as it had appeared. She wanted to take back the words, wanted to swallow them down before they could do any more damage. She didn’t want to be angry with him. She never did.

But she had no control over it–no control over the feelings, over the panic, over the way everything felt like it was closing in around her. She took a shaky breath, her hand reaching for her hair, tugging it behind her ear as if the motion could ground her.

"I didn’t mean that." She whispered, her voice trembling.

Stefano said nothing, but he reached out to her. This time, it wasn’t with the gentle touch she had come to expect–it was an offering of space, a quiet permission to fall apart. He gave her a moment.

Y/N closed her eyes, trying to steady herself, but the panic was rising again, making her heart beat faster. She could feel the edges of her thoughts blurring, the familiar sense of losing control creeping in. She couldn’t breathe.

“I’m sorry.” She repeated, her hands trembling now as she clutched at her sides. “I don’t... I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know how to stop feeling like this, like I’m just... always about to fall apart. It's so exhausting."

Stefano stepped forward, his presence solid and steady. He didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he just stood there, waiting. His silence wasn’t uncomfortable, it was the kind that allowed her to breathe without pressure, as if he were giving her space to be broken without judgment.

“I don’t... I don’t know how to fix it.” She said, her voice breaking now, the tears that had been threatening to spill finally falling. “I just want to be normal, Stefano. I just want to... feel like I’m not falling apart every day.”

Her breath caught in her throat as she struggled to hold it together, but the sobs came anyway, wracking her body with the force of emotions she didn’t understand.

Stefano’s hand was on her arm before she even realized it, guiding her gently into the alcove of a nearby building where they could be out of sight of the bustling street. The smell of fresh bread and fruit was muffled in the space and the noise of the market softened, like a distant hum.

Y/N let him guide her, her head spinning as her emotions overwhelmed her. She hated how much it hurt, how raw it all felt, how much she wished she could just close herself off and pretend she was fine.

“I didn’t mean to...” She gasped, her chest tight with emotion.

Stefano didn’t interrupt her this time. He simply reached out, pulling her gently into a hug, his arms wrapping around her with a tenderness that made her want to collapse. His chest was warm against her cheek, his heartbeat steady and calm, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Y/N let herself lean into him, let herself just... break.

“I’m here." He whispered against her hair, his voice calm but full of unspoken strength. “I’m not going anywhere, Y/N.”

Her sobs quieted in the circle of his arms, the storm of emotions inside her beginning to settle. She didn’t know how long they stood there, the world outside continuing on without them, but eventually, she pulled away, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

“I’m sorry.” she whispered again, feeling the weight of her words. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

Stefano looked down at her, his eyes soft. “You don’t have to apologize. You’re not broken, Y/N. You’re just... struggling. And that’s okay.”

Y/N shook her head, the tears still fresh on her cheeks. “I don’t deserve your kindness. I don’t deserve anything.”

“You deserve more than you know.” He said, his voice unwavering. “And it’s okay not to be okay. You’re not alone in this.”

Y/N stared at him, her breath still uneven. “But... I’m just a burden, Father. A waste of space and air. I—”

Her voice cracked as the words tumbled from her lips, the self-loathing that had been building for so long spilling over. She could feel the weight of her shame and pain crushing her chest, suffocating her with each breath. She looked away, not wanting him to see the cracks in her carefully built façade.

Stefano’s eyes softened with a mix of concern and understanding, his hand gently reaching up to touch her face. His touch was tender, almost reverent, as if he was afraid that even the slightest movement might break her further. His fingers brushed the dampness of her cheeks, wiping away the last of her tears with a tenderness she couldn’t comprehend.

“Y/N.” he murmured, his voice so soft, so sincere. “You’re not a burden. You’re not a waste of anything.”

His words weren’t just comforting. They were a lifeline, pulling her from the depths of her own mind. His hand stayed on her face, his thumb brushing across her skin in slow, soothing circles.

“I know it’s hard to believe...” He continued, his voice steady. “But you’re worthy of love. You’re worthy of kindness. You’re worthy of more than you know.”

Her breath hitched, and she could feel the tightness in her chest loosen just a fraction. For a moment, she allowed herself to close her eyes, to let his warmth wrap around her, the security of his presence grounding her.

“But I don’t know how to be that person." She whispered, her voice barely a breath, like the admission of a secret she had kept buried for far too long. “I don’t know how to stop feeling broken.”

Stefano took a step closer, his body just inches from hers, but it wasn’t overwhelming. It was like he was offering her the space to feel, to breathe, without rushing her. His eyes, soft and full of patience, never left hers.

“You don’t have to be fixed, Y/N." He said, his voice quiet but intense. “You don’t need to be anything other than what you are. You’re enough, just as you are.”

The sincerity in his gaze made something shift inside her–a crack in the wall she had so carefully constructed around herself. She felt her heart beat faster, not from panic or fear, but from something else–something unfamiliar, yet not unwelcome.

“I don’t deserve your kindness." She murmured, her voice trembling as she struggled to keep the emotions at bay. “I don’t deserve anything from you.”

His thumb continued to stroke her cheek, the motion gentle, almost reverent, as if he were memorizing the curve of her face. “You deserve everything, Y/N. Everything good and beautiful.”

The tenderness in his voice was like a balm to her wounds, and before she could stop herself, she reached up, her hand covering his, pressing it more firmly against her cheek. There was something about the way he was looking at her, something in the way he was holding her gaze, that made her feel... safe.

Safe to feel. Safe to be weak. Safe to be vulnerable.

For a long moment, they stood there, not speaking, just breathing. Her heart fluttered in her chest, the feeling of his touch making her head swim with confusion and something deeper—something she didn’t want to name, but couldn’t ignore.

She wanted to pull away, to step back into the comfort of her guarded self, but she couldn’t. His presence was magnetic, drawing her in, offering her something she hadn’t realized she needed: connection.

His eyes never left hers as he leaned in, the space between them growing smaller with each breath. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, almost a whisper, as if the moment was too delicate to disturb.

“You don’t have to apologize, Y/N. Not to me. Not ever.”

And before she could say anything else, he did something that took her completely by surprise–he gently cupped her chin and tilted her face up toward him, his eyes soft and full of unspoken emotions. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he pressed his forehead to hers, his breath mingling with hers, both of them standing in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Y/N felt her heart skip a beat. The simple gesture of his closeness, the warmth of his skin against hers, sent a rush of heat through her. Her pulse quickened, and she was suddenly acutely aware of everything—the faint scent of his cologne, the rhythm of their breathing, the slight tremble in her hands.

“I’m here." He whispered, so quietly that she almost didn’t hear it. “You don’t have to carry this alone.”

The words hung in the air, hanging between them like a promise, and for the first time in a long time, Y/N felt something shift inside her. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as broken as she had believed. Maybe she wasn’t beyond saving.

Slowly, she leaned into him, her forehead pressing against his as if she were searching for something–something she hadn’t even known she needed until this moment. His warmth, his kindness, his unwavering presence, it all felt like a lifeline.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” She murmured, the words escaping her before she could stop them. “But when I’m with you... I feel like maybe I could be okay.”

Stefano remained still, his breath steady as his arms slowly circled around her, pulling her closer. His embrace was warm, comforting, and it felt like home.

“You don’t have to know, Y/N.” He said, his voice soft and full of promise. “You just have to be. And I’ll be here, no matter what.”

She closed her eyes, allowing herself to fall into his embrace, the world around her fading away. For the first time in a long time, Y/N didn’t feel so alone.

And for a fleeting moment, as she stood in his arms, she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to live without the constant weight of her anxiety, without the chains of self-doubt. What if, just for once, she could allow herself to feel love without fear?

As the rain began to fall again, soft and steady, Y/N let herself believe just for a moment that she could be worthy of it.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The days after Y/N's moment of weakness were a strange blend of quiet moments and growing anticipation. Y/N found herself slipping into a new rhythm, one that was defined not just by her own inner turmoil, but by the space Stefano had carved for her in his life. It wasn’t just his kindness that touched her, but also the way he seemed to understand without asking, the way his mere presence soothed her like a balm on an open wound.

But with that soothing presence came a tension she couldn’t ignore. The simple moments started to hold something deeper–a current of attraction neither of them spoke aloud, but both felt in the space between them.

One evening, after a particularly long day of helping him organize church materials, they found themselves alone in the library. The evening sun cast a warm, golden light through the windows and Y/N stood by the bookshelf, tracing the spines of old books without really seeing them. She was aware of Stefano just behind her, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn and face him. The air between them felt charged, like the calm before a storm and it made her heart race in a way she wasn’t prepared for.

Stefano was silent for a moment, watching her. He hadn’t said much since they’d finished their work, but his presence was undeniable, always just a step away. Finally, his voice broke the silence, low and soft, but with an edge that made her turn toward him.

“You’re distant tonight.” He trailed off, his eyes dark, scanning her face. “What’s on your mind, Y/N?”

She didn’t know how to answer. The truth was, she wasn’t just thinking about her usual turmoil–she was thinking about him. His hands, his voice, the way he stood so close without ever overstepping. She couldn’t deny the pull she felt toward him, an attraction that seemed to grow stronger each day. But it terrified her too. She wasn’t ready to let go of the walls she’d built around herself and yet, being near him made those walls feel like they were crumbling.

“I... I’m fine." She replied, her voice betraying her, soft and uncertain. “Just... tired.”

He didn’t buy it. Of course he didn’t. Stefano stepped closer and his gaze softened, as if he was seeing through her carefully constructed exterior. His hand moved to the side of her face, his thumb brushing against her jaw in that same tender way he always did. But this time, the touch lingered. She could feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of her blouse and it made her breath hitch in her throat.

“You don’t have to hide from me, Y/N." He said, his voice thick with an emotion she couldn’t place. His hand slid gently to the back of her neck, his thumb massaging the skin there, sending a shiver down her spine. “I’m here. You’re not alone.”

Her breath caught in her chest, the closeness between them making her heart pound. She had never felt like this with anyone–this mix of comfort and desire, of emotional need and physical yearning. It was overwhelming and it took everything in her not to pull away.

“I...” She started, but the words didn’t come. She couldn’t make herself speak.

Stefano’s hand tightened slightly, his thumb pressing into the sensitive spot just below her ear, a gentle but firm pressure that sent a jolt of electricity through her. His gaze lowered to her lips and the world seemed to shrink down to just the two of them.

“Y/N...” His voice was barely a whisper, his breath warm against her face. “Is this okay?”

Her heart thudded in her chest, every inch of her body screaming at her to step back, to run, to preserve the safety of her emotional walls. But his touch was gentle, patient, as if he was waiting for her to choose. Waiting for her to admit that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want to keep running anymore.

With trembling hands, she reached up, cupping his face in her palms, feeling the warmth of his skin against hers. Her fingers brushed the edge of his jaw, his skin awfully smooth against her fingertips and it made her breath catch. She could feel the weight of the moment, the tension between them thick and palpable, like a rope being pulled tighter with every passing second.

“I’m scared.” She admitted, her voice barely audible, the words slipping out before she could stop them. “I don’t know if I can... let myself feel this.”

His hands moved, wrapping loosely around her waist and pulling her gently toward him. His forehead rested against hers and for a moment, they just stood there, the world outside slipping away, leaving only the two of them in the quiet of the room.

“You don’t have to be scared with me." Stefano murmured, his voice low and soothing. “I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. I've said this before, I'm saying this now and I'll say this as many times as needed." He whispered softly. "I’m not going to hurt you. Just... let yourself fall and I'll be there to catch you."

And with that, the last of her defenses cracked.

She leaned in, her lips brushing against his in a kiss so soft, so tentative, that it almost felt like a question. But Stefano responded with the same quiet intensity, his hands pulling her even closer, deepening the kiss, his lips demanding more without words. It was slow, reverent, as if he was savoring the moment, letting her take the lead as much as he was.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless, their hearts pounding in their chests. Y/N felt light-headed, as if the very air around her had shifted, become heavier with something more. Something dangerous, yet exhilarating.

“Do you trust me?” Stefano asked, voice husky, his eyes dark with a hunger that mirrored her own, a hunger she's never seen in his his eyes before.

Y/N hesitated for a moment, searching his face, looking for any sign that this wasn’t real. But all she saw was the sincerity in his gaze, the warmth in his touch. And for the first time in what felt like forever, she realized that maybe, just maybe, she could trust him.

