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maraudersilver · 3 days ago

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My Valentine (James Potter x Fem!Reader)

James Potter x Fem!Reader

wc: +3,4K

cw: fluff, mentions of sex (no smut), corniness.

Summary: When the reader leaves her workplace in a fuss of a certain Friday, Sirius Black offers to give her a ride without mentioned James’ Valentine plans.

Back at Hogwarts, Fridays felt renewing, a sense of freedom etched into the nippy breeze of the castle’s gardens as the students roamed around the many secret passages. Some snogging, others finishing the last details of a party, some hanging out with friends, and very few stuck at the library to study whatever subject was making their life miserable.

You loved it. Every single moment of your life in Hogwarts was ingrained in fond memories in your mind. It didn’t matter the O.W.L.S or the N.E.W.T.s, if you had the chance, you would do everything all over again.

However, once in real life, adulting through many different jobs and a rent to pay, Fridays had become an excuse to loaf on the couch and rethink all of your decisions up until then. You would still go for a couple jars with your friends and boyfriend from time to time, yet the lack of energy and the built up tiredness of an endless week always left you drained.

That’s why when Sirius Black presented himself at your workplace on a Friday, you almost snarled at him. It had been a hideous day. Everything that could go wrong went wrong and you didn’t have time to eat anything during your break, not that you had had a break anyway. Alas, you just wanted to arrive home and rot in your couch while you debated whether life was worth it or not.

“Nice to see you, too.” Sirius rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest while he leaned on his bike.

“What are you doing here?” you asked tiredly, trundling towards the handsome man.

“Thought you’d need some fresh air.” He shrugged his shoulders, his characteristic crooked smile making its way onto his face.

You shook your head, sighing tiredly. “What I need is to make my way to bedfordshire.”

“Fun, aren’t you?”

“Fuck you.”

Sirius just chuckled, which made your skin crawl. In any other situation, you would have been thrilled to see your friend. However, you weren’t in the mood for his unabashed teasing.

“Claws in, princess. C’mon, I’ll give you a ride,” Sirius said, pointing to his bike with his head. Although, an old couple that was strolling just next to him snapped their heads in alarm and scandal at his words.

“Well done, Black. Scaring our elders,” you grumbled, your eyes drifting from the staggering couple back to the dishy man before you, who had grabbed a helmet for you. Somewhat miffed, you put on the helmet he was offering you before mounting the bike, your chest pressed to his back. There was no point in fighting Sirius, too wayward to accept a ‘no’ for an answer. “Where are we going anyway?”

“Don’t spoil the surprise.” Sirius grabbed the handlebars and a clamorous snore started the bike.

“Is James there or some- AHH!”

You gripped Sirius’ waist as tightly as you could as he accelerated the bike, turning it invisible before lifting it onto the air. It didn’t matter how many times you had ridden with him, your stomach still churned funnily.

Your surroundings were blurred, the only neat thing being Sirius’ covered in leather back. What you supposed were trees and roofs passed before the corners of your eyes in undefined shapes and uncoloured forms. Time lost its purpose, hidden in the haze of your mind after you stopped counting the seconds it took the bike to land. You considered begging Sirius to stop, yet your voice was stuck in the knot that had formed on your throat to thwart your breakfast from spilling all over London.

After your self-perceived eternity, Sirius lowered the bike to the nearest road. It took everything in you to not splatter all over the asphalt, your head dizzy and limbs numb. If you had any strength left, you were to be chained in Azkaban for the murder of the Black family heir.

“Careful, sweetheart,” Sirius cackled, hoisting you by the waist after a misled step. “James gonna think you’re hammered. Aren’t you overkilling ‘t a bit?”

“You’re-” you took a deep breath, gasping at the lack of oxygen in your system. “You’re t-the fucking w-worst.”

“That’s the best you can do?” Sirius howled in laughter again, placing one of his arms around your waist to saunter who-knows-where.

You gave him a pointed look. “I’ll fu-cking kill y-you.”

“I’m so scared,” he mocked.

It took you a little while to get your head back on its place, Sirius never letting go of you. Your eyes drifted to the foliage that encompassed the horizon, the peaks of the trees impending over the mystical lake. Everything was colourful, tones pink and orange as the sun hid behind the ivy-like bushes at the far point of your sight. You wished James was there to witness it with you.

All the stress and back pain was left behind, only solemnity and enchantment on your countenance. You could feel Sirius’ heavy stare on you, still forcing you to keep walking over the softened grass. By the feeling of it, it had rained the day before.

“This isn’t London,” you observed dumbly, cheeks warm when Sirius scoffed.

“No way, Sherlock.”

“Where are we?” your gaze chased the many details composing the picture of the valley, searching for the man you actually wanted to be with.

“Always so eager.” Sirius' voice was laced with mocked flirting, finally stopping before a wooden cottage that somehow you had missed in your first inspection.

“Is this where you murder me and they never find my body?”

Sirius laughed mirthlessly. “Hilarious. C’mon, go in.”

You had already climbed a couple of stairs but, at his words, you pinched your brows and looked back at him. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I’ve been suggesting your boyfriend a threesome for donkey’s years, but I don’t think today’s the day, hot stuff.”

You ignored his unabashed confession, although your belly flipped against your will, and rolled your eyes. “Is James there, then?”

Sirius placed his hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket, and he blew a couple of rebellious dark tufts away from where they had fallen before his sculptured face. The wind was waving his hair like a wave tide, so smooth you ached to twist your fingers on it. You had to seriously consider the threesome offer with James. “That’s for you to discover. I was just your ride, not your confidant,” Sirius offered you a cheshire smirk. “Although, maybe another time, you could ride my d-”

“Okay, okay, I’ll go in. Thanks, Sirius!” you bursted out, and the last thing you heard before closing the door behind you was his melodic laugh.

You sighed in relief, you were sure you wouldn’t have survived any more teasing, any less before his scrutinized stare. Suddenly, the smell of just-baked muffins hit your nostrils, and your mouth watered involuntarily like a pavlovian experiment.

Following its trail, you paddled around the wooden floors, any survival instinct forgotten in the back of your mind, the only thing present was the need to taste those goods. You missed the hanging t-shirt from the door next to the kitchen, and the scattered shoes all over the flatweave rug in the living room.

Cooking on the stove was the burly, naked back of your very much dishy boyfriend. Now in the kitchen, the pleasant smell of the sweets mixed with the salty one of whatever he was stewing. You observed the muscles of his back, contracting at his every move, and if your mouth was already watering, now you were drooling like a horndog. The light of the sun drew patterns in his body, illuminating his tanned skin in orange hues, like liquid gold. And the grey sweatpants hang lowly on his hips; your head was light and not from the motorbike ride exactly.

Sensing your burning stare, James turned around and his mouth stretched in a saccharine smile, so bright it overshadowed the sunset painting the sky outside the window. His eyes wrinkled by the corners, irises gleaming at the sight of you. Your heart fluttered, and the butterflies in your stomach flew violently. It didn’t matter how many times you had witnessed this sight, it always made your knees wobble.

In a fussy, you pranced towards his awaiting arms, opened just for you. “My darling,” he said, voice laced in honey, brushing his head on your hair, sniffling lightly much to your embarrassment and amusement. “Did you have a good ride? I know how Sirius can be.”

You hummed, hiding your face in the crook of his neck and soaking on his natural scent: warm, sandalwood, cologne. You roamed your hands absentmindedly over his back, feeling him up but feigning innocence at his snort. “Hectic,” James snickered, reverberating in his chest against your own. “He’s a prick. But it wasn’t that bad. Not if I get to have you like this.”

“Aww, aren’t you a sweetheart,” James cooed, his palms caressing up and down your back softly. “Or a perv, if your hands have any say in this.”

“You just had to ruin the moment,” you groaned, and James laughed again, kissing the top of your head in apology.

“You can feel me up as much as you want, my love. My body’s yours.”

You wanted to groan again, he was so corny your cheeks must be scorching against his shoulder and neck, yet the tingling of your fingertips and the drumming beating of your heart proved you wrong.

Pulling your head away from your hidden haven, albeit reluctantly, you looked up at him again. James had this thing where his eyes alone showed the very deep of his soul even behind his glasses, and the caring light pouring out of his irises had your head turning and whirling. Damn, you were very much in love with him.

“Where are we?” you asked once your hazed mind walked out of the fog enough to realize you still didn’t know the place, and you scouted your surroundings once more.

James’ eyes followed your motion and his smile stretched even more if it was even possible. “I may or may not have rented this cottage for a romantic weekend.”

Your heart did a flip, and you were sure you were looking back at James with as much passion and adoration as he was. If he didn’t know by now how besotted you were, the proof laid before him. “James,” you said, voice soft and whispery, conveying what words could not say.

“I take it that you like it.” His grin grew impossibly wide. He leaned down, about to kiss your lips, but the squelching sound coming from behind him made him gasp and drop you from his warm hold, much to your sorrow. “Sorry, my love, this is why I couldn’t go get you myself. I wanted to cook you a nice dinner,” he giggled nervously.

Upon his sudden sheepishness, you cooed and hugged him from behind, your arms surrounding his waist and palms pressed against his toned abs. “That’s so considerate, Jamie.” You kissed his shoulder blade, goosebumps forming on his skin much to your delight, and then you placed your head against the spot you had just shown love to. “What are you cooking?”

“Surprise!”

“James, I can smell the muffins,” you deadpanned.

You could imagine the childish pout forming on his lips, and you got confirmation when he spoke again, tone muffled by his pursed lips. “Then I’ll give you another dessert.”

You snorted, nuzzling your cheek against his soft back. “Oh, yeah? You’ll have time to bake another dessert?”

“No need to elaborate it much, darling. You sitting on my face is my favourite meal after all.”

Your cheeks were ablaze, a pulsing heat setting between your legs. Undeterred by your timid countenance, he snickered, turning around to hoist you from your waist and sit you on the counter, positioning himself between your legs.

The bespectacled man roamed his honeyed eyes all over your body, gnawing at his lower lip menacingly. “You know.” His finger teased the collar of your working shirt, fiddling with the first button, and you felt yourself gulping. “Maybe we could skip dinner after all. I’m hungry for something else,” he drawled, sounding drunk in the lust emanating from his body.

You considered it, though there was not much to ponder about. Your hot, sexy boyfriend was offering you an evening of fun and who were you to refuse? Just when you were about to agree, half lidded eyes focused on his pretty face, your stomach rumbled, the sound almighty in comparison to the quiet tranquility of the cottage. James blinked twice, looking bemused, until comprehension hit him like a gunshot and he beamed, face brightening in streams of laughter so ablaze you felt like the sun was setting you on fire.

Much to your embarrassment, James nuzzled his nose against yours, all previous promise of pleasure forgotten in his teasing gaze. “At least my efforts won’t go to waste,” he snickered, pecking your lips in ample adoration, a wide smile still stretching his mouth. His askew, curly hair tickled your forehead, sending you into a fit of giggles. “You set the table while I finish this up?” he asked, voice sugarcoated.

You nodded, bounding down from the counter with his help. You scouted around the kitchen in search of plates, serviettes, cutlery and wine glasses, quite lost in the new environment with a very different setting compared to your own kitchen. After opening the fifth, marbled cabinet, you finally found the round plates James had asked you for, and little by little you set the table under the humming tune your boyfriend was entrancing you with, his low voice drumming violently in your chest.

Considering it finished, you went back to James shirtless form, who was plating an enticing beef stew, covered in what seemed to be blackberry compote. What surprised you the most was the lack of magic use in the whole process. James had really outdone himself.

“All done?” you asked, placing a comforting hand on his right bicep, hoping he didn’t see through your act of touching for the sake of touching.

“Uh-ha.” His tongue was sticking out the corner of his mouth, teeth gently biting down in concentration. “Finished! C´mon, sit down, I’ll bring the food.” You opened your mouth to complain, but he lifted a single finger against your lips, smiling menacingly at you. “Nah-ah-ah, love. Let me pamper you, yeah? For me?” They should really carry out a study of how fast this man went from unabashed to puppy -stag?- eyes, a throbbing pout drawn on his gorgeous facade that melted you from inside out. When you sighed in defeat, his characteristic smile made its way back to his lips. “Atta girl.”

Warmth bursted from the pit of your stomach, flowing like a fluent river to the rest of your body. If he continued like that, dinner wouldn’t be what you sucked into your mouth the following minutes.

With a slight stumble, you made your way to the table by the dinning room. Now that you had time, you took the chance to observe in thoroughness the cottage you had entered without paying much attention to it. The walls were composed of rounded, dark wood, giving path to pointed and high, wooden ceilings, from where simple and rustic lamps hung and lighted the room in dim brightness. They reminded you of James, always so warm and dazzling. The hearth by the couch thawed out the chilling atmosphere from the outside world, gleaming cozily and drawing patterns on the cushion of the sofa, back to the wall in front of it.

Then, James jigged down the corridor with two plates in hand, placing them leisurely on yours and James seats, him sitting in front of you. With a flicker of his wand, two red candles appeared on the table, and the lamps turned off, the room only lit by the romantic fire of the red wax.

“Wow.” To say you were gobsmacked would be an understatement, and you suppressed a smile at the contrast of the elegant dinner against your still very shirtless man. “What’s all the romance for? I mean, I’m not complaining,” you quickly said, raising your hands and signaling at nothing in particular. “But why today?”

James chuckled, hiding behind one of his hands much to your disappointment. His smile should be hung on all the walls of a museum. “Can’t a man spoil his Valentine rotten?” The flickering light of the candles reflected on his glasses, giving his teasing stare a more mischievous contenance.

