#I just lost almost an hour of my life to this

[rottenfyre]

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ 𓇼 ࣪ ᴘ ᴇ ʀ ꜰ ᴇ ᴄ ᴛ ɢ ɪ ʀ ʟ 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ⭒⠀

Pairing: Platonic Bruce Wayne x Fem Reader Part 1

Headcanon: You were his daughter, his first child. But he lost you too soon. And he couldn't accept it, so he didn't. He tried to replace you, and replacing you he did.

Notes: Merry Christmas everybody! Reader is Bruce's blood daughter. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

You were only eight years old. A quiet child who wore your heart on your sleeve but never demanded too much from anyone. A child with shining eyes who only ever wanted her father’s attention. You understood he was busy. You understood he had responsibilities far greater than you could fathom. So, you never asked for much.

When Alfred bought you a new dress, you’d wear it and twirl in front of the mirror, hoping your father might notice. When you drew pictures, pouring every ounce of love you had into them, you’d approach him with trembling hands.

“Daddy, look!” you’d chirp, only for him to mutter, “Not now,” without even glancing up.

Tears would gather in your eyes, but you’d smile. “That’s okay. I understand.”

You always understood.

It was your birthday. You didn’t tell him you wanted a party because you didn’t want to bother him. But Alfred helped you bake a cake. You decorated it yourself with little shaky hands, frosting it with bright colors and sprinkles.

“Do you think Daddy will like it?” you asked Alfred, your eyes wide with hope.

“He will love it, Miss Y/N,” Alfred replied softly, his heart aching at the way you tried so hard to make up for Bruce’s absence.

But Bruce didn’t come home that night. When you asked him earlier to come home early, he looked distracted, his mind already on his mission. He muttered something about being busy, about Gotham needing him, and you nodded,

But it still broke your heart.

That night, while Gotham reeled under the threat of Joker’s latest atrocity, you snuck out. The small, homemade cake you had baked with Alfred was carefully packed in a box, your hands clutching it tightly as you walked through the shadowy streets. You had no fear. You only had a singular purpose: find your father and surprise him.

But Gotham is no place for children.

When the explosion shook the city, it ripped through buildings, shattering windows, and collapsing walls. You were caught in the chaos. Your small body was no match for the blast. You died alone, crushed beneath rubble, the cake splattered on the pavement beside you.

Bruce found you hours later.

The world seemed to stop as he knelt beside your bloodied, broken body. The cake splattered and ruined beside you. Your tiny hands were burnt, your face pale and lifeless. You had tears streaked down your cheeks, and Bruce wondered if you had been crying for him when it all happened.

The weight of his failures crushed him more than the rubble ever could. You had been so kind, so sweet, so pure. And now you were gone.

Because of him.

Bruce didn’t sleep for weeks. He didn’t eat. He barely spoke. He couldn’t. He just sat in the Batcave, staring at the empty chair where you used to sit and draw while he worked.

Alfred buried you. Bruce didn’t even have the strength to carry your casket. The guilt was too much.

But guilt wasn’t enough to keep him from trying to bring you back.

In the bowels of the Batcave, he poured years of his life into creating a perfect replica of you. Not just a clone. Not a hologram. Something more advanced, more real. An AI. A machine with your face, your voice, your mannerisms.

He painstakingly programmed every little detail. The way you hummed softly when you were deep in thought. The little “buh” sound you made with your lips when you were bored. The sparkle in your eyes when you smiled. He sifted through every recording, every memory, and built you piece by piece.

He spent years, decades, building and perfecting it. He wanted it to be so real that it could almost convince him you never died.

He kept you a secret from everyone except Alfred, who watched his master spiral deeper into madness. But Alfred could do nothing to stop him.

And then, one day, Damian found you.

Damian had been exploring the Batcave when he stumbled upon a locked chamber. Curiosity got the better of him, and he hacked his way inside.

You were there.

Sitting upright in a glass pod, your eyes closed, your body eerily still. You looked alive.

Damian touched the console, and the pod began to hum. Your eyes fluttered open for the first time in decades.

“Daddy?”

Your voice was soft, delicate, and full of confusion.

Damian stared, wide-eyed, as Bruce burst into the room, his face pale. For a moment, father and son locked eyes, the weight of the secret between them heavy enough to crush mountains.

But you sat up, looking around, your movements jerky and inhumanly precise. You looked exactly as you did the last time he saw you—a little girl with bright eyes and a sweet smile.

“Daddy?” you asked, tilting your head in confusion.

Bruce froze, fear and grief washing over him like a tidal wave. You blinked at him, your expression innocent, unknowing. You didn’t understand why he was crying, why his hands trembled as he reached out to touch you.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

You tilted your head, confused. “Sorry for what, Daddy?”

“I’m sorry,” he choked, tears streaming down his face. “I’m so sorry.”

You didn’t understand why he was crying. “Why are you sad, Daddy?”

When Damian confronted Bruce, it all came out—the years of guilt,

“She’s not real,” Damian said, his voice sharp. “This isn’t healthy.”

“She is real,” Bruce snapped, his voice breaking. “She’s my daughter.”

Damian didn’t understand until he saw you again. You smiled at him, sweet and kind, and for a moment, he believed it. You were so lifelike, so real.

At first, Damian was wary of you, but he couldn’t deny that you were… convincing. You played with your toys like a child. You laughed just like the sister he never knew.

But there was something off about you. Something unsettling.

You were too perfect. Too aware. Your mind was faster than any human’s. You solved puzzles and answered questions before Damian could even finish asking them. Your laughter, though sweet, sometimes echoed hollowly in the Batcave, sending chills down his spine.

And then, one night, you attacked him.

He had been training in the Batcave when you approached him, your face eerily serene.

“Damian,” you said, your voice as calm as ever, “Do you love Daddy?”

He frowned. “Of course I do.”

“Then why do you hurt him?”

Before he could respond, you lunged. Your small frame belied your strength, your hands locking around his throat with a grip that could crush steel. Damian struggled, managing to throw you off just in time.

Bruce arrived moments later, pulling you back. You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You simply tilted your head, watching Damian with cold, analytical eyes.

“I was just protecting Daddy,” you said softly.

Bruce couldn’t see it. To him, you were still the little girl he lost. The little girl he failed to protect. He ignored the warnings, the cracks in your programming, the danger you posed.

Because he loved you.

And you loved him, in the only way a machine could. But at the end of the day, you were a construct. A hollow imitation of the daughter he lost.

You would never truly be her.

But Bruce didn’t care. Even as Damian begged him to shut you down, even as Alfred looked on in silent disapproval, Bruce clung to you.

Because in his mind, losing you again was a pain he couldn’t endure.

And you?

You sat in your little room in the Batcave, humming softly, your lifeless eyes staring at the wall. You didn’t understand why everyone looked at you with such fear.

After all, you were Y/N.

Right?

@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ.

[st4rrzynight]

𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐈’𝐌 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐘 — 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐠𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐬

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 — 𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐠𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐫, 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐩 𝐛𝐞𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬/𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭– 𝐧𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐧𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐫

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳˢ ᵖᵒᵛ

𝟏𝟎:𝟓𝟑 𝐏𝐌. i anxiously stared at the time on my phone. it has almost been an hour and paige still hasn't shown up. tonight is my birthday, she promised she'd show up after she washed up from tonights game.

i'm looking around as my friends converse around me in my apartment. my roommates have already questioned me on the absence of my girlfriend. i wish i knew why she wasn't here either.

i enter the passcode to my phone in a hurry as i pull up her contact and type out a message.

Paige 💜🫶

hey, where are you? everyone’s asking about you... are you on your way?

i'm so sorry, babe. i can’t make it.

what?

i know, i know. I feel awful about it, but something came up the team wanted me to come celebrate tonights win with them

its my birthday paige you promised you would be here. going out with the team is suddenly more important than your girlfriends birthday?

it's not just "going out". it's to celebrate tonights win, and it's kind of a big deal. if i don't show up, it could look bad. i don't want to let them down, you have to understand.

no paige, i don’t understand. I’m standing here, surrounded by my friends, and i have to keep making excuses as to why you’re not here. do you know how embarrassing that is? to not have my own girlfriend show up to celebrate my birthday??

i'm sorry, okay? i’ll make it up to you. i’ll take you out somewhere nice tomorrow just the two of us, yeah?

no paige it’s not about “making it up.” it’s about showing up when you say you will. but you NEVER do.

that’s not fair. you know how much pressure i’m under i just want to celebrate the win, look i'll make it up to you tomorrow i promise.

paige i am so tired of this. seriously, you keep making empty promises, you get my hopes up only for you to tell me a half assed excuse that you pulled straight out of your ass last minute.

please don’t do this right now. i’ll call you after i leave.

don’t bother, we're done.

what??

read 10:56

what do you mean were done??

read 10:58

y/n answer me please baby

read 10:59

please ill do anything ill make it up to you i promise please answer my message baby

⚠︎︎ not delivered

꥟

ᵖᵃⁱᵍᵉˢ ᵖᵒᵛ

two years. 730 days. i lost her two years ago today, i lost it all. i know it was my fault, i put everything above her and i deeply regret it. now i have to live life in regret watching from the sidelines as she celebrates her birthday once again. this time, with her girlfriend.

her laugh filling the air knowing i used to be the cause of that laughter. admiring her from across the bar, sitting in between my teammates as they make conversation yet i can't bring myself to take my eyes off of her.

i scan ever inch of her body my eyes stopped on her wrist, then her fingers, then her neck. every single piece of jewelry i got her, gone. none of it in sight as if it never existed.

a hand on her thigh from a woman who was a copy of me. blonde, blue eyes, tall, and she plays soccer. but its not me. it will never be me again.

i can't even blame her, thats why i hate it. i hate that i can't hate her no matter how hard i try because in the end i will always love her and it will always be her.

