#but he is blue and does breathe lightning

[fanboyoff1]

Landoscar College Fic (2.4k words)

Inspired by this post. It was supposed to be a little drabble but it spiraled

@complementaryhalves Hope I did it justice. It’s not really a meet-cute since they both know of each other (or maybe that counts, idk how meet-cutes work) but I tried my best lol

Oscar really needs to set a second alarm.

He’s several months into college, so you’d think he’d have figured out a good sleep schedule by then. Unfortunately, that has not happened, and Oscar wakes up to sun on his face.

“Ughhh,” he groans, rolling over and pulling his sheets up over his head. It takes him a few seconds to realize there’s no annoying beeping that usually greets him in the morning.

“Shit.” He grabs his phone from the bedside table and jolts up when he reads 8:25 on his lockscreen. “Shitshitshit.” 

He tosses his sheets to the side, the old mattress creaking loudly as he stands, rushing because his bus is literally about to leave. Why did he sign up for early classes? Why, why, why? Even his professor Mr. Webber told him it was a bad idea once he’d heard about it, but he’d insisted that it would be fine.

Right now, it’s definitely not fine though. He brushes his teeth at lightning-speed in the communal bathroom, and throws on a navy blue sweatshirt and pants, nearly forgetting his watch. He’ll get a bagel or something for breakfast at school.

Thankfully, he likes to pack his backpack the day before, so all he has to do is put it over his shoulders, rushing down the stairs and out the door into the parking lot to see… His bus rolling away down the road without him.

Oscar drops his hands down from his backpack straps to his side in defeat. He curses the ground and his stupid clock under his breath, kicking at a loose rock. What is he gonna do now?

Well, he could call Logan, ask if he can give him a ride. Or maybe Charles drove today? He glances across the parking lot, but there are around three other cars that look just like Charles’, so that won’t be very helpful.

He’s about to pull his phone out when he hears a car pull out of the lot, wheels making a grainy sound against the asphalt. Oscar quickly backs away from the middle of the road and goes back to his quiet crisis.

“Hey, you need a ride?”

Oscar looks up to see the car that had been leaving stopped in front of him. The person behind the voice is a handsome guy with dark curly hair and tan skin, sitting behind the wheel with one hand dangling out the window. There’s a small flicker of recognition in Oscar’s brain, he must have seen the boy around campus before.

The driver seems to have taken Oscar’s silence as hesitancy, starting to talk again. “I-um, I saw your bus fuck off into the distance, and I figured you could use some help. I live right over there.” He points vaguely to another one of the student campus buildings behind them.

Oscar opens his mouth to politely decline immediately, but stops himself. Does he really for certain have another way to get to school? He remembers how he knows this guy now, he’s friends with Charles. Anyone who’s friends with Charles gets an automatic thumbs up from him, but being in a car with them…

“Yeah, I could use a ride,” he finds himself saying, not totally sure the words are coming from his mouth. The curly haired guy seems equally surprised, but masks it quickly. “O-okay. Just come over to the passenger seat.”

Oscar walks out in front of the car, and opens the door. Any move to sit down is paused by the fact that there’s a football in the seat. The boy turns when Oscar opens the door, looking through his eyelashes at him, and his eyes are really blue from up close. A bit of green too- okay, stop analyzing his eyes, he tells himself.

The driver- Oscar decides to coin him Car Guy- notices Oscar’s predicament and grabs the football, promptly chucking it into the backseat and patting the now empty seat for Oscar, who sits.

He twists his body to face the back of the car. “Do you think you damaged anything with that throw?” he asks, trying to find the football amongst the clutter of the car. There’s a few random clothes, a cardboard box on the right.

“Eh, it’s fine,” Car Guy says with a wave of his hand. Oscar turns back to the front, buckling up. Car Guy notices what he’s doing and buckles up himself with a guilty smile. Oh God, Oscar’s totally going to die.

“Just college campus, I assume?” Car Guy asks, adjusting his rear-view mirror that has a car freshener and a necklace hanging from it. The necklace has a big 4 hanging by the end. 

“Yeah,” Oscar sets his backpack down between his legs, and braces when Car Guy starts to drive away. However, he actually seems like an okay driver, despite that seatbelt incident that may haunt Oscar’s nightmares. 

After a few streets, he chills out enough to get a proper look at who’s driving him. He has a Texas Bulls shirt on, a hoodie under it, and to top it all off, a green letterman jacket with the number 4 on it. Huh. 4 again. Maybe the number 4 has some kind of significance to him. 