You blinked, taken off guard. Valentine? It couldn’t be Valentine’s Day already, could it? Your brain worked in rumination, scavenging for the date on the calendar. That week you had two meetings, a report to deliver, grocery shopping on Wednesday… Oh. There was a pink, huge circle around the 14th on the calendar in your kitchen, marked by you, which only made the matter worse. How could you have forgotten it?

At your decimated expression, James chuckled again, the legs of his chair lugging against the wooden floor. “Aww, c’mere, lovey.”

Without much thought, you pranced towards his open arms. James took your hands and sat you in his lap, staring down at you with so much love your breath stuck in your lungs. Unable to do much more at the moment, your mind hazy and body numb, you passed your arms around his shoulders and pecked his cheek repeatedly. His chest reverberated in giggles much to your pleasure. “Happy Valentines, Jamie,” you murmured against his mouth, lazily kissing him. He hummed in appreciation, returning the kiss with the same loiter.

His glasses pressed uncomfortably against your cheek, though you didn’t mind. There was nothing in the world you loved more than him, and his lips were enticing enough to fight the slight pricking of his metal frames.

Your fingers intertwined with his curls, while the other hand caressed mildly the nape of his neck. His hands, however, were roaming your body like a starved man, proving so when he deepened the kiss, tilting his head more to the right. Your breathings were erratic, his tongue asking for permission, and you opened your mouth willingly. Both your tongues danced in your mouth, his exploring the warmth of yours as if he had never been graced entrance before. It was wet, passionate and so overwhelming.

Pulling away slightly, James looked at you with half-lidded eyes, a string of saliva still connecting you both. His glasses were lopsided from the make out session, and his dark curls askew, giving him a lovesick countenance. “Let’s do something,” he purred, and your heat pulsed. “We’ll finish dinner; then we take a romantic, warm bath to the candlelights; and then you let me eat you for dessert. Sounds good?”

“Sounds perfect,” you sighed breathlessly, kissing him urgently once more. Your left hand caressed the three-day stubble growing in his cheeks and jaw, and his hands squeezed your hips.

A daunting feeling crested from your stomach to your chest, settling on your heart. James was yours. The realization of it, even if you had known for years, only increased the tide of love ripples turning into waves crashing against your feelings. “I love you, James.” It was sincere, and the jaunty smile James gifted you, eyes filled with adoration, was proof of the sentiment.

“I love you, too, my love.”

It was a magical night, to say the least. James fulfilled his promise and you ended up witnessing sunset in his arms, your bodies naked against each other, only covered by a thin blanket while the sun rose in technicolour lights brushing the cristaline water by the lake.

The rest of the weekend was spent undertaking water activities such as paddling in a boat, swimming and splashing, and making love by the shore in the solitude and romance of the woods.

By the time you had to leave the cottage and go back home, long forgotten was the awful day at work and the stress of mundane life. All you had in your mind and heart was James and your love for him. Although, deep inside you had a fishbone stabbed for having forgotten Valentine’s Day. However, James didn’t seem to mind as he walked you into the warmth of your shared haven, his arm lazily propped over your shoulder in a protective stand.

Late at night, both of you cuddled up on the sofa, a book left behind in your lap. It was then that your conversation with Sirius that Friday afternoon came back to you. James turned in alarm at your gasp, raising his brows in expectation.

“Can we have a threesome with Sirius?”

James’ mouth hung half-open, his brows now narrowing in confusion. “What!?”

#james potter x reader #james potter x you #james potter x y/n #marauders #marauders fanfiction #marauders era #sirius black x reader #only if you squint honestly #valentines day #valentines fanfiction #james potter #sirius black

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ramblingandpie · 3 days ago

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[Image description: screencap of tags reading #so many thoughts about the notes here

#i'm just gonna say that the civil servants i know who are just trying

to make society work are often begging for more people to opine

#there are secure white people with nothing better to do who spend

all their time making their opinions heard

#just to feel alive

#i cant guarantee anything but i know there are people in

government who would want to help your voice be heard

#if only you knew who to speak to

#so start saying what it is you need to say to everybody you might

possibly need to say it to

#and get better at saying it #and make your thoughts known

#because there are people who your thoughts matter to

#yes even in a red state

#i don't in any way believe the way our government works is ideal but

you need to use the tools that are available to you to make life bette

#civil and otherwise.

End description.]

This particular civil servant would love if folks would use alt text.

And also, yes, please send in feedback. We want to know. We need to know. Sometimes I know something is An Problem but unless people complain I am not allocated resources to fix Yon Problemme. We literally keep binders of program feedback sorted by topic. We use them to make our plans and agendas of what to work on and where to allocate resources.

We care!! We want the program to go smoothly!! And! If you're like "oh but this is a minor problem" we may genuinely have no idea!! Typically, the people who are doing the regulatory work and procedure updates and such? Are NOT the frontline staff who sees "minor" problems. Like. I see the most messed up of claims where everything has gone wrong and while yes obviously those DO need to be addressed... I also am completely out of the loop on more minor issues unless someone tells me. And sometimes it's a really easy fix!!! Or it's something we can incorporate into something else we're working on!!! And I try to be proactive (like... if I'm working on an update for A Chonker Of A Problem, I try to reach out to people who deal even remotely with that problem and ask them to please tell me any and all issues they run into, because like... if I have to remake a form? I'd rather do it right????)

Anyway wow this has turned into a rant but yes there are definitely civil servants who care. Most of us, I reckon.

Strongly recommend calling your reps and freaking out on the phone, both as a self care practice and so they can know that their normally chill constituents are saying things like “I guess if I can’t teach kindergarten teachers to be nicer anymore I shall have to become a bonus army”

#civil service

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sorry-not-feeling-it-right-now · 22 hours ago

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Oppy, at his very core, is a character whose actions are purely driven by fear. As much as he pretends to be fearless, fear is the main driving force that pushes his actions—fear of being hurt, fear of lacking power, fear of loneliness, fear of vulnerability, etc.

It’s really telling if you look at how you get him with your actions in Chapter 1.

Imagine with me

You are Oppy. You were just given the task of killing the Princess. You thought to yourself, “Hey she’s just a princess she can’t be that dangerous right, maybe I could just talk things out with her first and figure out what’s going on. Maybe less stabbing work for me too”, and so you proceed down the basement without the knife. After talking to her she seems harmless enough. Maybe she really doesn’t want to end the world and that the Narrator is just talking bullsh!t. So you agreed to free her.

But when you were about to free her, she tears through her fu@king arm like an animal.

What? What??? Why is she doing that??? A primal fear courses through you. You have nothing to defend yourself with regarding this unexpected incident. If she is able to tear through her arm just to get herself out of here, does that mean she’s been lying to me about being harmless?? What would she do to me after all this? You feel vulnerable and small.

And when the Narrator gives you the blade, you took the opportunity to stab her. You can either wait a little until she’s completely off guard with her back against you, or just stab her right here, right now. It doesn’t really matter. She is a threat to your safety. As long as she’s dead, you’ll be safe again.

I’m a believer that the thought of stabbing the Princess in Thorn hadn’t occurred to him entirely until we’ve got the blade (aka our power) back in our hands, since this feels like a repeat of what had happened in Chapter 1. He fears getting hurt again, and therefore he suggests stabbing the Princess.

In PaTD, I see Oppy being in an antagonistic role as him fearing you and seeing you stabbing yourself as a betrayal, and therefore a threat. From his perspective you literally stabbed yourself and got out of your dying body, leaving the voices behind for the Princess. It doesn’t matter what your intentions are, but here we are anyway.

#slay the princess #black tabby games #stp #stp voices #slay the princess insight #stp voice of the opportunist #voice of the opportunist #stp opportunist

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narnian-neverlander · 3 days ago

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Would You Fall in Love with Me Again [Machine Herald Viktor x GN!Reader]

Preview: “You’re the one who decided he’d rather forget every moment, every laugh, every touch we shared like they all meant nothing! You’re the one who tore out his heart without a second thought and threw it away even though it was mine! And all the while you’re leaving me with the burden of it all! I’m the only person alive who still holds our time together dear to their heart now! Do you have any idea how heavy memories can be? How maddening?! And these—“ you bring your hands up between the two of you, all sleek, perfect metal, the spitting image of him. “You gave me these for all the world to see and left me with yet another reminder of you! Like I needed more of those to know that I am still and always will be irrevocably yours! And now you tell me that it wouldn’t matter if there’s any part of you, however small, that still thinks of yourself as mine?! Fuck you, Viktor!”

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 10,7k

Warnings: slight body horror/modifications, suicidal thoughts, canon typical violence (injuries and blood, mentions of torture, mentions of character death, alluded murder)

This is part of a series of stand alone One-Shots that all feature the same reader, you can find the masterlist here :3

A/N: Does a broken rib from too much coughing count as the AO3 curse yet cause wow this took way longer than expected. Anyways, Epic x Arcane has been bouncing around my head since Season 2 came out, but this was inspired by this post from @le-fruit-de-la-passion cause I saw that and I’ve been internally screaming over it ever since 💁

Happy Valentine’s everybody 💞

Nothing had been the same since you woke up.

It’s to be expected, it had been almost two years after all.

Two years since the explosion. Two years since half the council had died. Two years since any attempt at peace between the two cities had been shattered. Two years that you had spent blissfully unaware of all of this; a coma keeping you trapped within the confines of a hospital bed and your own mind.

You’d expected pain after coming back to your senses; it was the last thing you remembered before the world had went dark. But you’d slept through most of your recovery. Through your wounds turning into scars. Through your muscles growing weak from disuse. Your hands were a different story, though. They didn’t so much hurt, only at times, as they were simply numb. Shattered bones and nerve damage had made them mostly useless and that was not something any amount of time would simply fix.

Not everything had completely changed, though, you’d found. You’d been awake for not more than an hour when Jayce had burst through the doors of your hospital room. And sure, he’d looked different: his hair longer, a beard, the white and gold that had always dominated his outfits replaced with black and silver, a brace on one of his legs and a cane at his side. But the relief in his hazel eyes when he’d found his friend conscious was familiar. The way his hug had felt. And how he’d completely avoided your gaze when you’d asked about your lover.

He’s gone. I’m so sorry, but… he’s gone.

He’d expected you to cry, scream, anything. But you hadn’t. You’d merely nodded, as numb as your broken hands, and had thanked him for coming to see you. Had told him to go back to his work, he must certainly be busy after all. And it had torn him apart, to see you, someone he’d always known as energetic and joyful, so tired, so apathetic. The very least for him to do had been to offer his help in any way he could, including finding a doctor that would fix your hands. He’d been more than reluctant to leave you, but you’d asked for some time alone to rest and he could hardly deny you that - it had still taken him a good ten minutes more to actually take his leave, with promises of a soon return and to simply send for him if you needed anything.

You’d settled back into the bed, fully intent on going back to sleep and pretending you’d be able to wake up in a different world, but the sun had caught on something metallic on your bedside table, hidden behind flowers and cards. You’d reached for it with stiff, unsteady fingers, almost sending the small, scratched up, mechanical cat crashing to the ground; luckily it had just ended up bouncing off your leg and then settling in your lap.

You’d stared at the little robotic feline in astonishment for a long time, unblinking amber eyes staring right back, like it would tell you who had brought it here, when it should’ve been sitting on a shelf in your apartment. Like it would give you all the answers and solutions in the world. An answer to your pain. To the hopelessness creeping in. To the feeling of your heart slowly shattering.

I’m coming back for you. I’ll find a way to fix you, to fix us both, and then I’m coming back for you, I promise.

It had almost made you drop your precious possession all over again, breaths heavy and migraine pounding in the back of your skull. And your racing mind had very clearly told you that there’s no recollection of ever having heard him say anything like this, your aching heart replying that it had been an idle wish, nothing more.

This idle wish comes back to you know, lying bruised and bloody and dazed in a ditch somewhere in Zaun. The people you’d been sent to for help had turned out to be anything but the kind, generous researches they’d made themselves look like; only interested in their own profit, gained on the backs of the helpless and the beaten. And after months of more pain and suffering, once you’d no longer been of use, your body even more mutilated and damaged than before, you’d been discarded like the trash they viewed you as. Face in the dirt, body and mind exhausted and screaming for rest, just a small respite, you consider letting go. Consider closing your eyes and just letting eternal rest take you; you don’t have anything left, after all. No home to go back to. No loved ones waiting for you.

Your shattered psyche seems to welcome the idea more than anything; through blurry vision you swear you see your lost beloved right in front of you, like it’s just another lazy morning spent in bed together. A warm hand cupping your cheek, gentle amber eyes, voice still raspy and accent thick from sleep. Telling you to go back to sleep. That it’s okay to rest. You blink and he’s gone.

He’s gone. I’m so sorry, but… he’s gone.

I’m coming back for you. I’ll find a way to fix you, to fix us both, and then I’m coming back for you, I promise.

A cry for help, created from a desperate mind and a broken heart. A fantasy. Wishful thinking. Nothing more. No one would be coming for you. Nobody would know or care if you just laid down to die right here. But there’s still a part of you, tiny as it may be, that wants to live. That under no circumstances wants to die on the same streets you once crawled your way out of, while your tormentors get rich on your suffering and are left with no consequences. Your blood’s starting to boil, powering you like a steam engine, getting you up on your hands and knees, groaning and whimpering in pain as you hopelessly try to get your feet back under you.

Peace is for the dead, revenge is for the living.

It’s what forces you towards the city limits on wobbly, clumsy legs, one stumbling step at a time. If revenge would be your only reason to live, then so be it. You’d take it over simply giving up and being forgotten; your body left to rot in the dirt.