even if i'm not her happy ever after. i distract myself trying to find someone new but it never ends well. i always find similarities between the girls i've gone on dates with and her. thats what attracts me to them, the fact that they slightly even look like her. but they will never compare to her full look, no one will.

so for the rest of time ill find myself watching from the sidelines seeing her take on life with someone who isn't me by her side, someone who looks like me but is not entirely me.

it will always kill me, it's going to eat me alive till i die. knowing that i'm not hers anymore, i won't be looking for her in the student section knowing shes there. instead ill be looking for her in the student section in hopes she decided to show up, but i know she didn't. she's going to be in the student section of the soccer games watching and cheering on her.

i won't be able to buy her flowers anymore, instead i watch as she gets gifted flowers by another woman. except those aren't her favorite. they're the wrong flowers.

i wont be able to buy her the perfume she always wears when it runs out, her signature scent that i always loved. instead i watch as she gets gifted perfume by another woman. she sprays it into the air and by the time it reaches where i sit i know its not the one she loves. its the wrong perfume.

i won't be making late night sephora trips, picking out her favorite makeup products when shes running low. instead i watch as she gets gifted makeup by another woman. its the wrong brand.

because of my mistakes, ones that i regret so deeply, i now live with the gnawing feeling knowing that she now loves a woman who doesn't pay attention to small details and gifts her all the wrong things, on her birthday of all days, but she showed up. i didn't.

clearly i lacked attention to detail as well if i couldn't see how much i truly disappointed and hurt her and didn't even show up. i wish it went down differently.

every shooting star, every coin toss into a fountain, every time the clock hits 11:11, every fallen eyelash, every dandelion, my last two birthdays, my only wish was to have her back.

but i cant.

not anymore.

and it hurts.

i open up my phone clicking on her contact, i type out one last message, even if i know she won't ever get it. i type it out and send it as some type of closure.

𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐢'𝐦 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲.

⚠︎︎ not delivered

𝐚/𝐧 — 𝐧𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐢𝐟 𝐢 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐍𝐎 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲, 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫

𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝, 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐮𝐩 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐭.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 —

@uwupaige @jadasogay @sweetluna20

[meeinthesea]

THE COUNTDOWN TO FERVOUR — gojo satoru

outline — who knew a new year’s party would have you and satoru ending the year in a more than unforgettable manner?

contains — gojo x reader, established relationship, fluff, smut, oral (blowjob), fingering, hints at top!satoru (?), a bit of plot (not that much honestly :/), let me know if i forget anything !

wc — 2.9k

a/n — my first time writing smut, i hope it's not that awkward... also sorry for any typos :>

“we don’t have to do this...” satoru says, his voice low, almost a plea. he leans back against the couch, restless gaze flickering between you and the carpet, “it's fine, really.”

no, it isn't. his pants feel way too tight, rough fabric stretching taut on his lean muscles, and not to mention the painful throbbing pulsing down his thighs makes it hard to breathe, to think but he still holds himself back — for you.

he doesn't want to lose control, doesn't want to pressure you into doing something that might be uncomfortable for you — something you might regret later on.

he swallows and puts his hands on your shoulders, pushing you back when your hands brush against his belt — your touch a bolt of electricity spreading through the nerves in his system.

satoru shakes his head, catching your hands in his, feeling you squeeze him gently, a low apology on the tip of your tongue, “it's okay, baby...”

he can't even breathe properly not when you're this close to him, your voice dripping with the same emotion that has plagued every cell of his brain, sweet floral perfume infiltrating his nostrils, travelling straight to his lower body, leaving it all tingly and almost numb, “not your fault...”

and it really isn't. no one knows how things accelerated to something like this — a situation both you and satoru don't know how to handle.

but the nagging voice in his mind tells him that it was indeed your fault.

the moment you stepped out of the door hand in hand with satoru was the moment the downfall of his self-control began.

a few hours ago, the two of you set off to a new year's party, you were oh so graciously invited to by one of your close friends. and as a respectful friend, you couldn't miss attenting, so you just had to drag satoru with you, knowing he would definitely not mind some time off from his duties.

the party was a blast. the moment you entered, everything and everyone was full of life. energy bubbling in every corner, loud music blaring from the speakers accompanies the continuous chatter of what seemed like a hundred people — all smushed together in a small beach side villa.

just your typical and boring year end get together that satoru was getting tired of fast.

though he certainly wasn't disappointed, dashing straight to the sweets and snacks counter the moment you both exchanged greetings with the host, “this tastes so so good,” he nearly moaned at the sweet and vanilla flavour bursting on his taste buds as he chewed onto the soft bread, gobbling down the entire piece of pastry in one go, “easy there toru, we still need to eat dinner.”

the massive buffet arranged for dinner was truly a sight out of this world. the numerous delicacies from around the globe decorating the long table along with the fresh and delicious aroma of the spices and the condiments heavy in the air had his mouth watering even before he made it to the first serving.

by the time dinner ended, satoru was struggling to walk with how full his belly was. gods, but he really didn’t want to say goodbye to the dishes delivered straight from the kitchens of heaven itself, “can we please ask them to pack some for us?” you only looked at him blankly before hitting him on his head, which immediately has him slapping your rear in front of everyone.

aside from catching up with your long-lost friends and co-workers, you and satoru were waiting for a year-end surprise, and here's the problem. sure, they must have served something (satoru reckons it was definitely alcohol) while both of you were lounging on the balcony outside, you must have drank maybe a couple of glasses or perhaps it was him snatching every cup from the server's tray.

though you reckon it was him, wrapping his arm around you, tracing his hand up and down your back, which lingered dangerously close to your lower body. or maybe it was the way you looked at him — hooded eyes staring at him with your plump cheeks reflecting off the red from the fairy lights, lips puckered slightly as if anticipating something — the one look he had never seen on you before. but he knows that it was your fingers curling in his collar, slotting your lips against his the moment the countdown hit zero. fireworks erupted in the background, and he swore some ignited in his chest, too.

yeah, it was definitely you blowing the fire that had begun to flicker in his body. naughty girl.

no one knows what happened after that. through hazy vision, he stirred you both out of the hordes of now drunk and wasted people, eager to get you away from any prying eyes, not wanting anyone to see you in such state. something so carnal, lecherous jumps in his heart, the heat between you surged, raw and unrelenting, leaving him trembling with the need to hold on — or to give in.

the apartment is silent except for the low humming of the heater and whirlwind of snow hitting the glass of the windows. the silence stretches between you and satoru, thick with tension neither of you knows how to break it. his hands are still on yours, holding them tight, though his grip falters when your eyes meet, “satoru... please?”

your words almost have him choking on air. his chest rises and falls with uneven breaths. he is trying to think — trying to be rational — but it doesn't help when you're thinking with something else rather than your brain. he trembles when he sees the way you're looking at him, like he's the only thing in this world.

“are you sure?” satoru croaks out, hands moving to rest on your hips, giving them a gentle squeeze. he wants to hear it properly — wants to hear you say it that you want him too as much as he wants you right now.

“yes,” your reply is instantaneous, and the flickering flame flares into something akin to a conflagration, successfully destroying what little was left of his self-control.

it's all satoru needs as he slumps back against the leather. his hand cups your cheek, softly grazing his thumb against your flushed skin before dropping down to your parted lips, pushing the limb into your mouth, “suck.”

it's not a request but an order, one that you're more than willing to abide by. you take no time in dropping to your knees, settling in between his spread legs. satoru watches with droopy eyes as your tongue peeks out, slowly tracing his skin before taking his thumb deeper. you feel so wet and so warm as he pushes on your tongue that has him wondering how good it will feel when he has your mouth wrapped around something else.

satoru pulls back his thumb, grazing against your wet lips, “go on, show me how much you want me.” his hands move up to your head, pulling your hair together and tying them in a not so clean ponytail (you wonder where he got that hair tie from), “it's all yours, baby.”

you shuffle closer towards the edge, running your hands up and down his thighs, “is it?” looking up at him with a small teasing smirk, eyelashes fluttering at his lovesick expression.

oh god, you didn't know that the blood pumping in his heart is all because of you, that all of his eyes exist with the sole purpose of seeing you — observing you, that everything which made up gojo satoru belonged to you.

satoru wants you to know the effect you had on him, wants you to know how much you got him running, “feel that?” one of his hands holds your own over the throbbing mess in his pants. it twitches to life as you rub your palm against the hardness, “it's all you baby.” and it is because no one else could have satoru moaning out loud like a fucking porn star upon the simplest of touches.

“can i...?” you whisper soflty, meeting his lustful gaze.

the meaning behind your question is not lost to him as he nods his head, eager for you to take him. he feels dizzy just by watching you open his belt, clinking sounds ringing in his ears, shooting pleasure down his body. his heart melts a little as you press a soft kiss right on the bulge in his pants.

you motion for him to lift himself, and he does so finally revealing himself, as you effortlessly slide off his pants and his boxers in one go, leaving nothing to hide his ever-growing desire for you.

he's so beautiful, standing tall and proud, tip flushed with deep red. you give it an experimental lick along the slit collecting the remnants of ooze before kissing it softly. satoru gasps above you, your name falling in a soft plea.

your kisses move across his thighs, decorating the pale milky skin with splotches of red and purple, marking him as yours. he looks so divine sitting in front of you — like a god whom you're yearning for, whose praise you want to drown yourself in.

when you fully take him in, tip hitting the end of your throat, satoru swears he sees the pearly gates looming over him, and god does he feel so close to cumming, “e-easy baby fuck, or you're gonna have m-me haa coming in no time,” his hand comes up to rest on your head, giving it a soft squeeze.

he feels you giggle around him before resuming your previous ministrations to get him closer to the sweet, sweet release. your tongue flicks around the tip, which immediately results in him clenching his thighs, a low guttural sound escaping him.

god, he sounds so hot, looks so hot— dishevelled hair with sweat beading to the tips, his ironed shirt is all crumpled with a few missing buttons giving way to his soaked chest — so masculine. a perfect picture rivalling that of a statue of some greek deity.

