#Echo of a Rainy Voice | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pomegranatelifethis · 2 months ago

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In another universe again

Promise?

The Wayne Manor was a labyrinth of secrets, its towering walls steeped in history and whispers of the past. You’d grown up within those walls, a daughter of the Wayne legacy, twin to Damian, the son destined to inherit the mantle of Robin. But where Damian was sharp edges and fierce determination, you were a shadow, slipping through the cracks of a family that never seemed to notice you were there.

You were Y/N Wayne, the other half of a pair, but to the Batfamily, you were an afterthought. Bruce, your father, was a man consumed by his mission, his eyes always fixed on the horizon of Gotham’s endless night. Dick was the golden son, too busy charming the world to see you fading. Jason, with his jagged edges, spared you fleeting glances but never lingered. Tim was lost in his own mind, his coffee-fueled nights leaving no room for you. And Damian—your twin, your mirror—carried the weight of expectations you could never touch. He was the heir, the prodigy. You were just… you.

The neglect wasn’t loud. It was quiet, insidious, like a slow bleed. A missed birthday here, a forgotten promise there. Training sessions where you were left to spar with dummies while Damian was molded by Bruce’s hands. Family dinners where your seat was filled with silence, your voice drowned by their laughter. You tried to be seen, to be heard. You trained harder, studied longer, patched your own wounds after patrols. But the harder you tried, the more invisible you became.

Then came Lila.

She arrived like a burst of sunlight, a foster girl with wide eyes and a smile that disarmed even the coldest hearts. The Batfamily welcomed her with open arms. Dick ruffled her hair, Jason taught her to throw a punch, Tim helped her with homework, and Bruce—*Bruce*—smiled at her in a way you’d never seen directed at you. Even Damian, your stoic twin, softened around her, his rare laughter echoing through the manor.

Lila was everything you weren’t. She was wanted.

You watched from the sidelines as they showered her with affection, their voices bright with praise. “Lila’s a natural,” Dick would say. “She’s got heart,” Jason added. “She’s one of us,” Tim declared. And you? You were the ghost in the room, your presence barely acknowledged. The realization settled in your chest like a stone: you were worthless to them.

The doubt crept in slowly, then all at once. Why weren’t you enough? Were you too quiet, too weak, too *you*? You spent nights staring at the ceiling of your room, the weight of their indifference pressing down until you couldn’t breathe. You stopped joining them for meals, stopped waiting for them to notice you. They didn’t.

The kidnapping was almost a relief.

It happened on a rainy Gotham night, the kind where the city seemed to drown in its own despair. You and Lila were grabbed off the streets, thrown into a van before you could react. The world went dark, and when you woke, you were in a warehouse, wrists bound, the air thick with the scent of rust and fear. Lila was beside you, her face pale but defiant, her eyes darting to the cameras mounted on the walls.

The kidnappers were professionals, their faces hidden behind masks. They spoke in clipped tones, their words broadcast live to the city. “The Batfamily has one hour to choose,” their leader said, his voice cold as steel. “One girl lives. One dies. Make your choice, or we kill them both.”

You knew what would happen before it did. You saw it in the way Bruce’s voice crackled through the comms, calm but strained. You saw it in the way Dick hesitated, his eyes flickering to Lila. You saw it in the way Jason’s jaw clenched, his gaze fixed on the girl who’d become their sister in all but blood.

“We’re coming for you,” Bruce said through the feed, his words meant for both of you but landing on Lila like a lifeline. “Hold on.”

The clock ticked down. The kidnappers paced, their guns glinting under the flickering lights. Lila whispered to you, her voice trembling. “They’ll save us, Y/N. They have to.”

You wanted to believe her, but the truth was a blade in your gut. You’d always been the one left behind.

When the Batfamily arrived, it was with the precision of a military strike. Batman led the charge, Nightwing and Red Hood flanking him, Red Robin and Robin covering the exits. They moved like shadows, neutralizing the kidnappers with ruthless efficiency. But when the moment came—when the leader grabbed you and Lila, a gun to each of your heads—they froze.

“Choose!” the leader roared, his finger twitching on the trigger. “Now!”

Bruce’s eyes met yours through the haze of smoke and chaos. For a moment, you thought he saw you—really saw you. But then his gaze shifted to Lila, and you knew.

“Save her,” he said, his voice steady, final.

The world slowed. Dick lunged for Lila, pulling her from the kidnapper’s grip. Jason tackled the man holding her, his fists a blur. Tim and Damian cleared the room, their focus on the girl who mattered. You were still there, the gun pressed to your temple, your heart a hollow drum.

They’d chosen her.

The cameras were still rolling, broadcasting every second to Gotham and beyond. You looked into the lens, your reflection staring back—a girl forgotten, a shadow no one would mourn. You thought of the manor, of the family that had never been yours. You thought of Damian, your twin, who hadn’t even glanced your way.

The kidnapper’s voice was a low growl in your ear. “Looks like you’re the one they don’t need.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t cry. You just stared into the camera, your lips parting to whisper one final word.

“Goodbye.”

The gunshot echoed through the warehouse, a single, deafening crack. The world went black.

The echo of the gunshot hung in the air, a jagged wound in the silence of the warehouse. The cameras, cold and unyielding, captured every moment—the blood pooling beneath your motionless body, the kidnapper stepping back, the world watching as Y/N Wayne, the forgotten daughter, became a ghost before their eyes.

Bruce Wayne—Batman—stood frozen, his cape a heavy shroud around him. His mind, always calculating, always planning, had betrayed him. He’d made the call, the tactical choice: save Lila, neutralize the threat, then save you. It was supposed to be clean, precise. But the plan had unraveled, and now you were gone. His daughter, his *child*, lay dead because of him. The weight of it pressed against his chest, a suffocating force that no kevlar could shield. He stared at your body, the camera’s red light mocking him, broadcasting his failure to Gotham. He wanted to move, to cradle you, to scream, but Batman didn’t break. Bruce Wayne, though—he was shattering.

“No…” The word slipped from Dick Grayson’s lips, barely a whisper, as he stumbled forward. Nightwing, the heart of the family, was unraveling. He’d been the one to pull Lila to safety, his hands gentle but firm, his focus on the girl they’d all come to love. But now, as he looked at you, your eyes still open, staring into the void of the camera, guilt clawed at him. He’d promised to protect you, hadn’t he? All those years ago, when you and Damian came into their lives, he’d vowed to be the big brother you needed. Yet he’d let you fade, let you slip through the cracks. “Y/N, I’m sorry,” he choked, falling to his knees beside you, his gloved hands hovering over your still form, afraid to touch what he’d already lost.

Jason Todd’s rage was a living thing, coiled and ready to strike. Red Hood had taken down the kidnapper who held Lila, his fists a blur of vengeance. But when the shot rang out, when he saw you crumple, something inside him broke. He’d always seen you as the quiet one, the kid who patched her own wounds and never asked for anything. He’d meant to check on you, to pull you into his orbit, but there was always another mission, another fight. Now, he stood over your body, his helmet hiding the tears burning his eyes. “You bastards,” he snarled, his voice cracking as he rounded on Bruce. “You *chose* her over your own kid!” He wanted to hit something, to tear the world apart, but all he could do was stare at you, the sister he’d failed, and feel the weight of his own worthlessness.

Tim Drake’s mind was a storm of data, replaying every second, every decision, searching for the moment it all went wrong. Red Robin was supposed to be the strategist, the one who saw every angle. But he hadn’t seen you. Not really. You were always there, a quiet presence in the Batcave, working beside him in silence while he buried himself in cases. He’d noticed your absence at dinners, your retreat from the family, but he’d told himself you were fine. You were strong. You didn’t need him. Now, as he knelt beside Dick, his hands trembling as he scanned your vitals—knowing it was pointless—he felt the full force of his neglect. “I should’ve… I should’ve checked on you,” he murmured, his voice hollow. The cameras caught his failure, too, and he knew the world would judge him. He deserved it.

Damian Wayne, your twin, stood apart, his katana still in hand, blood dripping from its blade. Robin was trained to be unyielding, to prioritize the mission above all else. But you were his other half, the shadow to his light, the one who understood the weight of being Talia’s child in a world that didn’t want you. He’d pushed you away, told himself it was to protect you from his own darkness, but the truth was uglier: he’d been too proud, too focused on proving himself. Now, as he looked at your lifeless body, your blood staining the concrete, something inside him fractured. “Ukhti,” he whispered, the Arabic word for sister slipping out, a plea and a prayer. He didn’t move toward you. He couldn’t. If he did, he’d have to face the truth: he’d failed you, just like the rest of them.

Lila, the girl they’d chosen, stood trembling in Dick’s arms, her wide eyes fixed on your body. She didn’t speak, didn’t cry, but the guilt was there, etched into her face. She’d been the one they saved, the one they loved, and now your death was her shadow. The cameras caught her, too, the girl who’d taken your place, and Gotham would whisper her name with scorn.

Bruce finally moved, his steps heavy as he approached you. He knelt beside you, his gloved hand reaching out to close your eyes, a gesture too late to matter. “Y/N,” he said, his voice low, broken. “I thought… I thought there was time.” But there hadn’t been. He’d calculated wrong, prioritized wrong, and now his daughter was gone. The world watched, and he felt their judgment, but it was nothing compared to the war raging inside him. He was Batman, the protector of Gotham, but he couldn’t protect his own child.

The Batfamily stood in a fractured circle around you, each grappling with their own guilt, their own failure. The cameras kept rolling, the live feed searing your death into Gotham’s memory. The city would mourn you, the forgotten Wayne, but the family who’d lost you would carry the weight forever.

Dick’s hand rested on your cold cheek, tears streaming down his face. “We didn’t see you,” he whispered. “God, Y/N, we didn’t see you.”

Jason’s fists clenched, his voice a raw growl. “This isn’t over. Whoever set this up—they’re gonna pay.”

Tim’s head bowed, his mind still racing, still searching for a way to undo the impossible. “I’m sorry,” he said again, the words useless against the void.

Damian’s grip on his katana tightened, his voice barely audible. “You deserved better, ukhti.”

Bruce remained silent, his hand lingering on your face, the weight of his choice a noose around his neck. He’d failed you, just as he’d failed Jason, just as he’d failed Gotham too many times before. But this—this was different. This was his daughter, and he’d let you die.

The warehouse was silent now, save for the hum of the cameras and the distant wail of sirens. The Batfamily stood over your body, a family broken by their own hands. They’d chosen Lila, and in doing so, they’d lost you.

And Gotham watched, its heart as cold and unforgiving as the night

Bruce Wayne knelt beside you, his hand still resting on your closed eyes, as if he could will you back to life. His mind was a battlefield, replaying every second of the night—his choice, his hesitation, his failure. He’d chosen Lila because she was the civilian, the one they’d welcomed into their home, the one who’d seemed so fragile. But now, as he looked at your lifeless form, a gnawing doubt clawed at him. Something was wrong. The kidnappers’ precision, the cameras, the broadcast—it was too orchestrated, too perfect. His instincts, honed by years as Batman, screamed that this was no random crime.

“Bruce,” Tim’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and urgent. He was crouched by one of the kidnappers, a tablet in hand, his fingers flying across the screen. “You need to see this.” His face was pale, his eyes wide with something that looked like fear. Bruce rose, his movements mechanical, and joined Tim. The screen displayed a series of encrypted messages, traced back to an unlisted server. The sender’s codename was innocuous—*Starling*—but the content was damning. Instructions for the kidnapping, coordinates for the warehouse, even the exact wording of the ultimatum: *Make the Batfamily choose.* And at the bottom, a single line that turned Bruce’s blood to ice: *Eliminate Y/N Wayne. Secure the family.*

Bruce’s gaze snapped to Lila, who was still clinging to Dick, her sobs perfectly timed. His heart, already fractured, began to splinter further. “Lila,” he said, his voice low, dangerous. “Step away from Nightwing.”

Dick frowned, his arms tightening protectively around her. “Bruce, what—”

“Now,” Bruce barked, his tone leaving no room for argument. Lila’s sobs faltered, and for a fraction of a second, her mask slipped—a flicker of calculation in her eyes before she buried her face in Dick’s chest again. But Bruce saw it. And so did Damian.

Damian Wayne, your twin, stood apart, his katana still dripping with the blood of the last kidnapper he’d dispatched. His green eyes, so like yours, were fixed on Lila, and the realization hit him like a blade to the chest. He’d always been wary of her, the girl who’d slipped so easily into their lives, but he’d dismissed it as jealousy, as his own struggle to share the family he’d fought to claim. Now, as he pieced together the puzzle—her sudden arrival, her effortless charm, the way she’d drawn their attention away from you—he felt a rage unlike any he’d known. It wasn’t the cold, controlled fury of the League of Assassins. This was personal, visceral, a brother’s wrath for the sister he’d failed.

“You,” Damian hissed, his voice a venomous whisper. He took a step toward Lila, his katana rising, but Jason grabbed his arm, holding him back. “She did this. She *planned* this.” His eyes burned with unshed tears, his voice breaking as he looked at your body. “Ukhti, I should’ve known. I should’ve protected you.”

Bruce’s mind raced, connecting the dots. Lila’s foster records had been clean—too clean. Her arrival had coincided with a lull in major threats, a perfect distraction. She’d played them all, weaving herself into their hearts while you faded into the background. And now, you were dead because of her. Because of *him*. The guilt was a noose, tightening with every breath. He’d failed you as a father, and now he’d failed you as Batman, blinded by a girl who’d weaponized their affection.

“Tim,” Bruce said, his voice steady despite the storm inside him. “Secure the evidence. Dick, restrain her.”

Dick hesitated, his eyes darting between Bruce and Lila. “Bruce, she’s just a kid—”

“She’s a traitor,” Damian snapped, wrenching free of Jason’s grip. He lunged for Lila, but Bruce stepped in front of him, his hand on Damian’s chest.

“Not yet,” Bruce said, his voice a low growl. “We need answers.”

Lila’s performance faltered as Dick gently but firmly pulled her away, his hands cuffs-ready. Her eyes widened, a flicker of panic breaking through her facade. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she cried, her voice trembling. But the cameras were still rolling, and Gotham was watching. The city would see her unmasked, just as the Batfamily had.

Damian sank to his knees beside you, his katana clattering to the ground. He reached for your hand, cold and still, and pressed it to his forehead, a gesture of grief and apology. “Ukhti,” he whispered, his voice raw. “I was supposed to be your shield. I let you down. I let her take you.” His shoulders shook, the weight of his failure crushing him. He’d been raised to be a warrior, not a brother, but you’d been the one constant in his life, the one who’d understood him without words. And now you were gone, stolen by a girl who’d played them all.

Bruce watched, his heart a bleeding wound. He wanted to comfort Damian, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but the words wouldn’t come. He was the father, the leader, and he’d let this happen. He’d chosen Lila, not because he loved her more, but because he’d underestimated you. He’d thought you were strong enough to wait, to endure. He’d been wrong.

The sirens grew louder, GCPD closing in. Tim was already uploading the evidence to the Batcomputer, ensuring Lila’s betrayal would be exposed. Jason stood guard, his gun trained on the remaining kidnappers, but his eyes kept drifting to you, his sister, the one he’d never truly known. Dick cuffed Lila, his face a mask of betrayal and guilt, while Tim worked in silence, his jaw tight with suppressed grief.

Bruce knelt beside Damian, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll make this right,” he said, though the words felt hollow. “For her.”

Damian didn’t look up. “There is no right,” he said, his voice barely audible. “She’s gone.”

Talia al Ghul stood in the heart of her fortress, the flickering torchlight casting shadows across her sharp features. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and steel, a reminder of the empire she’d built. Her spies had just delivered the news, their voices trembling as they recounted the events in Gotham. The live broadcast had reached even the remote peaks of Nanda Parbat, and Talia had watched, her heart a storm of ice and fire, as her daughter—*her* Y/N—was shot dead on camera.

She stood motionless, her emerald eyes fixed on the tablet displaying the frozen image of your body, your blood pooling beneath you. The world had seen it, but only Talia understood the true cost. You were her daughter, her legacy, the child she’d trained in secret, hoping to mold you into a weapon as deadly as Damian. But you’d chosen Gotham, chosen your father, and she’d let you go, believing Bruce would protect you. She’d been wrong.

Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her dagger, the blade glinting in the torchlight. “Lila,” she murmured, the name a curse on her lips. Her spies had uncovered the girl’s treachery, the messages linking her to a shadowy network that rivaled even the League. Lila had played the Batfamily like pawns, orchestrating your death to secure her place. Talia’s lips curled into a snarl. The girl would pay, but not before she suffered.

“Beloved,” Talia said, her voice soft but laced with venom, addressing the empty air as if Bruce could hear her. “You failed her. You let a viper into your home and called it family.” Her eyes burned with tears she refused to shed. She’d lost you, her daughter, her shadow, and the pain was a blade in her heart. But Talia al Ghul did not break. She planned.

She turned to her assassins, her voice a whip. “Find the girl. Bring her to me alive. She will learn the price of crossing the al Ghuls.” Her gaze returned to the tablet, to your still face, and her voice softened, a mother’s grief breaking through. “Rest, my daughter. Your blood will not be spilled in vain.”

Talia would burn Gotham to the ground if it meant avenging you. And when she was done, Lila would beg for the mercy you’d never been given.

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beloveds-embrace · 7 months ago

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Hello! Thank you for feeding us the angstier timeline of the dukedom au!! I live for angst

You don’t have to entertain this thought ofc, the angst and how good you write for my brain worms worming. I just can’t stop thinking about what would’ve happened if König wasn’t there and instead the duchess had to suffer all on her own

(Or better yet, if he was there but ended up also leaving the duchess for someone else or was killed protecting the duchess)

Reader having to endure everything on her own which eventually leads her to falling terribly ill and in the olden times we all know how a simple cold could turn into more and yield deadly results

The stress combined with the overall lack of appetite (and the food not cooked well at times to add to that… more angst (: ) as well as other factors rendered the reader terribly ill

Maybe she fell into a body of water and had to save herself, or maybe she was caught up in a rainy storm on a walk with no one offering her warm clothing or a cover up until she eventually managed to get back that leads to pneumonia

Maybe she gets injured but hides it until the blood loss gets to her and infection sets in

Just so many options and flavours of angst

Anyway, thank you for sharing your writing with us! Agin, you don’t have to engage with this, so please don’t feel pressured!! I’m just having many thoughts and am currently going feral /pos

WAITTT WAIT I LOVE THIS

Because imagine clinging to König, to your one singular source of comfort in a manor that has no room for you, and in the end, he leaves as well.