So you live off scraps and garbage. Get your quick bouts of rest on dark, dirty street corners. Collect herbs from the riverbed, as scarce as they may be, to fight off the infections you incurred. It’s not pretty or elegant and you can barely call it living, but you’re alive. And eventually you catch rumors, whispers, only spoken in the same shadows you’ve now spent months living in: rumors of a healer. Well, some call him that. Others revere him as a god. Others fear him as a monster, more machine than man. But they all agree on two things: that he’s the one to go to if you’re in desperate need of help and have nothing left to lose. And where to find him.

The gate to the house on Emberflit Alley is old and bent and rusted. Not locked, but your stiff, useless fingers have enough trouble opening it anyways. The front door is a different story entirely, encrusted with interlocking gears to keep you and anyone else out unless invited in. So you knock and you wait. And then you repeat that process. Until it becomes clear that either no one is home or that a disturbance isn’t currently wanted. You’re not about to give up so easily though, so you step off the porch and start making your way around the house in search of any windows to knock on instead or maybe even break if necessary. It’s dusk by now and the ever present fog that always seems to cling to this area of the Lanes isn’t making your job much easier; your foot inevitably catches on something, a loose brick or a protruding pipe maybe, and sends you stumbling, falling and while you manage to catch yourself against the brick wall, your flailing palm ends up going straight through a window.

Perfect. You hadn’t actually been serious about breaking and entering. Not entirely, anyways. Trying to assess the damage to your hand in the dimly lit alley, you’re distracted enough to not pick up on the sound of a door opening and you only notice the heavy footsteps when they stop right behind you.

“You’re persistent if nothing else, I will give you that.”

The voice is deep, warped, with a mechanical echo to it, but it’s the accent that sends an unwelcome and unexpected twinge to your heart. You turn around very slowly and carefully, prey about to get caught by something terrible, and gulp when you actually need to crane your head back and look up cause fuck, he’s tall. At least a head taller than you, with a broad frame, all heavy armor and pieces of metal, a sharp, three pronged claw pulsing with energy pointed right at you from over his shoulder and a mask with only two hollow, glowing, yellow eyes staring back at you. He’s an imposing, unforgiving presence and you’re starting to understand why people only come to him as a last resort. But you’d come this far and he’s right, you’re persistent, stubborn, if nothing else, for better or for worse.

“I was— No one was opening the door and I was just trying to— Are you the Herald?” It’s a redundant question, really. “It’s what they insist on calling me.” Okay, you’re having a conversation. Sorta. That’s progress. “They also say that you… help people?” He crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head to the side and while you might not be able to see his eyes, you can feel them taking you in from head to toe. “To the best of my abilities. What would you need help with?” You falter for a second. “It’s uhm… a lot, really, but mostly my hands?” Most people have always reacted with disgust or pity and you don’t expect him to be much different, so the way you bring your hands in front of you for him to see is slow and hesitant. He leans forward for a better look and you fight the urge to back away and flee. It’s quiet, too quiet, the way he’s so intensely studying you and your injuries unnerving and the metal claw that looks like it could tear you in half opening and closing and rotating as if in thought is most definitely not helping your anxiety. Finally, he straightens up and turns around. “Follow me.” He doesn’t wait for you, nor does he check to see if you actually do follow him, merely strides back inside the house, leaving you scrambling to catch up.

The halls that he leads you through have dozens of motionless automatons leaning against the walls, the room you eventually arrive in is lined with shelves of glass jars containing organic and metal organs floating in green fluid and in the far corner a leather gurney with a mechanized drill laid upon it and stains you don’t want to think too hard about. Fortunately, he doesn’t lead you over to that, but instead to a workbench cluttered with machinery and tools and blueprints. He sits in the old, rusty chair and then drags out a little stool from under the table, gesturing for you to copy him while he reaches above his head and fiddles with what is revealed to be a bright, neon lamp when it finally flickers to life, blinding you for a moment and leaving spots in your vision. You do as your told and finally place your hands in his when he holds out his own, one gloved and from what you can tell human, the other solid metal.

There’s a certain gentle diligence with which he conducts his examination, something you most definitely didn’t expect, but it puts your frayed nerves at ease. It also triggers a memory from long ago, an accident in the lab, that had ended with you curled up against your boyfriend’s shoulder while Jayce had carefully picked glass shards from your palms. A slight shake of your head brings you back to the present; a different life, it no longer matters. It’s silent between you two, except for the occasional question from his side that you answer truthfully. Eventually, he sits back and switches off the lamp above you. “Your hands can not be salvaged; the damage is too severe and was left insufficiently treated for too long. If you want full use of them back, they will need to be replaced.” He says it like it’s the most logical, natural thing in the world and to him it must be, but to you? It leaves you stunned, mouth going dry. “So I’d lose them entirely…?”

“You already have,” he states matter of factly. “Now it’s just a matter of wether you’re insisting on clinging on to broken, useless flesh and bone for the sake of sentimentality or if you’d rather exceed your human limitations and be able to return to a normal life.” It takes everything you have not to laugh bitterly; new hands or not, you weren’t going back to your old, normal life anytime soon. But he’s right nonetheless. “And you can do that? Replace them? Make them work like before?” You can’t be certain, with the mask’s filter and all but it almost sounds like he scoffs in offense. He waves his own hand in front of your face and flexes his fingers for show; dark, solid metal, expertly welded and crafted together to create a perfectly functioning hand. “Naturally.”

There’s nothing for you to think about anymore. “Okay. Yeah, I… that sounds good. Except…” Maybe there is one thing to think about. “I can’t… pay you for it. B-but I can work it off! Or I could—“ he decisively cuts you off with, “I do not take payment for my work.” And your jaw actually drops, because there is no way anyone in this world would offer services like this for free. There always has to be an angle, something to be gained. “Right. So you just do this out of the goodness of your fucking heart? Do you even have one? A heart, I mean.” He stands to his full height and it hits you like a ton of bricks that you just followed a complete stranger into the confines of his home. A stranger twice your size that would have no trouble turning you into parts for his future experiments. A stranger that has a reputation on Zaun’s streets as an unhinged monster. And it seems like you might’ve hit a nerve.

But he merely reaches past you, for something behind you on the table and comes back with a pair of tweezers and gauze and then proceeds to remove the parts of his window that are still stuck in one of your palms. Right. Since you can’t really feel them, you’d forgotten all about them. “Of course not. And to answer your question, no, I got rid of my heart a long time ago; it was of no use to me any longer. I only ask that you stay here during your recovery so I can oversee the adjustment process. Document it to further my research. You will be paying me in information, knowledge, progress. That is worth more than any gold or jewels you could throw at me.” Your own heart is going a mile a minute after that scare, but you’re slowly coaxing your body to calm back down. If he truly wanted to harm you, he would’ve done so by now. “And you’re sure that’s enough?” A sigh, as if he’s forced to explain something overly simplistic to a child over and over again. “You can bring any scrap metal you may find on the streets to me, if that will make you feel better.” You snort in amusement. “Okay, sure, you got yourself a deal. Sooooo… now what?”

He pauses wrapping your hand for a moment and turns his unblinking gaze to you again. “Malnourished, sick or overly exhausted people make for greater risks, both during surgery and recovery.” You flinch because you damn well know that you check all of those boxes. And you’re sure he knows it, too. “Yeah, well it’s not like I can snap my fingers and magically be healthy again. If I could, I wouldn’t be here. Besides, do you know where you live? You can’t tell me that every Zaunite who comes in here is of picture perfect health?”

“No, I just thought you should be made aware. We can perform the procedure tomorrow, at least get some sleep before that; surely that’s not too difficult?” It almost sounds patronizing and you realize you’ve gained back, or rather are rediscovering a part of yourself you haven’t used in a long time in the few minutes you’ve been talking to him: the defiant smartass. “Of course I can do that, I’m not an imbecile. There’s a brothel owner who owes me a favor, I’m sure I can get her to cough up a bed for the night.” He’s doesn’t look up from putting the finishing touches on your bandages, but apparently he still feels the need to state, “And leave with more diseases than you came with?” Had he just called you diseased? “I’ll have you know I don’t have anything contagious, thank you very much. I don’t think. And it’s that or sleep out on the streets again, so…”

“Or you could just stay here.”

You barely manage a very intelligent ‘Huh?!’ in return.

“You will return here tomorrow anyways. And stay here for your recovery. One night will not make a difference.”

Your eyes flit over to the leather couch in the corner; it’s clearly old and worn, missing an armrest and has obvious tears in the leather. Truly, you shouldn’t be this comfortable around him so quickly, but it’s still the closest thing to an actual bed you’d had in months so you’d take it.

“If it’s okay with you.” you shrug and quickly walk over to the sofa, dropping the bag that contains whatever little belongings you have left to the floor and then promptly collapse on it in an exhausted heap of limbs. That seems to break some of his composed facade as you catch him physically startling in your peripheral while you’re busy shrugging out of one of your coats and turning it into a makeshift pillow. “There is a room upstairs, with a bed, entirely unused. You can sleep there.” But you’re drowsy already, the worn leather surprisingly soft and pliant against your battered body. “So you don’t sleep, I assume; noted. And don’t worry, I don’t snore, so I won’t interrupt your… your work. You won’t… even know… I’m…” You’re out cold before you’ve finished your sentence and it takes all of half a minute before you’re lightly snoring. Liar. But he knew that already.

A heavy sigh and then he’s up, grabbing the blanket and pillow from the bed upstairs; replacing the bunched up coat under your head and pausing before he covers your body with the thick, warm fabric. Your skin has lost color, you’re underweight, he most definitely caught you limping earlier and those are just the things he could tell from a first glance. Your hands would be an easy enough matter to fix, but the rest would take time and care. He covers you with the blanket and you immediately snuggle up into it until only your hair is barely poking out. So you still hate the cold, then. Just like you’re still defiant and mouthy. It’s ridiculous how much you haven’t changed in direct contrast to him; changed so vastly and completely, of course you wouldn’t recognize him.

Carefully dragging down the blanket and the backs of your several layers of clothing, he indeed finds a series of numbers and letters branded into the skin at the back of your neck, as expected. He recognizes their shoddy handiwork by now; you weren’t the first Zaunite to come through his door after they’d fallen victim to that group. But you’d most definitely be the last. He gathers some things from around the lab and finally grabs his staff from where it’s leaning against the wall, gem at the top crackling with energy; one last look at your curled up form and then he’s out of the door, leaving you resting in his lab.

You’re warm, comfortable. It’s quiet and you actually feel well rested. All of that is so utterly foreign to you, it frightens you back to consciousness, makes you startle awake and fall off whatever you’d been asleep on in the process. Blind panic as you untangle yourself from a blanket you don’t remember having and stagger back to your feet, wild eyes searching for the closest threat.

Dim lighting breaking through murky windows, shelves stocked organs, a bloody gurney in the far corner and a hunched over figure at a workbench, their back currently turned to you as a clawed contraption over their shoulder emits a thin, precise ray of light.

“I do not appreciate getting lied to.”

There’s a part of your mind screaming at you that you know this voice, this person, this place, but the terrified haze you’re in yields little room for rationality as he shuts off the laser and turns around to face you, features covered by a mask with nothing but a set of glowing yellow eyes.

“You do, in fact, snore.”

It’s like a switch gets flipped, the haze lifts as you realize that you’re safe and you collapse back into the couch in a relieved heap, breaths still frenzied and heart still trying to jump out of your chest. “Right. Sorry.” He doesn’t comment any further, simply gets back to whatever it is he was working on before, leaving you to recover by yourself. It takes a few minutes, but once you consider yourself sufficiently calmed, you sit back up on the couch cross legged, blanket draped over your shoulders, wanting to apologize and thank him properly, but looking at him gives you pause.

He seems… smaller somehow than the night before. You find your answer in a heap of metal scattered around his workbench: big, cumbersome pieces of armor. Armor that you remember seeing on him yesterday, that you’d just assumed to be irremovable parts of his body. What you most definitely do not recall are the dents, scratches and the dried blood all over the metal. Nervously flitting your gaze back to him, you see what he’s working on is actually himself; laser directed at a part of his chest that he seems to be welding shut. And you’re taken aback at how much skin there is - human skin. The entirety of his chest and his right arm are sleek steel, interlocking gears and mechanisms, flawlessly shifting into each other as he moves, thin glowing panels pulsing with energy from hidden engines. And there’s definitely more metal at his right hip, disappearing into the waistband of his pants, but other than that…

His left arm is mostly pale skin, scarred flesh at his shoulder connecting to the dark steel; a wired glove slipped over his slender fingers seemingly controling the movements of the claw over this shoulder. His stomach and waist are still incredibly human too, if nothing else because of the dark purple bruise forming against his skin. He’s nowhere near as much machine as you’d expected, not to mention he looks… hurt. Had he been in a fight? Gotten attacked?

You open your mouth to ask, but think better of it before any sound can come out. It really has nothing to do with you; what he does in his own time is none of your business. It still feels off, to infringe on his time and help and not even ask if he’s alright when clearly, something that you’re not privy to has happened. Never one to leave well enough alone, you grab your bag from the floor and start sorting through the collection of herbs you’ve managed to acquire over time. Once you’ve found the ones you’re looking for, you package them into the most clean rag you have in your possession and tie it shut; uncrossing your legs you walk over to him and place the haphazardly made package on the table, careful not to disturb him. The movement still gets his attention and even with the mask’s filter, confusion is clear as day in his voice as he asks, “What is that and what is it doing on my workbench?”

