#and returned to the pit to fail again.’’

[nicksolemnlyswears]

FORGED UNDER FIRE

BATTLEFRONT NEWS

blurb: he promised he would come back, but he didn't. now you're alone trying to navigate your grief while lilith tries to reason with you about the unexpected news

pairing: brennan sorrengail x rider! reader

word count: 2.4k

a/n: hey guys! i'm back with another part of FORGED UNDER FIRE. i heard what you guys had to say on the poll so this is placed right before and right after brennan's death. as always there are no fourth wing spoilers much less onyx storm.

it's been really fun writing lilith sorrengail and i'm sure she's a little ooc, i love her character but i need to reread iron flame to gain the essence of her character. i've got a couple of ideas for the next part but i'll leave it in your hands again with another poll at the end!

thank you for all the nice comments in the other two parts of the mini series. i can relate to so many of you who come seeking more fourth wing content because the withdrawal is so real. my heart goes out to all the other fourth wing writers, i literally jumped from joy when someone posted a boyfriend!ridoc fic. he's my absolute favorite.

omg if any of you have any liam fics you'd like to share let me know!!

i'm rambling! enjoy!!

The world outside Brennan Sorrengail's room was falling apart. Navarre was not prepared for this war. Riders turning their backs on riders, dragons fighting dragons, a thing of nightmares. All because of the rebellion led by Fen Riorson.

But inside his small, basic room, the first rays of the sun filtered through the window, falling over him. It made his hair appear more red than brown, and it highlighted the growing amount of freckles on his face.

He had been awake for hours indulging in your body before setting off to fight in the rebellion because the war was not worth sacrificing one quiet morning with you where Brennan got to memorize every bit there was to you. The protests of his exhausted body were mere whispers, muffled by his love and desire.

Brennan accepted the importance of his signet and his position as a soldier in the military. He acknowledged his duty to Navarre, but it couldn't stop him from spending time with the person he loved most in the world.

"Don't go," you whispered as your fingers roamed over his naked chest. The pads of your fingers ghosted the spot where his heart beat, and an arrow would later be impaled-almost like a premonition.

He had to go, and you accepted it. It's how a rider's life went, always going and never stopping. You had a mission yourself and would be leaving the station later on in the day. Still, you hoped neither would be forced to part.

"To leave you is against my will," he responded, kissing your forehead as his living breath tickled your skin. His hand was tangled in your hair, pulling your face to his neck as he soothed himself of the gnawing feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. "You know I'd prefer to stay like this."

Your evolving relationship was blessed by three years in Basgiath, where you saw each other nearly every day. Not long after graduation, the bubbling rebellion boiled over and tore you apart, only allowing you to see him days at a time in between missions.

But whenever you and Brennan parted ways, he always promised he'd come back. It meant everything to you that he returned because he alone had become your favorite person. He was the one you could depend on for anything. He was your family.

Straight out of Basgiath, without wasting another moment, he decided to marry you to make it a reality. It's you and Brennan against the world as it had always been.

"You will be safe," you stated, lifting your head to kiss his jaw.

"I'll come back for you," he agreed, pulling the bed sheets over your bodies to indulge in you one last time. Unbeknownst to either of you.

You trusted he would return; it didn't matter if he was injured or mentally exhausted. Brennan would return to your side in no time. He hadn't failed you up to that moment, but little did you know that Fen Riorison would target him or that his trusted partner Naolin wouldn't be able to save him and would lose his life as well.

The news reached General Sorrengail first. A nervous rider handed her the missive and gave his report before scurrying out of the office. His behavior alerted Lilith that something was amiss. As she unscrolled the missive, her eyes widened, and tears welled up in her eyes. Rain fell outside as more clouds stormed closer, unleashing lighting and torrential winds.

She held the missive close to her chest as she lowered herself to a leather chair, a lonely sob falling from her mouth. Her son was dead, gone from this world. Her firstborn had been claimed by Malek before she had the chance to greet him there.

When you returned from your mission, you were guided directly into Lilith Sorrengails's office, pity-filled eyes directed towards you. Knots tightened in your stomach, yet your brain refused to understand why. The fatigue of the mission rendered your thinking slow. Perhaps it was denial protecting you for a couple more moments.

Lilith waited for you in her office, her back to you as she stared at the storm she created outside. A war strategy you naively believed. You didn't know the woman well; the war had everyone distracted, and you barely had time to get to know your husband's own mother. She was far too important to spare that kind of time.

"General Sorrengail, you asked for me." Your voice was hoarse from trying to communicate with the other riders over the wind. Lilith was carefully still, her hands behind her back as a missive was clutched in her fist.

Lilith turned, and the first thing you noticed was her bloodshot eyes. You tilted your head in question, but she didn't speak. She grabbed your hand and placed the missive in it. She left you standing in the middle of the room alone to deal with her own grief.

Now that you knew, she could tell the rest of the family. Lilith didn't know you well, but she knew how much Brennan adored you, and as his wife, you had every right to know of his death before the rest of the family.

He was dead. You knew. Reading the missive wouldn't change the fact he was gone and broke his promise. You only read the missive in case your gut was wrong, but you were met with cruel disappointment.

The edges of your vision darkened, and your ears ringed unbearably, and it would not stop until the war was finished. The following weeks were spent in a daze, mourning and fighting. You refused to take leave while others fought the war Brennan couldn't escape.

You don't remember much except for crying whenever you were in private and fighting the rebellion ferociously, through salty tears and bitter pain. Seeing the riders that betrayed Navarre made your blood boil, transforming your grief into wrath.

The moment Lilith took care of Fen Riorson, the ringing in your ears eased up. A cot waited for you at the healer's quadrant. Your body was spent and exhausted, wounded in many ways, but it could be healed, unlike the pain in your chest.

The only one who could heal it was long gone. The anger towards the rebellion turned to sadness, and then it morphed into resentment. Because how dare he leave you after everything you went through.

Finally, the resentment calmed into loneliness, leaving you with an emptiness that nothing could fill. The rebellion took a big part of you, and you debated whether you could go on. The old thought of making a name of yourself was a faint whisper in your head. It didn't seem like enough to keep you going without him.

The breeze teasingly swayed your body, reminding you of all its capabilities. It almost threw you off once, and it can do it again. This time around, it could succeed. You'd willingly let the wind sweep you away, cradling your body in a tight, cold hold if it meant reuniting with Brennan.

The war was over. Fen Riorson was taken care of by Lilith Sorrengail, but only after he took your Brennan's life. The first man to love you. The first person to reach deep and take you out of the protective shell you created when younger.

Brennan showed you what it was like to make friends and laugh with them and that bonding with people not related by blood was worth it. Those ties are worth more than anything. He taught you that loving was a good thing, and then he left you.

Just like that.

Calliss was nearby, her golden eyes set in your swaying form. She won't let you fall to your doom; she'll catch you because your pain was gut-wrenching but human. And like all human emotion, it will pass. Heartbreak will not be the downfall of the rider she chose oh so carefully.

If you turned your head, you could see Brennan, five years younger, softly smiling at your younger self, who was frozen on her spot fighting vertigo, encouraging you to breathe and keep walking.

It was clearly the past, seeing as the abyss under the parapet no longer bothered you; your footing was firm despite the wind. You're also older, and Brennan is no longer with you. It's only a sight you've conjured up.

"I hope you're not planning on jumping," Lilith spoke, breaking the illusion. She strode down the parapet like a grassy path in a forest, and the air stilled.

"It is tempting, but Calliss would not appreciate it." You responded truthfully, avoiding her gaze.

Calliss' chuffs from a distance. "That's right, human. I did not pick you just for you to be your own demise."

Lilith had been trying to speak with you, not as General Sorrengail but as Brennan's mother. It's the reason you've been avoiding her. You don't want to speak about him. All you want is to forget and feel some form of relief.

"What are you doing here then?" Lilith questioned, standing next to you.

"Remembering. This is where we met," you said simply, tilting your head towards her.

Lilith hummed, assessing your stance. "I remember when he first told me about you in his second year. He had yet to realize he was smitten with you, but the way he spoke told me and Asher all we had to know."

Screwing your eyes shut, you hung your head. Nothing will change the fact that he's dead.

"I know you're heartbroken, but there is still much to live for," Lilith told you. You had to listen to her because you might not jump today, but that reckless behavior will follow you far into your career.

"I'm sure." Sarcasm dripped from your voice as you began to walk off the parapet.

Lilith followed you. She must speak with you about an important matter she was made aware of. "There's something you must know. The healers, they said-"

You stopped and turned on your feet, the air continuing to rush around you, "I know what they said. I've known for weeks, Lilith. It's why I stand here wanting to fall, but my feet are stuck to the ground."

There was anger in your eyes, hot tears threatening to fall from your eyes. This was not supposed to happen. Not now, and maybe not ever. One thing is for certain, it shouldn't have happened if he wasn't supposed to be alive.

"Did Brennan know?"

You sighed and trekked the last piece of parapet before falling on solid ground, "We did not know. And yet, a part of me continues to wonder if knowing would've changed anything. Would he have stayed behind? Would have he been more cautious knowing he had a pregnant wife? Or would it all have played the same?"

"He had a role to play in the war."

You scoffed at Lilith's remark, the older woman's jaw tightening. She's General Sorrengail; of course, she would think nothing would've changed, but Brennan was not like her. He wouldn't have sacrificed everything for a war.

Upon your silence, she continued, "Due to your performance in the war, General Melgren has given the orders for you to join my team."

"Has he? Or do you want to keep an eye on me?"

"Your signet has proved to be of more use than anyone thought," Lilith sighs, "Plus, if you allow me, I want to be part of the baby's life."

"Who is to say I'll keep it?" You say bluntly. Raising a child on your own was never part of your plans, and you may birth the baby, but keeping it seems unlikely.

"Pardon?" Lilith was shocked. She never imagined you'd consider otherwise, seeing as you're carrying the last piece of Brennan.

"I have no family. I was abandoned as a child, left to fend for myself. Starting a family was never in the forefront of my mind," you say harshly, knowing Lilith was judging you.

"You and Brennan married. We became your family from that moment on," she says, holding your arm when you turn to leave.

Calliss voiced her displeasure at a distance. She's been more protective since the news of your pregnancy broke. Or rather, when you found out because bonding with a dragon means having no privacy.

"No offense, but it's not like we've spoken much in the last two years."

General Sorrengail scoffed, "So you're going to do what your parents did to you and abandon the child?"

That was a low blow. Lilith wanted to get a rise out of you, and she got it as you tore your arm from her grip and stalked forward to be face to face.

"You cannot speak of things you know nothing about, General. My parents abandoned me with a senile great-grandmother who loved to use a wooden stick to 'train' me and beat me just because she was in a bad mood. She used to say I owed it to her because she allowed me to live with her. Fifteen years I had to endure until I realized being homeless was a better way to live." Your breaths came out in heavy pants as you spilled your guts to Lilith, "So no, I will not be like my parents because although I am not fit to be a parent, I would never leave my child in an abusive home."

Lilith remained quiet, taking in the weight of your words. "Fine, but please let Asher or me know if you need anything. You don't have to go through the pregnancy alone. It's up to you."

With that, Lilith walked past you but not before saying, "No matter what, you are to report to my office in the morning, but you can also join us for dinner tonight."

Lilith was relentless, and she was going to try her best to get through to you because you were young and scared, and your husband just died. She should've reached out to you sooner and formed a bond, but she didn't, and now she's paying the price of her daughter-in-law feeling more alone than ever and wanting to give up a part of her family.

It was Lilith's mistake that you don't consider them family. She wanted to fix it to make you realize that you have her and Asher and Mira and Violet, and if you allow them, they will love you as one of their own.

thanks for reading!! this one is a wee bit longer than the previous one but it seemed fitting to capture all reader went through after his death.

we'll eventually get to brennan finding out about his child and reader finding out he's alive but for now we need more backstory <3

tag list (if you'd like to added to future parts let me know!) : @berry-marys @cherubinn7 @ladynyx91 @kylaisra @detectivehailey @liahaslosthermind @thebreadisthetruevillian @bbkissme99 @honethatty12 @sunny1616 @akshstudios @yadirrez @xoxomoonlightbabe @jaynawayna @littlepippilongstocking @itsmytimetoodream @honethatty12

[mixmxchi]

💫Handful of Stars💫

Xavier x MC/Reader

TW: light prank of forgetfulness, yes or not really no, is this angsty? more so fluffy, not scientifically correct birth of a star but let me live

“Come on, just a little further.”, Xavier coaxed, stopping his everlasting gaze on the endless deep blue night sky to glance back at you.