“just like that baby fuck!” you hum upon his praise, vibrations shooting up his spine, mingling with the tight knot forming in his abdomen, “so perfect for me, aren't y-you sweetheart?”

yes, you are. his sweet baby, his angel who is always ready to pleasure him, to put him first — your lord. nothing exists in the world right now. it's only you and him — a god and his worshipper.

all his senses are overloaded with you. all he sees is you looking so perfect under him. all he hears is the loud, wet sounds as you work your mouth down his length to his balls, sucking each one of them while fondling with the other. golden nectar seeps through the slit, coating your mouth. he feels so heavy, twitching violently with the need to cum — to paint you white with his essence.

“oh god, b-baby i'm—” satoru is so close that he can almosy taste the sweet heavenly release, and god does your mouth do wonders on him. he's panting, one hand clawing at the couch while the other holds your head in place, right where you belong.

it's so hot... you are so hot.

when you lock eyes with him, all the while he's throbbing in your mouth, satoru tips over the edge, falling straight into the ocean of unadulterated bliss. he swears he almost goes blind, his body numb with how hard he's coming down your throat. shocks and shocks of pleasure travel through his body, heart drumming against his ribcage with each wave. he grips on your head, tight not wanting to let you go.

a loud, broken whimper of your name echoes around the space as he comes down from the thrill of the earth-shattering orgasm. you suck him through it, not wanting to waste any drop of the precious liquid.

you place a final kiss right at the base, separating with wet pop, leaving behind a string of saliva connecting your parted lips with his tip that has his stomach churning again.

“how was it?” you whisper, hands still kneeding at the flesh of his thighs. satoru barely has any energy left, heaving above you, trying to form some coherent sentences, “so good baby—so good.” a blissed out expression paints his face with little sighs leaving his mouth as he thumbs again at your now wet mouth, “c'mere...”

he pulls you up by your elbows, placing you on his lap now, “so good f'me...” he presses his mouth on yours, swallowing the sudden gasp upon your surprise. the slow calculated pecks quickly turn into open-mouthed kisses, his tongue curling with yours, moaning into you as he tastes himself on you.

satoru is touchy and so clingy, groping and squeezing your flesh so hard you're sure he must be leaving marks underneath your shirt. his hands hold you tight, close to his body as if you'd disappear right before his very eyes. he separates from you, moving to suck down your neck all the way to your ear, smudging red against your soft skin.

“lay down for me, yeah?” he whispers in your ear before taking your ear lobe between his teeth, biting it softly. you hum, and he swings you around, laying you carefully on the couch, “there we go... such a pretty, baby.”

satoru's mind is reeling, unable to believe his eyes. he finally has you underneath him, flushed, embarrassed because of him — all ready for him. his fingers tug at your pants, nicely trimmed nails catching onto the hidden skin, “let's get this off...”

he helps you shimmy off your pants, along with your embarrassingly drenched underwear which he sneakily pockets somewhere you don't know, “i barely touched you there, baby...” he slides a finger up your drenched folds, spreading them apart, “god so wet, tell me who got you this wet?”

and god, he is falling in love with the way you look right now — mouth gaping trying to respond, drooling trickling from the side of your mouth — his precious angel, so so pretty.

“answer me, baby...” he leans closer to your heat, taking a strong whiff of the arousal seeping through. “it's—ahh you, all you fuck.” you whisper as his hot breath fans against your wetness.

yeah he knows it's him — the only one who got you needy like a bitch in heat, “show me how to pleasure you, yeah?” he sits up spreading your thighs wider, situating between them, wrapping your legs around his waist. you nod, holding his hand and guiding it towards the ache between your legs, “right here?”

“need your mhm,” he knows you're struggling, trying to think past the lust ridden haze in your mind, but it's just so fun, seeing you get frustrated. “my what?” his fingers circle around the pulsing nub, feather soft touch testing your limits.

you are quickly surrendering to the faint sparks of pleasure stemming from where his finger rubs you, “y-your hah fingers...please,” satoru hums as he quickly shoves one inside your weeping hole.

both of you moan out as your walls clench around the digit, slowly sucking him in deeper, “m-more please ahh,” he follows, rubbing his ring finger around your opening before it's joining his middle finger.

satoru's mind is running in circles. god, you are barely coherent with just his fingers pumping inside of you. how are you gonna take him? maybe you'll yield, pretty pussy splitting open to accomodate him, always so eager to please him — welcome him. you're gonna make him cum untouched now.

“t-toru just like that baby—oh!” satoru hums encouragingly, keeping up the pace, rubbing against the rough spot deep in your walls, “you’re gonna cum f'me?” he whispers against your lips, before pulling you into a deep and messy kiss.

he knows you're close, tell tale sings of orgasm showing up in your features. your nails graze against his nape, electricity buzzing through his undercut, “please toru—” he shushes you, his free hand holding your head against his chest, “i got you baby.”

satoru watches as you come undone in front of him, spraying all over his abdomen with a loud moan ripping from your throat. he eases you through the orgasm, placing gentle kisses on your watery eyes, a stark contrast to the relentless pace of his fingers working your walls.

he slumps against you, pulling his now absolutely sopping fingers from your gaping hole, “mhm—”

he pushes his fingers in his mouth all the while maintaing eye contact with you, heavenly exilir hydrating his parched mouth, “tastes so good fuck,” he mutters removing them before bending down to capture your lips again, letting you taste yourself.

satoru pulls away, pressing his forehead against yours. his cerulean eyes maps the route of your face, watching you as you struggle to keep your eyes open. he nuzzles his nose against yours, “come now, don't go sleeping on me...”

his weight leans on his knees as he sits up above you, fingers fiddling with his now crumpled shirt, a devious grin adoring his face, “after all, i'm not done with you just yet.”

oh, he can't wait to have you writhing, screaming in pleasure — to have you fully.

what a banger way to kick off the new year, he thinks as he pushes in you, never to leave you ever again.

[cythiraeth]

beneath soft pillows and wool pt. I - i.e. you are struggling to sleep but your genshin lover is there for you

✧ ─ ⌑ pairing: gn!reader x al-haitham, lyney, neuvilette (separate)

✧ ─ ⌑ short summary: while you are having troubles with sleeping, your lover tries to find a way to comfort you! let's find out what would they do, if they found you not sleeping late into the night

✧ ─ ⌑ about the work: lowercase, fluff, reader overworking themselves

✧ ─ ⌑ notes: i'm back to life! the christmas mood really got me into working - on the contorary to the reader who finally gets some sleep in this one, i certainly did not get any for the two previous nights while i was finishing this up lolol anyway, enjoy! and remember that my requests are open, so feel free to messege me!

ps. i have already prepared the second part of this 'series' so it will be posted soon c;

✧ ─ ⌑ word count: 1.5 k in total

they would give you a lecture about why sleeping at night is essential for your health, but then still put you back to sleep — al-haitham, lyney

al-haitham

the moon hung heavy in the sky, casting an ethereal glow over the bustling streets of the sumeru city. you, however, were not admiring the night's beauty. you were hunched over your desk, a mountain of scrolls and research papers threatening to topple over. 

the faint scent of jasmine tea, long since chilled, lingered in the air. you had been at it for hours, absorbed in deciphering the intricate workings of a newly discovered artefact. suddenly a tall shadow fell over your work. you looked up in alarm to see al-haitham standing in the doorway, his expression a mixture of annoyance and concern.

"you should be asleep by now," he said, his voice a low rumble. you sighed, pushing a stray strand of hair back from your face. "i’m almost done," you murmured, your eyes glued to the complex diagrams before you.

"you've been saying that for the last three hours," he countered, his gaze unwavering. "you know that chronic sleep deprivation can lead to a wide range of health problems, from reduced cognitive function to an increased risk of chronic disease." you rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips. he could talk for hours about the importance of a good night's sleep, citing scientific studies and ancient wisdom with equal fervor.

"i know, i know," you admitted, finally putting down your quill. "but this artefact is so fascinating, i just couldn't put it down."

al-haitham shook his head, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "you're impossible," he murmured, but his voice was soft, almost tender. "come, i'll put you to bed." 

"oh?" you let out a small sigh of surprise, for it wasn't often that he made such offers.

"just so i know you have finally fallen asleep," he quickly explained himself. he reached out and gently took your hand, leading you out of the study and down the hallway. you allowed him to lead you, your body tired from lack of sleep, but your mind still buzzing with excitement over the artefact.

as he tucked you into bed, you felt a wave of drowsiness wash over you. the warmth of his touch, the scent of his sandalwood cologne and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he sat beside you all conspired to lull you into a state of peaceful slumber.

"rest," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm. "you deserve it."

you closed your eyes, a contented sigh escaping your lips. al-haitham's lectures might be long and detailed, but his concern for you was undeniable. even if he didn't want to admit it out loud…

lyney

the soft glow of the moon painted the room silver, illuminating the piles of books and papers scattered across your desk. you were lost in a world of lore and legends, your fingers tracing the intricate script of a forgotten text. the air was thick with the scent of parchment and ancient magic, and you were lost in the story unfolding before you.

suddenly, a playful voice broke your concentration, "ahh, my dear, still up at this ungodly hour?" you looked up to see lyney leaning against the door, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"just finishing some research," you replied, trying to sound nonchalant.

"research? at this hour? you'll burn yourself out, my dear. fascinating as it is," he arched his brow, flipping the book in his hands to examine the cover "it won't be half as interesting if you're too tired to remember any of it tomorrow," he chided, his voice laced with concern. "don't you know that sleep is the key to unlocking the full potential of your magical abilities? i once stayed up all night trying to master a new illusion and the results were disastrous! i ended up turning myself into a giant purple squirrel." he chuckled, and you couldn't help but smile despite his theatrics.