“It’s an herbal remedy, for uhm… bruises and the like?” you explain, vaguely gesturing at his waist. “You soak it in boiling water and then put it on the effected area; it helps with swelling and pain.” It’s silent for a few long seconds, then, “I see. Thank you.” Not even remotely close to anything you were readying yourself for as a response, but it makes something within your chest beam with pride. You don’t even realize you’re still staring until he points it out and is met with, “You’re just… not exactly what I expected.”

“A monster?”

The laugh you let out is so shockingly soft, it almost startles him. “You’ve got a reputation, sure, and you’re… intimidating at first glance, I’ll give you that, but… I’ve met plenty of monsters in my life and none of them were anything like you. In fact, all of them looked and acted remarkably, ordinarily human at first.” There’s no further elaboration from your side and your gaze is distant, mind somewhere far away from here. He almost calls your name, but it occurs to him in the nick of time that you never actually introduced yourself. You’ve been here for less than twenty four hours and already he’s slipping, making mistakes; he can’t have that, so he drives the conversation in a direction he has control over. “I am almost finished with my repairs, I can get the general anesthetic started so we can proceed with your surgery as quickly as possible.”

Wild, hot panic takes over your gaze and he fully expects you to bolt out the front door with how you flinch and take a step away from him. “I need be under for the surgery? Can’t you do like, local anesthesia on my arms?” He hesitates; he’s never known you to be afraid of medical procedures, so what’s the problem? “First off, I will not be replacing both of your hands at the same time. Too risky and you’ll be completely incapacitated; we’re going to start with only one today. And no, in theory, you do not have to be under full anesthesia, however, we are talking about a delicate and unusual kind of surgery; I can not promise that it will be painless while you’re still conscious.”

“That’s fine, I don’t mind the pain, I just… I wanna have some agency in what gets done to my body from here on out.”

Ah. So that’s it. One glance at the dried blood still clinging to his armor on the floor and he feels the rage from last night raise it’s ugly head again. He shoves that right back down, cursing internally, before he answers you, voice level and betraying nothing. “All right. It will not be a pretty sight, though.” You shrug, as nonchalant as if he’d just told you about dinner plans. “I mean, I don’t have to watch directly. But I’m gonna admit, I am curious.”

The curiosity lasts for all of the first cut into your flesh, then you turn your head away and simply let him work in silence; wouldn’t want to distract the man currently flaying you open and re-wiring your nerve endings. Luckily, there’s only the occasional pinch and pull, but you stay pain free otherwise. Recovery after the procedure is a different story entirely though; painful and arduous and time consuming. And you’re more than a little surprised at how diligently the Herald takes care of you. Keeping a close eye on his newest test subject, that’s what you write it off as at first. But as the weeks go by there’s a certain familiar domesticity that sneaks into your routine and you find yourself talking with him more and more. Well, it’s mostly you talking, but he listens; you know because the day after you complained about the room you’d been staying in feeling too dark, you’d come back from an errand to find the windows cleaned, the curtains gone and some mismatched lamps placed around the room. It’s a sweet, quiet kind of constant reassurance and you can’t help the way your heart warms at it; so much like what you’d been used to from your lost love.

The day you pick up a glass of water all by yourself, without spilling anything and the glass noticeably cold against your fingers, you almost weep with joy and just barely hold yourself back from tackling him in a hug. Instead you busy yourself with touching as many things in his lab as you can get your one properly functioning hand on - which means you miss the way he so openly stares at you, obvious even with his mask hiding his features. He hasn’t seen you this happy and energized since you showed up on his doorstep. It makes some part in chest whir conspicuously and it almost feels like something is overheating, so he quickly turns away and grabs a random, discarded project from his workbench to fiddle with.

“Do you… ya know, eat?”

It’s a random question, even for you, but he answers nonetheless. He’s used to it by now.

“I no longer require it as a form of energy replenishment, no.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, that doesn’t answer my question, though. You don’t have to, but do you? Sometimes?”

“I fail to comprehend why we are having this conversation in the first place.” He doesn’t put down his tools, nor does he look at you.

Okay, fair point.

“Well, I uh… I used to be a chef, had my own restaurant and everything? And since one of my hands finally works again I figured I’d like to give cooking something a try? And if you have a favorite, I could make it for you? As thanks for… well, for giving me a hand?” It’s not one of your finer jokes, you will admit, so you’re not surprised he doesn’t laugh. Not that you’ve ever heard him laugh at anything, for that matter. He doesn’t react at all, except for, “I told you, I do not take payment for my work. Are we done with this fruitless conversation now?” It stings more than you’d like, to have him dismiss your tries at kindness like that, even though you know it’s not personal.

“Right, yeah, sorry. It’s just… cooking’s the only thing I’ve ever been good for and I like to be some sort of useful so… but you’re right, it’s stupid. I’ll let you get back to work.”

Because if I stopped being useful, then… maybe he wouldn’t want me anymore. Maybe he’d leave me behind for something better.

It was years ago, he shouldn’t remember you saying it as clearly as he does. Nor the way you’d looked then; all teary eyed and vulnerable, in front of him and only him. He shouldn’t remember and much less should he still care. He finds himself putting down his tools anyways.

“Sweetmilk.”

It doesn’t even register that he’s talking to you at first, considering you’re already halfway out the door to give him some peace and quiet. “P-pardon?”

“Sweetmilk.” he repeats. “It’s technically not food, but a weakness of mine and it’s still made on a stove. However, I am out of—“

“I got it! I’ll go get everything; I know how to make it!” The biggest grin on your face, you’re out of his lab in an instant and he hears the front door open and close not long after that.

There’s an actual skip in your step as you make your way down the street, there’s no other way to put it.

You are no fool. It’s in the way he hyperfocuses on his work. In the way his place is always a mess, right down to how his tools and notes clutter his desk. In the way what little sunlight manages to reach this part of the Lanes catches in his chestnut hair when it filters through the windows. In the little vocal mannerisms and gestures that you remember oh so well, that he apparently was unable to remove, no matter how much of a perfect machine he claims himself to be. It’s all right there, it had been from the start, this had just been the final push you’d needed. The final push to actually let yourself hope.

You are no fool. He knows this. He knows this and yet he let you have this. This tiny, obsolete, aggravating piece of information that has now turned him into the fool instead. He’s certain you’ve already figured it out, how could you not have? With the way you were immediately way too comfortable around him? With the way you sometimes talked about yourself, your past, just naturally assuming he’d be able to fill in the blanks, cause to him, they weren’t blanks at all? With the way it had been so easy to slip back into old, dangerously domestic habits with you? This had simply been the final nail in the coffin, yours or his, he isn’t sure; he is sure, however that you do not belong here in his oh so carefully crafted solitude.

Over two years. That’s how long it had taken him to put himself back together again. To rid himself of the parts the Hexcore had already infected, tainted, taken from his control. To replace his dying lungs. To make sure he didn’t fall apart again after every second step. To ensure he was no longer weak. And then he’d come for you, intending to save you, make you whole again, but you’d been gone. Disappeared from your hospital bed, from Piltover all together it had seemed. He’d crossed several lines in his search for you, even the ones he’d set for himself; namely never asking for help from his former best friend and partner again. In the end, the only thing he’d accomplished had been to widen the ever growing rift between them, no step closer to you. So he’d done the only thing he could still think of: rip his heart straight from his chest to maybe, hopefully, get rid of the agony right along with it; erase the joyful memories that held nothing but misery anymore. And it had worked; everything inside him dulled and numbed enough to simply drown himself in his work with no interferences. Until you’d stumbled back into his life. And things should be different, he shouldn’t care about you anymore outside of how you can further his research, but they’re not. The way the two of you still fit together so effortlessly is disgustingly, hauntingly familiar and he has to put a stop to it. He has chosen to live like this, in isolation and loneliness, he would not force it on you in the name of some long forgotten affection.

Perfect opportunity strikes some days later, while he’s in the process of replacing your second hand and you question him about his own augmentations. So he tells you about his weak leg and his collapsing lungs like you don’t already know. Watches the smile vanish from you lips and your face fall as he explains how he removed his connections to people from his past.

“So you… you don’t remember anyone who used to be a part of your life? Family, friends, lovers?”

“I remember them just fine, I simply got rid of any unnecessary emotional attachments associated with them. I remember my mother’s lullabies, I do not miss them any longer. I remember the discussions with my old partner, yet I no longer look at them fondly. I remember the lazy mornings spent with my lover, but I don’t yearn for them anymore.”

You visibly flinch at that last one and he merely warns you to stay still, like he doesn’t know what hearing all of this must do to you. It goes quiet between you two afterwards and any glance he steals at you confirms his theory, proves that his action had the desired reaction: the cogs are turning in your head and the longer they do, the more the despair and grief start to show on your face; realization that he is no longer the man you knew and that you no longer have a place by his side. It’s quick, simple work to finish your surgery and he decides to leave you be, give you time to let the new information he provided you with sink in and with some trivial errands used as a quick excuse, you’re left sitting alone on a rickety old stool in his lab.

And you stay seated for a long while, still and unmoving, blankly staring off into the distance as you hopelessly try to process what he just revealed to you. The love you hold for him hasn’t diminished in the slightest, no matter how much he might claim to have changed, but what’s it worth if you’re nothing but a stranger to him now? If the affections he’d had for you in return were lost to his quest of a perfect evolution?

You’re unsure what compels you to rise from your seat, to stroll across the room and absentmindedly trail your fingers across the books on one of his shelves. Maybe you’re simply trying to distract your mind from spiraling further down into the dark abyss of hoplessness it’s currently headed for. Maybe a part of you already knows that this is not meant to last and you’re trying to commit everything to memory through touch alone, now that he’s returned that sensation to you. The very last thing you expect is for one of the spines to catch your attention and for just a moment, you’re back in your old apartment, your old life. Hurriedly pulling the book from it’s spot you find that you are in fact correct, this used to belong to you. The corners of the dark blue cover are frayed and the golden lettering faded, but you recognize it anyways; you’d lent it to him years ago and he’d just never gotten around to giving it back. Which still doesn’t explain what it’s doing here, surely he doesn’t have any use for it anymore. You gingerly dust it off, careful not to over exert your new fingers, and crack it open only for a little slip of paper to immediately come fluttering out and land on the floor in front of you. Picking it up, you find only two words written in a handwriting you know all too well.

Lavender = devotion

The memories flood your mind wether you want them to or not; memories of your absolute mess of a first date. Of the meticulously crafted bouquet of flowers he’d gotten you, based on the book you’d lent him.

Putting the paper back with the page containing it’s corresponding flower, you quickly rifle through the rest of the book and find plenty more notes still left within the pages, all in his handwriting.

Iris = hope, trust

Alstroemeria = mutual support, fascination

Carnations = sincere love, respect, new beginnings

The last entry you come across doesn’t have a written note with it. Instead you find a picture: the two of you, slumped together on the sofa in the lab, all tangled limbs and sleepy intimacy, blissfully unaware of your friend sneaking this picture. It’s marking the pages for camellias and you don’t need a note or a proper look at the information in the book to know what they symbolize; not when you can clearly remember him telling you.

Eternal love. I’m yours for as long as you want. If you’ll have me.

The book slips from your fingers, landing open on the floor with a dull thump as you go right along with it, knees hitting the wood beneath you hard as you curl in on yourself and sob, photograph cradled close against your chest.

It’s the first time you’ve cried, some still coherent part of your mind realizes. Since waking up. Since being imprisoned and tortured. Since coming here. Since being forced to accept stroke after stroke of fate that had irreversibly changed your life entirely against your will or control. So you cry and you weep and you scream at the top of your lungs. For yourself and everything you’ve had to endure. For all you’ve lost. For the life you could’ve had.

You have to leave. You have to. Or you’d spend the the rest of your life desperately trying to rekindle a love that no longer exists. A final glance at the picture still held in your hands and you consider taking it; he wouldn’t miss it, he probably doesn’t even know it’s still here. But the people in that photograph are long gone and it would cause you nothing but more grief, so what’s the point? You drop it between the pages you’d found it in and shove the book back into its’ spot on the shelf before scrambling to your feet and beginning to gather your things strewn across his house. And you could’ve left then and there, things packed and mind made up. You probably should have. But it doesn’t feel quite right either, just disappearing without a trace. So you sit on the bed you’ve called your own for the past weeks and you wait. Until you hear him come home in the middle of the night and the urge to sprint downstairs, throw a quick goodbye and thank you over your shoulder and slam the door on this entire sad, miserable chapter of your life is there. But you don’t. You can’t. Because despite everything, you still want a proper goodbye - you didn’t get one last time, after all. Except you have no idea how you’d go about that, so you stay right where you are and rack your brain. Until dawn breaks and you’re no closer to a solution, so you drag your tired body off the bed and make your way downstairs; you’re just looking for more excuses to stay at this point.

Of course you find him at his workbench, where else, most of his heavier armor discarded and Hexclaw dimantled in front of him as he diligently solders wires to metal. Pausing in the doorway, you wait for him to acknowledge your presence, giving yourself some more time to think, but when several minutes pass and he doesn’t even look up you clear your throat, receiving a quick ‘Morning.’ in return and nothing else. No point beating around the bush, is there?

“When do you think I’ll be able to leave?”

Too busy fiddling with a loose thread at the hem of your shirt to distract yourself, you don’t notice the way he almost flinches, everything he’s doing coming to a halt. It’s quiet for only a moment before he says, “You are not a prisoner here. You may leave whenever you wish to.”

Not the answer you want, not the answer you long for, but an answer nonetheless

“I… now would be good for me, I think.”

“Very well.”