He had brought you to the campsite several hundred miles from Linkon City lines and insisted you had to camp up here tonight of all nights. Nothing, but your normal camping gear rested snug to your backs. The weight felt heavier as the evening went on. You didn’t mind a date night at all, but Xavier hadn’t once hinted about Valentine’s Day to you this year and it would be your third one together. All day he spent time away from you out of the house. He woke up and rushed out without even eating the breakfast you started to prepare after saying he got an important call from Jeremiah about their ship. The rest was history. Your eternal star was completely oblivious to the heart shaped fruit bouquet on the counter next to your handmade card wrapped in a peach colored envelope with shooting star stickers on it. Knowing he wouldn’t be home anytime soon you packed his breakfast up with the rest of your dignity and took it with you to give to him later in hopes to salvage your holiday. With the uptick in wanderer sightings, issues with ship repairs, and your latest promotion causing you both to spend more time together at work than at home, you wouldn’t necessarily blame him for overlooking today. Despite your brain reasoning with you, you couldn't help but feel the pain of his forgetfulness twinge at your heart. His voice snapped you out of your thoughts.

“We’ve been walking for hours. Are you sure this is the right way?”, you whined in return. Normally a night hike with your boyfriend would have been over with sunset.

“It’s been forty-five minutes and yes, I’m certain. I have been tracking this path for months. It is the perfect camping spot.”, he replied calmly.

You sigh to yourself. “Did you like the breakfast I left on your desk?”

“I didn’t have time to eat it so I gave it to Nero. It smelled good though!”

“What about the card?”

“Hmm?”, he wasn’t fully paying attention to you again. Too busy looking at the stars. “I didn’t see it, babe, sorry.”

You just hummed in acknowledgement, squeezing your eyes shut to force back tears. Though, suppression of any emotion is hardly ever positive and all it did was leave a knot in your chest causing you to stumble over a root half in the ground.

“Careful!”, Xavier’s hand reached back for your forearm helping to regain your steadiness. The moonlight illuminating his baby blue eyes frantically scanning you over. You couldn’t help but admire the irony of your favorite set of eyes matching the tone setting place in your heart. “Is your ankle alright?”

You nod, careful not to meet his eyes sure that he would see your sadness and continue hiking. It isn’t long before you both emerge from the wood into a tiny clearing near the mountain’s peak. It smells like freshly mowed grass and wild chamomile flowers. A red tent big enough for the two of you was set up with mesh netting near the top to get fresh air. A heater bed typically used for association missions was set next to it keeping dinner warm. Small longs had been moved to make chairs around a premade, unlit fire pit, and under the moonlight you could make out the silhouette of a telescope. So this is why he was out of the office this afternoon?, you thought to yourself.

“Xavier, what is this?”

“Did you really think I would forget Valentine’s Day?”, he chuckled more to himself.

“No. I-”, your words seemed to fail you, trailing off in defeat, knowing you were easier to read than you'd hoped.

He leans over and kisses your temple gently before helping you strip from your gear strapped around your chest. His lips were cold from the night breeze. He looked over your expression and bent down placing another kiss on your lips. He tasted like strawberry milk tea and the breakfast you made him.

“Hey!”, you pouted and jabbed your index and middle finger at him poking his sides. Xavier’s ribcage fluttered under your touch as his laughter increased. Annoyed, you felt your cheeks heat up as if under the mid-summer sun and you poked him again, this time harder.

His large hands came up to envelope your own and his voice was just above a whisper as if he was afraid the stars would tell his secret “I’m sorry I was in a hurry this morning. I didn’t let Nero eat your food, by the way. It was delicious, baby, thank you. And as for your card…” Out of his right coat pocket he revealed the envelope. “I wanted to open it with you. Can I right now?”

Once more you nod, feeling foolish and trying to hide the smile on your face. You had been taking art classes with your friend to prepare for this card and you were excited for him to see it. He begins to lift the large silvery wax seal of a star when you stop him.

“Wait! Can we light the fire first? I really want to be able to see all your reactions!”

Xavier uses his evol to help start the kindling of the fire and places a few extra pieces of wood. He tested the temperature before unwrapping the aluminium off a roasted sweet potato and peeled the tip, handing it to you to eat. You hummed a muffled “thanks love” content enjoying the sweetened nutty flavor. His eyes sparkled more brightly here, between the night sky and the fire there was no other light pollution. It made it look like he was glowing more than usual.

Xavier's fingers found their way back to the wax seal and he pulled out the card. It was the size of his palm and had a black border. On the card you drew your favorite memories from your past year with him. Underneath the drawings was cursive writing where you asked “Will you be my forever Valentine?” with two boxes labeled yes and also yes. You watched him intently study every single memory. Running his fingers over the intricate pencil lines of you rafting together on an island, parasailing with your friends, ice skating for the first time, baking a raspberry chiffon cake despite it exploding in the oven, and many more. With each memory his eyes filled with more admiration and love.

“Baby, this is beautiful.”, Xavier’s voice cracked and he leaned in, strong arms wrapped around you once more. This time they lingered. “I hope next year you can add this moment to our card.”

“Next year I will make you a whole new card, silly!”

“Then I will have to get a book to keep them all in and when we get married we can show them all at the wedding to make our guests jealous of how much we love each other.” Xavier brought his right hand up cupping the side of your face and you leant in smiling up at him.There was a comfortable silence that followed his statement. Both of you growing redder, not sure if the fire was burning hotter, or the way your heart beats were ricocheting around the forest at the thought of truly marrying the love of your life. Either way you would draw Xavier a billion more memories if that was what he wanted.

“My turn?”, he asked.

“Be my guest.”, you dramatically offered him the floor, but to your surprise he stood up and took your hand in tow.

“We need the telescope. By the way do you know how hard it was to convince Jeremiah to let me take this thing. You would almost thing he hasnt known me for 150 years.”, Xavier feigned faux hurt before a smile returned.

You went to grab the nose, but he quickly pulled your hands away. “Please don’t, baby it took ages to get it perfect.” When you nodded and bent over looking down the lens, he pulled your hair back softly to give you clear vision.

“The night sky is amazing. You don’t see sights like this in Linkon.”, you said.

“Wait for it..”, he said under his breath…

5…

4…

3…

2…

Out of nowhere a shining flecks of light flickered on almost like a group of stars decided to wake up and say hello.

“Stay looking at it, my love.”, Xavier’s other hand finds the small of your back and begins to trace tiny intricate patterns. The feeling of what he was drawing was mimicked by the light show. Swirls of neon yellows, whites, pastel blues, lilacs and muted greens twinkled until there was only darkness. If he moved his finger right, the flecks followed. He drew a heart and it mimicked that too. “I need you to resonate with me… please?”

Your hand quickly found his and you both closed your eyes, but when you opened them and looked back the colors were gone. In its place was a bright shining star. It matched the stickers you put on his envelope.

“It’s yours.”, he whispered into your hair, giving you a kiss right above your ear.

“What?”

“Well… not only did we just craft it.” He looked unsure of himself, “I pulled some string and…” he paused for a moment before pulling out a certificate that had your name on it saying you discovered the new star and it was named after you.

“Xavi… How is this possible?”, your chest heaves in awe. You have seen many stars die in your time, but never one being born, let alone crafted.

“Now no matter where we are. From every angle of the universe we can see our love, my forever valentine. Which reminds me!”, he pulled a pen out of his backpack and quickly marked both yes and also yes on the card, turning it to you with a big gummy smile. “No take backs, you can’t have anyone else as a Valentine ever again, besides me.”

Your eyes well up with tears and you jump in his arms knocking him back slightly so you are both seated by the fire. They fall happily as you grab his cheeks firmly you look in his eyes, the illumination and stars and trees being your witness. “I will have no one other than you forever and ever! I love it and you so much! Thank you~” Intertwining your fingers once more to resonate and watching that with him you can control how it flickers and shines. When you steal a glance at him watching the star you both are controlling you can’t help, but feel like the luckiest person in the universe to have your very own star, right here in the palm of your hand.

[jackdawsfavorite]

Trying to listen to something about that small college in Florida Desantis took over for politics but hearing it described as it was before reminded me of college-hunting with my mom and triggered the shit out of me.

[pochapal]

had a migraine all day then sat in the shower for almost an hour rotating life is strange thoughts in my mind and now the headache's gone and i'm also mad

[glow-in-the-dark-death]

Here We Go Again

Tim-DannyTimDANNY started down at himself as his mind re-organized itself. Memories he didn't have before suddenly there in his head.

A whole lifetime as someone else another teen hero Phantom, his other family, friends,growing up

The Accident his death.

Protecting his town

Fighting ghosts

Fighting humans

Dani

Telling his parent

Becoming an adult

Becoming the High Ghost King

He blinked, something was missing

What was wrong? Why was he here in another life remembering now. Both his lives meshed together inside his head, everything finally sliding into place until he could almost hear a *click* and he no longer felt like two different people in one body.

He was Tim, Red Robin who used to be Danny, King Phantom.

A flash of green caught his eye, looking up he saw a small green note

Danny, You will understand soon enough,as to why you are remembering now, try once more in your efforts, 100th times the charm or in this case Dani's rebirth. Be safe, gather your strength. Return home safely young King C.W

Looking up past the note he saw his last failed attempt at cloning Kon, stepping forward he reached out and changed the DNA sample now being his DNA in the mix.

"..."

".."

"."

" SUCCESS "

~

Danny-Tim: * Effectively taking over the LOA and getting Bruce back with a baby strapped to his chest*

~

Danny-Tim: *Both him and Dani wearing sunglasses while he flips off the LOA base as it explodes in the distance*

~

Danny-Tim being the best dad to Dani while the Bats are trying to figure out just what the hell he has been doing and

"Oh my God is that a baby! You're too young! How did it happen!!!"

Danny-Tim now mentally well into adulthood: *deadpan* "Do I need to give you The Talk?"

~

Kon/Bats seeing Dani floating: "UM!?!"

Danny-Tim is once again a half-a after some plot convenience with the LOA and the Pits: " Oh she gets that from my side."

*start slightly floating in the air*

"See?"

"Since WHEN can you do that?!"

"Since always, keep up"

~

Danny-Tim & Dani:

The others

~

Just an Idea

[burningembers91]

Kimchi Stew - Hwang In-Ho x Fem!Reader (Slight NSFW)

Follow up to: The Girl Next Door

Synopsis: As your relationship develops, Hwang In-Ho is torn between his devotion to his wife, and his growing feelings for you.

Warnings: 18+ only, mentions of deceased wife, themes of depression and loneliness, masturbation

 It had been six weeks since the pipe in your kitchen had burst. Six weeks since you’d gone to your neighbour for help. Hwang In-Ho had been round many times since then, first to return the bowl you’d left outside his door, then to fix a curtain pole he’d noticed was slightly wonky. He then fixed the leg of your sofa, the one that had never sat quite straight. He constantly found something to fix, something that needed a little tweak here and there. Your apartment was the size of a matchbox, but your neighbour never ran out of things to fix.

You’d been shocked the first time you laid eyes on him with his unkempt hair and scraggly beard, the clothes that hung off his thin frame. What struck you most, however, was the deep-rooted sadness in his eyes. You’d never seen anything like it, had never seen someone so broken. In recent weeks however, you’d noticed subtle changes. The day after the kitchen pipe fiasco, he returned with the bowl you’d filled with kimchi stew, his scraggly beard now gone. His face was handsome, his features chiselled, but his eyes blazed with unspoken heartbreak. He began to slowly put on weight, his clothes appearing less baggy with each passing week. Some nights he ate with you, but most nights he chose to sit by himself at home, eating in silence as he listened to your music through the thin walls.

He was finding it harder to stay away from you, but he was running out of things in your apartment to fix. The other day he’d insisted on fixing a tap that wasn’t even broken. He found himself craving your company, found himself thinking of you each night before he went to sleep. His wife still occupied 95% of his brain space, but you were there too. Your smile, your laugh, your scent filled his mind, the familiar ache deep in the pit of his belly surfacing every now and again. He still thought about the way your breasts looked in your wet t-shirt, how pert your nipples were against the fabric. He thought about how you sounded when your ex would stay the night. How your sweet, soft moans would fill his apartment while you made love. He could feel the desire to touch himself returning, but he refused. He didn’t deserve happiness, not after he failed to save his wife and baby. He deserved to be alone.