“I do.” she whispered, the words slipping from her lips like a secret. And with that, the space between them dissolved, and the rest of the world faded away.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Weeks passed and the seasons slowly shifted. The once oppressive weight that Y/N carried seemed to lift, not because it had vanished entirely, but because it no longer felt as unbearable. Stefano had been her steady anchor, his unwavering patience and tenderness guiding her through every storm, whether in her own mind or in the world outside.

They spent countless hours together–quiet mornings at the church, long walks through the fields when the weather allowed and nights where Y/N found herself curled up against him, talking about everything and nothing, her heart finally beginning to find peace. There were still moments of doubt, moments when she wondered if she was deserving of the love she was being given, but Stefano’s presence was a constant reminder that she was worthy, just as she was.

One evening, as the soft glow of twilight bathed the rectory in golden light, they sat side by side on the bench in the garden. The air was cool, the scent of blooming flowers mingling with the earth. Stefano had his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him, her head resting against his chest. There was no need for words—only the sound of their breaths, slow and steady, as if they had found a rhythm together.

“I never thought I could feel like this.” Y/N whispered, her voice soft but certain. “Like... like I belong. Like I matter.”

Stefano smiled, his thumb gently stroking the back of her hand. “You always mattered, Y/N. You just needed to see it for yourself.”

She looked up at him, her eyes filled with something raw, something tender. She had never imagined that this–a simple, quiet life, filled with love and understanding–was something she could have, but here it was. Here he was.

“I... I love you.” She said suddenly, the words spilling out like a secret she had been holding onto for too long.

Stefano’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes searching hers, as if to make sure she truly meant it. His hand gently cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing her skin. “I love you too, Y/N.” He replied, his voice thick with emotion.

It wasn’t the grand declarations of love she had once imagined, full of fireworks and dramatic gestures. It was quieter, more profound, something that had grown in the small moments, the shared silences, the understanding that passed between them like a silent promise.

Y/N felt her chest tighten with emotion as she gazed into his eyes, seeing the depth of his affection reflected back at her. The love wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t the stuff of fairy tales, but it was real. It was grounding. And it was exactly what she had needed to heal.

With a small laugh, she shifted in his arms, her hands resting on his chest. “I’m sorry for all the times I pushed you away." She said, her voice tinged with regret. “I was scared... and I didn’t know how to let someone in.”

Stefano’s fingers gently traced her jaw, his touch light. “You never had to apologize, Y/N. I never wanted to force you into anything. You’ve come so far and I’m proud of you. I’ll always be here, no matter what.”

The sincerity in his words hit her deeply. There was a security in his love that she had never known before. For the first time, she allowed herself to fully embrace the love he offered, without doubt, without hesitation.

As they sat together, the last light of the day began to fade, leaving only the soft hum of the evening around them. Y/N nestled closer into Stefano’s embrace, a sense of peace settling over her. She had learned, through him, that love wasn’t just about the grand moments or the promises made under the stars. It was about the quiet presence, the steady hands, the shared silences and the understanding that no matter the storm, they would face it together.

And so, as the night embraced them in its quiet beauty, Y/N and Stefano knew, without needing words, that this was only the beginning of their story. A story that had been born from pain, but had grown into something stronger, something full of hope, healing, and the kind of love that would last, no matter the challenges ahead.

For once, Y/N didn’t feel like she was just drifting. She wasn’t alone, and for the first time, she believed in the love they shared, the love that had healed her, that had shown her what it truly meant to be loved.

And in that moment, as she looked into Stefano’s eyes, she realized she was exactly where she was meant to be.

The end.

[marcsburnerphone]

And they were roomates

(Captain John price x F!reader)

Summary: the captain wants somewhere more homely to settle down and when an offer like yours comes alight on Zillow he must take up on it.

Warnings: kissy kissy, a little tinsy bit angsty, flirtatious banter, they're going through it in their own ways.

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6- part 7 - part 8 - Part 9 - part 10 - part 11

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

You painted small calculated strokes of warm blues and vibrant pinks. No design or carefully articulated picture simply two beautiful contrast colors dancing around each other. You keep on at this for what feels like minutes but ends up being hours. As you mix the two colors in the corner of the canvas and watch the purple hue they create, the sun also greets the ceiling in John's room. It startles you at first then you realize at least you made it through the night. You sit back yawning quietly, your eyes finding their way to John's sleeping form.

“I can feel it when you stare.” you smile softly, something that comes naturally at the sound of his voice.

“That's why I do it.”

“Yeah?” he asks, turning on his back before reaching to prop a pillow up behind his head.

“Yeah.” he admires through his sleepy gaze. You look sad, it fucking kills him. His head then turns further to the left to catch a glimpse of your work.

“Looks nice, just color though?” he asks in a whisper.

“Yeah I don't know, it just felt right.” you shrug, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Come ere’” he says, reaching out to you and lifting the covers.

You stand carefully placing the brushes and pallet onto the floor furthest from the bed before crawling in beside him. He smells of sleep and john. It's a heavenly scent, something close to pheromones it draws you in so close that you want to crawl inside his skin.

“You know i’ll miss you just as much, I fear even more actually.” he rubs a comforting hand over your back as his deep voice reverberates in his chest.

“Impossible.” you muster up trying to keep your voice from shaking.

“Only impossible thing is making this easy,” he admits. He feels the stutter in your breath as you try to keep yourself from crying. This is scary, scarier than eight guns being pointed at his chest and head. Death doesn't scare John Price, hurting you does.

“When I return we should go on a vacation somewhere on the coast.” 

“We should.” you look up at him and his too perfect lips and too perfect nose and eyes. 

“Don't look at me like that.” 

“Like what?” you say in an innocent tone.

“Like you’re trying to tell me you’ll be my destruction.” you laugh, laying your head on his chest hearing the quick pace of his heart beat.

“You should rest your eyes for a little.” he says worried about the fact that you slept for less than four hours last night.

“Will you stay with me?”

“Always.” he says, running his thick fingers through your hair and down your back. His ways of comforting you are more physical he thinks he knows how to use his body more than his words so he smooths the wrinkles in your bedtime shirt as in to say ‘i’m here for you’ and he swipes the hair out of your face to say ‘don’t worry your pretty head’ and squeezes your bum to say ‘i’m a man of morals, but still a man’.

—------

“Wake up love.” John says softly into your hair before leaving a kiss on your forehead. You groan in annoyance and feel the smile that now rests on his lips.

“What? it's nearly noon and your phone is buzzing in the kitchen.” your eyes slowly open as you flip to face the opposite way.

“How can you even hear that?” you say in a groggy tone.

“I’m not that old.” you laugh smacking at the hand that squeezes your hip.

“You know that's not what I meant.” you say sitting up slowly stretching as your arms rise to the ceiling. 

“You’re unbelievably gorgeous, how’d I get so lucky?” you turn your head to look at him, a rosy blush on your cheeks.

“Oh stop being such a flirt.” you say getting up from the bed and heading out of the room.

“So you just leave me here.” he slightly shouts from the bed. He hears your footsteps halt and turn around. You walk back into the room giving him a quick kiss then pulling him up with all your might.

“There you go.” he says standing on his feet.

“I forgot you need assistance to get out of bed.” he laughs from deep within his chest pulling you back against his front to kiss at your neck. You two walk down the hallway, he stops in the kitchen and you leave to go search for your phone in the living area.

“Aha here it is.” you say holding the small device up in victory. It strikes his heart here and now that in less than another twenty four hours his morning will look nothing like this and the sound of your laugh will be mere motivation.

You make your way back to him dialing back the call from this morning which to no one's surprise is your sister. You gleefully sing a goodmorning into the phone knowing full well that it's the afternoon.

He starts the coffee pot before giving you another quick kiss and heading into his office. It's only then he lets a tear slip, a foolish show of weak emotion, but it just happens to be from the strongest feeling he has ever encountered, love.

Its soul gripping and head spinning. It makes his heart mush, you make his heart mush yet his will strong. You’re a distraction but one he gladly invites into his already busy mind. You poke and prod at a military machine, you’re everything he’s prayed for and more than he ever expected. You even scare him.

“John?” you knock for the fifth time a little concerned.

“Yes darling, come in.” he says quickly, clearing his voice.

“Are you okay?” you ask, holding a warm cup of coffee.

“Yes, just thinking.” you set it softly on the coaster you had given him when you realized the water stains popping up all over the surface.

“Thankyou.” you nod, reaching your hand out to cup his chin. You give him a slow soft kiss, one on the lips then one to his cheek before leaving.

You’ve noticed when he works he tends to be more serious and quiet therefore you don't think too much but that doesn't mean it's not resting in the back of your mind. You shut the door softly and go on about your day.

—-------

just a glimpse into their relationship before John departs.

i've missed you guys terribly sorry for my long absence<3

@beebeechaos @ttsbaby01 @arminarlertssword @quakeroaksguy @rafaelacallinybbay @bumblebeesfromvenus @glitterypirateduck @midnights-song @lovelythingsinternal @fruitymoonbeams-blog @kkaaaagt @kit-williams @enfppuff @kythefangirl25 @eviltheleon @here4thespice @dclore22 @raethethey @waves-against-a-cliff @novausstuff @darling006 @vampirekilmerfic @Dreams-of-qian-qian @spngingerbread21 @thepumpkinqueen93 @copiasratscheese @youdontknowe @spyderdoll @angels-gonna-play @viisgrave @lieutenantlashfaz @sunndust @beckythecatqueen-blog @aoioozora @o-birdseed-o @mothmothmothmothmothmoth @ihateuguys @oversensitivitea @spicyspicyliving

[junixscribble]

Reliable Cures

Guess what… another one from the discord. Man, y’all are nuts (with much affection). TW for a smidge of depression at the start.

Title: Reliable Cures

WC: 1183w

Summary: Since being reborn into several different realities, Viktor has a hard time convincing himself that his life holds worth. He asks Jayce to pull him out of a bad stint with one of the only ways he knows of.

———-

There were bits of missing paint on the ceiling. Viktor knew this because he’d spent the past half hour staring at it. Jayce was in the kitchen, but he wasn’t going to go and rain on his parade just because he was feeling a little down. Well, maybe a lot down. The ceiling was interesting though, and it distracted him from the fact he should not be alive.

“V?” Jayce poked his head through the door. “You alright in there?”

Viktor didn’t answer or even move, and that was all Jayce needed. He gave a half smile before coming over to lean back with him on the bed.

“There’s paint missing in that corner.” Viktor said. Jayce hummed.

“There is.”

They lay there in each other's presence for a while until Jayce sat up again.

“I can tell you’re stuck in there.” He tapped on Viktor’s forehead. “What do you need?”

This was a familiar song and dance with them, so Jayce let Viktor silently take his hands and put them on his rib cage. Jayce’s look of concern morphed into a knowing smile at Viktor’s pink tinged cheeks.

“As you wish.”

Jayce leaned down and pressed a sweet kiss to Viktor’s forehead before dragging his hands down to the hem of his shirt. His hands slipped under it and Viktor twitched when Jayce’s hands replaced themselves on his ribs. His touch was warm and comforting, so Viktor let himself relax into it while burying his face in the nearest pillow - no way was he able to look Jayce in the face while asking for this.

Two fingers started delicately tracing feather light patterns over his ribs and Viktor twinged to the side, not making a sound. His arms stayed close to his sides, not pressing down but still defensive. Jayce smiled and kept tracing, noticing the spots that made Viktor twitch or wriggle.

“Can you lift your arms higher?” Jayce asked, and Viktor shuffled downwards so he could wrap his arms around the pillow he was hiding in. They both knew keeping still was a gargantuan task that neither of them could achieve, but arms? Still a hard ask, but that was fair game.

Two more fingers were added to the fray, paired up on each side to keep up the tingly patterns that were as comforting as they were tickly. Jayce was starting to hear muffled snickers coming from the pillow, so he pushed his shirt up fully to reveal the expanse of Viktor’s torso. His brace was off, tossed to the side, so he had full access to all the little marks that made his partners’ body his. Jayce pressed a kiss to a mole on his side and Viktor jerked, still quiet.