He’s really pretty as well, especially up close. His long lashes, his freckles, his hair that looks like it's attempting to be a mullet. 

Don’t you dare fall for a jock Oscar, he tells himself. Because that’s what he has to be, right? He has a Bulls shirt, a sporty jacket, and a freaking football in the passenger seat. There’s nothing else he could be.

And he’s still terrified about a stranger driving him somewhere, pretty or not. He takes out his phone and pulls up his messages, finding his last conversation with Dad 2.0 (an inside joke the two of them have.) He frantically texts Charles, asking, ‘Is curly haired boy a serial killer??’

A moment later, he gets a response back, a lot of question marks. Oscar sighs, running his hand through his hair and trying not to let his thoughts spiral into how he may or may not be getting kidnapped.

# # #

Lando’s trying to be cool. He really is. But Oscar’s in his car. He wants to squeal and kick his feet and giggle.

He’s had a crush on the Australian-born boy for a while now, ever since he’d seen him actually. They’d just been passing by each other while walking across campus, but it felt like a world-changing event for Lando (okay, he may be overreacting just a little, but have you seen the man?!)

Once he learned that Oscar was friends with Charles, he came out to his friend as bi and proceeded to spend his entire time with Charles ranting about how pretty Oscar was, or what Oscar was wearing today, or could he get some pictures of Oscar pretty-please?

Needless to say, the Monegasque was tired of his pining fairly quickly. “I don’t understand why you do not just talk to him,” he’d said one day during their lunch break.

“I can’t just talk to him, Charles.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s weird!”

“How? It’s just talking,” Charles had retorted, biting into his protein bar. “You can say it’s because you are both friends with me or something. There are ways.”

“Well, it- it’s complicated.” Charles raised an eyebrow. “I don’t have a good argument for that Charles, but just know that you’re wrong.”

So Lando had just watched Oscar from a distance (not in a creepy way or anything, just in an adoration way.) Until this morning, when he saw Oscar miss the bus, which was admittedly a little funny, he’d gotten the courage to ask if he wanted a ride. He hadn’t been expecting him to say yes, but he was ecstatic that he had.

Now they’re in the car together, and Lando’s tongue feels like lead whenever he attempts to make small talk. Oscar’s aggressively texting someone, and Lando has had to stop himself multiple times from looking at Oscar instead of the road.

Oscar sighs, running his hand through his swoopy hair. Now’s his chance. “Everything okay?” he asks, drumming a finger against the steering wheel as he waits behind a stop sign.

“Hmm?” Oscar looks up, raising his eyebrows, and Lando might die on the spot. “Oh, yeah, everything’s fine. I was just texting a friend. You know Charles, right?”

“Leclerc?”

“Yeah,” Oscar says, letting out a breathy laugh. “I was gonna ask him to drive back and pick me up but… Well I don’t know if you know this, but Charles likes to jog to school sometimes. I wasn’t sure if he had today or not.”

Lando barely processes what he’s said, which feels extremely rude even in his head. But Oscar’s smiling and it looks so cute, and the way his voice changes as he’s trying to stifle a laugh is addicting. “Oh, I think I’ve heard him talk about jogging to class sometimes. One time he texted me at like 6 am, I was so confused when he told me he was at school already.”

Oscar laughs again, and Lando tries to stop the butterflies growing in his stomach. “Ha, yeah, he’s like that. I think he just likes to be early.”

“I know, but 6 am??” 

“I’m not defending him!” Oscar says, throwing his hands in the air, the two of them laughing together. Lando feels joy spread through his chest, because Oscar seems more comfortable, he’s smiling and laughing and blushing and he looks so cute.

“Oh my gosh, I have this selfie of Charles he sent to me when he was on a run,” Oscar turns on his phone and started to scroll through his photos, eyebrows furrowed in determination. His hair droops down on his face, and Lando fights the urge to reach out and push it back.

After a minute or so, Oscar bursts out laughing. “Did you find it?” Lando asks. Oscar nods, shoulders shaking, and holds his phone out for Lando to see. It's perfect timing, they're stopped at a red light, so Lando turns his head to inspect the picture.

Charles has a headband and glasses on with no shirt. He must have been running when he took the picture, everything’s blurry and the background is just a mass of green and gray. The most noticeable thing is his face. He’s trying to wink, but it’s more like a squint, and his eyebrows are high up on his forehead. He looks partially like he ate something sour, and like he’s getting chased by a wild animal.