And that’s the end of it. The room is blanketed in silence once again, except for the scrapes and shuffles of his tools as he goes back to work. No grand, emotional request for you stay and why would he? You’re a stranger, an experiment and there’ll be others like you; others to further his research and learn from. He doesn’t need you anymore. He hasn’t for a very long time, you realize. Oh how you wish you could feel the same. You go to grab your bag from the hallway in apathetic, almost mechanical movements, nothing but muscle memory driving you at this point and you expect to walk out the front door without another word exchanged between the two of you, but surprisingly enough, he calls out to you again.

“Where will you go?”

Stopping in your tracks, you come to lean against the door frame, gaze falling anywhere but him. You’re not sure what he’s even asking for, it won’t have any impact on his life after all, but you answer honestly anyways. “As far away from this city as I can get, probably. There’s no one— there’s… nothing left for me here anymore.” A pause as the faces of your tormentors flash before your inner eye. “Not before making the bastards who used me pay for it, though.” He unscrews a panel at the base of the Hexclaw while posing another question. “And if that costs you your life?” You shrug even though he can’t see. “Just as well. I’m not sure I’ve got the will to build something new for myself anyways…”

Silence falls again and you interpret it as the natural end of the conversation and your cue to leave. Except there’s one last thing you need to get off your chest - quite literally, in fact. Slipping off the chain around your neck, ring still safely attached to it as always, you approach him and place it on the surface of his workbench. To your utter surprise, he actually interrupts his work and picks it up with careful fingers; his face might be hidden from you by his mask, but he radiates confusion so you explain before he has a chance to ask. “When I first came here, you told me I could pay you in scrap metal if it made me feel any better about encroaching on your space and time. You can melt this down, throw it out, I don’t care; I’ve carried it around with me long enough and it was always meant to be yours.” You truly don’t have the strength to wait for his reaction, or probable lack thereof; this means nothing to him now, you mean nothing, and that thought makes you hurry towards the exit, tears burning in your eyes.

Despite better judgment, you pause in the doorway, fingers tight around the strap of your bag and swallow around the growing lump in your throat. “Thank you…” It’s barely above a whisper and it’s not enough. You were the one who wanted a proper goodbye this time, weren’t you? So you turn to fully face him, met with the same blank, hollow eyed stare you’ve grown oh so used to and you smile, genuine and grief stricken. “Thank you for everything, Viktor.”

Part of you wonders when he last heard his own name. If he even still remembers it.

And then you’re gone, leaving him alone in his quiet lab, with only his research to keep him company, just as it should be.

The front door is as far your shaky legs get you, bag slipping from your shoulder as you slump against it, forehead pressed to the cool, worn wood as you press a hand against your mouth in a desperate attempt to to stifle the sobs. The man you’re leaving behind is the love of your life no matter what, you’ve known that for ages; there was a before him, but there was never supposed to be an after. And yet now you have to figure out exactly what that after is going to look like, because he’s gone and at the same time he’s still here and that, oh that aches something awful. It’s unfair and it’s cruel and it makes you want to claw your own chest open to strangle your heart with your bare hands just to make the pain stop. It makes you envy him for the first time, no heart left in his chest to ail him. And it makes you despise him, because how dare he leave you alone with the burden of this love you were supposed to share?

The heavy footfalls behind you should jumpstart you into action, make you wrench the door open and get out or at the very least compose yourself, but you can’t. You find that you simply don’t care anymore either. Let him see what he’s done to you, what he’s turned you into, even if he wouldn’t shed a single tear over it. A mechanical hand comes to rest next to your head, his presence right at your back, so close and so very much like the first night you came to this place and yet everything’s so incredibly different now.

“What? Did you forget some kind of last diagnostics test on the new hand or something?” The tears are obvious in your tone. “No. But you should know that the people you plan on taking revenge on are already dead. I made sure of it.” Breath catching in your throat, the memory of your first morning in this house comes back to you: the bruises, the blood on his armor, the way everything about him had screamed violence and death that day. “You… Why?” It makes no sense whatsoever and it’s making your head spin and he’s not answering, until, “That’s hardly a concern for you now. I simply thought it consequential for you to be made aware of the fact that if you wish to depart from this city you may do so. There is nothing—“ It’s the first time you’ve heard him falter and fumble in all your time here and when he speaks again there’s an edge to his voice that you can’t quite place, accompanied by the hand against the door clenching into a fist. “There is no one keeping you here anymore.”

The clock in the corner counts down the seconds, loud and echoing in comparison to the quiet that has befallen you both. A quiet you decide to break, tentative and scared.

“Isn’t there? My tormentors might be gone, but what of the man I love? Could he still find it in him to love me if I stayed?”

“I don’t believe that still matters, does it? You’ll leave either way.”

And something inside of you snaps.

You brace your forearms against the door and shove backwards, catching him so off guard he stumbles back a step or two, creating just enough distance for you to rear back your hand and punch him square in the jaw. His mask gets knocked clean off his face, loudly clattering to the floor; your freshly operated hand sparks and creaks ominously, fingers now bent at odd angles while searing pain shoots up your entire arm, but you don’t care. It’s nothing compared to the white, hot fury that’s boiling you alive from the inside out.

“How dare you? How fucking dare you?!”

He doesn’t even deem it necessary to look at you; completely frozen to the spot, head turned away from you and hair covering his eyes from your view. He will have to listen to you either way, wether he wants to or not. Wether he still cares or not.

“You’re the one who decided he’d rather forget every moment, every laugh, every touch we shared like they all meant nothing! You’re the one who tore out his heart without a second thought and threw it away even though it was mine! And all the while you’re leaving me with the burden of it all! I’m the only person alive who still holds our time together dear to their heart now! Do you have any idea how heavy memories can be? How maddening?! And these—“ you bring your hands up between the two of you, all sleek, perfect metal, the spitting image of him. “You gave me these for all the world to see and left me with yet another reminder of you! Like I needed more of those to know that I am still and always will be irrevocably yours! And now you tell me that it wouldn’t matter if there’s any part of you, however small, that still thinks of yourself as mine?! Fuck you, Viktor!”

You slump back against the door for support, chest heaving and unharmed hand coming up to cover your face; a desperate and all but pointless attempt to hide the tears and stifle the sobs.

He’s a scientist, an engineer. Solving problems, fixing things, improving lives; it’s what he does. What he thrives in. Yet he doesn’t know how to fix this. So he zeroes in on the one thing he can fix.

“Let me see your hand.”

But you don’t let him. Curl in on yourself and angle your body and injured hand away from him; it makes you seem so much smaller. So vulnerable. So defeated. Good. Maybe if he can drive you away even further then…

“You are… a distraction. A hindrance to my work that I can not tolerate. You do not belong here and it would be better for the both of us if you left and never returned.”

With the mask gone, the mechanical edge to his voice is missing as well, but every word still stings like the cut of a blade.

“So turn around and let me go. You’ll never have to see me again, I promise.”

He knows all too well how seriously you take that; every promise, no matter how small or menial, a solemn oath, never to be broken. He can not let you make this one; every part of himself rebels against the very thought of letting you walk out that damn door, even if it would be the logical thing to do. Drive you further away, he’s not capable of that any longer, who is he trying to fool? Himself, most likely.

Stepping closer he gauges your reaction and when you don’t recoil from him any further, he rests his hands on either side of you and drops his forehead against the old, worn wood above your shoulder.

“I can’t.”

It’s spat through grit teeth, like it physically pains him to admit it. But it’s the most emotion you’ve heard in his voice during all the time you’ve been here.

“I removed every function that wasn’t vital; every memory that was redundant to my work. Affection, jealousy, admiration, anger, joy, sorrow; any emotion that would’ve proven an aberration sooner rather than later. I clawed and prodded and scraped at my own insides until nothing remained and yet you refused to let go.”

Your sobs have reduced to sniffles, your body still beneath him; except for the hand you’ve dropped from your face that he now feels running up his back, titanium fingers gliding over the metal ridges that make up his spine until they settle at the nape of his neck.

“Your face, your laugh, your favorite color, the way you’d look cooking breakfast in the mornings, the way your body would feel against mine; every detail, no matter how minute stayed. Etched into the fissures of my brain, burned into the steel I used to rebuild myself, regardless of how many times I replaced it. Carved into my being, my very soul; I could not remove you any more than I could remove the engine beating as my heart. And I can not go back to how things were before you came here. Before you found me again.”

“Why not? You seemed perfectly happy in your solitude with your work.” Your voice is small, but genuine. And you almost squeak in shock, wind knocked out of you, when his arms come around your middle to hold you tight, almost too tight, flush against him as he buries his face into crook of your neck.

“Because you are in every fraction of skin, in every blood vein that still remains within me. In every bolt, every wire, every piece of metal I welded to myself. I do not… function properly unless I know of your whereabouts. Unless I know you’re safe and cared for. And it was maddening, to surpress it, to ignore it all these years; a clear error constantly rearing its’ ugly head, telling me that I will never get any further in my research, my work, my vision, unless it’s resolved. Constantly running on loop in the back of my head, reminding me that I am incomplete. I need you, you are an essential part of me, right down to my very atoms and it makes me, all of me, no matter what else I might become, yours.”

There’s fresh tears streaming down your face, because he sounds so tired. So desperate. So upset. So painfully human. You find yourself doing the same thing you’ve always done when you’ve had him in your arms, worried and anxious about something; gently thread your fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp and lean your head against his carefully. “Viktor, if you want me to stay, all you have to do is ask. You know that; if you want something all you ever had to do was ask it of me. But I need you to ask me, all right? I need to hear you say it.” He doesn’t answer right away, only draws patterns into the small of your back in thought; a habit of his you remember all too well. This close, you can feel the heat coming off him, generated from the several engines powering him and a barely there hum and whirr of machinery against your chest; a sound that comes in regular intervals, akin to a heartbeat. When he does speak, his voice is weary. Conflicted. Unsure. Scared.

“I am not the man you fell in love with, my heart. Not gentle, nor kind. There is no coming back from the lines I’ve crossed and I don’t— I can not love you the same way I used to. The way you’d deserve. And yet… I want to be selfish.” He pauses for a bitter, ridiculing bark of laughter and shifts in your hold and it’s only then that you realize the skin at the slope of your neck and your collarbone is wet. Shame threatens to choke you when it occurs to you that up until now you didn’t think he still could cry. “I shouldn’t want for anything. Machines do not want or desire or long for things. But… they need all their components to operate as they’re supposed to; to perform at their full potential.” He’s rationalizing it, you know and you’ll be fucking damned if you interrupt him. “And I need you to stay. Here, with me. Then maybe in time you’ll be able to love me as I am now.”

Your chuckle is weak; you’re exhausted physically and emotionally. “What a silly thing to say. That’s assuming I ever stopped loving you in the first place.” It should be impossible, for his embrace to become any tighter, but it does and it’s almost starting to hurt - good, because the pain makes it real.

It’s in the way he buries his face against you further, a noise oh so very similar to a sob escaping him, and how your gaze catches on his mask left discarded on the ground that it finally dawns on you: he’s hiding. From you or from himself, you’re not certain, but you’re not having it any longer. “My love, let me see you.” He doesn’t move; if anything he freezes up. “Please?” You try again and are met with the same result, except for, “You will not like what you find.” Irritation flares up in your chest, manifesting itself in a harsh tug on his hair and, “That’s for me to decide.” It takes him a few very long, agonizing seconds, but eventually, he sighs in defeat and pulls back enough for you to be able to get your first proper look at his face after all these years.

No wonder you managed to break your hand, his jaw and cheeks are all solid, dark, smooth metal, connecting to the column of his throat. Your fingers are moving before you can stop yourself, trailing along his cheek bones where hard steel meets soft, scarred flesh. Still as pale as always, almost deathly so, faint blue veins under his skin now in plain view and the contrast to the two moles you adore all the more prominent. The ever present dark circles under his eyes have evolved into lasting bruises. And oh his eyes. The same beautiful gold you remember, except now they’re rimmed with a thin ring of bright pink, courtesy of the Shimmer you’ve seen in his lab no doubt, bright against the deep, dark, purple-ish black that now makes up his sclera. But dissimilar from your memory as they may be, the look in them is one you recognize: careful, poised for rejection, but the remaining tears betray him. It’s strange, how he can look so utterly different yet so hauntingly the same.

He had imagined this moment plenty of times, but never in his wildest dreams could he have come up with this. Yes, there’s several emotions at once crossing your face when you finally see him, yet none of them negative. It’s genuine, innocent curiosity at first, reflected in the careful fingers that reach out to touch him. And before he has time to fully register your touch against his skin, your expression shifts and it’s nothing but pure, unadulterated admiration and affection. “Still so beautiful. Still all mine.”

Just like that, all the tumult and chaos and noise in the back of his head that hadn’t once stopped in the last few years finally seems to silence and he can actually fucking think in peace again for the first time - and the first thing he thinks to do, the most logical thing to do, really, is to curse under his breath before crashing his lips to yours. It’s needy and filthy and all tongues and teeth, your back making abrupt contact with the door again as he shoves you against it, hands coming up from your waist to cup your face. The gesture is tender and sweet and entirely contrasting to the way he’s kissing you; to what he claims to have become. It’s more than welcome nonetheless, giving you a sense of security you didn’t realize you needed as your intact hand moves away from his hair to cover his. It just so happens to be the one that’s still mostly flesh and blood, warm against your skin, except for a thin, cold sliver of metal you feel that you can’t place at first. You don’t remember seeing any augmentations that would feel like this on his hand before. Curious despite the adoring, addictive haze that’s starting to cloud your mind, fingertips try to make out more detail and you find it in tiny little ridges in the metal sitting specifically on his ringfinger that feel suspiciously like letters. Letters that spell out one word: Unconditional.