You had been telling yourself that you had been simply more imaginative lately; König was simply busy, he wasn’t growing more and more distant! The way he looks at you now compard to before hasn’t changed. At all. His responses were in hums and nods, noncommittal but that’s okay, sometimes you did not feel like speaking- like existing- either.

Until he stands in your office, the light from the windows reflecting off his armour. You had been happy to see him, a smile on your lips to be in the company of the only one who didn’t seem to despise you.

When he tells you that he will not be doing this anymore, it feels, for a very split second, like your heart shatters into a thousand tiny pieces. You can feel the shattering of each, single piece.

Better place. He says, pity in his eyes but no regret. He pauses for a second. I wish… the best for you.

König leaves you like that; staring after his back in abject horror. Every step he takes echoes in your ears, until you are left alone in your office, hands trembling, and your ears ringing.

After that day, everything practically crumbled. You crumbled.

Without him, the weight of your isolation became unbearable. The disdain of the household grew sharper once it became known your only solace was no longer there, the whispers more cutting. Meals came cold, uneaten. Sleep eluded you, and the constant stress gnawed away at your strength.

One fateful day, you went outside in a desperate bid to escape the suffocation. The air was crisp, the sky gray with the promise of rain, and yet you still did not turn back. You wandered farther than you intended, your steps aimless even as the first drops began to fall.

The storm came quickly afterwards, drenching you to the bone. Your thin cloak offered little protection, and the chill seeped deep into your skin. By the time you returned, trembling and soaked, no one was waiting to help you. No fire had been lit in your chambers; no warm blanket was offered, and no company was given.

The fever began that very night, burning through you with a strength that left you bedridden. Days passed in a haze of pain and delirium. The wound you had hidden- an injury from your fall in the storm- festered, the infection spreading rapidly through your weakened body. You hadn’t the strength to call for help, nor the faith that anyone would come even if you did hoarse out your voice in your attempts.

Only when your condition worsened and you really, truly disappeared out of view, the household finally took notice. Whispers swirled, faint echoes beyond the fog of your fading consciousness, and everyone became alert of your absence, meals returned untouched and maids reporting it’s weeks since they’d helped you with anything.

John sat in his study, nursing a glass of whiskey as the fire crackled in the hearth. He told himself your absence didn’t matter- that you were retreating because you’d finally realized the truth. But when he closed his eyes, he saw your face as it had been on your wedding day- hopeful, trusting, and unaware of the coldness that would greet you.

Simon found himself pacing the halls around your room more often than usual. He would glance toward your chambers but never step inside, convincing himself it wasn’t his concern. And yet, something about the silence unsettled him.

Johnny had begun to notice the meals sent to your chambers were left untouched, the plates returned barely touched or sometimes not taken at all. He hadn’t cared at first, dismissing it as you sulking because no one was giving you attention. But now the thought lingered- had you even been eating at all?

Even Kyle, with his sharp tongue and sharper gaze, felt the unease creeping in. He found himself hesitating when passing your door, his usual indifference cracking as guilt gnawed at him.

In the end, it’s Kyle who couldn’t stand the silence anymore. He stepped into your room, telling himself it was simply to prove to himself that you were fine and just- sulking.

The sight stopped him cold.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn, and the air heavy with the faint, sour scent of illness. You lay motionless on the bed, your body shockingly frail, your skin damp with fever. Your hair clung to your forehead, and your breathing was shallow, each breath rattling in your chest.

You didn’t even notice him. Not even when he turned around and barked sharply for John, for a doctor now. You didn’t notice him at all. Not him, not John or Simon or Johnny when they appear while the maids run to get the doctor.

(Kyle will never tell anyone how utterly sick he felt upon seeing the dried tear-tracks on your face. The unfinished, rotten meals near the bed. The tear spots on your pillows. He will never, ever forget today. He doubts any of the others will be able to do so, either.)

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rhettrosunsets · 5 days ago

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Rainy Day Naps - Robert Reynolds X Fem!Reader

Pairing: Robert Reynolds X Fem!Reader

Category: Fluff!

Summary: It's a stormy day at the tower, and when you walk out to see your boyfriend laying cozily on the couch with a book in his hand, you have one mission. To join him and take the best nap you've ever had.

Masterlist

Warnings: Reader wears Bob's hoodie and it is described as being oversized and going to her thigh. No description of reader outside of the hoodie mention. No use of Y/N. Bob calls the reader petnames such as sweetheart.

Notes: This is super short and fluffy. I get super tired when it rains and I just wanted to do a cute rainy day drabble where Bob reads to reader. I just know his voice would be so soothing to fall asleep to.

The sky outside was a darkened gray.

Thunder violently rolled in the distance, it's loud booms clear as day as they echoed throughout the tower. It had been storming all day, a violent gray and the patter of rain present since the early morning.

The storm didn't look like it was going to let up anytime soon, as flashes of lightning danced across the afternoon sky as you wandered into the living room of the tower. Your feet were clad in some fuzzy socks that Bob had gotten you, and your oversized hoodie that you stole from Bob brushing your thighs as the sleeves swayed with each step you took.

Bob was laying on the couch, one arm tucked behind his head, a book propped in the other. The golden desk light on next to him making everything look softer. The room was a soft yellow and he looked so warm, and so inviting. You were on a mission now.

You padded over silently and climbed onto the couch without a word being muttered. You pressed yourself into the space between Bob and the couch cushions, trying to get as close as possible. His arm immediately shifted from behind his head moving to curl around your waist and pulling you in as if he’d been waiting for you.

He held you close to him, a soft sigh escaping him as you settled. You pressed your face into the soft cotton of his sweater, breathing in the soft smell of detergent and his cologne.

“Hey, sweetheart. Is everything okay?” he murmured softly, his voice filled with gentle concern as he kissed the top of your head.

“You looked comfy. Wanted to join you, the rains making me tired.” you whispered against his chest causing him to laugh softly, knowing how tired the storms can get you.

He grabbed the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulled it around the two of you, softly tucking it around your shoulders. Rain pattered loudly against the window, the thunder still booming loudly outside the tower.

Bob’s fingers softly stroked up and down your spine, his hand sneaking under the hoodie you stole from him, his touch slow and soothing and his hand warm against your cool skin. While his other hand still held the book he had been reading before you joined him.

“Do you want me to read to you, Sweetheart?” he asked softly, making sure to keep his voice low and steady, as you seem so relaxed.

You nod against his chest eagerly, but too comfortable to speak. Bob reading to you is one of your favorite things in the world, his voice always soothing and comforting. It’s like he could stop all your worries with just the soft rumble of his voice and his hands on your back.

His voice rumbled, a soft sound as you lay on his chest while he reads to you. You don’t catch every word, your brain a little fuzzy from how safe and peaceful you feel in your boyfriend's arms.

The sound of his voice enough to make you slowly doze off as the rain kept its angry tempo, while the thunder kept rolling in every few minutes creating the perfect atmosphere for your nap.

Between paragraphs he kissed your forehead while his fingers softly traced along your arm and up your back. His touch was so gentle and made you feel treasured as he held you in his arms.

You tilted your chin up tiredly, your eyes closed and he smiled knowingly that you wanted a kiss, before bending his neck to press the sweetest kiss to your lips.

“I love rainy days with you” you murmured, your voice thick with exhaustion. He nuzzled your head gently, keeping his voice at a soft whisper “Me too, sweetheart.”

Outside, the storm continued to rage on. But inside the tower it was nothing but warmth and safety as the gentle sound of Bob’s heart beneath your ear lulled you into the best sleep you’ve ever had.

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rikudaa · 20 days ago

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₊⊹ ᶻz !! Echoes in the Hall !! ␥

Batfam x Reader | You are here!! >>>

✮ Epitome: It’s that time of the year again.

The Manor’s old chapel smells like wax and lavender.

It always has. But today, the scent drapes heavier than usual—settled into the dust like memory, like grief with its coat hung up and staying awhile.

The wood beneath Alfred’s shoes creaks with every step. He walks slowly, reverently, like if he moves too quickly, the air might shatter… or worse, wake you. As if somewhere inside this hush, you’re only sleeping. Just tucked away behind one of the pews, knees up, head bowed, breath misting against a story too big for your age.

You used to sit here when the rain was too cruel outside.

Legs swinging, nose buried in a battered mystery novel you’d found in Bruce’s library. Your feet never touched the floor, not even once. You always wanted to look solemn, look wise. But your eyes would keep flicking toward the stained-glass windows, chasing the colored light. Your lips would twitch every time Alfred pretended not to notice.

“This candle,” he used to say, striking the match with practiced grace, “is for those we miss.”

You frowned the first time. That very serious, very you kind of frown.

“But what if they come back?”

He’d smiled then—slow and warm, like melted sugar in tea.

“Then it’ll still be burning.”

Today, he lights that candle again.

Not for Thomas Wayne.

Not for Martha.

But for you.

It flickers. The flame dances uncertainly, casting soft, trembling light against the dark wood pews.

Your pew–the one closest to the far window, where your rain-drenched umbrella used to lean. The rug beneath it is still faintly stained, a muddy crescent Alfred never quite got out. He’d never really tried.

He stands there for a long time. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink.

Just breathes.

Just remembers.

•

Later then he’s preparing tea for tea time at dining room.

The tea is already steeped when he sets it down–your favorite blend. Two sugars. No milk. A little too sweet for anyone else’s taste, but you always claimed it made your brain sharper.

The cup sits across from him at the end of the long, too-empty dining table.

No one sits there anymore.

Except for one.

A gray stuffed cat, fur matted with age and affection, slouches in the high-backed chair. Its seams are loose, belly bulging slightly from years of bedtime wrestling.

You loved that thing more than any of the designer plushies Bruce ever tried to substitute it with. Said it “understood things.”

Alfred smooths the cat’s fur with steady fingers, then adjusts the lopsided ribbon you once tied around its neck. Crooked. Purple. Fraying. He never had the heart to retie it properly.

“There we are,” he murmurs, satisfied.

And then he sits.

He doesn’t look at the tea. Not right away.

Instead, he talks to the cat.

To the chair.

To the air, heavy with your laughter. With your scent. With the echo of a life too short, too bright.

“I polished your room today,” he says softly. “Even dusted the top of the bookshelf. Folded your blanket just the way you liked– military corners, heaven forbid. Picked the lint off that ridiculous green sweater you always wore on rainy days.”

His voice begins to shake, just slightly.

“I don’t know why.”

He pauses.

His hand comes to rest against the table, knuckles pale. His eyes sting, but the tears don’t fall yet. Not here. Not in front of the cat. Not where you might still be watching.

“I just thought you might…” he swallows. “Need it.”

The tea cools.

Outside, rain begins to tick against the windows, just like it used to.

Alfred closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of lavender and bergamot.

Pretends for a second–that your muddy shoes will squeak down the hall, that your voice will call his name with sleepy cheer, that you’ll flop down beside him with a sigh and a smile, asking for toast.

He opens his eyes.

Stillness. Still.

Then, finally, he speaks—not to the room, not to the candle, not even to himself.

But to you.

“As long as I remember,” he whispers, “you’re not gone.”

And the candle burns.

───── ୨୧ ─────

Dick’s fists split open again.

He doesn’t feel it, not right away–doesn’t notice until the sweat dripping from his jaw darkens where it lands. The mat beneath him is smeared with it now: blood, sweat, ghost-shadows. Guilt that bleeds through his skin like poison.

He keeps going.

Jab. Cross.

Hook. Elbow.

Repeat until the rhythm drowns out the silence in his chest.

He doesn’t grunt. Doesn’t yell. He trains with a silence so loud it buzzes in his ears, fists slamming into the bag like he’s trying to fight God. Or fate. Or himself.

The room smells of iron and regret. It stinks. The old kind. The kind you can’t wash out. Not even with fire.

When he finally stops, it’s not because the pain hits—it’s because he can’t breathe through it anymore.

He stumbles back, drops against the wall, slides down until he’s crouched low, fists resting uselessly against his knees. His chest heaves. Sweat stings the corner of his eyes.

“Goddammit,” he mutters.

And then, quieter–barely audible, like a breath leaking from the deepest part of him, he whispers your name.

Sometimes it sounds like an apology.

Sometimes like a question.

Always like a wound.

•

When you were small.

You used to throw yourself at him the second he walked in the door, sticky hands, tangled hair, face lit up like Gotham had never been anything but safe.

He always smelled like leather, sweat, and the overwashed cotton of his favorite t-shirts. You said he smelled like “outside” and “fun.” He said you smelled like cereal and trouble.

You clung to him like a koala, legs wrapped around his waist, tiny arms choking his neck. He’d pretend to stumble, groaning, “You’re getting too heavy, kid—gonna squish me like a pancake,” and you’d scream with laughter, daring him to fall.

“You’re my favorite person,” you once told him, curled into his side after patrol, your voice gummy with sleep.

Not ‘brother.’ Not ‘hero.’ Just person. Like that was the most sacred title in the world.

He laughed. Ruffled your hair. “Don’t let the others hear that,” he said.

And then he left.

Blüdhaven called. So did the idea of being more than a shadow. He needed distance from Bruce. From the cave. From the mission. He told himself he deserved to carve his own path.

You’d cried. Like a child. Because you were one.

He kissed your forehead and promised, “I’ll be back all the time, dummy.”

He wasn’t.

Not that night.

Not when it counted.

Not when you needed him most.

•

Now.

Sometimes he walks the rooftops just to feel closer to you. Retracing steps from that night you begged to see Gotham from above–your first time.

The look in your eyes as the city spread beneath you like a secret. How your hands clutched his arm, not out of fear, but awe.

Once, not long ago, he swore he saw you.

Just a flicker. A shape turning the corner. A shadow with your gait. A laugh that echoed and shattered him.

“Y/N!” he shouted, lunging forward.

Nothing.

Just smoke.

•

Now he hears you sometimes. When the wind moves right. When the city’s quiet. When the guilt inside him claws too loud to ignore.

Your voice.

“Dick.”

He always turns. Always.

Nothing’s there.

He doesn’t tell anyone that the hallucinations are back. Not even Alfred. Not even Bruce. Because this time, it’s different. This time, it’s you.

Jason’s death gutted him.

But yours?

Yours stole something he never had words for.

You weren’t a symbol. You weren’t the mission. You were his little comfort. His anchor. His reason.

You were the soft thing that came after pain. And now you’re gone.

•

Wayne Manor. His room. 3:17 a.m.

He sits on the floor. Legs crossed. Forehead pressed to the photo frame like a prayer.

You’re laughing in it, out of focus. He took it mid-giggle—caught you by accident, and never deleted it. It’s his favorite.

“I should’ve stayed,” he says.

His voice breaks around the words.

“I should’ve taken you with me.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Just breathes. Hurts. Waits.

And somewhere, in the silence, in the ache of it all–

He believes you would’ve forgiven him.

But he doesn’t forgive himself.

──── ୨୧ ────

Jason’s quiet this year.

He doesn’t make a thing of it—doesn’t storm in, doesn’t throw punches at ghosts. But he shows up more than he used to. And when he’s there, he’s almost always in your room.

He never turns on the light. Just cracks the window open like he’s pretending he still has manners, even though the smoke curls in anyway, soft as snow. It drifts onto everything you left behind–your bookshelf, your game controllers, the hoodie he used to “borrow” and never give back.

The hoodie still smells like you. Or maybe that’s in his head.

He doesn’t sleep here, not really. Just sits.

Sometimes with the lights of Gotham blinking against the windowpane. Sometimes with his head pressed against the edge of your bed like he’s waiting to hear you breathing again.

He acts like he’s over it. Like he’s past the point of breaking. But his jacket always carries this ratty envelope—creases worn white at the edges, the paper inside frayed and curled.

It’s full of your notes.

The kind you used to leave him everywhere, absurd places.

Tucked inside his helmet, slipped into the pockets of his jacket, wedged beneath the clip of a gun or folded into a boot.

Some are nonsense:

“Eat something or I’ll break your kneecaps.”

“Extra pickles in the fridge. You’re welcome.”

“I saw you smile. I’m telling B.”

Some are softer:

“Get some sleep, grumpface.”

One, he reads more than the others. Ink faded. Folded and unfolded so many times it’s practically tissue.

“I’m glad you came back.”

He doesn’t tell anyone about that one. Not even Alfred. Not even Dick. Especially not Bruce.

Because that one—that one undoes him.

•

Cemetery. Late evening.

Your grave is clean. Someone’s been here before him—probably Alfred. Maybe Steph. The flowers are fresh. The stone smooth, your name etched deep and clear like the world needed a reminder of how real this loss is.

Jason stands there, helmet tucked under his arm. The wind brushes past him, low and sharp. A cigarette dangles between his fingers, the tip burning orange in the dim light.

He doesn’t talk, not really.

He never has much to say around here.

But he pulls another cigarette from his pocket—lights it, just like yours—and places it next to the flowers. Lets it burn down in silence.

A strange ritual. But it feels like you’d understand. You always understood the parts of him that didn’t know how to be soft without cracking open entirely.

He stays until the stars come out.

Then, without ceremony, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bullet. It’s not bloodstained or marked. Just smooth. Polished. The kind meant to promise, not threaten.

He sets it gently at the base of your headstone.

“I came back,” he mutters.

His voice is raw. Low. Not meant for anyone but you.

He waits a beat. Two.

Then quieter–

“Next time, I won’t be late.”

And he means it.

Even if it kills him.

──── ୨୧ ────

A tiny café tucked between 7th and Bristol.

The table is still the same—slightly lopsided, with a chipped ceramic sugar jar and two mismatched mugs.

