#Silent Apparition

[thecatholiccrusade]

Our Lady of Knock: The Miraculous Silent Apparition

On a rainy evening in August 1879, in the small village of Knock, County Mayo, Ireland, an extraordinary event occurred that would forever change the spiritual landscape of the Emerald Isle. Fifteen villagers, ranging from young children to the elderly, witnessed what they described as a heavenly vision outside their local parish church. The scene they beheld was both awe-inspiring and unique.…

[thmadethis]

Originally released digitally on the PS4 in 2014, PT (a playable teaser for project 'Silent Hills') quickly became one of the most anticipated games on the console. Despite the positive feedback and interest from players the game was discontinued and the project was canceled. PT is the shadow of (potentially) one of the greatest psychological horror games that was never made.

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I created the original poster very soon after the game was released and had a chance to play it. Ten years later, I was inspired by the game's 10th anniversary to update and revisit the piece and re-release it to the public. It remains one of my favorite pieces I've ever made in a true testament to how video games can affect and inspire people!

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14x20 prints are now available on my Etsy! Follow the link in my bio or below if you're interested. Thank you for your support!

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https://www.etsy.com/listing/1797167399/pt-10-year-anniversary-poster?click_key=d4fe72fc5a80230e2fd5e7dc1abacb0554b4aa24%3A1797167399&click_sum=4414f56c&ref=shop_home_active_1&sts=1

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤTHE FARRAR ELEMENYERY SCHOOL IS ALIVE * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　when Sam and Colby bring the Sturniolo Triplets and Y/N, a medium and Matt's girlfriend, to investigate the Farrar Elementary School, they expect only to discover more about its history, but, instead, meet something far darker.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　no.

WARNINGS　::　demon apparition, mediumship, ghost talk, paranormal experiences.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

A/N²　::　this happens in the same universe as this and this.

A/N³　::　happy Halloween, guys! 🤍

The lightheartedness grew inside the vast gym when Sam, Colby, Matt, Nick, Chris, and Y/N stepped inside of it. The eerie silence of the halls felt distant now, replaced by the echoing laughter and jokes bouncing off the gym's high walls. It was open, empty, and slightly less oppressive than the narrow corridors they'd been walking through. Their cameras' flashlights created stark beams that cut through the heavy dark, bouncing playfully as they pointed at the distant walls and items scattered across the yellowish floor.

"That is terrifying." Chris joked, pointing to a shadowy open doorway at the far end of the gym. His tone was playful, but the door itself seemed to swallow the light, almost absorbing it into an impenetrable black void.

Colby quickly looked over at Chris with a knowing expression, pointing the camera lans at him.

"That is the Boiler Room." He said in a tone both informative and slightly excited.

"That's not an inviting room at all whatsoever." Chris muttered, laughing, his voice betraying more nervous excitement than genuine fear.

As the group chuckled and commented about it, inching forward, Y/N’s laughter faded as her gaze locked onto the entrance. She felt a wave of something cold and clammy wrap around her, more powerful than the draft in the building.

Being a medium, she was no stranger to spiritual energy, but this... this felt different.

Her chest tightened as chills skittered up her spine, her heart hammering faster the longer she stared into the doorway. The energy was thick, almost tangible, pressing down on her like a weight. It was dark, heavy, and so deeply embedded in the space that she could almost taste it on the air; a mix of anger, pain, and a bitterness that sent icy needles racing through her veins.

Matt, standing near her since the moment they entered the school, quickly noticed her shift in demeanor, his brows knitted in concern.

"Hey, you okay?"

She swallowed hard, tearing her gaze from the doorway to look at him, finding comfort in the middle of ocean blue eyes.

"Yeah... Yeah, there’s just... something wrong in there." She murmured, her voice tight. "It doesn’t feel right."

Colby, overhearing, chuckled nervously.

"Yeah, it’s messed up in there." He admitted, shrugging. "We've been in there once before, but if any of you guys want to go, take the camera and look around."

The words hung heavily in the air, a silent challenge.

Nick and Chris immediately pointed at Matt. They both stepped back, dramatically widening their arms to clear a path to the door, their mischievous smirks only amplifying the tension.

"I mean, we all know who the bravest ones here are." Sam teased from behind them, laughing after receiving an "obviously" look from Nick.

Matt flashed a wide, determined grin, meeting Y/N’s eyes with a spark of excitement. After The Driskell Hotel, he discovered that he loved the thrill of these investigations, and with Y/N there, he almost felt invincible. Y/N’s stomach twisted with a mix of fear and anticipation, but she forced herself to shrug, flashing a nonchalant smile in return.

"Guess we’re doing this." She said, her voice more confident than she felt.

Matt took the camera from Colby, giving a quick smirk to the others.

"I feel like there can’t be anything." He joked, his voice steady, earning whoops and cheers from the guys. Together, he and Y/N led the way, with Chris and Nick following close behind.

As they stepped through the doorway into the Boiler Room, the energy shifted drastically. The air was thick, almost suffocating, clinging to their skin like invisible cobwebs. The once-bright beams of the camera’s flashlight seemed to dim as if the darkness here was absorbing the light itself, drinking it up and leaving nothing but a faint glow around them.

Every step Y/N took felt like wading through tar. Her limbs grew heavy, and with each inhale, it was as though she was breathing in the sorrow, anger, and fear that had seeped into the very concrete walls of the room. Her skin prickled, her head was starting to hurt, and a low hum of energy reverberated through her bones, vibrating up her spine and making her feel unsteady on her feet. Matt was ahead, filming with an almost oblivious bravery, but her steps slowed as they entered deeper into the room.

Pain. A pulse of it shot through her, raw and piercing, making her gasp and clench her hands by her sides as if she could wring it out of her body, her heartbeat echoing on her ears. She tried to keep her expression steady, not wanting to alarm the others, but Matt glanced over his shoulder at her, noticing her pale face and furrowed brow.

She shook her head at his questioning eyes, letting him keep walking ahead of her, allowing him, Chris, and Nick to venture toward the back of the room, where another open doorway beckoned, leading into an even darker, more enclosed space.

"Oh my God, it's bigger than I thought-" Matt started excitedly, being interrupted by a scared Nick.

"Matt! Don't say 'Oh my God' like that!"

Y/N stayed close to the entrance, her gaze fixed on the doorway ahead, the corner of her lips lifting slightly with the brother’s bickering. Something felt profoundly wrong in there, and every instinct in her body screamed for her to turn back, to leave the darkness to its own devices.

She took a step forward right after Chris, but the energy hit her like a physical blow. She stumbled, her legs unsteady as she caught herself against the doorframe. Noticing her falter, Chris immediately turned, his concern flaring.

"Whoa, whoa, hey, you okay?" He asked, reaching to steady her, his hand grasping her arm. But Y/N didn’t hear him, nor did she feel his touch. She was already slipping away, pulled into a vision so intense it drowned out reality.

She was now surrounded by towering flames that crackled with a furious intensity. They licked up the walls around her, swallowing everything in a bright, blistering heat. Through the blaze, a young woman appeared, engulfed in flames, her face twisted in agonizing terror. The woman’s scream sliced through the air; a raw, primal sound unlike anything Y/N had ever heard before. Instinctively, her hands flew up to her ears, desperately trying to block out the agonizing cry. It was a cry of pure pain and desperation, the kind that lingered, sinking into the skin and soul.

Then, she saw him. A tall, imposing figure emerged from the shadows behind the woman, his face obscured by the darkness but his presence unmistakably menacing. He loomed over her, radiating a sick, cold satisfaction as the woman screamed, flames rising higher around them. Y/N could feel it, all the malice rolling off the man, thick and suffocating, causing her to gulp, her eyes widening in terror when the man's eyes flickered from the woman to hers.

He couldn't see her, could he?

As the flickering of a lightning, three distinct figures appeared behind the man before vanishing completely, and just as suddenly as it began, the vision ended, leaving Y/N cold, breathless, and disoriented, the horrifying images imprinted in her mind.

Her surroundings snapped back into focus, the dimly lit Boiler Room reappearing around her in hazy fragments. She gasped, struggling to ground herself, her eyes searching around the room frantically, but as her vision cleared, her stomach twisted with a sickening dread. There, in the center of the second room, right in between the other two doorways, crouched a figure that defied anything she’d ever encountered, even in her darkest visions.

This wasn’t a spirit; she could feel the difference. The creature hunched low, its bony hands splayed across the grimy floor, its body twisted and contorted, as if barely contained within the physical plane. Shadows clung to its grotesque form, an aura of darkness so thick it devoured any light that dared come near. Its mottled skin was stretched and scarred, warped with unnatural shapes, as though stitched together from nightmares.

And then, she saw its eyes; deep, glowing red, like embers of molten rage, burning into her with a cruel, penetrating awareness. Those eyes locked onto her, narrowing with a sinister recognition. It knew she could see it, sense it, and understand the threat it posed. The fury in its gaze was suffocating, an anger so intense it filled the room, pressing down on her, trapping her in place.

Before she could gather herself, a voice oozed into her mind, cold and sharp as a dagger, each word dripping with malice. "Don’t tell anyone."

The command reverberated through her skull, a dark echo that chilled her to her core. She felt her heart hammering, her pulse quickening as a frigid terror clawed its way up her spine. The demon remained crouched, but its body tensed, coiled like a predator about to strike.

A whimper scaped from Y/N's throat when it began to inch forward, its gaze never wavering, as if relishing the fear it instilled with each calculated, crawling step.

"Y/N?" Matt’s voice was distant, but it cut through the fog of terror consuming her. She couldn’t respond, frozen in place as the demon drew nearer, dragging itself across the dirty ground, echoing with a disgusting sound of skin pressing against pebbles, her mind trapped in the paralyzing scene.

"What's happening? Why is she looking like that?" Chris's voice sounded muffled, dripping with anxiety, worry, and fear, his hand still holding her arms.

"Baby?" This time, Matt’s voice was sharper, laced with urgency. She felt a shift as he tossed the camera to Nick, then rushed to her side. His presence was solid, grounding, and he wrapped a protective arm around her waist, pulling her close as he tried to get her attention while shielding her from whatever it was that she was seeing. "Hey, babe, are you okay? What’s wrong?"

She could barely hear him, his words muffled, distant. Her legs wobbled, feeling like they might give out at any second, and Matt held her tighter, his warmth battling the unnatural chill that had invaded her body, her skin feeling as cold as the winter.

"Y/N, hey, look at me. Can you hear me?" His tone was steady, doing a great job at hiding the extreme fear that he felt, his hands cradling her face as he searched her eyes for any sign of recognition.

But she couldn’t answer, couldn’t focus. The demon’s furious glare was seared into her vision, its whispered threat echoing in her mind as a thick, oppressive darkness continued to drag her deeper into its depths.

Matt drew a sharp breath, his grip tightening around Y/N as he glanced over his shoulder at his brothers.

"We need to get out of here. Now." His tone was rough, leaving no room for argument.

The severity in his voice snapped them out of their stunned state, and they exchanged a quick look before following the couple to the exit door of the Boiler Room. Their footsteps echoed, tense and hurried, with Nick and Chris casting anxious glances behind them as if hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever had gripped Y/N so tightly, Chris's hand searching desperately for Nick's arm, trying to find comfort.

As they stepped outside the oppressive confines of the room, an almost immediate sense of relief washed over them. The chill that had settled into Y/N’s bones began to ease, and her tense posture softened as if an invisible weight had finally been lifted. She inhaled deeply, her body leaning heavily into Matt’s, letting his steady presence anchor her back to reality. Her scared eyes moved frantically, searching over her shoulders as if waiting for it to follow them, but she only met darkness.

"Shh, you're okay now. I'm right here with you." Matt kept whispered sweet nothings against Y/N's head, gently forcing her to look away from the room, pressing her face against his own shoulder, her hair tickling his chin in a comforting way.

Sam and Colby, who had been standing by, initially cheered at their bravery but quickly went quiet when they noticed the disturbed expressions on everyone’s faces.

Sam stepped forward, worry etched across his features.

"Hey, you guys okay?" He asked, his tone low and concerned.

Matt opened his mouth, his protective instincts kicking in while his arms seemed to wrap around Y/N's body tighter.

"We should give her a second. She just needs a bit to calm down-"

"No." Y/N interrupted, her voice weak but firm. She shook her head, a determined glint in her eyes as she steadied herself, her cold hands finding his biceps, squeezing his hoodie-covered skin in reassurance. "They have to know."

Colby nodded, quickly understanding the weight of what she was about to say. He took the camera from Nick, aiming it at her as he stepped closer, Sam following behind.

Chris and Nick quickly gathered around the couple, assuming protective instances, waiting, their faces a mixture of curiosity and seriousness as Y/N prepared to explain, eyes frantically looking behind their backs every second, the feeling of being watched seeming to grow more intense.

"I... I saw something." She began, her voice a touch unsteady but gathering strength as she continued. "When I looked at that room, there was this... this intense heat, and suddenly, it was like I was somewhere else entirely. I saw flames, a massive fire that seemed to consume everything around it. And in the middle of it all was a young woman, burning alive."

Her voice cracked slightly, and she closed her eyes, trying to shake the haunting image that had imprinted itself in her mind. A warm spread around her left shoulder, and she quickly recognized Nick's comforting touch.

"She was screaming, and it wasn’t like any scream I’ve ever heard before." Y/N continued, her face pale as she relived the vision. "It was pure agony... and then, there was a man behind her, just standing there, watching her burn. He was tall, menacing, and I knew, somehow, that he was the one who did this to her. He for sure worked here back in the day, I just knew it, and he killed her, and he was enjoying it." She paused, her voice barely a whisper. "And then, right before the vision ended, I saw three male figures behind him. I thought it was over, but when I looked up, there was something else in the room with us."

"The janitor, the principal, and the librarian." Sam muttered, furrowing his eyebrows, his eyes meeting Colby's dark ones, which held the same realization look.

The rest of the group was silent, hanging onto every word as Y/N’s gaze darkened, her eyes focused on some invisible point in the distance, Matt's firm hands around her hips keeping her grounded.

"It was a very dark creature, obviously a demon." She whispered. "Big, twisted, and so... so angry. Its skin was... I can’t even describe it. It was unnatural, almost as if it was pulled together from different things, and its eyes... they were red, glowing, and it was looking right at me." Her voice wavered as she continued, a tremor of fear slipping through. "It knew I could see it, and it was furious. And then... I heard a voice. In my head. It told me that I couldn't tell you about it."

A shiver ran through the group, everyone exchanging wary glances, trying to process the weight of what she was saying. Y/N took a shaky breath, her eyes flicking up to meet theirs.

"It started coming toward me, crawling like a snake, and that’s when Matt got to me. But... the warning felt like more than just a threat. It’s like it didn’t want us to have this information. It didn’t want us to know what happened here... This is all way darker than you guys expected."

Colby, his brow furrowed in thought, broke the silence.

"Wait, why wouldn’t it want us to know?"

Y/N hesitated, piecing together the fragments of knowledge she had gathered over years of honing her abilities.

"When it comes to entities like this, especially ones tied to a place or a tragedy... they draw power from secrecy, from fear. If we know what it is, what it’s done, it gives us the upper hand. And even more so if we learn its name."

Sam’s eyes widened, realization dawning on him as his gaze traveled from her to Colby and then back again.

"So, if we know its name, it becomes weaker?"

Y/N nodded slowly.

"Yes. Kind of. Names are powerful, especially with entities like that. It’s a way of binding it, of taking control. And right now, it knows we’re at an advantage. I just... I just have to figure out its name."

© vanteguccir

[anamelesstraveler]

Soap blinks awake, only to find the tall figure of Ghost is standing beside the bed. It should be unnerving, to look up and see the white skull staring back down at him. But Soap is never afraid.