He figured it was time to make some noise, so Jayce added the rest of his fingers to the mix. With ten fingers spidering over his ribs, Viktor truly could not hold anything back. Full giggles started making themselves known, and slowly Viktor released his hold on the pillow and let Jayce see his face. His nose was scrunched up and his eyes were closed, but Jayce couldn’t look away from his wide smile.

“J-Jahahyce!”

“Yeah?” He replied, moving his spidering under his arms. Viktor squeaked in response, legs pedalling a little on the sheets before going completely floppy. He was laughing openly now, and Jayce couldn’t help but pepper little kisses all over his face and neck.

“Fuhuhuck, Jahayce!”

“You already said that.” Jayce teased, and Viktor looked him dead in the eyes.

“Amp it up.”

Jayce grinned and cracked his knuckles, laughing at Viktor’s eye roll before wiggling his fingers and burying them in his ribs. Viktor yelped and broke into full laughter, now unable to stop squirming. His ribs were a bad spot and Jayce knew it.

“Yohou fuhucker!” Viktor cried, and Jayce dragged his fingers down his ribs and skittered up his stomach a few times.

“I cannot stress how much you literally asked for this.”

Viktor made a choked noise and tossed his head to the side, almost trying to meld into the pillow behind him.

“Ihit tickles”

“You know what I bet would tickle more? It’s a game I call ‘I wonder how many ribs Viktor has…’”

“Ohoho, nonononO-!”

Jayce’s hands set themselves at the base of his ribs, wiggling between each one leading up to the top and making Viktor’s laughter turn silent. When he reached about halfway, just before a spot he knew would get him screaming, Jayce stopped.

“Ah shit, I lost count. I guess I’ll have to start again, super precise this time.”

Viktor just about lost his mind at that. “I’m gohoing to kihIHILL YOHOU!”

The whole torturous process started again and Viktor thrashed under him, steadfastly keeping his arms out of the way despite how badly his instincts told him to bring them down. This time Jayce kept going up his ribs and ever so gently wiggled his fingers into a particular spot just below the centre. Viktor cackled and just about kneed him in the stomach, yelling gibberish.

“Whoa, who knew that spot was bad?”

“YOHOU FUCKING DIHIHID!” Viktor cried, still laughing uncontrollably.

“This is like a tickle button!” Jayce teased, drilling into his death spot. Viktor was nearly crying and jerking like a fish out of water, but it still wasn’t enough. He needed more.

Jayce moved back to spidering over his ribs and stomach and Viktor narrowed his eyes at him.

“Hahah… that’s the behest you’ve gohohot?”

Jayce raised his eyebrows at the challenge. “Just remember. You signed up for this.”

Hands attached themselves back onto the extremely ticklish spot on his ribs and Viktor had about a second to prepare before Jayce was blowing a huge raspberry on his tummy. That was it - Viktor shrieked. It tickled more than his poor brain could comprehend, but it was perfectly filling the deficit in his soul. Viktor completely let himself go, thinking it couldn’t get any worse, but boy was he wrong.

Jayce pulled one of his hands away and pressed Viktor’s left arm to the bed while blowing a trail of raspberries up to his ribs, his other hand still skittering wildly. Once the raspberries reached that sensitive spot, Viktor lost the will to fight. Jayce was nibbling and tickling over his ribs like it was a five star meal, his scratchy beard wreaking havoc at the same time and Viktor felt like he was simultaneously in heaven and hell. He was pretty sure he was screaming, and there may have been some pointed knocks on the walls but there was no chance he could hold back now.

Once Viktor had been reduced to a gasping, laughing puddle of bones and tickle spots Jayce relented, scooping his hands under Viktor’s shoulders and cuddling close. He couldn’t help leaving a few last tickly kisses on his neck, though.

“I think my brain is sludge.” Viktor managed, coming down from the high. Jayce laughed.

“I’m impressed you can talk.”

“Shhhhut up.”

The next morning, several noise complaints were delivered to their door. Worth it.

[al-dusty33]

Don't know if I'm going to use this for my Jason Todd x reader story, but I wonder what everyone thinks of this.

Dialogue and scenes used from Arkham Knight, Arkham Knight: Genesis, Deadpool, and Batman: Under the Red Hood.

⚠️!Warning!⚠️: Torture, blood, branding, rotten/poisoned food, freezing, extreme violence with and without crowbar, electric shocks, waterboarding. Pretty much everything about Joker being a monster.

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream (bung, bung, bung, bung)

Joker struts over to the young, fractured Robin hanging by his wrists in the middle of the dimly lit room. It’s a beautiful, awful sight and the Clown Prince of Crime loves it.

“Wakey Wakey, Loverbird!” Joker cheerfully says as he gets closer to Jason.

The moment Jason hears his voice ringing in his ears, he whimpers and tries to shy away from the clown, but no amount of tugging on his restraints will allow him to escape.

It’s been… Two, no, three months since Jason fell into the clutches of the madman. Joker blackmailed Jason’s biological mother into turning him in before being betrayed herself after it was revealed Joker was never going to let her go. Despiste what she did, Jason couldn’t help but still love her.

Make him the cutest that I've ever seen (bung, bung, bung, bung)

Joker’s fingers ghost over the smooth metal bar of the branding iron, “Don’t look at me like that,” A cruel, twisted smile creeps up on Joker’s red painted lips, “Actually, do keep looking at me like that; it just makes it more fun.”

“What’s wrong, little bird? You think I’m going to hurt you?” His gloved fingertips briefly touch the glowing metal J to test how hot it is, “Why?” His head lolls back in a creepy, unsettling way as his green eyes stares deep into the very depths of Jason’s soul, “I’m not the bad guy here,” He shakes his head while almost mockingly saying, “Oh, no, no, no, no,” He walks closer to Jason then softly says, “It’s Batman. He’s abandoned you…” He gently, yet firmly, cups Jason’s chin then shakes the younger man’s head a little, “thrown you away like an unwanted puppy.”

Give him two lips like roses and clover (bung, bung, bung, bung)

Joker backs up and clasps his hands together like he was begging to someone, “Can I have him, daddy?” He asks in a playful, high-pitched voice, “Oh, please, please, please, please, please? I’ll take real good care of him.”

He turns around to act as the other person then continues speaking in a deeper tone of voice, “Anything to make you happy, princess,” He slowly turns his cruel attention toward Jason, “Just make sure people know he’s yours.”

He snaps his fingers then one of his goons walks into the room, removes Jason’s bound wrists from the hanging hook off the ceiling, and then lets Jason drop to the floor with a thud.

“We don’t want him to end up back here, do we?” He leisurely strides over to Jason, his grin twisting more and more cruel with each step.

With what little strength he has left, Jason tries to crawl into the shadows to bring some form of safety to himself. In some small, hopeful way, he believes Batman would be hiding in those shadows to save him.

Joker stops for a moment to taunt Jason by saying, “No we don’t, daddy,” He steps closer with the burning branding iron getting closer to the young man, “I want to keep him forever!”

Jason’s eyes widen in fear while he tries to crawl farther away. He feels all movement stopping the moment Joker’s foot lands on his back, and the fear he’s feeling intensifies, “No! No please!” He tries to push Joker off of him, but he has no strength left. Instead he continues to beg like a dog, “Please no! No!”

The sound of sizzling skin, Jason’s pained screaming, and Joker’s cruel laugh are the only horrifying sounds that can be heard inside the darkness.

Then tell him that his lonesome nights are over

Sandman, I'm so alone (bung, bung, bung, bung)

Jason sits hunched over in a wheelchair with barbed wire keeping him in place. Through his ripped costume, he can feel it poking into him and making him uncomfortable; he has to be careful if he doesn’t want to open any veins or arteries.

A door opens behind him, his heart skips a beat thinking Batman was finally here, but the familiar, awful laugh quickly dashes that hope.

“Happy birthday, Jason!” Joker says cheerfully. He walks over to Jason with a pep in his step, “You’re a whole year older! How does that feel?” He sets down a plate of wiggling cake in front of Jason.

Is it really already his birthday or is Joker trying to warp his sense of time?

Don't have nobody to call my own (bung, bung, bung, bung)

Joker smiles down at Jason as he continues speaking, “Don’t you worry, Loverbird,” He snaps his fingers and the door behind Jason swings open, “I made sure to invite some friends for your big day!”

One by one, Jason sees other patients of Arkham Asylum fill the room.

Bane, Calendar Man, Clayface, Poison Ivy, Killer Croc, Victor Zsasz, Two-Face, and Scarecrow, all wearing birthday hats. On the looks of the faces visible, it’s obvious no one wants to be here, but they must be here for something else.

Please turn on your magic beam

“Happy Birthday to you~” The villains all start reluctantly singing to Jason, besides Joker who seems to have something up his sleeve for this event.

Jason looks down at the wiggling cake and he can see the crude writing of “Happy Birthday” on the cake and the worms trying to escape the brown frosting. The sight of it is sickening and he can feel his stomach churning, yet his mouth still watered at the sight of food.

Joker grabs a fistful of Jason’s dark curls and continues to sing happy birthday, “Happy birthday, dear Jason~ Happy birthday to you~” He leans in close to whisper in Jason’s ear, “Make a wish, pumpkin,” Before slamming Jason’s face into the cake.

The clown keeps Jason’s face in the cake for a couple more seconds, almost like he’s trying to suffocate the young man, before pulling his face away while laughing, “That never gets old!”

Joker lets Jason go then turns around, “I have somewhere to be; sorry for not staying longer for your big day,” He looks over his shoulder and smiles, “You have fun with your guests, but remember to brush your teeth, finish your homework, and be in bed by nine.”

And with that, the clown exits the room and leaves Jason with the other patients, who seem excited to have some “fun” with Jason; as evidenced by their sadistic smirks, Bane cracking his knuckles, and Zsasz playing with his sharp knife.

Jason can already feel the dizziness and sickness coming in.

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream

Joker takes his time walking to the chest freezer sitting in the back of the walk-in freezer at the asylum. Walking just behind is Officer Frank Boles holding a flashlight. The officer was bought off by Joker when the clown first obtained the boy blunder six months ago to help keep Jason a secret from everyone else in the asylum and to the people outside.

Make him the cutest that I've ever seen

“Oh, lamb chop! You’ve been hiding in here for nearly half an hour,” Joker stops in front of the chest freezer. He flashes Officer Boles a crazy grin before opening the lid and taking a peek inside, “How are you feeling?”

Jason’s body was violently shivering, his nose was completely red, and his skin was pale, almost like a dead body. He can feel the light shining on him, but his eyes refuse to open too wide, “B-Batman…? Is that y-you?”

Joker reaches out and lightly taps Jason’s cheek, but due to how cold the younger man was, those small slaps hurt a lot. Joker leans his elbows on the edge of the opening then whispers, “Batman’s not coming to save you, Jason.”

“He’ll come…” Jason mutters through chattering teeth as his eyes peer up at Joker’s.

Joker leans back then rests his hands on the lip of the opening, “It’s been six months now, Jason,” He tilts his head in a cruel manner as his smile turns upward even more, “I think it’s time to face facts.”

Jason’s eyes narrow into a glare and he spits out, “S-Screw you!” Despite the cold, the fire still burns in his eyes, albeit a bit dim.

Joker laughs then pats Jason on the head, “That’s the spirit! You’re a real chip off the ol’ Bat block,” He looks down at his hand like he was checking his nails, even though he’s wearing gloves, “Not that it’ll do you any good.

Jason closes his eyes, almost like in a defeated way, “Why w-won’t you just kill m-me…?” He mutters slowly.

Give him the word that I'm not a rover

Joker acts shocked after hearing Jason’s question, “What? No, no, no, no,” He places his gloved hand on his chest to emphasize his point, “I’m not going to kill you,” He shrugs with a sadistic smirk on his face, “not yet anyway,” He leans closer with a big smile on his face and gently taps Jason’s frozen cheek, “You’re my sidekick now. Imagine it,” He waves his hand outward like he was trying to show Jason the scenario, “You and me, out on the streets, starting fights, picking on the weak, a regular dynamic duo,” He reaches into his coat pocket then pulls out a picture while saying, “Just like Bats and that new kid of his.”

Jason tried his hardest to shake his head in disbelief, but his neck felt like it was frozen solid, “No, h-he wouldn’t…” His voice is barely above a whisper.

