#THE FREAKING TEA SHE SPILLED | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joelsrose · 9 days ago

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warninnggssss omg stepdad!joel smut - this is not everyones cup of tea so pls pls be warned also as always 18+ for smut, otherwise to the of age freaks pls enjoyy hehhehe

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You sat at the end of the table, hands resting quietly in your lap as the hum of conversation floated between the clatter of cutlery and the occasional laugh from your two college friends, visiting for the week under the impression that this was just a harmless little getaway—some sun, some sleep, a few homemade meals in the country.

The kitchen smelled like rosemary and roasted meat, the air thick with steam and late evening light spilling in golden across the counter tiles. Your mother sat beside you, bright-eyed and flushed from wine, humming softly to herself as she passed the gravy boat across the table, her hand brushing against Joel’s wrist like it was second nature.

Joel.

Your stepfather.

Your very recent stepfather.

The same man who first walked into your life with a busted toolbelt, a sharp drawl, and a set of rough, dust-smeared hands that knew how to fix things. Walls. Leaks. Cabinets. Hearts, maybe. He was supposed to just reconstruct the kitchen—then, somehow, the bathroom, the laundry pipes, the broken fence in the backyard. And then, before you even realized it was happening, he was reconstructing his whole damn life around your mother.

Married four months ago. Living in your house. Sitting now at the head of the table, sleeves rolled to the elbow, carving meat with quiet precision, those thick, veiny hands guiding the knife like it was sacred ritual.

He didn’t speak much during dinner. He never did—just nodded now and then, a low rumble in his throat when someone addressed him directly.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

He had that heavy, slow way about him—shoulders broad, voice gravelly, expression unreadable unless he was looking at you. Then it shifted. Just a little. Just enough. Like his eyes softened, or his mouth twitched into something barely shy of a smile. But only for a second. Only for you.

He wasn’t your father. As many times as your mother tried to make it so—“Can you ask your daddy what time he’ll be home?” or “Your daddy said he’d pick up more of that good brisket from town”—you never said the word. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Not when your thoughts about him weren’t the kind daughters were supposed to have.

Not when you couldn’t stop noticing the way his shirt clung to his back when he mowed the lawn. Or how his voice sounded first thing in the morning, gravel and heat, rasping low as he stood in the doorway with a steaming mug of coffee and tired eyes.

Not when you still dreamed about the way his hand lingered on your lower back a little too long the night of the wedding, guiding you through the crowd with a touch that didn’t feel familial.

Not when the man who’d been in your life less than a year looked at you sometimes like he’d undo every rule in the world just to have one moment of honesty with you.

And now here he was, sitting across the table, carving roast beef with those strong, calloused hands, the flicker of candlelight catching in his beard and glinting off the silver band on his ring finger that your mother slipped on with shaky hands one courthouse morning.

You swallowed hard, tearing your eyes away, trying to focus on your friends, on the mashed potatoes, on anything but the way Joel kept looking at you when your mother wasn’t watching.

Anything but the fact that he knew you weren’t calling him daddy for a reason.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The living room was dimly lit, the last sliver of pink sunset bleeding through the windows, casting golden streaks across the hardwood floor and the frayed edges of the old throw rug your mother refused to replace. You sat curled up in the corner of the couch, remote in hand, aimlessly scrolling through Netflix with half-lidded eyes, the sound of your friends' soft laughter filling the space around you like warm static.

Your mom had disappeared upstairs just after dessert, fingers laced in Joel’s, her voice pitched high and giddy as she declared, “We’ll leave you girls to your wine and gossip—don’t wait up!” And just like that, they were gone, the creak of the stairs and the hush of a door closing upstairs the only trace of them.

You tried not to think about it. About him. About the way Joel had glanced at you as he stood, one hand braced on the back of her chair, the other resting at his side like he didn’t know what to do with it, his eyes lingering on you for just a moment too long.

“God, what even is there to watch anymore,” you muttered absently, scrolling past title after title, your voice heavy with the kind of lazy boredom that comes after a full meal and a long day. Beside you, Ava stretched out with a little groan, her feet nudging under the blanket as she reached for her glass of wine, while Camila leaned in closer, eyes dancing with a mischievous glint that made your stomach twist even before she opened her mouth.

And then, softly—too softly—like a secret whispered between childhood friends and forbidden crushes, Camila nudged your arm and murmured, “Okay, seriously though… your stepdad is hot.”

The words hit you like a slap. Immediate. Merciless. Your whole body tensed, your spine straightening as if on instinct, fingers clenching tighter around the remote as you turned toward her, eyes wide, heartbeat stuttering.

“What the hell?” you snapped, louder than you meant to, the heat rising to your cheeks so fast it felt like fire, like shame, like panic. “Camila—what the actual—”

But she was already laughing, head thrown back, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her glass as she looked at Ava, who only grinned and shrugged, clearly amused by your reaction. “Relax,” Camila said through her giggles, waving a hand like she could brush it all away. “I’m just saying. The flannel? The beard? He’s got that, like, hot handyman-slash-mountain-man energy. You know I have a type.”

You blinked at her, words stuck in your throat, your brain short-circuiting beneath the weight of something you didn’t want to name—something clawing up your ribs like guilt. You wanted to tell her she was out of line. That it was gross. That Joel was married to your mother, for God’s sake. But instead, all you could manage was a choked-out, “He’s—he’s not—he’s—just—stop.”

And it was Ava’s turn to raise a brow, her smile a little too knowing. “You’re blushing,” she teased, her voice sing-song and cruel in the way only best friends could be. “Oh my God, she’s totally blushing.”

“I am not,” you snapped again, but your voice was unsteady, your face burning, your entire body suddenly too hot for the blanket draped over your lap. You shoved it off, stood up too fast, nearly tripping over the coffee table as you made your way toward the kitchen, trying to pretend like you weren’t unravelling, like your skin wasn’t tingling in places it shouldn’t be.

Because they didn’t know.

They didn’t know the way Joel looked at you sometimes when your mother wasn’t watching. They didn’t know how his voice dropped when he said your name. They didn’t know how his hand had brushed your waist this morning when he reached past you for the sugar and you felt it for hours.

They didn’t know. And you were terrified they might find out.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Camila and Ava had long since fallen asleep in the downstairs guest room, their quiet breaths threading through the stillness of the house, the kind of deep, wine-soft sleep that only came with familiarity and full stomachs and the comfort of being a guest rather than the daughter. Upstairs, you lay in your childhood bedroom, the sheets cool against your skin, your fingers twisting absently in the hem of your tank top as you stared at the ceiling—unmoving, unblinking, like maybe if you kept your gaze steady enough, long enough, it might finally offer you answers to questions you didn’t know how to ask out loud.

It wasn’t that late yet—just brushing past midnight, the witching hour when everything felt thinner, when walls couldn’t hold in secrets and silence started to echo. You wondered if your mother and Joel were asleep already, or if they were still awake in the room down the hall, the one that used to be hers alone before he arrived with his heavy boots and toolbox and made himself at home. A small, traitorous part of you imagined them lying in bed together, her curled against his chest, his arm draped protectively around her waist as he whispered something low and fond into her hair.

You cringed at the image. Not because it was gross. Not because you didn’t want your mother to be happy. But because the weight that coiled inside your stomach at the thought of her in his arms wasn’t disgust—it was jealousy. Quiet, bitter, shame-soaked jealousy that tasted like guilt and felt like sin.

You turned onto your side, fingers pressing into the mattress like you could ground yourself with touch, like maybe if you pressed hard enough you’d stop the thoughts from blooming. But they kept coming, gentle and relentless, winding themselves around you like ivy. You wondered if either of them had noticed the way you always looked away when they kissed in front of you, or the way you flinched ever so slightly when their hands found each other in passing, fingers laced like it meant nothing, like it was normal.

Maybe they thought you were still adjusting. Maybe your mother thought it was some kind of unresolved grief for your father, that you couldn’t accept the idea of her moving on so quickly, tying herself to someone new. Maybe Joel thought it was awkwardness, or disapproval, or some adolescent refusal to see him as a part of the family.

But the truth was far more dangerous. Far more complicated.

Because you weren’t mourning the past. You weren’t angry about her happiness. You were mourning something else entirely—something unspoken and selfish and terrifying.

You were mourning every moment he touched her and not you. Every laugh he gave her and not you. Every soft glance, every private kiss, every piece of him that she got to keep while you sat in the corner pretending you didn’t notice, pretending you didn’t care.

Your thoughts—feverish and tangled and too loud in your head—were suddenly interrupted by a soft knock against the wooden door, three gentle taps that pulled you back to earth so abruptly you nearly sat upright. You thought, for a second, maybe one of the girls had left something behind—toothpaste on the bathroom counter or a charger cord tucked beneath the sheets—so you called out without thinking, your voice barely carrying across the room.

“Come in.”

The door creaked open with a slow, careful push, and instead of Camila or Ava’s familiar silhouette, it was him—Joel. His broad frame filled the doorway, shadowed in the dim hallway light, shoulders hunched ever so slightly like he hadn’t meant to startle you, one hand braced against the doorframe like he was still deciding whether to step fully inside.

You reached instinctively for your side lamp, fingers fumbling with the switch until warm yellow light bathed the room, casting everything in a soft, golden hush. You blinked up at him, eyes adjusting, breath catching at the sight of him standing there like some kind of fever dream.

“Joel?” you asked, your voice coming out quieter than you intended, breathless not from surprise but from the sheer weight of his presence, the way he looked in that moment—undone, unguarded, real in a way that made your skin prickle.

“Hey, darlin’,” he said, that low, southern drawl curling around the words like smoke, as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a gentle click that sounded far too loud in the silence of the house.

He looked—God, he looked like trouble.

Hair mussed from sleep, silver at the temples and curling slightly where it met the nape of his neck, beard soft and full, still flecked with that salt-and-pepper scruff that made him look older than he was but somehow stronger for it. He wore a plain, threadbare t-shirt, stretched across his chest in a way that made your stomach tighten, sleeves rolled just enough to show the veins in his forearms, the kind that only ever came from years of labor, of building things with his hands. His grey sweatpants hung low on his hips, worn soft with age, and barefoot—he looked every bit the rugged, rough-edged man who fixed your mom’s house and accidentally broke something inside of you.

It wasn’t technically unusual for Joel to be in your room—sometimes he’d swing by to drop off something you left in the kitchen, or fix the ceiling fan that rattled in summer, or bring you tea when you were sick and shivering in bed, too weak to do anything but mumble thanks. He’d stand by the door usually, or maybe lean against the wall, say something gruff but kind before disappearing again.

But not like this.

Not late at night. Not when the rest of the house was asleep. Not when you were lying in bed in nothing but a thin camisole and panties, heart stuttering like it didn’t know what to do with itself.

You shifted again, this time a little more nervously, the sheet clutched tighter around your lap even though it did nothing to hide the way your body responded to his presence—your skin flushed and warm, your breath shallow, nipples still visibly peaked beneath the whisper-thin fabric of your top. You saw it then, the way Joel’s gaze flickered, just for a second, dragging across your chest before meeting your eyes again, and something about the way he didn’t look away fast enough made your stomach twist into knots. He wasn’t trying to pretend. He wasn’t playing dumb.

He came to sit on the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, the motion tilting you slightly toward him. He braced one hand beside him, the other resting loosely on his knee. “Were you asleep?” he asked, voice low, his drawl even rougher at this hour, as if it had crawled up from his chest and hadn’t quite settled in his throat yet.

You shook your head slowly, trying not to look too guilty, too obvious. “No,” you said quietly. “I… couldn’t sleep.”

Joel nodded, like he already knew, like maybe that’s why he was really here, not because he happened to be passing by. “Your friends were nice,” he said after a pause, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that could’ve been amusement—or warning. “That Camila though… she’s trouble.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh, the sound a little shaky as you tried to exhale the nerves tightening inside your chest. “Yeah,” you said, nodding. “She is.”

Joel looked at you for a long moment, the silence stretching thin, and then asked, voice low and even, “You have fun?”

You answered too quickly. “Yeah.”

He didn’t miss it. His brow furrowed, not deeply, just enough to signal that he’d caught something he didn’t like, that he could hear the wrongness in your tone the way he could spot a crooked nail from across a room. “What’s wrong?” he asked, that same hand still braced on the bed beside you, his fingers so close to your thigh you could feel the heat of him even through the sheet.

“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head, eyes darting away before you could stop them. “It’s nothing, Joel.”

He tilted his head, slow, deliberate, voice soft but firm like he was coaxing the truth out of you the same way he might coax a wild animal from the woods. “C’mon, sweetheart. You know you’re not a great liar.”

Your throat went tight. You pressed your lips together, tried to hold it in, tried to act normal, tried to act like your skin wasn’t tingling in every place he was near.

“It’s stupid,” you murmured. “Just… one of them said something. Kinda weird.”

Joel straightened a little, his eyes narrowing with something darker, a flicker of protectiveness tightening his jaw. “Weird?” he repeated, his voice sharper now. “They say somethin’ mean to you?”

“No—no, nothin’ like that,” you rushed to say, shaking your head, heart beating hard enough that you were sure he could hear it in the quiet room. “It wasn’t mean. Just…”

He waited. He didn’t speak right away, just tilted his head slightly, the soft creak of the mattress the only sound between you as he waited for you to gather the courage to speak.

“They said something,” you murmured finally, voice barely above a whisper, your eyes trained on your fingers where they twisted nervously in your lap, knuckles white from the tension you refused to let rise to the surface. “About you.”

Joel was quiet for a beat, then let out a low, careful hum. “Oh,” he said, not shocked, not offended, just… waiting. Another pause. “Okay.”

You looked up at him then, meeting his gaze for the first time since the words had started tumbling from your mouth, and it felt like standing too close to the sun—too warm, too intense, too dangerous. His eyes were calm, steady, and yet you felt like they were peeling layers off you without even trying.

“You can tell me,” he coaxed, his voice the softest kind of gruff, the kind that scratched gently at your throat and made you ache in places you didn’t have names for. “Ain’t gonna get upset, sweetheart. Promise.”

You swallowed hard, your heart thudding louder now, the heat creeping up your throat in a slow, mortifying wave as you looked down again. “They just…” you huffed, frustrated with your own inability to say something so simple, so ridiculous, even though it had been clawing at your thoughts all night.

“They said you were…” you trailed off, then forced yourself to look up, cheeks burning as you finally let the words escape. “They said you were ‘hot,’” you mumbled, using your fingers to make sarcastic little quotation marks in the air, the motion clumsy and half-hearted, your voice wrapped in embarrassment and something else—something you couldn’t disguise.

Joel blinked slowly, like he was processing it carefully.

He just sat there, eyes fixed on you, expression unreadable but far from indifferent, and in the quiet that followed, something in the air shifted. It was subtle—barely a breath—but it was there. Heavy. Humming. Like the moment before a summer storm breaks.

And then, finally, in that low, quiet drawl that had already undone you more times than you cared to admit, Joel tilted his head and said, “That right?”

You gave the smallest nod, unable to find your voice, your cheeks hot under the weight of his gaze.

He chuckled, and it was somehow worse than silence—warm and familiar and achingly beautiful, the kind of laugh that wrapped around you like smoke, like comfort, like danger disguised as something gentle. “That’s what’s got you all twisted up, honey?” he asked, his voice teasing now, smooth as whiskey and just as sharp. “That why you’re up past midnight, lookin’ like you got somethin’ sittin’ heavy on your chest?”

“I’m not upset,” you said quickly, the words spilling out too fast, too defensive. “It’s just—” you shrugged, eyes falling to your lap again, “weird.”

Joel raised an eyebrow, the mattress shifting slightly beneath his weight as he leaned in just enough to make you feel it—his presence, his size, the scent of him that smelled like cedar and something warmer, deeper, something male. “Ain’t that weird,” he said, like it was fact. Like you were the one being unreasonable.

You blinked at him, heart stumbling over itself. “What?”

He shrugged, one corner of his mouth tugging into a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What—you think I’m hideous or somethin’, darlin’?” he asked, voice laced with mock offense, but there was something beneath it, something hot and coiled and barely leashed.

“No,” you said quickly, instinctively, your body tensing. “No, but—”

Joel cut you off with a slow, quiet laugh, the kind that sent goosebumps across your arms. “D’you agree with your friend?” he asked, his voice quieter now, lower, thicker, like molasses sliding slow over bare skin. “Simple question, angel.”

You swallowed hard, every part of your body suddenly too aware of itself—your hands, your legs beneath the sheet, the way your breath caught in your throat. “I—” you stammered. “You’re my—my stepdad. It’s weird.”

Joel’s expression didn’t shift. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t flinch. He just watched you, calm and steady, as if your panic was a ripple in a pond he’d already seen coming.

“Ain’t weird,” he said again, this time definitively, like he was putting the matter to rest, the final nail in a coffin you didn’t even realize you’d built together. “You’re my stepdaughter, sure,” he said, voice slow, smooth, dragging each word like he wanted you to feel them deep in your chest, “but that don’t change the fact that you’re a goddamn stunnin’ girl.”

Your breath hitched.

His eyes flicked down for a heartbeat—your lips, your collarbone, the outline of your thighs beneath the sheet—before meeting yours again. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with seein’ beauty, even if it’s standin’ right in front of me in my own house. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with noticin’.”

His hand flexed again against the mattress beside you, the muscles in his forearm shifting subtly, a quiet tension that mirrored the storm building between your ribs.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with wantin’, either,” he said again, and this time it wasn’t casual or dismissive—it was low, like a confession, like he meant every word, like he wasn’t just talking about himself.

Your breath hitched, your chest rising too fast, falling too slow, and before you could control it, your thighs—hot and aching beneath the thin layer of sheets—pressed tighter together in a desperate attempt to calm the pulsing ache that had bloomed low in your stomach. But it was no use. Your body betrayed you before your mouth could even try to lie.

And Joel saw it.

Of course he saw it. He always did.

He let his gaze drop, just for a moment—just long enough to trace the path of your clenched jaw, your flushed chest, the twitch of the blanket where your legs shifted beneath it—before dragging his eyes back up to yours with a slowness that made your skin feel like it might catch fire under the weight of it.

“It’s wrong,” you said, barely more than a breath, and even you could hear how unconvincing it sounded. Your voice faltered halfway through the sentence, like your mouth was trying to say something your heart didn’t believe.

Joel’s lips parted in a soft, nearly pitying sound, almost like a laugh—but gentler, rougher, like he was mourning the guilt you were dragging behind you like a chain. “That why you’re squirming, sweetheart?” he asked, voice like gravel and honey, rich and wrecked and too kind for the words it carried. “Sittin’ there all flustered, lookin’ at me like I done somethin’ to you?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The air felt thick enough to drown in.

Joel leaned in just a little, his voice dipping lower, like the walls had ears and he didn’t want anyone else to hear what he was about to say.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with me takin’ care of you,” he murmured, slow and steady like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Makin’ you feel good. Keepin’ you safe. It's my job, ain’t it?”

You swallowed hard, and he saw that too.

He kept going, not touching you, not even leaning closer—just letting his voice wrap around you like his hands would, if you asked.

“These boys your age… they don’t know how to treat you,” he said, his mouth curving into something soft, something almost sad. “Don’t know how to be patient. Don’t know how to listen.”

His hand shifted slightly on the mattress, just enough to make the sheets pull tight where his thigh pressed close to yours.

“They’ll rush you,” he said, voice barely a whisper now. “Use you up. Leave you empty.”

He let the words hang, heavy and devastating.

“I’d never do that to you, baby.”

You let out a soft sound—breathless, choked, almost involuntary—the kind of desperate little noise you might’ve tried to bury into a pillow if you were alone, but now it just slipped out, raw and real and open, hanging there in the charged air between you.

Joel’s eyes darkened instantly, and his voice followed like a velvet trap. “Aw, angel,” he cooed, low and dripping with something syrup-thick and sinful, “you’re aching, ain’t ya?”

You nodded, barely, shame crawling up your spine, your thighs clenching again under the sheets like you could hide the truth from a man who already saw it, already knew. And yet… you nodded. You nodded because it was true. Because every cell in your body felt hot and heavy and needy in a way you couldn’t soothe on your own anymore.

“Ain’t nothin’ to be embarrassed about, sweetpea,” he murmured, shaking his head slow like you’d just said something silly, something naive. “It’s normal,” he added gently, like this was a lesson. Like he was here to teach. “You’re a girl with needs, and I’m a man who understands ‘em. Ain’t nothin’ dirty about that.”