“Hey, Ghost,” he greets sluggishly. “Y’okay?”

He’s come to ask the same thing every night he finds Ghost in his room. Because like a child after a nightmare, there’s just something… small about the way Ghost stands near him. Which is absolute insanity, because the apparition would tower head and shoulders over Soap any day. There just seems to be something about Ghost that shrinks in on itself those nights, standing silent and still at his bedside. And looking at him like this, somewhere in his sleep-addled mind, Soap’s hands itch to reach out. He finds himself staring at Ghost’s hands, nearly invisible from the black mass of him.

“Y’keep comin’ back,” he whispers. “So you do like me, huh? ‘M not so bad.”

The shape of Ghost shudders - a laugh?

“...’hnny–” Ghost’s voice dips in and out of focus, half a word coherent and then the next hopelessly smothered into whispers. But for the first time, Soap watches as Ghost seems to stoop even further at the failure, a real, heartbreakingly human frustration etched in every part of him. His massive form shifts, a hand separating from the void of his body. Does Ghost want to reach out just as badly as he does?

Is he lonely like this? Soap wonders. Trapped in this existence for who knows how long? 

-Ch3, Silence Lay Steadily

So excited to share this commission that @bluegiragi did for me!! Gira, I can't thank you enough for taking this on ❤

[originalaccountname]

I did quickly go through the manga, with the help of the fanwiki, to see how much that "Atsushi's orphanage headmaster visions have been caused by Q" twist holds up (as sometimes, new plans come up as you write, especially if your series is over 10 years old)

In the first chapter, Atsushi has a flashback of the orphanage staff kicking him out, but they do not have individual identities. The first apparition of the headmaster as himself is when Atsushi is under the influence of Dogra Magra, in chapter 25, "Q":

His next apparition is in chapter 28, when Atsushi is being held in the Moby Dick, right before Lucy comes in and chooses to help him (note: that scene also compares Atsushi's abuse is to another person's, Lucy's.)

After that, there's chapter 39, "Portrait of a Father", where Atsushi doesn't hallucinate him, but we learn about who the man was to Atsushi, and witness his funeral.

His next hallucination is in chapter 52, at the very end of the Cannibalism arc. He explains to Akutagawa that the headmaster has been been haunting him less since (the final fight on) the Moby Dick, but has been silent since the funeral.

There are a few more mentions of the headmaster that I haven't mentioned, but a very notable one is that Atsushi saw becoming stronger and his upcoming fight against Akutagawa as a way to free himself from the headmaster's influence, much like Akutagawa saw it as a way to gain Dazai's approval.

I don't think we see Atsushi hallucinating the headmaster after this until chapter 122, but the Dazai hallucinations start showing up in chapter 63, so really not that long after the previous one. The next Dazai ones I could find were in chapters 78, 105 and 121.

The conclusion is therefore that Atsushi hallucinating the headmaster has been a very active and purposeful part of his journey as a character since very early on. It started manifesting after Atsushi's breakdown while under the influence of Q's ability, and it's taken various approaches as Atsushi faced different struggles, but it's always been there.

While wearing Dazai's face, the hallucination was given more credit in Atsushi's eyes, but its words were barely less sharp and hurtful. However, they did tend to push Atsushi into acting, rather than cowering and giving up.

We're seeing Atsushi heal in real time, no matter how messy it is, and I'm so proud of him.

[lustlovehart]

Angst Idea with the formerly human Monster!Twst cast where they realize if they didn’t end up the way they are right now, maybe they could’ve pursued a romance with you. It would’ve been acceptable, and… they could shower you with affection the way you deserve.

But they can’t. Not anymore. If only they were still human… Perhaps they could lean into you without feeling unworthy.

Pairing: Riddle, Ace, Deuce, Trey, Leona, Kalim, Epel x Reader

Warnings: Small Rollo x Reader, Slight hint of possession, A little angsty, talks of marriage, Attempted biting, Blood, mentions of Death, Little cheesy, Limb stitching, Indirect kissing

Riddle who lets his cold hands ghost over you while you sleep. He knows you said he could always sleep next to you, you wouldn’t mind… you never do. Yet, there’s an intense feeling of shame. He thinks it’s his head acting as if his mom is reprimanding him for such scandalous behavior. But then you shoot up from your sleep and look at him, goosebumps coating your skin.

No, it’s not due to his mom's hold on him. It’s simply because you’re human and he’s not.

“Riddle? I told you if you want to lay here you—”

“It’s okay. I don’t need to.” he retracts his apparitional hand, floating away in a daze. If only you saved him with your light when he was human… too bad, it’s too late for that.

A blanket is thrown at him as if it were an arrow, the cover phasing through his body. He turns around in confusion at the sudden abrupt assault, should he… reprimand you for the mess?

“You’re cold, aren’t you?” A very… self answering question with an obvious answer. Yet, he can’t seem to correct you on the mistake. He’s quiet for a moment, looking at you from the shadows. From your perspective, all you see is a glowing Riddle illuminating the shadows.

“Well… yes.” He watches you shift off the bed, the mattress compressing under your weight. He wonders if your question is genuine, and if you’re really asking if he’s cold. Shouldn’t someone in your profession know these things?

But then, he remembers your true goal. Is this when you send him off? If it is, he thinks he’s ready.

He shuts his eyes, ready for the familiar pain, but he’s greeted with something soft. Your hand phases through his face, acting like his skin is solid at the moment (he wishes it was), your thumb rubbing his cheek.

“Then, you should be in bed.” If only, he was still human.

Ace who watches you play with a kids toy, your head lazily rested on his shoulder. The scene is so… Mundane, domestic. Entirely unlike the life, he’s been living in the… well not living. He isn’t talking, he isn’t silently joking with you like typical. He only stares. You look up and you swear this is the most alive he’s looked, and it’s ironic because it’s the deadest his face has ever been. Yet, this vacant expression is so mortal, so full.

“What? Did you die a second time—? Ace, what are you…?” The way his partly exposed face rests on your forehead is… an interesting feeling to say the least. You’ve never touched human bone, so it’s a bit unnerving… The contrast of his cool skin on yours is a further reminder of just how far the both of you are in life.

He’s cold, and you’re very much the opposite. Warm.

You won’t ever notice the silent words in his decaying brain. In truth, he wished some higher power would let his thoughts reach your mind, but then again, there’s no brain in his head anymore.

I wish you met me when I was alive. He moves his head back, the confusion on you making it obvious it didn’t work, obviously.

“Why are you looking at me like that? Oh, wait… is it cuz you’re a human without a brain?” You pinch his cheek in response, his protests and hisses of pain filling the silent atmosphere.

Deuce who feels the most need to be human when you’re vulnerable. He hides behind the trunk of a tree as he listens to you mumble about NRF. He listens when you complain about Crowley, yet can’t help but wonder how he’s doing. He listens when you talk about missing Rollo's specialized flower bouquets he would give you. He listens when you talk about wishing to laugh again while you sit on Jack's back as he does push-ups. It isn’t long before you’re silent.

He’ll finally moves away from his hidden spot, sitting down next to you. The soft breathing tells him you must’ve fallen asleep. His hand reaches out to your tear-stained face, leaning the part of his head still covered in skin. His cheek touches yours, akin to the way animals nuzzle each other.

“Deuce…” he wonders if you’re still awake, or if you’re dreaming about him. He hopes it’s the later, but if it’s not, he won’t blame you.

“I’m… Here.” His arms wrap around you, furthering the embrace even more. He avoids letting his bones touch you, it’s gross, it must be. He doesn’t want to disgust you. But he can’t help from deepening the skin-ship you share while your faces touch.

In a way, he’s attempting to transfer your pain to himself, but no matter how hard he tries, those tears will always bleed from your eyes.

If he was still human, perhaps he could’ve been your beacon of life. But the pale decaying skin of his, will always be a cruel reminder he will never be the same as you.

Trey is the least obvious with this bother, somehow. At least, it’s how he looks. He essentially doesn’t seem very observant of the difference, only attending to what you need as a person. Very reliable.

His observation comes in when you don’t need him, or rather, you’re caring for him.

Trey’s eyes watch you curiously inspect his stitched arm, his fingers opening and closing with each turn of the limb. Though the joint might not be connected to him, he can still feel you exhale on his skin, each puff sending chills down his spine. He doesn’t let the feeling show though, still smiling at you when you take out a needle.

It’s nice to be cared for, rather than be the primary caregiver.

“… Why are you look at me like that…?” He didn’t notice

“Oh, sorry.” The awkward laugh leaves his throat. Before he can think of an excuse for staring, he feels the weight of his arm fall into his lap, your stature rising to your full height. “… You know, I think I kinda need that.”

“No, you’re eating.” … Right, he hasn’t eaten yet, that’s silly.

“Well then you should probably stitch me back up—“

“I’m gonna feed you, Trey.” He takes a moment to fully calibrate before he’s smiling. Though, it’s not very clear what kind of smile it is, whether happy or sympathetic. Sparks of electricity trickle from the bolts in his neck while he waits. When you place the bowl in your lap, his tall form bends towards the utensil, mismatched eyes staring into yours.

He watches you bring the fork back down to your lap, his hand quickly grasping your wrist before you can grab it You quirk an eyebrow at his actions.

“I don’t think I’m hungry,” he whispers. You shrug your shoulders, muttering a hushed ‘ok…’ You attempt to reach his limb only to be stopped again. “… I can do that too. Don’t worry.” The hand around your wrist releases, placing itself on your head instead, a single pat telling you to sit down.

There’s a silence that isn’t usual between you too. You don’t dare to question what’s on his mind though.

But, even he’s not too sure about this silence, the only thing he understands, is the arm detached from his shoulder, is just proof of the difference between you both. Maybe, such a tender scene would’ve been better in a shared home, rather than the dingy room of an abandoned hospital.

Leona who leans towards the doesn’t mind side. Yeah? So what if he’s a monster? It doesn’t change the fact you at least used to have something in common. But then he watches the way you fondly talk about humans from your home. Suddenly he feels like your affections are putting him in second place. You place your hand on your chest, an imaginary vow taking place right in front of him. A vow, not for marriage, but a promise, to return to this…

“Rollo. If he hasn't gone crazy and burnt the capital yet, I’m sure he’s taking care of my stuff for me.” you pause, a pause that only leads to Leona's hidden attention, shifting down your face. “I’ll come back to him.”

“…” he’s quiet, leaning back into the wall. You assume he’s on the verge of a nap, but you’re proven wrong when cloth snakes around your entirety. It’s not aggressive nor malicious. If anything, the way they move somehow seems… discontent. The wraps gently lean you on his shoulder, your body stiff at the sudden proximity. You freeze further when his head lays a top of your own. “They don’t need you there.”

“Oh yeah? So i’m needed here than?” you laugh, it was meant to come off as a joke.

“…”

But his silence might’ve told you everything you need to know, and possibly even more.

“Leona…” he doesn’t reply to the call of his name, his bandaged head falling from yours into your lap. Your hand reaches for his hair, but stops just shortly, returning to their rightful place, your sides.

He continues to stay in your embrace, golden cloth nudging your hand into his hair, for it’s the only thing that can tell him you won’t leave.

Even if it’s a lie.

Kalim, who sometimes, in moments like these, forgets he’s not a conceivable human anymore. He’ll look down at the slight fumed state his body is in, but he can’t process the harsh fact, he’s to live like this forever. He has no fortune, no home, no family, only Jamil.

And you.

Kalims body mystifies in the air, smiling at the way you cling onto him with a vigorous grip. The carpet that flies beneath you is one of the wilder select in his room. It’s a sight he’s always wished to have with his future spouse, and he’s sharing it with you; the only thing in his wishful life closest to any form of a lover, is you.

The carpet comes to an abrupt stop, your arm still wrapped around Kalim’s while your free hand remains hugging his lamp to your chest. So close to your heart, and in theory, his own, if you could count that piece of gold as his.

“Kalim, are we… done…?” His eyes look into yours, a hint of fear engrained into your irises, yet the way you smile tells him you’re accelerated. His lack of an answer throws you off, it’s a first for the genie to never burst into words of jovial, and the first he doesn’t look you in the eye as soon as he can. A moment passes before Kalim slowly turns his head towards you, his typical smile painted on his face. “You have something to say don’t you…” The moon shines on his glittering, feint skin, like a golden lamp. “… What is it?”

“If I could grant my own wish, what do you think it’d be?” He laughs, grabbing you by your shoulders and pulling your bodies together. His eyes linger at the cage in your arms.

“Huh… I’m not sure… What would it be—?” The bangles on his wrist jingle when he moves his hand to the lamp, lifting the object between your faces, softly kissing the metal as his eyes stare deeply into you.

“To marry you.” He lifts from the object, the brightest smile lighting onto his face as he laughs. His eyes trail down to the lamp both your hands overlap. “But your wish always comes first…! Because… you’re the human!”

Epel is similar to Leona, in the regards that he doesn’t care about your humanity and his inhumanity. The difference though, is Epel willingly chose this life for himself. So, he can’t blame anyone but himself for the distance between you and him.

Your palm rests on Epel’s face, pushing him with weak strength. It works somehow, as the lunging position he was in falters, his arms falling to the side while crimson pupils dilate at your face. You can feel the stab of tiny rocks pushing your skin where you sit.

You move your hand away, Epel falling onto your legs.

“I thought you said—“ his speed has him moving his face inches from your own, blood dripping from those fangs of his.

“Yeah yeah, whenever… I did say that.” Your hand pushes his face to the side, the vampire rolling onto the ground next to you. If Vil saw such a sight, he would scoff at the filth.

“So then what is it—“ he stops when he finally notices the pant in your words, and the way you sway from dizziness. He sits up even faster than he lunges, steadying your body. You laugh at the worry in his expression. How could you laugh at this…?

“Be careful, you could kill me earlier than I’m meant to be dead… Those reapers surely… Wouldn’t like that…”

Right. He forgot. You, can die.

…

He wordlessly hoists you up, carrying your body to wherever he can find people. Surely, you need that blood more than they do.

Yet again… he’s at fault for forgetting something so precious about you.

[please-destroy]

The Reader In The House Across The Street From The Woman In The Window

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Word Count: 3.9k .

You buy your new house without thinking it through.

It is perfect for a first time buyer, the realtor assures you. Good schools, friendly neighbours, quiet streets.

The problem is not the house. The problem is you. You live on your own. Suburbia is immediately lonelier than you expected. 

Your neighbours smile politely at you as you move in. They do not welcome you any further into their community. You know it’s intentional. You feel their assessing gaze; they can tell that you don’t fit. 

You work from home. You wanted to escape a boxy apartment, you wanted to have a spare room to write in. Suddenly, all that extra space feels unimportant. 

The housewives of your neighbourhood gather throughout the day like flocks of birds. Small clusters huddle by fence posts. They each wear different clothes, different hairstyles. Somehow, they all look the same.

You spend the first few days trying to ignore them as you go about your usual routine. Sometimes, you glance out and see that they are nodding towards your house. You are the subject of gossip, conjecture. 

Already, you begin to scroll through house listings online. You wonder how you could have made such a naive mistake.

Now that you’ve seen your neighbours, you are sure that this is not your neighbourhood.

.

You have not seen all your neighbours.

A week has passed. You are up very late, sitting in the spare bedroom turned makeshift office. The silent, empty street is reassuring as you try to finish an article for tomorrow’s deadline. 

She catches your eye. You stop typing. 

Her long, dark hair is haphazardly tied back. Her face is wan like the moonlight. She is dragging a heavy garbage bin out to the curb. She looks exhausted.

Her pyjamas only highlight the irony of her obvious tiredness. For a brief moment you wonder if she is sleep walking. 