You used to call it “your spot,” like claiming it made it more real. Like a trio of underage vigilantes sneaking lattes and stolen pastries were just another group of high schoolers with nowhere better to be.

Now there are only two seats filled.

Tim stares down at his coffee like it might spill answers into the foam. His hands are wrapped around the cup even though it’s gone cold.

Stephanie sits across from him, one leg pulled up into the booth, arms tight across her chest like she’s trying to hold herself together with elbows. She hasn’t touched her drink.

The air smells like cinnamon and burnt beans. Someone’s playing a crackly vinyl in the corner—some jazz that doesn’t quite reach their corner of the café.

They haven’t spoken for ten minutes.

They don’t have to. You were always the talker. The mood-setter. The one who made the silences feel intentional, cozy even. You’d come here and poke fun at Tim for his caffeine dependency, steal a sip of Steph’s drink and declare it too sweet, and then pay the tip in exact change just to irritate the barista.

Now the air sits heavy. Like a ghost still ordering a caramel macchiato.

Tim exhales, shaky. “They always reminded me to eat,” he says, voice hoarse, like it had to be dragged up from somewhere deep and raw. “Even when we were mid-mission. They’d shove a protein bar in my hand and say, ‘Eat this or pass out, your choice.’”

Steph snorts through her nose, but her smile doesn’t hold. Her chin quivers, and she looks away.

“They’d be pissed if we cried in public,” she says. Her voice is light, teasing, almost defiant—but her eyes are glossy, throat tight.

Tim looks at her.

She looks back.

And there’s a flicker of the old rhythm. That space where you would’ve made a joke. Broken the tension. Called them “emo” and suggested getting cupcakes.

But you’re not here.

Steph nods slowly, more to herself than anyone else.

“We’ll cry after.”

Tim nods, too. Silent agreement. An old pact, rewritten.

And they do.

Not right there—not loud, not breaking—but when they leave the café and walk around the corner, past the alley where you once spray-painted a smiley face on the brick wall because “it looked like it needed a friend,” Steph presses her forehead to the cold concrete.

Tim stands beside her, eyes closed.

They don’t speak.

Tears slide down without permission. Quiet. Steady.

Because the glue is gone.

And the rift is real.

And neither of them knows how to fix something that’s been buried.

But for a moment—just one—they let themselves fall apart. Together.

────୨ৎ────

Gotham Community Center, Friday afternoon.

The rug beneath Duke’s knees is a chaos of colors—bright reds, sunny yellows, thick stripes of green and blue curling like vines. It’s sticky in places. Crayon wax is crushed into one corner. A juice box leaks quietly behind him, forgotten in the flurry of small limbs and louder voices.

He’s not wearing armor. No cape, no domino mask. Just a hoodie and jeans and a name tag that reads “DUKE 🦇 Volunteer” in glitter pen.

You’d made that. You always used the glitter pen, even when he protested. “Heroes don’t sparkle,” he’d said once.

“Batman doesn’t,” you had grinned, “but you do.”

Now the glitter’s faded, but the ache hasn’t.

Kids crawl over him like he’s playground equipment. One clings to his shoulder, firing off questions in rapid succession.

“Why do you talk slow sometimes?”

“Why’s the sun yellow and not green?”

“Why do bad guys wear capes too? That’s cheating.”

Duke’s lips twitch into a smile. It’s practiced. Not quite fake. Not quite real.

“I talk slow when I’m thinking,” he says, answering the first.

The other questions blur together. His brain drags behind his mouth. It’s always like this lately. Like thinking is something he has to wade through.

You dragged him here his first week in the family. He’d been stiff, unsure, still clinging to the idea of what being a hero should look like. Crime-fighting. Patrol. Glory.

But you–

“Be a hero out of costume too.”

That’s what you’d told him, apron tied backwards, glue in your hair, helping two five-year-olds make pasta necklaces while explaining Newton’s Third Law in baby talk.

He hadn’t realized then how those words would come back like broken ribs every time he breathed.

A little girl with pigtails and a unicorn sticker on her cheek clutches his arm.

“Where’s the one who wore the silly apron?” she asks, her voice small but certain.

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “They had to go away,” he says.

She frowns. “Why?”

Duke hesitates. The right words don’t come. The truth is too big for this room.

“They were tired,” he finally says. “So they’re resting now.”

The girl nods solemnly and squeezes his arm. “They were funny. They made the macaroni dragon.”

“I know,” he whispers.

When the last parent signs out their kid, when the art bins are put away and the lights dim, Duke slips into the janitor’s closet like muscle memory. Quiet. Familiar.

The air smells like bleach and lemon cleaner. The floor is damp from a mop someone forgot to rinse. He lowers himself onto the cold tile beside the mop bucket, back against the wall, head in his hands.

It starts with a sniff. Then another. Then his whole chest caves inward like a collapsed tunnel.

He tries to stay quiet.

He’s not wearing the mask. But he still doesn’t want anyone to hear a hero cry.

Fists pressed to his eyes, knees tucked to his chest, he sobs into the sleeve of his hoodie. Muffled. Shameful. Like it’s something he’s not allowed to feel.

But the pain doesn’t care about permission.

He presses his forehead to the wall, breathing fast, like maybe he can sob it all out before anyone notices. Like grief is something you can squeeze into a janitor’s closet and leave behind with the mop water.

You would’ve hated this.

You would’ve found him, offered a juice box and a dumb joke, like “The mop’s name is Jeremy. Respect him.”

You would’ve stayed.

But now it’s just him. Glitter fading on a name tag. Salt on his cheeks.

And silence.

────୨ৎ────

Gotham Clocktower. Afternoon light bleeds through the high windows.

The room is too quiet. Not peaceful—hollow.

Cass sits on the floor, spine against the leg of Barbara’s work desk, knees drawn up. Her hands hover in the space between them, fingers twitching with unspoken words. Barbara is beside her, wheelchair angled slightly, as if ready to catch a thought falling apart mid-air.

Cass blinks at her own hands like they belong to someone else.

“I…”

Her fingers move, slow. Unsure.

“I can…”

She hesitates. The sign falters.

“…say…”

She stops. Arms fall into her lap. Her throat tightens. No sound comes. Only the silence pressing against her skull, thick and suffocating.

Barbara leans in, her hand a warm weight over Cass’s.

“It’s okay,” she says, voice soft, breaking like glass at the edges. “Take your time.”

Cass shakes her head, eyes narrowed with frustration. Her breath hitches, chest pulling tight in a way words never learned how to describe.

You used to guide her—tap her wrist gently, shape her fingers, smile with that crooked grin when she got it right. You didn’t speak over her silence. You didn’t rush to finish her sentence. You waited. You listened. Even when she couldn’t listen to herself.

Cass signs again. Slower this time. Deliberate.

“They helped… me say.”

Barbara’s mouth trembles.

“I know.” She reaches over, fingers curling around Cass’s hand. “You’re still doing it. You’re still saying things, Cass.”

But it’s different. The shape of silence is different now. Before, it was full—filled with your laughter, your patience, your voice reading aloud from some book you barely understood just because Cass liked the rhythm. Now it’s just silence. Unanchored.

Cass lowers her gaze. Her hands fall still. “Harder now,” she signs. Her lip quivers. “No… no one hears fast. Like them.”

Barbara nods. “I know. I feel it too.”

They sit like that for a moment, fingers clasped. Still.

Beneath the desk, Barbara’s other hand finds something—a notebook. Your notebook.

Half-filled pages, messy diagrams, unfinished attempts at sign language jokes. One of them is a dumb pun involving the sign for “grape” and “great.” Cass had hated it. You kept doing it.

Barbara opens to the page and shows her.

Cass breathes out a laugh, small but real. “Stupid,” she signs.

Barbara chuckles wetly. “Yeah. God, they were annoying.”

Cass nods. The grin slips, then wavers, then collapses again into grief. Her face folds in on itself, chin tucked to chest. “Miss them,” she signs. “Miss how they looked.”

Barbara touches her chest. “Me too. I still think they’re gonna walk in. Say something ridiculous. Like—‘Hey, what’s up, danger?’”

That one makes Cass huff. “Dumb.”

“You loved it.”

Cass nods.

There are no more jokes. No more signs. Just the weight of everything unsaid.

Barbara shifts, pulling herself closer. She cups Cass’s cheek with one hand. “You don’t need to be perfect. You don’t need to get it all right. I’m here. I’ll wait for your words. However long it takes.”

Cass blinks. One tear slips down. Her fingers rise again. Tentative. Trusting.

“I will keep… saying,” she signs. “Even if they’re gone. For them. With you.”

Barbara squeezes her hand. “Then we’ll learn again. Together.”

Silence settles again, but this time it’s softer. Shared. Not empty. A space you once filled now held between them, remembered.

They’re still trying.

For you.

────୨ৎ────

The cave is colder than usual.

Damian sits cross-legged on the stone floor, bare feet pressed to the earth, spine arrow-straight. He’s been meditating for hours—long past sunrise. Long past when Alfred would’ve called him up for tea or breakfast. But there’s no Alfred here.

Just the ghost of your laughter echoing off the walls, like water dripping in an empty cistern.

Titus rests nearby, his massive head laid solemnly over his paws. Every so often, his ears twitch at some noise—an air vent hum, a bat fluttering in the high dark rafters—but he never strays far.

The dog knows. He always knew when you were near.

Alfred the cat—named with stubborn irony—circles Damian’s still form once, then curls tightly in his lap without asking. Damian doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t open his eyes. Just rests one hand over the cat’s arched back, steady. Controlled.

The only sound in the room is the low, almost bovine breath of Bat-Cow, tucked in her special paddock at the back of the cave. (Yes she still alive)

She’s been oddly quiet today too, as if the animals can feel it.

It’s your death anniversary.

Another year without you.

Another year where the world has kept spinning and Damian has kept sharpening his blades.

But this morning, all he’s done is sit. Until now.

His breath hitches—a crack in the calm.

He opens his eyes slowly. The light from the Batcomputer behind him casts just enough of a glow to catch the shimmer at the corner of his lashes.

He doesn’t wipe it away.

Instead, he looks at the sword across his knees. The hilt is worn with years of use—but at the very base, carved in tight, decisive strokes, is your name.

Etched deep.

Deep enough to splinter the grip if he ever loses control.

Deep enough that it cannot be erased, even if he tried.

He’d used his own dagger to do it. The same one his grandfather once gave him.

Precision work. Clean lines. The kind of carving done not in a fit of grief, but with total, surgical focus.

“You’d have mocked me for how dramatic it looks,” he murmurs, voice low. Almost hoarse. He scratches gently behind Alfred the cat’s ears. “Then insisted it was still sweet. That I was secretly sentimental.”

Titus raises his head, as if hearing your voice too. His tail thumps once, hopeful.

Damian exhales. Then speaks again. This time to you. Wherever you are.

“You were the first one to ever hug me.”

The words leave him like a confession. A whispered sin.

He remembers it like it just happened.

You’d been younger than he is now—maybe fourteen, fifteen. He’d been a child barely taller than your chest. Angry at the world. All jagged reflexes and rigid posturing.

You had launched at him. No warning. Just barreled into his side and wrapped him up like you belonged there.

He’d gone stiff as a board. Every muscle tensed. Ready to lash out and throw you across the room.

You only laughed. Hugged tighter.

“You little assassin nerd,” you’d teased, ruffling his hair, pressing your cheek to his shoulder. “You need, like, ten more of these per day.”

And the next day, you did it again.

And the next.

Eventually… he hugged back.

You were the only one he let drag him to museums. Art galleries. Rooftops for stargazing and hot chocolate. He used to roll his eyes the whole time, but you’d catch the edge of his smile in the glass of a display case or in the shimmer of moonlight on his face.

No one else could ever make him go. But he always went with you.

“I hated most of it,” he lies now, just to hear himself say it. “Except I didn’t. You knew I didn’t.”

He leans forward and presses his forehead to the hilt of the sword. Your name is cold against his skin.

“We share the same blood,” he whispers. “And I still couldn’t protect you.”

The breath leaves his body all at once. Like a blow to the ribs.

His fingers curl tight around the hilt. He doesn’t scream. Doesn’t cry. Doesn’t move.

But when he finally stands—quietly, with Alfred leaping down from his lap—his steps lead him not upstairs.

They lead him to the training floor.

Titus watches from the edge. Knows what’s coming.

Damian doesn’t warm up. Doesn’t speak.

He draws the sword with a sound like lightning splitting through bone.

And then—he moves.

Every strike is a memory. A fracture. A sin. A promise broken.

When he finishes, the training dummy is sliced clean in half. Not jagged. Not splintered.

Clean.

There’s a moment of stillness as the pieces fall to the floor.

Damian’s chest rises and falls. Sweat beads at his temple. His hands tremble now, only now, when the damage is already done.

He doesn’t look at the sword again.

Just drops to his knees beside Titus. Bows his head into the dog’s fur and breathes like it might be enough to pull you back from wherever you are.

“You were my favorite,” he admits into the dark. “I never told you. But you were. Always.”

Titus whines, soft and aching.

The cave is quiet again.

And this time, Damian lets himself grieve—no blades, no masks, no training.

Just your name carved in steel.

And a family of animals who still remember the warmth you left behind.

────୨ৎ────

Wayne Manor. Surveillance Room. 3:17 A.M.

The monitor hums softly in the dark.

Everything else is still. No clocks ticking. No comms buzzing. Just static-light flickering over Bruce’s unshaven face as he sits hunched forward, eyes locked to the footage like it might change if he wills it hard enough.

He presses play again.

There you are.

Walking into the gala.

Nervous.

You tug self-consciously at the collar of your formal suit—the one Alfred insisted looked “dignified” and you called “fashionable punishment.” You shift your weight like you want to bolt. Straighten your shoulders just like Alfred told you to.

A forced smile. Then a real one. You laugh at something someone says just off-frame. You tilt your head toward a voice calling your name, mouth parted in response.

Then:

“I’m not ready.”

And then–

Static.

Bruce freezes the frame. Rewinds. Plays it again.

That moment.

That voice.

The tiny tremble in it.

He watches it over and over. Not the whole clip. Just that fragment. You fidgeting. Speaking. Glancing over your shoulder like something might be following. Like you already knew.

You did.

God. You knew.

You’d begged him.

•

Memory, Two Nights Before.

You stood by the cave exit, arms crossed, voice small beneath all the steel.

“Don’t go out like this. Something feels wrong tonight.”

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t look back.

“We can talk when I’m back.”

“What if I’m not here when you are?”

You had said it lightly. Like a joke.

He hadn’t laughed.

He didn’t say “I love you.”

Didn’t say “thank you” or “I hear you.”

He was already gone.

•

“I thought you were safe,” Bruce murmurs, the words barely audible. As if saying them too loud might make them even less true.

“I thought you were safe… inside these walls. Under my roof. Inside the gates.”

His jaw clenches. His throat works. He doesn’t blink.

“You were supposed to be safe.”

His eyes are bloodshot. The footage crackles. His hand hovers over the keyboard, knuckles taut, veins visible. He’s memorized every angle of your smile, every hitch in your breath in those last moments, every fraction of unease in your body language.

And it wasn’t enough.

None of it was.

•

The silence is unbearable.

He walks through the halls like a ghost, barefoot and aimless. Every footstep is muffled on ancient carpets. Every turn reminds him of you—sitting upside down on the staircase railing, trailing your fingers along the banister, laughing too loud during dinners no one else found funny.

He still hears your voice sometimes. The echo of it. The lingering shape of your presence carved into the silence.

He doesn’t sleep anymore. Not really.

•

He makes his way to your room’s door.

He pauses there.

Doesn’t open it.

Can’t.

Instead, he stands outside it like a soldier posted at a tomb. Like he’s guarding what little remains.

His hand lifts halfway toward the doorknob. Then falls.

“I’m sorry,” he says, so softly it doesn’t echo.

And still the house groans in reply. The silence doesn’t forgive. The halls do not answer.

•

Back in the cave.

He sits again. Hits play.

“I’m not ready.”

He knows now you were right. Not about the gala. Not just about that night.

About everything.

Neither of you were ready—for the way things would break. For the silence afterward. For the finality of a child dying before their father.

And yet here he is.

Alone. With the flickering image of a child who looked back one last time.

And with all the ways he didn’t listen.

────୨ৎ────

Crime Alley. Midnight.

Rain traces down the gutters like veins. The alley is quiet now—emptied of police tape and flashing lights, but the memory of it burns brighter than any crime scene spotlight. Gotham’s heart never stops bleeding, but here—it gushed.

Selina stands at the edge.

Her heels click once against wet stone, then fall silent. She walks further in. No mask. No costume. Just a long black coat, tailored like grief, soaked at the hem.

She stops where the scorch marks begin.

The brick is still charred, dark veins of soot climbing like vines toward the broken fire escape. The bloodstain is barely visible now—diluted, washed down the drain, but she sees it. She knows where it was.

She kneels.

Gloved fingers skim the wall, right where it happened. She doesn’t flinch at the soot that stains the leather. Doesn’t wipe it off. She presses her palm flat to the stone.

Her breath catches.

But she doesn’t cry.

She hasn’t cried since the call. Not even when they showed her the evidence bag with the charm bracelet. Not when she saw the tooth-blackened bone. Not when Alfred held her shoulder so tightly it bruised.

Because if she cries, it means it’s real.

Instead, she breathes you in. Or what’s left.

Ash. Smoke. The faintest memory of your shampoo—lavender and mint—and the strange way it mixed with Gotham filth. She swears she can still smell it in the stone. Still feel the hum of your laughter ricocheting off the alley walls.

You used to chase her through alleys like this. Little boots pounding behind her, giggling as she pretended to vanish over the rooftops.

You’d call:

“I saw your tail, Mama!”

And she’d shout back,

“Then keep up, kitten!”

God. You tried so hard to keep up.

•

She whispers now, voice barely there, like she’s afraid the rain might swallow it:

“I left you once.”

Her fingers tremble. She flattens them harder against the wall, grounding herself, biting down on her lip so hard it breaks skin.