Joker playfully smirks then tilts his head mockingly, “You think?” He looks down at the picture in his hand, “So this isn’t Batman then?” He shows the contents of the picture to Jason, “The pointy ears are usually a dead giveaway.”

“No…” Jason can feel any hope he has left for Batman to save him slowly draining away.

Joker carefully puts the picture back into his coat pocket, “I didn’t want to show you that photo, really I didn’t,” He looks down at Jason with a mock look of pity, “But, well it was the only way for you to get closure,” He crosses his arms and looks off as he continues speaking, “Now I know it hurts but sometimes,” A big, cruel, sadistic smile appears on his face as he backs up from the chest freezer, “you gotta be cruel to be kind,”

Joker gives a nod to Officer Boles then the officer closes the chest freezer, leaving Jason cold and alone in the dark.

Then tell him that his lonesome nights are over

Sandman, I'm so alone

Jason’s hands is tied behind his back, he’s bloody and bruised, it hurts to breathe, his vision is blurry, and his head feels like it was being split open.

Through his daze he looks up in time for the crowbar to swing and hit him square in the jaw then causing him to fall onto his side with groan of pain coming from him.

He coughs up some blood onto the floor then tried to catch his breath.

Joker steps closer to Jason with the bloody crowbar in hand, “Wow, that looked like it really hurt,” The smile on his lips curls upward into a more twisted grin, his yellowish white teeth on full display.

He raises the crowbar into the air then swung it down on Jason as hard as he can; Joker does this two more times.

Jason falls onto his back and grunts in pain, he can feel blood dribbling down the corner of his mouth. He knows for sure he has fractured and even broken bones in his body that will never properly heal.

Don't have nobody to call my own

“Whoa, now, hang on,” Joker walks closer to Jason breathing heavily on the floor, “That looked like it hurt a lot more,” He carefully pats the crowbar in his hand as he continues speaking, “So let’s try and clear this up,” He cocks his head to the side in a mockingly questioning way, “okay, pumpkin?”

“What hurts more?” Joker raises the crowbar above his head, “A?” Then swings it down onto Jason’s chest, “Or B?” Then swings the crowbar down onto his leg.

“Forehand?” Joker swings the crowbar into Jason’s face, “Or backhand?” He raises the crowbar across his chest before swinging it into Jason’s shoulder.

Joker continues beating Jason with the crowbar, each time causing Jason to grunt and groan in pain, his body to jolt with each swing.

Please turn on your magic beam

Joker maniacally cackles. In his eyes, these past nine months have been a blast. Batman has been miserable, Jason is afun plaything to beat, and Joker loves it!

Jason looks over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing at Joker, then mutters something inaudible under his breath.

Hearing this, Joker gets down onto his hands and knees to better hear the young man, “Ah, uh, ah…” He mocks. He cups his hand over his ear then leans in a bit closer and whispers, “A little louder, lamb chop,” He places his hand in Jason’s hair, “I think you may have a collapsed lung,” While speaking, he ruffles the young man’s hair, “That always impedes the oratory.”

With some strength, Jason lifts his head and spits blood onto Joker’s face. Despites months of torture, Jason refuses to give up; he’s been through hell before growing up in Crime Alley and that didn’t break his spirit.

Joker is shocked, angry, and a bit disgusted by the act and in retaliation grips a fistful of Jason’s hair painfully before slamming his face into the concrete ground.

Joker stands up straight as he glares at Jason on the ground, “Now, that was rude,” He takes out a handkerchief from his jacket pocket then dabs away the blood on his cheek, “The first boy blunder had some manners.”

Jason looks over his shoulder and with a small, cheeky smile on his face, feeling proud of himself for that small act of defiance.

Joker finishes cleaning his face then puts his handkerchief back into his jacket pocket, “I suppose I’m going to have to teach you a lesson so you can better follow in his footsteps,” He looks up in thought for a few moments before a wide grin crosses his face and says, “Nah, I’m just gonna keep beating you with this crowbar,” He steps on Jason’s back and presses more pressure onto his spine.

Jason stares up at Joker then closes his eyes to mentally prepare himself for the beatings.

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream

Mr. Sandman (yes) bring us a dream

Harley Quinn is the one handling Jason now while Joker is away. The clown gave her a list on what to do with Jason for her to follow. Since she’s madly in love with the madman, she made sure to follow it to the T.

Jason’s wrists is cuffed to the metal bedframe with a bag over his head to block his sight; as Harley Quinn described to him earlier, when a person loses one of their senses, the brain rewires itself and enhances the other senses to pick up the slack.

With Jason’s sight temporarily gone, he feels the things around him more than he would with his sight, and that was Joker’s goal. He can feel the cattle prod shocking the metal of the bedframe before feeling the shock course through his tense body.

Give him a pair of eyes with a "come-hither" gleam

Harley Quinn giggles in delight and claps her hands together, “Isn’t this fun, birdbrain?” She looks down at Joker’s list in her hand and traces the hearts she drew around his name, “Mistah J was so kind to leave us a list of activities to have fun with,” She giggles again before stopping, “Why aren’t ya laughin’!?” She shocks the metal bedframe with the cattle prod and causes Jason’s body to tense up and yells out in pain.

He doesn’t know how much longer he can go on like this before finally breaking; he’s been trying to distract himself from the torture by thinking of his life before going after his biological mother, but it sometimes ends with him hurting himself emotionally. He misses his friends and family and would love nothing more than to go back to them, but he still doesn’t regret going after his mom.

Give him a lonely heart like Pagliacci

“M-Mama…” Jason weakly calls out through slur mumbles. He can’t give up, his mom still needs help; even though she was the one who ratted him out to Joker.

Harley Quinn snickers and walks over to Jason. “Shelia ain’t comin’ to get ya, birdie,” She twirls the cattle prod in her hand as she speaks, “Don’t forget, she sold ya out to Mistah J.” She shakes her head and softly chuckles like she was remembering something funny, “Man, I don’t know if ya remember, but the look of her face when she came back with Mistah J was hilarious.”

Jason angrily huffs. He hates hearing her talk about his mom’s misery like that, “Screw you!” After that he was immediately met with the tingling feeling of electricity flowing through his nervous system.

Harley Quinn keeps the cattle prod against the metal for a few more minutes until Jason was a babbling mess. She smiles and lifts the bag to show the drooling, dazed mess underneath. She grabs his hair and forces him to look up at her. She sniffs the air then comments, “Smells like chicken,” Then she let's his head drop.

And lots of wavy hair like Liberace

Mr. Sandman, someone to hold (someone to hold)

Jason was drowning. He was tied down to a chair, on his back, and drowning. He wasn’t actually drowning, but the soaking cloth over his face makes it pretty damn hard to get any air into his greedy lungs.

Harley Quinn checks her nails while she continues to pour water over his covered mouth and nose. She seems bored and over with the whole thing; all she wants to do is spend time with Joker instead of some kid, “Jeez, it’s been almost an hour. How long I got to keep this up?”

Jason gurgles and sputters as he tries to breathe underneath the cloth.

Would be so peachy before we're too old

Harley Quinn cups her hand over her ear and leans down a little while still pouring the water over Jason’s face then asks, “What’s that? I can’t understand ya. Speak up!”

Jason tries moving his head around to get some air, but that only lasted for a few seconds before Harley Quinn was pouring water over his mouth and nose again.

So please turn on your magic beam

Soon the water in the jugs runs dry and Harley Quinn throws it over her shoulder, not caring where it lands. She leaves Jason on the floor for a few more minutes to let him catch his breath and not die of asphyxia.

She looks to her right at the other jug filled to the brim with water to pour over Jason, but her arm was getting tired and she really wants to get out of here to be with Joker.

Harley Quinn looks down at Jason with a big grin on her face, “Good news! I’m wrappin’ up your morin’ constitutional early!” She claps her hands cheerfully then grabs his chair to sit him upright, “We’ll take a quick break, sweetums.”

She takes a few steps away from Jason toward the door, “You and me got another big day ahead of us, Toddy Woddy!”

She opens the door then steps out and closes the door behind her.

Mr. Sandman, bring us, please, please, please

Jason was left sitting alone, dripping wet, struggling to breath, with Mister Sandman by the Chordettes playing in the room. It was a song Joker likes playing when torturing Jason; in some twisted way he finds it a bit comforting to just hear the song when the sounds of his screams, his laughter, and whatever Joker is torturing him with doesn’t mix with the lyrics.

He’s heard from a passing conversation between Joker and Harley Quinn about April 27th is right around the corner; it’s been a whole year since Jason was captured.

Mr. Sandman, bring us a dream

[urgardenandmine]

alone yet free ☾ - j. suh

summary: the new night guard is a cutie patootie genre: fluff/non-idol au pairing: m!reader x johnny suh word count: 2.9K

i guess the time has come. we have to go. 

as the sun began to rise over the horizon, you stared out the glass window from your place. from your feet, you could feel the pain of the cold hitting you. it was the usual, due to the museum’s weird angled vents. as your eyes scanned the wooden floor, you looked at the paintings as the pain had rose further and further up to your torso. grunting softly, you tried not to acknowledge it yet you could feel your eyes water. your toes felt frozen, as if someone had placed them in dry ice and then held you in suspended animation through cryosleep. 

feeling the sun’s warmth now on your chest and left side of your face, you took in a quick breath as you stood still. you had felt the hairs on your face stand on end, reacting to how your nerves felt being gently cradled by the glowing yellow star. whimpering due to the cold, you plastered on a face of curiosity, staring towards a corner in the ceiling. it was the same corner you had stared at for a while now. the ceiling was peeling, the missing paint patches revealing the ceiling's original material which was mahogany wood. the beams were littered with chandeliers and as well secretively due to the makers of them, cobwebs. you had seen maybe one spider always in the same dusty corner, feeling somewhat jealous due to it’s freedom and being able to express its creativity. 

listening to the wind pick up, you remembered it was spring and that the weather was cooler now. you had heard someone mention where you were last night. the word “london” happens to pop out a lot from people’s mouths, yet you had no idea what that meant. you also heard the word “spring,” which you knew as you weren’t a heathen to the seasons gifted upon you. the birds chirped, flapping their wings as they soon went to begin their chores for the day. 

feeling the coldness reach the crown of your head, you stood in place, unmoving and unwavering in both the physical and emotional. as your ears became muffled, you did your best to decipher. hearing the sound of the door handle wobble, you heard another sound. it was similar to the windchimes yet less majestic, more mechanical. they were getting louder, and more aggressive as the door handle turned. 

key. the word was key. the keys went into the handle. 

pushing open the door was a stout man, adorned in a simple black tee and mustard yellow puffer jacket. his bottoms were a simple brown, nothing too describe due to his uncaring attitude towards his looks. your eyes were blurry yet you could see his outline. it felt like you were watching through stained glass, the objects now appearing like blobs of color. it was as if you had rubbed your eyes, the vision now staticky as well. 

the man let out a booming sneeze, followed by a hard snort as he mumbled words. due to your current hearing situation, you didn’t make out anything that was said. you saw his body disappear into a room that was labeled “storage.” you had no idea what it was but you knew that it must’ve been vast as everyone had placed so many items inside. you had seen a broom, a water broom and even the broom’s companion which was called a “dustpan.” you had seen the man reappear now in the room, bringing out the green broom as he swept the dust into the orange dustpan. it was almost like an opera, seeing him dance around the room and around the other people you were always around. he had begun his usual routine before getting the place ready to accommodate his usual group of friends. 

during his chores, you could hear the faint ticking of the clock. you could see the hours past yet didn’t budge, simply in place as usual. during the passing hours, three people had come into the building during different increments. the first came an hour after the man had come, while the other followed presumably thirty minutes after. the third had come in another hour. the latter had  opened the doors to the building.

as the doors opened, you could hear the small pitter patter of footsteps and growing voices. slowly creeping into your blurred vision, you had seen groups of children, all dressed warmly and in bright color. one girl (you assumed was a girl) was wearing a brightly colored hat. it was almost a bright pink, yet you felt it was too loud. you couldn’t see any of their faces, only their silhouettes and the colors they had chosen for the day. you had seen as well a bunch of other adults, watching over the children and eyeing those around you. in front of the group were those who had appeared in the morning, helping the man clean up, now wearing a black sweater as they seemed to have been talking to the groups. 

you stood still, looking at those as you had seen your comrades also in position. you made eye contact with your friend amara, as she held her dress in her left hand and re-positioned her diadem with her right. she had the same half-smile as usual. looking at her, you felt a small feeling of relief, seeing that she was in-place unlike your last friend, christos. last week, he had decided to switch his positioning, which was funny to you two yet he had earned three days in the other “storage” room. luckily, it was documented that he was known for changing once in a while. 

as the group had passed by you, you had seen the one person you were expecting. he was wearing a forest green “cardigan,” which you had learned from your friend george william burdenell-bruce. the cardigan had a small patch knitted on, which was a small white bunny. you had always wondered what the bunny was named, considering it looked like he always talked to it. he wore gray baggy jeans, with his white tank top tucked into his waist. on his shoulder was the strap that led to a woody, chunky bag. the bag had things attached on it, such as small cute and colorful trinkets. you were always fascinated by the idea of them as they had their own voices when touched, unlike you. 

seeing him eyeing you, you were somewhat intrigued on what part of you had caused them to linger around you every day. oh, i had forgotten to mention. he was always here. he was always eyeing you, intaking every piece of you. he was your secretive yet not so secretive admirer. whether the weather be warm, scorching, soggy, freezing, he was always here in this building. 

one of the workers of the building had approached him. they began to conversate, yet it was hard for you to understand due to the speed of how they were talking. trying to listen in (which was rude yet you had no choice as you couldn’t move away), you tried to break down what they were saying.