She walks back to her house. She pauses on her porch step. She runs her fingers through her hair, letting it fall loose and long. Then, she reties it just as messily as before. She is startlingly beautiful. 

Before she reenters her house, the woman turns and looks up at your window. Your heart arrests when you see her small smile . You feel unsettled, as if she could sense you thinking about her.

She is ethereal, bathed in the dim light from her own porch. 

She goes back inside, closing the door softly behind her.

You take her cue and go to bed yourself. You can’t stop thinking about her smile.

.

The next day has a different energy to it. You try not to stare out of the window. You try not to think about the woman. You speculate briefly that you might have invented some nighttime apparition. Then, you remember her eyes, how they took your breath away. You couldn’t have imagined her.

She does not join the flock of housewives during the day. You notice now that the group always face pointedly away from her house. Sometimes, they throw a scathing look behind them. You feel increasingly sure that she is not their friend. You like her more for it. 

The weekend arrives and her quiet house seems more awake. You hear kids playing in her backyard. 

You meet friends for a Saturday brunch. You drive back to the neighbourhood where you used to live. The drive feels too long. You feel out of the loop already, sitting quietly as your friends refer to a spontaneous get together that did not include you. You certainly don’t make up for your past absence today. You barely speak, picking at your food. Your friends keep up the conversation without you. 

You wonder at how being surrounded by people can make you feel so lonely.

You have been looking for excuses to leave your house ever since you moved in. Now suddenly, you wish you were back home. 

You try not to think about her when you drive back to your house. You try not to hope that you will see her again.

Your timing is, for once, perfect.

.

She is sitting on her front porch step, hands cupped casually around a large mug. Her eyes track two boys on bikes, racing each other enthusiastically down the street. Her hair is in a loose braid today.

She smiles at you as you drive past her house, turning into your driveway at a snail's pace. When you step out of the car, she nods her head familiarly, eyes locking momentarily with yours.

You can’t help yourself.

You walk over. Your heart races and you feel like a shy child again; palms clammy with nerves. 

Her smile is a little forced when she anticipates your approach. She smooths it away after a moment, her expression turning neutral and polite. 

You realise that she is bracing for a tiresome social situation. You realise that she does not want to talk to you. You feel desperately self conscious, unable to stop your feet moving forward.

You give an awkward wave when you are standing at the edge of her front yard. She lifts a hand from her mug and copies the action. Her fingers are unthinkingly precise. They catch your focus and you wonder at her delicacy, if she was a dancer in another life.

You press your hand to your chest, not knowing what else to do.

‘Y/N’ You introduce yourself. 

‘Wanda.’ She echoes, mirroring your gesture again. 

Closer to her now, you can see that weariness is etched in the light lines around her eyes. 

You pause unsurely. You don’t know what to say. 

You know instinctively that she doesn’t want small talk. You don’t want it either. 

You think her smile in the moonlight said more than any small talk could. Maybe that’s why you feel like you already know her.

Wanda’s gaze flickers briefly to her children and then it moves back to you. She doesn’t try to break the silence.

After a moment, her head tilts slightly and you feel like she's daring you to speak. You understand suddenly why the other housewives do not like her. 

You can’t help but smile. It is nice to not be the only outsider. 

‘Can I sit?’ You ask simply, nodding at the porch step.

A flurry of emotions swirl behind Wanda’s eyes. Surprise is the only one you recognise. 

In response, she moves wordlessly along the wooden step, leaving space for you. 

You sit down next to her. Heat crawls up your neck at your boldness and at her sudden proximity. 

You can hear her quiet breathing. Wanda ignores you and you try to copy her actions. She sips her drink and stares out at the street. You lean your head against the railing and pretend to do the same. You watch her shoulders relax as you settle into the moment together. 

The near-silent introduction is unorthodox, to say the least. You can tell how much she likes it.

After ten minutes, Wanda clears her throat. 

‘That’s Tommy.’ She tells you, pointing at the faster boy on a bike. ‘And that’s Billy.’ She continues, moving to the boy in hot pursuit.

Billy catches his Mom’s pointing. His face lights up, and he waves back eagerly. You watch Wanda’s face soften, her fingers curling back around her mug. 

She takes a sip from her drink a moment later. Her mouth twists into a grimace. 

‘It’s cold.’ She says as she stands up.

She pauses at her front door.

‘How do you like your coffee?’ She asks simply. 

.

When Wanda comes back out of the house, she is carrying two mugs. 

She has made your coffee just right.

.

You leave when the boys come inside for their lunch. Chattering excitedly, they pause only to say hello to you. Wanda brightens immediately at their presence. 

Her eyes are filled with a warm kind of love. It is intense to see the sudden change in her countenance.

She shoots you an apologetic smile as you turn to leave. She touches your arm briefly in a silent goodbye. 

Her fingertips are still hot from the mug. They leave a phantom imprint on your skin. Her touch follows you back to your own house.

.

You next see her the following night. 

Only two houses have their lights on after midnight. Yours and Wanda’s. 

You open your blinds when you sit down to write. You tell yourself that looking out onto the empty street helps you work. You think you might be lying to yourself. Wanda’s living room emits a soft golden glow. 

It is 2 am when her curtain twitches. Any focus you had on your work evaporates immediately. 

Wanda is sitting on her sofa, her TV is playing a sitcom rerun in the background. Her eyes are closed as she presses her temple against the cold window pane.

For a moment, you think that she is crying. Her pain seeps across the street and into your house. You turn away, trying to refocus on your work. 

Your heart pounds in your chest, filled with an icy fear. A wish to never feel like her. A wish to pretend that her sadness isn’t true.

You know that you can’t pretend. Neither can she.

A minute later, you close your laptop and turn back to the window.

Wanda is staring unseeingly out at her front lawn. Your chest feels heavy with her despondency.

You think of the way she smiled at her children; she is someone else now. 

She plays with the frayed edge of the curtain. 

.

You startle when her eyes flicker upwards, catching you suddenly in her stare. You can tell that she is just as thrown by your presence.

Her eyes dart nervously, never quite landing on you. She leans back from the window, ready to shut the curtains again.

Unthinkingly, you lift your hand, acknowledging her with another awkward wave.

Wanda’s eyes soften. Her fingers hesitate at the edge of the curtain. After a moment, they lift lightly from the fabric and grant you a small wave in return. 

You stand up and hold two fingers in a silent request for her patience.

You hurry downstairs to your own living room. You turn on your television, switching to the same channel as Wanda. The same sitcom rerun crackles to life on the large screen.

You lift your blinds and look back across the street.

A smile stretches slowly across Wanda’s face as she realises what you have done. She adjusts herself to face you, propping her chin on her hand.

Her eyes track your television through the window. Your eyes track her instead. You let your chin rest against the back of your sofa.

You think that she seems to be speaking to herself. Your head tilts automatically as you try to read her lips. After a moment, you realise that she is mouthing the lines along with the actors. 

Your sudden grin is too bright for the darkness. Wanda’s eyes flicker to you and she ducks her head in self conscious acknowledgment. 

Exhaustion hits you not long after. Reluctantly, you turn away from the window, settling down on your own sofa. 

You should feel uncomfortable, knowing that she is looking in. Instead, it feels reassuring. You have never felt less alone. 

Slowly, you succumb to the heaviness of your eyelids and the certainty that Wanda’s company is something you only want more of.

.

You dream about the sadness that is embedded in her eyes, even when she smiles.

.

The morning sun wakes you only a few hours later. You cringe at the painful brightness as you move instinctively to close the blinds. 

Wanda’s sons are sitting with her in the front room now, both bleary eyed and in their pyjamas. They are eating bowls of cereal, captivated by the morning cartoons playing on the TV.

Your eyes sting painfully with lack of sleep. You wonder how Wanda is functioning at all. 

You nap away the rest of the morning.

You wake properly at 11, filled with a new resolve.

You don’t give yourself the time to chicken out. 

Before you know it, you are walking across the street. You climb Wanda’s porch steps and knock on her door. 

Wanda’s guarded expression slips away when she realises it’s you. Her shoulders slump with a barely repressed exhaustion. She sighs quietly and gives you a tired smile. 

You realise that you want to take another step forward. You want to hug her. 

Wanda rests her head against her door as she waits for you to speak. The soft gesture brings another rush of affection from you. You try to ignore the shaky feeling in your chest.

‘Hi.’ You begin, clearing your throat. 

Wanda gives you her familiar wave. You feel uncomfortably warm as your gaze accidentally lingers on her fingers.

‘Do you want to get coffee?’ You ask in a strangled voice. 

Again, you get the impression that you have surprised her. Wanda straightens and she regards you thoughtfully. 

‘You want to go out?’ She checks and you nod in response.

Indecision flickers across Wanda’s face. She looks behind her at the mountain of laundry, piled at the foot of the stairs.

‘I need to change.’ Wanda tells you determinedly, a moment later. You glance down at her plaid pyjama pants and try not to blush. You nod again, moving to wait in the entryway as she flits up the stairs. 

Wanda returns quickly. She seems harried, nervous in a way that you haven’t seen before. She smooths her clothes unnecessarily. Her hair is tied back and it makes her look younger. So does her oversized green plaid shirt. 

She is unassumingly beautiful. It arrests your heart like the first time you saw her.

She catches your lingering stare whilst she descends the stairs. 

When she is standing close to you, Wanda looks self consciously down at her outfit. 

‘I haven’t gone out much since my husband died.’ She confesses, pushing up the large sleeves of her shirt.

Her words reverberate inside you. Her eyes meet yours and all the air leaves the room. 

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what to do. You grab her hand and squeeze it suddenly.

‘You look good.’ You tell her, hoping it is enough.

.

You walk outside together, instinctively in step as you walk over to your car.

The drive to the coffee shop happens in silence. Wanda’s fingers tap against her leg. 

The barista takes your order and you find a seat together by the window. A window seat is meaningless, there is nothing to look at. The coffee shop faces onto its own parking lot. 

Wanda watches the outside world anyway, sipping her coffee. You are patient, letting the ambient music fill your mind for a moment. You need the coffee almost as much as Wanda does. Every time she brings the mug to her lips, her eyes close in a momentary expression of bliss.

You think that she is perfect. 

Pale, weary and grieving. Your heart tugs with a feeling it cannot help.

‘You really liked that TV show last night.’ You comment randomly when Wanda finally puts her mug down. 

‘I love American sitcoms.’ She tells you simply, with a nostalgic smile. 

‘You’re not from here?’ You ask, curious at the phrasing of her answer. Your mouth widens in embarrassment when you realise your clumsy question. 

Wanda laughs once. The sound sends a shiver down your spine.

‘No.’ She tells you. ‘I’m from Sokovia.’

She watches you expectantly, waiting for you to do the math in your head. To calculate that she was a child during the war there. She is right, you count back the years automatically.

‘That must have been hard.’ You say carefully. 

Wanda’s eyes flash with sadness. In that moment, you are certain that her grief has never settled.

‘I have lost my whole family.’ She tells you in a tight voice. You don’t have time to speak before she shakes her head.

‘I have my boys.’ She corrects herself immediately.

‘You do.’ You agree softly. You remember Billy’s eager wave at his mother. You realise that he has likely lost his father. Your heart twists with sympathy for something that you can’t fathom.

‘What are they like?’ You ask instead. 

Wanda takes a breath and then you watch a miracle happen. 

Her words flow suddenly and easily. Her stories make you sure that she is as much their best friend as their mother. 

Her fingers dance in front of her as she gestures unthinkingly, painting vivid stories from their childhood. 

Her voice is like water and you feel it rushing over your skin. 

For the next twenty minutes, you watch Wanda’s heart open in front of you. You are captivated. 

When the barista comes to take your empty mugs, Wanda remembers herself. She smiles at you self consciously. Her face relaxes as she reads your expression. 

She reaches across the table, she covers your hand with her own.

‘Thank you.’ She says. ‘This was nice.’ 

You know she is telling the truth. 

Your shoulders brush as you walk back to your car. 

Wanda tilts her head back against the car seat as you pull out of the parking space. The easy silence between you brings a rich comfort.

You next look over when you stop at a traffic light. Wanda’s eyes are closed. Her breathing is even.

You take the longer route back, letting her sleep.

Your mind is reeling. Your heart is not your own.

.

Your car creeps into your driveway. You know that you have to wake her. You feel guilty at the thought. Wanda has turned away from you in her sleep. 

‘Wanda.’ You try gently as you reach out and touch her hand.

The flash of red light is instantaneous. Despite your seat belt, you are thrown against the car door. Your body makes a harsh thud against it. Wanda’s eyes are turned toward you now. They are glowing red. 

A scream builds in your throat. Red energy is emitting from her, like some kind of radiation.

You scramble panickedly to unclick your seatbelt and escape the car.

It is the slamming of your car door that brings Wanda back to herself. 

She blinks her eyes back to green as she looks around in confusion. You can tell that she does not recognise her surroundings.

She notices you at last, backing away from her in fear. You freeze, waiting to see what she will do. A voice in your head tells you to run. 

You feel sure that there would be no point. 

Wanda looks down at her hands as if they are stained. A tear slides slowly down her cheek. All at once, she seems human again.

You are still scared when she opens the car door.

‘I fell asleep.’ She says and her voice cracks.

You don’t remember how to speak. 

‘I’m sorry.’ Wanda whispers and another tear falls down her cheek. She hurries back across the street, arms wrapped tightly around her chest.

.

You flee to the safety of your house as soon as her back is turned. You are sure that she can hear your shoes crunching on the gravel. 

Your hands won’t stop shaking. You pace your hallway, unable to decide what to do. 

Eventually, you slow down and start to cry. You sink to the floor and stare at the ugly wallpaper that you have wanted to take down since you moved here.

Wanda is a monster. 

Goosebumps flare across your skin as the words ring inside your head.

You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes as you cry harder. 

There is an emptiness beneath your ribs like you have lost something. Fear begins to fill the cavity left in your chest.

You sit with the discomfort that somehow you still want to be near her. You feel trapped by her sweet smiles, by her tears and her tired eyes. 

Reality hangs in an uncomfortable balance. 

She is a monster and you have started to love her.

.

That evening, you don’t make any pretence at writing articles or meeting deadlines. You sit in your office, unwilling to shut the blinds and unable to look outside. Uncomfortable thoughts of Wanda still echo in your head as you try not to flinch when a car door slams outside.  You hate your empty house. You watch the shadows lengthen against the undecorated walls and see them as symptom of what you are. If loneliness is a disease, you are undoubtedly contagious.

The small truth flickers, that this is what makes you dangerous to Wanda too. There is no cure for being left behind.

When the dark night is defended only by the streetlights, you find yourself walking to the living room. You leave your blinds open as you fall back onto your sofa.

The TV light flickers in a way that hurts your tired eyes. You do your best to ignore the needle prick sensation. You sit rigid with the temptation to turn around. Your heart thunders with an almost paralysing fear.

From behind, you sense the sudden weight of a stare that you are too scared to face. You switch the TV channel to American sitcom reruns.

You are dancing on a thin line. 

In the early morning, you finally let yourself turn around. There is no one at Wanda’s window, but you can see the fading condensation marks of someone's breath against the glass. 

.

You wake with a bright sun burning against your eyelids. There is a moment of disorientation when you see the digital clock display at the bottom of the TV screen. It is already afternoon. Time has begun to lose meaning.

You don’t let yourself watch out of the window as you pull yourself together for the rest of the day. You try to ground yourself in a semblance of reality. You convince your wandering mind to return to the task of your next looming deadline. You send half-hearted texts to your once important social circle.

You pretend to ignore the tremor that shoots through you when you hear a front door open and close across the street. Your fingers go still against the keyboard of your computer.

After a moment you take a deep breath and your ribs lift with an influx of something that's no longer fear. 