Lando snorts, and Oscar pulls the phone back. “I know right? Apparently, he took the photo and sent it to me without checking what it looked like, so now I have this treasure saved in my phone forever.”

# # #

They spend the rest of the car ride in silence, and Oscar regrets thinking Car Guy was someone scary or a jerk. He seems really sweet and funny. And he’s attractive. But that’s besides the point.

Charles had been blowing up Oscar’s phone ever since his vague text about Car Guy, most of it consisting of ‘who the hell are you with’ and ‘answer your phone, you’re freaking me out.’ Oscar replies to his flurry of messages with nvm. It's fine. I’ll explain later

“Is this a good place to drop you off?” Car Guy asks him, and Oscar’s head jolts up. He parked just a few minutes away from his first class.

“Oh yeah, this is perfect,” Oscar grabs his backpack and opens the car door. “Thanks for this,” he says, turning back.

“No problem,” Car Guy says with a smile. He’s got a little gap between his front teeth. “See you around?”

Oscar gives him a thumbs-up and steps out, walking down the winding sidewalk to Mr. Webber’s class in room 222.

Epilogue

Oscar still needed another alarm. He just kept forgetting. And now he was running late again, this time far too late to even try to catch the bus.

He sits on the parking lot curb, about to call Charles (he’d taken his car today,) when a familiar voice calls out to him.

“Dude, you really need to wake up earlier.”

Oscar gives Car Guy a withering glare. He leans back in his car in response, a look of barely concealed fear in his eyes. “Well, do you want a ride or not?” 

Oscar sighs and stands, getting in the passenger seat. “No football this time,” Car Guy says with a grin. Oscar can’t help but smile back.

This car ride is a lot less talkative than the last one, a playlist of Taylor Swift and Miley Cyrus from Car Guy’s phone playing loudly. Oscar puts on an excellent act of pretending his ears aren’t bleeding from the music.

“Thanks again,” he says once they arrive at his stop. He gets his backpack and is about to leave when Car Guy speaks up.

“Hey um, I was wondering if maybe you could repay me by going on a date? With me?”

Oscar blinks once, twice. Car Guy obviously takes this the wrong way, his face reddening. “Never mind. Just… forget I said anything.”

“No,” Oscar says. “I don’t want to forget that. I’d love to go on a date with you.”

“Really?” Car Guy says, his eyes lighting up. “Okay, here’s my number.” He reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a folded Sticky-Note, pressing it into Oscar’s hand. Oscar wonders if he feels the electricity when their fingers touch too.

“Uh, this is gonna sound weird,” Oscar says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But can I get your name?”

“Oh. OH. My name’s Lando.”

“Lando,” Oscar says, testing the word on his tongue. “I’m Oscar.”

“I kinda already knew that,” Lando giggles, and now it’s Oscar turn to blush. “You look cute when you blush.” His face gets a thousand times more red.

“OkIgottagoI’lltextyoubye,” he says, almost stumbling out of the car. Once Lando’s car drives away though, he allows himself a bit of a victory dance, before walking to class with a skip in his step and only one word in his mind. Lando, Lando, Lando. 

Okay I kinda hate it 😭 But I don’t really wanna work on it more, so *tosses fanfic at the Tumblr gods and runs*

[lillatorg]

Two years ago, I thought about a kimchay dragon AU. I'm sort of in love with the writing of this one, the dreamy feel to the prose. It's difficult not to delve into world building and logistics, but I want this to feel more like a myth.

I handwrote most of this because of wrist pain/typing issues and it is so interesting to see the different pacing. I think keyboard typing produces a slower (or more measured) pace because I can more easily go back and make changes versus paper edits. There is A Lot happening in this chapter in a relatively short amount of time.

Let's see, what else. The idea is to make this into a trilogy, with the kimchay and kinnporsche narratives weaving in and out of each other and a final oneshot to wrap things up/get rid of Korn.

And then...I've been looking for a new fandom for awhile now. I suppose it's not great for my self-image that I'm comparing myself to Lilith in Shakespeare Code, but "new words...new glittering."

[tonycries]

Thinking about overstimming Gojo Satoru to the point where he's losing control of his powers.

Overstimming Gojo Satoru until that smart mouth of his can't let out anything but wet, little gurgles of your name. His long, white lashes are batting shut with each stroke of your hand up and down his twitch shaft. He's so weighty, so hot. Glistening wet and such a pretty pink that matches his raw lips.