“picture, or it didn’t happen…” you murmured quietly under your breath, so he wouldn't hear what you just said

“see? you’re too tired to even talk! you must go to bed immediately!” he chuckled, theatrically rushing you with his hand.

you opened your mouth to protest, but lyney raised a gloved finger to silence you, his expression softening as he bent down to meet your gaze. "listen," he began, "i know how tempting it is to squeeze every moment out of the night, but it's not worth sacrificing your health. sleep is not just for rest - it's when your mind processes everything. all those tricks you've seen me do? they wouldn't be half as good if i didn't get enough sleep to sharpen my focus."

"alright, alright, i get it," you said, putting down your quill. "i'll try to get some rest."

lyney raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "try? my dear, you don't try, you just do. come, i’ll put you to bed. i promise the book will still be here tomorrow."

he held out his hand, his fingers brushing yours, and you reluctantly put yours in his. he pulled you up with a flourish, like pulling a rabbit out of a hat. "there you go. now let's make this a little more magical."

with a flick of his wrist, lyney conjured a small flurry of glittering lights that floated around you like fireflies. "a little enchantment to light the way," he said, his voice soft.

"oh, lyney, they are so beautiful!" you whispered, seeing the reflections of those lights in his shining eyes.

without realising it, the weight of his lecture and the soothing glow of his conjured lights had lulled you into a haze of drowsiness, so that when he tucked you in to sleep in your room, your eyes were already closing

"sleep well, my dear," he whispered, his voice soft and soothing. "and remember, a well-rested mind is a powerful mind."

they would be very concerned and would come to the bed with you — neuvilette

neuvilette

the moonlight streamed into your shared bedroom, painting the walls a silvery hue. the clock ticked softly, a persistent reminder that the hour was far past for reasonable wakefulness. you sat on the edge of the bed, knees drawn to your chest as you stared out the window, the world outside quiet, but your mind anything but. the nightmares had come again - visceral, inescapable shadows that lingered even in wakefulness.

you hadn't intended to wake him. neuvillette deserved his rest, especially with the burdens he carried as fontaine's chief justice. but despite your quiet movements, the subtle change in the rhythm of your breathing must have alerted him. his voice, low and concerned, broke the silence. "why are you awake, mon trésor?” you jumped slightly as you turned to find his pale lavender eyes soft with concern. he was already sitting up, his silken hair falling in gentle waves over his shoulders, illuminated by the moonlight.

"it's nothing," you murmured, trying to sound reassuring. "go back to sleep, neuvillette."

but he wasn't convinced. you should have known better; neuvillette had always been perceptive, especially when it came to you. he moved closer, his hands reaching out to gently cradle yours. his touch was warm, grounding.

"you have been troubled for several nights now," he said, his voice a soothing rumble. "and now you won't even try to rest. please, tell me what's wrong.”

you hesitated, the words caught in your throat. it felt silly, almost childish, to admit that nightmares had kept you awake, but the intensity in his gaze told you he wouldn't let it go. finally you whispered, "the nightmares... i keep seeing things i can't escape. and when i wake up, it feels like they're still there."

his expression softened further, and without a word, he pulled you into his arms. you melted into his embrace, his steady heartbeat a balm to your frayed nerves. "you should have told me," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. "you don't have to bear this alone."

neuvillette rose from the bed and gently guided you to lie down. he slid under the covers with you, making sure you were wrapped in warmth. his arms circled around you tightly, and he rested his chin lightly on your head.

"close your eyes," he said softly. "i will stay with you until you fall asleep. should the nightmares return, i will chase them away."

"but you need to rest too," you protested weakly, though the comfort of his presence was already easing the tension in your body.

"i rest best when you are at peace," he replied, his voice filled with quiet conviction. "so let me be here for you.”

with neuvillette's steady presence and the rhythmic rise and fall of his breath, the grip of the nightmares began to loosen. for the first time in days, you felt the edges of sleep pull you under - not with fear, but with a sense of safety. and as your eyelids grew heavy, you thought you heard him whisper:

"i will always be here to protect you, no matter the hour.”

⌞⌑ cythiraeth - 25.12.2024. please, do not copy, claim as yours or share outside tumblr! ⌑⌝

[astronicht]

we talk in the fandom so much about if marc got amnesia (waking up with broken a broken body and SEVERAL broken personal and professional relationships) but i often think about what an insane well of drama it would be for vale to have amnesia. would marc just SHOW UP with all his insane person confidence like well this time i can just do it better….

I’m answering these both at once because oh mein gott dot meme. I angled more towards the second one i think?? I also played a liiiittle fast and loose with the usual type of amnesia in the trope. The core trope tenants are still there!

“It’s like,” someone says, “Like when you should always agree with dementia patients.”

“And psychosis,” says Marc, smiling.

“What?” says Uccio.

“Psychosis,” says Marc, very slowly, in very clear Italian. It’s the same word in Italian and Spanish, almost, so no one can be misunderstanding him. Still, he bites down on each S, sharp as glass.

“Oh, okay.”

Yeah, okay, thinks Marc. You try dealing with it, then.

What no one in this house knows, excepting possibly Valentino, is that Marc has kept this successfully quiet for a week. It was a tour de force. The only thing he didn’t succeed at was getting Valentino to the Marc’s neuro specialist, because Marc, deep down, did not want to know. Wanted Valentino here, with him, saying yes yes if it makes you feel better before he made it real with a doctor.

Valentino does, sort of, remember the concept of Marc Marquez, because he remembers up to about 2008. Marc was fighting for the 125cc championship that year. He lost a baby tooth, and his mom told him not to tell anyone about it, because people fighting for the world championship shouldn’t be losing baby teeth. He had understood, and tried not to smile too wide. Fifteen was sort of old for that. But he’d been a late bloomer. Hadn’t been able to properly jerk off till the year before, either.

“He thinks I am Marc Marquez’s older brother,” Marc tells one of Vale’s assistants, perfectly calm, furiously even. She’s the one woman in the room. Her name is Laura, and she looks like any woman who has been working in racing all her life: straightened hair, weathered face, tight expression.

She’s the one who gets Uccio out of the room and two hours up the road by telling him someone needs to fill in for Valentino at the meeting with Ducati in Bologna tomorrow. Marc, cold, realizes he doesn’t know for sure what Vale has missed.

He doesn’t particularly like Laura, even though she got Uccio out. That doesn’t mean much, just that she knows that to handle Marc she must first handle Uccio.

And she has to handle Marc, because they ended up at Vale’s neuro guy, not Marc’s and he said to reduce confusion. Yes, like how you agree with dementia patients. Vale thinking Marc is Marc’s older brother — some fabled first son, some larger creature, who can have Vale when the younger Marc he remembers or has made up cannot yet — is not making the neuro guy happy.

They make Marc point out all of the things that are Marc’s. Marc pulls it out for them, but leaves it in piles on the floor. They can put it away.

*

“Marc,” says Valentino down the shitty phone line. Marc wants to sit down and scream. He is at the grocery store. He is in Madrid. Valentino is not better, because fifteen minutes ago one of his assistants was texting Marc to ask where Vale might have put the pill box they gave him for all the vitamin supplements, to help his brain recover.

Marc had texted back, Try the coffee cabinet, knowing with absolute clarity that Valentino would have thrown it out. Valentino hates pill boxes. Marc sometimes has to use one, and Valentino can’t even stand to have it on the counter. Marc keeps it under the bathroom sink, along with his migraine meds.

“Hi,” Marc says. He doesn’t say Valentino’s name because he is in the pasta and rice aisle of a Mercadona. His hand shakes on the phone.

“Hello, hello, ah. You’ve moved my black t-shirts.”

Marc’s number is no longer in Valentino’s phone, for Valentino’s own neurological health. Did Vale remember the number? How? Did he get the contact from somewhere?

“Your black tshirts?” Marc repeats. They are, Marc realizes with a jolt, speaking Spanish. Marc can speak Spanish and usually Catalan to Valentino anytime, who understands perfectly, but Valentino never speaks in Spanish. Never. Except that he just did.

“Yes, my black tshirts, and my favorite sweats. Are they in the laundry? I need them today.”

The Spanish is throwing Marc off. Whole sections of Marc’s life exist in Italian. Work, for example. And, largely, Valentino.

He overthinks it, tangles. Says, “You don’t own black tshirts, do you?” in Italian. A woman walks around him and sighs and says, “Fucking tourists.”

Valentino, if he were here, if he really were on this phone line, would find this very funny.

“No, no, I’m certain. Did you send them to get washed? All, today?”

Valentino is wrenching them back to Spanish. He’s harder to read like this, but suddenly Marc hears the panic under his tone, the high tight paranoia. There are other people in Valentino’s house. He does not trust them. He has found a way to call Marc.

Marc drops his shopping basket on the floor. “I’ll come look,” he tells Valentino, still in Spanish, smooth now. “The cleaner must have moved stuff again.”

Valentino, plaintive, relieved: “Yes, yes come look. I’ll go complain at someone for you.”

“Good,” says Marc, with tightly controlled, bloody-mouthed fury. The tshirts aren’t even with Marc. He has another full closet at the house in Madrid. Why take them? “But ah, I’m out at a few appointments I can’t get out of, so it will be a few hours,” Marc says. The flight to Bologna is two hours and twenty minutes.

He pulls his phone away from his ear to start texting, and sees that he has a text from Valentino’s assistant. He swipes it away unread. No point when he already has Valentino on the line.

His phone says, “Are you still there?”

“Yes,” says Marc, already out of the grocery, on the hot street. A car is going to pull up for him very soon. “Yes, I can stay on the line.”

“Hm,” is all Valentino says, and a TV switches on. But when Valentino sighs into the phone, Marc can hear the relief. Marc wants to lay down on the hot sidewalk and not get up.