Hwang In-Ho didn’t know you thought of him too. he didn’t know you longed to kiss that sadness away, that you wanted to hold him until he cried the tears you knew he was so desperate to shed. You’d never seen or heard anyone coming or leaving his apartment. When you went over to ask for help with your kitchen sink, you noticed that he had no furniture. The floors and walls were bare, save for a thin duvet and sleeping mat in the far corner of the room. You wanted to ask him what had happened, but In-Ho was a man of very few words. He had a gruff exterior, and when you were together, he barely spoke a word. He seemed to like the music you played though, so you made sure something was always on. You pretended not to notice when he started humming along to Sabrina Carpenter, but you couldn’t help but smile. You wondered if, on the nights he spent alone, he ate something other than packaged ramen.

Hwang In-Ho had begun to feel overwhelmed by loneliness. The time he spent with you had made him realise how badly he craved human connection. He was wracked with guilt for wanting to spend time with you, his duty to his long-dead wife and child still at the forefront of his mind. He was so lonely though, spending his nights thinking of her and of you, before he cried himself to sleep. He couldn’t go on like this; he needed the company of another soul. He’d ventured out a few weeks back to look for work. His money was all but gone, and he didn’t want to live like a hermit anymore. He’d secured a job as a shelf-stacker at a local supermarket, and while it wasn’t the swanky insurance job he’d had before, it was a start. He’d bought himself a small table and chairs, and a 2-seater sofa that looked out over the park. His apartment was finally starting to feel a little more like home. Now he just had to get the courage up to ask you over.

You beat him to it though, appearing at his door one day with that beautiful smile glued to your face. “Come for dinner tonight,” you smiled, your invite not a request, but an order. You could sense his loneliness, and you couldn’t allow yourself to neglect a fellow human in need. “Ok,” he said, his lips twitching into something resembling a smile. “Can you make kimchi stew?” “Of course! See you at 7. Don’t be late!” With that you left, and In-Ho felt excitement bubbling in his chest for the first time in a long time. He'd bought a new shirt the other day, a crisp white one that he’d ironed especially for the day he got the courage up to ask you over. He chose to wear it tonight, a nice change from the same three t-shirts he cycled through. He wanted to look nice, wanted to show you that appreciated the effort you were going to.

Your kimchi stew was just as delicious as always, the two of you eating in comfortable silence as Coldplay sang quietly over the speaker. You’d lit a few candles tonight, the scent of lavender lingering in the air. You looked beautiful in your red sweater and blue jeans, your eyes glistening in the glow from the candles. He listened to you talk, grateful that you could carry a conversation without much input needed from him. You told him about yourself, about your job and your friends. You were careful not to ask questions about him, sensing he didn’t want to divulge any personal information. He so badly wanted to tell you about himself. He wanted to tell you why he lived alone in a damp apartment, why he hadn’t smiled since his wife got sick. He wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked tonight, how your skin glowed when you smiled. He wanted to tell you how badly he wanted to kiss you; how much he wanted to know what it would feel like to run his fingers over the softness of your skin. He wanted to tell you how conflicted he was, how his head was filled with nothing but devotion to his wife and a growing attraction to you. He wanted to scream at the sky, to ask the universe why life was so fucking unfair. “Thank you for the stew,” was all he managed to say.

You refilled your wine glasses, listening as The Scientist began playing. The man opposite you was a mystery, one that you were dying to solve. You could tell he was trying, but he was still holding back. You had no idea what this was between you. it was certainly more than neighbours just being friendly, but it definitely wasn’t anything romantic, as much as you wanted it to be, but you weren’t sure if In-Ho felt the same. You were running out of things to talk about, but you didn’t want him to go home. “Do you want to play a card game?” you asked, desperate to find an excuse to keep him with you just a while longer. In-Ho nodded, not daring himself to speak. Your cheeks were flushed with the wine, your breasts perfectly outlined in your sweater. He shifted in his seat, his gaze roaming between your eyes, your breasts and a small crack in the ceiling above your fridge. He’d have to come back tomorrow to fix it.

You sat and played cards for a few hours, making your way through another bottle of wine. In-Ho was tipsy by the time he returned home, his mind free of anguished thoughts for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. He had a smile on his face, a proper one that made his jaw ache. You were so much fun, so funny, smart and beautiful. He didn’t want to leave, but he had work the next morning and if he had one more glass of wine, he’d been too hungover.

He lay staring at the ceiling that night, his thoughts filled with you. His wife was there too, she always was, but tonight you wouldn’t leave his mind. It was getting harder to deny his attraction to you, and he was struggling to stop his mind wandering. His hand palmed his stiffening cock, picturing the way you looked tonight. He thought about kissing your soft lips, thought about removing your sweater and pushing you down against your mattress. He pleasured himself to the thought of you moaning his name, the thought of you dragging your nails down his back. He thought about fucking you, about how it would feel to be inside you. His release was loud, his moan ricocheting off the walls as his seed painted his palm and belly. He didn’t care if you heard him, didn’t care if you knew what he was doing. The wine had made him a little looser, a little more carefree. In-Ho was undeniably infatuated with you, but as he came down from his self-induced high, he was overwhelmed by immense feelings of guilt. His wife had been the love of his life, the woman he had sworn to love and protect. He had failed to protect her, but he would always love her. He’d never imagined he’d meet another person that set his heart on fire. But you, you were the light at the end of a perpetually dark tunnel. Hwang In-Ho just had to find the courage to follow the light and leave the darkness for good.

[gay-dorito-dust]

You may request A batboys reacting to the death of the reader

First time writing for Tim, so he’s probs ooc in this one.

Dick feels as though he’s failed you.

He tries to act like he was fine but he was far from it and everyone knew it as they stepped on eggshells with him during this time.

Dick would often find himself sat on the very rooftops where he’d take you on countless dates or just to star gaze and talk as though you were still with him.

It was his own way of comforting himself with your loss but that was never enough to stop the tears that fell from his eyes when he spotted a bright star he’s never seen before until now, and laughs humourlessly.

‘I see you’ve finally made your way amongst the stars huh sweetheart?’ He’d say as your star would twinkle in response, making him chuckle. ‘You’re so beautiful, the brightest of your kind.’ He adds sombrely as he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand as he felt his heart sing out for you, only to receive nothing in return.

Reality was often disappointing but with you it was a fairy tale.

Waking up to you was a dream within itself and getting to do mundane things with you before heading off to work was something that could only exist in a daydream.

He knew Hayley misses you as badly as he does with how he’d hear the poor dog whine and whimper at the door, as if waiting for you to walk through it and tackle her with kisses and love like you always did, only to get nothing for hours.

‘I know, I miss them too.’ He says against Hayley’s fur as she whimpers and whines at the door. ‘I miss them so fucking much it hurts.’ He adds as he allows himself to mourn for you alongside his dog long into the night.

Jason blames himself for not being fast enough or strong enough to keep you protected and safe.

The apartment you once shared with him that only recently had started to feel like home to him now felt cold and haunted with the ghost of you, so much so to the point he avoids it at all cost.

Nothing felt right without you, everything felt wrong and unjustified that he became more ruthless then before on patrols just to let off some steam and would come back from them more beaten and bruised then normal.

He didn’t care, he couldn’t feel anything anymore with how numb he became after loosing you.

Dick and Roy would stop by to see how he was doing but each visit was the same with Jason refusing his older brother and best friend entry as he held one of your plushies tightly against his chest. He knows they mean well but he just couldn’t find it within himself to hear the same thing he’s heard from everyone else; It just felt disingenuous after a while and didn’t feel as though people truly understood the impact that you had on him throughout your time together.

Jason would become more destructive with himself and going headfirst into danger without a second thought and damns his teammates for dragging him out by the scruff of his neck as he fights and kicks out of their hold. He doesn’t want to be saved! He just wanted to be with you again, why couldn’t they see that?!

After loosing you Jason becomes more prone to angry outbursts and often lets them out on the wrong person but he couldn’t care less at this point, his favourite person was gone and he was left back where he was before you.

Lost and deeply afraid.

Tim would retreat from everyone and everything by cooping himself into his room, rarely to come out.

He’d rather rot in his bed and on his phone, looking through all the photos you’ve taken together and seeing just how happy you both were, all the while a pit in his stomach grew at the thought of all the plans you’ve made but would never get to do.

He hated how easily he gave you his heart and hated it even more at just how easy it was to loose you that he wishes that he could stop himself from meeting you for the first time, just so he could selfishly save himself from the best moments of his life and the inevitable heartbreak he’d soon suffer.

Tim would do anything in his power to get you back but knew that it just wasn’t possible.

He knew Jason was given life by the Lazarus pit but he wasn’t willing to subject you to that even if he was held at gunpoint. He’d rather you rest in peace than force you to live with the knowledge that you should technically be dead.

Tim would remain in his room, wondering about the what ifs and the what could’ve beens if you hadn’t died. Would someone have taken your place? Was your death an unchangeable fixed point in time that was meant to happen?

He would only be reunited with you in his dreams where he has saved you and you had gotten to live out the rest of your life happily, rather then left for dead in an alleyway not too far from the place where you were originally going to meet up for date night.

Damian dedicated his life to getting revenge.

He had lost the light in his life, so why should he think his adversaries should live when you weren’t even given the option?

There will be more bodies pilling up on the streets of Gotham at a faster rate than normal whenever Damian is on patrol, much to Bruce’s dismay.

His anger and grief was all consuming and that left little to no room for logic to make him stop and see what he was doing was no better than the thing that took you away.

Life was black and white for a long time for Damian and you were the colour.

You were the air he breathed and without you he was gasping.

He knew about the Lazarus pit in his grandfather’s possession and its mythical properties and how it gave Jason a second chance at life. However he was at a cross roads on using it for his own selfish gain, on one hand he could have you back and everything would be fine again, but on the other hand you wouldn’t be the version of you he fell in love with…

Damian didn’t know what to do. The grief, the anger, the sadness…it was all too much for him. He felt as though he apart of him was missing and he would never get it back, it just wasn’t possible.

Bruce feels as though nothing has changed since his parents death.

He may be older, faster, stronger and wiser but that didn’t mean nothing in the face of death, and your death only proved that to be true as he held you in his arms, holding you close to his chest as he quietly sobs into your cold neck.

Much like Tim, Bruce doesn’t take care of himself anymore and it was up to Alfred to make sure that he doesn’t keep over and die unexpectedly.

‘They wouldn’t want this for you sir.’ Alfred would say as Bruce slams his hands down on the surface of his desk. ‘And what would you know that they want for me Alfred, y/n’s dead and it’s my fault.’ He would bark and bare his teeth at the only father figure he had in his life, a father figure whom has seen this expression bore on the young master’s face more times then he could count, but it still hurt him to see Bruce in pain and heartbreak.

‘They would want you to take care of yourself, sleep proper hours, eat full meals, shower, reach out to anyone,’ Alfred began to walk towards Bruce and place a hand on his shoulder, where he could practically feel the unbridled anger and pain radiation through him that he kept under control. ‘They wouldn’t want you to wallow in pain alone, Gotham needs you.’

‘And I needed them.’ Bruce replied sharply, aggressively wiping his eyes with his hand as he looks over at a framed picture of you that he always kept nearby. ‘All I wanted was them.’ He adds softly this time as he looks at Alfred, lost and confused at what to do now that his anchor was gone. ‘I miss them so much Alfred.’

Alfred brings Bruce into his arms, much like he did when he lost his parents, when he lost Jason and now you, allowing him to burrow his face into the Butler’s shoulder and softly sob into the fabric. Alfred felt his heart break even more as he rubbed Bruce’s back in an attempt of bringing him comfort. ‘I know master Bruce, I know, but you’d be doing their memory a great disservice by destroying yourself.’ The older man started as he looked over at the framed picture of you and smiled soberly, you were a beacon to Bruce and Alfred wasn’t afraid to say that he viewed you as his in law with how happy you made Bruce and that was all Alfred could ever want for him.

Now that you were gone, Alfred couldn’t help but feel that the manor got just that little bit lonelier without you.

[maxlarens]

perhaps bsf!reader and ibiza!lando in a sitch where like, lando isn’t getting girls in the clurb bc everyone thinks reader is his girlfriend and he ends up pushing her away????????

-🧃

perfect and beautiful thank you!!! i feel like it’s been five hundred years since i wrote or posted anything, i sooo hope u guys enjoy this! not much lando when i read it back but i guess i had some emotions to hash out here?🤨

There's a certain level of willingness to be observed that you have to subject yourself to in being Lando’s friend. You know that full well. Have been more than aware of it in the past few years, as Lando performs better, becomes more and more known.