Overstimming Gojo Satoru until all he can do is throw his head back, abs flexing when his toned hips tremble up, up, up-

"Oh, sweetheart..." he's letting out such drawn-out whines, voice husky with how much he's been moaning and groaning your name all night. And each cute whimper is accompanied by a hitched breath, a bolt of tiny blue lightning sparking at the corners of his glassy, wide eyes.

Overstimming Gojo Satoru until the silky sheets underneath his large hands are bursting at the pressure of his jujutsu. Until you could faintly feel the thrum of power in the air with each and every syrpy coat of his precum down your wrist.

Overstimming Gojo Satoru until he thinks he can't cum - but he can. You know he can, and you'll prove it to him. Rolling your heavenly palms faster and faster down his jerky length.

Overstimming Gojo Satoru until he doesn't even know what's going on. Doesn't realize the flashes of purple glistening at the very tips of his fingers, the uncomfortable tension in the air from particles charging. Doesn't even see the way the lights go out, bursting into nothingness - in all of Tokyo, maybe even the entirety of Japan - because he's cumming, spilling milky, velvety rope after rope to drizzle all over your waiting hand. Over and over and- fuck, why does he want to do it all over again?

[amaranthineghost]

HE’S SO PRETTY WHEN HE GOES DOWN ON ME ( charles leclerc. )

charles leclerc x reader

charles goes down on her and she can't help but admire his pretty eyes staring back at her.

warnings: smut, mostly google translate french (highschool does NOT teach us how to talk dirty okay, bare with me)

author note: as much as I would've wanted to write this for lando, it HAS to be charles, and I feel like this is so different from my usual thought and emotion heavy writing! incoming charles obsession??? like if people requested imagines for him, I'D WRITE IT...

HIS GREEN EYES MIMICKED THE SHIMMER OF PALE EMERALD. sunlight peeked through the curtains, though in a few hours time, it would fall from its peak in the sky and the room would eventually begin to darken.

his biceps filled out the sleeves of his freshly-washed blue shirt, straight from the load of laundry she had done hours ago. veins like lightning under his tanned flesh to suggest his touch was rough, yet his callused hands were so gentle against her skin.

goosebumps crept across her body with every graze of his body on hers, every small breath against her ear as he mumbled something dirty to her in french. though she didn't know exactly what, she could pick up on the cognates between languages.

he tasted faintly of chapstick, her chapstick, that transferred from her lips to his as he couldn't keep off of her. with lips as swollen and pink as hers, he graced nearly every part of her body with his kiss. she was his oxygen and he was deprived.

but it was hard for him to ever be deprived, considering how even when they weren't in such a position, he was glued to her, hands grasping or resting at her sides and his breath down her neck.

when he'd reluctantly part from her sweet-tasting lips, his veined hand would snake down from the long strands of her hair in his palm, coming to rest on her jaw. prominent veins in his arms would indicate force was used to push her head up to expose the smooth skin of her neck and collarbone, yet his touch was tender.

still, he felt her gulp under his palm.

light trails of saliva from his kisses down her jaw to her collarbone and neck, leaving red marks of irritated skin that would later bruise.

he knew she wouldn't be able to cover it up. he nipped at her skin with the purpose of showing it off, and she could get him to stop if she really wanted. but she didn't want that.

the hand on her neck reminding her of the easy power he had over her, and how she loved the gentle dominance he displayed.

because it hadn't taken much convincing earlier to get her into their bedroom. despite it being midday, he wanted to take care of her, in more ways than one.

she didn't object, she wouldn't when he looked at her with those damn eyes. his strength and her weakness.

now laid on her back with his body looming over her, his knee between her legs to put pressure just enough, but still not satisfying the desperate need to have him. and yet they had both managed to stay clothed all up untill this moment.

kissing up the staircase, his hands grasped at her waist, hoisting her into his arms, and gotten them to where they were now.

the tension had been building with every step he took, his pretty eyes watching her squirm, though he was the one to be so eager to please her. he couldn't give a shit about himself.

disheveled hair and tired, green eyes while his greedy hands roamed down her clothes, grasping at the skin of her thighs. still, he took his time as he usually did with his hands over her body, memorizing every dip in her skin.

fingers teasing under the edge of her white laced tank, bumps rising on her stomach as the material rode up her torso. he watched her nipples harden through her top, feeling his sweatpants getting tighter as he watched her subtle reactions. subtle reactions that gave him more than a little confidence in his attempts to please her.