His hand came up, calloused fingers brushing your cheek with a kind of reverence that made you dizzy, his thumb stroking softly under your eye like he could smooth the guilt out of you if he just touched you gently enough. “Sweet girl,” he whispered, so low it made your chest ache, “always so good for me.”

You felt warm all over, like something inside you had melted and was slowly seeping into every inch of your body, like honey left in the sun.

Joel leaned back just slightly, humming low in his throat, eyes never leaving yours, like he was thinking—weighing something. And then, in a tone so casual, so infuriatingly calm it made your stomach twist, he said, “How ‘bout I help you out, huh?”

You blinked, confused, dazed, the words hitting you like warm water to the face. “Help me?” you asked, voice small and hesitant, caught between fear and want, your hands twisting in the sheets like they might anchor you to the moment.

He nodded slowly, his hand sliding from your cheek to rest on your knee—over the sheet, but the heat of it still bled through like a brand. “I want you to show me, baby,” he said, his voice still soft, still that same gentle, soothing register, like he wasn’t asking you to cross a line you could never come back from. “Show me how you do it when you’re all alone.”

Your breath caught. Your face burned. The blush that bloomed across your cheeks felt like it went all the way down to your chest, to your core, to every private place you’d ever touched in the dark.

“I—Joel,” you stammered, but your voice crumbled before it could form a protest.

He tilted his head, squeezing your knee through the sheet, patient and unbothered. “Ain’t nothin’ to be shy about, angel,” he said, his voice dipping lower, rougher. “You think I don’t know you been lyin’ here at night touchin’ that sweet little pussy all quiet-like, tryin’ not to make a sound?” He let out a low chuckle, but there was no cruelty in it—just warmth, affection, like you’d done something precious.

“Bet you rub that clit nice and slow, tryin’ to make it last, huh?” he murmured, eyes locked on your face, watching every tiny reaction like he was reading scripture. “Bet you squeeze your thighs together after, all messy ‘n wet, pretendin’ you’re not thinkin’ ‘bout me.”

You buried your face in your hands, humiliated and flushed, but Joel’s voice pulled you right back out, soft but firm. “C’mon now. Be a good girl and show me.”

You hid your face in your hands, hot with shame, your entire body throbbing with heat, soaked in places you didn’t dare acknowledge, and still trembling with that same awful, beautiful ache—the one that told you this was wrong, and yet made it impossible to pull away.

You were mortified, confused, soaked to your thighs and full of a desperate longing that made your skin feel too tight, your thoughts tangled and wet and unbearable.

Joel chuckled softly, the sound low and warm, curling in your stomach like smoke. “You trust me, don’t you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, gentle and coaxing and so sure of the answer he didn’t need to hear it.

But you nodded anyway, fingers twitching as you lowered your hands just enough to meet his gaze, tears brimming in your eyes though you didn’t even know what you were crying for.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and that phrase—good girl—broke something loose inside of you, made your breath catch and your throat tighten like it meant something more than just praise. Like it meant ownership. Like it meant love.

Then, in a voice that was suddenly lower, rougher, more dangerous and yet still laced with the same softness that made your stomach flip, he said, “Now go on, baby. Show your daddy how you take care of that pretty little pussy when you’re all alone, thinkin’ ‘bout me.”

You whimpered, the sound barely making it past your lips, and shook your head a little, helpless. “I—I don’t know what to do,” you whispered, your voice cracking like it was made of glass.

Joel gave a quiet, affectionate sigh, like you’d just said the sweetest thing he’d ever heard. “That’s alright, sugar,” he said, sliding a heavy hand beneath the sheet and letting it rest there for just a moment before slowly, deliberately, peeling it back.

You froze as the cool air met your bare skin, the way his eyes didn’t look away, didn’t hesitate, just drank you in like this was the most natural thing in the world, like he wasn’t your stepfather and this wasn’t your childhood bed, like this was inevitable.

“Let’s take this off then,” he said, more to himself than to you, as he folded the sheet down past your hips, your thighs, your trembling legs, until you lay there exposed, vulnerable, soaked through your panties with shame and arousal.

Joel’s eyes swept over your bare thighs, lingering on the soaked fabric clinging to the soft curve of your cunt, the way it shimmered faintly in the low lamp light like it was glowing—wet, messy, desperate. You hadn’t even touched yourself yet, hadn��t done more than breathe, and still, your body had betrayed you, eager and hungry and utterly undone just from the sound of his voice, the scrape of his knuckles, the weight of his gaze.

And Joel saw it.

Of course he did.

He let out a soft, almost pitying coo as he shook his head, tongue pressing briefly to the inside of his cheek like he was trying to hold back a sigh. “Honey,” he murmured, slow and low, that molasses drawl laced with disappointment more than anything else. “You’re drippin’, baby.”

The words weren’t cruel, but they still cut through you like a knife, made your skin prickle and your breath catch, not because he was mocking you—but because it was the truth. Because it was said like a reproach, like he was gently scolding you for keeping this from him. Like he was hurt.

“Jesus,” he whispered, shaking his head again, the softest furrow in his brow. “You waitin’ this long to ask for help, baby? Layin’ up here, soaked and achin’, all by yourself?” His voice dropped even lower, eyes still fixed on the wet patch that was growing darker by the second. “That ain’t good for you, sweetpea. All that tension. Sittin’ in your belly like poison. You know better than that.”

You whimpered, small and mortified, your eyes stinging with some ugly cocktail of shame and want and that unbearable tenderness only Joel could wring out of you.

“You shoulda come to me,” he said, as soft as a prayer, his hand drifting up to rest against your thigh, close but not touching—not yet. “Coulda knocked on my door, baby. Just a tap. I’d’ve taken care of you real easy. Real sweet.” He let out a quiet sigh, like this hurt him more than it hurt you. “But instead you’re up here, rubbin’ those pretty little thighs together like that’s gonna do the job.”

You whimpered again—quiet and pathetic, a sound barely born before it trembled out of your lips—and Joel made a sound that was halfway between a groan and a sigh, his whole body shifting like it hurt him to hear you like that, like your suffering was something sacred. “My sweet girl,” he rasped, rough with reverence, and as if the words alone weren’t enough to mark you, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple, slow and tender and terrifying in its intimacy.

You froze.

It was almost absurd—after everything, after the confessions, after the filthy words spoken in soft murmurs, after sitting in your soaked underwear before him like an offering—but that kiss, that small, chaste brush of lips to skin, shattered you in a different way. You and Joel had never shared physical affection beyond fleeting, innocent moments—a hand to your back when you were sick, a brush of shoulders in the kitchen, the occasional hand-off of a cup of tea or a charger cord. But this? This was different. This was personal. This was loving.

More intimate than anything else he could have done.

And then, his voice dropped again, low and drawling, thick with heat and authority. “Alright,” he said, his tone like velvet soaked in whiskey. “Take those panties off real slow for me, sugar. I wanna see that sweet pussy beg.”

Your breath caught hard in your throat, your fingers twitching against the sheets, and for a second you didn’t move—couldn’t move—because the words had landed so heavy, like a weight dropped into your chest. But then, with trembling hands and a heart that felt too big for your ribs, you obeyed.

You reached down, fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear, soaked through and clinging to your skin, and began to ease them down, slow and hesitant, your eyes flickering up to meet his just once, just long enough to see the way his gaze had darkened—hungry, wild, but still soft. Still Joel.

The damp fabric peeled away from you, shame dripping off you in waves as you slid the panties down your thighs, over your knees, until they slipped past your ankles and landed in a silent heap on the floor beside the bed.

You were breathless now—your chest rising and falling in shallow little gasps, your skin flushed from head to toe, your legs trembling beneath you—and you didn’t even know if it was from fear or want or that horrible, beautiful mixture of both.

Joel didn’t say anything at first. He just looked.

Eyes fixed between your legs, steady and unhurried, drinking in the sight of you like it was something holy, something he didn’t quite deserve to see but was going to relish anyway. His gaze was slow, heavy, and unbearably calm—as if he hadn’t just coaxed you into peeling off your soaked panties and baring yourself in the soft hush of your childhood bedroom with the door shut and your mother asleep down the hall.

And then, in that voice—low, rough, coated in syrup and sin—he spoke.

“Spread them legs for me, baby,” he murmured, each word drawn out like he wanted them to linger in the air with you. “Let daddy see all that slick.”

Your cheeks flushed so hot it made your head spin, and for a second, your instinct was to turn away, to close your legs, to hide. But instead—God help you—you smiled, small and shy and aching with embarrassment and need, your body humming with the unbearable thrill of being seen.

Joel smiled too—lazy, pleased, touched with something warmer than it had any right to be. “That’s my good girl,” he said, the praise so soft and familiar it made your chest ache. “Gettin’ comfortable for your daddy, ain’t ya?”

You nodded, almost bashful, your thighs parting just a little wider beneath his gaze, the air cool against your soaked skin as the wet heat between your legs pulsed steady and demanding.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he said, his voice sinking even lower, that dangerous softness thickening into something you could feel in your bones. “Go ahead. Show me how you rub that sweet clit.”

You hesitated only for a moment, heart pounding so loud it was all you could hear, and then—because you couldn’t not obey him, because the way he was looking at you made you feel small and precious and filthy all at once—you did as he said.

Your fingers slid between your thighs, tentative and trembling, and when they brushed over your swollen folds, a broken little gasp left your mouth—because you were soaked, slick, messy in a way that made your face burn with shame, and Joel saw all of it. Your fingertips found your clit, swollen and begging, and you gave it the lightest, slowest circle, your legs twitching as your breath stuttered.

Joel let out a low groan, like the sight pained him, like he was holding himself back from something feral. “That’s it, baby,” he rasped, his eyes fixed to your fingers like he was hypnotized. “Touch her real gentle. Let her know daddy’s watchin’.”

“That feel good?” he asked, voice low and slow, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it—wanted it offered up like a gift on your trembling tongue.

You nodded, breath shaky, fingers still working soft circles against your clit the way he told you to, hips twitching just a little with every pass. “Y-Yeah,” you whispered, too dazed to even pretend you had shame left in you.

Joel tilted his head slightly, that familiar crease forming between his brows, not angry—just expectant, like a teacher waiting for the right answer from a student who already knew better. “Yeah what, baby?”

You swallowed, chest fluttering with nerves and something hotter, deeper, heavier. Your voice was barely a whisper when it left you, breath catching halfway through.

“Yes, Daddy.”

The sound he made in response was filthy—a low, deep groan rumbling straight from his chest, so raw it made your thighs twitch and your core clench. You could see it in his face, the way his jaw went tight, how his hand flexed again where it lay on the bed, like he was holding himself back from something that required restraint.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and those two words—so soft, so reverent—landed heavier than anything else, sinking into your skin like praise and ownership all at once. And then, with a tenderness so at odds with the filth between you, he placed one big, warm hand on your thigh—his thumb brushing soothing little arcs into your skin—and leaned in to press a quick, burning kiss to your shoulder, beard scraping against your skin, his breath hot and damp where his lips had just been.

“You’re doin’ so good for me, baby,” he whispered, barely pulling back. “Such a sweet girl—touchin’ herself just like Daddy asked.”

You whimpered, spine curving as your fingers moved faster now, helpless under the weight of his words, his touch, his eyes. You did as he said—not because you had to, not because he forced you, but because the sound of his voice, the heat in his gaze, the approval dripping from every word made you want to be good. Made you want to be his.

“Keep goin’, sugar,” Joel said, his hand tightening just slightly on your thigh. “Let Daddy see you fall apart. Let me see what that sweet little pussy looks like when she comes.”

Your fingers moved faster now, slick and shaky, the soft pressure turning greedy, desperate, your hips rising off the bed in tiny, involuntary pulses as the heat in your belly began to coil tighter, higher. The room was filled with the wet sound of your arousal—loud, obscene, almost embarrassing in how eager you were—and still Joel said nothing for a moment, just watched, eyes dark and full of something you couldn’t name, something between awe and hunger and ownership.

He inhaled deeply through his nose, like he was trying to commit the sound, the scent, the sight of you to memory, and his voice dropped an octave, ragged around the edges.

“Look so fuckin’ sweet spread out like this for me, baby,” he said, almost like it hurt to say, like the words tasted too good in his mouth to come out clean. “My precious girl… puttin’ on the prettiest damn show a man could ask for.”

Your breath hitched at his praise, your thighs twitching, fingers circling your clit faster now, harder, your other hand clutching the sheets like you’d fall through the bed without it.

“You gettin’ close, sweetheart?” Joel asked then, and his voice—low, rough, tender—wrapped around your body like a second skin, like heat itself. “That little pussy about to come just from your fingers, huh? Just from daddy watchin’ real nice?”

You nodded, too frantic to form words, mouth falling open in a soft gasp as your body trembled beneath his gaze, every nerve ending alive and raw.

He leaned in just a little, resting his forearm on his knee like this was casual, like this was just a late-night conversation and not your stepfather watching you masturbate in your childhood bed.

“That’s it,” Joel murmured, voice thick with hunger but still achingly gentle, like he was speaking to something sacred, something tender and breakable. “Good girl—look at that messy lil’ cunt cryin’ for me, fuckin’ weepin’ like she’s been starved her whole goddamn life.”

And that was it.

The coil snapped.

You came undone with a shattered, strangled whimper, hips jerking beneath your own hand as the orgasm ripped through you like heat lightning—fast and sharp and blinding. Your whole body shook, your thighs clenching tight around your wrist as slick spilled out of you in wet pulses, and the only thing tethering you to earth was the sound of Joel groaning, low and ruined, like the sight of you breaking for him had knocked the breath clean out of his lungs.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby…” he rasped, watching your body twitch and flutter through the aftershocks. “That’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Before you could even come down from the high—before you could catch your breath or close your legs—Joel shifted forward, leaned in, and pressed the softest kiss to your still-pulsing, overstimulated clit.

You shuddered, your legs trembling violently, your whole body jerking like you’d been shocked, because it was too much—too much—and still, he kissed you there, soft and wet, like it was a mouth made to be worshiped, and he had every right to worship it.

“Can't wait to eat this sweet pussy all fuckin’ day,” he muttered against your folds, so filthy it made your toes curl. “Could live off what she gives me.”

You let out a noise—half a sob, half a gasp—your legs twitching in overstimulation, your chest heaving, eyes wide and glassy with something too big to name.

Then Joel was moving—pulling back, licking his lips like he’d just tasted something divine, and reaching for your face with hands that were still so gentle it made you ache. He cradled your cheek like you were porcelain, and leaned in close, eyes locked to yours.

And then, for the first time, he kissed you.

It was dizzying—soft and sensual, lips slow and reverent, his breath fanning across your cheek as his mouth moved over yours like he’d been waiting a lifetime to do it right. No filth. No commands. Just Joel. Just him.

When he pulled back, his forehead just barely grazing yours, he looked at you like you were the only thing in the whole damn world worth saving—like he’d burn the house down if it meant you’d never feel lonely again. His thumb brushed tenderly across your lower lip, tracing the shape of your mouth like it belonged to him, and his voice dropped into a soft, hushed whisper.

“I’m so proud of you, baby,” he murmured, reverent, wrecked, like you’d just done something brave instead of obscene.

“You… are?” you asked, barely able to get the words out around the haze still curling in your chest, that dazed warmth thick and dizzying in your veins.

“‘Course I am,” he said instantly, the words falling out with such quiet certainty it made your chest tighten, his voice steady and heartbreakingly sincere, like there wasn’t even the possibility of doubt in his mind. His thumb brushed your cheek again, slow and warm, and he looked at you with something so proud and tender it nearly broke you. “You were real brave for me, sugar. So sweet. So good.”

His voice dipped lower, softer now, almost like he was sharing a secret meant for your skin alone.

“Touched yourself like an angel, baby. Like you were made to be watched.” He let out a shaky breath, still a little wrecked himself, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it. “The way you spread those thighs, all flushed and achin’... shit, sweet girl, you made yourself come so pretty for me. Like you’d been waitin’ your whole life to let someone see.”

And God help you, but you smiled at that, soft and small and shy, your heart thudding unevenly in your chest as you leaned back up to kiss him again—slow, sweet, a little unsure but filled with something quiet and blooming.

He moaned against your lips, low and approving, one hand cradling your jaw as he deepened the kiss for just a moment, like he couldn’t help himself, like the taste of your mouth was something he’d never stop craving.

“Gonna keep makin’ you feel good like you deserve, sweetpea,” he whispered when he finally pulled back, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, then your jaw. “Just gotta get you ready for me first, yeah? Can’t rush somethin’ this special.”

“Okay,” you breathed, and the sound of your own voice surprised you—how soft it was, how trusting.

Joel smiled like he already had forever planned out.

“Good girl,” he said, and your heart stuttered. Then, with a gentleness that made your throat ache, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his hand brushing back your hair like you were something cherished.

“Now get some sleep,” he whispered. “Daddy’s right here.”

And he stayed—just like that—sitting on the edge of your bed, hand still resting lightly on your thigh, as your eyes fluttered closed, your body sore and soaked and safe in the dark.

#joel miller #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic #joel miller one shot #ellie tlou #pedro pascal one shot #joel miller fic #joel miller tlou #joel miller the last of us #tlou joel #tlou hbo #joel miller x female reader #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x reader #pedro x reader

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i-cant-sing · 11 months ago

Text

Yandere Batfam x reader who cant feel pain

HEhehehe i just remembered a disease and I just had to write about a reader with it x yandere batfam.

Have you guys heard of CIPA? Its "Congenital insensitivity to pain with anhidrosis" which is basically a genetic condition when a patient cant feel pain to any noxious stimulus and can also not sweat, and yall are probably like "but SNoWWW, that doesnt like a diSEase. More like a superpower!!!" um no. You need to be able to feel pain or else you wont know what part of your body has been injured and get help before its too late. You could have thumbtack plunged in your foot and u wouldnt know unless it got infected and u probably saw ur foot changing color.

And now yall are like "but SNoWw, the anhidrosis part, where u cant sweat, sounds nice! who would to look like a sweaty pig in this age????" NO! Sweating is a necessary physiologic phenomenon because it lets your body cool down as it releases heat. If you dont sweat, you'd overheat and DIE!

Okay now that we've covered the basic info, lets get into it:

So, Batfam finds out about reader when she's just running into danger with little to no care for self preservation, and they dismiss it as you being just another dumb teen wanting to be hero and "change the world". Time passes by and Bruce is impressed by your passion and decides to take you under his wing.

It isnt until months later that Bruce discovers something odd about your behaviour. You were standing in the kitchen with the rest of the batkids, laughing and having a good time when he saw Dick had pulled out a hot pan of cookies from the oven and placed it on the aisle. The pan slipped, and without thinking, you had grabbed the hot pan with your bare hands very calmly and placed it back on the aisle, without so much as a hiss of pain or even a sweat.

And now that he thinks about it, Bruce has never seen you sweat. Not during training, not during summer, not even when after you ran laps around the mansion.

With a quick search on the Internet, he finds out about the disease and of course its Dick who he confides in first about his suspicions. Soon, the rest of the batfam has heard the rumours and now they're all watching you keenly to see if its true.

But Jason is the one who tests out the theory quickly by spilling some hot tea on your hand when you were busy talking to Tim about the importance of sleep. The room goes dead silent as they watch your hand turn red, yet you fail to react. It took you a few seconds to realise that they're all looking at you, and when you follow their gaze, it takes you a few seconds to react.

Or fake a reaction.

You shriek, pulling your reddening hand as you run to the sink and run it under cold water, your mind trying to come up with an excuse. But you know its too late when Bruce's hand comes to clasp your shoulder, pulling you away from the sink as his eyes examine your injured hand and... you.

"Bruce I-"

"I know, Y/n." He gives you assuring nod, carefully bandaging your hand as you sat in his office. "You have CIPA, hm?"

You looked down. Why bother lying? He's Batman, he'll find out anyways.

Bruce lifted your head and smiled gently at you. "Its okay. I'm not disappointed in you. I just... you could've told me." You shook your head. "If I did, you would've treated me differently... like a freak."

He sighed. "You are different, but I would've never treated you like a freak. You're not a freak. If anything, between us, I'm more of a freak than you." He was talking about being a hero, but you giggled at the thought of him referring to being a rich dude who cosplays in spandex.