You force yourself to look out of the window.

Wanda is sitting on her front porch step. Her hair is pulled back and the bright sunshine illuminates her pale skin. You breathe out slowly.

Wanda’s cheek is pressed against the railing, her eyes are closed with a tiredness that looks more like pain. There are no children playing in the street to keep an eye on. 

You wonder if the rest of the neighbourhood is watching the same scene as you. You try to imagine the words shared in the houses surrounding you.

You leave your own house a few moments later. Wanda’s eyes flicker open at the sound of your door. 

When her eyes meet yours, you recognise the fear. There has been a cavity beneath her ribs for much longer than you. 

You lift the full coffee mugs you’re holding, in lieu of a greeting. Your steps are measured with the care of your task. 

You watch relief pull her lips into an automatic smile. You see her fingers twitch against her thigh with the instinct to wave.

You sit next to her on the porch and offer her a mug. 

Your shoulders touch. 

You forget to be scared.

[duchess-of-mandalore]

If Filoni were smart, he'd make Satine Kryze a main character in the new Maul: Shadow Lord show and I am 1000% serious.

We know Maul stole Satine’s portrait from Sundari. We see it in his lair in Rebels, where he sets up a kind of shrine which includes Satine's portrait and the Darksaber Maul used to kill her. We also see that he has scrawled "KENOBI" on the wall in the Mando'a script.

It's implied that Maul physically attacks the portrait. He slashes Satine's throat (over and over), which suggests that the need for revenge against Obi-Wan that he had hoped would be satisfied by killing Satine still resides in him.

He also scratches out her eyes, which doesn't make a lot of sense until you remember that in the Rebels episode "Twin Suns" Maul. was originally going to be plagued by visions of Savage and Satine while he goes mad in the Tatooine deserts. Filoni pretty quickly cut this for time (boooooo), but it makes the fact that Maul scratches out Satine's eyes make sense because it suggests that he still feels Satine watching him.

(The place Satine occupies in Maul's mind is also suggested by an earlier script/storyboard of Maul and Obi-Wan's final showdown. If you can't read the chicken-scratch, Maul's line is, "I took your master. I took your beloved ... I will hunt down whatever ... no ... whoever it is you are protecting and take them as well.")

But the thing is, it doesn't make sense if Maul is only seeing these visions because he's dying of dehydration or heat stroke in the desert. It only makes sense if Maul was having the visions of her long before he ever went to Tatooine.

So imagine Maul ... fresh off his defeat on Mandalore and acclimating to a new galaxy ruled by the Sith he'd hoped to defeat. The criminal enterprises he pursues will surely tie back to the crime syndicates that he helped form alliances with for Pre Vizsla and Death Watch.

Maul's amassing power (and apparently training a padawan) but all the while ... popping up at the most inopportune times, is the Duchess of Mandalore (whom no one else can see, of course) either standing serenely in the background and (in Maul's mind) silently judging him for all of his criminal dealings, or perhaps even interjecting her own opinions, most of which are reminding Maul of how wrong everything he is doing is.

Just imagine how funny the bickering would be:

"You could trust your lackeys more if you treated them as allies instead of slugs to be trod upon. Perhaps you'd even find a friend." "Go away. Or if you won't, at least shut up." "Domination will never make you feel whole, and strength attained through intimidation is hollow." "You know nothing of strength. I killed you." "You didn't do a very good job."

At the same time, perhaps Maul recognizes that Satine's voice in his head is a call to the Light that he has always rejected. How she was at peace before her death and how he could have that peace too, if only he would turn from the path of revenge that he thinks is the only way.

The tragedy is that Maul would never be able to listen to Satine, even if a part of him wants the peace she offers. Her presence instead drives him to the place of insanity we see in Rebels and ultimately to Tatooine, where he is (mercifully) put out of his misery by Obi-Wan.

His enemy comforts him, showing him the same love that Satine has always promised is possible, but with his last words, he still holds on to the belief that vengeance is coming (for both him and Obi-Wan).

His eyes close, and in the last shot we see Satine (the last manifestation of Maul's conscious mind? An apparition? A Force ghost?) still watching over him as he lies in her beloved Jedi's arms.

[sai-int]

LOW COUNTRY | HEAT WAVE

johnny mactavish x reader

[PREV] [NEXT] [AO3] [MLIST]

18+ | the chokepoint

The days are shorter now, slipping by in a blink, but the nights drag their heels—long, quiet things that seem to stretch on without mercy, like they’ve forgotten how to end.

December 5th. Cold enough to bite. The kind of cold that makes your breath curl in the air like smoke from a cigarette, makes your fingers numb even in fleece gloves. But it doesn’t put out the spark that’s been smoldering between you and Johnny for weeks. If anything, it stokes it, feeding the slow burn until it grows into a prairie fire—untamed and all-consuming, racing through every weed and grass blade in its path before you can even see the smoke rise to the ozone.

In the wake of the barn—of that night—you and Johnny have been nothing but ghosts in the daylight, apparitions, dust particles in the rays of sun that beam through your bedroom windows. A nod here. A shared glance there. Not a touch, not a whisper

—in front of Pa, that is. He still thinks Johnny backed off, like he told him to. Thinks his threat worked.

He couldn’t be more wrong.

What he doesn’t see is what happens the second your boots hit the back porch and Pa’s eyes are off you. You and Johnny turn feral—entirely mad—half undressed in solace you two have built for each other.

You’ve fucked deep in the woods, slammed against tree trunks and logs, hidden in shadows thick with pine and secrecy—howling the other’s name so loud that birds desert their nests in droves. He’s found you in the garage while you’re working on Pa’s truck and turned you into a whining mess in a minute or less, clothes shucked and tossed aside, hearts hammering like brass-knuckles to a cheek. 

He’s had you in your bed after the world went to sleep; while the house held its breath, you clung to each other—gulping down each other’s sounds through open-mouthed kisses, hands interlocked like the world might swallow you whole right there in that creaky bed on the second-floor—like if you ever let go, it’d tear you apart and scatter the pieces like ash in the wind. 

—in layman’s terms, you’ve been fucking like rabbits. And neither of you can get enough.

Though, out of all the places you’ve snuck off to, nothing was better than the old barn. 

You both started slipping away to the rickety thing under cover of dark—now your designated hideaway, the both of you tucked inside, a shared secret in plain view.

It became a ritual, almost holy in the way you both gravitated there—silent footsteps on dew-wet grass, fingers brushing in the shadows, hearts pounding louder than your boots on the dirt. In that quiet, forgotten place, you weren’t Pa’s daughter and he wasn’t your farmhand.

One night, Johnny showed up with an armful of old quilts and pillows he had found in the attic, smirking that devious smirk you’ve come to love as he climbed the ladder.

“Might as well make ourselves comfortable, aye?”

It took a few days, but you built yourselves a little love-nest of sorts in the loft of the barn. Spare blankets and cushions inconspicuously hauled away and relocated to be piled up, forming a mass pile of soft throws and plush pillows—a den, of sorts. You even got a few old oil lamps to work, their warm glow casting everything in a soft, amber haze. Up there, in your hidden world, it felt like time didn’t exist. Just you, him, and the sound of wind whistling through the cracks in the old wood paneling.

And when he ruins you in that loft—again and again—his touch never falters. Always sure. Always precise. Johnny’s got you mapped out by heart: every place to linger, every spot to kiss, every inch that makes you gasp, that makes your back bow like a drawn bowstring. He’s got your number, and he dials it again and again and again.

That night, after you’d clawed at each other—limbs tangled, skin slick with sweat, breath ragged in the dark—Johnny finally pulled back, his chest heaving like he’d just outrun a storm. You were bare, flushed, and breathless under him. He eased himself down beside you, settling his head against your chest like he belonged there. 

You let him, because he does.

You sweetly raked your nails through his hair, scratching rhythmically at his scalp as you let the remnants of your orgasm settle. He let out something between a sigh and a groan, eyes fluttering shut.

“Ye keep doin’ that, I’m never gettin’ up,” he had murmured, voice low and gravelly.

You smiled, pressing your lips to his head. “If only we didn’t run a farm... We still have to eat. Live—” 

“—pretend.”

He opened one eye at ‘pretend’, looking up at you as the gold of his cross glints in the light, dangling from his chest onto your own. “Mm. Suppose we can’t hide forever.”

Johnny’s chest rose and fell, his arm wrapped loosely around your waist, fingers tracing absent patterns on the soft skin of your hip, gooseflesh rising in its wake. You could feel the warmth of his body pressed against yours, the soft puffs of his breath. The faint scent of hay and wood filled the air, mingling with the earthy warmth of him beside you. The barn creaked with the slow rhythm of the night, the lamp’s light flickering like a pulse, casting a shadowed caricature of you both on the wall—the quiet hum of the world outside distant, as if it had all stopped, leaving just the two of you in this small, secret corner of it all.

“We should talk to him—” you said eventually, “Pa—about us.”

You looked down at him, fingers dancing along the sharp line of his jaw, tracing the warmth of his skin. His baby blues held yours, clouded with the same hesitation that curled in your gut—the kind that came from knowing this thing between you isn’t simple. The kind that whispered warnings about ruining a good thing, about stepping back into a world that doesn’t hold the same softness you’ve carved out here, in the quiet cradle of this rickety barn. A dusty little sanctuary that only existed when it was just the two of you.

But you’re not little kids, and real life doesn’t pause for feelings, no matter how deep they run.

Johnny didn’t speak. Didn’t move at first. Then slowly—like the weight of the moment had finally sunk its teeth into him—he nodded, his stubble grazing your palm, grounding you both in the silence.

“Yeah. I know.”

But neither of you spoke to Pa.

 Not that night. 

No, not the one after it, either.

Winter settled quickly. 

For real.

Ice on the windows, breath misting even at the “warmest” times of day—and somehow, every time you both meant to sit down and face what you had intended to just a few weeks back, you’d find yourselves back in each other’s arms—skin to skin, mouths searching, like gravity itself was pulling you together.

The barn. The garage. Hell, even behind the stables once. You lost track of how many times you’d had him, had each other, desperate and quiet (though, Johnny isn’t much of a quiet man—in that regard) and wild.

It wasn’t just lust anymore—it was safety. A secret you clung to like a lifeline. 

Love, though neither of you had dared to speak it yet.

Though, even as the guilt festered, as the weight of the looming confrontation hung over your heads like storm clouds, you kept choosing each other.

Again. And again.

And again.

It’s mid-December now, and the air is biting. The farm's rhythm has slowed on your end with no winter crops to tend to. The only things left to worry about are the onions and garlic, the mulching and soil, which doesn’t take much effort, so you find yourself with a lot of free time on your hands.

You’ve settled into the quiet of the house more than usual, your days filled with mundane tasks that seem to pass in a blur. Though, you’ve become skilled at keeping yourself busy—continuing to fix the old tractor, tinkering with Pa’s truck, even flipping through the new catalog for supplies to order for the spring: mulch, seeds, more fencing equipment, etc. 

You find yourself in the kitchen more often, too, not just at meal times. You’re trying new recipes, stirring pots of stews and baking bread, filling the house with the kind of warmth that doesn’t come from the heater. But through that, your thoughts wander—always back to Johnny. The kitchen feels different now when he’s in the house—when you both are (which isn’t nearly as often as you’d like). The little glances you steal, the way his presence fills the air, the way your hands brush as you pass him a plate. It’s like every moment is a dangerous little secret. 

Just like August

—when everything was new, delicate, trembling on unsteady legs like a fawn just finding its footing. You’ve come so far since then, grown stronger, closer, more certain… and yet, somehow, it feels like you’re right back where you started. Full circle, like the season turning back on itself. Funny how life does that—folds in on itself when you least expect it, like time’s got its own sense of humor.

Johnny’s workload is easier and overall less taxing without the oppressive summer heat, but his days are still spent feeding the cows, making sure they have enough hay and extra bedding to keep warm through the bitter nights. The sheep need the same.

There’s always something with the animals to keep him busy, especially when it comes to managing the animals and their needs through the colder months. He still doesn’t get much downtime, but he’ll sneak away in a heartbeat to see you, if even for a moment.

Or a quick fuck.

—which you’ll never shy away from.

But, with the cold weather driving everything indoors more often, it's almost unbearable to spend more than thirty minutes in the old barn. 

Or the garage. 

Or the woods. 

Or even the truck bed. 

Each place that used to offer an escape is intolerable now. The house is hard to hide in, the walls watching with every glance, every breath, until it feels like there’s nowhere left to retreat except your bedroom after dark.

To cope, you find yourselves walking past one another with the excuse of a shared chore or task. The warmth between you isn’t just the fire in the hearth; it’s the heat of a thousand small moments that no one else can see.

—or so you think.

Like fate, Pa—too discerning for his own good—starts to notice. You’ve all done this dance before, and Pa has never been a dumb man. 

At first, it's just the way Johnny comes back to the house during the work day more often than he should and lingering longer than usual, leaning against the counter as you chop vegetables or hovering while you mend a hole in your favorite Levi jeans. The shared silences on the porch as you sit near each other, the soft, familiar tension in the air. 

Pa doesn’t say anything, but his eyes narrow every time he catches you two in the same space.

You both aren’t as discreet as you think you are, but you both are none the wiser. 

It’s like everything is simmering; a slow bubble, small licks of a flame emanating from just below your feet. The proximity, the longing. Every time Pa turns his back, it’s like the air clears for just a second before it thickens again. No words are spoken, but the unsaid hangs in the room like smoke. It’s impossible not to feel it.

One evening, as Pa dozes off in his recliner—head tilted back, mouth slightly open, a low snore barely audible over the crackle of the tv—you and Johnny find yourselves alone again.

The house is quiet, save for the low hum of the wind outside rattling against the windows. The night has pulled in tight, and the cold settles in the bones of the place, but the house glows golden inside.

You both sit at the table long after Pa’s rushed through his dinner and retreated to his chair. Your plates are still half-full, your conversation nonexistent—but the silence is tranquil, not strained like it was after Pa threatened Johnny the way he did. It’s soft. Familiar. Comfortable.

You keep your eyes on your fork as you push around a piece of roasted carrot, lips tugging up in a barely-there smile as Johnny’s boot begins to brush against your calf beneath the table. A little nudge. 

Then again. 

His ankle presses into yours, and you finally glance up at him.

He’s already looking at you, that quiet little smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth, eyes crinkling just slightly. Like he’s trying to hide it. You look back at him with a soft smile of your own, one that makes your chest feel too full for your ribs.

Just like August.

—when he first started looking at you like that—like you were something rare and beautiful, like he couldn’t believe he got to be near you.

Couldn’t believe you were even real.

These stolen moments, these quiet, tender flickers of intimacy when the house is still and the rest of the world falls away—feel more dangerous than anything you’ve done. 

More dangerous than growing up into some disgruntled teenager who rolled her eyes at chores and cursed the small-town sky.

Than hating the farm, hating the town, hating your parents for chaining you to a life you never asked for.

More dangerous than packing your bags with shaking hands and slamming the door behind you, leaving behind the soil and sweat and Sunday suppers for city lights and skyscrapers and something bigger.

Than chasing your dreams all the way to the big and beautiful New York City, teeth bared, chest proud—telling yourself you'd never look back.

More dangerous than coming home to a house that no longer felt like a home.

To a father who’d grown smaller somehow.

To a mother who wasn’t there—

—a mother whose last memory of you was your sharp voice echoing off the foyer walls as you spit, “I’m never coming back to this farm.”

And then you did.

But not in time.

And maybe that’s why it all feels so reckless now—why every brush of his fingers, every stolen kiss in the dark, feels more like a defiance than desire.

Because you've already learned what regret tastes like—bitter and all too permanent.