You’re used to it for the most part.

The wandering eyes that slide right off you and Fewtrell, to instead favour Lando’s head of dark curls. The skeptical ones that linger, wondering what someone like you is doing around someone like him.

At least you have Max to commiserate with. To share that pulse of shame that beats like a second heartbeat occasionally. To remind yourself that Lando is your friend, not some burning star whose wreckage you’re caught in.

You’d never want him to feel like his success is a burden, or that it’s not always the easiest thing in the world to be his friend. That’s not really the case anyway— you’ve never had a friendship like the one you have with him. Max might be a close second, but it’s not the same. Point is, you’d move heaven and earth just to continue being friends with Lando.

It’s just— the eyes—

There are a lot of them on you here.

Appraising (but never of you independently, always in relation to Lando. You can tell), skeptical, jealous, bitter, even pitying. You think it must have something to do with Lando and the way he’s got his arm slung over your shoulder. The way you’re leaning into him as he bops to the beat of the music. The way you’re holding his drink in your hand, lifting it up for him occasionally so he can gesticulate in his conversation with some friend of his that you’re only vaguely acquainted with.

You feel the eyes on you as you half listen to them chat. Something dislodges, seems to wriggle around under your skin, or settles in the pit in your stomach and gnaws. Anxiety, something like it. Shame again perhaps? You just know Lando’s arm feels heavy. Your clothes don’t fit right, on your body or in this club. You’re suddenly sure that you’re an imposter, a fraud.

You look for Max, eyes darting around but only find unfamiliar faces looking back at you.

It’s not that your chest starts to feel tight or anything like that, it’s just that out of nowhere there seem to be one million ants crawling around inside your body. You take a deep, steadying breath and it burns. The back of your neck seems to give way, your head spinning.

You blink hard, bring yourself back.

You duck out from under Lando’s arm and mutter, “Be back soon. Bathroom.”

Lando nods absently, lets his arm drop back to his side. You’re not sure what to do with your drink or his, he doesn’t seem to care. So you drop them on an empty bar table and flee to the toilets.

They’re semi-private, dark and (best of all) quiet. Apparently soundproofed from the club outside of it, there’s some crackling lo-fi playing on low volume and blissfully no one else seems to be in here with you.

Because it’s apparently a bathroom for the upper-echelon, there’s a plush armchair in the lounge section that you immediately collapse into. You shove your face into the cushions and breathe slow until your heartbeat returns to what feels like an appropriate pace.

You pull out your phone to text Max,

Ever reliable and always understanding, Max talks you down from the proverbial ledge. He convinces you to go back out and to talk to Lando, who’s always been able to kill the nervousness in your gut when he puts his mind to it. If that fails, then Max promises to order you a taxi back to the hotel.

You thank him profusely, apologise for interrupting anything he was doing with Pietra and gather yourself as effectively as you can—

(“Hey. Is she your girlfriend, man?”

Obtuse as ever, Lando frowns, eyebrows furrowing with it, “What? Nah, she’s my best mate.”

Tony, tips his head back and laughs, “Doesn’t look like it to me. Are you sure?”

Lando nods, crease creasing even harder, “Definitely.”

“Dunno mate, you’re all cozy with ‘er,” Tony shrugs, “If you’re looking to get some this weekend you might want to dial it back.”)

—and back into the crowd.

You fight through to the booth where Lando, his friend and a few others, that you’re again, only tangentially acquainted with are. Lando has moved to sit down on a couch, still wrapped up in conversation with the same guy. He’s got another drink.

You’re half-expecting him to hand a vodka soda with lime to you when you sit down next to him. You feel a confusing mix of guilt and upset when he doesn’t, only barely turns his head to acknowledge you. You sit for a moment, adjusting your dress your bag. Not needing him to stop talking altogether, but hoping to be brought into the conversation. Even for Lando to move so you’re not just staring at his back.

Okay, you blink, maybe this is on you? Maybe you shouldn’t expect drinks from him like that, maybe you should be grown up enough to know how to enter a conversation. Maybe you shouldn’t be sitting here feeling sorry for yourself as you watch him lean over and talk to a girl on the other side of the railing.

You’re ignoring the burning thing in your eyes as you survey the back of Lando’s head and the pretty girl that he’s hanging out of his seat to talk to.

She doesn’t look anything like you.

You feel pathetic just watching them. Especially when her eyes flit briefly to you and you offer up a well-meaning smile. It’s a little weak, a little cobbled together but you’re not a bitch. She might be though— she sneers at you. Only for a short moment, when Lando’s not really looking, but you see it nonetheless.

Oh. Alright. That one’s gonna stick with you.

You turn away immediately, blinking quickly, but tears dropping anyway. You pull your phone out, admit defeat and try to at least quell the thing that’s lodged itself in your throat all of a sudden.

You sling your bag back over your body, then reach out to grab at Lando’s shoulder. You squeeze a little, wait for him to turn his attention to you while you press a knuckle not-gently into your eyeball.

He half-turns, looking up at you but holding a hand out to someone who’s talking to him. Still half-listening to them. You frown, feeling confused over anything else. This… isn’t like him. You don’t get it, why isn’t he treating you like he normally is? You’d understand if he wanted to spend time with other people over you, you get that. Why wouldn’t he just say that if that’s what he wanted? Because that’s clearly the case.

You manage to choke out, “I’m gonna head off.”

Eyes glittering and huge in the dancing lights of the club, his mouth parted, he nods up at you in confirmation. Briefly, you make eye contact before he’s being drawn back into conversation by a shout.

“Sure, yeah. See you later,” he says, patting the hand on your shoulder, then dismissing you as he turns away to pay attention to someone else.

You can’t tell if he’s being a total asshole or you’re pathetic. You know what Max would say. And you’re leaning towards the same thing right now— he’d have known. Seen it plain as fucking day in your expression when he’d looked at you. You don’t know what to make of it. You think you just feel sick.

It’s not like you need him to cater to your every whim. You’d just expected a little bit more. At least for him to notice that you’d nearly had a panic attack in the bathroom. At least for him to not go from being totally normal to icing you out all of a sudden—

and you know he’d done it on purpose, intention aside. You know. Because, historically, he’s been no stranger to it. He knows exactly how it feels.

You’re more hurt by that than anything else.

this turned out longer than i expected lol. but yeah, angsty sorry i didn’t prepare u guys😵‍💫 i’ll either write a part two or i’ll write something else for them in ibiza that isn’t so angsty soon!!!!!

[escespace]

Merlin and Arthur but someone help me I can't get it out of my head:

A threat, Merlin is going to face it, Investigate, fight, yadyadayada... The only solution is to make a deal that, in exchange for keeping Camelot safe for another day, Merlin must give up all the memories of his most precious person.

Obviously after running out of memories of ☆Arthur☆ He doesn't understand the importance of returning to Camelot, why is he still there if Gaius has taught him almost everything he can, Even kilgharrah isn't there anymore. For some reason, moreover, he feels that he often causes the poor physician more problems that should be... And all this without mentioning that before he wanted to see the world, he wanted to explore, to know and who knows? He might even make a name for himself... At least that's what he dreamed of as a child.

Again, why is he still in Camelot?

THEN HE GOES. JUST LIKE THAT

The next day Arthur can't find Merlin anywhere and we all know how he gets. He searches for him, he stresses, he screams... But it is not until night comes and he speaks with Gaius that the old man breaks his facade and Arthur notices the concern, that something is not right. He presses and presses until Gaius finally admits that he hasn't seen Merlin since the previous evening, that Merlin didn't sleep there and that he didn't even know where Merlin had gone.

It is canon that Arthur would immediately lose the marbles. As prince regent he order a wanted party. Nothing can stop him because *the power of the script*

Weeks go by with no sign of Merlin. Search efforts are dwindling as there are other priorities These priorities include certain strange occurrences in border villages.Some of these strange occurrences include a group of knights who were defeated by an entity they failed to see or recognize when they went to pick up an accused sorcerer. In addition, in the town next to that one, an entire family suspected of magic disappeared.

The council agrees that action must be taken or the people will begin to see those signs of weakness when it comes to responding to the law, with a sick king and having faced a mini conquest (I don't remember the chronological order of certain events, apologies); They must make it clear that Camelot is still the same as always...

Then, by the power of the script, the prince argues until he is the one who is designated to command the patrol of knights who will go to the villages in question (for honor, to make the people see him as a prince who executes his own orders or whatever)

Between surveys in the villages, some talks with peasants, follow clues... GUESS WHO THEY FIND?

Merlin has been wandering here and there, posing as a herb seller (because that must be good for something), Coincidentally, he has not left that specific town where the suspicious events occurred (he is that stupidly confident)...

He seems to vaguely recognize the knights. One of them he met in a tavern, another fighting a griffin, another is the brother of someone he met who-knows-where; and the other... He can't remember where he knows him from. That makes him feel strangely dizzy, there is a pressure in his head and there are pits that he does not want to question himself.In all this, Arthur does not stop shouting a thousand and one things at him. How stupid he is, how careless he is, how much work he has put in the backlog while touring every tavern in Albion...

Then Merlin says the three words that put Arthur's world Heel over head:

«who are You?»

[animeyanderelover]

Hello can I request a yandere jjk x angel reader.

Geto, Gojo, Yuta, Sukuna. Thank you!!!

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, obsession, delusional tendencies, cligniness, paranoia, sadism, abduction, isolation, violence

Tags: @lovley-valentine7

Angel s/o

Ryomen Sukuna

🗾​This is no forbidden lovestory. No tragic fairytale of two people who aren't meant to be together. No, the only emotions brooding between the two of you are those of repulsion, disgust and, on only Sukuna's side, an attraction that only fuels the hateful obsession. He is the King of Curses, you are a being of pureness and protection. The two of you are supposed to be enemies, intertwined in an eternal fight until one of you falls through the hands of the other. Those emotions though, they shouldn't be there. He should loathe you, he does loathe you. So why does he experience those sensations whenever the two of you clash? This thrill pumping through his veins goes beyond the bloodthirst and sadistic ecstasy when fighting someone, beyond the fantasies of slashing and devouring. Other feelings co-exist within those carnal desires Sukuna is so familiar with and if he would be someone lesser he would accuse you of bewitching him. Only someone weak would fall for a cheap trick that were to influence their perceptions in such unfamiliar ways, twist them into something so pathetic. You only add salt to the wound within his ego as he is the only one suffering from such a disease.

🗾​A primal part of him longs to slash you into bloody pieces so that your body and face may never tempt him again. Far too merciful would that be though, not enough for Sukuna's heart yearning for revenge. He has suffered a great humiliation because of you, feelings of love and attraction that have weakened him and his resolve. You deserve something far worse than death. He will drag you into a pit of hellfire even deeper than his, will break you and shape you until you are even more pathetic than he is. You will be punished for the seeds of feelings you have planted within him. You will be captured, kept and tamed by him until you are too tainted to return to the holy place where you originated from. He is going to enjoy ruining you and weakening your resolve, to shatter you until you have no option but to stay with him. As soon as you are in the position where he wants you to be, you will be kept as his obedient pet. Your abilities are going to be of great use for his plans after all. It's affection that keeps him still chained to you, a bond that even he will be unable to sever. You will be his. Because if you aren't, then he will burn you alongside the world you have sworn to guard over.

Gojo Satoru

🩵​His appearance and his powers have always put Gojo closer to a being closer to a deity, at least in the eyes of some people. The power that emits from you is something that even non-sorcerers can sense though they do not sense what you are. Gojo with his Six Eyes instantly discerns that you are an existence that no sorcerer has ever encountered. A messenger of an even higher being that has graced earth for purposes unknown. Gojo proceeds with a healthy mixture of caution though as he believes those in power to be rarely innocent. Being close to you is a dizzying experience, the energy you emit strong enough to evoke reverence within an average person. Even Satoru is not entirely immune to those feelings yet he isn't swayed as easily as he remains wary when around you. Every word, every gesture, every flutter of your eyelashes is something that he observes closely as he tries to figure out your purpose for your ascendence to earth and its people. He fails to inform people of highest position of your existence though as he would only dread what they would do with that information. Maybe, just maybe, there is also a part within him that wants to keep this extraordinary experience to himself.