Bruce cupped your cheek and smiled. "I promise, no one will treat you like a freak. But we will have to take some precautions for your safety."

He lied. You've never felt more like a freak than you do now.

Every single day would start off with Dick waking you up and sticking a thermometer in your mouth because he needs to make sure that you're not overheating, even though Bruce has set a thermostat in your room that he controls and he's programmed it to turn your room temperature change by the hour.

Then Dick would start checking you all over for any bruises or injuries, even a scratch, that you may have caused yourself in your sleep. Originally, Damian was the one who had a whole checklist as he examined your body, but that all ended the moment you smacked him when he asked you to lift your shirt. Dick would just have you go and check yourself in the bathroom and trust you when you said you're all good. Also, you're much nicer to Dick than you are to the rest of the brothers (its his puppy dog eyes and that sweet voice that compels you to do as he asks. He's just too nice.)

Dick would then lead you to down for breakfast with the family, where Alfred already has your glucometer out because of course, they must check your blood sugar level every day, lest they find out you're diabetic or something. Only then would you be served your meal, which is a highly nutritous, perfeclty seasoned, balanced dish because they want to make sure you dont have any vitamin deficiencies (because how would they know???? you dont feel pain). But you cant eat just yet. No no, whichever brother is closer, most often Jason, will first taste your food to make sure its not too hot to consume (because you dont realise you've burned the roof of your mouth that one time when Tim ate a slice of pizza that was fresh out of the oven and huppahhuffpuhh the morsel out). Jason would then give you the go to eat and you finally do. You make sure to finish the whole plate (because otherwise Bruce will make note of it and then interrogate you "medically" why you didnt feel like eating all of it?)

After breakfast, while the rest of the batkids get to go to school and work, you dont (because Bruce thinks that your immune system could be weak and he cant risk you catching any diseases from the outside.) No, you get a special trip to the infirmary where Bruce and Alfred do a more thorough medical check up, taking your vitals, JOTTING IT DOWN, while Alfred hooks you up to an IV drip of vitamins. And even though they go to such extents to ensure that you're healthy, they still take you to a skilled doctor once a week for regular check ups. Bruce wanted to keep the doctor in the house to do daily check ups, but you talked him out of it that you dont want to feel like a lab rat who has her blood taken every day. Once a week is fine, Bruce.

Once the medical check up is done, Bruce would then take you with him, either to Wayne enterprises where you sit in his office as he imparts you "business education that no school can teach you." which you believe because... well he has managed to triple the Wayne wealth even after his parents death. If he's working from home, then he'll let you accompany him in his home office where you can either read a book he chose for you (because Bruce prefers to homseschool you himself) or do a puzzle/case he created specifically for you. If he's working in the batcave, then he'll let you tag along but you can only work here by brainstorming or doing some computer research, but in no way are you allowed to ever go on field and fight. No, not since your last incident.

Just 2 months ago, you were patrolling with Jason (because Bruce refused to let you go alone now. He just wont risk it) and you encountered some bad guys who were a little more well equipped than you two had expected. A fight broke out, and in the process you got hurt badly. Of course, you didnt realise it because you didnt feel any of the punches or the bone fracturing. Jason could only look at you in dread as you smashed your head against the villain's head until the guy passed out, all while your nose bled, you were covered in bruises from top to bottom, AND you had a bone sticking out of your arm.

"Jay? I think I'm hurt?" You asked as blood coated your teeth.

After that, Bruce forbid you from going out on the field altogether because you just dont know when to stop. If it werent for bones sticking out or blood dripping down your face, you wouldnt know that you've been injured.

Anyways, at lunch, almost everyone has returned from work/school and you get yet another balanced meal (temperature tested by another brother). You're now scheduled for some exercises, usually conducted by Damian (under Dick's supervision because otherwise, you'd just be smacking that devil's spawn.) You guys use the gym in the basement, where Damian makes you run on the treadmill for some time, during which he does not take his eyes off you once because he needs to know when he should stop you, especially since you dont sweat or are even huff. If he didnt keep time, you could probably run for a long time and not realise that your legs or lungs are begging you to stop and take a break. As you hop off the machine, he's immediately taking your temperature. He does it after every exercise he makes you do.

After that is done, you spend time with Tim who likes to have you try on little gadgets that should "help you feel pain", but so far, he hasnt had any luck (but he doesn seem to be doing good in disguising trackers in your daily wear things). Oh and Damian loves to join in because he gets to sneak up on you and prick you with needles to help Tim see if your sensory pathways work. They dont, but you dont need your pain receptors to detect Damian coming up behind you as you smack him when he tries to prick you.

Then dinner is served, and then you're ushered straight to bed where Dick, or more often- Bruce has you do a self check like the one Dick does in the morning, but Bruce also makes sure to check your eyes to see if you "accidentally scratched your cornea" or whatever, tucks you in, tells you that he's so proud of you for how youre handling this and that you can come to him anytime, for anything. He kisses your forehead, wishes you goodnight, and leaves.

Half an hour later, Jason sneaks into your room with the goodies- junk food and video games. You two have the strongest bond because Jason is the one who treats you the most normal, and Jason does it partly to piss off Bruce but partly because he cares about your mental health. He knows it cant be good for you to be cooped up in the mansion under supervision like a bird in a gilded cage.

So sometimes, he sneaks you out of the mansion and takes you out on late night rides on his bike. You can even watch him fight villains, but you're sat far away and can never interferre.

Unfortunately for you two, this sneaking out will have to end because Bruce had recently decided to set up some cameras in your room because he wanted to make sure you slept well without any abnormal breathing patterns. Bruce hopes he doesnt have to use restraints on you, because he's not blind. He knows you're uncomfortable with this intricate routine and knowing your impulsive self, you'd probably break your own bones to get out of these restraints. And then he'll be forced to use sedatives and he really doesnt wanna rely on drugs... he likes your company when you're not droopy.

And as Bruce had anticipated, you broke down. You finally tried to leave, and he could see the color draining your face as you realised that there is no leaving.

"Why isnt the door opening?" You asked Bruce, as his four sons slowly surrounded you.

"You dont have to run away, Y/n-" He tried to calm you down but you flinched away, eyes wide as you looked at him like he was going to harm you.

"Bruce, why isnt the fucking door opening?" Your voice trembled, shooting him teary glare before focusing your eyes back on the boys who were closing in on you.

"You're meant to stay here, inside, where its safe." He answered, heart aching at the alarmed stance you took, your fight-or-flight was going to kick in. He took another step towards you, hands raised in surrender. "We can keep you safe-" thats all it took for you to bolt as the boys began chasing you. Realistically, you knew you couldnt escape them but something about their intensely concerned calls for your name had you jumping out of the window.

Glass shattered and sharp shards embedded themselves in your skin and feet, but you didnt react to them. No, your brain wasnt screaming in pain, it was screaming for you to get out!

Adrenaline pumped you to run into the dark woods surrounding the mansion, but you were soon knocked to the ground by Dick, who cushioned your fall by placing you on top of him as his hands wrapped around your form like a cage. "Y/n, calm down and listen-"

You began thrashing in his arms, screaming in agony. "Let ME GO! YOU'RE HURTING ME-!" Dick's arms loosened instinctively and you took that as a chance to elbow him in the throat and run, thanking some deity for letting Dick forget that you cant feel pain.

But your relief is short lived as Damian catches you and pushes you to the ground harshly. "Damian! Be careful! She could break a bone-"

"Bones can heal, Drake." Damian barked back, pulling you up before he pushed you against tree. "Let me go, you maniac-" Damian's hand clamped around your throat, making you shut up. "You're the one who's a maniac. Look at you! You've fucking hurt yourself because if your astounding stupidity!"

You whimpered, clawing at his hand wrapped around your throat. "Dami- p-please let go- you're hurting me!" You cried out, but your eyes went wide as he squeezed your throat and bared his teeth at you. "Not falling for it, dumbass." So... fooling Damian wasnt as easy a feat as it was fooling Dick.

You stopped the act and looked at him dead serious. "Let me go, Damian, or-"

"Or what?"

Or what? Or what? Did he think you were out of options? Out of escape plans?

You dont know why, but that triggered something inside you.

Damian and Tim could only watch as you suddenly slammed the back of your head against the tree. "Y/n-" He gasped in horror as you leaned your head forward before slamming it back against the hard rough surface. This time, Damian's hand that was wrapped around your neck felt your blood around his fingers.

"Its my life and I get to decide how I should live it." You sneered before raising your head again to bash it, but Damian's hand quickly slipped from your neck to the back of your head, cushioning it when you smacked it back, the skin on the back of his hand breaking as it made contact with the bark.

You pushed him away and tried to make a run for it, but Tim grabbed your wrist. You tried to pull away, but he had a death grip on it. "Y/n, stop! You need to listen-"

"Oh is that so? I think I need this." You used your other hand to punch yourself in the face (because Tim would've dodged it if you punched him), making your nose bleed. But you didnt feel any pain, and now you were acting like a super soldier zombie that has no concept of self preservation who is going through fucked up lengths to prove her point.

Your eyes caught the sight of a glass shard poking out of your thigh. "Wanna see something cool?" You pulled out the shard, not paying mind to the blood oozing out. "Y/n, stop-" Tim begged, and you saw Damian froze in the back as you raised the shard.

They didnt know what your next target was- slashing your wrists, slitting your throat, or stabbing your stomach, but fortunately, they didnt have to find out as Jason came up behind you and injected you with a tranquilliser.

Sadly, you never felt the prick or sensed the hero sneaking up behind you.

thoughts? also, what other diseases would u guys like me to write for. i just adore these cool medical abnormalities lol

#yandere batfam #yandere batman #yandere batboys #yandere bruce wayne #yandere jason todd x reader #yandere jason todd #yandere dick grayson #yandere damian wayne #yandere damian x reader #yandere tim drake #yandere #yandere x darling #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere x y/n #yandere family

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goldsainz · 1 year ago

Text

❝ THAT’S THAT ME, ESPRESSO ❞

MASTERLIST!

pairing . . . charles leclerc x reader

◦∘｡ﾟ. request . . . “hii !!! i love the new sabrina carpenter song (esspresso) and was wonderimg if you could do a smau with charles x reader based off it !!”

◦∘｡ﾟ. summary . . . the internet can’t believe you two know each other, let alone fancy the other.

◦∘｡ﾟ. note . . . back from my fic making slump!!! i hope yall like this because i actually had fun writing this soooo… happy reading everyone 💙 (also pls don’t ask for pt2 because i don’t usually make them or enjoy doing so)

liked by charles_leclerc, maudeapatow and 1,724,865 others

yourusername you can keep thinking about me every night even more because espresso is out everywhere now!!!! ☕️🤎

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ynfan1 MOTHER IS MOTHERING

ynfan2 can’t wait for ynchella

⤷ ynfan3 oh she’s gonna eat everyone uppp

charlesfan1 what is charles doing here🤨

ynfan4 if y/n was my gf best believe i’d never stop thinking about her

charlesfan2 charles liking… i have a theory but i fear i’ll get bashed for it

charlesfan3 charles is so real for being a y/n fan

⤷ ynfan5 who’s charles???

⤷ charlesfan3 f1 driver! and apparently likes y/n cause he liked this and doesn’t even follow her😭

ynfan6 this song SLAPS

ynfan7 she just releases banger after banger after banger!!!

charlesfan4 bye why did charles like this

ynfan8 huge HUGE slay

charlesfan5 charles i get you sweetie

charles_leclerc updated their instagram stories!

charlesfan21 responded to your story!

charlesfan21 BYEEEE THIS IS SO UNSERIOUS

charlesfan22 responded to your story!

charlesfan22 you’re not slick this song is obviously about you!!!!!!

ynfan21 responded to your story!

ynfan21 spreading the y/n agenda iktr 😌

charlesfan23 responded to your story!

charlesfan23 that performance had you SHOOK

ynfan22 responded to your story!

ynfan22 i just KNOW it was you she was smiling at

liked by ynfan31, ynfan32 and 62,904 others

ynupdates y/n at bleachers’ coachella set with f1 driver, charles leclerc!

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ynupdates guys i was so chill in the caption but i can assure you i am freaking out too😭

⤷ ynupdates WTF IS HAPPENING ACTUALLY

ynfan33 my brain cannot comprehend this

charlesfan31 nah this can’t be real

charlesfan32 oh im so sick

charlesfan33 he shot his shot and SCORED

⤷ ynfan34 how did he bag my womannn😩

⤷ charlesfan34 that’s HIS woman now i’m afraid

ynfan35 they could be so cute together

liked by tinistoessel, tayrussell and 2,058,439 others

yourusername coachella weekend one you’ll forever be in my heart 🩶 thank you to everyone who made this possible and to everyone who came to see me, you made this experience even more incredible!!!! can’t wait for next weekenddd

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charles_leclerc Amazing perfomance 😊❤️

liked by yourusername and 173,982 others

⤷ charlesfan41 boy if you don’t get off the floor…

⤷ ynfan41 oh you are down BAD too

ynfan42 she slayed so hard

ynfan43 should’ve headlined tbh

charlesfan42 charles you better spill your secrets

⤷ charlesfan43 we need pierregasly to tell us the tea

ynfan44 nobody is doing it like her

ynfan45 babes what are you doing with that vroom vroom guy

charlesfan44 WE ARE IN SHAMBLES SOMEONE DO SOMETHING

ynfan46 did i just lose my wife

⤷ charlesfan45 just lost my husband too…

-ˋˏ *.· taglist . . . @lorarri @lpab @noncannonships @lunnnix @elliegrey2803 @saintslewis @leoramage @toomuchdelusion @anthonykatebridgerton @enhacolor @gulabjamoon @louvrepool @ravisinghs-wife @hobiismyhopeu @starlightpierre @lecsainz @kkeelss @namgification @minkyungseokie @gothgirlez @f1version @vroomvroommuppett

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slutoru1207 · 1 month ago

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Invincible!Dad x pregnant reader (Bonus scene 2)

Uncle William, Aunt Amber and reader having a sleepover

You, William, and Amber were deep into a “self-care night,” sprawled across her couch in face masks, fuzzy socks, and oversized t-shirts. A half-empty bottle of rosé sat on the coffee table, and the mood? Immaculate.

Amber stretched, taking another sip from her glass. “Okay. Let’s get real.”

William perked up. “Oh? Are we talking shit?”

Amber smirked. “Better. We’re talking sex.”

You nearly choked on your tea. “Oh, we’re just jumping right in, huh?”

Amber shot you a look. “Girl, please. You’re literally pregnant. The time for being shy is long gone.”

William snorted, grabbing a pillow to hug. “She’s got a point, bestie.”

You sighed dramatically. “Fine. But if we’re doing this, I need details.” You wiggled your fingers. “Spill the freaky tea.”

Amber grinned. “Gladly.” She leaned in. “So, I was hooking up with this guy last week, and when I tell you—this man had me on my toes.”

William gasped. “Not the toes.”

Amber nodded, sipping her wine. “Like, I thought I’d seen it all, right? But this dude? Straight-up folded me like a pretzel.”

You cackled. “AMBER—”

William grabbed her arm. “Wait, wait, wait. Describe it.”

Amber smirked. “Let’s just say—ankles over my head, hands pinned, and I saw God.”

You screamed.

William threw his pillow across the room. “BITCH.”

Amber tossed her hair. “What can I say? Man knew what he was doing.”

You fanned yourself. “Okay, well, damn. Now I feel like my stories are boring.”

Amber scoffed. “Oh, hell no. You have Viltrumite dick. Spill. Now.”

William nodded aggressively. “Yes. Bestie. We need to discuss the logistics of being railed by someone with superhuman stamina.”

You took a deep breath. “Alright. Buckle the fuck up.”

Amber and William gasped in unison.

“So,” you continued, setting your glass down. “First off? Man has zero idea how strong he actually is.”

William covered his mouth. “I knew it.”

You nodded. “Like, we’ll be going at it, and sometimes he’ll grip my thighs too tight and boom—bruises.”

Amber nearly choked. “Girl.”

William grabbed your arm. “Does he at least feel bad afterward?”

“Oh, so bad.” You giggled. “Like, full-on puppy dog eyes, ‘Babe, I didn’t mean to hurt you’—and I eat that shit up.”

Amber smirked. “You love it, don’t you?”

You shrugged innocently. “I mean, listen—when a man can pick you up like it’s nothing and hold you against a wall for a whole twenty minutes?” You exhaled dramatically. “It does something to you.”

William screamed.

Amber threw a pillow at you. “BITCH, YOU’RE LIVING MY DREAM.”

William flopped onto the couch. “I knew Mark was secretly a freak. I just knew it.”

You sipped your tea smugly. “Oh, you don’t even know the half of it.”

Amber and William leaned in instantly.

“Oh, you have to tell us now,” Amber insisted.

You grinned, twirling a strand of hair around your finger. “Let’s just say… sometimes, when he gets too into it, he starts hovering.”

Amber’s eyes widened. “NO. HE. DOESN’T.”

William slapped the couch. “I KNEW IT.”

You nodded. “Deadass. One second we’re on the bed, next thing I know? We’re floating.”

Amber wheezed. “MA’AM—”

William was losing it. “HOW DO YOU EVEN RECOVER FROM THAT??”

You giggled. “Well, I didn’t freak out, but Mark? This man panicked. He dropped us so fast, we damn near broke the bed frame.”

Amber died. William was crying.

“I hate you,” Amber wheezed.

William wiped fake tears. “This is the best conversation I’ve ever had.”

Amber sniffed dramatically. “Okay, but wildest place?”

You tapped your chin. “Hmm… rooftop of a random-ass building in the city?”

Amber’s jaw dropped.

William threw his pillow across the room. “I— I’m speechless.”

Amber clutched her chest. “You’re thriving.”

You flipped your hair. “Thank you.”

Amber sighed dreamily. “Okay. Now I need to get me a superhero.”

William nodded solemnly. “Girl, same.”

The three of you clinked glasses, your laughter filling the room.

And honestly? This was exactly the kind of chaos you needed.

#mark grayson invincible #mark x reader #invincible comic #invincible fanfic #invincible x you #invincible season 3 #mark grayson x reader #invincible x reader #invincible smut #mark x you #x afab reader

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fallstheking · 4 months ago

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loser!ellie college headcanons

ellie has a crush // pt 1 of ?

pt 2

mdni

contains ; nothing but her being so down bad and having no game

• loser!ellie who expected to finish college as the only girl on the hockey team to never score (and she didn't mean points- she scored those.) (sometimes.)

• loser!ellie who first saw you in at a party that the hockey team dragged her to and abigail fucking anderson started talking about you and was about to go make a move and ellie freaked the fuck out and purposely spilled her drink on you just so she could pull you away from the crowd because oh my god you were so pretty it hurt her

• loser!ellie who you were absolutely pissed at for ruining your shirt but she smiled at you all sheepish and lopsided with those puppy dog eyes and you melted

• loser!ellie who invited you to her next game and when you showed up with her number painted on your cheek and cheered for her loud as fuck she nearly melted on the ice

• loser!ellie who got benched immediately because her head wasn't in the game

• loser!ellie who found out you worked at a campus cafe and started dragging jesse and dina all the way across campus with her every morning and was subsequently late for her first class every day

• loser!ellie who didn't realize you had written your number on her cup until she had already thrown it away and then dug it out of the trashcan in broad daylight

• loser!ellie who texted you immediately with a meme like this and completely forgot to say who she was (you knew)

• loser!ellie who thought you hated her because you just responded 'lmao' and proceeded to have an actual crisis over it

• loser!ellie who got a text from you four hours later that was a lot less dry and she realized oh you were probably just busy

• loser!ellie who found out you liked music and then did absolutely everything in her power to figure out what music you liked so she could learn it on guitar

• loser!ellie who lowk stalked you on instagram for weeks but waited for you to follow her first so she wouldn't seem like a weirdo

• loser!ellie who then immediately started posting memes like this on her story

• loser!ellie who oh my god oh my god you liked the stories oh my god

• loser!ellie who ahejeknjdjd you reposted them to your story ????

• loser!ellie who realized you hadn't missed a game since the first one she invited you to???

• loser!ellie who asked joel for advice lmao

so theres this girl i go to school with and

• dad!joel who laugh reacted the message (ellie would yell at her sister sarah for teaching him how to do that later)

• loser!ellie who finally got the nerve to ask you out and went into the coffee shop so confident and then saw you weren't working

hey ur not working this morning?

hi ellie !! no not today i'm sick

• loser!ellie who bought some premade soup and some peppermint tea and literally ran to your place (she has a car??)