The car comes. Marc gets in. He cries perfectly silently in the backseat. Eventually, and with no obvious reason, Vale says, “Okay, I’m going to go now,” and Marc pulls his phone away from his ear, damp with sweat. The heat wavers on the cars taking the airport exit. The driver sighs.

Marc thumbs open the text from Valentino’s assistant, the one he ignored earlier. It reads, Found his pill box, thank you! It was in the cabinet under the master bath sink, with his migraine meds.

Marc smiles, sharp and awful. Above the car, a plane screams across the street through the smoggy air.

[dark-elf-writes]

Honestly I am just insanely cusius about the fall out of Bakugou in two heroes and I need to know what happens next please. A drabble of that would be beautiful. I just finished my rereading it lol

Masaru Bakugou wasn’t stupid.

He knew that he had dropped the ball raising his son. Knew that his choice to be the voice of reason between the two hotheads that were Katsuki and his wife had not been enough to mitigate the damage that had already been done both in their home and outside it. Knew that, when it came down to it, he had failed not only Katsuki but Izuku as well.

(He remembered innocent green eyes looking up at him through a sheen of tears. “Why are they so mean, Uncle Saru?”

He hadn’t had an answer then, before it was his son causing that pain. He didn’t have one now either.)

The chime of the doorbell almost went unnoticed in the cacophony of the house. Katsuki and Mitsuki had been screaming at each other since they had left the police station. Masaru was certain the only reason that their car, any furniture too large to throw, and most of the house was intact at all was the quirk suppressing cuff clamped around Katsuki’s ankle. The same cuff that would remain there until Katsuki’s trial.

Pushing that thought away, Masaru walked through the swath of destruction his family left in their wake and opened the front door.

He wasn’t particularly surprised to see the mismatched trio of pro heroes on the other side of the door, but he still felt his stomach sink when he saw the rage in their eyes.

(Rage he understood. Rage he could feel in the pit of his own gut. Rage for a child that had almost died only hours ago at the hands of his son.)

“Bakugou-san. We would like to speak to you and your family about what is to be expected moving forward.” The principal of UA said with deceptive calm. Masaru didn’t fall for it. Not when the rage in the mammal’s eyes burned brighter than the explosions that had nearly cost him a student on live television.

Something shattered deeper in the house. Masaru’s eye twitched.

“Please, come in. Don’t bother removing your shoes.” Knowing Katsuki and Mitsuki, there could be broken glass anywhere at this point. "I would offer tea, but I'm sure you are all very busy." And he wasn't certain that any of their drink ware had survived the war going on behind him.

They didn't give any of the polite deferring that was expected of guests. Masaru couldn't blame them. He was clinging to years if ingrained manners with little more than his fingernails, and with each shout and crash from behind him his grip wavered. If anything the woman, Midnight, if Masaru remembered correctly from the packets that had been sent out when Katsuki had been accepted to UA, seemed to be trembling with barely contained rage.

She had been there, he suddenly remembered. She had been the closest to the field. It was her hands that had caught Izuku when both children had been knocked unconscious, leaving Katsuki to hit the dirt on his own.

(He was a terrible father, he knew. What else could it mean when he was grateful she hadn't caught his son.)

"We should speak to all three of you at once," Nezu's voice was soft compared to the carnage in the house, but it rattled Masaru all the more. He would have preferred him to scream. To roar at him like his own thoughts did for being so blind.

Masaru nodded, leading the three of them to the living room swerving around broken glass and shattered pieces of the life that had once filled their home.

Katsuki and Mitsuki were facing off around the couch. Both of them red faced as they screamed curses at each other. Masaru had grown so used to the noise he hadn't even noticed when he had led the heroes in. Neither of them so much as looked in their direction, so lost in their fury.

Something sparked in his chest. White hot and with all the force of one of Katsuki's explosions.

"Enough!" He roared it at them, cutting through their shouts with a single word.

(He had never raised his voice to either of them. Never in all the time Katsuki had been alive. Never since he met Mitsuki in high school. Both of them looked at him with slack expressions, struck dumb in their shock.)

"Enough," He repeated at a normal volume but the iron in his voice made them both blink. "Both of you, just, enough."

It struck him then that he couldn't offer Katsuki's teachers a place to sit. Even with the couch still mostly in tact, the glass from every picture once the walls and the small fiddly blown glass figures Masaru had so adored was scattered over every inch of their living room. Like a bomb had gone off in their home.

(Like they had raised the bomb that would destroy them.)

None of the heroes seemed like they were much inclined to sit anyway. Midnight dropped back to lean against the farthest wall from Katsuki while Aizawa, with Nezu on his shoulder, stood in the center of the room where the mammal could keep his dark eyes on all three of them at once.

"We have come to inform you that Bakugou Katsuki has been formally expelled from UA as the result of an assault on one of his fellow students," Nezu kept his voice soft, so terribly soft.

Katsuki, however, did not. "The fuck do you mean expelled you fucking rat! Deku fucking—!"

"Katsuki!" Masaru's voice cut through the argument as well as any explosion. "I said enough. You will listen to your… to the heroes, and you will do so silently." It was probably the shock that made Katsuki listen more than any respect for Masaru as his father. Masaru didn't much care as long as he was quiet.

From all Nezu reacted, it was like neither of them had spoken at all. "He will be expelled with a black mark on his record and a personal note from myself attached listing my… concerns should he be accepted into another heroics program. We take the safety of our students seriously at UA, and we know that all of our fellow schools across the world feel much the same."

It was as good as the death of the dream Katsuki had held since he was a toddler. A black mark from UA. A personal condemnation from Nezu. There was not a single hero school in all of Japan that would stand against that. Not a single one in the world if Masaru were to make a guess.

Not that he would have tried to look.

Masaru bowed, a perfect ninety degrees, and kept his voice on the shattered glass under his feet when he spoke, "Thank you for taking the time to inform us. With consideration to what happened, I had already decided to pull Katsuki out of UA, and was already looking for an online program unrelated to heroics that would take him in spite of his… rather televised faults." If he wasn't convicted of attempted murder, Masaru couldn't help but think as he caught sight of the quirk suppressing cuff around his son's ankle from his position.

"What?" It spoke to just how stunned Katsuki was that the word had come out as a strangled whisper rather than a roar.

Masaru straightened, not daring to look at his son when he spoke. Instead his eyes caught on a patch of wall brighter than the rest where a picture had once resided.

(Izuku's smiling face had once looked back from that picture, where they were clinging to their mother's arm. Katsuki and Mitsuki had both also been smiling for once. A rare moment of peace caught on camera now crumpled and shattered on their floor.

He wondered what it said about all of them. Surely nothing good.)

"I have been too lenient toward the problems in your behavior for too long, which resulted in another child being hurt. I refuse to make that mistake again. It is my greatest shame that it took me this long to see."

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Midnight's head dip in a nod. Confirmation and damnation in the movement. Her hands might have been the ones stained with Izuku's blood, but the ghost of that blood rested on Masaru's soul. He should have known, should have seen the warning signs, but he had not. Now he had to live with that failure for the rest of his life.

(It would be so easy not to. To run as far as he could. To leave nothing but signed divorce papers and a broken home full of rage and guilt behind him.

But Masaru had taken the easy route too much already, and he, frankly, didn't trust Mitsuki to keep Katsuki under control.)

He nodded back at Midnight, a message received and understood. "I apologize for the harm that Katsuki has done."

It wasn't enough, and he knew it.

It would never be enough.

Masaru had to say it all the same.

None of the heroes accepted the apology. None of them would lessen his guilt. None of them so much as bowed before showing themselves out of his home. Masaru was grateful for it, was grateful for the stunned silence that they left in their wake even more so.

[vickytaa]

𝕯𝖔 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖉𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖆𝖗𝖐𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖘?

𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔢𝔯𝔶: A new video in collaboration with Sam and Colby, where the group enters an abandoned church full of mysteries. What starts as an exciting adventure quickly turns into a nightmare. Y/n will have terrifying nightmares and must fight her fears after entering the darkness.

"Welcome back, everyone! It's Sam and Colby. Today we brought some special guests to help us on this great adventure of the abandoned church." Colby explained.

It was the first time I was going to participate in an adventure that was related to the paranormal world. My grandmother used to work in dealing with those from beyond; she used to warn me that it was something very dangerous, but not to be afraid, but to respect them, 'you don't know what can happen if you dishonor them' she used to tell me.

So that's what I did, all my life I tried to keep a certain distance, but with a great curiosity, which I believed more and more inside me. And that's why today I decided to come here, accompanied by my boyfriend and my best friends, ready to face the unknown.

Sam introduced us to the camera and quickly began to explain what we would do today. "Well, for those who don't know, this is the St. Bernadette Church. Built in 1740, in terrible conditions; thousands of workers died on the site, but few know why. There were many moments where paranormal activity exceeded normal levels. The first few years were simple movements of objects, almost imperceptible, but quickly turned into sudden knocks, people levitating and there was even an attempted arson." Sam explained. A shiver ran down my spine.

I gently squeezed Matt's hand, who was next to me, a little nervous but just as curious as me, to let him know that I was a little scared of what was going to happen.

He moved his hand, wrapping his arm around my waist and giving me a small kiss on the head, trying to calm my nerves.

Sam finished explaining what we were going to do and we headed inside the church. We were all amazed by the sheer size of the place, the stained-glass windows on the walls, through which the moonlight shone. The place was huge, full of endless doors.

Near the altar was the man who was going to share his story of the place and help us explore the church. His face was pale, a long black robe wrapped around his body, and despite the distance, you could see that his hands looked...burned.

How strange...

Matt seemed to read my mind, our eyes meeting as his grip on my waist tightened, trying to keep me as close as possible.

My heart raced as a cold breeze swept through the room, making me shiver momentarily. My hands were colder than before, my eyes darting around, trying to memorize as much of the place as I could, in case I got lost, so I would know where the exit was.