“hello there! what’s your name?” the worker asked, doing their job as they had to assist everyone here.

“oh, hey! i’m johnny.” he replied.

johnny. 

jonathan. john. jon. the many variations of that name have yet one base. the name john meant “graced by god” and here he was, gracing you with his presence. 

“hi there, johnny! well, welcome to the alistair museum! i see you found a piece you enjoy.” the worker teased, nudging him ever so slightly. johnny scratched the back of his neck, chuckling as he nodded and looked at them. his eyes then slowly followed to you. another thing i forgot to mention…

you were a simple sculpture.

you didn’t remember much on your home, knowing only the story you were told from your creator and the days and steps leading up to your being.

it was a simple day in your hometown. you lived in a village, well, technically, your creator lived in a village so you did too. you had no idea what continent it was nor what side of the planet, whether it was day or night. as you being made, your creator had mixed the clay that made you with certain “properties.” he had purchased an elixir from the local apothecary, hoping it had made the clay more “lifelike.” what he didn’t know was that the simple elixir was made of blood, which was mixed with herbal water placed in a silver bowl, soaked in the light of a lunar eclipse. 

your creator had mixed the elixir with the simple clay, not realizing they were making life in a bowl to make a simple sculpture. they had taken their time with you, making each crevice and simple limb lifelike, wanting to be known as an artist that people could revere. they had one thought in their mind, to be the best, and with you being made, they were. 

it was after your first transformation, for a lack of a better term. your eyes had opened as soon as the sun had fallen asleep, allowing the moon to awaken everything else in it’s path. you could feel the coldness slowly lift from your smooth skin, almost like a newborn baby’s. your eyes were immensely blurry, as similar to the morning dew on a clear glass. you blinked, clearing them up as you could see your surroundings. you were in a small hut like house, the roof being coned and made of straw. the walls were supported with wooden rods and straw as well, acting as the insulation. you could see specks of clay through the loose yellow strands of stray. next to you were other sculptures, yet half-made or barely started. 

a small gust of wind had caused you to shiver, making you look for a small sheet to cover yourself with. making your way towards a sheet under pottery, you yanked it from under them, causing them to somersault off the table and onto the floor. the sound of five pieces shattering had caused your maker to jump out of their slumber, rushing to the source of the ruckus. in front of their eyes was a living, breathing man, draped in a clay stained sheet. their initial reaction was that of fear, then slowly becoming realization as they had seen you off your stand. approaching you, they recognized their handy work. in the next hour, you were being taught on what the things in life were, as you had taught them that you were a child in the body of an adult.

throughout the years, or centuries, you were passed around owner from owner, being a piece of art with an alluring history. you remember the places you were placed before, such as countries like greece, parts of asia and more. following the never ending changes in location, you began to get lonely, making friends with the animals and the other inhabitants yet seeing either destruction in the days to come or being stolen due to your value. now in this time, you weren’t as lonely as you were now in this place which was labeled a “museum.” though some of the pieces weren’t like you, you enjoyed their company, yet some were like you and that didn’t bode well for them.

the ones not like you were the ones you had labeled the “living,” as they could experience the gaze and warmth of those around them. though it was ironic, you had called them the “living” because of how much people knew of them and how much their stories would live on in history. those like you, you all (such as you, christos and more) decided on the name of the “lifeless,” being stuck in time during the day and yet while alive at night, had nowhere to go. though you as well had stories to your own names, you felt like you were in a prison, unable to leave due to your curses and unable to really experience life due to the chains that were placed upon you as your duty as works of art. due to the immense pain of never being free, the other “lifeless” had chosen to never shed their stoney skin, simply staying in the cold. you, however, had a new reason to live.

the man in front of you was that reason.

he was here weeks before, the week before, and now he was before you. his eyes scanned you, studying every part of you. you felt seen, you felt alive.

now, on this day, he was back again and communicating with the worker, learning more on you. seeing him smile at the small pieces of knowledge that the worker knew, it was almost as if a partner was listening to their partner’s parents brag about their child. he had turned to look at you, smiling as the worker walked away. stepping closer, he chuckled as he whispered softly.

“you’re my favorite piece.” 

hopefully this man was what the kids “single.”

⋆｡°✩

as time passed, you had been kept company with the man. he had seemed to never leave, being here in the museum for almost the whole day. feeling the time get closer, you hoped for him to leave, knowing that though if you were no longer stuck in this cocoon, you would either run to him or he would do the opposite. you could see the sun rays slowly exit the room, as the workers followed suit. the man, johnny, still didn’t budge and was nowhere near exiting, as he had made his way to another possible “storage room.” it was weird, but he must’ve gotten confused on how to leave. 

with the sun now gone and the moon over the horizon, you could feel all the pieces of stone and clay remove themself from you, allowing your skin to breathe. the feeling of the museum’s cool air made you feel relief. the cold from the AC was different than the creeping cold of the stone, almost more comforting. stretching, you let out a small exhale as you smiled, looking at your surroundings. hopping off your platform, you made your way to a potted plant in the corner. digging through the dirt, you had slowly pulled out a pair of trousers. you were now getting more accustomed to the new world’s rules. 

slipping on the bright pink trousers, you sighed and took a deep breath, taking in the smell of the musty museum. 

“nothing like the smell of dirt and dust.” you stated happily. you soon made your way to your friends, informing them that the man you had fallen for had been back again. making your way down the hall, you waved at the paintings that you had talked to for years, complimenting them on how today they looked “prettier than usual.” turning the corner, you had immediately froze.

on a bench, in front of your friends was the man you were coming to talk about. johnny. sucking in a short breath, you didn’t know what to do. eyeing him, you noticed his clothes had changed. he was now in a navy blue uniform, his belt accessorized with things such as two metal hoops, a black stick and what the people called a “flashlight.” you had no idea what it did but it looked fun. as you gulped, his head turned towards you. he shot up, removing his stick and the flashlight, shining it on you.

“hey! stop!” he barked, causing you to jump. looking at him, you had never seen this side of him. it was authoritative. it was very alluring.

“oh, i’m sorry. i was coming to see my friends.” you explained. he inched forward, holding the stick tight in his left hand. he furrowed his brows, looking you up and down.

“friends? you’re half-naked!” he exclaimed. you look down at your body, confused on what he meant. looking back at him, you titled your head to the right, showing your confusion. as he approached slowly, his face had softened. 

“wait, you look familiar.” he stated, now an inch from you. you blushed softly, looking up at him and into his brown eyes. 

“oh! i’m from here!” you answered, walking back as you made your way back to your platform. you could hear his heavily padded feet follow behind you. reaching your stand, you sat on it and looked at him. you smiled and waved. as you looked towards him, his mouth had fallen open as he began to dance. 

“i knew it! i knew it! the stories were real!” he happily sang, jumping up and down as he looked at you. after realizing he was now talking to a living fairytale, he stopped in his tracks and got closer. he sat beside you, smiling.

“uh, i’m johnny. what’s your name?” he spoke softly, slyly taking off his button up vest and wrapping it around you. 

“no one’s ever asked me before. my name’s [y/n].” 

“it’s pretty.” he complimented, causing you to smile gently. he looked at you, eyeing every part of you. it felt like how he did when you were stone, his eyes full of wonder and curiosity.

“so, how are you real? and what’s the story? and like what’s your favorite color?” he spewed questions like a leaky faucet, making you giggle. he blushed, looking away as he scratched his neck.

“sorry, too much?” he asked, now embarrassed by making himself seem a little needy. you shook your head, slowly grabbing his hand and holding it tightly.

“not at all. we have all night.” 

⋆｡°✩

inspired by the opening line of kiss of life's "te quiero" and the performance video (stan KIOF!)

sorry if it's not so good! halfway through this writing, i started getting dizzy and light headed TT

i hope y'all enjoy!

[sugatrapp]

「 O p e n 」

•─────────────•°•❀•°•─────────────•

Pairings: Lucius Malfoy x Gender Neutral Reader

Summary: The reader and Lucius get intimate in his office.

Warnings: NSFW / Sexual themes ~ Dominant Lucius ~ Master/Pet usage ~ Non-specified gender or genitalia of reader

AO3

Masterlist

Ko-Fi

•─────────────•°•❀•°•─────────────•

You cast a silencing charm over the room in an embarrassing uneven tone, lying on the desk once more. Your wand slips through your fingers and clatters to the floor, yet you can’t muster enough energy to care. All you could ever need is right here, nestled between your thighs.

The familiar view of the ornate ceiling greets you. You’ve fed it many of your most lewd, earth-shattering moans but this time is different. His prodding tongue—while skillful—isn’t enough. You want to watch him as he takes what he wants.

Before, you would have thought twice about indulging in your ardent desire. To imagine what you must look like in his eyes—desperate and eager to bend in a way unlike anyone has asked of you before—is strange. It's wild and spontaneous, words you consider yourself the opposite of.

Anxiety boils in your belly, though you're hell-bent on immersing yourself in the moment. Steeling, you rise on your elbows and look down. You almost come apart at the seams.

It’s filthier than you imagined. His hair is tossed carelessly over one shoulder as he licks and sucks at your sensitive skin. Your thighs tremble and glisten with his saliva. His fingernails leave behind crescent marks to keep you still. His other hand isn’t visible from under the edge of the desk, but a rhythmic wet sound paints a clear image.

“J-Just like that, don’t stop,” you whimper, reaching out to wind your fingers in the platinum strands.

He breathes out a shaky moan as you tug, his grey orbs rising to meet your eyes. The corners of his eyes crinkle as you try to push your hips harder against his face to no avail. Smug bastard. Slick with his precum, his fingers caress with the right amount of pressure to leave you breathless. Every muscle in your body tenses and the sight of him grows to be too much.

Then he stops.

You nearly give yourself whiplash at how fast you look down. He rises to swallow your protests, pressing his lips to yours and you have no choice but to play along. Your combined taste mingles as his tongue swirls around your mouth, the bitter tang an aphrodisiac. He doesn’t stop your hands from roaming. They caress his warm skin, tug him closer. You rake your nails down his back and leave behind angry red lines. After many attempts he pulls away, steeling himself with a firm hand pinning down your neck. You’re reduced to a pile of putty.

“Do you want me pet? Do you want master’s cock deep inside of you?”

The hoarseness of his voice and the dirty words send tremors straight to your core. You nod without hesitation, squirming.

He squeezes your neck. “Say it.”

Your face warms at his intense gaze yet you bite your lip and continue to meet his eyes.

“I want you i-inside me,” you inhale sharply as the tip presses against your entrance. “Want you to fill me up and fuck me until I can’t walk.”

You groan in unison as he sheaths himself achingly slow inside, your warmth welcoming him with a clenching embrace.

“Hm, such a naughty pet. I have half a mind to stuff that filthy mouth of yours as well.”

The thought sends delicious shivers down your spine. He fucks you at a tortuous pace with slow, deep thrusts. Each time you try to urge him deeper to hit that spot that makes you see stars he pulls away with a tsk.