“And I never got to come back.”

That’s the truth. The only one that matters.

She left you. A mother’s greatest crime, wrapped in good intentions and selfish fear.

She thought you’d be safer with Bruce. She thought love meant stepping aside.

But you needed her. And she was gone.

•

The wind picks up. Carries smoke from somewhere deeper in Gotham—a chimney, a car fire, a signal.

But in the twist of air through the alley, for just a breath, it smells like you.

She inhales sharply. Eyes flutter shut.

A hand rises to cover her mouth.

And for one cruel, fleeting second, she imagines you’re there. Hiding behind the dumpster like you used to. Waiting to leap out. Playing some awful joke. Laughing that reckless, raw laugh that sounded too much like hers.

The shadows flicker like cat’s tails. Her kind of magic.

But you’re not there.

Just the stone. The ash. The guilt.

•

She stands slowly, knees stiff, spine aching with years of running from consequences. But she doesn’t wipe the soot off her glove. She lets it stay—like a mark, a bruise, a promise.

She doesn’t say goodbye.

She never has.

Instead, she turns her head to the wind one last time. Listening. Reaching.

Just in case.

In case you’re still near.

In case ghosts really follow bloodlines.

In case your soul is clever enough to linger.

And in the stillness, she whispers:

“I should’ve stayed.”

────୨ৎ────

They only found pieces of you.

Bone fragments. Teeth. A sliver of jaw. Skin fused to fabric in a way that made the coroners turn away and breathe through their sleeves.

Bruce signed the report without flinching. Selina refused to.

Some of it wasn’t even yours.

Gotham chews its children and spits out what’s left.

And you—you were never meant to be in its mouth in the first place. You weren’t a soldier. You weren’t a sidekick. They trained you just enough—to recognize danger, to escape if it came too close. You knew how to vanish down alleys. How to disappear behind curtains. How to run.

Your last call was panicked static. Muffled breath. A sob that stuttered into a gasp. Someone shouted your name—maybe through the phone, maybe in the street. You’ll never know. The line went dead before you could answer.

You remember the way your chest locked. The heat. Not flames yet, but pressure—a vacuum before the collapse. The sound of splintering bone. Concrete. Something wet.

Then stillness.

Your final thought wasn’t of vengeance or glory.

You want none of that.

It was: Did he hate me when I left?

It was: Did she know I loved her, even after everything?

It was: I’m not strong enough.

But you were.

Maybe not in the way Gotham needed.

Maybe you should have run faster.

But enough that, today…

They still speak to you.

In tea cups. In worn hoodies. In cracked knuckles. In candlelight.

You were not a soldier.

You were not a vigilante.

You were the heart.

And no one—not Gotham, not even death—can erase that.

•Note: holycow it’s over 5k words in 72 hours💀💀 I have rewritten over and over but still not satisfied enough with 10+ drafts in my Apple Note LMAO. If you’re wondering why the fic published so fast and long then it’s because Im in summer vacation, I’ve been writing through days till nights so yeah the outcome might come after 1-2 days.

This is the inspiration I talk about here, there’s also some of my concept in comment. This series strictly platonic towards the Batfam but there also some love interests.

Ngl Im gonna take a rest after this for awhile and fulfill promise by working on Descent Into Shadows, hope you enjoy this fic! If you have some questions after this, leave a comment/through inbox to let me know💙

©𐙚 rikudaa—Please do not repost or copy this content to other websites.

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natsaffection · 1 month ago

Note

hello, i have a like fic request for you. i’ve written something similar myself but i wanted to see how you’d write it 🥹

my idea is that Nat has touch-trauma from her time in the Red Room, she has no problem with faking it for missions and such, but when it comes to people she cares about, she can’t do it. reader’s love language is physical touch but tries her best to be respectful towards Nat’s trauma and lets her take the time she needs to want to be physically affectionate with reader.

you don’t have to write it if you don’t want to, just a little idea for you 🫶🏼

- 🤍

Quiet Hands. | N.R

Warnings: Redroom, mention of SA and violence

Word count: 1,7k

A/n: I love delving deeper into her character. And I also believe that she would act that way, so thank you for the request. <3

The Red Room never truly let its ghosts rest.

Even years later, when the sharp sting of the widow’s bite no longer buzzed at her wrists and the tightness of a chokehold wasn’t a constant memory pressing into her skin, Natasha still carried it with her, the ache, the stiffness in her shoulders, the quiet dread in the back of her mind.

It wasn’t the physical pain that lingered. That had faded, eventually. Scars healed. Bruises faded. Skin mended. But the things that no one could see, the hollow of her chest, the phantom echoes of commands spoken in cold Russian, the way her own hands sometimes felt foreign, those were the things that didn’t fade.

In the Red Room, affection was a weapon. A calculated tilt of the head. A gentle smile designed to lure someone in before striking. Touch was a means to an end, never something that could be given freely. They trained it into her: You are a tool, not a person. Your body is a weapon, not a home.

And so, when she left, escaped, the thought of anyone touching her, really touching her, felt unbearable. Not on missions. She could pretend there. Slip into a role. Smile. Wink. Let hands graze over her skin, because it was an act, a performance, and performances had endings.

But with people who mattered? People she cared about? That was different. That was terrifying.

And then you came around the corner. She met you by accident, it was a rainy afternoon in New York, the sky low and heavy, clouds rolling in like waves. Natasha had been trying to outrun her own thoughts, slipping through the crowded streets, a hood pulled low over her hair, just another face in the crowd.

You weren’t supposed to be there. You were balancing a cardboard tray of coffee cups, navigating the slick pavement, too focused on not spilling your order to notice the world around you. That’s when it happened, a shoulder bump, a stumble, the sound of a cup hitting the ground, liquid splashing onto the street.

“Sorry-” Natasha turned, an apology on her lips, but the words caught in her throat. Because you were looking at her with wide eyes, lips parted, a laugh bubbling up even as coffee dripped down your fingers. There was no fear in your gaze, no calculated interest, just… warmth.

“It’s okay!” you said quickly, waving off Natasha’s murmured apology, “I wasn’t watching where I was going. Typical, honestly.”

There was something in your voice, a soft, unhurried kindness. Like you weren’t in a rush to be anywhere else. Like you weren’t measuring Natasha’s worth in tactical terms or waiting for her to make the next move.

Natasha found herself saying, “Let me buy you a new coffee.”

You smiled, the corners of your eyes crinkling. “You don’t have to do that..”

“I want to.” Natasha replied, surprising even herself with the honesty of it.

So she did. The two of you walked to the café together, the rain easing into a gentle drizzle, Natasha holding the door open for you, your fingers brushing briefly, just for a moment. A jolt ran through Natasha’s chest, sharp, unexpected. You didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe you did, and you were just good at pretending.

You exchanged names while waiting for your drinks, your voice soft, easy, Natasha’s a little rough around the edges, guarded but curious. You told her you were a student, studying art history, working part-time at a gallery nearby. Natasha didn’t share much, couldn’t, really, but you didn’t push.

Instead, you talked about a painting you loved. How you could spend hours staring at brushstrokes, how art felt like a conversation with the past. Natasha listened, really listened, the weight in her chest easing just a little.

When you parted, you smiled, really smiled, not the polite kind you give to strangers, and said, “Maybe I’ll see you around?”

Natasha wasn’t sure why she wanted so badly for that to happen. It did happen, again and again.

Little things. Running into each other on the street. Bumping into one another at the same café. A quiet conversation here, a lingering glance there. Slowly, carefully, Natasha let herself be drawn into your orbit, never fully, always cautious, but there.

It took weeks, long, tentative weeks, before Natasha worked up the courage to ask you out for dinner. And it took two months for Natasha to call you her girlfriend.

Two months of trying. Of sitting on the couch with you and not leaning into your touch, even though every cell in her body screamed for it, wanted it, but couldn’t.

Because the truth was, Natasha could fake it with anyone else. She could play a role, slip into a part. But with you, she didn’t want to pretend. She wanted to be real.

And the real her couldn’t handle touch, not yet. You weren’t naïve. You knew who she was, the Black Widow. The ex-assassin. The spy. You had read the articles, the sanitized versions, the headlines that only hinted at the things Natasha had done, the things she had survived.

But none of that could have prepared you for the truth, the raw, unspoken reality that lived in the tight line of Natasha’s shoulders, the way she sometimes seemed to fold into herself when you so much as shifted too close on the couch.

The first time it happened, when you had, without thinking, brushed your hand across Natasha’s back, just a soft touch, barely a whisper, she had gone rigid. You had felt it, like a physical shock.

Natasha had frozen, her breath caught halfway in her throat, her body stiff as if she were bracing for a blow. You had pulled your hand back instantly, your own heart cracking just a little.

“I’m sorry..” you had whispered, voice barely audible.

Natasha’s lips had twitched into something like a smile, but her eyes didn’t quite match. “It’s not you.”

And you knew that. God, you knew. But it didn’t stop the ache in your chest, the quiet, desperate longing for closeness.

You were a touch person, always had been. Hugs that lingered. Hands that reached for others without thinking. Leaning into people when you laughed. It was how you loved, with your body as much as your words.

And you loved Natasha.

You loved her in the way you could only love someone when you saw all the cracks and scars and still thought they were beautiful. You loved the sharpness in Natasha’s eyes when she was focused, the quiet way she listened when you talked about art or the latest exhibition at the gallery. You loved the way her voice softened late at night, when the world was dark and quiet.

But God, you wanted her. Not even in a sexual way, not really, not yet. You just wanted to be close. To hold her hand without feeling her flinch. To pull her into a hug without watching her body go still, waiting for permission that never seemed to come.

It was hard. Hard not to reach out when you sat side by side on the couch, your thighs just barely brushing, and your fingers itched to lace through hers.

Hard not to lean in when Natasha laughed, that rare, genuine laugh that made your chest feel too small for your heart. Hard to fall asleep next to her and feel the warmth of her body but not the closeness. To lie there in the dark, eyes wide open, your body aching to touch, but not daring to.

You tried. You tried so hard to be patient. Because you saw it, the effort Natasha made. How sometimes, when she was brave, her fingers would hover, barely grazing your wrist, like she was testing the water. How, every now and then, she would let you brush your shoulders together, not pulling away, just breathing through it.

And you never wanted to make her feel trapped. Never wanted to take more than Natasha could give. But sometimes, in the quiet moments, it hurt.

It was late one night, the rain tapping softly against the window. You were in Natasha’s apartment, she was curled in a chair, reading, and you were on the couch, half-heartedly scrolling through your phone.

The distance felt heavy. You stared at Natasha’s profile, the way her hair fell loose around her face, the faint shadow of a bruise on her temple from a mission she wouldn’t talk about. She looked so alone, even in a room you shared.

Your chest ached with it. And before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out, soft, hesitant, but heavy with feeling:

“Can I..can I hold you?”

Natasha looked up sharply, eyes wide, the book slipping slightly in her hands.

You felt your breath catch. You tried to smile, to make it light, but your voice cracked when you added, “Just… just a hug. You don’t have to. I just… I miss you.”

It wasn’t fair, you knew that. It wasn’t fair to ask. Natasha stared at you for a long moment, her eyes dark and guarded, a storm behind them.

Then, slowly, so slowly, she set the book down. Her hands clenched into fists on her lap, and your heart twisted.

“I’m sorry..” you whispered, already regretting it, “You don’t have to-”

But Natasha moved. Carefully, stiffly, like she was walking across broken glass, she rose from the chair and sat beside you on the couch, leaving a careful inch between you. Her body was tense, like a wire pulled taut.

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. After a long moment, Natasha whispered, so soft you almost missed it, “I don’t know how to do this.”

Your heart broke, not in a shattering, painful way, but in the quiet, aching way that made you want to hold someone even tighter.

You turned, just slightly, your voice trembling as you said, “That’s okay. We can take it slow. I’m here.”

And you were. You sat there, still, your hands folded in your lap, letting Natasha choose. Letting her try.

And after a long, heavy pause, Natasha’s hand reached out, shaking, tentative, and hovered over yours. Not quite touching. Just close enough that you could feel the heat of her skin.

It wasn’t a hug. It wasn’t even really a touch. But it was something. And you would take it.

Because love wasn’t always soft and easy. Sometimes, it was patience. Sometimes, it was waiting. And for Natasha, you would wait as long as it took.

#natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov x reader #dom!natasha x reader #nat x reader #natasha romonova #the avengers #natasha #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanov

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lotusdrops-world · 2 months ago

Text

Midnight Feast

Based on Sylus's secret times affinity level 145 (spoilers). ao3

Rating: 🔞 Explicit, WC: 2k

Tags: Rainy Night, Hotel Room, Pajama Sharing, Slight BDSM (using pajama sleeves) Sensual Teasing, Oral (F Receiving)

•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘ *ೃ

The rain had been falling for hours.

Outside, the city shimmered behind streaked glass, neon lights bleeding through the storm like watercolor dreams. The hotel room was dim, warm with the low hum of ambient lighting and the faint echo of soft jazz playing from the TV menu. You were curled up on the edge of the bed, wearing oversized pajamas and trying not to glance at the door every few seconds.

They didn’t belong to you. The top slipped off one shoulder and the pants sagged too low on your waist. They were unmistakably his.

You’d ordered room service about fifteen minutes ago. The food hadn’t arrived yet, but that wasn’t the thing you were waiting for.

The sound of the keycard sliding in jolted you. The door creaked open, and there he was—Sylus, rain-slicked and brooding, black coat damp and clinging to his frame, hair slightly tousled.

His eyes locked onto you instantly.

"What are you waiting for, kitten?" His voice was deep and smooth, already laced with amusement. "Why aren't you sitting over here?"

You glanced up from where you'd been curled. “Where to sit?”

"Isn't it obvious?" He stepped inside, letting the door shut behind him with a soft thud. "It's raining outside, so it's a little cold. Don’t worry, I didn’t get wet." He peeled off his coat, ruffling his hair. "I feel a lot warmer now."

He walked toward you, eyes scanning you slowly. You saw the flicker in them when he noticed what you were wearing.

"When you opened the door and saw me, you looked surprised." He tilted his head. "Who were you expecting?"

You smirked, stretching lazily. “Who else am I waiting for?”

That pulled a quiet chuckle from him—low and fond.

"Of course, it’s a rhetorical question. I wanted to hear you say you were waiting for me."

You raised a brow. “You like hearing your name a lot, don’t you?”

"Only from your mouth." He moved closer, his presence already settling around you like gravity. "You called room service." His gaze slid to the untouched plates. "You get hungry very easily. What food did you order while I was away?"

You gestured toward the small spread on the table. “Burgers. Fries. Something truffle. It sounded good at the time.”

"You have quite the appetite today, huh?" His tone turned teasing, knowing.

You raised both brows. “Is that a problem?”

"You ordered a lot of dishes." He leaned over your shoulder, his voice curling around the shell of your ear. "Were you planning on enjoying them alone, or were you waiting to share them with me?"

You shrugged, turning your face just enough to glance at him. “Depends. Would you have shared your hoodie if I asked?”

He grinned—slow and dangerous. "You weren’t planning to share."

“I didn’t say that.”

"Turn around and show me your eyes," he murmured. "Let’s see if they lie as much as your mouth does."

You turned to face him fully, locking eyes. “I’ve never lied to you.”

"I knew you were lying." He traced your jaw with a thumb. "That’s very bold of you. Yes, you better be as bold as you are insatiable today."

You laughed under your breath, pulse skipping.

His eyes dropped to your pajamas again. "I noticed your pajamas didn’t quite fit you the moment I walked in. And they look familiar." He pinched the loose collar playfully. "Are they mine?"

You shrugged, feigning innocence. “I grabbed the wrong set. Limited time. Chaos. Sue me.”

"Hmm, I recall that on the day before we went traveling, someone spent the whole night packing." His smile widened. "She even packed three phone chargers to prepare for worst-case scenarios. But it seems the worst-case scenario happened anyway."

You rolled your eyes. “So dramatic. Are you mocking me now?”

Chuckling softly, he said "don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not trying to mock you." His fingers brushed your collarbone. "In fact, I only care about one thing." He leaned in, lips almost brushing your cheek. "If you're wearing my pajamas... then what should I wear?"

You grinned. “I brought two pairs of the same kind. Yours is in the drawer.”

"Do I look like I’m anticipating something?"

You looked him up and down slowly, then smiled. “Always.”

"Oh, what a detailed interpretation." He leaned closer, whispering now. "It’s nothing. But if you keep staring at me, I might just..."

You bit your bottom lip. “Might what?”

"All right, I won’t say it." He smirked. "Your ears are red now, though."

“Stop being such a bad boy, Sylus,” you murmured.

"You’re calling me a bad boy again." His voice dropped. "Well, don’t expect the bad boy to do good things."

He didn’t ask permission when he pulled you into his lap, arms wrapped around your waist.

"Shhh. All right, stay still. Why don’t we cuddle for a bit?"

You melted into him, burying your face into the crook of his neck. “You’re warm.”

He pressed his lips to your shoulder, voice dropping into something softer. "I didn’t notice how nice the pajama fabric was until now."

His nose nuzzled along your neck as he inhaled gently. "It even smells like you."

You melted a little more into his touch, breath caught between comfort and heat.

Then, with a low, content murmur, Sylus added, "This here is very warm."

His hand slid over your waist, fingers grazing the hem of the pajama top. "Oh... this isn't the fabric."

You shook your head.

He smirked against your skin. "Then what is it? Tell me."

There was only the soft rustle of fabric between you—pajamas shifting, sheets stirring. His forehead brushed yours, the space between your mouths heavy with anticipation.

Then his mouth met yours—slow, only a graze. As if both of you don't want to give in to that temptation yet.

His breath caught as you playfully scraped your teeth lightly across his lower lip. "Don’t bite," he murmured, voice rough with warning and something darker. "You’re being unreasonable."

His hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, cold fingers splaying across your warm skin.

"My hand was freezing," he added, as if it explained everything. "I told you it was cold out there."

“Oh, so you don’t seem to mind now.” you whispered, breathless.