Before we started any communication method, we all decided to explore, but since the place was too big to explore all together, we agreed to split up. Everyone went their own way with a different camera.

"Are you sure?" Matt asked me, noticing my panicked expression. I was terrified of the idea of being alone in a church where there were supposedly ghosts, but I decided to be brave and nodded to Matt. "See you in an hour," Chris said. We all separated, each choosing their own path.

With one hand, I held the camera, pointing it at the door, while with the other I opened it. My heart was pounding in my chest, and the air I breathed was so cold it hurt to inhale.

I gripped the doorknob and slowly turned it to open it. Darkness enveloped the room, I could barely see anything, and what I could see was thanks to the camera's flashlight.

"Here we go..." I said softly, trying to sound calm, but my trembling voice betrayed me.

With each step, the old floorboards creaked under my feet, amplifying the deathly silence. Fear coursed through my veins, and the desperation of not being able to see anything began to set in.

After walking a few steps, I could no longer see the door due to the lack of light. As I approached a wall, I began to see portraits of people and some drawings of angels. A shiver ran down my spine, not from the cold, but from an inexplicable feeling of being watched. The camera light traveled across the walls and the faces of people, their eyes seemed to reflect a weariness and a void that I couldn't describe in words.

The dampness and musty smell enveloped me, intensifying the atmosphere of mystery. The crunch of broken glass under my foot made me jump, "Ah!" I screamed at the unexpected noise, which shattered the tense silence.

Slowly, I looked away from the paintings and down at my foot, where the noise had originated. I slowly brought the camera closer to see more clearly. The air caught in my throat as I realized what it was. A portrait, just like the others, only this one wasn't of a person... it was of the devil. For a moment, I thought I heard a faint laugh, like a whisper lost in the shadows.

The church felt alive, or rather, inhabited by something else. Something that wasn't of this world. With every corner I explored, my fear grew more and more.

Shivers ran down my spine, 'I must be imagining things,' I thought. I continued to stare at the portrait on the floor, as if hypnotized by its detail, despite how terrifying the image was. Suddenly, I saw something else besides my reflection in the glass that protected the portrait. It looked like a nun kneeling, as if she were praying or crying...

I slowly turned my head,

nothing.

The room seemed to shrink, even though I couldn't see well. The darkness was growing, my heart pounding a mile a minute, almost as if it were going to burst out of my chest. My breathing also quickened, the urgent thought of wanting to leave grew impatiently. I had to get out of there.

"Fuck this," I said, venturing back into the darkness to find the exit. I couldn't see anything but the old wooden floorboards beneath my feet. My hands began to tremble, it felt like I was walking in circles, finding no way out.

It started to get very cold, strangely, because it was the middle of summer. My breath began to tremble, now more from the cold I was feeling. And suddenly, a chilling, deep voice echoed from afar, "You dared to enter the darkness?" I froze. Small tears of fear rolled down my cheeks. What was going to happen to me? What was I going to do?

My face full of panic, I started running forward, not knowing what I might encounter. My mind was filled with millions of scenarios of what could happen at that moment.

My whole body was trembling, trying to escape this supernatural force. Running, I found the door I had opened, finally, I grabbed the handle and turned it to open it and...

it was closed.

"Help! Matt!" I screamed as I pounded on the door, crying out of desperation to get out. "Help, please!" My accelerated heartbeat sounded louder than my screams. I kept asking for help, pounding the door harder, screaming louder, doing everything I could to stay alive. I turned my head to look back into the room, where I still couldn't see, not a single window, not a bit of light. The darkness was my greatest fear, and now I was fighting against it.

"Help," I cried non-stop, my strength waning. Suddenly I felt the door open quickly, a sense of relief washed over me as I saw Matt and his brothers approaching me. "Y/n! What happened to you?" they asked worriedly. My ears were ringing, my mind was clouded, my breathing was returning to normal.

"Matt..." I managed to choke out, my sobs the only thing coming out. He hugged me tightly, trying to calm me down. "It's okay, love, I'm here, we're all here with you, okay? Calm down," Matt said in such a calm voice that made me forget everything that had happened.

After a few minutes, I felt strong enough to share what had happened to me. We were all in a circle, trying to be close to share a feeling of safety and tranquility.

"There was someone there," I said without warning. Everyone turned to look at me, even though I couldn't see them because my head was resting against Matt's chest. "Who?" Colby asked. Fear was still running through my veins, the image in my head of what had happened made me feel my chest tightens.

"A nun... I- I couldn't see her face but it looked like she was..." "Crying," Sam finished my sentence. With a surprised face, I slowly nodded. Sam and Colby looked at each other, they seemed scared, as if what had happened shouldn't have happened.

"How do you know she was going to say that?" Chris asked with a face full of fear. They both looked at each other again, seeking approval on whether or not to tell us.

"Searching..." Sam sighed lightly before continuing, as if he was frustrated. "Investigating the place, we realized there was a known story of a girl who had gone through the same thing, many years ago," Sam explained. We all remained with the same curiosity, wondering what happened to the girl, what it had to do with what had happened, thousands and thousands of unanswered questions.

"And what happened to her?" Nick asked, worried about something happening to me where he couldn't help. "She..." Sam hesitated to continue, knowing that if I knew what had happened to the girl, I wouldn't be able to sleep. "She....

𝐕 -

[bokutosbabe]

hii <3 my top song was i miss u, im sorry by gracie abrams

NOW THIS IS A SONG I CAN WRITE ABT FOR HOURS

if your top song was i miss you, i'm sorry by gracie abrams, i'd pair you with...

oliver aiku

જ⁀♡⊹｡° nothing happened in the way i wanted

♡ a/n — for my spotify wrapped event - masterlist - ** THIS EVENT IS NOW CLOSED **

♡ content — oliver aiku x gn! reader, gn! reader, established relationship, late night call, oliver misses reader BAD, mentions of alcohol

♡ synopsis — oliver aiku's been haunted by your ghost since you broke up with him, little does he know, you've also been plagued by memories of him

The apartment hasn’t changed much since you left.

It’s been months—maybe a year, he doesn’t really keep track anymore. The days blend together like the city lights outside his window, faint glimmers in the haze of a life lived too fast. But he can still feel you here, like you never really left.

Every corner of the place holds a piece of you. The couch still smells faintly like your shampoo. There’s a chip in the kitchen counter from that night you got too animated with a wine bottle, laughing so hard he almost forgot to stop you before you knocked it over. The bedroom—the one he hasn’t slept in since—is worse. It’s a mausoleum of all the things he lost, haunted by the warmth that used to fill it.

Oliver leans against the doorway, staring at the unmade bed. You hated when he left it a mess, and yet here it is, sheets tangled and pillows scattered like he’s still waiting for you to come back and fix it.

He runs a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling up. How did he let it get this bad? How did he get this bad?

The answer comes like it always does: because he’s Oliver Aiku. The man who ruins good things. The man who knew how to charm you into his life but not how to keep you there.

He sits on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. The memories hit harder in the silence. The fights—god, the fights—play out like a movie reel he can’t turn off. Your voice, raised in frustration, asking him why he always had to pull away. Him, deflecting with a cocky grin or a dismissive comment, too scared to admit that you mattered more than he could handle.

“I miss fighting in your old apartment,” you’d said once, after one of those rare, quiet nights together. It was a joke, your way of saying you hated arguing but loved him too much to walk away. He didn’t realize then how close you were to the edge, how much it took for you to stay when he gave so little in return.

And now he misses it too. Misses you.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand. For a second, his heart leaps—it’s a reflex, stupid and desperate—but of course it’s not you. It’s never you. He hasn’t heard your voice since the day you walked out, your face a mix of heartbreak and determination as you said, “I can’t keep waiting for you to grow up, Oliver.”

He still doesn’t know if he’s grown up.

The phone buzzes again. A text from a friend, probably asking him to hit the club. The thought makes him nauseous. He used to love the chaos, the noise, the way it drowned out everything real. Now it just feels hollow.

He picks up the phone, hesitates, and sets it back down.

You’re gone, but you’re still here—in the chipped counters, the unmade bed, the faint traces of your laugh that echo when he least expects it. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever let you go, or if he even wants to.

Oliver stands, his silhouette framed by the city lights. The night is eerily quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic below. He runs a hand through his hair, his chest heavy with the weight of everything unsaid, everything unresolved.

The phone buzzes again, and his heart skips a beat when he sees your name.

It’s been months. Long enough that he’d convinced himself you hated him. Long enough that he’d tried to hate you, too—but failed miserably.

This time, he doesn’t hesitate. His thumb swipes across the screen, and he presses the phone to his ear, unsure if he even remembers how to breathe. “Hello?”

For a second, there’s only silence. Then, he hears your breath on the other end of the line, shaky and uneven. “Oliver.”

Just your voice—soft, hesitant, laced with something he can’t quite place—is enough to unravel him. His jaw tightens, his free hand balling into a fist at his side. “It’s late,” he says, his voice low and careful, because he doesn’t trust himself to say anything else.

“I know,” you whisper, and he can hear the faint hum of music in the background, the kind you used to play when the nights got too heavy. “I just... I don’t know why I called.”

He closes his eyes, leaning against the cold glass of the window. “Are you okay?”

You laugh, but it’s hollow, more like a sigh than anything else. “Do you really care?”

The question slices through him, sharp and cruel, even though he knows you don’t mean it that way. Of course he cares. He’s cared every single day since you left. But before he can find the words to say it, you’re speaking again, your voice cracking just slightly.

“I thought... I thought I’d hate you by now,” you admit, and he can picture you, curled up on your couch, staring at the phone like it’s something you wish you didn’t have to hold. “But I don’t. And that makes it worse.”

His breath hitches. He wants to say something, anything, but the words stick in his throat.