• loser!ellie who asked you out while you were dying (a bit sick) of the plague (a cold) and it was her last chance (you would be back at work in 2 days) to profess her undying love (huge crush) on the fair maiden (cute barista) before her

• loser!ellie who short circuited when you said yes and just stared at you in unblinking silence for so long you had to call dina and jesse to come get her ass

• loser!ellie who didn't realize you had liked her back from the moment she smiled at you at that party

• loser!ellie who bragged to abby about bagging you

• loser!ellie who is never letting you go

first post completed! feels so good i hope u guys love it

#loser!ellie #loser!ellie x reader #ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie x reader #ellie tlou #ellie the last of us #ellie x fem reader

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angelluv16 · 2 months ago

Text

Rumor Has it

✩: Kaia Jenner, the youngest Kardashian-Jenner, is an up-and-coming actress. When F1 driver Charles Leclerc casually calls her his favorite actress, the internet goes crazy. What starts as rumors turns into a whirlwind of drama, chemistry, and public scrutiny.

Part 3

faceclaim: Cindy Kimberly, girls from Pinterest

Want to be added to my taglist?: Click here

pairing: Charles Leclerc x Jenner!reader

request: no!!

warnings: Hate, fluff, Angst, Language,

previous part | Main Masterlist | next part

-------------------------✩-------------------------

I tossed my phone onto the couch beside me, but the stupid grin on my face wouldn’t budge. Charles freaking Leclerc just slid into my DMs. Well… kind of. It was just a dumb conversation about swimming, but still.

“You’re smiling at your phone,” Kim pointed out, not even looking up from her laptop. “Which means one of two things—either you just secured a bag, or you’re texting a guy.”

I rolled my eyes. “Maybe I’m just really excited about my new pool floaties.”

Khloé snorted. “Yeah, because that’s totally what makes you smile like that.” She turned her head to look at me, raising an eyebrow. “So? Spill. Who is it?”

“It’s no one.” I grabbed a pillow and hugged it to my chest, maybe a little too defensively.

Kylie smirked from across the room. “It’s someone.”

“It’s really not,” I tried again, avoiding their stares.

Kim finally looked up, narrowing her eyes. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Khloé gasped dramatically. “Wait—wait, wait, wait—this wouldn’t have anything to do with Charles Leclerc, would it?”

My stomach dropped. “What?”

Kylie’s eyes lit up like she just hit the jackpot. “Oh my God, it is!”

I groaned, burying my face in the pillow. “It’s not!” My voice came out muffled.

Khloé grabbed my phone off the couch before I could stop her. “Then you wouldn’t mind if I—”

“Khloé, I swear to God, give that back.” I reached for it, but she held it out of my grasp, laughing.

“Relax, I’m not actually gonna go through your DMs,” she said, tossing it back to me. “But the fact that you panicked says everything I need to know.”

I slumped back against the couch, huffing. “You guys are so annoying.”

Kim sipped her tea, looking far too smug. “So, when’s the wedding?”

I groaned again. “I hate all of you.”

Kylie grinned. “Yeah, yeah. Just make sure we get front-row seats.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

liked by charlesleclerc, kendalljenner, francisca.cgomes, and 65,783,789 others

kaia.jenner: A week in my life, Waiting to finally get those lessons

view 14,114 comments

charlesleclerc: I already told you I'm free whenever

kaia.jenner: Alright Pretty boy I'll see you at my house for those lessons

username10: Damn Charles was faster then me wtf

username11: THE ONE DIRECTION SHIRT

username12: Who's ur favorite member??

kaia.jenner: I've been a zayn girl Since I was little.

francisca.cgomes: Gorgeous gorgeous

kaia.jenner: All you

kendalljenner: she's been Staring at her phone I think waiting for a text from you

username13: ahah Not kendall Outing her

username14: waiting to see "Charles leclerc was seen in LA" post from f1 gossip

username15: At this point, just show up at the track and demand them 💀

kaia.jenner: Not a bad idea 🤔🤔

username16: I just know Charles is sweating after seeing this

username17: She’s so desperate for attention, it’s embarrassing.

username18:Another rich nepo baby making everything a moment 🙄

username19: I fear you’ll be waiting longer than Ferrari waits to switch tire strategies 💀

username20: Kaia, if you don’t pull up to Monaco with floaties and DEMAND your lesson I will hunt you down.

username21: Just tell him Lando offered first and watch how fast he books a pool

lando: Yeah If you want I can teach you (pls don't run me over Charles)

charlesleclerc:😡😡😡

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

-------------------------✩-------------------------

Taglist: @anamiad00msday @Ale-522 @sarx164 @gottalovesae @meadhbhcavanagh @fulla02 @fanficfanatic77 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @golden-hoax @poolclaws @Hadidsworld @perfectmenarefictional @lottalove4evelyn @edgyficuselastica @nebarious @mbioooo0000 @fanny2811 @greantii @norstappenvibes @mary-op81

-------------------------✩-------------------------

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hrrtshape · 3 months ago

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GIRL, NEW YEARS??????? Omg if you're staying for a minute, SPILL THE DR TEA

i shifted for a quarter of a year.....does the cia want to know my location??

it’s soooooo over for you all. i have seen the light (coryo). i have tasted the forbidden fruit (no..not coryo). i have held hands with fate and made out with destiny in a dark corner of a new york rooftop bar (coryo!!!!).

hi. so. i shifted. with this method.

and listen, the universe is a freak. it’ll knock the wind out of you, throw you down the stairs, steal your wallet, and then, while you’re still gasping for air, go, ‘oh, my bad. here’s a gift card. also, you can shift now.’ so. hi. i’m back. i lived in my better cr for three months. an entire fiscal quarter. and now i’m here again, blinking in the fluorescent light of this reality, trying to form sentences like a war vet just back from the frontlines.

what do i even say? where do i begin? i guess the first day. let’s set the scene: september 20th. autumn in new york. cinematic. LET'S GOOOO.

i shifted back. cried. obviously. cried some more. then locked in (queen never crumbles) and promptly lost my entire mind on the balcony. squealing, jumping, doing the full carrie bradshaw excited little twirl in paris before she got fucked over the russian short guy. if my neighbours were watching, they were getting a show.

i got dressed for school. threw on something casually devastating. drank matcha on the way as i picked up lily-rose. business as usual, except i was vibrating at a higher frequency than ever before. every nerve ending in my body was singing. i was so happy.

then. okay. i know i said i got with coryo. and i did. (everyone say: ‘she won.’) but. not yet. patience. restraint. delayed gratification. all that. i saw him that first day, and did i think about jumping him? yes. did i? no. but he winked at me.like the absolute menace he is. imagine me, gripping my books like a regency heroine whose gloved hand was just brushed by a suitor. i nearly blacked out. then it was onto the usual: maths, english, lunch, philosophy, p.e. (where i spent the full hour contemplating coryo in gym clothes. blessings upon this timeline), history.

post-school, me, lily-rose, and malina (@chaaistained you made a cameo, my ride-or-die) went shopping on fifth ave because of course we did. the girls were girl-ing. capitalism was capitalism-ing. i know you’re nodding. i know you get it. we all get it. then home. girl dinner. filmed some deeply unserious tiktoks. stalked coryo’s instagram (two days apart and i was already checking for potential threats. he had none. heh). chatted with my car, caesar. absolute king. i was, in a word, thriving.

and now i know what you’re thinking. ‘emma. you were there for three months. why didn’t you stay longer?’ and lovies, i hear you. i do. but last time shifting ate me alive and spat me out, so we’re doing things differently now. a little here, a little there. back and forth, like a woman with multiple lovers in different countries. balance. we're ed recovering this stuff.

oh ! also. minor detail but i started an anonymous page in the shifting community over there. what’s it about?????? well. let’s just say i’ve been documenting.

more soon. xoxo. gotta organise these rogue thoughts first

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milliesfishes · 3 months ago

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Ok here’s the vision for a fiC request: either coryo’s spouse/ romantic interest/ personal assistant/ all 3? You pick- she notices someone is following her and is freaked out and tells coryo- but it’s actually just the people he has on call as personal security for her LOL

౨ৎ꣑ৎcoryo tries to protect you౨ৎ꣑ৎ fem reader x coriolanus snow

The door clicked shut behind you, and you tossed your handbag on the chair beside it, trying to hide your sniffles and failing. Clutching the door handle, you flicked the lock and let your shoulders drop, chest rising and falling heavily.

Your hand rose to your mouth, covering it as tears poured down your cheeks. Body trembling, you let a little cry escape. With any luck, he wouldn't hear you and you'd be able to escape to the bathroom to scrub any evidence of distress away before he joined you.

"Darling?" Luck was not on your side tonight. You should have known.

Standing up straight, you brushed away a stray tear as he entered the room. For once, he'd made it home before you did, and you knew very well he'd come from his office. In your marriage, you'd learned that if you weren't there to distract him, he would work himself to sleep.

Coriolanus' hair was messy, the first few buttons of his shirt undone. He'd discarded the red tie you'd watched him knot from bed this morning. His clear blue eyes frothed with concern the second he took you in, his arms taking you in. Your head fell to his shoulder, too tired to pretend anymore.

He smoothed your hair, straightening your dress as well. It was untidy from running up the stairs since you'd been too scared to use the elevator. "Let's come over here, yes?" His voice was calm, but you could hear the slight tint of worry beneath. "We'll get you some tea. You're safe now, sweetheart, it's okay." He guided you down the hall to your bedroom, sitting you down atop the white bedspread you'd selected before the wedding.

The entirety of your shared bedroom had been yours to decorate and you'd been nervous for him to see it at first. But he'd reacted so sweetly when you'd revealed it. You shifted in your spot, toeing off your shoes as your husband called down for tea.

Once he was done, Coriolanus went to the dresser, pulling out a pair of your cute little pajamas. You accepted them gratefully, changing into them while he took off his work clothes. He returned to you in a pair of boxers, pulling you into his lap as he sat down. You snuggled into him, exhaling when he pressed a kiss to your hair.

"What happened, darling?" Coriolanus murmured, running a hand up and down your back. "Bad night?"

You sniffled, lifting your head to look at him. "It was f-fine. It was a nice dinner. My friends were nice. The food was good."

"Good." He kissed your brow. "What happened after that?"

"I w-was walking to the car," you said, your voice hitching. "And there was a man watching me. And I'd seen him when I was going into the restaurant too. And when I got out of the car here-" You sniffled, more tears surfacing and spilling onto your cheeks. "He was there too. He's following me. I'm scared."

"Oh, baby," he whispered, pulling you back in and pressing your face to his shoulder. "What did he look like? What was he wearing?" The series of questions was delivered in a harsher tone than the first thing he said.

Still hiding your face in his neck, you mumbled, "He was wearing black...a-and he had a gold watch. And he was talking on the phone but he was w-watching me-"

"What color hair?" Coriolanus interrupted, furrowing his brow.

"Dark," you said, sniffling again. "A-and there was another man with him. And I saw another one come up to them w-when I got home."

He was quiet for a moment. Then his hand resumed stroking up and down your spine. "Were they wearing earpieces of any kind?"

You looked up at him, eyebrows pinched. "I saw one wearing one." Paling, you gripped his arms. "Are they part of something, Coryo? Are they gonna come back for me?" Sniffling, a few more tears fell down your cheeks. "I'm scared, Coryo."

"Oh, darling," he soothed, starting to rock back and forth. "Hey...it's okay. They're not going to hurt you." He waited a moment before softly saying, "I hired them."

Your eyes widened, and you went rigid in his lap. "You-?"

"They're security, sweetheart," Coriolanus explained calmly, stroking your hair, trying to get you to relax. "They're protecting you."

Wiping your eyes, your breath hitched again. "You-you didn't tell me about that."

"I know, baby," he cooed, drying your tears with his thumb. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"Why didn't you tell me?" You were crying out of relief now more than anything, but you were still upset for a whole new reason.

"I didn't think you'd like the idea." Coriolanus was searching your eyes.

"I don't," you huffed, sniffling again. "I don't need it, Coryo. I can take care of myself."

He nodded solemnly, lifting his hand to rub your cheek. "You can. I'm very sorry, sweetheart."

Your eyes fell down to his chest, biting the inside of your cheek as you thought. His hands were on your hips now, holding you gently. Letting the thought and his apology marinate for a moment, you breathed in and out. "Okay."

Coriolanus leaned in, kissing your forehead. "I promise you're not in any danger. If they do their job right, you never will be."

You snuggled back into him, face in his neck. "I'd rather have you with me."

"And I will be whenever I can," he promised, smoothing your hair. "You're always safe with me too."

You remained with him until the tea came up, a plate of your favorite cookies on the tray too. He didn't grace his office again for the rest of the night, remaining with you. His presence wordlessly reassured you of your safety, and you smiled softly when he got up to draw the curtains, making sure the balcony doors were locked.

As he got in bed, folding his arms around you protectively, you smiled, hiding your face in his chest. Coriolanus kissed your head, accompanying it with, "I've got you. You're safe."

It was easy to drift off after that, his warm chest and heartbeat under your ear.

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus snow imagine #tbosas #ballad of songbirds and snakes #coriolanus snow fluff #coriolanus snow fic #tbosas x reader #hunger games #tbosas x you #coriolanus snow tom blyth #thg tbosas #thg series #the hunger games #thg fanfiction #milliesfishes coryo

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m1ckeyb3rry · 2 months ago

Text

Synopsis: Sunday is your mirror, as you are his — or, how meeting him spells your doom, just like losing you spells his.

HSR Masterlist

Pairing: Sunday x Reader

Word Count: 7.2k

Content Warnings: female reader, second person in some parts and third person sunday pov in others, religious themes because…it’s sunday…, not canon compliant because idk wtf happened in penacony and i don’t feel like figuring it out, not lore compliant either because i’m #toocool for that, ooc because i wanted to make sunday a freak, major character death but not really on screen just mentioned/implied, unreliable narrators, halovians are Very Different (both from their canon depictions and from humans in general), robin mentioned but she’s also probs ooc idfk i’ve never written for honkai star rail and i’ve played for like a month tops, sunday is a d1 piner, sunday loses it, sunday crashes out, weird narrative structure, very nonsensical, in terms of endings we have no endings (it’s like open to interpretation ig), m1ckeyb3rry’s monthly drop of MID

A/N: i wrote this really quickly for my beloved illu’s birthday!! unfortunately i didn’t get the idea until like two days after the date itself so it’s a bit late LMAOO also it sucks but. it has SUNDAY !! my first foray into the hsr verse…hehe…anyways illu i could go on about how much i appreciate you and how glad i am that we’re friends but for the sake of conciseness i shall leave it at HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY GOAT @milksnake-tea I LOOK FORWARD TO ANOTHER YEAR OF CRASHING OUT TOGETHER 🙂‍↕️💖 LOVE AND KISSES I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS A BIT!!!

There is a ghost waiting for him in the confessional booth. Velvet curtains cover the latticed wood, obscuring its contents from his view, but the effect comes to nothing. He knows she’s there, he always does, he can feel her presence. It’s a chill seeping into his bones as he kneels — he doesn’t need to kneel, of course he doesn’t need to, but it’s a habit he’s yet unwilling to break — and clasps his hands together. It’s a supplication for something, but it isn’t until his mouth is opening of its own volition, his wings fluttering in alarm and his eyes widening as the words are wrenched from his lips, that he realizes what he’s begging for.

“Please,” he whispers. His voice echoes in the empty room, mocking him, teasing him. Please. Please. What right does he have to ask her anything? He’s sure that’s what she’s thinking. He’s sure she’s laughing in that odd way of hers, and his throat constricts at the image. “Please—”

Forgive me? It reverberates in his mind, that fragment of a thought, jagged at the edges, sharp like a blade and twice as cruel. Isn’t that it? Forgive me. Forgive me. Please, forgive me.

“Condemn me,” he says instead, and then he’s struck by a burst of anger, hot and unyielding and entirely at odds with the weight of his tongue in his mouth, which is all leaden and unwieldy and clumsy and despicable. “Condemn me or forgive me or what have you!”

He waits, as he always does. One, two, three. He counts on his fingers, an invisible metronome ticking in his mind, mechanical and perfect in rhythm, keeping time for his vigil. Four, five, six. The curtain flutters in a phantom breeze, and for a second he can pretend that he sees a flash of bright in the darkness of the booth, a dancing shade like a glittering iris peering back at him. Seven, eight, nine. He doesn’t care what she says. He doesn’t care about any of it. As long as she says something, it’s fine. Condemn me. Forgive me. He’s not sure which he would prefer at this point.

Ten.

The ghost is silent.

The first time you met Sunday, it was raining. Everything about him was limp in the storm — his clothes, the fabric clinging to his slender frame; his hair, spilling onto his pale brow and trailing down his mannequin-straight back; even his wings, which drooped miserably towards his shoulders, the preened feathers translucent at the edges from dampness.

When he turned to glance at you, you expected his demeanor to shimmer with the famous benevolence of his family. Sunday Oak, the heir, the young lord; certainly there would be a kindness to him, a gentleness permeating throughout the very essence of his being. Certainly he had been born a saint, anointed in the waters of his mother’s womb before he could even draw breath, incapable of humanity’s many shortcomings and fallacies. Certainly these things were true, and that was why it frightened you all the more when, for one singular moment, his impassive mien crumpled into a glare, as baleful as it was captivating.

His eyes were a sharp, canny gold, feline in both shape and shrewdness, framed by lashes clumped together with wet. They were terrible in the way of a dying star, that peculiar brand of horror so beautiful that it was impossible to look away, and indeed you stood transfixed until he cleared his throat and arranged his face into a polite smile.

“I wasn’t aware we had visitors today,” he said. He spoke carefully, perfunctorily, reading from a script he must’ve memorized long ago. You stiffened, for although he had not given you any reason to think it, you were suddenly very certain that you were not supposed to see him like this, his fingers curling over the slick rail of his balcony, his dark abdominal wings folded tightly over his stomach and his halo dull in whatever light struggled through the clouded sky.

“I was just leaving,” you said. “I must have made a wrong turn. I apologize for disturbing you, sir.”

“You needn’t apologize,” he said, and there he was, the man who you had expected: Sunday, the scion of the Oak Family. Gracious Sunday; magnanimous Sunday; Sunday the prince and Sunday the saint. He was so finely constructed it made you wince, his blinding delicacy and keen refinement eerie, preternatural. A baser instinct of yours told you to run, reminding you of a time when those of his kind ruled over humanity with impunity, pleading with you to save yourself before it was too late.

You bit back your fear so hard that blood exploded over your palate, salty and sweet in turn, viscous as you swallowed it back and offered him a smile. He did not return it in full, but the corners of his mouth curled up slightly. That should’ve been soothing, but it only served to worsen the electric anxiety running through your veins.

“I shall call my sister and tell her to fetch you,” he said. “I would hate for you to find the Oaks remiss in our hospitality. I am sincerely sorry that you were not given an escort earlier.”

There were so many things you could say to him. I ran. Does that make me remiss? I’m the one who ran from them. You could reassure him, promise him that you would be alright on your own and there was no need for Robin to come. You could do any of these things, yet you were frozen like an insect in the amber of his stare, and so you did not.

“Thank you,” you said, bowing slightly, lowering your eyes to his leather shoes in a valiant attempt to free yourself, “for your generosity.”

“Do you think it’s possible for people to forgive themselves?” he asks his sister. They’re sitting in the parlor, porcelain teacups in their hands, pinkie fingers raised primly in the air. His sister’s cup is chipped at the base, but every time he tries to throw it away, she pitches a fit, which is so uncharacteristic of her that it renders him speechless. This one is special, she insists. There’s doves painted on it. See?

It isn’t special, there’s countless others exactly like it, but he caves to her whims far too easily, as he always does. He’s prone to it, after all; she wants for things so rarely as it is, which means denying her few requests when she makes them is nigh-impossible. So he allows her to keep the ruined cup, on the condition that in his presence, she holds it in her left hand, for he never wants to see the blemish again.

“I’m not sure,” she says. Her voice is always dreamy, but as of late there’s been a tangible sadness to it. He’s asked her what’s troubling her countless times, but his every attempt is met with a shake of her head and a solemn oath that it’s nothing. “Maybe.”