🩵​The rapid fluttering within his chest, the warm adoration pulsing through every fiber of his being, the weightlessness he experiences whenever his gaze falls upon you. Around you Satoru feels a safety and a comfort that only someone like you could provide him with. It initially scares him, the sensation of a heaven on earth something that has never been granted to him. Soon he gives in to everything though and that is when the clinginess and paranoia start. Both of you are from different worlds entirely as his life is but a short spark in comparison to your life of eternity. It is this knowledge that he is a being chained to time that torments him greatly. He doesn't wish you to move on, to forget him as the centuries pass. It is a selfishness of the highest degree, perhaps even blasphemous in the face of a holy creature like you. Gojo is only human though, riddled with flaws and an imperfection that someone like you could never possess nor understand. It is you who triggered those feelings within, you who made him this way. If you truly are what history hails you to be then stay and save him from his solitude. Do that or watch him fall victim to his dark side where he will only accept salvation from you.

Geto Suguru

🗻​How utterly ironic of the monk to be met with an otherwordly being as yourself. Geto is not overly welcoming, at least not anymore the moment you voice your own doubts about his vision. A cast of judgement from someone like you cuts deep, so much deeper than Suguru would have ever imagined. In his mind he does what will be best for his own kind, his opinion of non-sorcerers tainted in nothing but hatred. What you try to protect is a creation that is beyond saving. Just take a look around you after all and see what the barbaric feelings of those monkey give birth to. They are the reason curses exist, they are the reasons why his kind dies in an attempt to save their ignorant lives. But for what reward? If they were to find out about the powers the sorcerers possess they would revert back to witch hunts and fear. He has seen it. There is nothing worth protecting within the non-sorcerers. But he could create a paradise like it is written down in so many ancient works across the globe, a place where the hatred and judgement wouldn't exist anymore. His own belief clashes with your own passive one yet to him never before has approval mattered as much as it did with you.

🗻​Suguru obsesses over the fact that he wants your approval for his plans. His mind is set and nothing can stop him, not even you. He will execute his plans with or without your blessing yet he cannot stop himself from obsessing over it anyways. It is an unbearable burn within his heart to know that a literal angel like you are do not agree with him. He constantly seeks you out, tries to convince you to understand his greater vision. He even takes you with him to show you the pettiness of humans, to make you see that they are beyond saving and that a future only lies within sorcerers like him and all those who have joined his cause. The silent look you always give him though always threatens to tear him apart as you gaze at him like he is a lost child who needs saving. He doesn't need that though. He has discovered the light already and yearns for you to join his cause. If he were in possession of your approval, of your love, there would be nothing in his way anymore. If you refuse though, if the threat arrives that you may disappear, Suguru will do his everything to keep you bound to his side. He is no sinner, not at all. He has seen a different salvation, one he will have you understand.

Okkotsu Yuta

💍​He should stay alerted, he should stay cautious when he approaches a being so out of this world. However, your mere presence is enough to eradicate any hostility that he could have possibly harbored for you. His whole body forcibly relaxes as if put under a spell, the grip on his katana easing. A heavy gulp that has his Adam's apple moving before he slowly steps closer to you, each step filling him more with sensations of elation and joy of the likes that he has never experienced before. Rika seems to be slightly uncomfortable within your presence though, baring her sharp teeth and hovering over Yuta as if warning you to not try anything on him. Rika's presence seems to be something that elicits a reaction out of you just as much. For one short moment he dreads that you will exorcise her, won't like her due to being a Curse. To his relief you deem her to be a creature that can do more help than damage though, sparing him the horrible scenario where he would have to defend her against someone as magnificent as you. You are beautiful, a fact that Yuta can't deny. Every time he does as much as think of you he feels those butterflies erupting within his chest.

💍​Your presence is addicting, every touch of yours electrifying bliss and your appearance radiant, transcending the beauty that he has been familiar with so far. Your figure visits him in his dreams, your voice a call he can only answer. Yuta wishes to worship you, to go down on his knees and praise you for the holy being that you are. Someone like you is too pure for this earth though, a place crawling with curses and humans. He feels this unexplainable urge to slash all those who commit evil, to rid your path of such unsightly beings so that you may only experience the good. It is a thought that grows louder each and every day, becomes hard to reign and only quietens when he is with you as if your presence cleanses him from such inpure desires. Still, the urge never disappears and manifests itself every time he catches sight of an ugly curse or a human who you should not have to witness with your magnificent eyes. His own spiral into insanity is not something he is oblivious to and it threatens to pull Yuta down with shame. How can he protect you after all when he himself has such unholy thoughts about you? You should need protection from him.

[mischievousmoony]

𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜

⟢ james potter x reader ⟢ your boyfriend doesn't mind getting his hands a little messy for you ⊹ 794 ⟢ warnings/tags: intoxication, james is taller than reader, knife (used to cut fruit)

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“Cherries, Jamie!” you cheer, your head popping up from its place in the refrigerator.

James stands behind you, holding the fridge door open as he endearingly watches you stick your head deeper than necessary into the fridge, fitting your face between the shelves, in search of a midnight snack. 

His amused expression falters as you pull out the basket of cherries you bought at the market yesterday. 

James closes his hand over the side of the basket, intent on taking it from you, “Ah, how about we do the raspberries instead, yeah?” 

Your grip tightens on your snack, giving it a futile tug that causes you to stumble back.

After a night out with your friends, you’ve returned to your shared flat, fairly drunk and quite famished, your tastebuds craving something sweet. 

James frowns as images of this drunken version of you clumsily cracking your tooth or choking on a cherry pit swirl around in his mind.

A pout overtakes your lips as you complain, “Don’t want ‘berries, want cherries.” Your downturned lips don’t last long when you suddenly snort at your accidental rhyme, “Berry, cherry,” you repeat, giggling. 

James tries to pry the fruit from you while your distracted, but your grip remains strong as the papery basket bends from your collective tugs in opposite directions.

“Baby, I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” he tries to reason.

“On fruit?” you ask incredulously. 

Maybe it was a little silly, but James’ protective nature knows no bounds. 

“I just want cherrieeees,” you whine and James has never been good at saying no to you.

“Okay," he gives in, "but give them here first.”

“You’re gonna put ‘em where I can’t reach ‘em!" you accuse.

“I'm just gonna wash them for you," James says in a soft, reassuring voice, "Can you let me do that please?”

You squint at him skeptically, but you release your hold. 

James holds the basket in one hand, the other finding its way around you to press against your lower back, guiding you away from the fridge to let it close behind you. 

He sets the cherries on the edge of the sink and you in front of them as he moves to rummage through the cupboards for a colander to rinse the cherries in.

James has to suddenly return to your side, steadying you by your waist when you fail to hoist yourself up onto the counter.

A stressed sigh leaves his lips as he dips his head down so that his eyes are level with yours. "You wanna sit?" he asks, giving your waist a squeeze.

"Mhm."

James lets his forehead tap against yours briefly, a sign of his affection, "Okay, hop up for me."

You jump again and with James' help you land on top of the counter this time. He kisses your temple before resuming his mission to recover the colander.

He's quick to dump the berries from the green fiber basket into the strainer and rinse them in the sink. Once the water is off, you're already reaching for a cherry and he lifts the dripping bowl out of your reach.

You look at him with an expression of utmost betrayal.

"I'm gonna give them to you, baby, just give me a minute. Trust me?"

"Trust you," you grumble a confirmation.

James places the wet colander atop a dishcloth. He keeps a close eye that you don't sneak any bites as he takes out a plastic cutting board and a paring knife.

Soon, James falls into steady a rhythm of plucking stems, depitting little stone fruits, and popping the halves into your mouth as he goes.

It's tedious— slicing the cherries around their pits, twisting the halves apart, and driving out the pits with his thumb. Not to mention, it's messy, and even while applying his most delicate touch, fruit juices are spraying everywhere. On top of that, the stones keep trying to roll onto the floor.

The ordeal has the whites of his nails pink and his fingertips stained red, but the way you giggle happily each time he feeds you another piece makes it all worth it.

Once your sweet tooth is been satisfied, he pecks your crimson stained lips, and rinses excess fruit juice from his hands.

He returns to you, placing his now dry hands atop your knees and he traces little shapes on your skin with the scarlet pads of his thumbs.

You beam up at him, and his chest swells with a profound, all-encompassing love.

"Happy now?" he asks, his eyes lovingly studying the crinkle of your eyes and curl of your lips.

In response, and as a thank you, you scoot closer and press another sweet kiss to his mouth.

He smiles against you and he tastes cherries.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

[venus-haze]

Playing Pretend (Homelander x Reader)

Summary: Homelander’s secret identity is an ill-fated experiment in normalcy for a man who had grown up with anything but. He manages to keep his story straight until he runs into you in the hallway of your building one night, assuming the blood on his face and clothes are his and not the low-level criminals he’d just taken care of. While you’re playing nurse, Homelander’s playing John, but he’s not sure how much longer he can keep up the facade around you.

Note: Gender-neutral reader, and no descriptors are used. So Casual!Lander got me thinking about secret identity!Homelander again. Do not interact if you're under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1.2k

Warnings: Hurt/comfort. Some emotional manipulation, but this is on the fluffier side of things I've written.

Homelander hadn’t expected the blood on his civilian clothes to be much of a problem. It was late, he reported the incident to Vought and would be up a few points when the story hit the news in the morning. Typically, he returned to the Tower when something like this happened, but instead, he was drawn to the apartment he’d been set up with as part of his undercover identity.

A secret identity was exciting at first, a brand new challenge for him. Except he didn’t entirely get it. Wasn’t the point of everything he’d been through so that he could be Homelander? The best of the best, America’s savior? Not some guy named John living in a crappy apartment downtown. But Edgar wanted it, and so it was done.

The apartment itself didn’t feel like home. The pictures on the wall, knick-knacks on the bookshelves, they weren’t his. But the man he was pretending to be had a dizzying backstory that he found difficult to keep track of at first, and then irrationally jealous of once he got the hang of spitting out anecdotes about family barbecues and youth basketball leagues. Stuff everyone else got except for him, apparently, because they were always met with mind-numbingly boring stories of other people’s mirrored experiences that he had to “Oh?” and “Wow!” through like he actually cared.

“John!” You called out from down the hall as he approached, laundry basket in your arms.

He smiled. A real one. At least in all of this, he met you.

“Hey neighbor!” he greeted cheerfully, as if it were bright and early and not nearly midnight.

“What are you—” Your face twisted as he approached. Your heart thumped almost deafeningly. “Oh my god, what happened?”

“What?”

“John, you’re bleeding. Let me take you to the emergency room.”

“That’s not necessary. I–I don’t like doctors,” he said, the statement not feeling as much like a lie as he thought. “Most of it isn’t even mine.”

“I have a first aid kit in my bathroom. At least let me clean you up a little?”

“Alright,” he reluctantly agreed.

You practically kicked open the door to your place, throwing your laundry basket aside and making a beeline for the bathroom like his life depended on it. If he were anyone else, it probably would have. He caught his warped reflection in your stainless steel refrigerator and cringed a bit. It did look pretty bad.

He inexplicably tensed upon seeing you return with the first aid kit, your brows knit together in worry. 

“Sit, please,” you urged as you laid out the contents of the kit on your kitchen table. “Oh John, what happened?”

“You know me, I always gotta get the story,” he said, his cover as a crime reporter not having failed him yet.

Your eyes watered as you looked at him. “One of these days you’re gonna get yourself killed.”

“What I’m doing helps people. It saves lives. That’s worth it to me.”

You picked up a cotton ball soaked in peroxide. “Let me know if it hurts, okay?”

He hesitated. That kind of thing had never been up to him. It either hurt or it didn’t, and if it didn’t hurt, they’d find out how to make it so it did. 

“Okay,” he said, tense as your hand approached his face.

Even thinking about the doctors he grew up with made an ugly pit settle heavy in his stomach. But you weren’t a doctor. You were you, and it was cute how you played nurse. Tended to his wounds like they were real, like the blood was his. Did you notice how quickly they disappeared beneath your cotton-padded touch, leaving no trace of cut or bruise behind?

“It looks a lot worse than it is, don’t worry,” you assured him.

“That’s good.”

He had plenty of practice sitting patiently while being poked and prodded, but never with the unnecessary care you used. 

He wanted to tell you. But then it’d defeat the purpose of a secret identity. Besides, just outright telling you wouldn’t be the grand, romantic gesture he pictured. 

Late at night. You. Alone in the city for god knows what reason even though you know better. He’s told you enough that you should know better. It wouldn’t matter. Because he’d be there. The Homelander swooping in to save you from some thug on the street. It’d be then that you’d see him for who he really was, who he was made to be instead of the pitiful facade you were presently tending to. So taken by the act, by him, your hero, you’d melt in his arms and let him take you away from the hovel of an apartment building you two shared and into bliss.