"What are you trying to grab?" he growled as your fingers slid under his shirt. "If you want to get back at me, this method might not work. Stop that. Otherwise I..."

You arched against him, murmuring. “Do it.”

A slow smirk tugged at the corners of Sylus' mouth. Without another word, he guided your wrists together and, with practiced ease, used the long sleeves of your pajama top to tie them in a simple, yet effective knot. The soft fabric slid around your skin, securing your hands above your head, immobilizing you with a delicious sense of helplessness.

"Everything's good now." He pinned your hands slightly above your head. "What did you think I was going to do to you?"

Your grin was slow and sweet. “Exactly what you’re thinking.”

"It’s great that these sleeves are long and easy to tie together." He tugged on your wrists gently. "Won’t you be a good little hand warmer now, kitten?"

You laughed, flushed and breathless. “You’re terrible.”

"You’re very strong, and you don’t hold back when it comes to me." His hand ran down your thigh, making the loose silky pajama pants hike up your soft thighs. "You’re right. These pajamas are too flimsy." He tugged at the waistband. "Sure, we can blacklist this brand..." His lips ghosted your belly. "But more importantly, I’m hungry."

Your voice trembled slightly. “Then eat.”

"...What do I want to eat first?" He looked up at you from between your legs. "Why don’t you choose for me?"

You teased, “I’m going to bed.”

"You’re going to bed?" His breath hit your thigh. "But I think this is a good spot."

He kissed the inside of your knee, making you moan softly.

"Don’t push me away." His hands parted your thighs slowly. "It’s too late to chicken out, kitten."

There was a soft rustling of fabric as he slid your pajama pants down your legs, his movements slow, deliberate, and a knock startled you both.

"Who is it?" he muttered. Then looking at you, he smirks. "I almost forgot you ordered the room service."

You made a move to get up, but he stopped you with a hand on your waist.

"Where are you going? Do you actually plan to open the door like that?" He glanced at your half-naked body. "Let me do it. Just sit here and wait for your late-night snack." He kissed your stomach, voice like a purr. "And after you’ve had your fill..." His eyes glinted. "It’ll be my turn. Right?"

⁀➷✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*⍣

But it turned out Sylus couldn’t wait.

The knock at the door was barely fading when he came back, his steps swift, determined. He locked it behind him with a soft click, eyes never leaving your body sprawled across the hotel bed—pajama pants discarded, breath shallow, skin flushed with anticipation.

Then he dropped to his knees between your thighs, like a sinner praying for absolution, but the kind of salvation only your body could offer.

You gasped softly as his hands slid up your calves, spreading you wider, thumbs brushing along the sensitive crease of your inner thighs. Your skin burned under his touch, nerves alight with every slow stroke of his fingers.

He didn’t speak at first.

Instead, his mouth lowered to you like he was unwrapping a forbidden gift—lips brushing, teasing. You jolted, a breathy moan escaping your throat as the first flick of his tongue met your already aching heat.

Then—he devoured you.

There was nothing gentle about it. He licked, sucked, flicked with slow, devastating precision. Like a man who had been thinking about this moment the second he left the room earlier. The sound of your moans only urged him on, each one dragging a low growl from deep in his chest.

Your hands gripped the sheets tightly, hips rolling up against his mouth. “Sylus—fuck—”

He groaned in response, the vibration of it sending a fresh shock through your core. His hands pinned your thighs open, strong and grounding, anchoring you to the mattress as he took his time savoring every slick, trembling inch of you.

“ Mfmmh- You taste so good. Taste so good around my tongue.”

Your head tilted back, a shiver rippling down your spine. Every stroke of his tongue built upon the last—steadier, firmer, intentional. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Your fingers reached down, tangling in his silver hair, trying to pull him closer, trying to anchor yourself.

He didn’t budge.

His tongue curled just right, lips sealing around your clit, sucking in a rhythm that was pure sin. The sound of it—the wet, obscene harmony of his mouth on you and your ragged breathing—filled the room like its own music.

He slowed down and licked long stripes around your puffy folds, making you flinch with need. He chuckled lowly, and spat on your cunt, pulling back quickly just to see how his saliva dripped down your slickness— and lapped your wetness once more.

Catching his breath, he pulled back once more while circling your clit with his calloused thumb. “Close, kitten? Cum so you can eat your late-snack after this.” he teased.

“F-fuck, you're i-impossible.” you moaned.

And then it hit.

Your climax slammed into you like a tidal wave—sudden, blinding, consuming. Your back arched off the mattress, mouth open in a silent cry as he held you through it, tongue softening just enough to let the pleasure drag out, roll through you in waves.

But he didn’t stop.

He kissed you through the aftershocks, his tongue gentler now, coaxing every last flicker of sensation from your trembling body. His palms slid up your sides, grounding you as you gasped for breath, body twitching under his unrelenting devotion.

When he finally pulled away, his lips were slick with you, a wicked curve tugging at the corner of his mouth as he crawled back up your body.

He hovered just above your face, eyes dark with hunger, voice rough and low.

“I told you I was starving, kitten.”

He brushed his lips against your cheek, teasing, before whispering in your ear,

“And you're still the sweetest thing on the menu.”

#love and deepspace #sylus #lads sylus #love and deepspace sylus #lads #lnds #love and deepspace fanfiction #qin che #sylus qin #sylus fanfic #sylus x reader #l&ds sylus #lnds sylus #sylusposting #sylus lads #sylus smut #lnd sylus

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tobiosbbyghorl · 2 months ago

Text

pairing: scientist!sunghoon x scientist! reader

wc:10.5k

released date: 05.17.2025

warning: PURE FICTION!!

synopsis: In the quiet of her lab, Dr. Y/N, a skilled scientist, sets out on a risky mission to bring back her late fiancé, Park Sunghoon, who died in a car accident. Using his preserved DNA, she creates a clone that grows rapidly in just two years. When Sunghoon wakes up, he faces the difficult reality of being brought back to life and the moral issues surrounding Y/N's actions.

a/n: ITS HERE!! Hope you guys will love it as much as I did writing it! feedbacks,likes and reblogs are highly appreciated!

In the cold glow of my underground biotech lab, silence is sacred. Down here, beneath layers of steel and earth, the world doesn’t exist. No grief. No time. Just me. Just him.

The capsule glows in the center of the room—a vertical womb of steel and glass, pulsing faintly with blue light. Suspended inside, wrapped in strands of bio-filaments and artificial amniotic fluid, is the reason I wake up in the morning. Or stay awake. I don’t know the difference anymore.

Park Sunghoon.

Or… what’s left of him.

One year ago, he died on his way to our civil wedding. A drunk driver. A rainy street. A second too late. I got the call before I even zipped up my dress. I still remember the way my coffee spilled all over the lab floor when my knees gave out. I never cleaned it. It’s still there, dried in the corner. A fossil of the moment my world cracked open.

⸻

He used to say I was too curious for my own good.

That I’d poke the universe too hard one day and it would poke back.

Maybe this is what he meant.

⸻

Sunghoon and I were both scientists—biotech researchers. We studied regenerative cloning, theorized about neural echo imprinting, debated ethics like it was foreplay.

He was against replicas. Always. “A copy isn’t a soul,” he’d say. “It’s just noise pretending to be music.”

But the day he died, I stopped caring about music.

I just wanted to hear his voice again.

⸻

I had everything I needed. A sample of his bone DNA—collected after a minor lab accident years ago and stored under a pseudonym. His blood type, genome map, neural scan from our first brain-simulation trial. A perfect match, all buried in our old hard drives. He never knew I kept them. Maybe he would’ve hated me for it.

Maybe I don’t care.

I called it Project ECHO.

Because that’s what he was now.

An echo. A ripple in the void.

⸻

The first version—ECHO-1—was a failure.

He looked like Sunghoon. But he never woke up. I ran every test. Monitored every vital. Adjusted nutrient cycles, protein growth, heartbeat regulators. But something in him was missing—something I couldn’t code into cells.

A soul, maybe. Or timing.

He died the second I tried to bring him out.

I cremated and buried that version in the garden, under the cherry tree he planted the first spring we moved in. I didn’t cry at the funeral. I just stood there holding the urn and whispered, “I’ll get it right next time.”

⸻

ECHO-2 was different.

I restructured the genome to prevent cellular decay. Added telomere stabilizers to delay aging. Enhanced his immune system. This time, I built him stronger. Healthier. The version of Sunghoon that would’ve never gotten sick that winter in Sapporo, or fainted in the elevator that one night after forgetting to eat. That version who could live longer. With me.

But the rest—I left untouched.

His smile. His hands. The faint mole scattered in his face. The way his hair curled when wet. All exactly the same. It had to be. He wouldn’t be Sunghoon without those things.

I even reconstructed his mind.

Using an illegal neural mapping sequence I coded from fragments of our joint research, I retrieved echoes of his memory—dream-like reflections extracted from the deepest preserved brain tissue. It wasn’t perfect. But it was him. Pieces of him. The things he never got to say. The life he never finished.

⸻

It took two years.

Two years in the dark, surrounded by synthetic fluid and filtered lights, modifying the incubator like a cradle built by obsession. I monitored every development milestone like a parent. I watched him grow. I whispered stories to him when the lab was quiet, played him our favorite records through the tank’s acoustic feed, left him notes on the console like he could read them.

⸻

One night, I touched the tank and felt warmth radiate back. His fingers twitched.

A smile cracked on his lips, soft and sleepy.

And I whispered, “You’re almost here.”

⸻

Now he floats before me—grown, complete, and terrifyingly familiar. His chest rises and falls steadily. Muscles formed and defined from synthetic stimulation. His brain is fully developed. His body—twenty-five years old. The age he was when he died. The age we should’ve gotten married.

And now, he’s ready.

⸻

The console buzzes beside me.

“Project ECHO – Stage V: Awakening. Confirm execution.”

My fingers hover. The hum of the lab grows louder. My heart beats so hard I feel it in my throat.

This is it.

The point of no return.

I press enter.

The Awakening didn’t look like the movies.

There was no dramatic gasp, no lightning bolt of consciousness.

It was subtle.

His eyes fluttered open, hazy and uncertain, like the first morning light after a long storm. They didn’t lock onto me at first. He blinked a few times—slow, groggy—and stared at the ceiling of the pod with a confusion so human it made my knees go weak.

Then his gaze shifted.

Found me.

And held.

Just long enough to knock the breath from my lungs.

“Sunghoon,” I whispered.

His lips barely moved. “…Y/N?”

And then—just like that—he slipped under again.

His vitals were stable, but his body couldn’t process full consciousness yet. It was expected. I designed it that way. A controlled emergence. Gentle. Like thawing from ice.

He would wake again. Soon.

⸻

Phase VI: Integration.

I had the room ready before I even began the cloning process. A private suite in the East Wing of my estate, modified to resemble a recovery room from a private hospital: sterile whites and soft blues, filtered natural lighting, automated IV drips and real-time vitals displayed on sleek black monitors. The scent of lavender piped faintly through the vents. His favorite.

I moved him after he lost consciousness again—quietly, carefully. No one else involved. Not even my AI assistant, KARA. This part was just mine.

Just ours.

He lay in the bed now, dressed in soft gray cotton, sheets pulled up to his chest. The faint hum of the machines harmonized with his breathing. It was surreal. Like watching a ghost settle into a life it forgot it had.

I perched on the armchair across from him, the dim lighting casting long shadows over his face.

“You’re safe,” I murmured, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “And when you wake up… everything will be in place.”

⸻

I spent the next forty-eight hours setting the stage.

Fabricated records of a traumatic car accident—minor amnesia, extended coma, miraculous survival. Hacked into the hospital registry and quietly added his name under a wealthy alias. I made sure the media silence was absolute. No visitors. No suspicious calls. A full blackout.

I memorized the story I would tell him. Rehearsed it like a script.

We had been on our way to City Hall. A drunk driver ran a red light. I survived with minor injuries. He hit his head. Slipped into a coma. No signs of brain damage, but long-term memory instability was expected.

He’d been here ever since. Safe. Loved. Waiting to wake up.

And now—he had.

⸻

On the morning of the third day, I heard movement.

Soft. Shuffling. Sheets rustling.

I turned from the monitor just as he groaned softly, his head turning on the pillow.

“Sunghoon?”

His eyes blinked open again, more alert this time. Still groggy, but present.

“Y/N…?” he rasped.

I rushed to his side, heart in my throat. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

His brows knit together, voice hoarse. “What happened?”

“You were in an accident,” I said gently. “The day of our wedding. You’ve been in a coma. Two years.”

His eyes widened—just a little. Then flicked down to his hands. The IV. The machines. The unfamiliar room.

“…Two years?”

I nodded, bracing for the confusion. “You survived. But it was close. We weren’t sure you’d ever… come back.”

He said nothing.

Just stared at me.

Like he was trying to remember something he couldn’t quite reach.

“…Why does it feel like I never left?” he whispered.

I smiled softly. Forced. “Because I never left you.”

And for now, that was all he needed to know.

But deep down, behind those eyes, behind the half-forgotten memories and muscle memory that wasn’t truly his—

Something flickered.

Something not asleep anymore.

He was awake.

And the lie had begun.

The days that followed passed in a quiet rhythm.

He adjusted faster than I anticipated. His motor skills were strong, his speech patterns natural—so much so that sometimes I forgot he wasn’t really him. Or maybe he was. Just… rebuilt. Reassembled with grief and obsession and the memory of love that still clung to me like static.

I stayed with him in the hospital wing, sleeping on the pullout beside his bed. Every morning he’d wake before me, staring out the wide window as if trying to piece together time. And when I asked what he was thinking, he always gave the same answer:

“I feel like I dreamed you.”

On the seventh day, he turned to me, his voice clearer than ever.

“Can I go back to our room?”

I paused, fingers wrapped around the rim of his tea mug.

He still called it our room.

I nodded.

“Yeah,” I said. “You’re strong enough now.”

And so we did.

I helped him down the hallway, hand in his, the same way I’d imagined it during the long nights of Phase II. His steps were careful, measured. But his eyes… they lit up the moment we entered.

It looked the same.

The navy sheets. The low lights. The picture of us by the bookshelf—framed and untouched. His books still on the shelf in alphabetical order. His favorite sweatshirt folded at the foot of the bed like I had never moved it.

He smiled when he saw it. “It feels like nothing’s changed.”

Except everything had.

I didn’t say that.

⸻

He asked about the lab a few nights later. We were curled together in bed—his head on my shoulder, our legs tangled like old habits finding their way home.

“How’s the lab?” he asked, voice soft in the dark. “Are we still working on the neuro-mirroring project?”

My heart skipped.

I’d gotten rid of everything. The pod. The DNA matrix. The prototype drafts. Scrubbed the drives clean. Smashed the external backups. Buried the remains of ECHO-1 under a new tree. The lab was as sterile as my conscience was not.

I turned toward him, brushing my thumb over the scar that curved above his brow. The one that hadn’t been there before the “accident.”

“It’s being renovated,” I said carefully. “After the crash… I couldn’t go in for a while. So I decided to redo it. Clear things out. Start over fresh.”

He nodded slowly. “Makes sense.”

He didn’t ask again.

And just like that, life began to move forward.

He followed me around the house again, stealing kisses in the kitchen, playfully poking fun at the way I never folded laundry properly. He rediscovered his favorite coffee, laughed at old movies like they were new, held my hand under the stars like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But sometimes—when he thought I wasn’t looking—he’d stare at his reflection too long. Tilt his head. Press his fingers to his chest like he was checking if something was still there.

Maybe he felt it.

The echo of what he was.

But if he did, he never said.

One night, wrapped up in each other’s warmth, he whispered into my neck, “I don’t know how I got so lucky to come back to you.”

I pressed a kiss to his temple, forcing a smile as my heart ached beneath the surface.

“I guess some things are just meant to find their way back.”

Even if they were never supposed to.

Time softened everything.

The sterile silence of the house began to fade, replaced by the quiet thrum of life again—the clink of mugs in the morning, the shuffle of his bare feet on the hardwood, the lazy hum of music playing from a speaker that hadn’t been touched since he died. I started to breathe again, and so did he.

Like we were rewriting the rhythm we’d lost.

—

Our first night out felt like time travel.

He picked the place—a rooftop restaurant we always swore we’d try, back when work kept getting in the way. I wore the same navy dress I had worn on our second anniversary. He noticed. His hand slid into mine under the table like it belonged there, his thumb tracing invisible patterns against my skin.

Halfway through dessert, he leaned in, grinning with chocolate at the corner of his lip.

“You still scrunch your nose when you’re pretending to like the wine,” he teased, eyes gleaming.

I blinked. “You remember that?”

He nodded slowly. “It just feels like… I always knew.”

I smiled, heart aching in that strange, quiet way it always did now.

“You’re right,” I said, brushing the chocolate off his lip. “You always did.”

Even grocery shopping with him became a date.

He pushed the cart like a child let loose, tossing in things we didn’t need just to make me laugh. At one point, he held up a can of whipped cream with the most mischievous glint in his eye.

“For movie night,” he said innocently.

I arched a brow. “For the movie or during the movie?”

He smirked. “Depends how boring the movie is.”

We walked home with one umbrella, our fingers interlaced in the rain, and the world somehow felt smaller, warmer.

He burned the garlic the first time.

“I told you the pan was too hot,” I said, waving smoke away.

“And you told me to trust you,” he countered, looking absurdly proud of his crime against dinner. “Besides, I like it crunchy.”

“You like your taste buds annihilated, apparently.”

We ended up ordering takeout, sitting on the kitchen floor, eating noodles out of the box with chopsticks, laughing about how we’d both make terrible housewives.

But the next night, we tried again.

He stood behind me, arms around my waist, guiding my hands as I chopped vegetables.

“You used to do this,” I said softly. “When I first moved in.”

“I know,” he murmured. “It’s one of my favorite memories.”

Cuddling became a ritual.

He always found a way to get impossibly close—sprawled across the couch with his head in my lap, humming contentedly while I read a book or ran my fingers through his hair.

Sometimes we didn’t speak for hours.

Just the quiet breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, his heartbeat echoing faintly against my thigh. Real. Solid. Present.