“I don’t think that it is,” he says. “At least not at first. You can’t forgive yourself before you’re forgiven by anyone else.”

“If you were already so sure of the answer, brother,” she says, cocking her head at him, “then why did you ask?”

“Hm?” he says, furrowing his brow. She takes a sip of her tea, and maybe it’s the angle or maybe it’s a trick of the light, but he swears that that dammed chip is taunting him, smarting like a peeled-off scab.

“It’s a strange practice of yours,” his sister says, batting her eyes at him in a way that makes him feel shrunken and tiny, as if she knows everything and he knows nothing, although by all rights it’s the other way around.

“What do you mean by that?” he presses, voice coming out harsher than he’d like. Cringing, he sets his teacup down and folds his hands in his lap. “My apologies, sister. I — I did not mean to speak to you in that way.”

She raises her drink to her lips, smiling at him over the dove-painted rim, and says nothing more.

Robin Oak was like nightshade, the most beautiful flower you had ever seen and, incidentally, the most poisonous. She was lilac where Sunday was silver and sapphire where he was gold, but although the edges of her halo and her face were rounder than her brother’s, as malleable as he was rigid, she was no softer than he. Perhaps she was even colder for it, all the more deadly, unassuming and quiet, poised to strike with a warbling song and a tittering giggle.

“Hello,” she said, and although the two of you were ostensibly having a normal conversation, she still talked like there was a song in her voice, her cadence lyrical and amused. “We’ve been looking for you for a while.”

“I didn’t go very far,” you said, following after her as she navigated the hallways without hesitation.

“Of course not,” she agreed. “But who would’ve thought you’d end up in Sunday’s room?”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” you said, cheeks heating up at the sly implication. “I sincerely thought I had happened upon some study or restroom where I might recuperate.”

“He does keep his surroundings austere,” she said. “I’ve tried to convince him to hang up paintings or photographs, but he refuses. He’s like that.”

“I see,” you said, as neutrally as possible. Robin must’ve sensed your disinterest, for with a soft, breathy, chuckle, she steered the conversation away from her brother and to another subject entirely.

“Ah, you mentioned recuperation? Do parties tire you, too?” she said, and maybe it was manipulation or maybe it was genuine kindness, but it disarmed you all the same. Bashfully, you nodded, your shoulders hunching in on themselves involuntarily as you continued down the corridor.

“They are exhausting. I can never handle them for more than a few minutes at a time,” you confessed. She wrapped an arm around your torso, a companionable vice of a grip, and although you shouldn’t have been, you were surprised to feel that her skin was blazing to the touch.

“Nor can I,” she said. “There’s a commonality. Let’s be friends.”

It was a command, not a request. You knew better than to believe that Robin Oak would request anything; the world was at her feet, the universe shifting so that her words became truth, so why would she bother with questions and hesitance the way the rest of you did? She was no more human than Sunday. She was even less, only just as good at pretending, at painting on a doll-like mask to disguise her lies.

“Well, then it is a pleasure to be your friend,” you said.

“Don’t talk like that,” she protested.

“Like what?” you said.

“Like I’m somebody important, or like I have a status worthy of only the highest respect,” she said.

“But you do,” you said. She nudged you in the side with some measure of eagerness.

“No, no, forget about that,” she said. “I’m just like you, okay?”

“Okay,” you said, even though that could not be further from the truth, even though she could not be further from you.

“I swear on truth,” he says to the congregation, the beige churchgoers in their beige robes with adoration sparkling in their devoted eyes. “I swear on the calendar. I swear on words. I swear on values. I swear on rules. I swear on meaning. I swear on—”

A chill rushes down his spine, icy fingers grabbing onto the roots of his wings and yanking. He hisses under his breath, prayers of rebuke and protection, nails digging into his palms as he chants furiously, lips moving too fast for the gatherers to understand what he is doing.

Anxious murmurs arise like the songs of a choir the longer and longer he is frozen. Somebody coughs. A child whines audibly. He continues his chanting.

Ena, the Order; Xipe, the Harmony; defend me in this tribulation. Curse this evil, bind its spirit and banish it to whence it came. I swear on truth, I swear on the calendar, I swear on words, I swear on values, I swear on rules, I swear on meaning, I swear on—

The hair by the nape of his neck is ruffled, and then the sensation vanishes and he is left alone once more. He is grateful for only a moment before he mourns her absence with a sudden savagery that takes even himself by surprise. It’s a contradiction, but she is a contradiction, so it’s fitting. He could never understand her before, so why should it be different now?

Clearing his throat and subtly adjusting his lapels, he raises his hands to silence the throngs of worshippers. They do his bidding at once, and he closes his eyes so that he does not have to see their naïveté at this final part, so that he is speaking to himself and the ghost alone — because nobody else matters in the end.

“I swear,” he says, his heart beating faster and faster until it is almost bursting from his chest and pounding in his skull, “on human dignity.”

What do Halovians know of human dignity?

“Nothing,” he says, responding to the unasked question as he turns away from the others, away from their applause and their grins. His wings cover his eyes and his hands cover his ears as he leaves the cavernous hall, the thunder of laudation fading and fading, replaced with nothing but a whistling, lonely emptiness. “They know nothing.”

He pauses, his eyes darting around surreptitiously. Then, when he is sure he is alone, he continues, under his breath so that no one can hear even if they try very hard to.

“I know nothing.”

He is sure of this much, at least.

On Halovians:

They abide by a so-called “divine creed” which they refuse to divulge to outsiders. However, they maintain that if they break these secretive laws, they are punished severely in what amounts to a foreshortened process of decay. Their holiness and altruism is, thus, not a choice but a compulsion; the one sin they are permitted is lying, and many will spin tall tales as a form of indulgence.

They are comparable in ability to the sirens from Lucyke — indeed, many researchers believe the species share a common ancestor and are one of many examples of divergent evolution found throughout the cosmos. They are nonthreatening when approached, capable of rational thought and intelligent speech, and have advanced societies with defined familial structures; hence, they are classified as a Level 0 Intelligent Species.

His halo is cracking. He doesn’t know when it began, or perhaps it’s more accurate to say he doesn’t want to know, but regardless it’s happening. The burnished gold, once a plain, gleaming expanse, is now marred by thin, unmistakeable fissures in the shape of spiderwebs. At first, he can only stare at his reflection in abject horror, but then he’s stuffing his fist in his mouth and screaming.

What will people think? When they see it, they will know what he has done. It’s tainting him. It’s above him and behind him and all around and he can’t escape, he can’t do anything, his halo is cracking and he’s screaming and she’s there again.

“Stop it,” he snaps. “Stop coming back. If you’re only here to torment me, then — then stop it!”

Is she laughing? She must be. She always laughs at him, always finds him so curious. An oddity. A Halovian. He’s not like her, she’s fond of reminding him, he’s different. He’s born for the Harmony and the sky. He’s born for a purpose greater than hers, with black wings and a bright halo and a tongue made to lie.

“Don’t leave,” he says when she begins to withdraw. “Hey. Hey. Don’t leave — don’t leave me — I can’t — don’t!”

Her absence is like a hole carved into his stomach daily anew, and if his wings weren’t losing their feathers so rapidly, he’d fold them over the gaping wound in an attempt to disguise it, to transform it, to hold himself together until he can once again become whole in earnest.

It’s pitiful. He’s pitiful. He longs for a ghost who he despises, a ghost of his own making, a ghost who is pulling apart his halo and his wings and his sanity alike. She is ruining him and he is powerless to stop her; somewhere deep inside of him, he’s not sure if he even wants to. This is what he’s owed. This is what he deserves. No matter how much he begs, she will not forgive him; no matter how much he prays, he will not forgive himself.

This time when he screams, he does not bother with muffling it.

You were certain that, in the pools of her mind, in places unknowable and unreachable, Robin believed that she loved you. She repeated that lie so often that she fooled everyone, even herself — everyone, of course, but you. You knew the truth. You knew that she never had, that she never would, that she never could.

“This is my very best friend in the entire universe,” she’d say, holding your palm against her heart. “I love her.”

She carried it like a trophy or a weapon, that meaningless phrase. I love her. Lilac instead of silver. Sapphire instead of gold. I am not a Halovian. That was what she really wanted to say. That was what you really meant to her. I am human, too. Treat me like I am human. Talk to me like I am human. Love me like I am human.

I am human.

His sister is worrying about him. He wishes he could allay her concerns like he always does, wishes he could promise that it’s nothing, that he’s fine, but whenever he tries, he can’t. It sticks in his throat, and he’s left to stare at her miserably, helplessly.

“If you need anything…” she murmurs, voice trailing off into nothingness as she pretends like she’s not looking at his halo, which is on the verge of collapse, or at his wings, which are approaching a skeletal state. “Maybe you should stay home today. Someone else can pray.”

“No,” he says. He has to do it. If he doesn’t, then he has nothing left — which is the truth, really, but he can’t accept it. Not yet. “No, I—”

He wants to say I can do it, but the words won’t come. She waits, but when he does not finish his sentence, she only sighs and nods.

“If you think that’s what’s best,” she says. If she’s expecting a response, she won’t get one, or at least not one that’ll satisfy them both. He can’t maintain his facade anymore. Those carefully constructed falsehoods which were once his birthright have abandoned him; now, he is left with nothing but the truth in its harshest form, his eyes sewn open to it and his wings tied back so he can no longer cower behind their trembling defense.

Unlike his sister, Sunday never pretended to love you. Indeed, he treated you no differently than he treated everyone else, keeping a polite, reserved distance between the two of you at all times. He was kind when you spoke, though he tended to avoid such occasions, and he took great pains to ensure that he appeared as harmless as possible, pulling his wings close to his body, averting his eyes from yours and shifting so that his halo was always partially obscured.

Robin told you that he was a proud man, so the fact that he shied away before you meant something. I’ve never seen him like this, she would ponder when he would sidle past, his feathers blending in with his pale hair, a coat thrown over his shoulders and his gaze trained directly ahead even when he greeted you. It’s unlike him.

It’s kind. That was all you ever said when she prodded at you for answers. He’s being kind to me.

Unlike her brother, Robin didn’t understand what that meant, so she would only embrace you, deceptively strong despite her frail figure, wings extending to skim along your skin in what she must’ve considered a sign of affection.

I’m glad you’re getting along, she’d say, and then you’d wonder, invariably, what it’d take to break the chords of her speech. Was she capable of producing dissonance? Or was it one of her many blessings, that avoidance of discord, of cacophony? I’m really glad. I hope one day he loves you, too.

She never asked you to love him back. She never dared to even hope for it.

“I can’t recall you ever laughing at me this much when you were alive,” he says, lying on his bed with his limbs splayed out. He’s looking up at the ceiling, which is bare, as are the walls, and the furniture — entirely by design, of course. Periodically, his wings will flap weakly, wracked with nervous tremors as he waits for her to quiet.

He doesn’t reprimand her anymore. The prospect of chasing her away is unbearable, even more unbearable than the sound of her mirth, which is as wrong to his ears as music from an untuned piano. So he ignores it, and when it is particularly agonizing, he speaks to the empty air, saying everything and nothing all at once in an attempt to silence her.

“You would ask me questions,” he remembers, drumming his fingers against the mattress. “But you wouldn’t laugh. I don’t think you found me amusing, unless I tried very hard to appear that way. I was better at it back then. At becoming what people expected of me.”

She’s not laughing anymore, but he knows she hasn’t vanished yet. She’s there in his periphery, poised to disappear as soon as he turns his head but there nonetheless. Taking advantage of the rare silence, he sits up, hugging his knees to his chest and closing his eyes.

“I didn’t pretend quite as much when it was you,” he says. “You know that, right? By the end, I couldn’t bring myself to at all.”

Does she believe him? He can’t tell. If he were her, he wouldn’t believe himself, so likely not. Exhaling heavily, he collapses backwards, tangling himself into a pile of blankets that he pulls over his shoulders.

“I should have lied to you more often,” he says, eyes drifting shut. “Maybe things would be different if I had.”

On Halovians:

Halovians are the only Level 0 Intelligent Species that do not choose long-term mates, although there is evidence to suggest that in the distant past, they remained with the same partner for life. According to legend, this is because they gave up fidelity for falsehood, trading their ability to love eternally for their freedom to lie at will.

Research disagrees with this old story, and many alternate theories have been proposed. The most common and widely-accepted is the claim that the Halovians once faced extinction and thus had to procreate at speed, leading to a permanent shift in their mating habits. The most substantial proof for this, of course, is the otherwise-inexplicable population boom…

You couldn’t say for certain when you began visiting Sunday in his room. It had happened so suddenly and yet so gradually that by the time you realized what you were doing, it was too late for you to stop. He never did anything untoward — you doubted he was capable of it — staying at his desk and scowling at his work while you wandered about, familiarizing yourself with the confines of the space.

“Why don’t you decorate?” you asked him one day.

“Decorations are only needless distractions,” he responded promptly, signing a paper with a flourish that, somehow, represented his name. Sunday Oak. You didn’t know how something so enormous and grand could be summed into two squiggles and a cross, but he seemed confident of it, so who were you to question the method? “I cannot fathom sleeping with such clutter surrounding me.”

“I see,” you said, and that was the end of it.

Your conversations with him typically went as such, endless games of question-and-answer, where you would ask whatever was on your mind and he would respond as truthfully as he was able. You often wondered when he would grow tired of it, of you, but he never did. You asked Robin why it was so, and she only shrugged enigmatically.

“Maybe he’s glad to be the one speaking for once,” she said.

“What do you mean?” you said.

“You ought to ask him,” she said. “He might not tell anyone else, but if it’s you…if it’s you, then he’ll definitely answer.”

His sister’s hands are frigid on his shoulders. She’s warm by anyone else’s standards, but for a Halovian, she’s always been cold. Even when she was born, half the size she should’ve been and with eyes as boundless as the sky, she was freezing, a shivering slip of a baby shoved into his arms by his bleeding mother.

“Your halo is breaking,” she says to him, but she’s angry, her melodic voice wavering as her fingers dig into his muscle, shaking him back and forth. “It’s breaking. Why is it breaking?”

She’s glaring at him, tears welling at her lash-line. He wants to reach out his hand and wipe them away, but more will replace them in an instant, so what is the point? She shakes him again, harder and harder, and he allows her, because he’ll always allow her impulses, and because he’s never seen her like this before.

“Why?” she says. “Why is it breaking? Tell me what you did, brother, tell me what you did!”

She isn’t asking because she wants him to give her the answer. She’s asking because she wants him to deny it, to tell her that she’s wrong, that the conclusion she’s arrived at is incorrect somehow. Once, he could’ve. He could’ve made up some story about tragedy and misfortune, and she would’ve believed him, as she always did.

That was their relationship. He lied and she believed him. She asked and he obliged her. But now that he can not lie and she has nothing to ask for, what is left?

“You know already,” he says. She gasps in the manner of an injured animal, berry-stained lips parting, indubitably to hurl accusations at him.

He doesn’t think he can handle hearing them, not from his sister of all people, so he leaves before he gets the chance.

“Does it feel strange when people touch your wings?” you said. Sunday was in his bed today, afflicted by some illness of the lungs, and you were rummaging through his bookshelf, pulling out volumes at random before putting them back where you had found them.

“Huh? Why do you ask?” he said, raising a porcelain cup to his lips. It was prescription, a medicine reeking of menthol but wearing the guise of peppermint tea — the only way, according to Robin, that he would drink it. A servant had brought it and presented it to him with a bow, walking out of the room with a look thrown at you over their shoulder, concern and envy blending into something razor-thin and cutting.

“I don’t have any,” you explained, taking out a book and tracing your fingers along the gold lettering of the title. “I can’t fathom what it’d be like.”

“Come here,” he said, and although it was mildly done, you obeyed immediately. You could never forget what he was, not completely, no matter how hard he tried to make it so that you did. You would always be human and he would always be Halovian; this fundamental disconnect was insurmountable, and anyways, you had no interest in surmounting it. It’d serve you well to remember these many little differences between yourself and the Oak siblings, between yourself and Sunday in particular.

He extended his hand, the palm facing up, and dipped his chin towards it. You tilted your head in confusion, for the act was all but inexplicable, and at this he smiled. He did not smile very frequently, and it transformed his face when he did, lighting it up, turning it into something close to human — not quite, but close. Closer than he ever was otherwise.

“Here,” he said, setting aside his teacup and using his other hand to place yours against his, wrapping his fingers around your wrist and then waiting. “Does that feel strange?”

“No,” you said.

“It’s the same for me,” he said. “To you, my wings are bizarre and outlandish, but to me and those of my kind, they are simply another body part. No more or less fantastical than an arm or an ankle.”

“Ah,” you said. He settled back against the cushions of his bed, allowing the wings by his ears to stretch out comfortably, closing his eyes and letting out an exhale that shook with the remnants of a cough.

“You want to touch them,” he said. He phrased it as a statement, not a question, and when you paused before answering, his smile grew imperceptibly larger. “I don’t mind it.”

“You don’t?” you said. He shrugged.

“It’s only fair,” he said, pressing down on the point where your veins nearly surfaced, tapping in time with your pulse before drawing his hands back and clasping them together in the cavity below his ribcage. “I wouldn’t have told you you could if I’d hold any resentment for it.”

“Aren’t Halovians known for lying?” you said. He snorted.

“Have you been doing your research?” he said.

“It’s common knowledge,” you said.

“We are,” he said. “But I swear I will always tell you the truth.”

“How can I believe that? What if that’s just another one of your lies?” you said. He cracked one eye open so that he could peek at you, and whatever he saw must’ve proven your seriousness, for he hummed in thought, carefully considering your words.

“I suppose you can’t,” he said. “It’s your prerogative. Do as you’d like, then.”

He closed his eyes again, which you supposed was his version of an invitation. Waiting until his breathing stilled and he was caught in some form of repose — whether he was truly unconscious or not escaped you, but either way he was certainly in some altered state of mind — you extended your arm and brushed your index finger against his feathers.

They were as soft as you had anticipated, cottony and shapeless compared to the firm flight-feathers of the pitch-dark wings jutting out at his sides. The bones were hollow and slight, as if you could break them only by taking them into your fist and squeezing. This was such a contradiction to the appearance he so carefully maintained that your heart softened to him despite your greatest efforts to guard it.

“Those ones are mostly down,” he said, startling you out of your daze. You had assumed he was asleep and had allowed your movements to become casual and complacent. Jerking your hand back as if he had burnt it — which he just as well might have, given the temperature of his body — you held it to your chest and took an involuntary step back while he adjusted himself in his nest of bedding. “In antiquity, back when we still ruled the skies and rarely touched the ground, it was considered a sign of friendship for Halovians to groom one another’s upper-wing feathers.”

“And now?” you said.

“And now it means nothing,” he said. “Fetch me a new cup of tea if you have the time. This one has grown cold, and I am yet unwell.”

The feathers he used to be so proud of are fraying at the edges. He hasn’t cared for them in so long, hasn’t carefully misted them or doused them in diluted soap in ages, and now they have come to this. Scraggly and broken and bent and wrong.

Sticking a finger in his mouth, he rubs it along his teeth and the bitten flesh of his inner cheeks. Decay. This is decay. He’s seen it so many other times, in so many other forms, but never did he think he’d experience it himself. And least of all so quickly! Yet it has come for him, as it comes for everyone in the end.

He finds it’s different this time. It’s different when he’s the one who’s dying.

“They say it haunts us,” Sunday said. His arm was heavy over your waist, his blankets pulled up over your chin and tucked tightly around your shoulders. Your forehead was flush with his collarbones, your eyes fluttering shut as he played with the hem of your shirt while he spoke. “The first time we kill something. It haunts us to death.”

“Is that why you’re vegetarian?” you joked.

“Yes,” he said, and although he sounded grave, you could tell he was joking, too. “Can you imagine being followed around by the ghost of a chicken and then dying while it watches?”

“A horrible way to go,” you said, laughing at the image of Sunday plugging his ears and running from the shadow of a bird as it chased him, his own wings flapping furiously as it squawked at him with no small amount of indignation.

“Indeed,” he said with a laugh of his own. Then, after a pause, he hummed thoughtfully. “You should laugh more often.”

“I’ve been told my laugh is grating,” you said.

“It’s not,” he said. “Not at all.”

“Then I shall endeavor to do as you ask,” you said. “I will laugh until you tell me to stop.”