because if he didn't then what was his purpose of living if not to please her?

his eyes remained on her the entire time, even if hers didn't meet his. she felt the burning sensation of his gaze over her heated skin. desperation for him between her thighs became increasingly unbearable, she wanted him. she needed him.

but he always took his time. it was agonizing, but she always came hard because of it.

from teasing her barely exposed skin to massaging into her ribs, he watched her expression every step of the way. it was slow, as per usual, agonizing.

his hands finally found her breasts, gently squeezing the flesh in his palms while he circled her sensitive nipples with his thumbs, exerting small noises from her.

removing one hand momentarily, he pulled down the lace of her tank, leaving messy kisses down from her collarbone to her other breast. but he didn't give her that little satisfaction, not yet.

“shhhh, patience, mon amour,” he spoke with a rasp in his voice, muffled slightly as she felt the vibrations of his voice against the flesh of her breast.

fixing her top with his other hand still teasing her chest, his hand caressed her waist under her small shorts.

trailing down the joint of her hip, his fingers traveled slowly down to and along her inner thigh before dipping under the fabric of her shorts. he played with her panties, pulling the hem away from her slick cunt. she whined at the contact of air to her core.

he bit his lip at the sight of her, fuck she was gorgeous lying before him and so desperate for a simple touch of his hand.

his knuckles brushed over the wet patch - that he caused- on her underwear and she inhaled a sharp gasp. he tsk’d at her reaction, shaking his head with a smirk on his face.

“tu es une petite chose désespérée,” (you are a desperate little thing). he chuckled breathlessly, eyeing her body squirm at such simple actions from him, “très sensible…” (very sensitive).

he teased her with words she could only guess the meaning of, pulling the hem of her panties back only to release it from between his fingers to slap back onto her skin. the sound filled the silence of the room and she flinched slightly at the feeling.

though she didn't have much time to react in any other way when his two fingers ran up her wet cunt, her folds rubbing against the soft cotton of her soaked panties. he teased her clit, rubbing circles with his thumb in an agonizing pace.

biting her lip and grasping at the pillows above her head, she clenched her thighs around his hand, trapping his fingers out of desperacy to feel more.

he only chuckled at her need, her attempt for a sliver of control. because he knew she had none.

he still managed to slip his hands away from her core despite her desperacy to keep him close and use him, which he didn't mind, but he preferred to have control. the warm hand from her chest emerging from the bottom of her lace tank to pry her legs apart, which didn't take much force from him. though she whined at the lack of contact.

hands placed on her knees, sliding his callused hands down the front of her thighs to rest at the point on her waist the top of her shorts rested. firmly grasping handfuls of the flesh of her hips, he tugged her body sharply against his.

unfortunately for her, his hands left her side - which she objected to - for merely five seconds to slip his blue shirt from his torso.

“calme,” (quiet) his tone was firm, yet a smirk etched its way onto his face as he saw the way her face changed as his toned torso was now in full view for her to marble at.

he let her as her fingertips barely reached his skin. she returned the smirk as she saw the rising goosebumps from the sensation of her nails down his abs before reaching where his v-line was interrupted by the tops of his sweatpants.

he shook his head at her actions, catching her wrists with both his hands and pushing them into the pillows above her head. “it's your turn now, belle,” his voice was raspy as he whispered in her ear. fingers fidgeting with the hem of her tank as he waited for her permission.

instead of giving it to him, she’d rather try to turn the teasing back on him, but unlike her, he loved the show she gave as she peeled her top from her body slowly.

on contact with the cold air, her nipples hardened again and charles could swear he salivated at the sight of her bare chest, as if he hadn't seen it plenty of times in the past.

“tu es trop jolie pour moi, ma chérie,” (you are too pretty for me, my dear) he muttered under his breath, hands full of her breasts as he couldn't resist himself.

okay, maybe her slow strip-tease did work on him a little bit. a little too well because now he wanted to see all of her.

shuffling his way till he stood at the foot of the bed, hastily slipping off his sweatpants without breaking his gaze on her body. the rise and fall of her bare chest, her hands returned to their spot on the pillows, her legs now crossed and hips moving to find friction against the cotton of her clothes to give her something to go off of. biting her lip as she tried, all while he watched.

the sound of his sweatpants hitting the floor as he disregarded them across the room, his attention on her never faltering as she watched him crawl across the bed back to her.

his toned shoulders and biceps, veiny forearms and hands, eyes locked on hers, disheveled hair and half-lidded eyes. the heat of his gaze made her squirm as he crawled back up to her, bodies pressed together as his head once again dipped into the crevice of her neck.