It was a miracle I could touch.

One night, as rain tapped gently on the windows and he was half-asleep on my shoulder, he whispered:

“I feel safe with you.”

I held him tighter.

Because if I let go—even for a second—I was afraid he might vanish again.

⸻

Love blossomed differently this time.

Slower. Deeper. Less like fire, more like roots. Tangled and unshakable.

And sometimes, in the quiet of our shared bed, I would watch him sleep and wonder if it was love that brought him back.

Or obsession.

But when he opened his eyes and smiled like the sun lived behind them, I told myself it didn’t matter.

He was here.

And that was enough.

For now.

⸻

I woke with a jolt, my heart pounding so violently it threatened to break free from my chest. The nightmare was still fresh, its vividness clinging to my mind like the smoke of a fire.

Sunghoon.

He was in the car again—his face frozen in the moment before everything shattered, his eyes wide with disbelief. The screech of tires, the crash. His body limp. The way I couldn’t reach him no matter how hard I screamed.

I gasped for air, my fingers clutching at the sheets, tangled in the panic that still gripped me.

My breath came in ragged bursts as I sat up, drenched in sweat. My chest heaved with the rawness of the memory, the terrible what-ifs that still haunted me.

A hand gently touched my back.

“Y/N?”

His voice, soft and concerned, cut through the haze of the nightmare. I froze for a moment, the world around me still spinning from the disorienting shock.

I turned, and there he was—Sunghoon—sitting up beside me in the bed, his eyes full of concern. The soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated his face, and for a moment, it was almost as if everything had shifted back into place.

But only for a second.

“Are you alright?” He asked, his voice warm with worry.

I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breathing. “I… I just had a nightmare,” I whispered, avoiding his eyes. My heart was still trying to settle, and I didn’t want him to see the fear in my face. I didn’t want him to see how broken I still was.

Sunghoon leaned forward, his hands reaching out to cradle my face gently. He brushed a strand of hair away from my forehead, his touch so familiar, so tender.

“Nightmares are just that,” he said softly, his thumb grazing my skin. “They aren’t real. I’m here.”

I nodded, trying to pull myself together, but the knot in my throat wouldn’t loosen. There was something about the way he said it—so assuredly. So real. Like the past didn’t exist, like he had never been gone.

Like I hadn’t created him from fragments of grief and obsession.

He sat next to me, his arm around my shoulders as I leaned into him. The warmth of his body, the steady rise and fall of his chest, slowly calmed me. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of him—the same as it had always been.

“I’m here,” he repeated, his voice a quiet lullaby.

But somewhere deep inside, I couldn’t shake the question that had haunted me since the moment I had revived him: Who was he really? Was this truly the Sunghoon I had loved, the one who had filled my life with light? Or was this just a perfect imitation, a replica of my memories? An echo of a man who would never truly exist again?

I wanted to believe he was him. I needed to believe it.

But as he held me, his warmth seeping into my skin, I couldn’t deny the doubt that gnawed at my soul.

“Y/N?” he murmured, sensing my tension.

“Yeah?” I whispered, pulling myself closer into his arms.

He tilted my chin up, his gaze intense as he met my eyes. “I love you,” he said quietly, with such certainty that for a moment, it almost felt real—like the love we’d always shared before the accident, before everything shattered.

And in that moment, I wanted to believe it. I wanted to forget everything else, to let myself drown in the reassurance that this was him—my Sunghoon.

But the ghosts of the past still lingered in the corners of my mind.

“I love you too,” I replied softly, my voice shaky but true.

And for a few minutes, we just sat there, holding each other in the stillness of the night.

But as I closed my eyes and let the warmth of his embrace lull me back to sleep, the doubt remained.

Would I ever be able to escape the shadows of my own creation?

As the days passed, the weight of my doubts gradually lightened. Sunghoon’s presence—his warmth, his voice, the way he smiled—reminded me more and more of the man I had once loved, the man who had been taken from me.

The fear, the gnawing uncertainty that had once been constant in the back of my mind, slowly started to fade. Each moment we spent together was a little piece of normalcy returning. He didn’t just look like Sunghoon. He was Sunghoon. In every little detail—his laugh, the way he tilted his head when he was deep in thought, how he always made the coffee exactly the way I liked it. His presence was enough to reassure me that this was him, in all the ways that mattered.

We went on walks together, hand in hand, strolling through the garden I had planted the day we first moved into the house. It was filled with flowers that bloomed year-round—just like the memories I had of us, blooming and growing despite the heartbreak.

We laughed, reminiscing about everything we had shared before. Sunghoon was never afraid to be vulnerable with me, and it felt like we were picking up right where we left off. His sense of humor, always dry and sarcastic, never failed to make me smile. And slowly, I began to accept that the man who stood beside me, laughing at his own jokes, was truly my Sunghoon.

One night, as we cooked dinner together, I watched him carefully slice vegetables, his movements graceful and practiced. It was simple, domestic, but it felt like everything I had longed for since he was gone.

“Don’t forget the garlic,” I reminded him, teasing.

He shot me a look, smirking. “I remember.”

I smiled, feeling the warmth of the moment settle into my bones. This was real. The way he made sure I was comfortable in the kitchen, the way we worked together without needing words—this was our life, reborn.

The more time we spent in the house, the more at ease I became. We cooked together, watched old movies, read books side by side, and held each other as we fell asleep at night. There were no more questions in my mind. No more doubts. Just the feeling of peace settling over me, like the calm after a storm.

Sunghoon never asked me about the lab. And I never had to lie, because there was no need to. The lab had been dismantled long ago, every trace of Project ECHO erased. It was as if it never existed. My obsession, my grief—gone.

In its place was this. A second chance.

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving you, Y/N,” he said one evening as we sat on the couch, the sound of rain tapping against the windows. He held me close, his head resting against mine. “No matter what happens, no matter what changes… you’re the one for me.”

I turned to look at him, searching his eyes for something—anything—that might reveal the truth I feared. But there was nothing. Only love. Real love.

“I feel the same,” I whispered back, brushing my lips against his.

For a moment, the world outside disappeared. There was no past, no lab, no questions. There was only Sunghoon, here with me. And that was enough.

The days continued to pass in a peaceful blur of moments that I had once thought lost forever. With each sunrise, my doubts melted away, and with every touch, every kiss, I felt more certain that this was real. That he was real.

Sunghoon might not be the exact same person who had walked out of that door all those years ago—but in my heart, it didn’t matter. He was my Sunghoon, and that was all I needed.

Together, we built a life—one step at a time. And this time, I wasn’t afraid.

I wasn’t afraid of the past. I wasn’t afraid of the future.

I was just… happy.

Sunghoon’s POV

It had been a year since I came back to her, and in that time, I had slowly convinced myself that everything was okay. That what we had, what I had, was enough. That the woman I loved, the woman who had saved me—had done so much more than just revive me—wasn’t hiding any more secrets. But the past… it always had a way of creeping up, didn’t it?

I wasn’t snooping, not exactly. I was just cleaning up. I had offered to help her tidy up the office since she had been so caught up in her work lately, and well, I had nothing else to do. After all, it’s been a year now, and I’ve come to understand her more than I could ever have imagined. She’d been distant the past few days, and it made me uneasy. The kind of unease that makes you feel like there’s something you should know, but you can’t quite put your finger on it.

It was as I was sorting through the boxes in her home office—one that she hadn’t allowed me to visit much—that I found it.

A video tape.

It was tucked behind a stack of old files, half-buried in the clutter. At first, I thought nothing of it. She was always meticulous about her work, so maybe it was just an old research document, something from her past. But when I saw the words “Project ECHO – Development and Breakdown” scrawled on the side, my heart stopped. I felt a sickening knot tighten in my chest, and instinctively, my fingers curled around it.

What was this?

My thoughts raced as I fumbled with the tape, my hands trembling just slightly as I slid it into the old VCR player she kept in the corner of the office. The screen flickered to life.

There I was.

Or… the version of me that had once existed. The first one. My mind was running faster than my eyes could follow the images flashing on the screen. I saw footage of my development, from the initial growth stages to the first electrical impulses firing in my brain, as well as my physical appearance being tested and adjusted.

My stomach turned as the video documented every breakdown of my body—every failed attempt to bring me to life. I saw the wires, the artificial fluids, the machines that I had been hooked up to before I had opened my eyes, before I had woken up in that hospital room.

But it was the last part of the video that hit hardest. There, in her cold, emotionless voice, Y/N narrated her thoughts, her failed efforts, her obsession with recreating me.

“I couldn’t get it right… not the first time. But I will, because I have to. For him. For us.”

My chest tightened as the realization hit me like a brick. She had known the entire time. She had created me. I wasn’t the Sunghoon who had died. I was a version of him. A shadow of the real thing.

The screen went black, but the words echoed in my mind like an incessant drumbeat.

For him. For us.

The pain of that truth was like a knife twisting in my gut. The woman I loved had spent years trying to recreate me, to bring me back—because she couldn’t let go. She couldn’t let me go. But she never told me. She never let me in on the truth of it all.

I was a lie.

I wasn’t real. And all this time, I had been believing I was the same Sunghoon she had lost. But I wasn’t.

I could feel the tears stinging my eyes as I reached for the nearby papers, pulling them out in a frantic rage. More documents. More of my development—charts, genetic breakdowns, notes about my failed memories, and even the procedures Y/N had carried out. Every page proved it. I wasn’t just a clone; I was the culmination of her grief and desire.

The door to the office opened quietly behind me, and I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. The air in the room grew thick, suffocating. I could feel her presence like a weight pressing down on me.

“Sunghoon,” she whispered, her voice barely a murmur.

I finally turned to face her. She looked pale, her eyes wide, clearly having seen the documents I had scattered across the room. She knew. She knew what I had found.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I choked out, my voice raw. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth, Y/N?”

Her eyes flickered with guilt, and for a moment, I thought she might say something—anything to explain, to apologize. But instead, she took a step back, her hands wringing together nervously.

“I didn’t want you to hate me,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I didn’t want to lose you again. I—I thought maybe if you didn’t know… maybe we could have our life back. I just wanted to have you here again, Sunghoon.”

My hands balled into fists at my sides, and I could feel the tears building in my eyes. “But I’m not him, am I? I’m not the real Sunghoon. I’m just… this.” I gestured around at the papers, at the video, at the mess that had been my life. “I’m a replica. A copy of someone who doesn’t exist anymore. How could you do this to me?”

She stepped forward, her face pale with fear, but her voice was firm. “I didn’t mean for it to go this far. I just wanted you back, Sunghoon. I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t lose you. You were taken from me so suddenly, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t live with the thought that you were gone forever.”

I looked at her, the woman who had once been everything to me—the one who I thought had rebuilt me out of love, not out of desperation.

“Do you think I’m the same person? Do you think I can just pretend that I’m the man I was before? How could you think I wouldn’t want to know the truth?” My voice cracked, emotion flooding out of me like a dam breaking. “How could you do this?”

Her face crumpled, and I saw the tears well up in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Sunghoon,” she whispered, her voice barely audible through the sobs. “I thought if I could just give you everything back, we could start over. But I was wrong. I—I should’ve told you from the beginning.”

I could feel the overwhelming ache in my chest, the confusion, the betrayal. But more than that, I felt the loss of something far deeper: trust. The trust that she had built between us was gone in an instant.

“You’re right. You should’ve told me,” I whispered, stepping back, my throat tight. “I need some space, Y/N. I can’t… I can’t do this right now.”

I turned and walked out of the room, my heart shattering with each step.

I paused at the door, the weight of her voice sinking into me like a stone. I didn’t turn around, not right away. The question lingered in the air, hanging between us, impossible to ignore.

“If I was the one who died, would you do the same?”

Her words were quiet, but they cut through the silence of the room with precision, like a knife through soft flesh. I could feel the tension in the air—the desperation in her voice, the need for an answer. She was asking me to justify her actions, to somehow make sense of everything she had done.

I clenched my fists at my sides, fighting the urge to turn and lash out. But I couldn’t do it—not when the pain of her question was a reflection of everything I was feeling.

“I… I don’t know,” I finally muttered, my voice barely a whisper. “Maybe I would. I can’t say for sure. But I don’t think I’d ever hide the truth from you. I wouldn’t keep you in the dark, pretending that everything was okay when it wasn’t.”

Her soft, broken gasp from behind me reached my ears, but I couldn’t face her—not yet. Not when the anger and hurt were still so raw.

“You don’t know what it’s like to lose someone you love that much,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “I couldn’t stand the thought of living without you, Sunghoon. I thought… maybe if I could just bring you back… we could have our future. But now, I see how selfish that was. How wrong.”

I wanted to say something—anything—to ease her pain, but the words stuck in my throat. The truth was, part of me still wanted to reach out to her, to hold her, to tell her it was going to be okay. But I wasn’t sure if that would be enough. Would it ever be enough?

“I need time, Y/N,” I said quietly, my voice cracking. “I need to think. About all of this. About us.”

The silence that followed was heavy, unbearable. And then, finally, I walked out the door, leaving her behind, standing in the wreckage of her choices—and my own shattered heart.

The days stretched on like a slow burn, each passing hour marked by the tension that filled every corner of our shared space. We were still in the same house, the same home, but it felt like we were living in different worlds now. The walls felt thicker, the silence heavier.

I moved through the house in a daze, keeping to myself more often than not. Y/N and I had an unspoken agreement—it was easier this way. She’d stay in the study or the kitchen, and I’d retreat to the room we used to share, now feeling like an alien space, void of the warmth it once held. We didn’t speak much anymore, and when we did, it was brief—polite, almost mechanical.

There were moments when I caught a glimpse of her, standing in the hallway, her head bent low, a soft frown on her face. Other times, she’d walk by without looking at me, her eyes fixed on the floor, avoiding my gaze as if she feared what might happen if she met my eyes for too long. I wanted to reach out, to say something—anything—but every time I did, the words felt inadequate, like they couldn’t possibly capture the weight of everything that had changed.

One evening, I found myself sitting in the living room, staring out the window at the moonlit garden. I could hear her footsteps in the hallway, the soft sound of her presence lingering in the air. For a moment, I thought she might come in, might sit beside me like she used to. But she didn’t. Instead, the silence stretched between us again, a reminder of the distance we had created.

I exhaled sharply, rubbing my eyes as frustration built inside me. The whole situation felt suffocating—like I was trapped between what I wanted and what had happened. I didn’t know how to fix it, or even if it could be fixed. There was so much to unravel, so many emotions to sort through. And then there was the truth—the truth of who I was now. Not just a man trying to find his way back to a life that no longer existed, but a clone—a replica of someone who once had a future, now burdened with a past he didn’t truly own.

The sound of her voice from the kitchen broke my thoughts.

“Dinner’s ready,” she called softly, her voice almost too gentle, too careful.

I hesitated for a moment, staring at the untouched glass of water on the coffee table. The empty space between us felt too vast to cross, but eventually, I stood up, making my way to the kitchen.

We sat across from each other, the dim light from the pendant lamp above casting shadows on the table. There were no small talks, no jokes exchanged like before. We ate in silence, the clinking of silverware the only sound between us. Every so often, I would look up, meeting her gaze for a fleeting second, but neither of us had the courage to speak the words that were hanging in the air.

The food was good, as always, but it didn’t taste the same. The flavor of everything felt hollow, like a memory that wasn’t quite mine.

When the meal was over, I helped clear the table, my movements stiff. The kitchen felt too small, the air too thick.

She turned to face me then, her expression unreadable, her eyes dark with something I couldn’t quite place. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, her voice barely a whisper. “For everything.”

I swallowed hard, the knot in my chest tightening. “I know you are. I… I just don’t know what to do with all of this.”

Her eyes flickered with unshed tears, and she stepped back, as though the space between us could somehow protect her from the weight of the moment. “I never wanted to hurt you, Sunghoon,” she murmured, her words full of regret. “I thought… I thought if I could just bring you back, we could have another chance. But now I see how wrong I was.”

I nodded slowly, trying to process the ache in my chest. “I don’t know how to fix this either. But I know… I know I need to understand who I am now. And what we are.” My voice trembled, but I fought it back. “I need time.”

“I understand,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “Take all the time you need.”

It felt like a farewell, and yet, we stayed in the same house. In the same life, but now it was something unrecognizable.

The next few weeks passed in the same quiet, empty rhythm. We moved around each other, living parallel lives without ever crossing paths in any meaningful way. There were mornings where I would wake up to find her sitting on the couch, staring at her phone, or nights where I’d catch her reading a book in the dim light.

Sometimes, I would linger by the door to her study, wondering if I should knock, ask her how she was feeling, but each time, I backed away, unsure if I was ready to face the answers she might give.

At night, I would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was how we were going to live—side by side but separate. I missed her. I missed us. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was just a shadow of the man she once loved, and that was a weight I wasn’t sure she could carry anymore.

One night, as I lay in the dark, unable to sleep, I heard the soft sound of her crying. The quiet sobs seeped through the walls, and my heart clenched painfully in my chest.

I wanted to go to her. Hold her. Tell her everything would be okay. But I couldn’t. I didn’t have the words anymore.

And maybe, I never would.

The night stretched on, and despite the tension that hung thick in the house, I managed to fall into an uneasy sleep. The weight of everything—our fragmented relationship, the guilt, the uncertainty—had left me exhausted, though the sleep I sought felt shallow and restless.

It was around 3 AM when I was jolted awake by the softest sound—a faint, broken sob. My eyes snapped open in the dark, my heartbeat quickening. I froze, listening carefully, the sounds of her grief pulling at something deep within me.

It was coming from the direction of her room.

At first, I told myself to ignore it. After all, she had her own space, her own pain, and I had my own to deal with. But the sound of her brokenness—quiet and desperate—was too much to ignore.

Slowly, I slid out of bed, my bare feet padding softly on the cool floor. I moved silently through the house, drawn to the soft, muffled sounds echoing through the walls. When I reached the door to her room, I paused.

She was crying, the kind of sobs that wracked her body and left her vulnerable. I hadn’t heard her cry like this before—unfiltered, raw, as if the dam inside her had finally broken.