You’ve already lost too much by waiting.

So when your eyes find his, when you let yourself tumble into him again and again—you do it with full knowledge of the toll it takes. The weight it carries. The flame it fans.

It’s all laced with the knowledge that you’ll never regret, never wait again. The knowledge that if everything explodes once more, this time there might be no coming back—no merciful second chance from Pa.

But for now, it’s just the two of you. No Pa. No watchful eyes. No threats hanging over your head.

Neither of you willing to pull away.

It’s just you and Johnny, playing with fire and pretending it won’t burn you.

The days stack like firewood by the porch—gradual, careful, full of purpose—until the calendar turns to December 24, 1991.

Christmas Eve.

The farm is blanketed in a pale hush, dawn not yet broken, and everything outside the windows wears a soft coat of frost. You haven’t seen real snow down here since you were 3, but the grass glitters silver with ice in the fading moonlight of the morning, the animals are dozing, and the trees sway gently in the breeze. There's a stillness to it all, a peace that feels almost sacred.

—It’s a holy day after all.

But what’s happening inside the house is anything but.

You jolt awake with a strangled gasp, thighs trembling, spine arching off the mattress like a bowstring pulled taut. The room is dark and cold, your breath rising in visible clouds but you’re burning. Everywhere. There's heat pulsing between your legs, thick and molten, curling low in your belly, prickling like electricity across your fevered skin.

and then you feel it.

Johnny.

His mouth on you—hot, devoted. 

Wet.

His broad hands are locked around your hips, engulfing you—keeping you steady, holding you wide open for him like you’re the God he’s worshipping in the hush of morning. 

His grip is firm, grounding, thumbs sweeping lazy circles over your hips like he’s trying to calm you even as he drives you wild.

His breath ghosts over your cunt, tongue working you over with slow, sinful precision—the kind of practiced expertise that comes only from memorizing your every reaction. He knows what you like. knows how you like it. How to unravel you with nothing but his mouth and a little patience. How to take you apart piece by piece and make you beg to be rebuilt.

—though, he's a fixer. Always has been.

And God, he’s good with his hands—

But he’s better with his mouth.

Especially when it comes to eating pussy—yours, in particular. Like he was born for it.

He’s not in any rush. Not this morning. He's indulgent with it, greedy and reverent all at once, tongue tracing lazy figure-eights over your clit, dipping lower to your sodden hole only to come back again, lips slick and parted as he feasts on you like a man starved.

Your fingers twist into the sheets, knuckles white. You’re biting your lip, choking down cries that you know can’t echo off the walls. Your peak mounts fast, too fast, tension coiled like a livewire inside you, pulled hotter and tighter with every drag of his tongue.

When it finally snaps, it shatters you.

Your orgasm rips through you like lightning—white-hot, seizing every muscle in your body. your thighs snap closed around his head, legs trembling. Your back arches into his mouth and away from it all at once, breath catching in your throat as you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood, vision flashing with static. You're weightless. Gone.

Johnny groans into your folds as he swallows your release, low and wrecked like he’s the one being ruined by it. He keeps going through it all, licking you gently through the aftershocks of your orgasm, mouth moving slower now, softer. Tender, like the Johnny you’ve come to know.

Then, when your body’s finally stopped shaking and your lungs finally remember how to breathe, he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh—like a promise, a thanks—and crawls up the bed.

His face is flushed, chin glistening, eyes bright with heat and admiration. He grins, cocky and annoyingly familiar, and settles beside you, brushing a strand of hair off your cheek as he pulls the blankets up and over your trembling frame.

“Mornin’, lass. Sleep well?”

His voice is low and rough-edged, like gravel and whiskey, but still thick with sleep. He’s half on top of you, shirtless and in a pair of sleep shorts, skin warm against your own, eyes half-lidded and lazy as he leans in to kiss you—slow and open-mouthed, the kind of kiss that still makes your toes curl even after all this time.

“Told you I’d wake ye at five like ye asked,” he hums, lips brushing yours, boyish smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You’re still breathless, grinning like an idiot, flushing high on your cheeks as you taste yourself on his lips. Your whole body hums with leftover pleasure, limbs boneless, thighs still buzzing.

“T-that’s not what I meant, Johnny,” you manage, voice scratchy and sleep-warm, but he just grins wider.

“Worked, didn’t it?”

You swat at his chest half-heartedly, and he catches your wrist with ease, bringing your palm to his mouth. His kiss there is softer than anything else he’s done this morning—sweet, a promise you both don’t dare say out loud yet.

Then he rolls off of you with a groan, laying on his back as he stretches his long frame, one arm flung behind his head. The gold cross at his chest catches the faint morning light as it begins to filter through the frost-laced window, casting soft shapes across his chest and the decades old quilts tangled around your legs.

He looks unfair like this—bare and flushed, muscles stretching beneath tan skin, hair tousled and haloed by the cold breath of morning. The pipes in the house groan quietly, the brisk wind whistling faintly through the trees outside, but here it’s warm, still. Yours.

You linger in bed for a moment longer, drinking him in, letting the heat between you steep before the day begins. But eventually you force yourself to move, the chill of the wooden floor biting at your feet as you rise. Your legs are jelly, hips sore in that satisfying, secret way that you’ll feel for the rest of the day. It makes you bite back a smile.

He doesn’t move much, just lays there with his arms tucked behind his head, shorts low around his hips and the glow of early light gilding his skin. He watches you with those sleepy, satisfied eyes, lids heavy as he looks at you moving about your room.

You pull your robe from the hook and drape it over your shoulders, slow and reluctant, every motion thick with the weight of wanting. Because you both know you’d rather still be in bed—tangled in sheets and each other, skin-warm and love-drunk, wrapped up in the kind of daze that only the cover of night can conjure. 

You cinch the sash at your waist, fingers lingering on the knot, and cast him a look over your shoulder—one last, lingering glance before you break the spell and step into day.

“You gonna stay here a bit longer?”

“Might,” he drawls, voice low and rough. “Sheets smell like ye.”

That earns him a soft snort, but your smile betrays you as you pad back over to the bed and lean over him, brushing your lips against his forehead. “Greedy.”

He doesn’t let you get far. Just as you’re pulling away, his hand flashes out, curling around your wrist and yanking you back down. You gasp, a laugh caught somewhere between awe and surrender in your throat—then he’s kissing you sloppy, all spit-slicked tongues and bitten lips, like your mouth is the only salvation he’s ever known .

When he finally pulls away, his voice is smug, cocky, eyes glinting with mischief. “One hell of a breakfast, if I say so myself… Think I’m still hungry though.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks flushed, stomach bursting with butterflies, “I have to start cooking, baby.”

He grins and lets you go, but not before swatting your ass with a firm pat as you stand. “Don’t burn anything, chef.”

You shake your head, smile lingering, “Never,” and step out of the room, heart still racing.

Downstairs, the house is beginning to stir. The soft hiss of the kettle drifts in from the kitchen, the old stove ticking as it comes to life. The familiar creak of the third step greets your heel on the way down despite the cushion the runner provides, and the scent of pine, cinnamon, and fresh coffee thickens with every step you take.

The old house is awake—sun on the horizon, wood floors cool underfoot, and the quiet hum of a holiday morning settling into your bones.

The kitchen glows with a golden haze—the oven humming low, and the old gas stovetop radiating heat that cuts through the winter chill like a balm. The air is thick with the scent of cloves, browned butter, and roasting meat. Every surface gleams with holiday cheer. Garlands draped over the cabinets, red bows fastened to drawer handles, and an old wreath hangs crookedly over the pantry door—a little lopsided, but charming, nonetheless.

The radio hums softly from its perch on the corner shelf, the signal a little fuzzy—static crackling gently between the notes as “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” plays low and sweet. It’s the kind of sound that takes you back. 

Back to when you were small, helping Ma in the kitchen, watching her time every dish just right with such ease. You’d tug at the hem of her skirt, begging and whining for “just a little taste” of her peach cobbler (one you knew the taste of all too well, already). 

She’d laugh, shake her head, then finally give in—“Can’t be a sour-puss on a jolly day, Bug! Brighten up!”—before popping a warm bite into your mouth and sending you off grinning.

Things changed after she passed. Christmas was never quite the same. Every holiday has an undercurrent of her—even in death.

You do your best to keep it alive the way she would’ve wanted. Every decoration she once loved goes up in the same spot. Every recipe of hers still gets made, just the way she wrote it down. You and Pa never really had to talk about it—you both just know. It’s about honoring her, keeping her spirit close in the one of the only ways you know how.

The house is dressed to the nines, like something out of a storybook. Stockings hang from the mantel, little paper snowflakes stuck to the windows with old bits of leftover tape. The tree in the living room twinkles softly through the open doorway, glowing with mismatched lights, hand-painted ornaments, and a crooked star you made when you were nine years old. It’s imperfect. It’s cluttered. It’s yours.

The season carries weight now. A kind of quiet, aching nostalgia—for you, and for Pa too. It’s one of the few things you have in common with the man anymore.

Most of the tethers you had to him were buried alongside Ma.

You move across the cold kitchen floor, the hem of your robe brushing your ankles. It’s your softest one—worn thin in the sleeves, the color faded from too many washes, but comforting all the same. The sleeves are rolled high, and Ma’s apron is tied snug around your waist atop the robe, cinching you in. Your hair’s twisted up into a loose, haphazard knot, strands sticking out in every direction. There’s already flour on your arms, a smudge of something sweet at the corner of your mouth, and the kind of glow in your cheeks that can only come from oven heat and genuine, bone-deep contentment.

You look a mess—flushed, flour-dusted, a little bit wild-eyed—and you feel fucking amazing.

Could it have something to do with your extra special wake-up call this morning?

Possibly.

Okay definitely.

But there’s no time to linger in the memory—in the ache between your legs. The kitchen demands your full attention.

There’s a ham to glaze, biscuits to knead, soft and golden, rising patiently beneath a worn dish towel. Pies cooling on the windowsill, their crusts puffed and caramelized, glittering with coarse sugar. A pot of collards simmers on the back burner, heavy with vinegar and spice, steam curling in lazy spirals toward the ceiling. Nearby, potatoes hiss and pop in their boiling water, begging to be mashed within an inch of their lives with cream and butter.

By 11 a.m, you’re elbow-deep in the rhythm of it. Your hips sway to the music as you mindlessly sing along to carols, feet gliding across the tile in time with the soft shuffle of holiday vinyl and the crackle of the radio. You hum, half to yourself, half to the house. You taste, stir, season, adjust. Knead, rinse, repeat. The air is thick with warmth—yeast and salt and something sweeter still—and the windows have fogged to milky glass from the heat.

And you, radiant in the middle of it all, apron askew and cheeks smudged with flour, are the heartbeat of the room, just like Ma was. Every spoonful of gravy, every swipe of butter, every dusting of spice lifts something inside you. Something light. Something that feels like joy.

Out there, the wind howls over the hills, stripping the trees bare and rattling the eaves. It’s gray and bitter and biting.

But here—in this little kitchen that smells like brown sugar and rosemary and home—it’s magic.

And Johnny notices.

So does Pa.

Neither says much, not at first. But you catch it in the way Johnny leans against the doorframe occasionally, arms crossed, eyes soft. In the way Pa clears his throat and lingers by the coffee pot, nodding in approval at the bubbling pot of collards like he’s afraid to say more. They can both feel how much today means, how special you’re trying to make it.

What you’re building is more than a meal. It’s a memory in the making.

As it nears dinner, the house thrums with movement. Pa’s been out at Ma’s grave in the freezing cold for hours, Johnny is in and out, still working—boots muddy, cheeks pink from the cold—but every time he returns, he makes a point to check on you. Stealing kisses here and there. Sometimes he just grabs a knife and starts chopping beside you, no questions asked, like it’s second nature.

In hindsight, you’re endlessly thankful for the cooking lessons you gave him. 

 He wipes his hands on your apron, bumps your hip with his, murmurs little nothings to keep you grounded.

And you need it—because you’re barely holding on.

You can only “taste, stir, season, adjust” so many times before your taste buds go numb—utterly blind to balance, dulled by repetition. And poor Johnny, bless his heart, is so whipped you could slip a spoonful of straight salt past his lips and he’d take it like communion, eyes closed, mouth open, ready for more.

Any peace you found this morning has long since vanished—burned off by the trials and tribulations of wrangling a feast into existence, the hours slipping through your fingers like sifted flour, not quite enough despite how early you woke up.

There’s baking powder on your temple, gravy on the stovetop, steam rising from every pan and pot like gunsmoke. You’ve long exchanged your robe for one of Johnny’s sweatshirts and some jeans. You’re a flurry of motion: rolled up sleeves, apron damp with dishwater, sweating, hair falling out of its knot, caked in sauces and water and miscellaneous powders up to your elbows as you dart from counter to oven to sink and back again.

Because tonight isn’t just any dinner. It’s Ma’s Christmas dinner.

You’re cooking her recipes—every single one. Her honey-glazed ham. Her molasses cookies. Her greens and cornbread stuffing—and the cornbread. Her pies, her biscuits, her caramel-slick sweet potatoes, her normal baked potatoes, her mashed potatoes. 

All of it. 

The smells and tastes in each dish are close—so close—but still not quite right, and you’re driving yourself mad trying to pin it down.

It’s only the second time you’ve done this. The first was last year, Christmas after she passed, and it left you in tears halfway through. Nothing came out right because you were just too in your head—too distracted. 

This year, you swore it would be different. You promised yourself it would be perfect.

So when the ham browns too quickly, or when the pie crust bubbles unevenly, or when you forget the damn cranberry sauce in the icebox for the third time, your chest tightens. Your hands tremble a little as you stir the gravy, your eyes sting when the greens don’t taste exactly like hers. You don’t say it out loud, but it’s there in your bones—in your eyes—the fear that none of it will be good enough.

That you won’t be good enough.

Johnny knows the look on your face well by now. Every time he finds you staring off at a simmering pot like it just insulted your entire bloodline, he wraps his arms around you from behind, settles his chin on your shoulder, and says something like, “Smells damn near holy, Hen,” or “Ma’d slap me on m’hind if I said yer biscuits weren’t better’n hers.”

You chuckle as you fight tears, swatting him with a wooden spoon and threatening to cry if he doesn’t shut up. He just grins and tells you he’d kiss the tears away.

Around six, Pa comes back from Ma’s grave. He doesn’t say much—just hangs his coat with a solemn sigh, washes his hands, and starts setting the table without being asked. It’s the first time he’s done that in years. You glance at Johnny, eyes wide, and he just shrugs a little like don’t spook him, let him be.

You’re still flipping sweet potatoes into the serving dish when Johnny slips behind you again, his hands warm on your waist, his voice low in your ear.

“Yer doin’ just fine, baby. Everythin’s beautiful.”

You nod, but your fingers are clenched tight on the serving spoon.

“I just… I don’t know if it tastes the same,” you whisper.

Johnny gently pries the spoon from your grip and nudges it into the dish himself.

“Don’t have to taste the same,” he says. “It’s yers just as much as hers.”

Your throat thickens. You blink up at him and manage a breathless little smile—grateful, nervous, loved.

And outside, the sun dips low beyond the frostbitten trees. Christmas lights flicker on the porch. The clock ticks toward seven.

You put the final touches on dinner with shaking hands and a full heart. The ham is crisped and glistening, the greens are tender, the biscuits golden. It doesn’t taste exactly like Ma’s—you know that. But it’s close. And Johnny was right, it’s yours now, just as much as hers. 

A little sweeter in some places, a little spicier in others. The way she’d make it if she had your hands.

Johnny helps you bring everything to the table, both of you moving in a quiet rhythm, no more rush, no more panic. Just the quiet hum of satisfaction. Of tired pride.