Your ring. He’s wearing your ring.

It makes you kiss him harder, wanting him so much closer even though it’s hardly possible. You could stay like this for the rest of your life and you wouldn’t ever need for anything else. How unfortunate it is then that one of you both still needs air to fill their lungs to live. How unfortunate that that someone is you; personally you gladly would’ve suffocated against his lips, but he seems to have other plans as he pulls back to let you take some much needed deep breaths, chest heaving while he settles for leaving chaste pecks against the skin of your face.

“Still all yours,” he confirms and you mirror the smile you can hear in his voice. “Now and always.”

#arcane viktor x reader #gender neutral reader #machine herald viktor x reader #epic the musical #would you fall in love with me again #hurt/comfort #angst #childhood friends #past established relationship #viktor arcane #machine herald viktor #machine herald #viktor the machine herald #league of legends #arcane #arcane x reader #arcane imagine #SoundCloud

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tribalmajesty05 · 2 days ago

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Title: The Number Game

Roman Reigns X Reader

It was a quiet evening in the Anoa’i household. The kids were asleep, the house was peaceful, and I was curled up on the couch beside Joe, lazily scrolling through my phone while he absentmindedly watched TV.

Then, for no apparent reason, a random thought popped into my head.

“Hey, babe?” I asked, turning to him.

Joe hummed in response, not taking his eyes off the screen.

“How many women have you slept with?”

That got his attention. His head snapped toward me so fast I thought he might’ve given himself whiplash. “What?”

I smirked. “You heard me.”

Joe blinked at me like I had just asked him to recite the Constitution backward. “Why the hell you asking me that?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged, biting back a grin. “I was just curious.”

Joe scoffed. “Nah, see, that’s a setup. You tryna start something.”

I laughed. “No, I’m not! I swear. I just wanna know. So? What’s the number?”

He ran a hand down his face and muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?” I leaned in.

“Why does it matter?” he deflected, suddenly looking real interested in the TV.

“It doesn’t!” I said quickly. “I just wanna know what kinda numbers you were working with before you landed this—” I motioned to myself dramatically. “—top-tier wife right here.”

Joe side-eyed me. “You sure you ain’t gon’ get mad?”

I scoffed. “Please. You think I can’t handle it? Boy, I know you were out here in these streets before you met me.”

Joe exhaled heavily, leaning back into the couch. “Alright. Fine. The truth is…I don’t even know.”

My jaw dropped. “You lost count?!”

Joe held his hands up defensively. “Hold up! That ain’t what I said!”

“Joe!” I gasped, smacking his arm.

“Why you hittin’ me?!” he laughed, dodging the next slap.

“You really lost track?!” I accused, eyes wide.

“I mean…I wasn’t keepin’ a damn diary!” he argued, his deep laugh shaking his chest.

I dramatically placed a hand over my heart. “I cannot believe I married a former hoe.”

Joe burst out laughing. “Oh, so now I’m a hoe?”

“You said it yourself! You don’t even know the number, Joe!”

“Okay, okay,” he grinned, rubbing his jaw. “What if I just give you a ballpark estimate?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Go ahead. But if the number’s too high, I might just file for divorce tonight.”

Joe laughed again before schooling his expression into something more serious. He pretended to count on his fingers, muttering numbers under his breath like he was solving a damn equation.

Finally, he looked up at me. “Alright…I’d say…less than a hundred.”

I gasped so loud I swear I woke up the neighbors. “LESS THAN A HUNDRED?! JOE, THAT IS NOT REASSURING!”

Joe started wheezing. “Baby, chill! I meant waaaay less than a hundred!”

“But you ain’t say way at first!” I pointed an accusing finger at him. “Oh my God, I really married a hoe!”

Joe was laughing so hard at this point he had to wipe tears from his eyes. “You actin’ like I was out here on the damn Hoe Hall of Fame!”

“If they had one, you’d have a plaque!”

He threw his head back, still cracking up, before pulling me onto his lap. “C’mere, crazy woman.”

I huffed, folding my arms as I sat on his lap. “You nasty.”

Joe smirked, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “Yeah? Well, clearly, you like nasty since you married me.”

I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. But if I find out your number is actually close to a hundred, I swear—”

Joe kissed my cheek to shut me up. “Relax, babe. It ain’t that high. You’re the only number that matters now anyway.”

I narrowed my eyes at him before sighing dramatically. “Fine. But just know if a woman ever comes up to me talking ’bout some Hey, girl! I used to mess with your man! I’m squaring up on sight.”

Joe laughed, holding me closer. “Damn, I love you.”

I smirked. “I know. Even if you was a hoe.”

Joe groaned while I laughed, and that was the end of our ridiculous little argument.

#roman reigns #wwe raw #wwe smackdown #john cena #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns x reader #the bloodline #divas #jey uso #jimmy uso #roman reigns x oc #roman reigns smut #roman empire #roman reigns x you #wwe fanfiction #the tribal chief #wwe fandom #wwe

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femme-ftm · 16 hours ago

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what if you were my girlfriend even tho you've said you're a lesbian and we'd been together for a while and you confessed that you really want to have kids! but you're just so scared of pregnancy, and convince me i should be the one who carries our kids and that it'd be so chivalrous and manly of me to spare her the trouble, and because i love you so much i agree to do it no matter how dysphoric the thought makes me

you get one of your guy friends to come over to fuck me because it's easier that way, and when he arrives you both tie me up in the bedroom in a mating press. you start eating me out to prep me while telling your friend to throw out my t since i won't be needing it anymore, shushing me when i try to complain, it's not like i can take it when im pregnant anyway! when he comes back you undress and start fingering yourself, watching as he takes out his cock and effortlessly slips in me, moans and says how good lesbian pussy feels when he starts pouding into me. he calls me a good girl and makes me beg for him to cum inside me, until he does just that, bottoming out in my pussy and spilling his cum right in my womb. he wipes away my tears and kisses me before pulling out, making me suck his cock to clean it up, and before he leaves he kisses you too and thanks you for getting him another girl to breed

after he's gone you start fingering the cum deeper into me, talk about how excited you are to see how cute the pregnancy will get me, that she can't wait to show me how good being a real lesbian girl is hoing to feel ❤️

#fakeboy #ftm girl #ftm misgendering #misgender me #misgendering blog #misgenderingkink #detrans kink #idk is this coherent sjdkls #i need a girl to groom me like this tho ❤️

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velvetvexations · 3 days ago

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somewhat related to convo on forced pregnancy but my ... mother met myself and my partner recently for the first time (for partner) in 5 years (for me... going no contact is rlly hard LMFAO) and like ider how it came up but i said smth like "well that's not something we'll ever have to worry about" in regards to having kids bc. ive never wanted to have children and my partner doesn't have the right equipment to impregnate me, or vice versa. and even if he DID get that "equipment" i dont think its possible (yet) to be virile with bottom surgery. that was the joke i was making lol bc i thought she knew he's also trans? poor assumption on my part lol

anyways she went on to say "aw never say that" and kept misgendering me (ive been out to my family for like nearly a decade now) and it's like. i dont know if it's apparent to the TRFs saying this shit abt forced pregnancy that our ability to concieve is EXTREMELY IMPORTANT to our families, to our families' families, to our partners (trans or cis man or woman nb or not it doesnt matter), that our having a functioning womb is an assumption and a resource for the rest of society. our eventual pregnancies are a constant, constant point of conflict, are a constant enforcement of our "duties" as ppl afab and raised as such.

like. this comes up ALL THE FUCKING TIME. i cannot say im not interested in having children without someone contradicting me, both ppl who know me and should know better and complete fucking strangers. and in my case with my mother it is explicitly tied to how she does not see or recognize my transsexuality and my Not being a woman. even though she's tried really hard to respect me, she does not conprehend me as anything other than her daughter who will give her grandchildren.

Yeah but if you try talking about that they will take it to mean you think that's objectively worse than anything trans women go through and you're trying to claim AFAB oppression as the dominant oppression over all others. Which is fucking stupid and something they just invented in their heads.

#transandro phobia #discourse

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vadersangel · 19 hours ago

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Skittles and Ghosts - Roman Godfrey x Reader - Chapter 1

Synopsis: A colorful happy go lucky girl comes to disrupt the life of the brooding school heart-throb Roman Godfrey. With her kindness and bluntness, she crept into his heart. But in the small town of Hemlock Grove, something eerie is about to happen; when Brooke Bluebell dies on school grounds, Roman, Peter and the new girl form an unlikely bond to unveil what really happened. A love story flourishes amidst the chaos raised by a vengeful ghost.

Genre: humor, fluff, smut (later chapters), horror, angst, enemies to lovers, slow burn.

Trigger Warnings: blood, drugs, alcohol, death, sex, foul language.

Word count: 1460

Special thanks to @kingkat12 , @mentallyscreamingsincebirth , @carmillavalentine and @peachesinto —you inspired me in many ways, and I’m glad our paths have crossed. 💕

( @roman-godfrey , such an inspiring character! Mwah! )

I still need a proofreader... Also, it starts from Roman's pov, then switches to reader's pov.

⊹ ₊ ⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ପ(๑•ᴗ•๑)ଓ ♡˚₊‧⁺ ₊ ⊹

There’s a rainbow in Pandora's Box. Isn’t that the worst kind of chaos to be unleashed?

⊹ ₊ ⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ପ(๑•ᴗ•๑)ଓ ♡˚₊‧⁺ ₊ ⊹

Not that any of my days were exactly peaceful, but that day in particular seemed uneventful. Miraculously I woke up and Olivia was not hovering over me. That alone was a relief! I made breakfast for Shelley and I, because mommy dearest never tended to us, and couldn’t be bothered to hire someone. Buying another Birkin was more important than having her children taken care of, I guess. Shelley seemed happy… That was all that mattered. In fact, there were only four people in the world I cared about: Shelley, Peter, Letha, and myself. The rest of the world could be set on fire for all I cared! Other people be damned!

I drove us to school, and then went to find Peter at our usual spot. It was the first day of school after summer break, everyone around us seemed thrilled, and needless to say I found the whole ordeal burdensome to say the least. I lit up a cigarette and took a drag, inhaling deeply, allowing the smoke to fill my lungs… Would it help me die sooner? I hoped so. It was soothing. Peter was talking some nonsense and I wasn’t paying much attention, but I laughed anyway. Little did I know those were my last few moments of harmony, before the whole world collapsed under the abnormally tiny feet of none other than the devil’s spawn… There she was, like a walking box of crayons, as if someone had thrown up skittles all over her; she was wearing a yellow tank top, a pink skirt, red Converse sneakers, and a baby-blue cardigan over her shoulders. Each of her nails was painted with a different color and I’m pretty sure there was also glitter on top. Ironically, her makeup was soft, she wasn’t wearing anything too bright on her face… I realized how weird it was that I was paying so much attention to a girl’s outfit and makeup. I frowned, deep in my thoughts, and that was when the little cursed gremlin had the nerve to smile at me! Smile, mind you, with all her 385 teeth exposed, as if something on my face had amused her. Great! I must look like a clown!

Hell is a color explosion on two legs. I was sure of it. And she walked all over me with those bloody red Converse sneakers, crushing my hopes of normalcy. Of course she would be in my class… Every weird freak in Hemlock High was in my class. To my dismay, the teacher pointed her to the seat next to mine. I almost threw up. I caught myself staring at her face because, I swear, she had glitter all over her cheeks. My face was pure horror, but somehow she misread it, because she smiled again. So polite… I hate polite people! You can’t fool me, you little phony!

-*-

I would have to be an unlucky motherfucker to be paired up with the brand new colorful stroke for the Literature assignment. But again, of course that would be my fate. So now, after being dragged down to the library through the school hallways, I was sitting across this unhinged pastel color psycho. She was on and on about her seven thousand different ideas, making my head hurt. I pinched the bridge of my nose trying to gather my thoughts, but her chime-like voice was too disruptive. I need a smoke!

“Aw, don’t be upset! We’re gonna finish this in no time! It’s easy! You could come over to my place after school, we can have chocolate cake and finish this.” Again, that wide off-putting smile that made me sick. How many teeth does she have?

I rolled my eyes, leaned in closer to her, looking into those ridiculously big eyes, as I said: “Read my lips: we are not friends!”

She tilted her head like a kitten, narrowing her eyes for a brief second, and then, those marbles lit up like the Eiffel Tower as she averted her gaze to her backpack. She was looking for something and I had an inkling it would be bad. I flinched. She grabbed a sticker sheet, of all things, pinched a small purple sparkly star and glued it to my cheek! My stomach churned. I was dumbfounded, speechless at her cluelessness, and possibly traumatized.

She stood up as if nothing had happened, gathered her belongings, and headed towards the library’s door. But as she was about to leave, she turned on her heels and spoke cheerfully:

“See you at 7?”

It wasn’t a question. She was pretty positive that I would indulge in her nightmarish ideas.

Before I had time to utter the words ‘no way in hell’, the Beelzebub’s baby left.

-*-

Of course I didn’t go to her house!

I would rather run a cheese grater over my skin than spend even five minutes with that girl! But when befriending me proved to be a dead end, she befriended Peter–the traitor! With that sly face, she occupied my smoking spot, with my best friend. The jerk was laughing at something she was saying in that annoying high-pitched voice. I wanted to smash something, but I was not about to give her the satisfaction. So I walked over to them, greeting Peter and blatantly ignoring her. But the girl can’t seem to take a hint; she nudged me to call my attention as I lit up my cigarette. I puffed smoke right on her face as I looked down at her, trying to convey the extent of my disgust, to no avail. She coughed, to my amusement, but the solace I found in her suffering didn’t last long… Smiling at me, in a way that made me feel nauseous, she began to talk to me… Something about dinosaurs… By the way Peter was laughing, I’m pretty sure the look on my face was priceless. Double homicide suddenly seemed like a valid option. My brain was chanting for her to just disappear already!