“Lucius…” you whine.

His hand is over your mouth in seconds, silencing any further objection. You hope your glare expresses how frustrated you are. But he only smirks.

Two can play that game.

You wedge your fingers underneath his, coaxing two into your mouth. You flick the tips, swirling your tongue around the digits before hollowing your cheeks. His jaw clenches, a shudder running through him. A dark look flashes across his eyes and you know you’ve won.

A muffled shriek leaps up your throat as he pounds into you with reckless abandon. The desk creaks in protest. Skin slapping against skin reverberates through the room. You whimper and sob around his fingers until he removes them with a resounding pop, reaching down to stroke your tender flesh the way he knows you like. Your back arches and your toes curl, breathing hitched as your end rapidly approaches.

You don’t even realize your eyes slip closed until he’s growling at you.

“Look at me.”

You obey without question. You can almost make out your reflection—a needy, pleading mess dripping with sweat, fragile from hours of foreplay.

“Now, you’re going to be a good little pet and come all over my cock. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, yes please!”

Pure ecstasy. His swelling length triggers a tsunami to crash over you. You shout to the high heavens while he curses, prolonging your orgasms with shallow thrusts before coming to a gradual stop.

Your gaze returns to the ceiling as he pulls out, beginning to redress. Your limbs are heavy, fucked out, feeling his seed trickling out of you.

It’s not long before his arrogant demeanor is back, clothes and hair smoothed out, looking down his nose at you.

“I assume you know where the front door is?”

Rolling your eyes, you slide off the desk ignoring your wobbly legs. You throw on your scattered clothes and snatch your wand from the floor. Though you can’t find your underwear.

You move to push past him to regain some semblance of dignity, but a hand on your forearm halts you in your tracks.

“Next week?” You take the leap.

His grip tightens.

“Tomorrow.”

You gulp and nod, leaving with a barely concealed smile.

[uwmspeccoll]

A Pigeon-fluencer Feathursday

This week’s post was inspired by a recent Guardian article on the rise of Pigeon-influencers on TikTok and their role in reviving the popularity of the oft-derided and underestimated birds.  

Throughout history, pigeons have provided sustenance (“squab”), labor (in the form of the “pigeon post”), and companionship to human populations. Though these days we may typically associate the Rock Pigeon (Columba livia, otherwise known as the common pigeon) with other animals classified as “pests” in urban landscapes, they are in fact understood to be the world's oldest domesticated bird. Historical documentation of pigeons can be found in hieroglyphic texts and art dating back as far as ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia. According to Colin Jerolmack, professor of Sociology and Environmental Studies at NYU and author of The Global Pigeon, pigeons “have been in cities as long as we’ve had cities” and, prior to the technological innovation of the telegram, were “the most reliable messaging system in the world”. While “fancy” pigeons (like Frillbacks, English Magpies, Jacobin, and Archangel pigeons) were bred and kept as prized pets in the Victorian era, the North American Passenger Pigeon (or “wild pigeon”) was hunted to the point of extinction in the early 20th century.

To illustrate the complexity of our love-hate relationship with the birds we've selected a variety of illustrations and text from our collection and featured them alongside some images from outside sources.

The engravings in images #2 & #8 from The Illustrated Natural History: Birds (London: George Routledge & Sons) were created by the Brothers Dalziel, a wood engraving shop in Victorian London founded in 1839 and operated by George and Edward Dalziel. Image #1 from Birds of America; Fifty Selections (with commentaries by Roger Tory Peterson) (New York: Macmillan) is a reproduction of a hand-colored lithograph produced by the shop of J. T. Bowen of Philadelphia from a painting by naturalist and artist John James Audubon in the early 19th century.

--Ana, Special Collections Graduate Intern

Other image sources:

#3: Western Crowned Pigeon (Goura cristata) in TMII Birdpark - Western crowned pigeon - Wikipedia

#4: Keyla Rose with Tony, her pigeon, on a walk in New York. Photograph: Alaina Demopoulos/The Guardian. August 23, 2024.

#5-6: from City Creatures: Animal Encounters in the Chicago Wilderness Pigeons (poem) by Chicago-based Puerto Rican poet and community activist David Hernandez, DH+BH (image of tattoo) by Camilo Cumpian.

#7: Ceiling Fragment Depicting Pigeons in Flight | New Kingdom | The Metropolitan Museum of Art (metmuseum.org) (ca. 1390–1352 B.C.)

#9: a Memorial to the extinct Passenger Pigeon at Wyalusing State Park in Wisconsin (1947)

#10: from Nikola Tesla's Obsession with Pigeons, Electricity, and a Plan to Wirelessly Connect the World (nautil.us)

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for telling my cousin that her baby's nursery is boring and lifeless

I (24F) have an older cousin J (27F) who is like an older sister to me. Well she's currently six months pregnant with her first child and just recently finished the nursery so she invited me and my fiancé M (24M) over to see it for the first time.

Well we went and saw it yesterday.

You know those moms on instagram and tiktok that try to make their nurseries "aesthetic" and "minimalist" by making EVERYTHING beige, gray, or white?

Yeah thats what she did.

Everything in that room was either white or pale gray. The walls were white, the ceiling was white, the crib, blankets, curtains, blankets, even all the toys were white or gray.

And the only decoration in that room was a wooden circle, painted gray, with the baby's name right above the crib.

That room felt so cold and straight up sterile, like a hospital room. I cannot tell how unwelcoming and downright unsettling that room felt.

(and she wants to put a BABY in there?)

And J was just smiling a big smile, talking about how clean and calming the room was. (Calming how exactly? Just standing in that pale lifeless room was triggering my anxiety so bad that my chest had started to hurt from how hard my heart was beating)

I look over at M and he has the same uneasy "what the fuck?" expression on his face that I did.

J then asked if I liked it and wanted to do something similar for my own nursery (Im currently twelve weeks pregnant myself)

I outright told her no and when she asked why not I told her that her nursery was incredibly boring and bland. (I didnt tell her that being in this nursery made me feel like I was put in solitary confinement) she got angry and started yelling, saying that she worked really hard on this nursery to make it look as good as it does.

M tried to tell her to at the very least add some colorful flowers or something because babies need color and visual stimulation when they're young(which is true) but she said it would ruin the aesthetic. J then told us both to leave since we hated her hard work so much. (Also babies are very MESSY and stay very messy even when they become children. Like I distinctly remember running around covered in stickers, mud, finger paint, leftover food, and juice for a good portion of my childhood. So why would you want the room where your baby spends the most time to white? Aka one of the most difficult colors to keep clean? Thats just asking for problems)

Well a couple of hours later J's friends starting dming us, calling us awful people, saying that the nursery wasnt for the baby it was for the mom so J could decorate the nursery however she pleased (??? Its literally the BABY'S room) that we were just jealous of her good design and we were being assholes to a pregnant woman.

I dont really think we were rude and she's the one that asked for our opinion. But idk so Im letting tumblr decide

Were we the assholes?

What are these acronyms?

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐈𝐎𝐀𝐃𝐊

Pairing: FEDRA!Javier Peña x firefly!reader

Genre: slice of life, smut, romance, angst, enemies to reluctant friends to lovers, TLOU AU, minors dni

Summary: Javier, a former member of the Federal Disaster Response Agency in Kansas City, is haunted by the guilt and violence he indirectly caused by not taking action when he should have. After fleeing Kansas City in the aftermath of Kathleen's violent overthrow of FEDRA, you and Javier seek refuge in an abandoned train in the middle of a forest.

As you and Javier turn the train into a living space and learn to navigate the dangers of a post-apocalyptic world, you gradually overcome your differences and form an unlikely bond. But when your pasts catch up with you, you must confront the demons that haunt you and make a choice that could mean the difference between life and death. Will you choose to protect each other and find a way to build a new life together, or will the ghosts of your pasts tear you apart?

word count: 4.5k

chapter summary: you and javier get off on a rocky start.

warnings: canon typical violence, arguing, a brief reference to Ellie and the main TLOU plot, no y/n

Deadhead - A railcar or locomotive that is being transported empty, typically to be used for future shipments.

The day was warm, the sun bright. Small petals flew further away from the green grass, colorful flowers moving left and right with the soft caress of the wind. The vest Javier wore dug uncomfortably into his chest, his rifle slung over his back and pistol snug on his hip. The lovely weather mocked him, taunted him. It was a lie. A facade. The color, the white clouds, the green grass— all of it seemed muddled now. If he tried hard enough he could see specks of blood, tainting the visual that could as well be a spitting image of a Van Gough painting. 

But despite it all. Despite knowing it’s a lie, despite knowing the horror, he still wore the letters; F E D R A— Federal Disaster Response Agency. He liked to think that they were doing some good. At least they drove the wretched infected underground, right? They did one good thing, so that made the killing, the rape, and the torture okay. 

Right? 

“Fuck me.” he muttered into the wind, hoping the words, later on, would be carried back to him, reminding him that hey, at least I knew something was wrong. 

He noticed someone walking up to him. He was expecting it, really. Micheal Coghlan. The man who by some goddamn miracle still carried goodness inside of him. The type of goodness that would radiate through the cracks of skin and bone, the type that would bring light to a person’s face. 

Micheal had a limp. 

It was caused by someone Javier knew but didn’t particularly like. He saw it happen. He still heard the bone snapping into two when he closed his eyes at night. The man stood next to him and Javier observed him from the corner of his eye. Once upon a time, he could call his face roguishly handsome. It wasn’t a sharp face, round around the edges, with a bit of stubble; shaved by his sister no doubt. His eyes were kind, a darker shade of brown compared to his own, lips thin and chapped. Thirsty. 

Javier cleared his throat, hand going to his waist, he pulled out his flask and offered it to him. 

“Water?” 

He took it without an answer. Drank it in a way where water droplets would stream from the corner of his lips, his gulps loud. It made Javier feel awkward. Micheal stood a bit straighter when he offered the flask back. It was empty. 

“So what did you want to talk about?” Javier asked. 

Micheal smiled and crinkles appeared in the corners of his eyes. “The people.” 

It’s a bird violently flying into the window that wakes you. 

Your eyes open fearfully, your heart beating a mile a minute. Your breathing is uneven. Dust clings to both the inside of your throat and skin. Eyes still wide open, you stare at the ceiling of the train. The seats you managed to sprawl yourself upon are uncomfortable, jagged metal sticking into your skin, making ugly marks and dents. When your breathing calms, and body relaxes, you slowly get up. 

The weather is hot, yet gray clouds decorate the sky. The heat of rain, you like to refer to it as. You can barely see the sun, the light of it filtered through the gray, painting the world into a muted color. Fitting. 

You hear a snore and direct your gaze toward the sound. You see the boots that belong to a man that’s sleeping a couple of rows ahead, too big to truly fit and get comfortable. Javier Peña. You heave yourself up by grasping the heads of the seats, your legs aching and stumbling like a newborn doe’s. His shirt is unbuttoned from the top, revealing golden, scarred skin. Your eyes trail further down, and they don’t stop until you see the gun strapped to his waist. You think about how easy it would be to just take it, to shoot him and try to find your people. 

Then you remember. They’re all gone. You have no people. Marlene’s words were clear;

The girl’s gone. No more soldiers, no cure, no nothing. The fireflies are dead; you’re on your own now. 

A chill crawls up every inch of your skin. Why are you even here? Why are you with him of all people? You’re not sure yet. It’s much easier to dislike him when he’s not speaking and his eyes are closed. 

You hate that when they are closed, the only memory of them is him being struck with fear, the flames behind you mirrored in his eyes. Kansas City quickly became a place of destruction and death. It was unexpected and with every fabric of your being, you wished you had never seen it. 

“Why are you watching me?” his voice startles you; it’s deep with sleep. “It’s creepy.” 

“I was thinking about taking your gun and shooting you.” 

“I’ve always loved an honest woman. What stopped you?” 

“I have no place to go.” 

“Neither do I, as you know,” he says. He finally opens his eyes, but only to stare at the ceiling in a similar way you did not moments ago. “So where does that leave us?” 

You don’t understand what he’s asking you. The air is still.  Javier takes a sitting position, his elbows pressed into his knees and hands hanging loosely between his legs. 

“I say we stay here,” he says, voice firm.

“The train?” you ask, confused.