“I’ll never tell you to stop,” he promised, and you should’ve known better than to trust him, because he was a Halovian and donning that impenetrable mask of his was a part of his nature, yet you couldn’t help yourself. You did, you trusted him more than anything or anyone, and didn’t that make you a fool? A happy, laughing one, maybe — but a fool nonetheless.

He is close to collapse when he drags himself to his bathroom. Leaning over the counter of his sink, he grips the marble edge, noticing in fascination that his knuckles are almost as white as the stone. He almost can’t endure the thought of looking in the mirror, but in a last burst of inspiration, he drags his gaze up to his haggard reflection.

His heart skips a beat when he realizes he’s not alone. Standing there, beside and behind him, is her. The ghost. His ghost.

Her face is placid — she’s not laughing, and neither is she frowning. He doesn’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing, but he can’t change it, so who is he to complain? He waits for her to speak, but she is silent, and he considers calling out for his sister before deciding that this time, this once and never again, he will be selfish.

“It’s you,” he says, reaching out and placing his fingers against the mirror, where the image of her cheek is distorted by imperfections in the silver.

The metal is cold under the involuntary curve of his palm, which tries to follow the contours of her face but finds it to be impossible in the second dimension. Then again, to him, she was always cold, so there’s no difference, except that she is flat where once she was whole, empty where once she was everything.

“I killed you,” he says. It’s the first time he’s spoken it aloud, the first time he’s spit out the words that he’s been dancing around ever since she appeared to him, almost a year ago exactly. Somehow, it feels like a dagger driven into his heart and a weight lifted off of his shoulders simultaneously. If he had the strength, he’d run down the hallways of the mansion and scream it at everyone.

I killed her. I killed her and now I am dying for it. You bowed your heads in reverence to me, and all along I have had this blood on my hands. I killed her! How does it feel to have followed a sinner for so long? How does it feel to know that I am forsaken, and that one day, if you are so lucky, you will be, too?

Sunday’s mouth on yours was hot like a furnace, clumsy and demanding, with a lingering aftertaste like menthol. At first, it alarmed you, the overwhelming sensation, the much of it all, but before you could even pull away, something in the back of your mind twisted, and then you were grasping for anything you could. His hair, his wings, his shirt, it didn’t matter, nothing mattered, you only needed to hold onto him in some way. You could not breathe without him. You could not live without him.

That was your first indication that something was very, very wrong.

On Halovians:

Much like their presumed cousins, the sirens of Lucyke, Halovians are irresistible to their prey. Unlike the sirens, the Halovians no longer hunt; some assume that this must be one of the religious laws they abide by, while others argue that it is mere ecological responsibility.

Simply put, the Halovians were too efficient as hunters. Several lesser species have been driven to extinction by their efforts, and it is only due to the reduction in Halovian numbers, their vows of vegetarianism, and concentrated conservation efforts that the food webs on the Halovians’ native planets have stabilized in recent years.

“Sunday,” you said to him one day, when the sun had not yet risen in the sky. “I think that I will die soon.”

His mouth moved, but no sound came out. No, it seemed he was trying to say. You won’t. His lips formed the words, but they wouldn’t take shape in his throat, wouldn’t bloom into existence, and you watched as he struggled for a while before pressing the heels of his hands to his forehead.

“Yes,” he said.

“It will be your fault when I do,” you said. You weren’t accusing him; you said it simply and plainly. You were dying. It was his fault. He was the curse and the cure, if a mere prolonging of the inevitable could be considered as curing it.

He was quiet for so long that you assumed he had forgotten about the question entirely. You did not begrudge him for it — how would he answer, anyways? There was nothing that he could say which would change it. There was nothing that he could say which would reverse what he had, knowingly or unknowingly, done.

“Yes,” he said when you were halfway to dozing off.

“What?” you mumbled, the contents of the conversation already escaping you.

“Yes,” he said. “It will be my fault.”

The ghost doesn’t say anything, watching him as he turns on the sink and splashes the water onto his face in a futile effort to cool himself off. He’s feverish as he pushes himself back into a semblance of good posture, pacing back and forth along the length of the bathroom. He can only see her in the mirror, and he wonders if he somehow trapped her there or if that’s her way of teasing him; she must find him so absurd, storming away from her visage before crawling back to it like he is starved.

“I didn’t know,” he says. “You must understand that. I didn’t know! Not at first, anyways. I would’ve sent you away. If I had known, I would’ve sent you away…”

He can hear her feet against the tile, copying his own path, but he dares not turn around. What will he see if he does? What emotions will reflect in her eyes? The first time he saw her, it was fear, unadulterated and pure and choking him with its overwhelming intensity. Then, over time, it warmed into something resembling indifference, which in turn became fondness and then, finally, a sick sort of dependence, the former liveliness and curiosity glazed over with vacancy and fixation.

“I did this to you,” he admits. He’s read that accursed book on Halovians and their accursed vestigial organs and accursed archaic hunting methods so many times that he knows this for a fact. He killed her. “But I didn’t — it wasn’t my intention, please, it wasn’t, you must know that. Did you die knowing that?”

When he halts, she halts. When he takes a step forward, she does the same. It’s maddening. He doesn’t want her to echo him. Her steps sound like a prophecy, the drumbeat to a seer’s chant, and they clang in his head, the antithesis to everything he holds precious. Order. Harmony. And then there she is, discord, cacophony, waiting for him at every turn, inescapable and unavoidable.

“It’s the truth!” he snaps. The argument is entirely one-sided; the ghost never speaks to him, after all. She only laughs and sighs in turn, but no matter how hard he tries, he cannot convince her to say anything. “I can’t lie anymore. Although, that’s irrelevant; when it comes to you, I haven’t been able to lie in a long time.”

Ena, the Order; Xipe, the Harmony; defend me in this tribulation. Curse this evil, bind its spirit and banish it to whence it came.

I swear on truth. I swear on the calendar. I swear on words. I swear on values. I swear on rules. I swear on meaning. I swear on human dignity.

He’s murmuring every prayer he can think of. They play in an endless loop, springing to his lips at random, more like nonsensical jumbles of words than anything coherent. A prayer for salvation. A prayer for forgiveness. A prayer for protection. A prayer for order. A prayer for harmony. A prayer to banish her. A prayer to bring her back.

A prayer to bring her back. A prayer to bring her back. Bring her back. Bring her back. Bring her back.

“I won’t come back, you know,” she says. That’s the first time he’s heard her voice in so long, and he’s startled to find that it’s almost foreign, like he’s already begun to forget her, like she’s turned into something entirely beyond his understanding.

“Why not?” he says, his voice cracking as he scrambles for purchase against the wall. “I’ll do anything they ask. Anything you ask.”

“It doesn’t matter what you do or who you beg,” she says with a snicker. “You can’t bring someone back once you’ve killed them. You should’ve regretted it earlier; it’s meaningless now. Well, anyways, I have a question for you.”

He swallows but nods, his back to her, vision blurring out of focus as he squints at the plain wall in front of him.

“If you could meet me again, would you?” she says.

“Yes,” he says without thinking, because of course he would. How could he not?

“Knowing that it would kill me?” she adds, giggling.

Is this what it’s like for those who he interrogates? Now he is the one who cannot hide behind the comfort of fabrication, who must strip himself bare to an unsympathetic audience. He hates it, in truth. He hates it more than anything, but — but he doesn’t hate her, so clenching his jaw, he nods once more.

“Yes,” he says.

“Oh, my,” she says. “How romantic. Careful, or I’ll think you really do love me.”

He whirls around. “I do—!”

There’s nobody there. He wonders if there ever was.

#sunday x reader #sunday x y/n #sunday x you #sunday #sunday hsr #hsr x reader #hsr #honkai star rail #reader insert #canon au #hierophant #m1ckeyb3rry writes

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overtail · 1 year ago

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Late Night Brew - Zuko x Reader 🔞

🔥🛀🏻

Jesus, yall are FREAKS for zuko

Summary: After Iroh opens the Jasmine Dragon, he hires a new worker -- a pretty girl, one around Zuko's age. While Iroh is taking a trip to the market for more supplies after work, desperation unfolds.

Trigger Warning: NSFW, Soft Sex, Cussing, Semi-public Sex, Body Worship, and Zuko acting like an awkward turtle duck.

Micheal, I know ur reading this

...

Zuko didn't like the new waitress.

She didn't do anything in particular to get on his bad side, he just couldn't stand her.

He hated how she looked in her apron, how the skirt she wore rode up a little too high on her thighs.

He hated how her hip popped when she was standing still while taking orders.

He hated all her curves, her moles, and her messy hair; how it all made her so beautiful.

And he especially hated that at night, when he laid in bed in that cold apartment, how he couldn't get her face out of his mind. How the image of her body echoed in his head while he reached his hands into his pants.

He wanted her gone.

"Lee, could you help me with the tables?"

Zuko wiped the counters of the bar, groaning at the sound of her voice. He turned around, only to see her back to him.

He watched as her arm worked on a stained table, trying to get a mark from condensation out.

"Can't you just do it yourself?"

He grumbled, shaking his head and turning back around. It's not like he had much to do -- he just didn't want to work so close to her.

"I've got one table left and my shift ends in two minutes. I'd rather not work unpaid overtime."

He heard her say. Even with Zuko's rude attitude, she still had a soft tone with him; she spoke to him like he was a fussy toddler.

Which he sort of was.

Zuko grumbled a few curses under his breath, grabbing the hand towel he was just using to walk over to one of the tables.

He looked at (Y/N), looking at her thighs and her hips. His face flushing red, turning and brushing back his short black hair.

The table he had to clean wasn't the dirtiest. It had a single cup on it, and a few spills here and there. He wanted to get away as soon as possible, so he could just go home and relax.

Well, his version of relaxing.

He palmed his growing erection through his pants, trying to subside it for at least the remaining two minutes.

"Thank you, Lee."

Zuko heard the smile from her voice, face growing red at her kindness. Even if it wasn't his real name, he felt giddy at the way she said Lee.

All he did was nod, grabbing the cup and wiping off the tea from the table. He marched to the sink in the back room. Zuko grabbed the sponge that sat on the wooden counter, already full with soap. He began to scrub, getting the smell of Jasmine tea out from the cup -- even if it was his favorite.

As he did so, (Y/N)'s soft footsteps were sounded from behind him. He let out an exasperated groan, not wanting to stand next to her.

(Y/N) walked up quiet, placing three cups in the sink. One stayed in her hand, grabbing the other. sponge and pouring some soap in the glass.

There was an awkward silence between the two -- at least on his end.

As she was cleaning, her elbow bumped into his side. He didn't say anything, just kept cleaning the cup. The second time though, it started to bother him. And when the third time hit, he was set off.

"Can you stop doing that?"

He yelled, looking at her with angry eyes. She looked up with her mouth still agape, her eyes meeting with him amber ones.

"Oh, I'm sorry. There's just not much space back here.."

Her face flushed red with embarrassment. Zuko rolled his eyes.

"I already don't want to be back here with you, let alone have to be touched by you."

(Y/N)'s eyes widened, eyebrows lifting quickly. She pursed her lips.

"What is your problem Lee? All i've done is try to be friends with you -- and you just treat me like garbage!"

Her voice was raised, and she poked his chest with her thin fingers. She was kind of cute when she was mad; the way her nose scrunched made his stomach flutter.

"Have you considered the fact that i don't want to be friends with the likes of you?"

He bickered, peering his eyes down to her. She gasped slightly, shoulders raising in surprise.

"With the likes of me? What do you mean the likes of me?"

She stepped even closer to him, their chests almost touching.

Zuko scoffed at her words, rolling his eyes.

"I don't associate with peasants."

And his heart stopped.

(Y/N) was from the lower ring of Ba Sing Se. His uncle Iroh had hired her while he watched her get fired from her other job, feeling bad for her.

Zuko didn't mean peasant in that way. He was just thinking like the old Zuko -- the one that hunted the avatar and did anything to regain his honor back. But he was supposed to be Lee now, a traveler, a teenage boy that works in a tea shop, who just happened to be lucky enough to live in a nice apartment.

"Peasant?"

Her words sounded broken. Her voice cracked as she muttered the words, lower than the loud voice she was using before.

"I get you're from the upper ring -- but peasant? Really?"

She shook her head, stepping back. Zuko felt like he was floating away from the lack of closeness from her.

"That's not what i meant."

Zuko said, closing his eyes and sighing.

"It's just -- i have issues."

He never liked admitting he had problems. He was supposed to be Prince Zuko of the Fire Nation, prissy and perfect.

"Yeah, you do."

(Y/N) said, looking Zuko up and down. Her eyes winded slightly, cheeks growing even redder than before.

Zuko raised a brow, confused at what she was looking at. He looked down and then realized.

"Wait, it's not what it looks like-"

"Is this.."

She began, looking back up at him.

"..turning you on?"

She said curiously, turning her head.

(Y/N) stepped forward, her hands lying on her hips. She was about the same height as Zuko -- since he was significantly short.

"Is that why you're so mean to me?"

She placed her hand on his chest, causing Zuko to take a deep breath in.

Oh Spirits.

"Because you like me?"

They were too close. Way too close. He was getting harder by the second, not knowing what to do.

So he did the only thing that came to mind.

He reached his hands forward, grabbing her face in his hands. He pulled her forward, placing his chapped lips tenderly on hers. He stayed still for a moment, never having kissed a girl before.

He leaned back awkwardly, still holding her face in his hands.

His index finger brushed a hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear.

(Y/N) had never been this close to him before. She was able to admire his face entirely as he focused on the strand of hair, looking at his scar and the light freckles that dotted his pale skin. He had bags under his eyes, and she wondered what caused it.

"You're pretty."

She said, grabbing his face with one hand. He flinched lightly, eyes flickering back to her. He wasn't used to such a touch -- not feeling it since he last saw his mother.

Zuko leaned into it, letting her fingers form around the shape of his jaw. His eye lashed flickered as he blinked, and she admired the entirety of him.

"Thanks.. you too."

He said, not knowing how to respond. He didn't ever get compliments.

"You know, you could have just told me that you liked me."

(Y/N) laughed, causing Zuko to look away.

"I don't like you."

He grumbled, looking at the wall above the sink.

She laughed, turning his head with her palm to look at her. She used her other hand to place it on his crotch, grinning wildly,

"What's this then?"

Zuko looked down, feeling a rush of ecstasy flow through his body. He whimpered softly, his eyes closing from it.

"That's enough to tell me you like me."

...

In the next minute, Zuko's lips were on her neck. She was on the counter next to the sink, legs wrapped around Zuko's torso, Her hand was tangled in his short hair, the other gripping the edge of the counter,

Zuko was holding her waist, his right hand gripping the fat of her thigh. He loved being this close, the agility to breath her in making him feel incredibly hot.

"Lee, I love this as much as you do, but we need to start quickly before Mushi gets back."

Zuko groaned against her neck, removing his lips from her soft skin. He was reluctant, but she was right. Regrettably.

"Yeah, right."

He stepped back, beginning to unbuckle the belt that held up his pants. He look up suddenly, face growing hot,

"Could you uhm, close your eyes,,"

He muttered shyly, getting a smile out of (Y/N). She nodded, closing her eyes. Zuko fully took his pants off, now sliding his boxers from his waist. He was practically in pain from all this, and he needed relief soon. He walked closer, close enough that his member hid under the lip of her skirt. She took this as an okay, opening her eyes only to be met with Zuko's amber ones,

She reached down, pulling her underwear to the side, The cold night air hit her exposed parts, making her shiver.

"Okay. I'm ready, Lee."

Zuko placed one hand on the base of him, lining himself up with (Y/N). She scrunched her eyes at the feeling of his tip entering her, toes curling in her sandals, Zuko then grabbed her hips, looking up at her.

Then he bucked his hips forward.

"Shit!"

(Y/N) squealed, squeazing Zuko's tense shoulders. He groaned, one of his eyes closing shut. She felt so good -- better than he could ever have imagined. The nights he spent awake, whimpering her name as his hand rubbed his length up and down, imaging her bent over the tables of the tes shop, in his bed, and even in the back room.

He fully slid in, letting out a mix of illegible words. All that (Y/N) could make out was her name.

He pulled out before pushing back in again. She moaned, throwing her head back. zzuko got a good look at her neck, the hockey's that he had placed only minutes before.

Soon, they were at a regular place. Out, in. Out, in. The room was filled with soft groans, and Zuko could already feel his arrival coming. It was all too much. His eyes were currently chained to her crotch, watching himself slide in and out. He then looked up, making eye contact with (Y/N).

"Lee.."

She said in an airy voice, palm grazing his clenched jaw. That's what did it for him, the sight of her unraveling beneath him. Ropes of white shot out of him, painting the inside of her white. He kept pounding into her, riding out his orgasm.

...

lwk lost my motivation at the end......

#avatar the last airbender #fandom #fanfic #fluff #smut #zuko #prince zuko #zuko x reader

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koolades-world · 1 year ago

Note

Hello there! hope your day is going good and if not I hope it gets better.

I was wondering if I could request a scenario (you can do headcanon format) Where Mc is in a life or death because a lower demon is about to kill them and Mc actually kills the lower demon with their own magic. how would the undatables react/comfort Mc after they killed someone because their life was in danger.

Thank you in advance if you do decide to write and make sure to stay hydrated!

hi there! i can do that :)

hope you're having a great day too <3 just drank water with a liquid iv in it so hopefully im super hydrated now haha. i've had a bit of a sore throat for the past few days now so i've been really chugging water better than i usually have which says a lot! love me my 30 oz water bottle that goes everywhere with me

enjoy!

Undatables react to Mc killing a lower demon while defending themself

Diavolo

he's very proud of you but quickly goes on high alert

you've never seen him more serious

he's doing all sorts of things such as upping security measures and looking into the background of the now deceased demon to ensure your safety and to make sure there wasn't anything more behind the attack

he makes sure to give you a huge hug and lets you know exactly how he feels <3

Barbatos

if you hadn't killed them, he would've finished the job for you

since there's no work there for him to do, he'll be taking a visit to see that demon's relatives in the near future

in the meantime, he'll help you unwind and try to take your mind off it

perhaps a tea party with all your favorite treats and little d's there, if you'd like :)

Simeon

he won't ask questions and he'll heal you no matter what

even if you didn't get very hurt, he insists you stay under his care for a little bit

you'll get the best bedside care and soup ever

let him dote on you, it'll make him feel better too knowing you're safe in his arms <3

Luke

he's immediately freaking out

what do you mean a lower demon tried to kill you!!!

100% in tears and refuses to let you out of death grip hug he has on you

the next day, he gifts you an amulet with an angelic blessing on it and asks you to carry it everywhere with you. doesn't care if that means the brothers can't get anywhere near you now. better for him that way anyways haha

Solomon

he's very impressed!

gah they grow up so fast. it felt like just yesterday he gave you the nickname of his apprentice

deep underneath his gushing, he's worried but he knows that you're capable

even goes as far as to give a few little tips for the future. love at it's finest haha

Mephisto

he's furious with himself that he even let you get in that situation

he almost feels as if he's failed you, but he tries to hold up a facade of nonchalantness

it won't take much coaxing to break down this barrier and see how upset he actually is

if you notice him being extra loving in the next week or so, try not to comment on it but accept his affections

Thirteen

she's with you as much as she can be, but she knows it's just impossible to be by your side all the time

she's angry at herself and the now dead lower demon because that window of time when she's away is never very large

but, she knows you are more than strong enough to take care of yourself if it wasn't already apparent before

she'll make excuse after excuse to be with you until she eventually just spills the beans. she really cares about you <33

Raphael

he's gonna check you at least three times over to make sure you're alright

but right after he almost scolds you, in a loving way

he tells you he should've been the one to do it and that he should've been by your side

he was just very nervous he could've lost you, but is so proud of how you stood up for yourself <3

#obey me #obey me!#obey me x reader #obey me thirteen #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos #obey me simeon #obey me luke #obey me raphael #obey me mephisto #obey me solomon #omswd #obey me shall we date #obey me! shall we date

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whousestypewriters · 3 months ago

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──── ୨ৎ THE RESTARAUNT — GRAYSON HAWTHORNE + READER ‧₊˚

a/n: and i drop this bombshell a MONTH after posting the last part. sorry for the wait my beautiful children ! a warning for a drunk guy being gross but thats it <33 unedited btww

[part one] i'm a fan [part two] the book club [part three] red was the carpet

"sit your ass down right now," alya smiles, her voice deceptively sweet as she tries to convince you to stay for this dinner. "i do not give one flying fu-"

"alya!" max's voice calls out from across the restaurant, alya seemingly forgetting that she's trying to coerce you into a seat, leaps up from her chair and rushes across the floor to throw her arms around her friend.

they start talking at a excessively fast pace as alya drags max, who drags xander, who pulls avery, who is holding hands with jameson, who is grinning at grayson standing a few feet away.

they move like a chain, wounding around tables and chairs, dodging waiters until they reach you, who is only now realising why alya wanted a big table tonight.