A shiver ran down his spine at the thought.

“I’m sorry,” you cooed, dabbing just above his eyebrow with a cotton ball. “I’m almost done.”

Sorry? Oh. You thought you hurt him. “I told you, I can take it.”

“I still feel bad,” you said. “Did you go to the police?”

“No, you know I usually don’t bother with that. Interferes with my own investigations,” he said.

You pursed your lips. You didn’t quite believe him, or were at least frustrated with his lack of personal safety. Worrying you wasn’t something he wanted to be in the habit of, but you poured out attention and care for him in such a way he could feel himself itching for more. It’d been like that since he first met you, the only kind and welcoming person in the damn building. Perhaps that was why he kept up with his secret identity for so much longer than he wanted to, his attachment to you, to this fake life he led with you in it.

But he could just as easily make a new one, a better one for the both of you once you knew the truth. 

“You made out alright, John,” you said, glancing over his face. “Really well, actually. It doesn’t even look like anything happened.”

“I’m tougher than I look,” he joked, hoping to dissipate some of your suspicion.

He heard you swallow roughly.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

You reached out, caressing his cheek. “I just worry about you, that’s all.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I can’t help it.”

Silence fell between the two of you for a few moments, and you began to pull your hand away from his face until he caught your wrist and spoke your name softly.

“I have something to tell you.”

“What is it?” you asked.

He hesitated a moment. I’m The Homelander. Instead, he pulled you closer, his gaze falling to your lips before kissing you.

You kissed him back softly, with an otherwise foreign tenderness that made him especially conscious of how he held you. His physical control was better, almost perfect. No more accidental bone breaking or spine snapping. He wouldn’t be The Homelander if he couldn’t control himself. 

But it was hard, with how deeply he felt for you, how much his emotions threatened to overtake years of practice and conditioning to manage his sheer strength. The Homelander didn’t have any weaknesses—save for seeing through zinc—but he was certain none of the scientists who poked and prodded him for years on end would have ever bet on you.

[theorphicangel]

dilemmas and pancakes | sukuna x reader

“Look who’s finally awake.”

You haven’t even taken one step out of your bedroom before you hear a low voice fill the room.

Hands rubbing at your eyes, you can just make out a tall figure by the kitchen counter. You can just about make out Sukuna’s glorious back tattoos and muscles which flex sharply with each movement that he makes.

You make no reply, standing in your doorway with the hem of Sukuna’s t-shirt tickling at your knees. You attempt to rub away the last remnants of sleep in your eyes.

Checking your phone before you got up, it was only just 9am but knowing Sukuna all too well, he’s probably been awake since before the sun had even risen.

Without another spoken word, you shuffle over to the dining table, picking up a scent that you can’t quite identify lingering in the air. Bananas…maybe?

Glancing over before taking a seat, you manage by squinting to see a plate stacked with pancakes near his elbow.

Ah.

Banana pancakes. Your favorite.

You say nothing more as you sit, letting the early morning silence crash over you like a gentle wave. It refreshes you actually, bathing in the sunlight as it streams in from the windows. The warm energy hugs you close like a long-missed friend and your excitement for the season of summer begins bubbles within the pit of your stomach.

“What are you smiling at?”

Distracted by thoughts and the early blue sky outside of the window, you failed to notice your boyfriend approaching your table. A plate stacked high with pancakes in one hand and in the other a cup of steaming hot coffee. Gently, he sets the cup down in front of you before the pancakes. The mug displays your name, a well-loved gift from last christmas.

You hadn’t noticed the cheesy grin which swept over your lips as you gazed out of the window. Currently, you had been fantasizing about the future plans for the summer, sunny and well-rested days at the beach, vacations, barbeques, summer markets and—

“Nothing.” you reply, your voice coming out croaky and scratchy from sleep.

“Doesn’t seem like it was nothing.” Sukuna notes, “Don’t expect this shit every morning.” Your boyfriend quips, assuming you were smiling about the pancakes. You’re met again with the view of his back as he fetched plates for the both of you and honey for the pancakes.

He’s quick to return, not wanting to keep you waiting for too long and sits directly opposite from you.

Another comfortable silence settles between the two of you as you dig into the breakfast. The scent of the pancakes and the smell of fresh coffee beans lulls your excitement to a calm. If anything, you loved mornings like these. Ones where you did not have to maintain a conversation or overwhelm yourself with thoughts about future tasks of the day.

The two of you sat in your usual silences, diving into your well-prepared breakfast. And not that he would actually ever admit it to you but Sukuna felt the exact same. He loved nothing more but your presence near him, as if your sole energy was enough to heal him. And as much as he complains, he actually enjoys domestic tasks such as making breakfast for you.

“Thank you ‘kuna.” you murmur after taking a sip of your coffee.

He says nothing more but a hum as a response.

Despite his words of not ‘expecting this shit every morning’, his brain rattles around to figure out a breakfast to make for you tomorrow. Avocado toast? No, maybe scrambled eggs on toast or he could spoil you again with waffles?

Sukuna shakes his head, picking up his cup of coffee and taking a sip.

That’ll be a dilemma for him to figure out tomorrow at least.

join my summer event!

[inkwolvesandcoffee]

How John Comes Home from Deployment

CoD ML

John hates coming home from deployment during the cold periods of the year.

Don’t get me wrong, he loves the sight of you asleep in your shared bed, wrapped up nice and snug in the thick comforter. A smile never fails to spread on his lips when he notices the pattern of your shirt, barely visible in the dusk yet enough for him to notice. Fortunately he has his flannel shirts to keep you warm when he can’t.

John knows you’re more than capable to take care of yourself. Nevertheless, he can’t help but grit his teeth at the thought you had to tuck yourself in yet again. That’s his job!

But the annoyance, as per usual, subsides at the scene in front of him: you snuggling with the warmy (a stuffed animal that contains a bag with cherry pits you have to heat in the microwave) he got you. He vividly recalls how you giggled that day, the way you compared him to the brown grizzly bear in your hands. “A rather striking image, innit? It’s like looking in the mirror.”

“That how you see me?”

“Especially in the morning when you haven’t had your cigar and tea yet.” He wrapped you up in his arms, pride swelling in his chest as you snuggled into it. “You’re my bear.”

My bear.

It’s the nickname he never envisioned himself liking. However, now, there isn’t anything else he’d rather be called.

Aside from Daddy.

John has embedded the way you say it in his fantasy and often thinks of it, plays it like his favourite song over and over. Out in the field, it’s a sure fire way for him to not lose morale. Moreover, it fuels his determination to return home, no matter the cost.

(And the rest of his boys too, of course!)

He has to.

If only because there is an important question he needs to ask. Should right now, after months of gathering the courage.

But he lets you sleep.

This can wait until the morning.

Quietly John puts his stuff in the corner by the door, grabs a shirt and pair of sweats out of your shared wardrobe, and slips into the bathroom to change. However, not before he has caressed your cheek, made sure he’s kept his promise. The talon of anguish lets go of his throat when he finds your skin dry and free of the little salty black rivulets that stained it last time. Thank God, he hasn’t made you cry again.

“The next time I do, I’ll retire,” he recalls telling you when he lifted you off of the couch. You’d fallen asleep there, wrapped up in your favourite white fluffy blanket like a burrito.

For as long as you could, you stayed awake to welcome him home in person. Unfortunately, you lost the fight around one in the morning. Two hours later, John stepped through the door, knackered and a little heartbroken at the sight of you clutching one of his shirts like it’s your lifeline. He didn’t mind the stains your mascara had made on it.

The same can’t be said for the fact your act had crumbled behind his back yet again. Time and again he’s told you it’s fine to cry, to tell each other you miss them, to not always pretend to be fine.

Because he knows you aren’t.

And neither is he.

Yet the decision he’s made might change things, bring some peace. Even if you tell him he’s insane and shouldn’t do it because it will be like throwing away everything he stands for, he stands by his word.

This was the final mission.

From now on, he’s simply John Price.

A man craving to settle down with his beloved.

The girl who instinctively snuggles into him the moment he lies down. Whose presence soothes and dispels the worst of his ghosts. Who drives his determination to improve himself day by day.

To do better as a man rather than a captain.

To be the best husband he can be.

Until then, John is as he is now.

Exhausted yet perfectly content.

Next to his fiancée.

Home.

[bg-brainrot]

Failed Every Insight Check and Fell all the Harder (Astarion x GN!Tav)

Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here

Companion piece to: Failed a Dex Save and Fell for You

Summary: After a few months of traveling together, Astarion has begun to experience some new feelings around you. After one fateful day in Moonrise Towers, he finally figures out what those feelings are.

Tags: Astarion POV, POV Second Person, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Awkward Fluff, tw: mentions of astarion's past and all that comes with it, tw: mentions of araj scene, Feelings Realization, Jealousy

A/N: here comes the awkward, fluffy Astarion figuring out his feelings Valentine’s special. He’s a hot mess, of course. (happy Early Valentine’s because I will be busy on Valentine’s) And thanks to everyone who voted for this one!

Word count: ~4.8k

Ever since your group entered the Shadowlands, something has been bothering Astarion. He hadn't noticed at first– or rather, had tried his best to ignore it. But, as time goes on, he’s finding it more and more difficult to brush aside.

It had started out small. An odd pain in the pit of his stomach.

What was that? he'd thought, holding a hand to his abdomen in concern. Perhaps he was just hungry, but it certainly didn’t feel like the ever-present hunger in his belly. No, that was a dull, continuous ache. This? This felt like something was weighing him down. Maybe I’m ill. I shouldn’t mention it to anyone, lest Lae’zel slit my throat in my sleep.

Besides, the pain didn’t happen often. He noticed it a distinct few times.

Once, when you first entered the Shadowlands. He’d just watched you bend down, hands plucking at something off the side of the cursed lands’ road. He thought momentarily that he ought to stop you, that none of you knew what could be lurking in its magical darkness. But that tinge of worry was promptly replaced by that same gods awful pit in his stomach. 

Because there you were, presenting your party’s cleric with your spoils. You were gifting Shadowheart a night orchid– had remembered that she mentioned loving them. You bore the woman’s wretched joke with a smile. Disgusting, Astarion thought. No wonder my stomach feels uncomfortable, what a pathetic little exchange.

Like everything that had bothered him in the last couple of months since finding himself free of Cazador, he decided to forget the feeling. Life is his to take full advantage now, why let something like that affect him?

Or so he thought until the next time the feeling made its return.

You had just arrived at the Last Light Inn as a group, found shelter through the Harpers’ well-established safe haven. Astarion was quite happy to be rid of the shadows, content to cozy up in an inn. He figured, if he played his cards right, you may even let him partake in your blood or ask for a bit of fun.

Then your party found Dammon. Equipped with Infernal Iron and one blazing hot barbarian, Dammon made magic happen in a matter of moments. 

Astarion was glad. As much as the group was a bit much at times, he understood Karlach’s struggle with her body all too well. She deserved this small victory in reclaiming her body. 

His feelings of genuine sympathy were short-lived though because a moment later you were wrapping your arms around the tiefling’s body. It was a test, of course, to see if Dammon’s fusing had worked. But there it was again, the feeling in his stomach. This time it felt twice as heavy, a lead ball in his guts. Maybe I should let someone know, he thought. This can’t be good.

But the sensation was soon forgotten as your group settled into the Last Light Inn. Old allies were in some miserable new states– requiring even more help, gods– and new acquaintances were made. It was all rather dull for Astarion.

The one time Astarion perked up was when you went head-to-head with the head Harper. He chuckled under his breath when you outsmarted the old crone, Jaheira. That’s right, Harper. Don’t mess with my protector.

Your first night at the inn was capped off with a bit of revelry: a game of Truth or Dare. 

Astarion could sense your reluctance to play. You’d been acting odd all day, stiff and awkward around him. He saw this as the perfect opportunity to tease you to the high celestial plane– in fact, he already knew what he wanted to ask you. “You are going to regret this so much," he'd said to you from across the table.

Then the game began, and the deep, uncomfortable feeling never left his core.

Each and every companion received your attention throughout the game, in one way or another. Even that damned smith, Dammon, was given a dare from you. And Astarion just sat there, not even earning a glance, his mood growing more and more sour.

When, at last, he was able to taunt you with his question, you were far too in your cups to give a proper response. He sat on your lap, placed there from one of Shadowheart’s dares, staring into your surprised, open eyes, wishing that he'd thought of an easier question for an inebriated version of you.

The group had shooed you both out of the game upon seeing your state, though Astarion didn't mind. He'd much rather leave the lot of them and tease you by himself.