The light from her bedside lamp flickered weakly, casting long shadows on the walls. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her head buried in her hands, the tears falling freely, like they couldn’t be held back anymore.

I stood there, frozen, my chest tightening at the sight. My first instinct was to rush to her side, to pull her into my arms and whisper that everything would be alright. But I didn’t. I just watched from the doorway, a spectator in my own home.

The sound of her pain made me feel powerless, as if I were too far gone—too far removed from who I once was to even be the man she needed. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came. The silence between us felt like an unspoken agreement, a distance neither of us knew how to cross.

And then she spoke.

“I’m sorry… Sunghoon,” she whispered to the empty room, the words slipping from her like a confession she hadn’t meant to make. “I thought I could fix it. I thought… if I could just bring you back, we could be happy again. But I don’t know what I’ve done anymore. I don’t know who you are. Or if you’re even really you.”

Her voice cracked at the end, and I could hear the weight of her regret, the guilt, the fear of everything she’d done.

The flood of emotions hit me all at once—anger, sadness, confusion—and yet, there was something else, too. The overwhelming desire to reach out to her. To show her that I understood, that I knew how hard this was for her.

But still, I stayed frozen. Silent. The words that had once flowed so easily between us now felt like strangers.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, but it didn’t stop the tears.

“I was selfish,” she muttered to herself, her voice barely audible now. “I couldn’t let go. I wanted you back, no matter the cost. And now… I don’t know if you can ever forgive me.”

That was when the weight of it all hit me fully—the pain she had been carrying, the burden she had placed on herself. The fear she had been living with, not knowing if I could ever truly forgive her for bringing me back.

I stepped forward then, unable to watch her fall apart without doing something.

“Y/N,” I said quietly, my voice hoarse, betraying the emotions I had kept bottled up for so long.

She immediately stiffened, her breath hitching as she quickly wiped her face, trying to pull herself together. “You’re awake,” she said, her voice faltering. “I didn’t mean for you to—”

“I heard you,” I interrupted, taking a few steps into the room. “And I’m not angry with you.”

She looked at me, her eyes filled with so much sadness, it was almost more than I could bear. “But I did this to you,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I brought you back, Sunghoon. And I don’t know if you even want to be here. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t ask to be—” She stopped, her breath shaky, as if even speaking the words caused her pain.

I knelt in front of her, my heart aching as I reached for her hands, gently pulling them from her face. “Y/N…” I said softly. “I am here. I’m here because I want to be.”

“But what if I’ve ruined everything?” she whispered. “What if I can never make it right?”

I shook my head, cupping her face in my hands as I looked into her eyes, searching for some glimmer of hope in her. “You didn’t ruin anything. You did what you thought was best… even if it was wrong. And I understand that. But we can’t live like this, hiding from each other. We need to talk. We need to be honest.”

She nodded slowly, tears still slipping down her cheeks. “But can we ever go back to what we were?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, filled with a quiet desperation.

I swallowed, my own emotions threatening to spill over. “I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice thick. “But I want to try. I want to figure it out. Together.”

There was a long pause, and then, slowly, she leaned forward, pressing her forehead against mine, her tears falling onto my skin. I closed my eyes, letting the weight of everything settle in.

In that moment, I realized that maybe there wasn’t a way back to what we once had—but that didn’t mean we couldn’t find something new. Something different. Something real.

And I was willing to fight for it.

I held her closer, whispering against her hair. “We’ll find our way. Together. One step at a time.”

The silence between us stretched out, thick with the unspoken words, the weight of everything we had been through. Her breath was shaky against my skin, and I could feel the warmth of her body pressed against mine, like she was finally letting herself soften, letting me in again.

I wanted to say more, to fix everything, but the words weren’t coming. I could only focus on the rhythm of her breath, how the vulnerability in her touch made everything seem both fragile and precious.

And then, almost instinctively, I pulled back just slightly, my hands still cupping her face, fingers brushing softly over the damp skin of her cheeks. I searched her eyes for something, anything—some flicker of permission, of trust.

The question formed in my chest before I even realized it, and before I could second-guess myself, it slipped from my mouth, quiet and uncertain but earnest.

“Can I kiss you?”

The words were soft, tentative, as if I wasn’t sure she would say yes, as if I wasn’t sure I even had the right to ask anymore. But something in me needed to hear it—to know if we could bridge that last distance between us, if the gulf of everything we had been through could be closed with something as simple as a kiss.

Her gaze locked onto mine, and for a moment, everything went still. She didn’t say anything. There was only the quiet sound of her breathing, the rise and fall of her chest under my palms. The world outside the room felt distant, irrelevant. It was just us now, alone in this fragile moment.

I waited. She could say no. She could push me away. But I needed to know where we stood.

And then, slowly, her eyes softened. She gave a slight nod, her lips trembling as if the simple motion of it took all her strength.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but it was there. It was all I needed to hear.

Before I could even think, my hands moved to her shoulders, pulling her gently closer. I closed the distance between us, hesitating only for a brief second, just enough to feel the weight of the moment.

And then I kissed her.

It wasn’t the kiss I had imagined—the wild, desperate kiss of two people who couldn’t control themselves. No, this one was different. It was slow, careful, tentative, like we were both afraid to break something that had just begun to heal. My lips brushed against hers, soft and uncertain, as if I were asking for permission again with every gentle touch.

She responded after a moment, her hands finding their way to my chest, clutching at me like she was trying to ground herself in the kiss, in the connection we were rebuilding. I could feel her hesitation, but I could also feel the warmth, the pull, the quiet promise in the way she kissed me back.

The kiss deepened slowly, our movements syncing, building, and for the first time in so long, I felt something stir inside me that had been dormant—hope. A fragile, trembling hope that maybe, just maybe, we could find our way back to each other. That maybe this was the first step in learning to trust again.

When we finally pulled away, neither of us spoke for a moment. We just stayed there, foreheads pressed together, our breaths mingling in the stillness. I could feel her heart beating against my chest, a steady rhythm that told me she was here. She was still here with me.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice small, but it wasn’t the apology I had been expecting. It wasn’t guilt or regret. It was a quiet understanding. A promise, maybe.

“I know,” I whispered back, brushing my thumb over her cheek, wiping away the last remnants of her tears. “We’re going to be okay.”

And for the first time in so long, I actually believed it.

The air between us was thick with the weight of everything unspoken, but in that moment, there was only the soft brush of our lips, the warmth of our bodies pressed together, and the undeniable pull that had always been there. We moved slowly, cautiously, like we were both afraid of shattering something fragile that had just begun to heal.

The kiss deepened, an unspoken question lingering in the space between us. I could feel her heartbeat against my chest, fast and erratic, matching mine. It was as if we both understood that this was more than just a kiss—it was a reclaiming, a restoration of something that had been lost for far too long.

I gently cupped her face, tilting her head slightly, deepening the kiss as my hands found their way down her back, pulling her closer, as if I couldn’t get enough of her, couldn’t get close enough. Her fingers slid up to my chest, tracing the lines of my shirt before pushing it off, the fabric slipping to the floor without a second thought.

There was no more hesitation, no more doubt. Just the raw connection between us that had always been there, waiting to be unlocked.

She responded with the same urgency, hands moving over my body, finding the familiar places, the marks that made me me. I could feel the heat of her skin, the way her breath caught when we came closer, when I kissed her neck, her jaw, her lips. The taste of her was like everything I’d been missing, the feeling of her so real, so tangible, that for a moment, it was hard to believe she was really here. Really with me.

Our movements grew more urgent, more desperate, but still tender, as if we were both trying to savor this moment, unsure of what tomorrow might bring, but desperate to make up for the lost time. I wanted to show her everything, all the ways I loved her, all the ways I had missed her without even knowing how much.

The world outside the room disappeared. There was no lab, no documents, no research, no mistakes. Just us—finding our way back to each other, piece by piece. I held her close, kissed her as if I could never let her go, and when the moment finally came, when we both reached that point of release, it wasn’t just about the physicality. It was about trust, about healing, about starting over.

When we collapsed against each other afterward, breathless and tangled in sheets, I felt something shift inside me. Something I hadn’t realized was broken until it started to mend.

Her hand found mine, fingers lacing together, and she rested her head on my chest, her breath slowing, and for the first time in so long, I felt peace. A peace I hadn’t known I needed.

And in the quiet of the room, with her beside me, I whispered softly, “I’ll never let you go again.”

She didn’t answer right away, but I felt the way she squeezed my hand tighter, her chest rising and falling against mine. She didn’t need to say anything. I could feel it in the way she held me.

And for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to believe that we could truly begin again.

The quiet stillness of the room enveloped us, the soft sound of our breathing the only thing that filled the space. I held her, tracing the curve of her back with my fingers, savoring the moment as though it might slip away if I wasn’t careful. The weight of everything—the doubts, the fears, the mistakes—was still there, lingering in the shadows of my mind, but for once, I didn’t feel like I had to carry them alone.

She shifted slightly, raising her head to meet my gaze. There was a softness in her eyes now, the guarded walls that had once stood so tall between us slowly crumbling. I could see the vulnerability there, but also the strength that had always been her anchor.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but it carried all the weight of everything she’d been carrying inside. “I never meant to hurt you.”

I brushed a strand of hair away from her face, my fingers lingering against her skin. “I know,” I murmured, my voice thick with emotion. “I know. But we’re here now. We’ll figure this out. Together.”

She nodded, her eyes closing for a moment as if gathering herself. The air between us was charged with unspoken words, and I could feel the weight of the past year pressing down on us. But there was something different now—something that had shifted between us, something I hadn’t felt in so long.

Her lips found mine again, soft and gentle, a kiss that spoke volumes more than words ever could. It was an apology, a promise, a plea all rolled into one. And for the first time in so long, I allowed myself to believe in it fully.

When we finally pulled away, her forehead rested against mine, both of us still tangled in the sheets, the world outside feeling miles away. I could hear the distant hum of the city, the night stretching out before us like a quiet, unspoken promise.

“I love you,” I whispered, the words escaping before I could even think about them. But it felt right. It felt real.

She smiled, her fingers brushing against my cheek. “I love you, too. I never stopped.”

And in that moment, I knew. No matter the struggles we’d faced, no matter the secrets, the pain, or the mistakes, we were still here. Still us. And as long as we could keep finding our way back to each other, everything else would be okay.

We stayed there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside fading into nothingness. In the quiet, there was only peace. The peace of knowing that, together, we could face whatever came next.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I finally let go of the fear that had kept me tethered to the past. Because with her by my side, I knew we could build a future. A real future. And nothing, nothing at all could take that away from us.

As the days passed, something began to shift between us. It was subtle at first, small gestures of kindness, moments of vulnerability that had been buried under the weight of secrets and doubts. But as we spent more time together, the trust that had once been strained slowly started to blossom again, like a fragile flower daring to bloom in the cracks of the world we had rebuilt.

Every morning, Sunghoon would make me coffee, just the way I liked it—strong, a little bitter, with just a hint of sweetness. It became our small ritual, something to ground us, to remind us that we were still learning, still growing. And every evening, we’d find ourselves lost in the quiet comfort of one another’s presence. Sometimes we didn’t say much, just the familiar silence that had always existed between us, but now it felt different. It felt safe.

One night, as we sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket together, he turned to me, his expression soft. “I’ve been thinking about everything. About what you did…and why. I don’t want to just forgive you. I want to understand. I want us to really move forward.”

I smiled, the warmth in his voice soothing the lingering worries in my chest. “We will,” I whispered, “We’re already on the way.”

Sunghoon gave me a small, genuine smile, his fingers lightly brushing over mine. It was a touch so simple, yet it carried all the weight of the world. I had feared this moment—the moment when the cracks would be too deep to heal—but instead, I felt something stronger than before. Something more real.

As the weeks went on, we found ourselves sharing more than just physical space. We started talking about the future—what we wanted, where we saw ourselves. There was no more fear of the unknown between us. Instead, there was excitement. There was trust, slowly but surely, weaving its way back into our lives.

I could see it in the way Sunghoon would ask about my day, genuinely interested, and how I would lean into him when I needed comfort, no longer second-guessing whether I deserved it. Our conversations had depth now, unafraid of the things we once kept hidden. We didn’t pretend anymore. We didn’t have to.

One evening, while we were cooking dinner together, Sunghoon turned to me with a teasing smile. “You’ve improved. Your cooking’s actually…not terrible.”

I laughed, playfully shoving him. “Hey, I’ve gotten better!”

He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me into his chest. “I’m proud of you.”

I could feel the sincerity in his words, the love that had grown back between us like something tangible. The fear and doubt that had once plagued me were nowhere to be found now. In their place was a quiet certainty.

We weren’t perfect. We still had our moments of miscommunication, of moments when the past reared its head, but with each day, the trust between us grew stronger. It wasn’t about erasing the mistakes we’d made. It was about learning from them and choosing to move forward together, no matter what.

And as I looked into Sunghoon’s eyes, I saw the same thing reflected back at me—the understanding, the acceptance, the desire to never give up on us.

In that moment, I knew that trust wasn’t just something that had to be given freely—it had to be earned. And we were earning it every day. Slowly, but surely, we were becoming something new, something even more beautiful than before. Something that could withstand anything life threw at us.

And for the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to believe in the future again.

In us.

Life had felt like it was finally settling into a quiet rhythm, like the calm after a storm. Sunghoon and I had been living together in peace for the past year, our bond mended from the cracks of the past. The tension had faded, leaving room for love, laughter, and domestic moments that felt so normal and reassuring. We’d shared so many firsts again—first trips, first lazy weekends in bed, first home-cooked meals. Everything felt right. Almost.

It was during one of these peaceful afternoons that I made a discovery. I was cleaning out the attic of our home, something I’d been meaning to do for months, when I came across an old box. It was tucked away in the corner behind some old furniture, covered in dust and cobwebs. The box was unassuming, wooden with a faded label that simply read, “Don’t Open.”

Curiosity got the best of me. I knew it was probably something from my past, but that label tugged at something deep inside me, urging me to open it. I hesitated for a moment, but then, with a deep breath, I lifted the lid. Inside, I found an old video tape. It was yellowed and cracked with age, but there was no mistaking the handwriting on the label: “For Y/N.”

My heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t like me to leave things unexamined, especially if they seemed tied to my past. But this felt different. There was an unspoken warning in those words. Still, I couldn’t resist.

I brought the tape downstairs and found the old VCR player we kept for nostalgia’s sake. Sunghoon was in the living room, reading a book. I hesitated for a moment before calling him over.

“Sunghoon, you have to see this,” I said, holding up the tape. “I found something in the attic…”

He looked at me curiously, putting the book down. “What is it?”

I popped the tape into the player, and the screen flickered to life. At first, there was nothing—just static. But then, the image cleared, and I saw him.

The figure of a man in a lab coat appeared. His features were unmistakable—he was Park Sunghoon, the real Sunghoon, the one who had died in the accident years ago. But this Sunghoon wasn’t the one Y/N knew now. He looked younger, more fragile, and tears stained his face.

“I… I don’t know how to start this,” the Sunghoon on the screen murmured, his voice choked with emotion. “Y/N… is gone. She passed away. Leukemia. It was sudden. I—I couldn’t do anything. She was everything to me. And I… I can’t bear it.”

Y/N’s breath hitched. She glanced at Sunghoon, whose face had gone pale. He looked at the screen, wide-eyed, his expression unreadable.

“In my grief, I’ve decided to do something I never thought I would. I’m using her preserved DNA, the samples we took when we were researching regenerative cloning… to bring her back. I—I have to do this. I can’t live with the pain of losing her,” the real Sunghoon continued, his voice trembling.

The video cut to a series of clips from the lab: footage of the real Sunghoon working late nights, mixing chemicals, monitoring equipment, and seemingly obsessed with recreating Y/N.

“I’ve used everything we learned in our research. I’ll make her whole again,” the video continued. “But this is for me, I know. For us. I want to have a second chance. A chance to make things right. If you’re watching this, Y/N… then I’ve succeeded. I’ve recreated you.”

The video ended abruptly, and the screen turned to static.

It was strange, to know the truth about their origins—about the fact that their love had been recreated, in a sense, by science and heartache. But as Y/N lay in Sunghoon’s arms that night, she couldn’t shake the feeling that none of it truly mattered. What mattered was that they were together now. They had both fought for this. They had both fought for each other. And nothing in this world could take that away from them.

Their love had brought them to this point—not fate, not science, but love. It was a love that transcended life and death, pain and loss. A love that, no matter what had come before, had always been destined to endure.

They had started as two broken souls, unable to move forward without the other. But now, they were whole again. Their love, their memories—no matter how they came to be—were theirs to cherish.

And that, in the end, was all that mattered.

The rest, the science, the questions of whether they were real or not, faded into the background. Because, in the end, they were real. Their love was real. And that was all they needed to know.

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satori-runa · 3 months ago

Text

—Rain, Jazz and Tea

Summary: Dante enjoys a lazy rainh day with his favourite person on the couch.

Tags: NSFW in form of skinship (nothing spicy), fluff, romance, established relationship

Words: 0,6

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

The rain pattered softly against the windowpane, a soothing rhythm that filled the old apartment and gently pulled you to sleep.It mingled with the soft hum of a jazz record playing in the background—one of Dante’s favorites.

You were curled up on the couch, the fluffy blanket having already slipped down to the floor, and a half-finished mug of tea sat forgotten on the table beside you.

Dante padded into the room, still towel-drying his damp white hair, loose curls clinging to his forehead. A playful grin tugged at his lips as he took in the scene. His chest was bare, glistening slightly from the shower, and the black sweatpants he wore hung low on his hips—almost criminally low. You had a suspicion he wore them like that on purpose.

"Looks like I found a sleeping beauty," he teased, plopping down on top of you without a care. He buried his face into your chest, sighing in contentment as his hands slipped under your shirt with familiar ease.

“Maybe you did,” you mumbled sleepily, one hand finding the back of his head to gently caress his hair. The position felt natural—especially on rainy days like this.

Dante chuckled, leaning over just far enough to steal a sip of your tea. “Mmm, sweet. Like you.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks warming. “It’s cold.”