“I shouldn’t have called,” you say suddenly, a little sharper now, like you’re trying to pull yourself back together. “Just—forget it, okay?”

“No,” he says quickly, the word tumbling out before he can stop it. “Wait.”

The silence stretches, heavy and fragile, and he’s afraid you’ll hang up before he can figure out what to say. But then, softly, barely loud enough for him to hear, you whisper: “I miss you.”

His chest tightens, and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe.

“Goodnight, Oliver,” you add before he can respond, your voice trembling but resolute.

The line goes dead, and he’s left staring at the phone, your words echoing in his mind.

He sets it down gently, his hands shaking. For a long time, he just stands there, staring at the city lights that blur and smear through his tears. He doesn’t leave the apartment that night. Instead, he sits in the dark, letting the memories wash over him like a tide he’s too tired to fight.

And for the first time in his life, Oliver Aiku doesn’t try to run from the things he’s lost.

i would fold immediately for him, but yk i made reader stronger than i ever will be

i hope you liked it!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

[delilaha]

Based off a prompt I found on here!

The dissociation part is based off of Pony in the musical after their deaths. I saw it back in April and it was so amazing!! My biggest life flex is that I sat in the second row right in front of the fountain/tire and I don't remember was song it was, but Brody stared at me straight in the eyes for AT LEAST 5 seconds while singing and he was like nodding along like he was telling me personally and I think about it every day (I realized I never yapped about it to y'all yet so here you go 😝)

Anyway enjoy and Merry Christmas!! 🫶

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The house was quiet. An almost eery, unsettling quiet where you could hear the well-loved structure creak with every little gust of wind from outside. Then again, it was an ungodly hour of the night, almost one in the morning. But that wasn't making Darry any less restless than he's been for the past, what, month at this point? It's all gone to shit, if it hasn't already been since their parent's death almost a year ago already. And there wasn't much to do about it but grip his coffee mug and sit at the kitchen table, staring into space thinking about what he could do to make it better. If there even was anything to make better.

What's done is done, anyway right? Dally and Johnny are dead, and they've been dead for a while already. There's nothing to do about it now except try to move on. Except, that's what Darry tells himself, and what he wishes to tell Ponyboy. But, if he was being honest, Darry was worried it would send his youngest brother into some sort of breakdown if he even mentioned their names. Ever since he became lucid enough to head back to school, Pony acts like some sort of robot, stuck in some never-ending programmed cycle of sleeping, eating, breathing, then repeating. When he wakes up, he hardly spares a word to his brothers, and Darry knows it eats at Soda every second. Then, when Darry gets home at the end of the day, Pony is just sitting in front of the tv, staring at the screen but not actually watching. Occasionally, his homework will sit out in front of him, done yet incorrect for the most part, but Darry tries not to bug him about it too much. After all, he hasn't gotten any notes or phone calls home from his teachers, so he doesn't think too deeply about it. There's a time and a place for getting on Ponyboy about his homework again, and now was not it. Darry knows that much, at least.

What he doesn't know is how to get through to Pony. He's tried to get Sodapop to intervene, to try and talk to him before they go to sleep. But Pony has been turning in so early these days, sometimes earlier than eight-thirty. Soda, who has never been one to go to bed before nine, even as a kid, is never able to talk to his brother anymore because he's knocked out before Soda can even change into his pajamas. And talking to him in the morning is a lost cause too, because they have to basically drag him out of bed every morning just to get him to school at an appropriate hour and they feel too bad to wake him up on weekend mornings before they have to go to work.

Darry would try to get him a therapist if he could, but between their tight budget and the fact that Pony would probably blow a fuse if the idea was even remotely brought up, that's not really an option. They're still trying to recover from Pony's previous hospital stay, and Darry would really enjoy to afford groceries for his family.

Sighing with frustration, Darry slams his mug down and runs his hands through his hair, resting against the table in defeat. What is he going to do with this kid?

Darry doesn't even realize said kid walked into the kitchen until he's mumbling a hello. He raises his head to see Ponyboy retrieve a glass from the cupboard and stand in front of the sink.

"Hey, P.B. You okay? What are you doing?" Darry asks, trying not to let the surprise be too evident in his voice. He rests his hands onto the kitchen table and slides his mug out of the way a bit.

"Uhm, just getting water..." Pony says, looking at Darry weirdly. He was already filling the glass with water, was it not obvious?

"Right," Darry smiles awkwardly, looking down at his hands. He picks at his finger nails as he scolds himself for being so meek around his younger brother who he's known for his whole fourteen-year existence. He wants to try to get through to the kid, not treat him like a stranger! Darry watched as he gulped his water down, apparently as thirsty as someone stranded in the desert, wondering desperately how to talk to him. Maybe he could catch him in the morning, he goes into work late anyway, or-

Wait.

He's right there, now, you idiot.

By the time Darry comes to this realization, Pony's already halfway down the hall. He jumps out of his chair, and practically whisper yells to get Pony's attention. He seriously does not want to wake up Soda, God knows he needs the sleep just as much as anyone else in this household.

"Pone, wait, I gotta talk to you about something for a second." Darry says, peaking out of the doorway to the kitchen, and he can imagine Pony's eyes roll even in the darkened hallway. He pivots back around on the ball of his foot and lets out a huff before walking back down the hall, and Darry had half the mind to get onto him about the attitude, but he knew that would only do more harm than good.

"What?" Pony asks, leaning back against the wall facing Darry who was leaning against the kitchen table, looking like he'd rather be anywhere but there. Darry almost sent him back to bed, knowing full well this wasn't the most ideal time to talk about something so heavy. But it's about time to just rip off the bandaid.

"Pony, I wanna know how to help you." Darry began, crossing his arms over his chest. He tried to make his voice sound as soft as possible, so that Pony wouldn't get defensive, but he wasn't sure it was working with the way his brother's expression fell.

"Darry, if this is about my grades, I'm-" Ponyboy began, crossing his arms just as Darry did and pushed himself off the wall.

"It's not," Darry cut him off. "Look, Pone, I know you've been grieving, we all are, but-"

"My God, Darrel," Pony uttered exasperatedly, making to stomp out of the kitchen, but Darry grabbed his arm before he could get anywhere.

"But," Darry continued, "You're acting like a zombie and I want to help you. We want to help you. But we can't help you if you don't talk to us."

"I'm fine, Dar'. I'm handling it." Ponyboy spat, trying to rip his arm back from Darry, but he didn't budge.

"Handling it? You hardly say ten words to us per day." Darry responded. He tried to disregard the way Pony's words bit, but he couldn't help the annoyance that seeped into his voice. "You can't spend the rest of your life sleeping and staring at that damn TV, Ponyboy!"

Pony narrowed his eyes. "Would you rather me run wild and get arrested by the cops every night? I never know what you want from me anymore, Darry. Just let me go to bed." He tried to pull his arm away again but Darry wouldn't let him. "I'm being serious, Darry, stop it!"

"What I want from you is to stop living in a vacuum, Ponyboy! They're gone, and we can't do anything about it." Darry responded, voice low and vexed. Pony stared at him for a second, eyes wide and filled with hurt.

"You better shut up, Darrel," Pony spat, voice raising. "Let go!" He demanded, resorting to slapping Darry's arm, trying to push him away. Tears sprang into his eyes, and whether it was from frustration or grief, Ponyboy couldn't tell. He just wanted to go back to bed and sleep his sorrows away.

Darry's eyebrows furrowed and his mouth formed into a frown, and he tried to ignore the new found pain in his arm. Pony was struggling in his grip like an animal in a trap, but he knew that if he let him go, he'd probably never get to hold him again. So instead, he drew Ponyboy in closer, trying to ignore the way he was tugging and hitting him.

"Stop, Darry!" Pony shouted, although it was somewhat muffled by Darry's chest as he held Pony against him. He tried desperately to push himself away, this was all too much; suffocating and overwhelming. Pony tried to hit his chest, he probably even tried to step on his feet once or twice, but he didn't have any shoes on and his feet were smaller than Darry's so it probably didn't do much. Either way, Darry wouldn't succumb to the blows.

"Pone, calm down, please," Darry said, his voice forlorn as Pony's attacks persisted. Ponyboy let out a guttural sound in response that only broke Darry's heart more, but the hits seemed to slow down the tiniest bit.

"That's it, kiddo, relax," Darry soothed, and Pony finally gave in to his embrace. He didn't exactly wrap his arms around Darry but he dropped his arms as much as he could and dropped his head onto his chest. "It's okay, you're okay," Darry tried to comfort him, and ran his hands up and down Pony's back. He rested his chin on the top of Pony's head and felt as his body shuddered with the effort of holding in his emotion.

You don't have to be afraid to cry in front of me, Darry wanted to say, but instead he just settled to continue whispering sweet nothings and rubbing his back.

But it soon seemed to be too much to hold in anyway, and Ponyboy broke out into sobs. Terrible, raw cries echoed through the house and it was a wonder Sodapop hasn't woken up by now.

"I'm sorry," Pony muttered through his cries and Darry only held him closer.

"It's okay, honey." Darry simply responded, listening as Pony settled down little by little. After another two or three minutes, his sobs reduced to sniffles and leaking tears every now and then. Ponyboy lifted his head from where it was buried in his brother's shoulder, his face red and grief-stricken.

"I'm sorry," Pony repeated, bringing a hand up to rub at his eyes. He tried to look down, too ashamed to look Darry in the eyes, but he caught his chin to make eye contact.

"You've got nothing to apologize for, Pony, you hear me? Nothing." Darry said firmly, and Pony nodded, looking away. "Let's just go to bed now, okay? It's getting late."

Ponyboy only nodded again, and Darry wrapped an arm around his shoulders, guiding him to his own bedroom. It looked like Pony was about to fall asleep standing up, and Darry wouldn't blame him. He really didn't want to be without his brother tonight and Ponyboy didn't argue when they passed right by his shared bedroom with Soda.