Once you were alone, you answered his question. That he, Astarion, was your favorite and for all manner of incredulous, unbelievable reasons. He’d expected you to say him. He’d asked to hear your praise, confirm your attachment in the name of his plan to seduce you. All the same he was left uncomfortable, juggling the sudden and unabashed flattery. Being praised for his looks was one thing but for being… himself?

The feeling in his stomach grew. Suddenly his lungs felt it, his undead heart felt it. What in the sweet hells is the matter with me? he thought, as he helped lay your drunken, passed out form to bed later that night. He hadn’t felt a sensation like this before– he hated it. 

Then you reached out to him in your sleep, and he froze. Something about the touch quietened the pain under his ribs, and so he extended his fingers, gently touching your brow as you fell asleep. See? I’m fine, he assured himself. I truly am just ravenous.

__

He continued this way for several days in the Shadowcursed lands.

One moment, he was perfectly fine, hacking and slashing at a Shambling Mound with abandon. The next, he would look over at you, see you laughing at something Karlach said, and it felt like an iron ingot had made its way into his insides.

Damned tiefling woman. I’m far funnier than her, you know, he thinks, resheathing his knives with a little too much gusto. The sound of your laughter rang in his head for the rest of the evening, as if he were being driven to insanity by it.

The next day, you had fought a horde of Meazels. At first, Astarion thought the fight was delightful fun– the tiefling woman and the cleric kept getting teleported against their will and after his recent annoyance with both of them, he found it quite amusing. That is, until you found yourself garrotted, teleported as far away from him as possible.

He was on you in mere moments, ripping the creature off of you with his blades. It was almost as if he’d reacted instinctively and, as someone whose instincts typically led him away from danger, he found the sensation quite off-putting. Nevertheless, he'd freed you, asking, “Are you alright, darling?”

Astarion couldn’t remember what you’d even said because once he saw the marks the creatures left on you, the pit in his stomach dropped. Where there had been a heavy pressure before, there was now a sharp feeling. His eyes carefully trailed over your injuries, trying his best to focus on you and not the phantom pain building inside him.

You had been fine, nothing that a quick heal from Shadowheart couldn’t fix, but that feeling stayed in his stomach the rest of the day. It’s simply the Shadowlands, he'd thought. They not only play tricks on the mind, clearly they’re playing tricks on my body.

It was a few days later, as you helped the Harper’s deal with their lantern problem that the sensation shifted again.

Astarion watched, eyes glued to your form, as you dispatched the hideous drider, your twin blades piercing the creature in its most vulnerable spots. He’d seen you kill many monsters before, hundreds likely at this point. But something about the way your body moved in the Moonlantern’s glow, the way your face lit up as the creature’s body crumpled to the floor, caused the vampire to stop and watch.

This time, he’d felt the heavy sensation move up, somewhere just below his throat. He tried against all odds to gulp it away, but nothing seemed to work. We need to finish our business here and get out as soon as possible, he thought now, convinced it was the shadows warping his senses…

But as your travel continues, the feelings never go away. 

It’s a different pressure, it builds, it ebbs, it flows between his heart, his stomach, his torso– and each time he brushes it off. Stewing in these uncomfortable feelings, Astarion spends the week in a hazy mire, not unlike the shadows that surround you all.

Then your group finally infiltrates Moonrise.

__

Moonrise Towers, the seat of the Absolute and a once grand fortress. 

Now, Astarion can’t help but think it seems rather underutilized. Your group is walking along the empty parapets outside, which are woefully missing any sense of grandeur or ornamentation. “Darling,” he says, leaning into you slightly. “Don’t you think we ought to just kill everyone now and take the place for ourselves. Might be quite fun.”

You bark out a laugh, which he feels proud to have produced, and reply, “Maybe later. This is an infiltration mission only. Besides, once we defeat the Absolute, I’m sure there will be a vacancy.”

Astarion laughs back at you. Gods, he enjoys this. The way that he can say something that others would balk at and you will miraculously not only appreciate it, but also play along with it. Having fun with them is so easy, he thinks. And look, I’m still wearing all of my clothes! What a novel idea.

The thought is cut short when your group walks through an outside doorway into a room that can only be described as grotesque. Whoever works here clearly has some knowledge of arcana, if the ingredients and alchemical tools are anything to go by, but it smells utterly foul to Astarion.

It’s when you spot the drow woman hunched over a table in the corner that he realizes where the stench is coming from. Hells below, that woman reeks of something truly awful, he thinks, recoiling. He’d grown used to following behind you closely, but as you step forward to speak to the woman, he finds himself taking a step back instead.

The woman introduces herself as Araj Oblodra, a trader of blood– a rather poor trader, by the smell of it. She takes note of Astarion, who shuffles back instinctively, before you and her go about some kind of business with your blood. Astarion contemplates speaking up, shooing you away from her, but decides to stay back, as far away as he can remain without arousing suspicion. They can handle themselves.

Then, after the woman looks back toward him one too many times, he hears you snap, “And why are you so interested in my pale friend?” 

“Ah, yes. Perhaps there’s one more thing we could discuss,” she begins, her voice a dangerous drawl. “He’s a vampire, no? Or one of their spawn at least.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Astarion says, all-too-ready to fill his role. “We’re all friends under the Absolute. I won’t bite.”

“Oh, I’d prefer if you did,” she’s quick to respond. Her eagerness picks at Astarion’s nerves, and he raises an eyebrow at her. Araj doesn’t deign to give him another moment’s look though, as she turns back to you. “I assume he belongs to you?”

“Excuse me?” Your voice sounds offended– on his behalf, Astarion wonders? “He’s his own person.” Your words cause the feeling in Astarion’s stomach to flip, and, as much as he wants to come to his own defense, he finds himself quite content to hear you do it for him.

“I’m sure he really believes that. How utterly adorable,” she says with a snide chuckle. 

Adorable? he thinks, but he’s unable to interject before the woman continues to barrel forward.

The blood trader turns back to Astarion, face wrinkled with distaste as her tone changes to something a bit more confrontational, “Do you have a name, spawn?”

Her sudden shift in attitude, the proud tilt to her head, it all throws the vampire off balance as he goes to answer, “Astarion, b-but hold on!” Astarion holds up a hand to try to slow this woman’s tirade, all to no avail.

“Good. Now, Astarion, I’ve dreamt of being bitten by a vampire since I was a young girl,” Araj begins, laying out the scene for her request.

Too bad that the scene sounds quite ridiculous to Astarion. Surely he heard her incorrectly? “I’m sorry, you want to be bitten?”

The woman goes on a new insane diatribe– something about dancing with death– but Astarion can hardly be bothered. All he needs to know is that she’s offering some measly potion for being bitten and, gods, does he not want to bite this woman’s disgusting neck. Or wrist. Or really any part of her. “I will have to decline,” he says, with a gracious little bow. Your group is still infiltrating the towers, it wouldn’t do to tell Araj exactly how horrid she smells.

It’s entirely more grace than she deserved, that much is clear because she presses him again. Again, he refuses. “I gave you my answer.”

The drow scoffs, turning back to you once more, “Can’t you talk some sense into your obstinate charge?”

You, for your part, look confused. There’s a line of concern in your forehead as you look between the woman and Astarion, wondering what it is that you’re missing. “I’m surprised, Astarion. I thought you’d enjoy an opportunity like this.”

What?! he thinks, a sudden, sharp spike of anger shooting through him. He tempers his immediate rage and speaks to Araj with that same, false pleasantry she doesn’t deserve, “I’m sorry, but could you excuse us a moment?”

Astarion, not waiting for her response, pulls you aside, away from the drow’s nosy eyes and ears. Once you’re alone, he turns to you, his voice a hiss, “Are you actually asking me to do this? Trading me for some-some-some potion?”

“What’s the matter? Why would she be different from any other enemy?” you ask, leaning toward him.

Your voice is full of genuine worry, and some of his anger abates as he meets your eyes. Of course, they don’t know what they’re asking. How could they know? “Because there’s something wrong with her blood. I can smell it from here. Ugh, it’s rank.”

Now your brows furrow, and a sharp edge enters your eyes as you ask your next question, “What do you mean? What’s wrong with her blood?”

“I can’t say. It just smells… wrong. Unnatural.” His words sound pathetic to his own ears. 

Of course that’s not an excuse, Astarion laments. What am I even thinking? The potion is clearly useful. They are going to make me do this, and I may as well prepare myself. I’ve put up with worse after all.

So, he stands straight once more, ready to put on the performance of a lifetime. His tone takes on a resigned tone as he continues, “Drinking it wouldn’t kill me, but it would not be pleasant.”

You both hear a sigh from behind you. “I don’t have all day, True Soul,” Araj calls, impatiently.

Your eyes remain focused entirely on him, ignoring the woman’s irritated sigh, her entitled words. “Astarion,” you begin, and he takes a breath in preparation for your other foot to drop. “Don’t do anything you don’t want to do. And if she refuses to take no for an answer again, we’ll simply have to start our assault on the towers a bit early.”

The breath leaves him.

"Alright. Uh, thank you,” he says, feeling the tension drop from his shoulders. He’d been prepared to acquiesce, to do exactly what you’d asked of him. But this? This is something he hadn’t been prepared for. 

In a daze, Astarion makes his way back to Araj, putting on as polite of a facade as he’s still capable of making, “It's still a ‘no’, I’m afraid.”

“How very disappointing,” the blood trader says, shooting you both a disgusted look. She turns away in a huff, leaving your group alone to recover from the exchange. And leaving Astarion floundering in another new sensation.

Because once more, the feeling in the pit of his stomach has reared its ugly head– only this time it shoots through him like a bolt of lightning. He's not sure what it is, but it's stunned him into slipping off his carefully crafted mask. He turns to you once more, voice soft around its usual edges, "Thank you. I… appreciated that.”

"You have no need to thank me. It was always your choice, Astarion."

Huh.

The feeling sinks into him, settling deeper and deeper as you continue through Moonrise.

__

That night, you go to bed in your own bedroll, leaving Astarion to his meditations with a smile and a wave. It has been a long day for all of you, and it's clear from the way you take a glance back that you're worried about him.

Gods, he's worried about him.

After dealing with that vile drow woman, you'd all continued about the tower, ingratiating yourselves with even the most repugnant of creatures to appear faithful to the Absolute. But Astarion paid attention to almost none of it.

He'd stabbed when you told him it was time to stab, he'd joined your side when you called him to you, but his mind had been wholly preoccupied.

They didn't make me do it, he'd thought, as he unlocked some chest.

Well, isn't this exactly what I wanted? he'd thought, following you down some stairs.

Clearly they just fell for my charms, my masterful seduction, he'd thought, flanking a prison guard for you.

So why do I feel like this? he'd thought, staring at your back as you led the way before him.

Now, he lays here in his tent, staring at the fold of its ceiling in a rapt fascination he doesn't feel. The feeling in his stomach has stayed all day, tethering him to his thoughts with its continuous pressure.

When did I get to the point where I would follow them anywhere? Is their lack of self-preservation contagious? he asks himself, eyes narrowing in frustration. I shouldn't have gone into that horrendous tower in the first place. Then I wouldn't feel like this.

But he had.

And you'd not forced him to do so.

You'd not forced him to do anything.

They're a fool, an utter fool. I could have bitten that drow, as easy as breathing, he thinks, rolling his eyes at the thought. Close your eyes and push through, that's what I always say.

But did you want to? something in the back of his mind asks. 

Of course not, but when has what I wanted ever mattered– 

It may not have mattered under Cazador's grip, but it has always mattered to you. You're nothing like that evil man. You'd always been there for him, had managed to find trust in your heart for him, and had been genuinely kind to him.

The now-familiar feeling in his stomach seems to spread to the rest of his body, a warmth that doesn't quite feel warm. It bleeds all the way to his face and his lips curl up into an involuntary smile at the thought of you.

You– you, who had only ever been meant to play a bit role in the tragedy that is Astarion’s life. You, who had transcended your part, leaving Astarion contemplating every aspect of you in the stark solitude of his tent. 

Your beauty when you're covered in blood after a battle, the mischievous glint in your eye when you're teaching a child a sleight of hand trick– even when anger pulls your brows together and you're yelling at him for saying something particularly naughty. Each and every one makes his smile grow wider.

You, his chosen protector, are so much more than just that.

They are incredible. The thought comes to him unprompted, truly as easy as breathing.

His eyes widen in alarm, staring blankly at the tent above him.

The feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn’t an illness. Nor was it hunger. No. It was guilt. It was jealousy. It was…

Oh fuck, Astarion curses to himself. Am I in love?

Now that he has a word to the sensation, that the feeling is in his grasp, he knows he's right. He doesn't have a lot of experience with love, if any– he'd never had the luxury under Cazador's cruel gaze and he can't recall much from before that– but he knows he's right.

And hells does he wish he could crush the feeling in his hands right here and now.

Gods, you complete and utter imbecile, he thinks, hitting his head against the floor. You have things to do, goals to accomplish. They were only supposed to be a means to those goals, not a – a–

Astarion’s mind blanks as he thinks of you again, your charm, your wit, your damnable caring.

Not a companion. Not a friend. Not a lover. When did those late night trysts turn from an obligation, a part of his simple, perfect plan, into something more?

Even now, as he thinks of those nights, he brings a hand to his lips, recalling a night where you had simply stayed in his bedroll. You had kept all of your clothes on, as had he, and simply held each other as you fell asleep. Their kiss that night was delectable, he recalls, tracing the line of his lips, as if he could still feel the ghost of yours on them.

Fuck, he thinks again, dropping his hand in frustration. How could I have been so blind? How did I not nip this in the bud before it got to this disgusting pining?

But he hasn’t nipped it in the bud. The feeling has grown, unfettered, quick as a druidic plant growth, all unbeknownst to him. It has been nurtured by your attention. It has been watered by your kindness. It has become unruly in the safety of your arms.

Now what? he thinks to himself bitterly, wiping a hand across his face with a sigh. What use are these feelings when everything they were built upon is a lie? You are, after all, still playing the role he set out for you.

He considers overlooking the feelings, just as he has inadvertently done in his ignorance. It wouldn’t be of any use to tell you, of course. You could hardly feel the same way about him as he does you, and he’d rather not add another nuisance in the fight against the Absolute.

Besides, if he told you, he would have to fess up, explain his entire plan to you. What would even be left of the two of you after that?

But, he thinks to himself. Let’s say I did tell them. What could they possibly say…

“I was pretending all along too.” – gods, that would break him. That much is all too apparent from the way his undead heart aches at the thought, with a pain he couldn’t possibly feel.

“I like you, but not like that.” – maybe this was worse. Actually, it was definitely worse. He may never recover. His ego would certainly never recover.

“I have someone else that I love.” – honestly, reasonable. What did he have to offer you after all? A bloodthirsty master and the occasional snarky comment? He wouldn’t be surprised to find you in Karlach’s tent at this very moment…

“I hate you.” – he might be able to take this the best. You should hate him. He’d done nothing but lie and manipulate his way into your bedroll. Hate, well, that he understood.

“I love you, but…” – every single 'but' cut like a different, jagged blade. But we’re in danger every day? An excuse, surely. But you come with too much baggage? True, but not something he would be able to resolve. But I don’t want to be with a monster? Again, reasonable, but out of his control.

Astarion runs through scenario after scenario, each one playing with his own emotions in a new and horrendous way. In the end, he all but slaps himself out of it.

No, I cannot tell them. I absolutely must take this to my second grave, he determines, shaking the thoughts away with a few hard blinks.

But the feeling in his chest is more persistent than ever. As if giving it a name and meaning has given it a new, annoying life. He laments to himself aloud, "I may never feel like myself again.”

If this is what love does to a person, he wants no part of it.

__

The vampire didn't have a restful night's reverie, that much is apparent. His mood is foul, his body tense, and his eyes are trying their damnedest to avoid yours. 

No way, he thinks as you all set off for the day. I spun myself into a frenzy last night. Clearly. I feel absolutely nothing–

Then you turn back to him, concern lining your eyes as you address him. What had you just said? He had found himself somehow lost in your eyes, your lips, the turn of your nose… 

Shit, he thinks to himself. No, get back in control. You have only just reclaimed yourself, you can't lose yourself to something as cruel as love.

But, try as he might, his eyes can’t avoid you. 

All morning, he continues to sneak glances your way. Despite his roguish nature, he finds hiding his stares to be impossible. After all, you are the group’s leader. You are at the front, you are at his side, gods, you are everywhere. This feels like some kind of divine punishment…

You catch him looking, of course. And each time, he curses himself, gods, you idiot. You may as well broadcast your feelings to the world. And hells, how long have you felt this way?

Astarion tries futilely to act normal. This is just another day with the group in the Shadowlands. He’s not thinking about holding your hand in his. He’s not thinking about the way you look when you sleep. And, above all else, he is not thinking of your lips or the way that they move when you say his name.

Despite his inner turmoil, the world moves on. You lead the group through the Mason’s Guild, and you all manage to clear the place out easily enough.

The vampire thinks he’s finally reaching some sort of peace. Yes, this routine work he can do. No problem at all.

Then, you say something kind to Karlach, that infernally charming woman, who continues to support you at your side. Who, for all intents and purposes, should be the person who warms your bedroll at night, now that you can touch her. Not him, the man who can only make your bedroll colder. Who, even now, is avoiding your every glance.

Oh hells, he thinks, face dropping. The realization that he’s right is too much for him to bear.

Astarion stalks off, annoyed at himself and his thoughts, needing a moment to recollect himself. I can do this, he thinks. I can do this. I can–

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath once he knows he’s alone. “You’re supposed to get over this, you stupid fool. Shit. Gods dammit.”

He hears your familiar footfalls approaching and freezes, his shoulders tense with anticipation.

You find him in a pool of shadows away from the others, and he can’t help but feel like a beast that’s been cornered. He’s certain his face reflects that, reflects every bit of emotion he’s feeling as plain as could be, but your patience with him has apparently worn thin for the day. Your voice is less kind than usual when you say, “Do you need to talk?”

Seeing the anger in your face, the way that your hands are placed on your hips in annoyance, he knows he can’t keep his feelings to himself. He’ll only continue to push you away, into the strong, red arms of another.

No, he thinks, in a panic. I should– I need to–

He needs to do something about his feelings, unwanted or not. Really, he needs to tell you, regardless of what your response may be. If not, he may regret it for the rest of his undying life.

Now that he is in control of his own choices, he supposes that means all of them, for better or worse. That means even the most difficult ones. This is one of those difficult ones, isn’t it?

So Astarion swallows his pride, his anxieties, his insecurities, and settles his fate.

“Later,” he says, barely getting the words out. He blinks, and tries again, pleading with you with his eyes, “Please, just come by my tent later.”

Later, I will tell them. Everything.

[soft-girl-musings]

Stranger Danger

Steven Grant x Fem!Reader

cross-posted to ao3

MK Spring Bingo entry #5

tags: reader is being stalked & responds in a way the author (a woman) has been taught to, emotional protector steven grant to the rescue, no use of y/n

wc: 1,138

fic summary: There's safety in numbers, do you want mine? (too soon?)

_____________________

“Oops, careful!”

Steven drops the last of his veggie wrap as a pair of kids rush past the bench he’d been hunched over. As he picks up the debris, he sees where one of them dropped their hat. He picks it up and half-jogs after them to return it.

“Gotta stay aware of our surroundings, yeah? Don’t want to lose our valuables.” The kid rolls their eyes but thanks him before running off to catch up with their friend.

“Oh my gosh, hi!”

Steven turns around to find you walking swiftly toward him, your smile too wide and tone too familiar.

He’s never seen you before.

“... hello,” he answers cautiously, taking one step back but failing to put much distance between the two of you. You practically cling to his side when you approach, takeaway cup and phone in hand.

“Sorry I’m late, but you are terrible at giving directions, mister.” Taking his arm, you begin to walk away from where you’d appeared.

This wouldn’t be the first time he’s forgotten conversations or plans. But as he racks his brain for something, anything tied to you in his memory, Steven notices the panic in your eyes and the slight waver in your voice.

Your hands shake a bit as you unlock your phone, passing your cup to him. He takes it, still bewildered but obedient. “I swear, the cafe never spells your name right. Let me make a note for next time.” You type swiftly, showing him the screen.

being followed, please pretend you're my boyfriend

Steven doesn’t know you.

But he nods, grasping your arm closer with his free hand and gives his most convincing grin. “Steven with a ‘V’, love.”

Relief instantly washes over your features and you relax a little. “Right. I’ll remember that… Steven.”

His smile grows before he remembers why you're holding onto him. “Do you want to sit down? Or go somewhere else, maybe I could call someone–”

“N-no, it’s fine. Let’s just sit. In plain sight,” you half-whisper. Steven nods, ushering you back to the bench in the middle of the busy square. When you sit, you don't let go of his arm.

Instead, you type into your phone as you speak. “Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?” Steven glaces at your notes app again.

do you see a man in a black jacket?

Steven scans the area, careful not to look too suspicious. Unlike the person he’s sure you’re referring to: a man in dark clothes, hands shoved into his pockets and rigid as he looks around with increasing urgency. His prominent frown grows when he sees Steven next to you.

“Yeah,” Steven says to both your questions. He looks away from the menacing figure, but sets your drink down and wraps his arm around you. He's glad to feel you settle into his side, still shaking but catching your breath.

“I take it you don’t know Mr. Black Jacket?”

“No, I do. Sort of. He’s a regular customer of mine,” you sigh. “One who doesn’t know how to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“Ah.” Steven keeps the guy in his periphery, splitting his focus between him and you. “Stalker, then?”

You freeze up at the term. “Yeah… he’s been pretty relentless.” 

You meet his eyes, which are swiftly filling with concern. “Thanks again for… this. I usually find a mom or another woman to walk with me until he leaves, but I saw you with those kids and just… panicked, I guess.”

“S’not a problem, love.” Steven knocks your foot with his, drawing a small smile from you. “Glad to help you feel safe.”

You laugh a little. You let your gaze drift over to the man in black, an uneasy pit growing in your stomach when you briefly make eye contact.

“He usually goes away after a while. I've told the police, but they can't do anything unless he… you know.” Your brow furrows as your grip loosens. “I don't mean to take over your afternoon, but would you mind waiting with me?”

In that moment, you could have asked Steven for the moon and he'd find a way to lasso it down for you. 

He squeezes your hand. “‘Course I can. Lovely day with lovely company, quite the ideal afternoon in my books.” 

Steven dives right into talking about anything and everything that comes to mind– which, as you learn, is a lot. Normally he'd hit a wall after a few minutes, either because he'd realized he had talked himself in circles, or his less-than-captive audience was visibly zoned out. But you hang on his every word, grateful to be arm in arm with a stranger describing the supposed viscosity of ancient Egyptian embalming oil. It's a welcome distraction. 

So distracting, in fact, that after an hour you realize the crowd has thinned around you. With Mr. Black Jacket nowhere in sight.

“I think he's gone,” you sigh with relief. Steven stands when you do, handing your things back.

“Patience won out in the end,” he beams. You see a brief look of panic cross his features.

“He doesn't know where you live, does he? Do you need an escort?” Steven's already taken a ludicrously long lunch break, but the inevitable lecture from Donna would be worth it if it meant ensuring your safety.

You shake your head. “I've been careful.” Extending your hand, you smile. “It was nice to meet you, Steven with a ‘V’.”

“Likewise, love.” He shakes your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Another look crosses his face before he continues.

“Do you want my mobile number?” His words come out too fast; if you hadn't spent the past hour listening to him, you might have missed what he said. “Just in case you need someone to wait with you again, or keep an eye out. Would that be alright?” He shakes his head, stepping back. “'Matter of fact, forget I said anything, don't want you to think you've traded one creep for another–”

“Sure.”

Your simple answer stops him in his tracks. “Oh, you don’t have to–”

“No, it’s fine. Really. When you offered, it felt nice to know someone could be in my corner on this side of town.”

You take out a scrap of paper and a pen from your bag. “How about this: you write it down, and I’ll add your contact if I ever need my knight in shining armor again.”

Steven concedes, pen and paper in hand as he scribbles his number down (then asks for a new paper in case the first was too illegible).

When you leave, he watches until you turn the corner. He goes the opposite direction, back to the museum. Part of him hopes you’ll never have to reach out, for your own sake. The rest of him hopes you do anyway.

_____________________

A/N: oh steven, the man that you are. a couple more bingo prompts will be focused on this dude, which is excellent practice for some exciting projects down the line...

as always, ty for reading <3

event tags: @moonknight-events @spacecowboyhotch @juneknight

addtl tags: @mrs-lockley @lunar-ghoulie @shadystarlightgentlemen @casa-boiardi @nerdieforpedro (lmk if you'd like to be added to/removed from this wee tag list)