"hi y/n," max smiles and gives you a hug squeezing you a little more tightly than considered okay. she's up to something, same with alya, she's avoiding eye contact.

"okay everybody! sit! sit! dinner cannot wait!" alya announces to the group amidst the greetings, pulling out a chair and shoving you into it.

"more like you're hungry and you want to eat," you mutter as she pats your shoulder.

"damn straight, nothing should seperate a girl from her food."

"you have you're priorities right girl," max chuckles and sits down in her chair next to xander.

it was this moment, when you realised that grayson had not yet sat down, and that the only available chair was the one next to yours. and from the shit eating grins on every bodies faces they are all aware that it is the only chair left.

yn.books

liked by alya.green, maxine.liu.loo, thehawthorneheiress, graysonhawthorne, and 1, 246, 000 others

yn.books tonightttt

tagged: alya.green, maxine.liu.loo, thehawthorneheiress, graysonhawthorne, tickingtimebomb

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user1 i think... yeah no... i think i just died

user2 you look STUNNING

user3 i can see it now... grayson is onto something

user4 U CAN ONLY SEE IT NOW???

alya.green uh huhh... no wife mention i see

user5 spill the tea now

user6 wife??? what are you talking abouttt

user7 she's prob talking abt herself bc she's so wifey

graysonhawthorne it was a nice nice wasnt it?

user8 this is not a drill.... HES IN THE COMMENTS OH MY GODD

────

dinner had been served and the conversation had been flowing freely when it happened. avery was smiling at jameson as he whispered sweet somethings into her ear, staring adoringly at her. max, xander and ayla were in a deep conversation about libby and nash and how they were missing out on this drama.

grayson, was being grayson. quiet and stoic occasionally stealing glances at you. he had left for the bathroom when it happened.

"well hey there pretty girl," a slurred voice comes from beside you, and you feel a disgustingly warm presence beside you. "what are you doing here all alone?"

"i'm clearly not alone," you deadpan motioning around to the full table.

"but you are alone for me," he slurs leaning towards you.

"if you don't remove yourself from my seat in the next five seconds, you will be forcibly removed," the cold voice brings a wave of relaxation over you.

never once had you thought you would feel this comforted over a voice, but here you are.

"relax man i'm just talking to my girlfriend here," the freak tries to grab your wrist but you slap it away.

"if you ever talk about my wife that way again, you will not live to see the light of day."

ok.

um.

yeah.

no.

you're not okay.

"so step away from this table and get out of my line of sight now. and don't even think about coming near me or her ever again." the man scrambles away his suit crumpled and the strong waft of alcohol leaving.

his words - even under false pretences - make butterflies erupt in your stomach. and you think, you think, that being grayson hawthorne's wife would not be the worst thing in the world.

a cool strong hand wraps around you upper arm and guides you gently out of the chair and towards the stairs that lead to the rooftop bar. he leads you halfway up the stairs, and brings you to a stop on the darkness.

"are you okay?" his voice is low and urgent.

"did he touch you?"

you smile up at him, "i'm okay, he didn't touch me, he breath did though eugh."

────

hawthornegossipe

liked by 4, 756, 822 others

hawthornegossipe it was spotted by several fans that youtuber and instagram influencer y/n l/n and grayson hawthorne were spotted leaving their dinner with the well known jameson hawthorne and avery grambs and their other friends on saturday night. it was also reported that grayson referred to ms l/n, as his wife, with fans catching the interaction on camera.

what do we think hawthornegossipe fans?

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user1 and what if i screamed

user2 WIFE?!?!?! EXCUSE ME?????

user3 WHAT IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW

alya.green wife hey....

user4 alya tell us the truth pls what happened that night

user5 i saw them best night of my life !!!!

────

my wife.

boy were you in a situation now. half of the world was freaking out that those words had been dropped at dinner. the thousands of clips that had been screenshotted recorded everything were flying around the internet in record speed. you couldn't keep up.

neither could grayson apparently because the next morning you wake up to this

unknown number: we need to talk.

unknown number: its grayson by the way.

your heart dropped and a smile unwillingly took over your face. he wants to talk.

but more importantly how did he get your number?

a/n II: oop. whats that??? a plot twist. hehehehehe. now wait excited for whenever i drop the next part.

𐔌 . ⋮ 🏷️ tags .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

@arqbella, @midiosaamor, @maybxlle @reminiscentreader, @sweetreveriee

@elysianwayy77 @tornqdowarnings, @catapparently, @zenikswaffleshop, @thelov3lybookworm,

@anotherwriternamedclara, @goldi-1-graysons-version

#౨ৎ : my works .ᐟ #「 the grayson series ⭑.ᐟ 」#the inheritance games #the hawthorne legacy #the final gambit #the brothers hawthorne #the grandest game #grayson hawthorne #grayson davenport hawthorne #grayson hawthorne x fem!reader #grayson hawthorne x y/n #grayson hawthorne x you #grayson hawthorne x reader #grayson x reader #tig #thl #tfg #tbh #tgg

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arminsumi · 2 years ago

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growing up with gojo satoru.

NOTE: it's a trash draft abt growing up with gojo and he had a crush on u since ever or smth idk i think it's a potential backstory for a fic?? 👍🗑️

you and satoru have known each other since you were toddlers because the gojo family and your family are very close. he was born just two years after you.

growing up, he was the richest and snobbiest and snottiest. but he could be charming if he needed to be. formal when he needed to be. just not to you, his closest friend. his only friend growing up.

satoru greatly enjoyed picking on you. he annoyed you to death. chasing you down the halls while your parents had tea together. tripping you. ruffling your hair. stealing your sweets and putting them above his head once he had hit that big growth spurt and you could no longer reach them. "accidentally" spilling tea all over your new kimonos. bringing bugs to you just to freak you out.

but that was just all the annoying childhood memories that you dwelled on. if you asked your parents, you'd hear stories of how you and satoru were inseparable; jointed at the hip, the one never strayed too far from where the other was. where you went, he followed without missing a step and vice versa. often you'd be holding hands without realizing. you remember your grandparents laughing and teasing the two of you about that many times, and then you and satoru would throw each other disgusted looks and let go of each other's hands — only to resume that fingerlocking a few minutes later. it was subconscious for him to stick so close to you.

dwelling on the bad memories detracted you from remembering all the good memories.

the times satoru comfortingly slept at your side when you stayed the night during a thunderstorm at his house. all the times he stood up for you and faced off with that brat sukuna. how suguru would console and hug you while satoru threw fists with the other boy; always, always emerging victorious and bearing a triumphant, almost cocky smirk at you. albeit with blood dribbling out of his nose. you remember sukuna always picking on you, but not in the way satoru did; he had a malicious way about it, but satoru's teasing was playful and even cute. he was tasteful with his jokes, never falling victim to crudeness or vulgarity, never genuinely offending you.

and satoru's mother really liked to bring up that satoru had a "boyish crush" on you around the ages 10 - 14. she mentioned it at dinner all the time, when he was reaching the ages of 16 - 18 it really annoyed him.

"i did not have a crush on bugface." he would always deny it. ah, that ancient nickname, the one that still got on your nerves. and it came to be all because a bug landed on your cheek one day at the riverbank and you didn't notice until satoru pointed it out and burst with laughter.

satoru was gifted. you know, a child prodigy. he was the strongest. and growing up with him, he always used his gifts and strength to protect and care for you, whether it was physically or mentally. throwing fists with people who picked on you, acting like your bodyguard at times even if a boy simply wanted to ask you out on a date. studying with you until you aced your papers so that the both of you could go to the same high prestigious high schools.

albeit he was a bit enigmatic with how he showed his care. it was in the little things. helping you out the river when you fell in when you were twelve, confronting sukuna while you cried in suguru's arms about what he had said about your family, or picking blossoms out your hair.

that last one was something he continued to do through his whole life. whenever a blossom or leaf tangled into your hair, or got caught on your clothes, satoru would very gently pluck it off. he did it so smoothly that you never noticed he was doing it. though sometimes, you'd look at him suspiciously and ask why he was standing so close to you. he'd flick his brows up and hum "nothing."

#🗑️ — trash #gojo #gojo x reader #gojo fluff #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru

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lisbeth-kk · 16 days ago

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Sherlock fandom

Powerless Against Affection

It never occurred to me how similar John and I were as children. Not until he told me his story. He was obviously not as quirky as me, but we had one particular thing in common – our need for closeness and touch.

For him, it had been his aunt, for me my grandmother. I’m sure a psychoanalyst will have a field day picking that addiction apart.

Anyway.

My parents never showed open affection. Not toward me, nor my brother. Our grandmother did. She would let me sit in her lap for hours, just resting my head on her shoulder, patting her arm or hand, while she held me secure in place. Sometimes, she talked to whoever was present, watched telly, or read me a story. Everyone told me I was too old to cling to her like a toddler. She told them, in no uncertain terms, to shut it. Her tongue was widely known to be poisonous if she felt attacked or treated unfairly. She was fiercely protective of me, and I cried myself to sleep for weeks after she passed when I was seven.

John’s aunt had been his safe haven when his parents fought. She lived only five minutes from their flat, and she worked from home as an author. Her door was always open, and when he came crying to her, retelling what he’d seen back home, she made him tea, and let him rest his head in her lap while she typed on her typewriter.

When John was nine, his aunt got engaged to be married. Her fiancé didn’t approve of the relationship between her and her nephew, and wanted her to stop seeing him, or at least stop letting the boy lie in her lap. It was indecent, he claimed.

According to John, she did protest, but in the end she relented.

“Let me go, John,” was the last words she said to him.

He never visited her again.

John learned his lesson, strengthened his heart, moved on. I was not that clever. Not then.

***

I got infatuated alarmingly fast. In the beginning, it was nothing romantic about it. If a teacher or a neighbour, paid me enough friendly attention, I was lost to this world. I did anything to get the tiniest glimpse of them, a kind word, or an affectionate touch to my hair, shoulder, or upper arm.

Back then, my entire demeanour was like an open book. I had no boundaries and loved openly. Of course, my peers picked up on it, tormented me, threatened to expose me. I spent hours in front of the mirror rehearsing an impenetrable expression. It obviously worked. In theory. Out in the open – not so much.

***

For years, I tried to protect my heart, but then, one sunny September day, the new boy arrived at Cambridge University. Victor Trevor.

He looked like a Greek god with his golden locks, green eyes with honey-coloured specks, and an athletic body.

We were of similar height, but I didn’t eat much, and was thin and fragile compared to his muscular frame. To me, Victor seemed untouchable, way out of my league. But just like John, he surprised me.

He was endlessly fascinated by my experiments, the cruel deductions I let spill whenever my classmates mocked me, called me freak.

“You sure told Sebastian,” he laughed heartily.

I loved his laughter, and tried to coax it out of him as often as I could.

When we had sex the first time, I thought I could die happily. Victor was both passionate and caring. It was not a one-sided relationship. He gave as good as he got. In the beginning.

“Damn, you’re so clingy and needy, Sherl,” he started to complain when I didn’t want him to leave the bed. “I have other obligations, you know.”

I tried my best not to feel hurt by that and failed spectacularly.

It got better when he introduced me to drugs. They helped me to cope with the heartbreak. Victor told me he needed more.

“I’m too young to be exclusive, yet. You can fuck other blokes if you like as well. Experiment. Get experienced. That’s what uni is about, yeah.”

When I tried to protest and told him he was my one and only, he just laughed at me. Idiot that I was, I clung to him when he broke up with me.

“Let me go! You’re suffocating me, Sherl. Get a grip. And a life.”

***

After that, I wandered alone, didn’t let anybody near me. I created a new persona.

A well-functioning sociopath.

For years, everyone believed me.

Until John.

I hadn’t been this fascinated, ever. Not even Victor came close to the impact John had on me from the moment he entered that lab at Barts.

Of course, I couldn’t help myself; I had to interact with him. My deductions were meant to make him run away screaming. When he didn’t, my fascination grew. I interrogated Mike about him, but he didn’t know much.

“John is a private person, Sherlock. Even when inebriated, or drunk beyond measure, he never let his façade falter. It’s bloody impressive. This is a mystery you have to solve on your own.”

I was determined to do just that. After all, how difficult could it be? I had deduced him correctly after mere seconds in his presence. The rest should be child’s play.

I had never been more wrong in my entire life.

***

“What are you thinking about, love?”

John’s voice is soft. His fingers are carding through my hair. It makes me pliant, lazy, and utterly content. But it only takes seconds for those emotions to turn to arousal and want; if he just grabs a little harder, tugs just so, I’ll be writhing with lust. He is a sorcerer, an indicator of why he got the nickname, Three Continents Watson.

“No more of that,” he always says when I bring it up. “I’m all yours now.”

“What if you want to be rid of me?” I ask, needing the reassurance he’ll instantly give me.

“I will never ask you to let me go, my darling. You are my entire world. My precious boy. I love you. This is forever.”

“You really mean that,” I reply.

“I do. You don’t have to question that. But I will always dispel your fears. Just ask me.”

***

John has kept his promise, and for each year, I have felt more at rest. His patience with me is unprecedented.

“You have been hurt and abandoned so many times, Sherlock. Your tender and big heart doesn’t have the ability to harden the way mine has, or had, to be precise. It would splinter if you asked me to leave you.”

“We both know that will never happen, John.”

“I know, my love. This is forever.”

“Forever,” I agree.

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

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satorusugurugurl · 1 year ago

Text

L.O.M.L

Summary: On Late August day, you and Nanami go out to dinner, where you reveal a wonderful surprise.

Pairing: Nanami Kento x FAB!Reader

Word Count: 5,682

Warning: angst, character death, mentions of blood, pregnancy complications, Shibuya incident, angst

A/N: I am so sorry. 🥲

The normal clanking of knives against plates, the murmur of conversation around you was nearly silent as you waited. With a glance around the bakery you and Nanami often visited, you spot your fiance walking in. He was sporting his blue down top, suit jacket resting over his arm, and tie off. His typical ‘off the clock' aesthetic. Honey-brown eyes glanced through the bakery before landing on you. His smile was soft as he hurried forward, avoiding other customers before bending over and kissing your lips.

“Hello love, don't you look stunning? You're practically glowing.”

“I'm just happy to see you!” Nanami chuckled, nodding as he slid into the booth across from you. “I hope you don't mind, but I ordered a drink for you already.”

“That’s perfectly fine, you know what I like.” Nanami yawned into the back of his hand. “I was thinking that perhaps we can go for dessert after this, maybe to that ice cream parlor you like.”

“Mhmm, I think that sounds like a great idea!”

“One iced green tea.” The young waitress sat the drink down before him, giving you a wink before she walked away.

Nanami looked up from the menu to thank the waitress for bringing his drink. Something caught his eye just as he turned his head to look at her. Sitting in front of him was a glass of iced green tea. It wasn’t in a glass but a baby bottle: bright blue lid, yellow teat, and measuring lines. Your fiance blankly stared at the baby bottle, looking at it as if it were a puzzle that could not be solved. The confusion in his eyes settled into a look of annoyance.

Nanami stood up, his eyes searching the restaurant for someone. “Kento?” You asked, confusion thick in your voice. “Babe, what in the world are you doing?” With an exasperated sigh, Nanami turned to look back down at you.

“I think a certain blindfolded freak followed us here.” The veins in his neck bulged in frustration over the prospect of Gojo being there.”I had a little mishap at work today. I didn’t realize the lid to my coffee wasn't secure enough. so when I tried to take a drink, it spilled down the front of my jacket.” Trying to imagine your ordinarily prim and proper fiancé with a coffee stain down his coat was a sight you were slightly intrigued to see. “Gojo thought it was the funniest thing in the entire world. He insisted that he invest in hundreds of sippy cups until I learned how to drink properly. It's a thing to tease me at work but another to do after hours. So, if you excuse me, I need to try to find a way to get through his infinity.”

Before Nanami could begin his manhunt, you gently grabbed his wrist, ceasing his momentum. “It wasn't Gojo.” You softly said, winning a puzzled look from Kento.

“If it wasn’t Gojo, then who was it?”

Your heart felt like it would explode from how fast it was beating against your rib cage. He needed to know. Nanami watched as you reached into your bag with trembling fingers, grabbing a rectangle box and sliding it in front of him. Your throat felt so incredibly dry that you took a sip of water to ease the burning sensation as Nanami picked up the box.

The whole world seemed to freeze when Nanami opened the box lid. Inside it, a pregnancy test with the lid secure. Nanami’s eyes trail to a blue positive sign in the center of the test. His eyes lingered on that blue plus sign; it seemed like an eternity before his honey-brown orbs slowly traveled to your face. He bore an unreadable expression; you weren’t sure if that was better than him freaking out or ten times worse.

“I-I—well, I was feeling a bit nauseated this morning, and I noticed I hadn’t started my period yet.” The bustling sounds of the busy bakery turned into a muffled noise as you stared directly at the table's surface. “So I figured I should check when you left for work this morning. I thought maybe it was just a stomach bug, something I would be over in twenty-four hours; I hadn’t expected it to be positive.”

“Love—”

“I know this isn’t part of the plan. We wanted to get married first and save up some money.” Thundering heartbeats pounded inside your eardrums, muting the outside world around you. “I’m sorry; I’m the one who suggested that we mess around when we were both drunk last month.”

“Love—”

“‘M’ so sorry. I know you would prefer for things to go differently and more smoothly. I ruined that for us.”

Thoughts of that drunken passion came flooding back to you. You both had one too many drinks at a work function. There had been a lot of kissing, necking, and fondling on the elevator ride back up to your hotel room. One thing led to another, and one condom-less sex session later, you found yourself pregnant with his baby. Something neither of you intended to happen until maybe five years down the road, maybe less if things were good. You getting knocked up six months before your wedding was not in the plans.

A large hand cupped your cheek before you could start spiraling into intrusive thoughts. Lips so soft and warm pressed against yours in a gentle kiss. A strangled gasp rose in your throat as Nanami turned his head, deepening the kiss. Both of his hands cupped each side of your face. He was so gentle and kind, putting all of his love into that single kiss.

Nanami finally managed to pull himself away from you, his fingers gently caressing your face before he sat back down in front of you. His hands cradled the box that you had given him. Looking into his eyes, there was no trace of anger or frustration. There was nothing but hope and love in his iris’.

“You’ve given me everything I’ve ever wanted in a partner. you’re kind, compassionate, and so undesribilingly beautiful.” A wet tear hit the surface of the table. “You’re giving me a life I never knew I wanted until I met you. Any other man would’ve been content just that. But you're giving me something I can’t even describe.” he placed the lid back onto the box. “You’ve given me hope, unconditional love, and a future.”

“Kento—”

“Don't you dare apologize for that.” he gently scolded, placing the back so gently to the side as if it would shatter. “It may not have been in our plans, but who cares?” Large, calloused fingers gently gripped yours, holding them tight. “We’re going to be just fine, you, me, and our little one.”

Happy tears streamed down your cheeks as Nanami ran his thumb over. “You're right!” you brought his hands to your lips, peppering kisses over his larger hands. “Everything is going to be perfect.” The joy etched over Nanami’s face had your heart racing with pure excitement instead of the dread it had felt ever since you saw that positive sign.

Everything would work out as long as your fiancé was by your side. Your child may not have been planned, but that didn’t mean it would be loved any less. Things would be okay; they would be even better, not that you were expecting a little one soon.

For the first month, things were perfect aside from the morning sickness and the fatigue. You’ve also had a never-ending craving for frozen yogurt and sauerkraut. Not together, of course; your cravings hadn’t gotten that weird yet. Nanami was so perfect. He held your hair back while you vomited in the early hours of the morning, he’d bring you home frozen yogurt when you didn’t even have to ask, and he would massage your back ever so gently before his hands gently pulled out your lower abdomen.