“But sweet,” he insisted, his voice low and fond as he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you close. “Days like this… you, me, rain, no responsibilities—it’s perfect.”

You hummed in agreement, nuzzling into his hair. He smelled like damp leather, a trace of gunpowder, and warm cedarwood. A strange combination, maybe, but one that had become unmistakably comforting.

One of his hands unclipped your bra with practiced ease, a skill he’d picked up quickly in your relationship. When time allowed, he always preferred direct skin contact. It was a habit of his, keeping at least one hand on you at all times. And if he got to choose? He always gravitated to your chest, unapologetically fond.

The other hand traced slow lines along your side, occasionally brushing that one ticklish spot that made you squirm and giggle, something he found endlessly endearing.

His fingers danced lazily along your side, dipping under the hem of your shirt like they belonged there, which, frankly, they did. You shifted slightly beneath him, not out of discomfort but out of instinct, chasing the warmth of his touch.

“You’re always so cold,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your collarbone. “Maybe I should just keep you under me like this all the time. For body heat, obviously.”

“Obviously,” you echoed with a sleepy smile, your hand still tangled in his hair. You gave a gentle tug, just enough to make him look up at you.

His eyes were soft with affection, the kind of look that made your chest tighten in the best way. And yet, the smirk on his lips was unmistakably teasing. He leaned up just enough to press a kiss to your jaw, then your cheek, then finally your lips—a slow, lingering kiss that made your toes curl under the blanket.

“Still cold?” he asked against your mouth.

“A little,” you replied, voice low.

“Guess I’ll have to work harder,” he said, and you could feel the smile in his words.

He nuzzled back into your chest, his breath warm against your skin. One hand remained tucked beneath your shirt, fingers splayed across your stomach in a gentle, possessive hold, while the other resumed its lazy journey along your side.

But despite the closeness, the teasing touches, and the occasional graze of lips on bare skin, there was no rush. No urgency. Just the steady beat of rain against the window, the jazz record skipping softly in the background, and the quiet intimacy of two people wrapped in each other’s warmth.

“Don’t fall asleep on me again,” he whispered, voice half-mischief, half-sincere. “I was just getting comfortable.”

You smiled, your hand stroking through his damp curls. “Then stay like this a little longer.”

And he did.

#⊹₊⟡⋆satori.speaks #⊹₊⟡⋆writings #dmc dante #dante #dante sparda #dante devil may cry #devil may cry #devil may cry x reader #dante x reader #dante sparda x reader #dante sparda x you #dmc dante x reader #dmc x reader

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jjjjisun · 3 months ago

Note

Hi, can you write smut about virgin Dahyun get breed by her own single-father on the stormy rainy night with neighbourhood blackout?

The Storm

Dahyun X Male Reader | 3219 words

TW: Incest

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Buy me a Ko-Fi.

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In the sullen glow of the late afternoon, the storm clouds gathered, casting ominous shadows that danced macabrely across the living room walls. The first rumble of thunder echoed through the house, a harbinger of the tempest about to be unleashed. Dahyun, with her delicate features and broad, doe-like eyes, huddled closer to her Daddy, her fingers clutching at his shirt as if it were a lifeline.

"It's just a storm, little one," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that resonated within his chest, soothing her. His strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her tight against his body. She could feel the steady beat of his heart, a rhythm that grounded her amidst the chaotic symphony of the storm outside.

The power flickered as the wind howled and the rain lashed against the windows, then died, casting them into a dim, shadowy world. Dahyun whimpered, her grip on his shirt tightening. He gently kissed the top of her head, his lips lingering in her soft, ebony hair. "I've got you, Dahyun. I won't let anything hurt you."

Under the blanket, their bodies pressed closer, her curves molding against his hard planes. He could feel her warm and moist breath against his neck, her body trembling slightly with each thunderclap. His protective instincts surged, a primal urge to shield her from the storm, to keep her safe. But as her body pressed against his, her soft breasts against his chest, her thighs brushing against his, that instinct morphed, twisted, and warped into something else. Something darker, hungrier. Lust.

He tried to ignore it, push it down, and focus on being her Daddy, her protector. But with each tremble of her body, with each soft whimper that escaped her lips, his lust grew, a storm within him that matched the one raging outside. His body responded, his cock hardening, his breath becoming ragged.

Dahyun, lost in her fear, was initially oblivious to the change in him. But as his body hardened, as his breath hitched, she looked up at him, her wide eyes meeting his. She must have seen the hunger in them, the raw, unadulterated need, because she gasped, her lips parting slightly, her tongue darting out to wet them.

That small, innocent action was his undoing. With a groan, he captured her lips, his mouth slanting over hers, his tongue sweeping in. He tasted her, explored her, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her against him. She gasped again, this time into his mouth, her body arching against his.

Once a shelter, the blanket became a cocoon, a world of their own, insulated from the storm outside. Their bodies entwined, their breaths mingled, their hearts pounded in sync. His hands roamed her body, tracing her curves, his fingers brushing against her soft, supple skin. She moaned, her body writhing against his, her need awakening, unfurling, blossoming.

His mouth left hers, trailing kisses down her neck, his tongue licking, his teeth nipping. She arched her back, her breasts thrusting forward, begging for his touch, his kiss. He obliged, his hands cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing against her nipples, teasing them into stiff little peaks. She cried out, her body shivering, her eyes fluttering closed.

As the storm outside intensified, so did the one within the small, dimly lit living room. The thunder, a relentless drummer, pounded against the windows, demanding entry, demanding acknowledgment. Dahyun, a shivering mess of nerves and fear, jumped, her body propelling forward and landing in the safe harbor of her Daddy's lap.

His arms, firm and secure, wrapped around her instinctively, pulling her close. She was a trembling bird, her heart fluttering wildly against her ribcage, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Her thin sleepwear, a mere whisper of fabric, did little to hide her body's reaction to the cold and the fear. Her nipples were visible, dark shadows beneath the pale silk, her thighs, bare and smooth, brushed against his, sending a jolt of heat through him.

He tried to calm her, to soothe her, his hands rubbing her back, her arms, her thighs. But his touch, meant to be comforting, lingered a little too long, grazed a little too high, brushing against the sides of her breasts, the curve of her hips. His fingers, seemingly of their own volition, traced the line of her thigh, brushing against her inner leg's soft, sensitive skin. She gasped, her body tensing, but she didn't pull away.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide, her pupils dilated. She must have felt it, the hard length of him pressing against her, his body's reaction to her closeness, her touch. She didn't recoil, didn't scramble off his lap in disgust. Instead, she held his gaze, her body still, her breath hitching.

His heart pounded, a thunderous echo of the storm outside, a mimicry of the rain lashing against the windows. His body ached, his cock throbbed, his blood roared in his ears. He couldn't take his eyes off her parted lips, flushed cheeks, or heaving chest. His head dipped, his mouth inching closer to hers, hesitant, uncertain, giving her ample time to pull away, to say no.

But she didn't. She stayed still, her eyes fluttering closed, her breath a soft sigh against his lips. And then, he kissed her, his mouth pressing against hers, his lips molding against her soft, supple ones. It was a hesitant kiss, a question rather than a demand, a lingering, tasting, exploring kiss. His tongue traced the line of her lips, dipping in, retreating, dipping in again, a dance, a tease, a seduction.

Her initially tense body slowly relaxed, melting against his. Her arms, trapped between their bodies, wriggled free, wrapping around his neck and pulling him closer. Her mouth opened, her tongue meeting his, her body arching against his. The thunder crashed outside, the wind howled, the rain lashed, but inside, in their cocoon, there was only the sound of their breaths, the beat of their hearts, and the dance of their tongues.

His hands, no longer accidental in their grazing, roamed her body, tracing her curves, exploring her dips, her valleys. He cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing against her hard nipples, teasing them, taunting them. She moaned into his mouth, her body shuddering, her thighs clenching.

She felt his hardness, the length of him pressing against her, pulsing, throbbing. She gasped, pulling away from the kiss, her eyes wide, her lips swollen. She looked down, her gaze fixated on the bulge in his pants, her body tense. He waited, his heart pounding, his body aching, waiting for her reaction, waiting for her to decide.

And then, she looked up at him, her eyes filled with a new emotion and storm. Desire. She squirmed on his lap, her body rubbing against his, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. And she kissed him, her mouth pressing against his, her tongue sweeping in, her body arching, her need, her desire, her lust matching his. The storm outside raged on, but neither noticed, lost as they were in the storm within, the tempest of their bodies, hearts, and souls.

In the dim, flickering light of the candles Dahyun had insisted on lighting, their flames casting dancing shadows on the walls, she looked into his eyes, her own filled with fear and determination. Still pressed against his, her body shivered, but not from the cold or the storm outside. This was a different storm, a tempest brewing within her, a whirlwind of emotions she couldn't comprehend or control.

"Daddy," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the howling wind and the pounding rain. "I... I need to tell you something."

He looked at her, his eyes filled with a tenderness that made her heart ache. His strong and steady hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing against her cheeks in a gentle, reassuring caress. "What is it, little one?" he asked, his voice a low rumble, a soothing melody in the cacophony of the storm.

She took a deep breath, her heart pounding, her body trembling. "I... I've never... I mean, no one has ever... touched me. Like this," she confessed, her eyes fluttering closed, her cheeks flushing a deep, crimson red. She felt his body tense, his breath hitch, his hands still. She waited, her heart in her throat, her body taut as a bowstring.

When he finally spoke, his voice was a low growl, a rumble of thunder in the distant sky. "Dahyun... We shouldn't... I shouldn't... You don't know what you're asking..."

Her eyes snapped open, her gaze meeting his. There was a fire in her eyes, a burning determination he hadn't seen before. "I don't want to die a virgin, Daddy," she stated, her voice steady, her resolve unyielding. "I want you to be my first. I want you to be my only."

Before he could protest, before he could utter another word, she moved, her body shifting, her legs straddling him. She felt him, hard and throbbing, pressing against her, against her core, her heat. She gasped, her body shuddering, her eyes fluttering closed. She felt his hands, gripping her hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh, his body tense, his breath ragged.

"Dahyun..." he growled, a warning, a plea. But she was beyond listening, beyond heeding. She was a woman possessed, on a mission, determined to get what she wanted. And she wanted him.

She reached down, her hands fumbling with his belt, her fingers trembling as she unbuckled it, unbuttoned his pants, and unzipped him. He tried to stop her, his hands covering hers, his body tense, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. But she was insistent, her determination unwavering. She pushed his hands away, her eyes locked onto his, her breath hitching as she reached into his pants, her small, soft hand wrapping around his length.

He groaned, his head falling back, his eyes closing, his body shuddering. She explored him, her hand moving up and down, her fingers tracing the veins, the ridges, the tip. She marveled at the silkiness of his skin, the hardness beneath, the pulsing, throbbing heat. She felt a surge of power, of control, a heady, intoxicating feeling that made her heart race, her body ache.

She shifted, her body rising, her hand guiding him to her entrance. She felt him, hot and hard, pressing against her, seeking entry, seeking her heat. She looked at him, her eyes filled with fear, excitement, and taboo. She saw her emotions reflected in his eyes, a mirror image of her turbulent storm.

He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh, his body tense, his breath ragged. "Dahyun..." he growled, a last warning, a final plea. But she was beyond listening, beyond heeding. She was a woman on the edge, ready to take the plunge, prepared to dive into the storm.

She sank, her body slowly impaling itself on his. She felt him, hot and harrowing, stretching, filling, and completing her. She gasped, her body tensing, her eyes fluttering closed, her breath hitching. There was pain, a sharp, sudden pain that made her cry out, her body stiffening, her nails digging into his shoulders. But there was also pleasure, a deep, throbbing pleasure that started at her core, her heat, and radiated outwards, filling her, consuming her, overwhelming her.

He was still, his body tense, his breath ragged, his hands gripping her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh. He let her set the pace, take the lead, explore, experience, and enjoy. She moved, her body rising, sinking, rising again, a slow, tentative dance, a rhythm as old as time.

She felt him, every ridge, vein, throbbing, pulsing inch of him. She felt her body stretching, accommodating, accepting, embracing. She felt the pain, the pleasure, the fear, the excitement, the taboo, the joy, the wonder. She felt it all, a storm of sensations, a tempest of emotions, a whirlwind of feelings that made her heart race, her body ache, and her soul sing.

She moved faster, her body rising, sinking, rising again, a dance, a rhythm, a symphony of love, of lust, of life. She felt him, meeting her thrusts, his body moving in sync with hers, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, his hands gripping her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh. She felt her body, responding, reacting, reciprocating, her breath hitching, her heart pounding, her body trembling.

She felt the storm building, growing, intensifying. She felt it in her body, in her heart, in her soul. She felt it in him, in his body, in his heart, in his soul. She felt it in the air, in the room, in the world—a storm, a tempest, a whirlwind of love, lust, and life.

And then, she was there, at the eye of the storm, the peak of the tempest, and the center of the whirlwind. She cried out, her body convulsing, her eyes fluttering closed, her breath hitching, her heart pounding. She felt him, throbbing, pulsing, releasing, filling her, completing her, claiming her.

She collapsed against him, her body spent, her heart full, her soul content. She felt his arms wrapping around her, pulling her close, holding her tight. She felt his heart beating against her chest in a steady, comforting rhythm. She felt his breath, warm against her neck, a soft, soothing caress.

In the storm's aftermath, in the calm after the tempest, in the stillness after the whirlwind, they stayed like that, their bodies entwined, their hearts beating as one, their souls intertwined. And as the storm outside began to abate, the thunder grew distant, and the rain started to ease, they knew. They knew that they had weathered the storm, that they had survived the tempest, that they had endured the whirlwind. And they knew they would face them together no matter what storms lay ahead.

In the heart of the storm, a new rhythm emerged, a primal dance that transcended the physical, a communion of souls that intertwined, merged, and became one. Dahyun's body moved with a fluid grace, a symphony of innocent and seductive motion, a siren's call that threatened to undo him completely. And he, her Daddy, her protector, her lover, was helpless to resist, a moth drawn to her flame, a sailor lured by her song.

He tried to maintain control, to keep a tight leash on his desires, his needs, his lust. But with each rise and fall of her body, with each soft moan that escaped her lips, with each clutch of her tight, velvety heat around him, his control frayed, a rope worn thin by the relentless tide of his passion. His hands gripped her hips tighter, his fingers digging into her soft, supple flesh, his body moving in sync with hers, meeting her thrusts with his own, a dance, a duel, a declaration of their shared desire.

His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart pounded, and his blood roared in his ears. He could feel her, her body, her heat, her tightness, her wetness, her everything. She was his, his completely, his utterly, his irrevocably. The thought sent a surge of possessiveness through him, a primal, savage, feral feeling that made him growl, a low, rumbling sound that echoed in the small, dimly lit room.

"Mine," he rasped, his voice harsh, guttural. "You're mine, Dahyun. Mine to protect, mine to cherish, mine to fuck." The words were crass and vulgar, starkly contrasting to the tender, loving man she knew. But they sent a thrill through her, a shiver down her spine, a rush of heat to her core. There was something about them, something taboo, something forbidden, something... hot.

She looked at him, her eyes wide, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted. "Yours, Daddy," she whispered, the word feeling foreign, taboo, wrong, yet incredibly right on her tongue. "I'm yours."

He groaned, a sound torn from the depths of his soul, a sound of surrender, of defeat, of triumph. His control snapped, a taut rope finally severed, a wild beast finally unleashed. His body moved faster, his hips thrusting upwards, his cock driving deeper, harder, faster into her. His hands roamed her body, his fingers tracing her curves, his touch rough, possessive, claiming.

"You feel that, little one?" he growled, his voice a low rumble, a thunder in the distant sky. "You feel me, deep inside you? That's where I belong, Dahyun. That's where I'll always be. Deep inside you, a part of you, a part you can't get rid of, deny, or ignore."

His words were filthy, crude, obscene. But they sent a rush of heat through her, a surge of desire, a wave of lust. She could feel him, his cock, hot and hard, throbbing and pulsing, driving into her, claiming her, owning her. She could feel the storm building, growing, intensifying, a tempest of love, lust, and life.

"Daddy..." she moaned, his name a plea, a prayer, a promise on her lips. "Daddy, I... I want... I want you to... to breed me, Daddy. I want you to make me pregnant." The words were shocking, scandalous, a taboo that sent a thrill through her, a shiver down her spine, a rush of heat to her core. She didn't know where they came from or why she said them, but she knew they were true, a truth she could no longer deny or ignore.

He groaned, a sound of raw, unadulterated need, a sound of pure, primal lust. His body moved faster, his hips thrusting, his cock driving, his hands gripping, his fingers digging, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He was so close, teetering on the edge, ready to fall, fly, and soar.

"Dahyun..." he rasped, her name a plea, a prayer, a promise on his lips. "Dahyun, I... I'm going to... I'm going to come, little one. I'm going to come deep inside you. I'm going to fill you, Dahyun. I'm going to breed you, my love. I'm going to make you pregnant."

And then, he was there, at the eye of the storm, the peak of the tempest, and the center of the whirlwind. His body convulsed, his cock throbbed, his seed spilled, hot and thick, deep inside her, filling her, claiming her, breeding her. He whispered her name, a litany, a prayer, a promise, his voice a low rumble, a thunder in the distant sky.

She felt him, his heat, passion, love, everything. She felt the storm, raging, roaring, overwhelming, a tempest of love, lust, and life. And she knew that she was his, his completely, his utterly, his irrevocably. She knew that she was bred, claimed, owned. She knew she was pregnant, a new life growing inside her, a testament to their love, passion, and desire.

In the storm's aftermath, in the calm after the tempest, in the stillness after the whirlwind, they stayed like that, their bodies entwined, their hearts beating as one, their souls intertwined. And as the storm outside began to abate, the thunder grew distant, and the rain started to ease, they knew. They knew that they had weathered the storm, that they had survived the tempest, that they had endured the whirlwind. And they knew that no matter what storms lay ahead, they would face them together as a family.

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