The table is a feast, every dish a testament to your labor, and the house smells like heaven,like rosemary and butter, sugar and smoked meat, like memory itself come home to roost.

Every inch of it is filled—ham, greens, stuffing, candied yams, two kinds of pie, cornbread, gravy in a chipped porcelain boat, the three kinds of potatoes, and somehow more. Steam curls like smoke from a hearth. Little candles flicker soft and golden. The Christmas tree glows in the corner, bathed in sparkling lights and old glass ornaments.

It’s almost enough to make you cry.

You all take your places around the table. Pa at the head, just like always. You settle to his left, Johnny across from you.

For a second, it’s quiet—not tense, not stiff, just… still. The kind of still that feels sacred.

Then Pa clears his throat.

“Alright,” he mutters. “Let’s say grace.”

You all bow your heads.

Pa reaches for your hand with his left and Johnny with his right—his hand is calloused, warm, heavy with time. You offer it, gentle, grounding yourself in the weight of it.

Then you feel Johnny’s fingers slide into your left hand. They’re rougher, warmer, a little clumsy with affection. He gives your hand the most miniscule squeeze, and your eyes flick up just for a moment.

He’s already peeking at you from where his head is bowed.

And for a second, the world shrinks to that small moment—the warm light, the smell of cinnamon and roast, the three of you sitting around this table like the Last Supper.

Pa begins to speak

“Lord, we thank You for this meal, for the roof over our heads, and the hands that made it. For the year that tested us, the ones we’ve lost, and the ones we still hold close. We thank You most of all for the gift of Your Son, born into the world to show us love and grace. For His light that still guides us, even in the darkest of days—” 

“—Amen.”

“Amen,” you and Johnny echo in tandem

You look around the table, at all the food you made, at Johnny’s faint smile, at the way Pa’s face relaxes as he carves the ham.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe months—the silence around this table doesn’t feel heavy.

Dinner goes… surprisingly well.

The table is full—everything smells like comfort, like memory. Like the holidays used to, back when Ma was still around to hum carols under her breath and sneak you food while the kitchen clock ticked steadily on.

Pa eats like a man who’s been waiting for this all year. Maybe he has. He doesn’t say much—just digs in, his knife and fork clinking against the plate and he goes in for more without waiting for the offer. His usual sternness softens in the glow of candlelight and nutmeg, the quiet hum of the radio in the background crooning “Christmas, Baby Please Come Home”.

Your eyes occasionally flicker to Pa, observing his reactions to the food.

Finally, after scraping up the last bit of sweet potato with his fork, Pa leans back with a long, contented sigh. He pats his belly, tongue running across his teeth, and glances your way.

You blink. Look up at him.

“Just like your mother’s, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and rough with emotion he won’t name.

You damn near melt into your seat. “Thank you.”

“I mean it,” he adds, glancing down at his plate again. “She’d’ve been real proud of you tonight.”

Your chest folds in on itself and you can’t fight your smile. “Thank you, Pa.”

Across from you, Johnny glances up from his fork. Gives you a quiet little smile. One only you catch.

It’s small and secretive, barely there—but it damn near breaks the spell.

You sit up a little straighter. Fold your hands in your lap.

The conversation drifts. Safe topics. Soft ones.

“Cows’ve been putting on more weight than I expected this year,” Pa says, breaking apart a biscuit with his hands.

Johnny hums. “Good feed’ll do that. An’ they’re eatin’ more now that it’s cold. Need the energy.”

“Been thinkin’ about ordering early come spring,” Pa adds. “Seed catalogue’s already half marked up.”

“I was looking at it the other day,” you chime in, grateful for the change of subject. “Saw a new onion variety—yellow granex. Might try it.”

Pa grunts his approval.

No brushing knees under the table. No lingering glances.

You don’t laugh too long when Johnny makes one of his low, dry little jokes about the horses getting too spoiled.

And Johnny doesn’t look at you like he’s memorizing the exact curve of your mouth when you smile.

You’re both trying. God, you’re trying.

But even this quiet, careful choreography can’t hide the fact that something’s changed.

Pa’s watching. More than you think.

And he’s still not as tired as he looks. His eyes flick between you like darts, like a man playing a game of chess with pieces that don’t know they’re on the board. He notices the way your shoulders shift when Johnny speaks. The slight lean in your body that makes you seem closer than you are. 

And then there are the silences.

It’s in the way Johnny’s jaw ticks when your laugh slips out too free, too fond. There’s barely any stolen glances, no secret touches. You barely breathe when he speaks and he’s all yes sir and pass the salt, sitting straight and respectful—utterly overcompensating—like he hasn’t fucked you senseless in the barn and across the property a hundred times over. The way his thumb taps against the table like he’s itching to reach across it and touch you. 

Pa may not say much, but he’s not blind. He’s seen a thousand tiny tells in men trying to keep something hidden. A thousand more in girls when they see something they like.

So when he finally speaks again, the quiet’s been stretched tight as a fishing line between you all.

And it snaps.

Not kind. Not forgiving. Not soft like the smile he gave you ten minutes ago.

And you know the moment it happens—that moment something shifts.

He sets his fork down. Wipes his mouth. Folds the napkin despite his food being half-eaten, before tossing it onto the plate like it’s suddenly too heavy to hold.

Then he leans back in his chair, arms crossed, and eyes the both of you with that quiet, storm-brewing stillness that always comes before a blow.

“You two think you’re slick, huh?” he says, eerily low, not nearly as biting in tone as he is in word.

The sound of cutlery scraping and chewing pauses, save for the faint buzzing of the light fixture above your heads and the soft carolling from the radio.

“Sittin’ there tryin’ to play house like I don’t see what’s goin’ on. Like I’m some kinda idiot— after I said to cut that shit out.”

Your blood runs cold. You don’t move. 

Across the table, Johnny stiffens. His jaw ticks.

“Pa,” you try, soft but warning.

“You think I forgot what I told him?” he growls, jutting his chin toward Johnny. “Think I didn’t notice him sniffin’ ‘round again, all hangdig ‘n sorry-faced like a hound caught pissin’ on the porch?”

Pa leans forward, voice dropping even lower.

“You know your mother used to say the Lord forgives all things,” he asks, gaze locked on Johnny now. “That no matter how far a man strays, he can always find his way back to the light.”

A pause that feels like eons..

Then—

“Well. The Lord may be forgivin’—but I sure as hell ain’t.”

“Dad— don’t do this,” you plead, voice catching. “Please, not today—”

But it’s too late. The air’s already changed—sharp and dangerous, like metal before a storm.

He chuckles sardonically. “No, go ahead. Keep makin’ eyes at him like your Mama ain’t six feet under. Like I didn’t tell him what’d happen if he didn’t leave you alone.”

Johnny shifts beside you, mouth parting like he wants to say something, but you shoot him a look—tight and desperate. He stays still.

“Maybe you oughta be reminded of what happened to her,” Pa mutters. “What happens when you put your heart where it don’t belong, when you make the wrong choices.”

Your chair scrapes loudly against the floor as you stand up, jamming a finger in his face, voice raised before you can stop it.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare bring her into this!”

“What happens when you say things you shouldn’t—”

“Fucking stop! I said not to bring her into this—”

Pa stands too, rising to meet you. “I will, if it means knockin’ some damn sense into you!”

“I have sense!” you yell, eyes burning. “I do everything around here! I cook, I clean, I fix your goddamn truck, I work this land, I bleed for it—and for what?  So you can sit on your ass and tell me who I’m allowed to be with!?”

Johnny finally stands, voice quiet but firm, trying to cool the heat.

“Hey,” he says gently. “It’s alright, let’s just calm down, aye? Let’s all just—”

“Stay out of it!” you and Pa shout at the same time.

Johnny stiffens. His eyes find yours, flicker to Pa, then back. He just nods—swallows hard—and steps back from the table.

“Excuse me,” he says quietly, and walks out the front door, the screen creaking shut behind him.

The silence he leaves behind is thick and suffocating—clinging to the walls like humidity before a storm, curling in your throat like smoke. The heat in the room builds, slow and insidious, rising to a fever pitch. It presses in on your skin, coils in your gut, turns the warmth of the dinner table into something volatile and sharp.

It’s a boiling point.

You can feel it beneath the surface, pulsing like blood in your ears, like the twitch of a trigger finger. A single breath too loud, a glance too long, and it’ll all come spilling over—scalding and irreversible.

The floorboards groan when you shift. The clock ticks too loud. And neither of you move, don’t blink—frozen at the edge of eruption.

It’s not just what Pa said. It’s what it means. It’s what it confirms. 

That you hurt her, and it stayed that way until her last breath—until it was utterly irreversible.

You don’t even feel the tears when they come—just the warmth of them cutting silent tracks down your cheeks. Your shoulders tremble, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven pulls. You’re crying now.

But it’s not grief that grips you.

It’s fury.

Hot and electric, pulsing just beneath your skin like a live wire. It surges through you, clenches your fists, sets your jaw. 

“Fuck this— this isn’t even about Johnny anymore,” you spit. “This is about you.”

Pa narrows his eyes.

You let it all come crashing down. Let it rupture. Let it detonate and scatter like shrapnel—hot, sharp, and unstoppable—landing in the middle of Ma’s Christmas dinner like a tornado ripping through a church. The air in the room shifts, dense with heat and heartbreak.

Your eyebrows knit, your voice cracking open and spilling out louder than you ever thought it could.

“You don’t care about what’s best for me—” Each word slams into the table like a fist. “You care about control. About keeping me here. Keeping everything just the way you want it—tight, tidy, fucking trapped!”

Your chest heaves with the weight of it. The truth of it. And now that it’s out, there’s no stuffing it back in.

He scoffs, loud and bitter, like the sound’s been clawing up his throat. He shoves his chair back with a screech of wood on wood, the legs dragging harsh against the floor.

“You got no clue what I care about!” he snaps, jabbing a finger at you, his face flushed deep with heat—whether it’s rage or shame, you can’t tell. His chest rises and falls beneath his flannel, the veins in his neck standing out like cords.

“You think this is about control? ‘Bout keepin’ things tidy!?” He paces once, twice, then stops short like his boots are glued to the floor. “You don’t know a goddamn thing!”

“I do!” you shout, your voice cracking like a whip through the air. Your hands ball into fists, nails digging into your palms, your body tense, every muscle wrung tight, ready to snap. “I’ve always known! Ever since Ma died, you’ve checked out. You don’t help with anything. You just sit there—drinking, sulking, acting like the world owes you something—” You inhale, gasping for breath—it floods in, sharp like bile—but with every exhale, more words spill out. Tumbling, relentless, like water breaching a dam. You can’t stop them. They’re crashing through, wild and scalding on your tongue, “— it sure as shit doesn’t.”

He paces in short, jagged steps, the tension in his body snapping with each movement. His hand tightens into a fist at his side, knuckles going white as he strikes the dining table with a bang. His shoulders jerk with each breath, chest rising and falling like he's struggling to keep himself in check. His gaze locks on you with a ferocity that could burn through steel.

The words leave him in a low growl, venom coating each syllable. “You think you’re so grown—”

“What’s your job, Pa?” you cut him off, screaming, voice cracking, utterly exasperated. “Tell me. What the fuck do you even do around here? Besides sit on your ass while I break my back trying to keep this place afloat?!”

His face is dark now. Shadowed, rigid. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares.

And then, you let go.

“She’d fucking hate the man you’ve become.”

Silence detonates in the room like a bomb.

The kind that doesn’t make a sound at first—just swallows everything.

Time hiccups. The walls themselves seem to brace. The heat of the moment curdles into something far colder. Something final.

Your breath hitches. His fists tighten.

And for a second, the only thing that moves is the steam rising from the half-carved ham on the table.

You don’t take it back. You don’t flinch.

Because you mean it.

And he knows you do.

The words hang in the air like gunfire, shells still clattering against the floor, even after everything’s gone.

You watch him deflate in real time—right before your eyes.

No anger. No defense. No fire left to throw.

Just… silence.

A still, bone-deep kind of quiet.

Like something cracked and gave away inside him.

You blink, the heat of your own words catching up to you, stunned by what you said.

What you meant.

Your heart’s pounding, loud in your ears and you don’t even realize you’re shaking until you do.

Pa just sits down again like the wind’s been knocked clean out of him, like whatever was holding him up just… gave out. He sinks into the chair like it’s the only thing keeping him from crumbling.

And he says nothing.

A silence so thick it feels like the whole world is holding its breath—you can hardly hear your own beneath the sound of your heart thumping ferociously in your ears; if it wasn’t for that, you’d be convinced that you had stopped breathing entirely

You drop into your chair like your legs have given out. The edges of your vision blur, chest tight, throat burning. Across from you, Pa’s just still. Still and quiet.

His hands are folded together on the table, knuckles white. When he speaks, it’s low and rough, like gravel in his throat.

“You’re right.”

Your head snaps to him and it hits the room like a thunderclap, even though he barely speaks above a whisper.

“I’ve been sittin’ on my ass,” he says. “Been sittin’ in the ruins of this house—of what was—since your Ma died. Let everythin’ around me rot—the fields, this table, you. I thought I was holdin’ on. Thought if I just kept everythin’ exactly the way she left it, maybe it’d be like she was still here.”

He finally looks up at you. His eyes are bloodshot, wet like you’ve never seen.

“But she’s not. She’s gone. And I buried her… And I buried the best parts of myself right alongside her.”

You cover your mouth, eyes burning. He keeps going.

“And you—Jesus, sweetheart—you look so much like her, it hurts sometimes. Every time you walk through the kitchen or laugh when you’re bakin’—you sound like her. You move like her. Some days I could swear I see her standin’ where you stand.”

His voice starts to tremble, cracking on the words.

“And I—I didn’t know what to do with that. I didn’t know how to carry that kinda love ‘n  grief at the same time. So I tried to trap you here. I told myself it was about protectin’ you, but it wasn’t—”

His breath falters when the first tear rolls down his cheek, “—it was about protectin’ me."

A pause. His eyes drift to the tabletop, ashamed as he looks at the feast before him.

“I thought if I could just keep you close, I’d never really lose her. But all I did was push you away. Hurt you. Treated you like you didn’t know what you were doin’, when you’ve been holdin’ this place together better’n I ever did.”

You’re crying now—silent and shaking, the tears spilling fast and hot. Your fists are clenched tight in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your palms. Each breath shudders through you, chest rising in uneven bursts as the weight of it all settles heavy in your bones.

He reaches across the table with one trembling hand, palm up, waiting.

“I forgot you weren’t my little girl anymore,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “You’re a woman now. And— And not just that—you’re her daughter, too—”

“—Brave. Brilliant. Stubborn as hell. And… I— I’m proud of you—”

“—And so was your mother, until her last breath.”

You choke out a sob, your hand flying up to cover your mouth as if you could somehow shove it all back down. But the dam’s burst. The tears come hard and fast now, flooding your cheeks, dripping from your chin. Your shoulders curl inward as the weight of it all crashes over you, grief and guilt and love and everything in between pouring out in a tidal wave you can’t stop.

You finally take his outstretched hand. You don’t think—don’t hesitate. Just reach for him, like you did when you were small. Like somewhere deep down, part of you still believes he’ll make it all okay if he just holds on tight enough.

He squeezes it gently. There’s another silence. Then:

“When you love someone,” he says, voice thick, “you’d do anything for ‘em. Kill for ‘em. Change the world if you have to. I see what that boy’s done for you—he’s changed you.”

“He’s changed your world, hasn’t he?”

“Yes” your voice lodged somewhere deep in your throat—thick with everything you can’t say, everything he might already know.

He gives a slow, paternal, knowing look. “You love that boy?”