The hands gently stroked your lower abdomen. “My sweet little bean.” he would whisper in your ear, his eyes glancing down at his hand. “I can't wait to meet you. I bet you’ll look just like your mommy.” The tenderness of his tone had you cuddling into him and sighing contently as his palms rested against you.

Moments like that were perfect.

But things took a turn so quickly it could give whiplash. It started as a typical day, nothing out of the ordinary until you were out grabbing some groceries. There was a sharp, stinging pain in your lower back. You thought nothing more of it than just a strained muscle. But when you walked into the restroom to use it, pulling your underwear down to your knees, you saw a stain of red.

Panic settled in as you began to wonder what was going on. You had done everything right. You listened to your doctors, read all the baby books, and even took your vitamins like you were supposed to. So why, why was this happening?

You immediately called Nanami. He stopped what he was doing, rushing to meet you at the doctor's office. Much like when you first told him that you were pregnant, your heart was racing against your rib cage like a hammer to a nail. Only this time, it wasn’t from excitement; it was from terror.

The dread and the panic settled in the pit of your stomach. Noticing your anxiety, Nanami gently took your hand, letting you know he was here for you no matter what. And while you knew he was trying to be kind to let you know that he was here to hold the burden of the unknown with you, that only seemed to worsen things. If something were wrong, you would not be able to live with the guilt; your fiancé had been so excited, you were excited.

Your stomach twisted as the doctor came in. “Well, let’s look and see what’s going on with your baby.” You laid back against the medical exam table. You were shuddering as he poured the cool jelly against your lower abdomen before performing an ultrasound. You knew something was wrong. Not once did the doctor turn towards you. Instead, the screen was securely in front of his face, an unable expression plaster against it. That expression must’ve taken years of practice to master. An expression that screamed he knew something was wrong, but he didn’t want to alarm his patients.

“Is everything okay with our little bean?” Nanami tentatively asked, sensing the same thing you had.

“I’m not seeing anything wrong, per se. I think it’s just a little too early for us to see your little bean right now.”

“I'm sorry, but what?” you sat up on your elbows as a doctor began wiping off the jelly. “What do you mean you can’t see them? Isn’t that a bad thing?”

The doctor and your fiancé exchange the books with one another. “Not necessarily. I checked both your fallopian tubes, and I didn’t see that it’s an ectopic pregnancy, so that’s good. It could be that your little bean is too small for us to see on the monitor.”

“Or there’s no bean at all. It’s possible that it didn’t stick right; it wasn't viable?”

“Love—” your fiancé looked at you as if you had broken his heart with your words.

“Yes, that is a possibility, too.” You felt like the whole world was about to crash down on you. Nanami, tighten this hand on yours before glancing at the doctor.

“But there’s still a chance, right?”

“Of course, like I said, it might be too early. Before you leave, I want to have some blood work drawn. That way, we know for sure.”

Several tubes of blood later and a very silent car ride home, you and Nanami walked into the apartment. You headed straight for the kitchen, pulling out pots and pans to prepare dinner, but your attempts were throttled. Nanami snatched the pots and pans away from you. Whirling around, you reached for the pans.

“Give me that back.” Your tone is sharp and short as you yank a pan back.

“Were you not listening to what the doctor told you when we left? You’re supposed to be resting in bed.”

“Why? I'm bleeding; that's never a good sign.”

Nanami pulled the pan out of your hand as you reached for it again. “You're spotting there's a difference.” A soured scoff left your mouth. “Don’t act like it's over; our little bean is strong.” he placed the pans down, hands reaching for your lower stomach, but before they could touch you, you slapped them away.

“Kento! Stop it! Please!” Tears ran down your cheeks as you choked on a sob. “Please! All day, I've been having this feeling of dread! It didn't stick!”

The tension flooded the room, which was so thick you could almost cut it with a knife. You stared down at the floor, your own hands cradling your stomach while he hovered just in front of you. Kento wanted to touch you, but you had made it clear by smacking his hands away that you didn’t want that.

But seeing you so visibly upset had Kento fighting his instincts. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you in for a hug. Smelling his cologne and feeling the warmth of his body against yours was the final straw—the reins on the emotions you have held back slipped from your grasp. You shoved your face into his chest; soft sobs rocked through you. While you were having a breakdown, Kento gently rubbed his hands up and down your back.

“It’s going to be okay.” His words were muffled as he pressed his lips against your head. “Our little bean is going to be.”

Pulling back with tear-stained cheeks, you hiccuped, taking a deep breath. “A-And what if it’s not?!” Nanami’s smile was across between sorrow and happiness.

“If that does happen, which I doubt it is, we’ll try again.”

“We will—?”

“Of course, we will.” His lips pressed against your head, pulling back to glance down at your sobbing figure. “I love you. I want to raise a family with you. We’ll get there eventually, I promise.”

His words held a sure hope in them. One that made you want to believe that he was right everything would work out for the best. But you also didn’t want to get your hopes up. For now, you will continue to do things as you were. Watching what you were eating and taking your prenatal vitamins, but not losing yourself in the serotonin that came with early pregnancy.

That could change in an instant.

“I love you too.” You whispered gently, grabbing his hands and placing them on your stomach. Nanami’s shoulders relaxed as he ran his hands over you with gentle, loving strokes.

“I love you both.” Without another word, Nanami ushered you to the bedroom, where he promptly tucked you into bed. “I’ll make us something to eat. You need to rest.”

While you wanted to help him, deep down, you knew he wouldn’t let you help. So you’ve fluffed your pillows and laid back against the headboard in defeat. You stayed like that for five minutes before you and Nanami’s phones went off.

Glancing at your screen, you stared at a summons text from Jujutsu High. You were being summoned to go to Shibuya to handle an incident. Just as you finished reading your message, Nanami walked into the bedroom. His eyes were glued to the screen before they quickly darted in your direction, taking note of your hand, which was still in your hand.

“Where did they summon you to?” He said tentatively.

“Shibuya, what about you?”

Nanami huffed out a sigh, running his hand against the back of his neck. “Shibuya.” His confirmation had you sitting up straight. “I’m going to call Yaga and let him know you won’t be joining me.” his words were sharp and cold, like an icepick to your heart.

“I can help; I may not know the reverse curse technique, but my barriers are the best in the business.”

“And our doctor put you on bed rest.” The sharpness of his tone let you know there would be no further discussion. Your fiancé was putting his foot down and would refuse to listen to any arguments you came up with. “So lay back down; I’m going to finish making your dinner before I head out.”

Watching him leave the room had you feeling all sorts of emotions: frustration, sadness, and dread. Something about this wasn’t right if you both were called in on the same mission. It had to be serious.

Different thoughts and outcomes were rolling through your head like a raging river. You had no clue what was waiting for your fiancé, leaving you feeling sick, souring the remains of your lunch. You thought you would be sick until Nanami came back into the room. He placed a piping hot mug of ginger tea on the nightstand beside you before laying a bed tray down in your lap with a bowl of steaming rice porridge.

“Oh, Kento, thank you.” Your fiancé gently kissed your cheek before kneeling next to the bed, his hand resting over the spot he’d been obsessed over.

“Daddy needs to go to work, but I’ll be home as soon as possible.” He traced a small heart over your skin. “I love you and Mommy very much, bean.” His honey-brown eyes, which you loved so much, glittered in the lamp beside you. “I love you; please get some rest; don’t hesitate to call me.”

“I love you too, Kento.”

Nanami grinned, putting on his glasses and jacket. “I’ll be home soon.” He pressed one final kiss to your lips before walking out the bedroom door.

The incident in Shibuya was worse than you had thought. Veils were brought down, there was no cell service, and you were anxiously staring at your phone's screen. Nanami texted you a few times before finally sending you two final messages.

Kento: We’re heading further in; I’ll check in with you in a little bit.

You: Please be safe. I love you.

Kento: I love you too.

That was the last message you received. Worry filled every ounce of your being as you anxiously texted everyone you knew who was at Shibuya. Between you keeping up with the updates on social media and searching for answers as to what was going on, just like everyone else, you were outside of the loop, which had your anxiety at an all-time high.

Nanami was okay; he was always okay. Before you knew it, he would walk back in with a big smile. He’d apologize for being late and complain all about the overtime he worked, and he would hold you. That’s precisely what was going to happen.

You should have known something was wrong when there was a knock on the door around noon that morning. “Did you lose your keys?” You asked as you opened the door, finding Yaga standing there, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. “Yaga?” You question, looking behind him, searching for Nanami.

“Can I come inside?”

“W-Where’s Kento?”

“Hun, please let me in—”

The dread lingering in your stomach rose to your throat as you stepped aside, allowing Yaga to walk in. He was solemn, not looking at you until you both sat at the kitchen table. Your hands felt like ice as Yaga began explaining what happened in Shibuya that he knew thus far.

Gojo had been sealed, and Itadori had been given more fingers; overall, it was a total massacre. So many died, and others were injured. Hearing all of the gory details, had you reaching for your lower stomach. In fear of what Yaga was going to tell you next.

“Is Kento okay? Is he at the hospital, or is Shoko taking care of him?” Yaga remained silent, not saying a single word leaving his lips. “Yaga.”

“Todo and Nitta Arata were called in from Kyoto. They found Itadori fighting the patch-face curse, Mahito.”

Your body went rigid as your vision blurred. Nanami had told you everything that happened with that curse. From his battle with it in the sewers, its technique, and the damage it had done. That curse nearly killed Nanami and Itadori. Hearing about a curse that could alter the shape of a soul had chills running down your spine. Your fiance had said that if he wasn’t dealt with in a timely manner, he would become too strong.

It seemed as though he was right.

“That doesn't answer my question—where’s Kento?” your former high school teacher said nothing again. “Yaga, you need to tell me what happened.”

“When they arrived, itadori was not in a very good state given the circumstances.” Of course, he would be like that. Having Sukuna take control and run a rampage through the city and having to live with that would traumatize anyone. “Mahito touched Nobara, and well—” Yaga trailed off, “we’ll see what happens with her, but Yuuji also informed Todo that Nanami—”

You didn’t wait for him to continue. You stood up, frantically searching for your keys and your jacket. “Stop, let’s go. I need to see him.” Yaga followed after you, gently grabbing your shoulders to stop you. “I need to be by his side. He would do the same for me!” Yaga tightened his grip on you, grabbing your keys and slamming them on the counter.

“Sit down, please.”

“W-Why?” Tears welled in your eyes. “W-We have to go! I need to be with him! Yaga, please!” he helped ease you into the chair before kneeling in front of you. “Yaga?” Your former teacher took his glasses off, holding them between his fingers.

“Itadori told both of them that Nanami—” he swallowed, “Nanami was killed.”

It felt as though your stomach fell out of your body, followed by your heart. You rocked back in the chair, eyes widening as Yaga grabbed your hand. Time stopped; neither you nor Yaga moved or breathed. Heavy breathing filled the silence as the tears fell from your eyes. No way, there was no way he was gone; your Kento w-wouldn't have been taken out—no, he said he would be home soon!

Your stomach churned as you shook your head. “N-No, no, he—” Looking around your apartment, which was full of memories with him, you searched for Kento like it was a bad dream. “H-He was just here—he made me food—” Yaga squeezed your hand gently. “He said he'd be home soon.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“No, no, I don't believe you.” You tried getting up, but your body remained glued to the chair as the shock settled in. “I need to see him. Take me to him, Yaga.”

“There's nothing to see; I refuse to let you see the state they found him in. I can't give you the closure you want.” More tears fell as you struggled to breathe. “We were only able to confirm that it was Nanami because we found his blunt blade and wallet.”

You were going to be sick; your hand covered your mouth as Yaga reached into his back pocket, pulling out a cloth. He gently placed it on the table next to you. Your icy, trembling fingers reached forward, picking up the fabric and unwrapping it. You discovered what was hidden underneath it. Nanami’s wallet sat there in the palm of your hand. Opening it, you choked, seeing his ID.

Yaga kept apologizing as you flipped through the contents of your fiancè’s wallet. You looked through his cards, the money he had inside, before finally landing on a picture he kept of the two of you in the back. A wallet was all that you got? This pathetic piece of leather was your goodbye?

“I know it’s not his body, but it’s still a part of him.”

Part of him? You didn't want part of him; you wanted all of him here at home with you! Where he would caress your stomach absentmindedly while reading. Where you'd cook and share a meal. The two of you would blissfully talk about the future and what it had in store for you.

The nausea settled deep in your stomach as you got up on shaking legs. “I need some air.” As you stepped forward, the room spun, and you began falling forward.

Yaga was fast catching you in his arms as he helped steady you. “Easy there, I got you, hu—” His words trailed off before his muscles clenched. “You're bleeding.” Turning to follow his gaze, you saw a bloom of red staining your chair. “Shit, I’m taking you to the hospital.” Yaga was moving, but all you felt was a numbing sensation. Your eyes stayed locked on your chair before the door slammed shut.

You just lost the love of your life. Now, this was happening? Are you honestly going to lose the one thing he left behind that was a part of both of you? No, no, this wasn't fair! You wailed, screaming as Yaga rushed you out of the apartments into the car one of the assistant supervisors was driving. Yaga barked out an order before resting your head in his lap. Your hands rubbed over the spot Nanami always did as you hiccuped and screamed.

This wasn't real; it was all a nightmare, a terrible, horrible nightmare. But the chill that coursed through your veins and settled in your chest was a sick reminder. A reminder that this was, in fact, not a nightmare. This was reality. The harsh, cold reality that you were having to face on your own. one where your fiancé was dead, and you were bleeding when you were carrying his child. Nanami wasn't dead; this had to be some cosmic twisted joke. Why, on the same day you lost the love of your life, would you lose the last part you had of him?

“No,” you whispered, “no, they’re strong, they’re so strong like their daddy.” Break squealed as the door to the backseat opened. “They have to make it; they’re gonna make it.”

Lights were blurred as you were placed upon a gurney, faces crowded about you, voices shouting, commands, and barking out orders. The sickening smell of sterilizing chemicals flooded your nose, making the nausea worse. You were overwhelmed by the sounds, smell, and grief.

“Where’s that Ultrasound?!”

Cold jelly was on you as you thrashed around trying to find Kento, to look at the screen to see your baby. “I got nothing!” Someone screamed, making you sit up.

“No! No! Please! T-They're okay!”

“Miss, you need to relax.”

“Look again!” You pleaded before you were pushed back against the gurney. “Look again!”

“Easy! Relax!”

They weren't listening to you! You needed to make sure your child was okay! You could not lose them both, not on the same day. Your blurry eyes searched the faces around you, desperately trying to find honey-brown eyes. But he wasn't there. You needed him! Fuck you needed him so tucking bad!

“Kento!!” Your scream was so loud it made your ears ring as nurses and doctors worked around and above you. “P-Please! Please, I can't lose them too, Ken! I can't lose you both!!!”

A warmth washed over you like a warm hand, gently rubbing up and down your arm, easing you down into a calm state. Or maybe you were given something by the doctors, or the shock was making you drift out of consciousness. Your heart stopped thundering in your ears, slowing to a normal pace as your eyes began to shut. The blurry shapes around you faded into darkness.

That same warm caress had you stirring, blinking as the sound of ocean waves crashing drew you from your hellish nightmare. Slowly following the hand on you gasped, finding Nanami sitting before you. He was in his blue button-down top, tie long forgotten, just like the day you had told him you were pregnant. You sat up on pure white sand, tears rolling down your cheeks as you reached for him, cupping his face.

“Kento—”

“Love, I'm so sorry.” He turned, nuzzling his face into your palms. “I’m so sorry I left you both.”

“I love you.” The words were broken and full of disdain as you pulled him closer. “I love you, I love you.”

Blonde brows furrowed in sorrow as Nanami shut his eyes as tightly as possible. “I love you too, darling.” He huffed out a heavy sigh. “I love you both.” The way he shifted his arms had your eyes darting toward his chest, where a bundle lay in his arms. A bundle that wailed softly as he pushed the blanket back. “You were right.” Blinking tears away, you stared up at him in confusion.

“About what?”

“About her being strong like me.” His eyes filled with tears as he ran his knuckle over a chubby cheeks. “She's a fighter.”

“She?”

“And she’s beautiful like her mommy.” Kenton continued as he gently transferred the bundle into your arms. “She’s going to be smart like the both of us.” Nanami cupped your cheek, gently kissing you. “She’ll pull through, just like you will, and I’ll be right there with you, watching over my girls; I swear I’ll always be there.”

Pressing your forehead against his, you stared into those eyes you loved. “I love you, Kento.” He stared back, blinking slowly before pressing a chaste kiss against your lips while his hand rested against your tummy, making your heartache.

“I love you too.”

Shutting your eyes, you took a deep breath before opening them again. Big sparkling honey-brown eyes peered down at you, framed by thick lashes. They were full of concern as a tiny hand gently wiped a tear away from your eye.

“Mommy? Why are you cryin’?”

Sitting up, you quickly wiped your eyes before turning towards the four-year-old. “I was dreaming, little bean; I'm okay.” Blonde hair bounced as she tilted her head to the side. Her frilly pink swimsuit was on, and her yellow duck floaties squeaked as she wrapped her arms around your neck. “Oh, Kotoe.” You hugged her back, squeezing her gently. “Thank you, baby.” Your daughter pulled back, rubbing your cheek softly.

“Was it scary?”

“Nope, it was a good dream.”

“Good?”

“Mhmm,” You kissed her cheek, “your daddy just stopped by to say hi to us.” She smiled wide, looking up at the blue umbrella shielding you from the sun.

“Hi, Daddy!” She waved so enthusiastically. “I love you!” She focused her attention back on you. “Mommy, can Uncle Yuuji and Uncle Ino take me back to the water to play more?”

“Sure baby, just a little longer; Uncle Gojo and the others will be back soon with the watermelon and fireworks. Can I put some more sunscreen on you first?”

A bottle of sunscreen promptly landed beside you as Ino passed. “Already did it!” He ran for the water as Yuuji bolted by picking your daughter up.

“Ah, haha! Uncle Yuuji!!”

“Nana-Bean! Nana-Bean!” Yuuji chanted as he and Ino grabbed one of her hands, walking toward the water.

Nanami had been right; your little girl was strong, just like him. She fought and made it through a scary dark time in your life. Kotoe was your entire world; she was loved by you and everyone around you. It was all thanks to her that you found the strength to fight.

A warm caress brushed down your cheek as you watched your daughter pick up seashells. You learned into it, sighing happily. “Hi, Kento,” you whispered as the warmth spread. “Thanks for saying hi, I love you.”

Little Kotoe turned and looked back at you, holding up a pink shell she found. When she did, she saw a see-through man and recognized him immediately. Her father, Nanami Kento, whom she'd only seen in pictures and videos, sat on the beach towel beside you. His see-through hand gently rubs up your cheek.

“Nana-bean? Whatcha looking at?”

“My daddy!” She announced proudly before putting her seashell in her bucket. “He loves my mommy so much he comes and visits her!”

Ino and Yuuji shared a look before focusing on you. Both young men felt an ache in their chests as their eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Does he visit a lot?” Yuuji asked as Kotoe dropped another seashell in her pink sand bucket.

“Mhmm! Daddy said Mommy is strong! The strongest! Stronger than Uncle Gojo!”

A shadow spread over the trio. “I’m sorry. Someone's stronger than me?” Kotoe looked up at Gojo, who held a watermelon over his shoulder.

“My daddy said my mommy is!”

“Oooh~” Gojo fixed his glasses, turning his head to smile at you as Maki and Yuuta sat with you. “Yeah, your mommy is strong. But your dad needs to shut his mouth, or I'll put a sippy cup on his altar.”

The trio all tilted their heads in confusion. Gojo smirked before telling them the story of Nanami spilling coffee down the front of himself the same day you had found out you were pregnant. The group busted into a string of giggles. You turned from Maki, watching your little girl throw her head back, rays of light surrounding her.

Once in a blue moon, Kento had mentioned to you that he told a girl at a bakery, ‘No one would mind if I was gone.’ he couldn't have been more wrong. There wasn't a day that you didn't miss him. So many people missed him; he had been taken far too soon.

Four years have passed since you lost the love of your life. But Nanami had blessed you with memories of him and helped make your little bean before his untimely departure. Knowing and loving him was one of the greatest honors bestowed upon you. It was the kind of love that transcended time. A once-in-a-lifetime kind of love that lived on through his pupils, his daughter, and you.

Forever Tag List:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe

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