He shrugs. “Why not? It’s covered pretty well, it’s far enough for people to see and close enough if—god forbid—we want to head back into the city.” 

“You want us to live together?” 

“I want us to turn this into a living space. After that leave, if you want,” he rubs his thumb into the corner of his lips. “Though I wouldn’t really advise leaving, and I definitely need your help.” 

“So I should stay because?” 

“Safety. Security.” his smile is bitter. “What else can a person want during the end of times?” 

“Someone they can trust.” 

“You can trust me.” 

You look him over. He must’ve sensed your immediate hostility because his gaze slowly moves to you. He returns your suspicion in like, contemplating what to say. You don’t trust him. He doesn’t trust you. Javier’s fingers twitch and his hand moves to clap over his pocket. He lets out a sigh of relief when he feels the familiar shape of a cigarette box. 

He licks his lips again. 

You gaze out the windows. They’re thick with dust and vines, the outside seems a tad bit brighter now, the gray clouds clearing up a bit. 

“Being addicted must be hard,” you mutter. “What are you going to do when you run out? Sacrifice yourself for a box of Marlboros?” 

He chuckles. “Maybe. Who knows. I’m not out of stock yet.” 

“Not a very comforting thing to hear from a man that’s arguing that I should trust him.” 

“It’s not like I said I’d trade you for a pack of cigarettes.” 

“Who knows. That’s what you said, right?” 

He sighs and gets up. He walks down the narrow hall of the train, hands brushing over the headrests. You follow him outside, and just like you suspected, the weather is grossly warm with no light. The dry weeds crunch under your boots. Javier pulls out the crumpled pack and offers you one; you shake your head. You’re surrounded by trees, with little to see except the sky.

“Wouldn’t want to dry out your stock faster.” 

“That scared of what I’ll do if I run out?” he smiles, placing the butt of the cigarette between his lips. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re paranoid or smart.” 

“Paranoia works.” 

“I guess that’s true.” he mutters, lighting a match. “So what are you going to do? Stay or leave?” 

Javier inhales deeply, his lips not too tight not too loose. A soft groan vibrates from the back of his throat and he lets go of the smoke. Your eyes follow the dance of it, twisting and dissipating like the vapor on the first exhales of winter. He places the cigarette back between his lips and tucks his hands behind as he leans back into the metal surface of the train.  

He waits as you think. It’s ironic really, the fact that you’re actually contemplating staying with him. Needless to say, FEDRA and the fireflies don’t have the best relationship, but you guess that’s all behind you now. There are no organizations at this moment, no rebellions. Just him and you; two people looking for a way to survive. 

You turn to stare at the train. It’s nearly completely intact— there are six cars and the locomotive. If you stare hard enough you can spot the tracks buried under the moss and grass. It would take a lot of work, but indeed it was possible to turn it into a living space. 

“Give me a gun,” you say and he smiles. 

“What makes you think I have more than one?” 

“Then give me the one.” you press. 

“The first thing you said to me this morning was that you wanted to shoot me.” he pushes himself away from the metal surface. Pulling his cigarette away from his lips, he stands an inch away from you and holds your gaze. His smile disappears as smoke fans across your face, making your stomach churn. “Are you going to stay?” he asks. 

“If you give me the gun then sure.” you tilt your chin up. “I don’t trust FEDRA.” 

“I’m not FEDRA anymore and you’re not a firefly.” 

“You were once. I think you can see why I have my reservations. You weren’t just any FEDRA soldier, you were a part of it in Kansas City. I heard horror stories about that place.” you rub your eyes, trying to erase what they had seen. “And I actually witnessed the fables.”  

Javier takes a step back then, admitting defeat. Something horrific seems to cross his face, a series of violent images perhaps, or maybe it was the loss of his “friends” whatever it was you don’t pay much mind to it. Everyone has pain. Even children who are meant to be carefree and happy. You’re surprised when he suddenly hands you the gun, cigarette loose between his lips. You take the weapon. It’s heavy in your hand, cold between your fingers. 

“Satisfied?” 

“Very much so, yes.” you don’t smile, but you pull an expression very similar to it. He exhales another breath of smoke, and you push the gun under your waistband. “Where do we start?” 

“You can’t be serious, Carillo.” 

It was dark and he could barely see the figure of his colleague. Javier had the intention of stepping forward and taking the gun from the other, but he stood there instead, heart beating in his throat. His stomach churned, bile thick on his tongue. Carillo didn’t bother to look at him. There was a man that was on his knees in front of the captain, his head bowed, shaking like a leaf. Carillo aimed his gun at him, his jaw tense. 

“You rather them kill us?” 

“I rather none of us kill each other.” 

Carillo finally turned to him then. Javier would expect the captain’s eyes to soften but they didn’t. 

“You heard what happened in the other QZ’s,” he spat. “Soldiers being killed, murdered. The people rioting. We can’t let weeds grow free Peña, he already killed one of us. You heard the rumors to overthrow FEDRA.” 

Before Javier could say anything a gunshot echoed, a body fell lifelessly to the concrete. He didn’t move. He didn’t even twitch. He just watched. Carillo placed a hand on his shoulder and the skin under Javier’s shirt burned—his stomach trembled then. 

“Ya no vivimos en un mundo de misericordia. Elige un bando.” 

Pick a side. 

Carillo left, Javier followed. Without thinking, his hand went to his empty flask. The cool metal under his fingertips did little to soothe him.

It’s odd being here with him. You feel trapped by nature, by circumstance. Nothing is the same and nothing would ever be the same. You lean over and sweep out the glass into a tattered bag. Javier had decided on burying the glass or anything else you might find and have no use for down into the dirt. You didn’t have any objections to that. When you lean over to pick up a piece of a broken wine bottle, you feel the gun Javier gave you pressing into the skin of your hip. 

You always hated cleaning before the outbreak. Now it was a soothing thing to do. It felt normal. A reminisce of the past. Still, you can’t help but feel sick from being at ease. Change has to happen. But with the immune girl gone, and the fireflies basically disbanded (at least that was what you could tell from Marlene's massage) there is nothing you can do. 

You see Javier approaching, a sheer amount of sweat coats his skin, his shirt clinging to his body. Surprisingly, he’s silent. You had expected him to talk, to pry into your past life. But he seemed to be content with just cleaning for now. 

“We should scout the area,” he says when he catches your gaze. “Look for abandoned houses, supplies. Maybe we can find a fruit bush or something and plant some here for food.” 

“You do know there’s no way this is going to be like…a peaceful suburb residence right?” 

“A man can only dream.” 

He wipes a bead of sweat from his brow and your curiosity gets the better of you. 

“I need to ask,” you say and he piques with interest. “Why FEDRA? No offense but you don’t exactly look the type.” 

“I remember you saying that the first time you saw me.” 

“Still surprised you didn’t shoot me then, considering who I was.” 

“No offense but you didn’t exactly look the terrorist type. I didn’t know who, or what, you were.” 

“We weren’t terrorists.” 

“So you guys didn’t plant bombs?”  he asks sounding amused. “You didn’t kill people?” 

You narrow your eyes, heat pooling under your skin. “Only pieces of shit like you.” 

“I thought I didn’t look the type?” he sighs and shakes his head. “Look I’m not going to argue the ethics of it all and you’re definitely right. The things they—we did, FEDRA, It’s inexcusable. But don’t come here and tell me the fireflies were squeaky clean.” he takes the broken bottle from you and throws it into the bag. “I don’t want to fight about this. I don’t want to argue with you all the time. I’m not telling you I’m a good person, I don’t understand why you have to remind me. I know I’m not.” 

Silence follows. Your anger shifts into guilt and you push those feelings down. He gives you one last stern look before turning his back to you. 

“But neither are you so let’s stop bulshitting ourselves. And if you’re going to start interrogating me about my decisions—about my past— I recommend you not cuss me out a minute later.” 

His steps are loud as he leaves. You notice he left the bag behind, meaning that you managed to rile him up enough that he just had to get away from you. You probably deserved that. You don’t understand how he can shove the past aside so carelessly, how he can just forget what he’d done, what you’d done. But he was right, you aren’t a good person. Unlike him, you enjoy believing that you are. Joining the fireflies…it made you believe that you were doing good, that you were better and more noble. The killings you did were for the greater good, the people that ended up under the rubble of explosions were just a sacrifice that needed to be made—you told yourself that, again and again. 

Maybe you aren’t as bad as FEDRA but you aren’t that above it either. 

You contemplate going after him. Apologize without actually apologizing. You remember a time you used to break the tension by making a joke, how did you do that again? You can’t quite remember. 

You shake your head and continue to clear out the debris. He’ll come back. You can think about what to do then. 

Javier does eventually come back, but not before the sun had set. 

The stars appear one by one, and you hate to admit that you’d worried about him. Being alone is worse than being with someone you hate. 

Dirt and dust sit uncomfortably on your skin. After an entire day of work, you managed to clear out the broken glass, rust metals, dead insects, and rodents (you shudder at the memory). Now all of it lays outside, waiting to be taken further away from the train. 

“Where were you?” you ask when he arrives, you notice a bow strapped to his back. “And where did you find that?” 

“Careful, it almost sounds like you were worried about me.” he grins as if he hadn’t stormed away from you when the sun was at the very top. You decide to let it slide. He lifts two rabbits and your eyes go wide. “I went looking around a bit. Found this in an abandoned cabin, then did some hunting. Assuming you’d be hungry.” 

“Thanks. I…actually forgot that we need to eat.” 

“Help me build a fire?” 

You answer. “Sure.” 

The process of building a fire has become as natural as breathing air. If it were a couple of years ago, most people wouldn’t know how to build a fire but that wasn’t the case now. You doubt that anyone who had survived in this world did so by not knowing how to create flames from scraps of wood and dried leaves. Even the children know. That’s just the world they grow up in now. 

Your eyes constantly follow him whenever he moves and you can’t decide if it’s due to old habits or is it because of something else. He has a bizarre aura about him. Something that you can’t quite read. He’s soft. You’ve met a lot of FEDRA soldiers back in the day, have argued and fought against them, but you never met someone like him. He has a bite to his words, but you see the kindness swirling in his eyes, suffocating him from the inside out. It’s an odd contrast and makes you feel uncomfortable. 

He’s a man that has been beaten down by the world and the system. Him asking you to stay here is his way of giving up on everything he wanted for the world. You can see it as vividly as you see the stars. Just glimpses of his backstory winking down at you. 

The flames come alive, roaring and eating the rabbits whole. Javier had taken the job of cooking for himself, patiently watching the fire, he pokes the sizzling meat from time to time. 

“You like cooking?” you ask, and your eyes water when the wind blows the ashes into your face. 

“I did,” he answers without looking. “I wouldn’t really say I particularly enjoy cooking this.”

You cross your legs as Javier hands you a branch, skewered with rabbit meat. You take a moment to examine the branch, noting the rough texture of the wood and the way it's been stripped of any leaves or twigs. The delicate slices of meat have been threaded onto the branch with care and precision, each one spaced perfectly apart.

He takes his own portion and sits across from you, the flames curling into the air in between. He doesn’t say a word as he takes the first bite. You watch him chew. The flames lick his face, the tip of his nose a dusted red. Javier swallows and when he does you bring a piece to your lips and slowly chew. It’s gamey, slightly sweet. Overall, tastes pretty damn good. 

Your lips twitch up to a small smile. Biting into it more eagerly this time, your stomach growls as you swallow. 

“This actually tastes pretty good,” you mutter, feeling the fat from the rabbit coating your lips. 

“Well, don’t go overboard.” 

“It’s the truth.”

When you lower your gaze back down to the meat, you don’t miss the way a smile curls at his lips. The night grows louder and you two finish the rest of your dinner in silence. You hear crickets, the leaves rustling with the wind. A sweet scent touches your nose, something like newly blossomed flowers. You look into the distance and all you can see is darkness. 

Your eyes play games with you, shows you shadows of people, tricks you into thinking that you and Javier might’ve been followed by Katleen’s resistance. 

You blink. 

No. 

There’s no one there. 

Your pulse skyrockets, your heart beating in your throat. Vibrating, you turn back to Javier only to see that he’s already staring at you. His look is one of understanding, his lips relaxed as his eyes flit around your face. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Yeah,” you breathe out. “I just thought—” you look back to the silhouette of trees. “I thought I saw something.” 