How could someone gesticulate so much–and be so flamboyant–was the question that echoed in my head as the three of us walked towards Math class. She wouldn't shut up about the damned dinosaurs. Forget double homicide, I will just disappear; being kidnapped can’t possibly be this bad.

I begged, literally begged, Peter to ditch the next class with me. I needed a joint to ease the headache induced by the satan’s intern fashion choices.

As Peter rolled me a doobie, I lit another cigarette,

“What’s up with you and the human highlighter?” I asked, nonchalantly and Peter frowned at me. He bit the insides of his cheeks, scanning my face, as if trying to psychoanalyze me.

“She’s ok… I guess? Why?” He responded after a few seconds, shrugging as he lit up the blunt, then puffed the smoke in circles. But his eyes still held that weird hint of something I couldn’t really pinpoint, but somehow I knew he was having fun with this.

“No reason…” My answer ended the conversation about the subject.

-*-

“Hey, sunshine, did you buy your clothes at the flea market?”

I didn’t have to look to know who was talking to whom. That poor excuse of a dumbfuck, Ryan, was taunting the walking Skittles. His tone got to my bloodstream, making it seethe. He was voicing my opinions in a way, but I abhorred the guy even more than I loathed her. Involuntarily, my hands clenched into fists as I turned to face Ryan. I caught a glimpse of her, and it was more than enough for me to realize that she was about to cry. It made me unreasonably angrier. Peter’s eyes darted from me, to Ryan, to Skittles, and back to me.

“Hey, dipshit,” my voice was calculated. I closed the distance between me and them in two long strides. “Start apologizing.”

Ryan and his posse began to laugh, but their amusement didn’t last when I towered over them, my mouth turning into a wide grin as his eyes widened. I looked deep into his eyes and my next words were not a polite request:

“Kneel down and kiss her feet.”

Everyone around gasped as he did just as he was told, kneeling down in front of her and leaning in to kiss her shoes. His friends howled, not believing their eyes.

“Now, fuck off!” I barked, and again, they did as they were told.

I was pretty satisfied with the outcome, until I felt that familiar warmth dripping from my nose…

“You are bleeding!” She squealed. In seconds, she had a pink handkerchief pressed against my nose. Her flowery, fruity scent invaded my nostrils like a wrecking ball. Her eyes were wide in worry, her mouth agape in sheer horror.

Now she thinks I’m her friend. Shee-it…

#roman godfrey #hemlock grove #roman godfrey x reader #smut in later chapters #fluff #slow burn #enemies to lovers #fanfiction

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ittybxttykxttytxtty · 3 days ago

Text

That author's note....don't listen to the voices. Those are bitch ass liars that are speaking, ignore them.

“Of course it’s bad- how could anything about being soul bonded to a demon be good?”

Matthew, I do not need this kind of negativity in my life. Get it together 😭

“Perhaps, with distance, and devotion to being a better person, you could erase some of the stains on your soul.”

...he's really pushing it huh? The audacity this bitch has.

“I know you didn't just ask me that.”

BITCH, BE A FRIEND FOR LIKE ONCE. DAMN IT 😭😂

“It doesn’t matter if my soul is damned. What’s one more soul in Hell anyway?” You gaze up at him, pressing your emotions into the bond, wanting him to feel exactly what you were.

Listen, in reality, never do this for a man but in fiction....it's fine, it's fiction hell, you'll be fine 😭😭

The kiss is blisteringly sweet, tongues feverishly hot, you can feel his desire, and he can feel yours and it secures in your mind, that there was no other way for this to be.

Thank god Matt is blind. You don't need to see this. This is between me and him. 😂

“You will do no such thing! That’s our cue to leave- Thank you for everything Matt- Billy no-” You spin him around, pushing him toward the door, stopping him from approaching the priest, currently shaking his head in disbelief.

Omg, this is so brilliant. Even the way she speaks is changing. "No such thing" "cue to leave"....she speaks so formal now. Like she lives in a different time period. Omg omg omg. Hehehehe.

THAT LAST PART...

CHELSEA, THIS UPDATE IS FUCKING AMAZING. I legit teared up when Matt served receipts, it was not a good time. I felt her struggle but ultimately knowing she's going to choose Billy. There's no way this is gonna end in another way. They're end game. Legit made thought of this two:

An Altar For Our Sins

Part 10// Masterlist

Demon! Billy Russo x Reader

Warnings: Canon typical violence and death, angst, pain, sorrow, torment, delving into Billy's past, mentions of smut, and eventual fluff.

A/N: I was so confident about this and now I am not.

You press the weight of your body against the church doors nervously, stepping in.

There's a sermon happening, Father Matt's gentle voice echoes through the open space, tickling the insides of your ears.

Billy's waiting outside, you told him you wanted to come in alone first and then you'd tug on the bond once Matt accepted.

He's finishing up, one last closing prayer, and though you bow your head and clasp your hands respectfully after sliding into the very last pew, you have no idea if you really want to pray or not.

If you were thankful to God for anything, it would be for allowing Billy and you to meet. The irony wasn't lost on you, thanking God for sending you a demon.

You feel the demon in question send a lingering touch over the bond, like gentle fingers smoothing through the back of your head.

You smile to yourself, pushing him away before he can arouse you in a sacred place of worship, his essence drawing back with a feeling of mirth sticking to the back of your throat.

You try not to think too much of how he makes you feel. You know that the minute you realise the inevitable, he’s going to know it too. So instead of dwelling, you study the wooden pattern of the pew in front of you. You make shapes, and faces, and you drown out the sounds around you until you hear footsteps approach.

Matt, moving stiffly to you as everyone disperses. You sit up, smiling at him politely as he comes within earshot.

“What are you doing here, demon?” He whispers, voice heavy with distaste.

It takes you aback.

“Matt?” You say in confusion.

He pauses, seemingly surprised behind his red-rimmed glasses before giving a small tilt of his head.

He says your name in doubt.

“Yes?” You answer, unsure of what was happening.

He sucks in a deep breath, looks around, before leaning closer.

“I couldn’t recognise you. Your aura- it’s just like his.”

You feel something twist inside of you, a seed of fear planting itself and you don’t really know why, but you’re pretty sure that having the aura of a demon couldn’t possibly be a good thing.

Your eyes widen a little, completely forgetting what you were even here for.

“Is that bad?” You ask him in a small voice.

“Of course it’s bad- how could anything about being soul bonded to a demon be good?”

You shrink back, and at the same moment, Matt realises his mistake.

“I didn’t mean it like that-”

“-How else could you have meant it?” You ask helplessly.

He lets out a soft breath, stepping into the row, and taking a seat beside you.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment, “I let my emotions get the best of me.”

“Whatever.” You whisper, “My soul is damned and I’m going to rot in Hell it’s fine.”

He takes in a slow breath, and you wait patiently for his priestly wisdom.

“What brings you here?” He asks finally.

You study your hands, observing the little lines and folds, the way some of the curves looked like smiles.

“I was in his head, in his dreams. I could feel so much of him.”

Matt nods in understanding, drawing conclusions from what he can sense and what you've come to him for.

“I don’t know what happens from this point on, I can only assume that his soul will consume yours whole, that you’ll become one, condemning yourself to eternal suffering for the sins he’s committed.”

You remain silent, truly thinking about the consequences.

“What other choice do I have? It's not like I caused this.”

He seems to be lost in as much thought as you are.

“Perhaps, with distance, and devotion to being a better person, you could erase some of the stains on your soul.”

You nod, understanding his point. You didn’t want that though, you wanted him, in any way you could have him.

“Is Hell even that bad?” You protest softly.

“I know you didn't just ask me that.”

It makes you laugh suddenly. Matt angles his head, smiles along with you.

You enjoy laughing with him about the absurdity of your conversation, finally settling after a few moments, going back to your thoughts.

“I keep weighing it in my head, you know? Staying away from him, or spending eternity in suffering, and honestly, I keep thinking that Hell wouldn't be so bad.”

Matt says your name softly, almost apologetically.

“Forever is a very long time.” He utters finally.

“Yeah… but…”

Matt turns to you suddenly, standing and extending his hand in a guiding motion.

“Come, I have something for you to see.”

You stand, following him as he seems to move with purpose, down the aisle of the church and toward the back where his office is. You tug gently on the bond and feel Billy’s responding pull followed by a soothing touch, no doubt trying to ease the tension he'd been feeling from you before.

You feel your trepidation ease, the reminder that he was so close easing your nerves.

Matt opens the door for you, and you step in, turning to watch him shut the door, before he speaks.

“I haven't had a chance to look through everything yet, but I thought I could show you…” Matt doesn't finish the sentence, instead pulling out a large leather bound binder. Some of the pages are marked with little page tabs and you watch him flip to one.

It's an admittance registry for an orphanage dated 1891. You see that Matt has highlighted one name in particular, a William Russo, age 6, his height and weight recorded, followed by some details of his birthmark. Finally, there is some information of how he was found, hungry on the streets after his mother was found dead of narcotics poisoning.

You glance up at Matt, your teeth pressed together in distaste that he would look up these details, as if they were in his right to do so.

If Matt senses any of your anger, he doesn't show it, instead sliding his hand forward and flipping to another page mark.

It's a doctor's report, barely legible on the discolored paper. You squint at Matt suspiciously, wondering how he even read this to know which pages to mark.

You see his name again, William Russo, dated December 8th 1896, aged 12.

It takes you a moment to make out the words, but the doctor reports of severe assault, and damage to his shoulder that will require surgery to fix. They mention his physical state next, pale and shaking, visible signs of distress and a refusal of pain medication.

Your stomach turns, and the pieces fall into place at a bone jarring speed.

He'd been through this, that little boy you'd seen in your dreams, attacked by the very people that should have protected him.

You sink into the chair, pressing your hand to your mouth, flipping the page to see the post surgery report, and the doctor describing how the shoulder was repaired. You feel an aching pain that goes through your whole body, the hurt of knowing what he's been through.

Behind you, the door rattles.

“Call your demon off.” Matt says evenly.

You glance up at him, before turning to look at the door. Glowing sigils as the door shakes, you stand, approaching curiously, reaching a hand up to touch it, before drawing back as the light from the sigil stings you.

“Billy?” You call through the door.

It stops shaking.

“Mistress? Are you alright?”

“I'm okay, I'll be out in a few minutes I promise.” You reach for him down the bond, reassuring him that you were okay.

You feel his hesitation, his power, that the door might hold him temporarily, but not forever. You don't think it's necessary, easing his displeasure with a playful tug on the bond.

It surprises him, eases his concern, he tugs back, so strongly that you feel a physical manifestation of it, stepping forward to catch yourself from tumbling.

You let out a little huff of amusement before turning back to Matt, eyeing his patient disposition with renewed suspicion.

You want to ask him what's the purpose of this, but you already have a general idea that he wants to show you Billy's sins in hopes that you abandon him.

You sit, flipping through the pages to the next mark.

It's a photo, a man and woman in the center, looking at each other with soft smiles, dressed In wedding attire. You can't see much of the woman's face, but her dress is beautiful, flowing down the length of her body, covered in beading that you can't properly discern with the black and white image.

The man beside her, looks at her as if it's the happiest day of his life and you feel your stomach twists in longing to be looked at like that.

Beside her are her family you assume, an older couple and two younger looking siblings that all hold some resemblance to each other. Standing next to the man, are two men, one you recognize is Billy.

You find yourself smiling, staring at the photo, a sense of warmth washes over you that he had friends, that he'd lived this whole other life that you'd never really seen.

You turn to the back of the photo in hopes that there's a description.

Castle Wedding, April 11th, 1909.

You blink, flipping back to the photo. This was Frank and Maria? The people he-

You let out a soft breath, trying to keep your shock in check so that Billy isn't alarmed.

There's a painful twist inside of you, you almost dread to continue on.

You turn the page, finding a baptism certificate, Lisa Castle not even a year later. You suspect that Maria must have been pregnant at the time of the wedding.

At the very bottom, the certificate names Billy as her godfather.

It hurts in a way you don't realize, a story you already know ends badly. You want to stop, to shut the book and pretend you never saw it, but you needed to know.

After all, if you were going to spend eternity in Hell for him, you should at least know the sins you would be paying for.

You flip through, finding a few mentions of him, another photograph of him at an event beside a beautiful woman, no description on the back. You spare a few moments to study the way he looked, dressed in a fine black suit appropriate for the era. Handsome, as only he could be.

Then, a hospital form catches your eye, for Frank Jr. aged nine, filled out by Billy. His handwriting is scratchy, lots of sharp lines made by a steady hand, describing an accident where the younger Frank had fallen off his bicycle and sustained damage to his shoulder.

You wonder if this incident had reminded Billy of his own, and the vast differences between the nature of the injuries, and yet the similarity of the injuries themselves. Billy, who hadn’t had someone to protect his childhood, had found a way to protect little Frank’s.

Another photo, Frank, Maria and their two children, with Billy, Lisa’s godfather, and Curtis, Frank Jr.’s godfather. The entire Castle family.

You stop, glancing up at Matt, bringing yourself back into the present for a moment. He sits, examining the rosary caught between his fingers, his thumb gently tracing the crucifix, allowing you all the time you need to go through the information.

“I already know how this ends, Matt, he’s already told me what he did.”

Matt nods, tugs on the collar of his shirt for a moment, a sign of discomfort, though, you’re unsure of why.