You nod as you process the question. Your voice stays trapped behind your ribs, thick and trembling, too heavy to lift past your tongue as you realize it for the first time.

He closes his eyes like the word settles something deep in his chest. He nods.

Then, after a beat, he looks at you again—really looks—and smiles, small and tearful.

“You look just like your mother,” he says. 

“Beautiful.”

He rises slowly, places a weathered, shaking hand on the back of your head. Brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb. Presses a kiss to your forehead so tender it shatters you all over again.

Then he straightens.

And without another word, he turns and climbs the stairs—his footsteps slow, the old wood groaning under each step—until his bedroom door clicks softly shut behind him.

You sit there for a bit.

Eyes still bleary, lashes clumped from crying, face warm from the aftershock of everything that just passed.

The explosion.

The apology you never thought you'd hear.

The clarity you never believed would come.

You feel hollow and full all at once, like your soul’s been rung out and laid bare across the dinner table. Shell-shocked. Utterly in awe.

The house is so still now. No footsteps overhead. No wind outside. Just you and the soft creak of wood settling into silence.

You sniffle, pulling yourself upright, trying to find the edges of your body again. Your breath still shakes in your chest as you wipe your cheeks with the sleeve of your robe and glance over the spread still sitting between your elbows.

A comically large feast. Glazed ham, mashed potatoes, gravy gone gelatinous in the chill, greens wilting in the pot. A perfectly browned pie that no one even cut. It all sits cold now, untouched since the shouting started.

Still—

Somehow, it’s beautiful.

A testament to the day.

To your effort.

To Ma.

To everything that just cracked open and tried to mend itself again.

You sit with it. Just for a moment longer.

Then, your heart tugs toward the front porch.

Toward the man who walked out into the cold for your sake.

You take slow, shallow steps toward the front door, your body still heavy with the weight of everything that just transpired inside. Your hands tremble as you push the screen door open, and the cold air rushes to meet you like a quiet embrace. The night is crisp, and the world is still around you.

Sitting on the top step of the porch, boots planted, elbows resting on his knees, a cigarette pinched between two fingers. The amber tip glows dimly in the dark, illuminating the worn lines of his face. He’s staring out at the field, blank-eyed and faraway, but the moment he hears the door creak open, he turns. Stands. Flicks the cigarette away with a sharp little snap.

His gaze lands on you—and softens immediately. He sees the dried tears streaked across your cheeks, the exhaustion, the rawness, the war you just walked away from. And it shatters him.

Without a word, he stands and takes a step toward you. His arms open before you even know what you're doing, and you rush into him. He pulls you in tight, firm, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold you right. His body heat mingles with the cold, the contrast perfect in a way that only you and him could understand.

“C’mere,” he hums, his voice thick with care.

You inhale deeply, trying to steady yourself. “Johnny, I’m sorr—”

He cuts you off, a gentle but firm hand at the back of your head. "None of that, sweet girl. None of that," he says, his voice almost a whisper, the words soft but laden with something unshakable.

You tuck your head into the crook of his neck, and for a moment, the world stops spinning. The weight of everything falls away, like a slow exhale you didn’t know you were holding in. His hands find the small of your back and the base of your neck, clutching you tight, like he’s trying to squeeze all the ache right out of you. The warmth of him is grounding, steady, and for the first time today, you feel safe.

The wind picks up, ruffling your hair as you both stand there, and the windchimes on the porch sing a soft melody in the background. From where your head is resting on Johnny's shoulder, you see them: small, delicate white flakes of snow beginning to fall from the sky. They twirl and drift down, landing on the ground and in the grass.

The first snow in twenty years. 

[heavenbarnes]

I know you talked about meeting older bf!Simon in the alternate universe but can you please tell us how we met normal universe Simon?

oh 🥹 course i can write a little meet cute (i have oc you a little bit but that’s ok i think)

the first time you ever meet your older bf!simon, you’re actually at work.

your boss tells you and the rest of your coworkers (very late notice, might you add) that your dinky little cafe is taking part in a government run initiative-

“service for service men”

the collective hum of confusement doesn’t skip you and you’re even more confused when he tells you that different businesses are opening their doors to service men (and women technically) to allow them to integrate with their community.

you don’t want to outright say it seems performative but, it definitely seems performative.

nevertheless, you get your apron on and wait for them to arrive. you’ve already resigned yourself to the fact that, knowing your luck, you’re going to get some morally-grey weirdo.

instead you get-

“simon riley, uh- ghost”

your boss reads it from his clipboard as the man in question appears before you like an apparition. with a skull gator mask covering the lower half of his face.

ok.

you do your best to smile and give him your name when you learn quickly that this guy is a man of few words, but many grunts.

“do you prefer simon or ghost?”

he eyes you in his peripheral as you move behind the counter towards your coffee machine. he doesn’t answer and you know it’ll be a long day.

“alright, i’m picking simon”

and he doesn’t argue so you take it as a win.

you bring him to the coffee machine and explain the bare basics, you’re also hyper aware that in a few days- he’s going to go back to handling guns and never make another cappuccino in his life so you don’t go too crazy.

but he does have to make his own coffee.

“and then you would bring the milk jug to this spout and the steam froths it”

his eyes are blank, unreadable- but jesus christ can he hold a stare. you get this unshakable sense that he does not give a fuck and, honestly, you can’t blame him.

but it is your job.

“do you want to give it a go?”

his eyes flicker to the machine for a second before they’re back on yours, expecting more silent treatment you nearly jump when he speaks.

“what if i fuck it up?”

your eyebrows crinkle just a little. what? it’s a coffee machine? this man’s probably performed manoeuvres the average person didn’t know existed.

and he’s scared of a coffee machine?

you almost want to snort a little laugh but a voice in your head tells you better not. instead you step a little closer to him.

“you won’t, i won’t let you”

and he catches you in his peripheral again, ever so slightly inching closer to you. he surprises you again by speaking up.

“will y’tell me what t’do?”

“if that’s what you’d like, course i will”

and that’s what you do. massive hands dwarf the milk jug as he cradles it so not to scald the milk but moves it with a dexterity you can only admire.

“and pull it off like- that, that’s perfect”

he looks at the milk before he looks at you, almost like he’s studying your expression.

“y’sure?”

“yes- you did a good job, simon”

he turns his head before you can get a good look at his expression. as he’s pouring the milk into the mug like you’d instructed, you very nearly missed what he said.

“i prefer simon”

craning your neck so you can better see his face, you question it with a quiet hum.

“i prefer y’calling me simon- i didn’t want y’to call me ghost”

oh.

“glad i picked well then”

he doesn’t respond to that but you figure he’s not the type you push. his coffee rests on the bench before him and he’s looking at it like he wants to try.

then he’s looking around at all the people filling the small cafe and his knuckles nudge at the edge of his mask.

oh.

you don’t know how you do it but you put two and two together quite quickly. eyes darting to the door behind you, you’re telling him to follow you.

he ends up, coffee in hand, in the small break room at the back. just a table and a couple chairs with a zip boiler on the wall.

you offer him a chair as you awkwardly hover by the door. “so you can enjoy your creation”

he takes a seat and then looks at you expectantly, before nodding his head towards the other chair.

you sit, do what you’re told- and all of a sudden he’s checking his six once before he pulls the mask down.

it takes your breath away a little bit.

honestly? truthfully? he just looks like a man.

but to you? a part of you is worried that you might spend the rest of your life thinking about him.

like you might be old and grey one day without a thought left to your name but he’ll be the last thing to leave your mind.

he doesn’t break that hardline stare with you as he takes a sip. he really didn’t have to groan quietly as he did it, but he did.

you think he watches you fidget. you think you like it. you think he does too.

at the end of the day, your coworkers are complaining as you all get your bags and close up shop for the day.

“i hope they all got something out of it cause i didn’t get a single bloody thing”

you snort in amusement, minding your business as you shrug your jacket on. as your hands burrow into your warm pockets you feel your fingers brush over the small slip of paper.

you could almost trace the pen stroked digits.

yeah, didn’t get a bloody thing.

[mannequinreligi0n]

Doppelgänger

vergil is in heat and puts his doppelgänger to good use

pairing: vergil x reader (gender neutral)

wc: 814

warnings: nsfw! - oral (male receiving), threesome (???)

author’s note: i just randomly wrote this right now and it’s almost 5am…..so uh, do with that information what you will. if there’re mistakes, i’ll proofread when i wake up lol

The blue apparition shackled your wrists together with one hand, the other holding a vice-like grip on the back of your head, keeping you from wriggling away from Vergil. Drool seeped out of your mouth in long strings, lips stretched around Vergil’s cock as he impaled your throat.

It had been four hours since you two started.

Four.

Doppelgänger showed up around the three-hour mark, assisting Vergil’s every whim, and was a daunting reminder of how easily Vergil could take what he wanted.

Every muscle in your body ached from being folded and bent and thrown around by your boyfriend. Vergil went into heat three days ago and he had refrained from using you like his personal fleshlight until he couldn’t take it anymore, making you call out of work just to service him. Not that you minded, really. But the ache in your core from relentless abuse had caused you to tap out early, leaving Vergil with the only hole left to defile - your mouth.

Big, teary eyes looked up at Vergil as he crammed himself into your throat, sweat parading down his forehead. Your jaw was throbbing with pain, which wasn’t helped by the hair-pulling. Vergil opened his eyes briefly to glance down at you after hearing a muffled gag, silently checking in with you despite his demon blood roaring through his veins. Every nerve in his body was screaming at him to take, take, take, and it took admittedly too much concentration and energy to remind himself of your fragile state. He slowed his hips to a rhythmic pump and eventually to a stop, catching his breath and swallowing back a gulp of air to clear his head.

Doppelgänger thrummed behind you, feeling the energy and warmth from the summoned being vibrate against the skin of your back. It made a mellow growl as a clawed finger reached from behind your head to rub at your cheek - a show of acknowledgment. You hum around Vergil, eyes shutting as you lean into the lucent mirage of a finger, appreciative of the gesture. Doppelgänger releases your head and runs its hand along your shoulder, talons faintly dragging along flesh as it trails its hand down your front. Vergil’s own hands move to hold either side of your head, thumbs caressing your scalp. You feel claws pinch at one of your nipples, tugging on it as heat ripples off the apparition. A moan gets stuck in your throat but Vergil groans at the vibration around his length, the head twitching inside you.

“Ah, there you are…still with me, my dear?”

Opening your eyes, you nod the best you can in your compromised state, fatigue evident in your eyes. Vergil smiles fondly down at you, a satisfied hum echoing in the quiet room.

“You’re taking me so well, little one…so well-behaved,” Vergil sighs out, voice exasperated and scratchy. “Give me one more…one more time, and you can rest.”

At the mention of rest, you nod again, but a little more enthusiastically. With a hushed laugh, Vergil’s grip on your head becomes taut and Doppelgänger moves its hand back to hair, grabbing a fistful. Vergil holds nothing back, jumping immediately into a harsh pace. His throaty grunts meld together with the ever-constant droning sound of Doppelgänger’s presence. Your jaw slacks unwillingly to compensate for Vergil’s size, the head of his cock ramming against the back of your throat. You gag beneath him, tears trickling down your face as you wince from the impact. With a few more ruthless thrusts, Vergil shudders and growls deeply, warm seed nearly choking you as it gushes down your throat. Doppelgänger yanks your head back by the hair, your mouth hanging open as you gulp down the cum and gasp for oxygen. Vergil nearly falls on his ass when you’re pulled back, legs trembling from the fifth and final release of the day. He manages to limp over to sit down on the edge of the bed, pouring sweat and heaving. See-through hands scoop you up off the ground and cradle you against a vibrating chest of blue light, offering you comfort while Vergil gains his own footing. Doppelgänger soon sets you down in Vergil’s lap, his arms coming out to accept you. Vergil presses a kiss into your head, face lingering in your hair as he takes in your scent. You slump over in Vergil’s arms, just as exhausted and spent as he is. There’s a few heartbeats of stillness before you feel a horn poke at your leg that’s dangling off the bed. Looking down, you find Doppelgänger sat at Vergil’s feet, head resting against you as it thumps its tail lightly against the floorboards. You reach out and pat the mirage’s head, eliciting a loud purr from the creature. Vergil chuckles at the display and tightens his arms around you, wordlessly expressing his love and gratitude to you.

[anthomaniacs]

nobody asked but!! new character lore unlocked ✔️ : narcissa malfoy is very talented at apparition. according to wiki the more skilful a wizard/witch is, the quieter they are able to apparate. and this is a snippet from half blood prince:

narcissa can apparate almost silently as compared to bella's 'louder pop'. it also makes sense to me that narcissa would appreciate the art of apparition. it gives her an advantage in situations where she needs to escape; she is very much the silent but deadly type as compared to bella's hasty and bold character.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Queue me sprinting to the inbox when I got the notice that your inbox was open! First off, congrats on 5k! Ok now business: can I request something along the lines of Ghost realizing he’s become attached his partner (maybe the reader is the same rank or a sniper or something where they’ve known each other a while) but it’s a situation where it’s a harsh realization. Like it was the one time they didn’t go on a mission together and the reader got hurt real bad (like Ghost only found out because he happened to be on the tarmac when the reader’s body was being carried out of a helicopter by medics) and that’s how he realizes he loves the reader. Because it hits him like a ton of bricks that he might loose them and just breaks down but it ends with him being by the reader’s side and confessing in his own way when they wake up

—Blood Like Obsidian

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [Simon can only fight against so many nurses as they shove him back from your operation room.] ❞

He doesn’t recall how he felt the moment he spotted your body being dragged out of that Helo, arm limp over the shoulder of one of the men in your unit. He doesn’t even remember what Soap was talking to him about on the tarmac. 

Because at that instance, the entire world seemed to stop in one horrible moment of mute panic and brown, wide eyes. 

Simon watched for a moment in shock, seeing your limp form as the soldier carrying you screamed out for a medic, moving as fast as he could in the direction of the on-base hospital; jostling you. Soap finally looks over.

“Holy hell,” the Scot breathes, head pulling back. 

Simon’s already sprinting. 

“Give her to me,” he growls to the soldier, who looks up at him in shock as he appears like an apparition. 

“S-sir, I—”

“Fucking hand her over!” Simon orders, eye flashing, his accent already making the aggressive voice even more so as he spits from behind his mask. 

The man immediately presents your unconscious form, blood so saturated into your gear that the black looks like obsidian; shiny like that natural glass formed after lava cools. There’s a damn hole in your chest. 

Taking you up easily, your dead weight makes his chest tighten, a sharp inhale sounding off from Simon before he grits his teeth and holds you tighter.

The Lieutenant grunts and takes off, feet slamming into the ground. He glances down at you in rapid intervals, gazing at your expressionless face for long seconds before it snaps back up to the road ahead—it’s no more than a few seconds before Simon slams his shoulder into a door. 

The barrier hits the far wall and nurses all look up in momentary fear.

“Help her!” He sounds desperate, and his hands dig into you harshly. If you’d been awake, you’d be telling him to let go before you developed marks. The nurses are still paused at the sudden appearance of the monster-ish man in black and gray. Simon barks like a dog, stepping closer. “Fuckin’ hell, are you bastards bloody deaf?!”

The others dash forward and tell him to place you on one of the rolling beds, and he does so without another word; heart so violently beating in his chest that he’s panting, breath loud in his own head.

The nurses are calling to one another, yelling to grab an available doctor and get you into surgery, beginning to wheel you away. Simon jogs along, eyes not leaving your face but ever silent with his hands clenched.

He hadn’t given much thought to how he felt about you—nothing was ever going to come of it. Years of missions and companionship with you. You, the ever-present bit of light that had stayed longer than all others. 

You, the only woman he would ever love.