“The curse of the forest,” he answers, placing a cigarette between his lips. He realizes he doesn’t have his matches with him so he leans forward and lights it from the source. Javier’s face illuminates, and you see splashes of blood, of death. It lingers over his skin, curls around his throat, stains the white of his eyes. “It makes us see things we don’t wanna see.” 

“There was this girl,” you suddenly say, swallowing down the gasp that threatened to slip from your lips. He raises an eyebrow and sits back, listening. “Marlene told us that she was immune. I was supposed to meet up with them in Boston.” 

“Immune?” he scoffs. “Immune to what?” 

“Cordyceps.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“No, it’s true,” you answer with a sudden need to convince him. You’re not sure why. “She got bit and never turned.” 

“Did you actually see it?” he exhales a puff of smoke when you shake your head. He believes he made his point. “So what about this girl? Is there a reason why you’re telling me this or are you just that afraid of the dark?” 

You bite into your bottom lip, the sting offering a fleeting relief. “It’s not that I’m afraid. It’s just too silent. It feels…naked.” 

“Naked?” he asks, grinning, he steals the cigarette from between his lips and evens his gaze with yours. “We’re covered, cariño. Nothing to worry about.” 

“Famous last words,” you tease, ignoring how his tongue rolled as he mumbled cariño. “I guess I’m not used to it yet. There’s always something to fight. Someone is always lurking in the shadows.” 

He voices out the rest of your thoughts, “It’s like all the noise and chaos of the world has disappeared, leaving you with nothing but your thoughts.”

You take a deep breath of the crisp forest air. 

Emotionally, you want to lean into him. There’s a need in your chest that doesn’t go away but it’s tainted with the anger and the hatred of the organizations that tear you away from each other. He might’ve wanted to do good once, but he chose the wrong side. He thought fireflies were terrorists, and maybe to some you were. However, at least you weren’t fascists and tried to help the people. For better or for worse.

“It doesn’t hurt does it?” he says, guiding your attention back to him. Javier looks up to the sky, takes a deep inhale of smoke. It spills from his lips as he continues. “To have someone by your side.” 

No, you think as you get up and head into the train, it doesn’t. 

You don’t know what it is this time that wakes you up. There’s no noise. The only thing that convinces you that you’re not in a soundproof cell is the moonlight filtering through the dirty windows. You watch as the pine leaves move together, you’ve always enjoyed the smell of it. The sound of it comes like an afterthought, slowly gaining and getting louder. 

You get up when you feel the train shake. 

Javier is in the same spot that he always sleeps in, only a couple rows ahead. You move past him and you sneak a glance. His lips twitch and move as he sleeps. 

Stepping outside, you take in the same sight as before. It’s still eerie. 

Interestingly enough since the fire was gone the darkness seemed lighter somehow. A shimmering blackness. The moonlight probably helped. 

Dry earth cracks under your boots. The sound of the trees now mixed with something else, something violent and cruel yet beautiful. You feel the gun on your hip and travel deeper into the forest. The scent of pine and flowers that only bloom during the night stronger. The train is still visible so you don’t worry much about the distance in between. Your fingers brush over the tree trunks, you feel the moss, the sticky resin. 

You hear a click. 

Click. Click. Click. 

Just ahead there’s a clicker, moving with its arms bent and dragging its feet through the soil. Swallowing, you take a slow step back. Then another. And another. 

The chill of the night stings your skin, sticky from sweat and burning. The clicker turns in your direction and you stop moving, your one foot suspended in the air. It gains momentum, head twisting and turning. Very slowly you lower your foot, and your heart beats loud in your chest. Surely the clicker hears it. 

Fuck. 

The sound of the branch snapping underneath you was like a gunshot, reverberating through the stillness of the woods.

You don’t even get the chance to pull out the gun on your hip. 

You’re slammed into the dirt, all air forced out of your lungs. You struggle against it but it’s too heavy, too wild to be pushed off of you. The clicker screams into your face, the stench horrid. Bile builds in your throat and coats your stomach. You’re helpless. 

It makes a move towards your hands and you pull them away, its full weight suffocating you. Killing you. You can’t breathe. 

Tears flood your eyes. You know you’re about to die because you see your life flashing before your eyes, snippets of the past and possible future. You think of the fireflies, of Marlene. You see earth cleansed from the virus. 

You see Javier. He’s smiling, leading you in a dance around the wilting flames. You don’t push the thoughts away. You take them as a blessing in moments of lingering death. 

A gunshot echoes. You hear the bullet cutting through the air, whistling in the night. It sinks into the clicker’s shoulder, you hear another one, this time the bullet strikes its head.  The clicker collapses. Before you can shove the lifeless vessel away, it’s being lifted. 

You can breathe again. 

Javier is standing before you, his brows creased with worry. His lips are parted as if he’s about to say something but you beat him to it. You’re still gasping for air when you speak. 

“You had a gun.” 

“Yeah,” he heaves, sweat clinging to his chest and moonlight trickling down his skin. “I had a fucking gun.” 

Oh man, you guys have no idea how excited I am to finally be sharing the first chapter. I hope you guys enjoyed it, I'll probably be posting a new chapter every Saturday (the first 3 chapters will def go up and Saturdays, after that, if everything goes well, I'll continue it the same way)

A few thank you's are in order; @pedrito-friskito , @inklore , @fuckyeahdindjarin and @pedrorascal who listened to me go on and on about this and for their endless moral support ♥︎ and thank you to @laters-gators who beta'd this.

[merrymagicalmenagerie]

Oh look, I actually wrote something! Harry/Ginny Incognito Elf Exchange 2024 for Macknificent101

More under the cut, or check out the link to my AO3

Like Her Paper Chains 

It’s Christmastime at the Burrow and Harry can’t sleep as usual. The cozy home was quiet, despite the many guests filling the rooms. Harry stared up at the violently orange ceiling for yet another night. His mind still raced over the comings and goings of Snape and Malfoy. The previous night’s dream of a particular ginger-haired girl didn’t help much either. Resigning himself to make something to drink, Harry quietly slipped out of bed. Moving around in Ron’s room wasn’t a difficult task, but he did worry about the landing and that one odd step that needed to be skipped.

As Harry quietly descended the stairs toward the kitchen, he heard an odd shuffling and crinkling sound coming from the living room. Ever the detective, he put his back against the wall and silently moved toward the sound, wand at the ready just in case. What greeted him was quite a sight–the room was covered in cut-up strips of paper of every color. Harry had never seen such a vast amount of paper in one place, let alone so many different varieties of color and patterns. He scanned the room for a moment before he spotted her.

Ginny was sitting in the middle of the vast crafting project, her back to him. He was awestruck by the way her hair glittered under the candlelight. He watched as she reached to the left and, without looking, snatched up a small handful of colorful strips. She let out an exasperated sigh and mumbled something that he couldn’t quite make out. Harry knew, of course, that Ginny liked making paper chains. But he always assumed it was something she did over time, like a quiet task to wind down for the night. But this—this was insanity.

He tempted fate and quietly called to her. “Ginny?” She jerked her head similar to a cat caught being naughty, eyes wide. Harry couldn’t help but smile softly at the sight. “How come you’re up so late doing…this?” he gestured to the paper forest on the floor.

“What? You expect Father Christmas had House Elves decorate every home before Christmas morning?” Her nose scrunched up as she giggled at him causing his heart to skip a beat. “You’re up late too, you know. Come help.” She shoved a small pile of multi-colored striped cuts on her left further aside and patted the floor.

Caught like a mouse, he obliged. Grabbing a pillow from the sofa on his way, he sat down next to her—too closely, but it was the amount of space she allowed him. Ginny looked at him expectantly. “Can’t sleep, pretty normal for me. You don’t need to worry; ’m fine.” He felt his face growing warm as he struggled to look directly in her eyes, but something told him that it was important to do so.

“If you say so,” she hummed. She finished her current link of the paper chain and bumped his shoulder with hers. “Help me get through this then. I’d be up for ages if you didn’t. Phlegm has totally taken over my room; otherwise, I’d normally be already done.” She handed him a Pritt Stick from her box of supplies and grinned widely.

“Hadn’t used this in a while. Didn’t think wizards would have glue sticks like Muggles do,” Harry replied as he reached for some strips of paper in front of him, returning her smile.

“Oh no! Daddy actually just got me a bunch of these for my birthday and some other muggle stationery. Before, I’d just use a sticky paste that I had to make myself. This is so much more handy!” Harry took a mental note to buy her crafting supplies for any upcoming gift-giving. By the way she smiled, he would spend all his gold in Gringotts getting her every paint, paper, glue, and glitter known to wizard and muggle alike.

Waving a few strips in the air between them, Harry spoke earnestly, “Well, Ms. Paper Chain Queen, you will have to show me how you do these ‘cause I have no clue.”

In response, Ginny brought her hand to her upper chest and gasped, “Nonsense! How can you not know how?” She dramatically sighed as she leaned over Harry’s lap to grab a glittery green strip, tucking a few loose strands of hair behind her ear as she went. “Let me show you…”

He didn’t dare move an inch, didn’t dare breathe until she was upright again.

He tried, honestly. He tried to pay attention as she twisted the strip of paper through the existing red link and glued it together. But her hands…her soft hands that held remarkably few calluses despite playing Quidditch with such fervor. Small, delicate fingers weaving paper as if it were nothing. Were they warm or a little cold? How would they feel—

"See? Easy! Surely you can manage,” she interrupted his thoughts, holding her addition in the air proudly.

He couldn’t recall if she did anything in particular. Harry was far too preoccupied with staring at her hands to watch what she was doing with them. Certainly nothing that wouldn’t haunt his dreams later. “I think so? Does color matter...?” He looked away, shuffling through the nearest strips of paper to hide the red that he knew was spreading across his face. “...this deep blue is my favorite…” he mumbled, hoping to escape the hell he was creating for himself.

“I’ve got you. I’m always here for you, Harry.” Ginny spoke solemnly as she squeezed his upper thigh. Alarms rang in his ears. Before he could fully turn his head, the moment passed as quickly as it appeared. Harry couldn't help but stare as she pulled her silky tresses through a hair band with ease as if she said nothing remarkable at all.

After a beat, Harry quietly said, “You look pretty good with your hair up like that.” Realizing what he said, he hastily went back to trying to glue up the blue bit of paper he was holding in his hands to a mustard yellow one.

“Didn’t know you were so into fashion. Maybe we should set up a meeting with Witch Weekly?” Ginny teased, bumping his shoulder again, seemingly oblivious to his heart beating out of his chest.

“Ha! You’d love to take the mickey out of me on that one.” Harry chuckled as he bumped her shoulder back, silently hoping to transfer the energy of his pounding heart to her. “Let’s get these done. I’ll make some hot chocolate when we’ve finished.”

“What a gent!” Ginny flicked her hair, long even in a ponytail, dramatically over her shoulder.

She had to know what she was doing to him, surely. How much more could he take before he said or did something stupid? He was certain that she could hear the frantic beating of his heart. Perhaps this is the moment to say something, he thought before reminding himself but she's still with Dean. At this moment though, it didn’t matter really. Nothing but sitting next to her did. Harry shook his head and smirked before returning to his feeble chain.

A few hours passed in glorious small talk. They made crude jokes about Ron and Lavender, gossiped about Hermione’s scandalous date with McLaggen (he would most definitely need to talk to her when they return to Hogwarts), talked shop about Quidditch strategies—anything and everything that came to their minds. It was as if no one else existed; Harry’s whole world was in the living room with Ginny alone. He could stay in this moment forever and be content.

The dark sky was giving way to an inky blue when all of the colorful paper chains were put together and the pair was finishing draping them across every surface in the room. Ginny was standing next to Harry, hands on her hips, as he secured the last link over the entryway to the kitchen. “How about that hot chocolate then?”

The next evening, the Weasley's and their guests were sitting in the living room, which everyone assumed Ginny had decorated so lavishly in a paper chain explosion alone as she always did. No one knew that Harry helped into the dawn hours. She discreetly winked at him when he came down the stairs for dinner, and he smiled in return. It was their little secret.

Despite his misgivings about his feelings toward Ginny and the eternal debate in his mind, Harry felt as if they grew a little closer the previous night. Something seems to have shifted between them, moving them forward toward some unknown goal, as if they were linked together like her paper chains.