“I wanted you to see it from their point of view. To understand the betrayal from their side.”

You swallow, brows furrowing, understanding his point but still not liking it.

You find a deed, partially burned, a house in Manhattan owned by Billy. Next, a car, and then another property on his name.

You realise this must have been at the peak of his service to the man he's never named, reaping all the benefits of shooting whenever this man had asked. You wonder, how many people he'd killed up to this point, how many families he'd destroyed to get ahead in the world.

A mugshot next. It makes you smile to see Billy's stern face, a little younger than he looks now, the corner of his mouth bruised, his knuckles red where they hold up the placard with his name on it. You check the charge- fighting in public.

The affray charge is dropped the day after, and you wonder what the fight was even about in the first place.

You pause for a moment when you flip the page, realising that this was the part you'd been dreading.

A news article, wrinkled and yellow, three killed at the Castle residence. There are individual photos of them, Maria, Lisa, Frank Jr.

It hurts to read it, the article goes into detail of how the bodies were found. No signs of forced entry, someone must have opened the door to let him in. Why wouldn't they? He was family after all.

Maria is found at the base of the stairs, a bullet in her chest from close range, small defensive wounds as though she'd put up a fight. Lisa, in her bedroom, two sets of bloody footprints around her body, Frank Jr. hiding in his sister's closet, shot through the door, found barely alive and rushed to the hospital where he succumbs.

You shove the book away, rising to your feet. You can feel your body shake with the emotion you feel. The hurt threatens to break you. You can't even imagine the terror that the Castle family went through.

Billy had done that. He'd spread carnage wherever he went and he hadn’t stopped when his own family was in the line of fire.

“I'll tell you how it ends.” Matt says, closing the book, “The next page is an autopsy report for William, face carved beyond recognition, shot several times by Frank Castle, then a news article, reporting on Frank's death, having been mortally injured by Billy in their fight.”

There's a twisting in your chest, you turn, reaching for the door of Matt's office, ignoring the stinging pain as you wrench the door open.

He's leaning against the opposite wall just outside, when you pull the door open, he raises his head to look at you with red eyes.

His face is calm, yet you can feel the hurt, the anger, the self loathing running through him. You can tell that he's just waiting for your rejection.

You consider reaching for him, soothing his pain, but you hesitate, reminded of Lisa's happy face.

“Did you kill your family, Billy?” You ask, your voice unable to rise above a whisper.

He's silent for a very long moment.

“I did.” He finally says, and there's so much finality in his voice that you almost miss the flickering of pain inside of him.

It's an odd kind of pain, one that leads you to believe that he isn't being entirely truthful.

“Did you shoot them all yourself?” You ask, probing into his emotions through the bond.

He swallows.

“I might as well have.”

Your eyebrows draw together.

“Tell me the truth, please.”

He hesitates, you can tell he doesn't want to talk about it, but you need to know.

“It's okay,” you step forward, reaching out to take his hand. You feel the pit in his stomach ease.

“It's my fault. I killed them. It doesn't matter who pulled the trigger. It might as well have been me.”

“Show me the memory.” You plead, reaching up to cup either side of his face. He squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head.

“My demon,” you whisper gently, raising onto your toes to rub your nose along his, “Show me.”

He makes a small noise of distress, of defeat, cupping the back of your head, worried that it may be for the last time, his lips meet yours.

It plays like a dream, he faithfully reports to a man named Rawlins, that Frank wants out of their organization. Rawlins informs him that someone's been talking to the police and Frank is the top suspect. He sends Billy to dispatch the Castle family as a last show of loyalty.

Frank isn't home, but Maria is so insistent that he comes inside, offers him a glass of water before he pulls the gun on her.

She thinks it's a joke at first. Why would the man who helped paint her daughter's room blush pink ever pull a gun on her?

But as he goes on, as he explains how terrified he is of being on the streets again, her face falls, and a betrayal so raw fills her expression instead.

Billy is erratic, he’s unfocused, you can tell by the way Maria’s eyes shift side to side as he paces, as he wrestles with the worst decision of his life.

She takes her chance while he’s distracted, throwing a vase so hard at his head that the pain blinds him for a few seconds. He drops the gun and she reaches for it. He grabs her just as her fingers close around it, she scratches his face, he twists her wrist in an attempt to free the gun.

It’s pressed between them when it goes off. Her eyes widen, his steely resolve shatters. He presses a hand to her chest as he lowers them to the floor, he can’t believe what he’s done.

He says her name, tries to figure out how he could have done this to her, the woman that so readily accepted him into her home.

She bleeds out quickly, the bullet having gone straight through her heart. He holds her hand while she dies.

He stands, walks with heavy feet up the stairs to the second floor where her children are no doubt hiding.

He didn’t mean to do it, but he doubts that will save him from Frank’s fury. The only way out of this now, is through.

Lisa’s breathing is shallow, echoing through her room, coming from the closet where she’s hidden. He wrenches the door open, watches her young ashen face. She says his name cautiously.

The gun is cold in his hand. In an instant, he knows can’t do it. He remembers holding her for the very first time, remembers soothing her little cries. He can’t take the life of the little girl he promised to protect.

A noise downstairs catches his ear, the sound of glass crunching under a boot. He knows it’s not Frank, knows by the absence of screaming that this is a stranger to Maria.

He raises his fingers to his lips, before closing the closet door.

Rawlins hadn’t trusted him.

The man he’d put above family itself had sent someone else to make sure the act was done.

Billy tries to find Frank Jr. before the man finds him, but as he’s tugging the boy from under his bed, he hears Lisa’s terrified gasp.

He runs, gets there just in time to shove the man away from his goddaughter. A fight breaks out, and he loses track of the kids.

He’s winning at first, manages to hold the upper hand, but eventually he falters, doesn’t dodge a right hook, and it disorients him for long enough for the man to grab the gun.

It’s not like the movies, where someone saves them at the last second by sheer luck. The man fires blindly into the room, before running off.

Billy somehow manages nothing more than a graze to his thigh, but as he turns, he realises that he wasn’t the man’s intended target.

Lisa is already dead by the time she hits the floor. Billy can barely breathe as he crawls his way over to her, trying to stop the blood from pouring out of her neck. He whispers her name, crouches over her body, hoping to shield her from any hurt, but she’s already gone, and vengeance is the only thing Billy can see.

He grabs his gun, and races out of the house, past Maria’s still warm body, desperate to fix something irreparably shattered.

You pull back from his mouth, blinking into awareness, realising that not much time had passed at all.

You withdraw, bending over, one hand braced on the wall to catch your breath from what you’ve seen and felt.

“It was all my fault.” Billy murmurs finally, his guilt and shame swelling in the back of your throat.

You straighten, looking up at him. He studies you for a moment before turning away.

“It doesn’t matter who fired. It was my fault.”

“He would have killed all of you either way. He would have found someone else-”

“-I could have saved them, I could have gotten them out. I chose not to. I was a coward, chasing after wealth as if it could ever give me what I already had.”

He turns away from you, his fists curling.

You know he’s right, that he’s not innocent just because he didn’t pull the trigger. Their blood is still in part on his hands.

Matt draws your attention, stepping into the doorway of his office.

You know what he wants. He wants you to cast judgement on Billy and abandon him.

You blink, deep in thought, unsure of how to proceed, unsure of which voice in your head is the right one.

Billy isn’t a good person, has never claimed to be one, has done things so terrible that it hurts you just to think about it.

But you also know that Billy still thinks he’s in Hell, and leaving him would only reinforce that fallacy.

“I won’t do it.” You finally say to Matt.

He responds by saying your name in protest.

“-No,” You interrupt, “He’s paid for his sins, he’s endured torment for what feels like an eternity and he has already been judged.”

You reach for Billy’s hand, tugging him with both your strength and the bond between you until he turns to face you.

“It doesn’t matter if my soul is damned. What’s one more soul in Hell anyway?” You gaze up at him, pressing your emotions into the bond, wanting him to feel exactly what you were.

“What difference could I possibly make to Heaven?” You question aloud, taunting the universe for an answer.

His eyes settle on you, his hands reach up to cup your face, wonder fills the bond as if he’s seeing you for the very first time, like a familiar breath against a spot deep inside of you that you think might be your soul.

“What does Heaven have, that I can’t find when I reach for you?” You ask him simply.

His shaky breath brushes against your lips.

“I can’t ask this of you.” Billy utters, his lips barely moving.

You smile, a little one filled with amusement and something deeper.

“You don’t have to ask.” You respond, rising onto your toes.

The kiss is blisteringly sweet, tongues feverishly hot, you can feel his desire, and he can feel yours and it secures in your mind, that there was no other way for this to be.

Lost, is an understatement. All you can feel is his mouth and his soul and his unending need for you to be a real person that really wants him.

You giggle into his mouth, tugging playfully on the bond, and when he winds his arms around you to lift you, the clearing of Matt's throat interrupts your tryst. You smile, feeling Billy’s anger at being interrupted, squeezing his bicep to soothe him.

“I respect your decision, even though I disagree. I think I understand, a little bit more than I did before, about the two of you, and how you balance each other out.”

Your smile widens.

“I appreciate that, Matt, and oddly enough, I consider you a friend.” You say, extracting yourself from Billy’s grabby hands to approach the priest in question.

“And,” You relent, “I also appreciate your attempt to show me the truth. If I didn’t know my demon, I might have done what you suggested.”

You feel a slither of delight go over him, hearing you claim him so openly.

“And if she’d let me,” Billy interjects, “I’d pluck those useless eyes from your head in a heartbeat.”

You gasp in horror, spinning to face your demon.

Matt listens patiently as you leave, letting out a sigh when the door finally closes, and he turns, stepping into his office, to begin cleansing his church of residual demonic energy.

You drag your fingers along the smooth skin of his back, exploring the feeling, committing his skin to memory.

Between your thighs are sore, having begged Billy not ten minutes before to fill you, hoping for his cock, but experiencing some of the dilators instead.

Apparently, one time wasn’t enough, and you had in fact needed more practice in order to be able to take him.

Unfortunately, based on the way your nether regions were pulsing, he was right, and anything bigger might have hurt you.

Still, you wanted his cock, and you could only shiver with excitement everytime you thought about his massive-

“Mistress.” Billy groans, feeling your desire, he turns to face you, one hand wrapping around your waist to tug you closer to his warm body, his tail curling itself more securely around your thigh.

“Have I not satisfied you enough? Would you like my tongue again?”

You laugh softly, resting your palm against his stubbled jaw.

“No, my demon, I was just thinking.”

He exhales, nods in understanding. You move your hand to continue trailing your fingertips over his back. When you brush the edge of his shoulder blade a little too lightly, you feel something stir within him.

You do it again, focusing on that one spot, and when you try a third time, Billy lets out a low groan of protest.

“Ticklish?” You ask, sliding a lone finger between his shoulder blades, smiling when you feel that same feeling again, like a small wave of heat going through you.

You press your hand to his back, soothing over his skin before looking into his eyes.

They're so dark, almost bottomless, glittering occasionally with the light of the Eiffel tower coming through the window behind you.

“There was a picture of you, with a woman, short brown hair, pretty eyes, um…” You try to remember anything else about her.

“Dinah. That was Dinah.”

You blink, thinking that even her name was pretty.

“Girlfriend?” You ask, trying your hardest not to feel jealous.

“In a way. We both had our problems.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

He fights a devious smile, the corner of his mouth lifting, he shifts his body to face you.

“Are you?” He teases.

“Yeah,” You say defensively, raising your head off the pillow, “I'm not here just wishing all your relationships were bad.”

“No?”

“No!” You pout, “I hope all your past lovers were nice to you.”

He chuckles lowly amused by your words.

“And what about my current one?”

You raise your body, a little defensive.

“What about me? Are we even lovers? You haven't even been inside me properly yet-” You pause for a moment, “Holy shit I just realised that other women have taken that monster between your legs.”

He tilts his head back laughing.

“I'm serious! Were the rest of them as bad as me?”

He stops, looking down at you with a semi serious expression.

“First of all, you're not bad, you're different. Good different.” He says, noticing your parted lips and answering your question before you can ask it.

“It's just taking a little bit more effort to get you to take me and I enjoy that.”

He exhales, rolling his eyes when he realises you're not letting this go without an answer.

“The women in my past before had varying degrees of ability in taking me, does that answer your question?”

“Not really- well-” You tilt your head, thinking about it, “Sure. I don't know what answer I expected.”

He pauses, smiles at you.

“You were trying to compare yourself to women in my past, which makes no sense because I'm not that man anymore, and the things I wanted then, I do not want now.”

You open your mouth to ask him what he wants now but he stops you by pressing a finger to your lips.

“You also asked that question because deep down you were wondering if there was someone I'd prefer over you and while that's your insecurity talking, the answer is still no.”

Wow, he was in in your head.

“You have to say that, you're bonded to me.”

“I think you'd know if I was lying.” He counters.

You press your lips together, looking down at the soft white sheets between you.

“And now,” he says softly, “You're wondering if I'm only saying this because our souls are connected, and my answer to that is also no.”

You feel doubt rise up inside of you.

You hear him exhale sharply.

“Mistress, I'm not just saying these things because I have to. I mean them, every word.”

He moves closer, pushing you back until he's hovering over you. You look up at him calmly, watching his dark eyes shift to a deep red the longer he studies you. He reaches up, brushing the very tips of his fingers along the side of your face, leaving little tingles behind.

“Things are different now, and I'm glad they are, and if I had a chance to break this connection between us, I wouldn't take it. Ever.”

Kiss me, you think toward him.

He smiles, dipping his head.

#billy russo x reader #billy russo

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