The realization makes Simon’s legs nearly lock from under him, stumbling for a moment as one nurse peels back your vest and takes a pair of scissors to cut away the fabric over the mess of torn flesh and spitting veins.

You leave droplets of blood behind you, trailing off the limp hand that points to the floor from over the edge of the bed. 

Simon grabs at it and brings the hand to your chest, and he notices his own fingers shaking as he desperately moves his eyes up and down your body. He can’t even look at the wound—large, deadly. You jerk around with every movement as if you're already dead.

The Lieutenant feels his eyes burn with stark betrayal but barely pays attention.

As they’re pushing you into a pair of double doors, Simon remembers he was supposed to be with you during this mission, but had been reassigned last minute. The thought is so sudden he nearly forgets to ask where they’re bringing you. But the man recovers quickly.

“Oi!” He shouts, arms pushing him back from the door. Half of the nurses are telling him he needs to leave. He growls and jerks away from them, eyes flashing dangerously but always darting back to the door as it sways back and forth. 

But he knows why he’s out here—and the Lieutenant certainly doesn’t know how to operate on someone no matter how much he did.

He steps back and the rest of the nurses disappear back into your room. 

Simon puts a hand on the back of his head, gripping tightly at the fabric of his covering as he fears his teeth might break from how hard he’s clenching his jaw—grinding them across one another like a cheese grater. 

He loved you. Oh, God, he loved you. 

And he wasn’t there.

Turning away from the door, Simon paces the hallways until Soap re-joins him, any attempt the Sergeant makes at conversation is immediately slashed down ruthlessly. Simon’s shoulders widen; eyes grow more dead the longer you’re gone from his sight. 

It’s five hours until there’s any word, and when there is, the Lieutenant is alone again—his leg jumping along the floor and his hands held in a single fist under his nose; elbows on knees.

When he’s able to see you—stable but the future still uncertain, he sleeps there. 

Simon sleeps on the floor beside your hospital bed for two days straight, and the nurses are too afraid to tell him he can’t do that. So they don’t tell him at all. 

On day three, the man has only left the room to go to the bathroom; no food, no showers, or new clothes. He’d gone through worse, what was hunger? What was the small uncomfortableness in his chest? Nothing. It was nothing. 

During the day he watches your face, standing or sitting doesn’t matter. The nurses come and go, the doctor too, and he lets them work silently. Simon doesn’t speak to them.

But he does speak to you. 

And on day four, he plays with your fingers with a single hand, taking the flesh and watching it move. Feeling your pulse. 

The Lieutenant grunts. 

“Should’ve been there,” he hisses to himself harshly. “Should ‘ave never let you bloody go alone, yeah? Been by my side for ages.” Simon scoffs, glaring at the bedsheets. “My fuckin’ fault you’re ‘ere. No one can watch your back better, should’ve known that.” He misses the small twitch in your hand, too self-absorbed with his faults. 

Simon was never one for airing his grievances; the man was a master at suffering in the quiet nights. But this was a special case.

Your finger twitches again. 

“...Shouldn’t say stuff like that,” your words slur, and Simon’s head snaps up; heart lurching. He goes silent. 

Your eyes are only half-open, body heavy. You’ll be going back to sleep in mere moments, but you’d been awake long enough to understand what was going on. Simon watches, but his hand slips into yours. Grasping tightly. 

An unknown weight is taken from him at the twitch of a smirk on your lips.

“Care about you too, Big Guy.” 

He won’t tell you he loves you—he’s not that kind of person. He won’t explain the panic or the fear. Terror, really. 

But he’ll slip off his mask and let you see him, his thumb running the length of your knuckles. He’ll sigh and those browns will give way to the rare expressions he shows so few. 

He’ll let his head bend down to rest on your thigh as you fall back to sleep. Simon’s hand still holding yours.

You know.

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @waves-against-a-cliff, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

[hunn1e-bunn1e]

Sano 'Mikey' Manjirou - "While You Count Sheep"

🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.

In which while your boss naps away on the sofa in his office, you sneak in and take off some of his workload in secret as usual. Or; In which even after years of being the loyal secretary to the head of Bonten, "Mikey", you still find yourself taking on more work than necessary if only to let the man sleep a few more minutes.

                                                                                                   

💭•♡•💭•♡•💭•♡•💭•♡•💭•♡•💭•♡•💭•♡•💭

The door opens with the near-silent click of the latch sliding back with the turn of the handle. [Name] pauses his movements after taking a single step inside the room; his keen ears picking up the sound of his boss sluggishly shifting about in his sleep. He keeps his body still even after the sound movement ceases; it would be a bother if he were caught. Once he was sure the sleeping man had fallen back into the vice grip of rem sleep, [Name] fully entered the room and softly shut the door behind him before directing his attention toward the large desk in the center of the room.

Letting out a quiet huff, he sat himself in the well-cushioned office chair and lowered its height; making sure to keep a mental note of its original position for when he eventually made his exit. He looked over the various collections of paperwork that held themselves together with paperclips in a medley of colors. The normal clutter that frequently occupied the desk was more organized than usual, which, while slightly reassuring, was also alarming. It was almost as if Mikey had done it on purpose to make it easier for him…

Although, the thought of the majorly depressed, nearly sleepless boss of his knowing about his secretive escapades wasn't all that off-putting now that he thought about it. Mikey was someone who had nearly a sixth sense for danger and [Name] doubted that he would allow himself to sleep when he was unaware of his surroundings. The man had more trust issues than he had seen in anybody in his entire lifetime, but he was sure that it was warranted, even if he had no idea of the snow-white-haired man's past.

[Name] shook his head as he moved on to the next collection of papers, already having completed three while he took an occasional glance at his boss's sleeping form. 

Perhaps, after he had finished a good two-thirds of this paperwork, he would try his hand at finding another healthy recipe that Mikey would like. The panda-eyed man's health was another one of his priorities. Even if it was Sanzu who usually takes care of that, [Name] couldn't help but want to pitch in as well. He was, after all, the second closest person to the head of Bonten out of all of its executives and employees.

“Hm…”  

The quiet slurred hum of the sleeping man to his left drew [Name]’s attention for a moment.

He quietly observed the thin man's relaxed expression with interest. Ghostly pale skin that seemed almost white at times, thin black brows that told of his original hair color, long black lashes that lay atop the apples of his cheeks and deep and heavy bags that hung under his eyes. The man resembled an apparition more than he did a human being.

[Name] huffed once again, eyes trailing back to the task at hand as he made a mental note to ask Sanzu to add Vitamin D supplements to Mikey's list of needed medications. 

As he invested himself into ‘his’ work he only vaguely paid mind to the quickly retreating daylight outside the window and the sluggish but certainly not involuntary movements of the supposedly sleeping man in the corner of his eye. Six piles of paperwork turned into five. Five turned to four. Four to three and three to two; and that was enough for now.

[Name] turned his gaze to the clock that hung above the doorway; 02:37, about six or so hours had passed by in what seemed like seconds. He sighed as he quietly rolled the chair back and stood up; staving off the urge to stretch and pop his joints with the reminder that his boss was still asleep only a couple of feet from him.

His eyes landed on said man and met with a pair of half-lidded, sleepy, abyssal black eyes. He froze, not daring to make even an inch under the near-predatory gaze of the panda-eyed man. Mikey, still half asleep, only stared at him unblinkingly before training his vision on the significantly more organized desk.

“You're done now…?”  

Mikey asked quietly, yet his voice seemed to drown out all of the noise of the outside traffic that poured in from the cracked window.

[Name] only nodded, slowly beginning to move again as he sensed no hostility. He pushed in the office chair and adjusted the height back with one, two, three, and a half pumps of the peddle.

“... tell Sanzu I want dorayaki.”  

The snow-haired man spoke again, adjusting his position on the plush cushions of the sofa and sinking into a relaxed lying position again, the blanket pulled to his chin.

“I'll tell him. I'll see you when you need me again, Sir.”  

[Name] replied, giving a respectful bow and moving to exit the room at a quick but still cautious pace.

As he gently pulled open the door, the quiet voice of Mikey caught his ears again, making him pause in movements.

“[Name]... ”  

He turned his head back to look at his panda-eyed boss, his posture respectful even as the white-haired man wiped the dry bits of crust from the corners of his eyes. How the man who masterminded the movements of Bonten managed to be cute and intimidating at the same time completely baffled him.

“... thank you.”  

Mikey muttered as he flicked his eye crust off somewhere across his room.

[Name] offered a small smile and nod as he exited Mikey's office, quietly closing the door behind him.

It seems that he had been discovered since the beginning. How fun.

💭•♡•💭•♡•💭•♡•💭•♡•💭•♡•💭•♡•💭•♡•💭

🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.

Wanna see similar content? Check out my Masterlist!

[anomaly-hivemind]

POOKIE PART TWO OF KEEP QUIET OF SAE ITHOSHI? SKDSJKDJD LOVE UR WORKS

OMG YESS POOKIE

Keep Quiet Part 2

Keep Quiet! | Sae Itoshi x GN! Reader Part one

Stay Hushed

Sae Itoshi x GN!

Tag: grinding, teasing, edging(a bit), body worship, praise, grinding, penetration…

You both decided that going to an open guest room was the best outcome to get your hands on each other as soon as possible. You both do a couple of hazy checks to see if you guys actually locked the door. Sae quickly works to free himself from the sensory nightmare his boxers had become from early. You watch him hungrily as his cock springs free, already active for more action. He moves over to you, pulling you into a kiss, his hands roaming around your body.

He moves you down to the bed, moving between your legs and rubbing his erection against your entrance. He was moving his length around your hole slowly causing you to shiver. You let out a soft moan that Sae was relishing in the sight and sound you produced. You look him up and down, taking in every detail that you can notice from him.

His body had slightly trembled as if he was trying to restrain himself just as much as he was trying to tease you. He rubs his cock against you, before pushing the tip of himself into you only to pull out before you can both start enjoying yourselves. He lets out a shaky breath as he feels up your body with a gentle and silent apparition. He pushes his hips flush against yours but makes sure not to slide himself into your hole. As he rubs his hands down your hot skin, you sit up and pull him into a kiss.

Your lips glide against one another in a heated motion as you both kiss each other like you are trying to become one with each other. Sae moves down to kiss your jaw and neck then nips his way down your collarbone. You had your grips in his reddish brown locks pulling him more against your skin.

“I can’t wait any longer… please.” You muttered with bated breath.

“Wait a little longer, I want to enjoy you” Sae pulls back as he gropes your sides. You shivered as his strong hands caressed your skin. He slowly dragged out leaving nothing but the tip inside before slowly thrusting back in.

Sae kisses you wherever he can reach while he is still seated inside of you. His movements are slow and deliberate when it comes to where he was feeling you up or marking your skin. He rubbed your skin until he was grabbing your hips, ground himself from getting lost in his own pleasure. He starts to actively move inside you, a pleased sound leaves your mouth as you finally get some of the friction that you wanted.

“Yess yes” You moan and wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a heated kiss, to silence yourself from screaming out to him.

“You're making it hard for me to be easy and enjoy you,” Sae gives you an open mouth kiss and starts to pick up his pace.

You didn’t want him to go easy on you, at least not anymore. You rolled yourself against him, your body making it obvious that you wanted more. You find places to bite him, nipping at his skin and forming hickies along his exposed upper half. You wanted to hear more of his please, the slight groans he made as he tried to keep quiet when you were grinding on him before. Sae lets out a groan and his grip tightens around your hips and his movements take on a more uneven pace.

“You’re doing this on purpose” he let out a hiss, Sae’s eyebrows furrowed and his mouth slightly agape as he let out breathy pants.

You only manage a nod as you hold on to him, pulling at him so he is closer to you. So everything felt more intimate and in the moment. You tried to keep your voice down so that everyone outside couldn't hear the sound that you were making. Sae smirks at you while staying hushed by biting your lips out at him. He let out a chuckle and found an even pace if only for a moment so he could lean down and speak in your ear.

“Don’t hold yourself back.” He said as he started to move faster inside you.

“Sae!” you cry out this time, not coving up and letting the sound echo out into the air.

You hit your peak with the sound of his name leaving your lips, you back arches and you dig your nails into the back. You feel him move into you faster he pants and breathy moans. You both collapsed on the bed beside each other. Out of breath and glossed over in the land of bliss. You looked at each other, a happy expression on your face.

[storiesoflilies]

t.w: mentions of death.

“don’t you know that the hour of your death isn’t upon you yet?”

grimreaper!toji stood there at the top of the hill, his figure a herald of darkness, while the moon tenderly hugged his back, bathing him in the only holy light he would ever know.

“you’re here,” she whispered breathlessly.

toji titled his head. “you called for me,” he replied smoothly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

(perhaps it was.)

the grass beneath his feet had wilted, flower petals withered and crushed under the cool metal of his boot. she couldn’t see his face beneath the wispy strands of his tattered black robes that shrouded him, but she didn’t need to. she already knew the color of his eyes, had felt the sharp curve of his jawline, and the press of his lips against her hairline.

she knew what death felt like.

and she needed to feel him again.

his scythe glinted dangerously, its sharp edge thirsting for an exposed throat. the wind howled around them, biting and gnawing at her cheeks.

“take me with you,” she finally mustered, her voice breaking like waves against the shoreline. “please.”

he was in front of her in an instant. toji was something half like an apparition, but she knew that he was real – perhaps more real than anything on this earth. she saw the shadow of his mouth beneath his hood and a glimpse of the scar on his lip, and wondered what sort of creature could have hurt someone like him.

“it is not your hour,” he repeatedly gently, like a soothing balm smeared over the aching pain in her heart.

she reached out, gripping the shreds of his robes in her tight fists. “i don’t care.”

toji’s lips curled in anger, and the wind howled even harder. “why be so careless with your life? does my blade not frighten you?”

(she could never admit it to him that it never had, and never would.)

his scythe of fire and ice. it had once delicately kissed the base of her throat as a lover might do, drawing only a single ruby droplet of blood. for reasons unbeknownst to her – and perhaps even to toji himself – he had coaxed away the death wrapped around her bones and drawn her soul back from the abyss.

her face crumpled, a single tear running down her cheek like silver.

“i miss you,” she mumbled pathetically, staring at the broad expanse of his chest doused in black. “so much that it makes my soul bleed.”

toji sighed, and sad and ancient sound. he never liked to see her so distraught, for it was in his inherent nature to comfort. to free a person’s soul from the shell of their body, to hold them in the palms of his hands to set them free into the sky before they had the chance to know any real suffering.

(death is kind – kinder than anything that belongs to this world.)

gloved fingers gripped her chin, tilting her face upwards to him. his lips were so close to her now; if only toji would bend down just a little lower, they would meet like the greatest oceans of the world colliding together.

“death would be your greatest doom.”

she shook her head. “no, it–you wouldn’t. i could go with you wherever you went, always.”

toji faltered, his mouth parted as the words danced on his tongue. finally, he admitted shamefully, “i do not wish to love you.”

but she knew that already.

she knew that toji regretted ever letting her know his touch, never meant for her to have ever heard his voice. to know death was to be draped in iron chains, binding her to him until the end of time, and he had always known it would happen.

toji had known all along and had done it anyway.

death is a selfish, selfish being.

her bottom lip trembled as he rubbed his thumb over it. “but you do.”

“and yet, i do.”

they stood together silently, her hands delicately holding his thick forearms wrapped in many layers of cloth. she wondered what it was that toji was waiting for. perhaps for an act of god. for the ocean to sweep them both into the deepest depths, her hand in his as the sky crumbled into swirling, inky water. she wondered if it would hurt, if it would be cold and lonely until toji’s blade fully kissed her.

(she knew she would not cry when death came for her.)

“close your eyes,” toji murmured quietly, relenting at last.

for death could never deny her.

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