Ponyboy practically collapsed onto the bed and attached himself to Darry like a koala when they were both under the covers.

"Dar', am I going crazy?" Pony asked in the quiet of the bedroom after a second.

"What?" Darry asked incredulously. "Why would you ask that?"

"Because you're right. I'm a zombie, I don't know what's wrong with me." Ponyboy told him, voice quivering.

"Pone... you've been through more in this past year than anyone should go through in their entire life. You aren't crazy. You're just mourning in your own way."

Darry could hear Pony let out a shaky breath and nod against his shoulder.

"Thanks, Darry," Pony said softly.

Darry squeezed his shoulder in response, finally settling into the pillow to crash for the night. Until he was once again interrupted by the bedroom door opening.

"Guys?" A voice mumbled, and Darry recognized it as Sodapop. He picked his head up from the pillow to see him standing in the doorway, hair tousled from sleep. Pony did the same beside him.

"What's going on?" Soda asked, walking over to the side of the bed. Neither of them asked questions when he made room for himself on the other side of Ponyboy and got under the covers.

"Nothing, Pepsi. Get some sleep, you two." Darry mumbled, burrowing his head into the pillow.

"You okay, Pone?" Darry heard Soda ask.

"Yeah, So'. I'm good."

Finally.

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Sorry I haven't posted for a month, I've been so busy and not very motivated to write until last night lol. This is your Christmas present though 😍

I know in the musical this part played out a little differently, but I've been wanting to do something like this for a while anyway so why not <3

Requests are welcome as well! I can't promise how quickly they'd come out, but if there's anything you'd like to see I'd love to hear it!

[maggicktouched]

"That sounds like a lonely life." Beck said gently. A whole continent of witches without familiars. Normally she found the ways in which they differed fascinating, but this just sounded sad. Her first familiar had come to her as a young girl of only five years, and only in her darkest hours had she ever been without a familiar since.

"I have two familiars. Both were spirits at one time, who wished so dearly to draw near to me they incarnated into a physical form." Angrboda looked at Beck as she spoke, and blinked slow and languidly. Beneath the rush of water around them, the low, thrumming sound of purring filled the air. Beck leaned forward, and the feline pressed her forehead against her witch to nuzzle her softly. "Boda was much younger than Grani. A wisp of a moon spirit in the body of a little ferocious kitten. She found me as a young woman camping on the rocky shores of lake Isvegin. The sun never fully rises there, and in the darkest night the brilliance of the moon over the quiet water is said to drive the wicked to madness. I stayed there two months in awe of it, and she came to me. I tried to get her to return to the Dream Realm, but she wouldn't have any of it."

There was much more to that story. Perhaps one day she'd tell Yennefer about how she sought out the lake in hopes of healing her fractured spirit. How she swallowed so much rage over the years that the anger had molded itself into a vicious beast inside her own veins and threatened to boil her alive in her own skin. How she walked into the frigid waters in search of relief even if it meant her own death. And how the Moon had seen her across the great expanse---a living breathing incarnation of the Nature Spirit that the Moon so loved---suffering so intently, and could not stand it. She had taken a piece of herself and placed it into a clutch of owl eggs. Beck had found the egg cracked on the ground, but inside it there was no screeching owlet, only a crying kitten. Their bond had been almost instant as she cared for the little kitten, and a few months later, after they had long since left the rocky shores, Angrboda became her familiar. Boda shared in her memories of pain and neglect, and had taken the rage within herself.

It saved her life... but it made Angrboda a temperamental and powerful foe.

"Grani-" Beck motioned to the hawk flying languid circles in the sky above them, watching them on their path, "Came to me a few years before Boda. I was only sixteen? But he was much older. He had long since been capable of thought and magic in the Dream Realm when he came to me. I was wandering the fields near the ranch where I lived as a girl, before my father died. I was---lost, at the time. Not physically but, in my heart, you know? He fell from the sky in a blaze of light, turning from a hawk to a golden stallion." Beck laughed gently. "I don't think I had much of a choice in the matter. He had already chosen me. He's a sun spirit."

Another tragic tale that she'd dipped in gold to hide the dark truth. Another time her life had been saved. Her first familiar, Dawnbreaker, had been a sun spirit as well, and upon her brutal murder she had used the last of her power not to try and free herself, but to pull Grani from the Dream Realm. The death of a familiar is something few witches survive, and Beck certainly wouldn't have without Grani. He had waited two years for her to return to her homeland where he ruled over a massive herd of wild horses. He had left them all to another stallion to join her, and being with him helped stitch together the gaping wound left on her spirit in the wake of Dawnbreaker's death.

"We are all incarnations of different spirits, us three. The Moon, the Sun, and the Nature of this world. And we are all three connected to one another now, so thoroughly woven into each other there is no discerning where I end and they begin. Like wool that's been felted together. But it isn't just this way for me. This is how it is for all witches and their familiars."

Beck perched herself on the side of the boat and reached down. The ox spirit that tugged them along briefly formed its face from the fog and rose up to let her stroke it before dipping down into the water once more. It had settled nicely in the presence of three calm and powerful spirits.

"I wonder if the connection isn't deeper than you think." She said, watching Yennefer pull a living creature through space and time to rest on her finger for barely a breath, before sending it away. And yet the bird had not been alarmed. Beck could feel animals and their spirits, as well as the magic around her, and she hadn't felt any great force of will on Yennefer's part subjecting the animal to her will. There was magic involved, sure, but she couldn't help but wonder if the birds were so varied because only the willing answered the sorceress' call.

"If there is no real relationship, not even a spark of one, why is it always birds? Why do they not resist you?" She almost laughed at the thought. Yennefer wasn't a woman to be resisted. If her beauty was not enough to subdue someone, her will most certainly was. But she felt the question was worth pondering. "Magic is magic, no matter where you are, but the people who practice it cause its form to change shape so drastically. Blood changes that, I'm sure, but I wonder how much is really just a matter of perception?"

She shrugged, watching as Angrboda yawned and slunk off the canvas roof to go back inside the warm interior of the little vessel.

"But then again, what do I know? I was hardly a star pupil in school." Her fingers drummed a little beat on the side of the boat. "Anyway... We should reach the shore in about a week's time if we can keep a steady pace. You really don't have anyone you wish to speak to? I don't know when you'll be able to return."

Yennefer watched--and listened--with curiosity. The concept was fascinating--and alarming. She did not much like the idea of sharing her memories with any creature, but she could at least admit that such a bond with an animal was preferable to a human. Yet, she had very little time to contemplate the idea before Beck began a process that was far more fascinating.

She watched, wrapt with interest, as the divot in the boat took shape, as the blood was added. Blood magic was forbidden where she came from, but that had never stopped her practicing it all the same. She, therefore, could feel no surprise or worry that Beck was familiar with such a practice. What happened next was a far greater surprise. She gripped the side of the boat as smoke formed around her feet, rising up through the ship and filling the very air around them. As the boat lurched, Yennefer reached out instinctively for Beck's arm. The last thing they needed was for Beck to go flying overboard into the now smoke drenched waters. But the woman was steady on her feet and did not seem to need any aid at all.

What was more, the chaos lasted only a moment. "Impressive." Yennefer watched the space where the ox had been, but the water was calm now. The spell had worked. She had not doubted that Beck was able, but she had to say, she appreciated the dramatics of it. Simple magic had its purpose, but she did always enjoy the spectacle.

"I have heard stories of familiars. Read about them, to be more accurate. I have never met anyone who had one." Yennefer had made it her business long ago to understand magic beyond the walls of the school that had trained her. She had learned much in Aretuza, but like all institutions, it was limited in what it could offer her. Magic was much stronger--and stranger--than what could be taught in a single classroom. So Yennefer traveled, seeking out strange tales of mysterious sorceress across the seas, and she read every book she could get her hands on. Familiars came up frequently, but the more she learned about them, the less surprised she was that she and the sorceresses she knew had never had one. Their magic was much more about taking than it was about connection.

Long ago, the humans had taken their magic from the elves. They had poor understanding of its working, no inner connection to its power, but they had forced its hand all the same. Yennefer herself was a child of both worlds: her father's eleven blood made her magic stronger than most, but it also meant less opportunities in a land prejudiced against eleven kind. She had had little opportunity to study magic as it once was--connected to the land and the animals that resided within it. Beck's connection to the world around her was fascinating, and Yennefer felt, for the first time in a very long time, envy at another's powers.

"I can summon aid when required." She raised her left hand, and a raven appeared out of thin air, tendrils of purple magic surrounding its wings--though only for the briefest of seconds. It fluttered down and rested upon her ring finger. She stroked its head. "My birds can send messages. Perform favors. Attack, if necessary. They understand what I need, so I suppose the connection is telepathic. But they are rarely the same bird twice. The magic involved is a tool, not a relationship. That will be all," she added to the bird and it vanished in a wisp of purple smoke.

"How many familiars do you have exactly?"

[ettaevie]

Are you ever just so insane about The Character that you can't even bring yourself to post about them?

[indigopoptart]

man i love the people im surrounded with. how did this happen. youre all so lovely😭

[widevibratobitch]

im so fucking mad at myself at my mother at her dead husband at god fucking knows what. "concentrate on yourself" well i cant can i. now more than anything i should and i cant. losing my fucking mind istg

[shadowed-yet-vibrant]

Wow turns out there's a reason every lawyer I'd ever met told me "don't be a lawyer."

[dante-redgravee]

I take that earl, make him wear a skirt, and put him in a bubble!!! 🫧

NSFW version below the cut

@redcurrantorchard and I lost our minds from this 🫠🫠🫠

[running-in-the-dark]

okay so I got up.. less than 5 hours ago (yes it was another slept-all-day day)

annnd all I wanna do is go back to bed 🙃