kissing down her body, he went further, and further, and further till he stopped at her stomach, hands on her hips to her thighs to unknot them just enough. hands back to her hips to lift her just slightly and with his fingers around the hem of her shorts and panties, slowly slid them down.

he's so pretty when he goes down on her, green eyes watching as he dipped lower, and lower, and lower. gold-skinned eager baby, blue shirt out the laundry now across the room.

his warm breath against her stomach as he watched her carefully, analyzing every little movement and subtle reaction. every brow crease, mouth twitched, nose flare, every swallow and gulp that traveled down her throat, small fly-aways from her hair starting to matte down to her skin.

biting her lip as he lowered down her body, dangerously close to the spot between her thighs. close enough to feel his breath against her thighs, and he could feel the warmth radiating from her.

anticipation building in her stomach, hips rolling to close the gap from his face to her cunt, but his hands holding her down firmly stopped her. a whine in desperation slipping past her lips, pushing her head further back into the pillow in anguish.

“regarde-moi, chérie.” (look at me, darling) he spoke so sweetly, yet so tauntingly, like he'd never give in to what she wanted if she didn't do what he needed her to.

“charles, please…” she begged because she wasn't entirely paying attention to what he was asking of her, especially when he spoke another language. she didn't have time for translation.

he shook his head, pressing his face into her inner thigh as he chuckled at her tone, so needy and only for him.

“look at me, amour,” he repeated in english after kissing her thigh.

now propped up on her forearms, watching her beloved monégasque boyfriend looking back at her with a smug smirk on his face.

she scowled back at his expression, opening to make a snarky comment about it. her jaw hung open after he finally closed the gap after waiting too long, his tongue licking a single stripe up her cunt.

she rolled her eyes in annoyance, falling back down into her pillows as she groaned in annoyance, “fuck you, charles.”

“i’m sure you'd love to, darling,” he teased before tasting her again, humming into her cunt which incited a hand through his hair, pushing him closer and a whine to slip past her lips.

when he'd done enough teasing for his own enjoyment, he indulged further into her core. his hands snaking around to the crevice where her thigh met her hip to pull her further into him.

squeaked moans barely making it out of her mouth as he worked away at her clit, her hand in his dark hair to push him closer in fear he would stop.

nips at her folds and whines whenever he would do so, tugging a little harder on his hair causing groans from him. vibrations of his groans through her clit, stimulating her more and more.

legs trembling as her thighs clamped tightly around him, and he didn't dare stop her. he was in heaven. she was sweet, perfect in contrast to her bitter attitude only seconds ago. he nearly broke eye contact when he was first reminded of how she tasted.

caressing her hips, he refused to part with her cunt, his lips coated with her slick as he heard the pattern of her moans falter.

she was so easy to tie in knots, and so easy to untangle too, shuddering harshly as she barely let out a moan. tugging tighter at his hair, pulling him closer as if he would leave her unsatisfied as she came undone on his tongue.

he didn't stop after the first, or the second. it wasn't until she was close to her third that he even considered a break. after the second, his pace slowed to small movements from his tongue, lightly teasing her now sensitive clit.

soft tears ran down her cheeks at the overstimulation between her legs, but she didn't stop him. it felt too damn good.

the third came the slowest, but hardest as he managed to coax it out of her patiently.

by the time he had pulled away, his hair was even more messy than before, her slick covered his lips and chin, his tongue licking away the remnants of her on his face. his shoulder slightly red at her barely clawing away at his skin.

by the time he had pulled away, tears streamed down her cheeks, hair matted to her forehead, her arched back dropping down the sheets, and her hands that were previously in his hair now gripped tightly at the pillows by her head. her eyes, hazy and tired, her chest rising and falling with hastened breaths as he crawled up to her, running a hand through her equally-matched messy hair and wiping stray tears that he caused, even though he knew it wasn't a bad thing.

without a word, he got up, leaving to slip into their bathroom. she heard the faucet run from her position on the bed and she rolled to the edge, peeking at his actions.

she knew he would take tender care of her, no different to how he did so every time.

—

proofread by @foreveralbon <333

[irisintheafterglow]

a kaiju attack spoils date night with bf!hoshina. he is so pissed.

cw: canon-typical violence, swearing, mild angst/fluff, happy surprise ending

"is it just me, or does the vice-captain seem angrier than usual?"

"maybe he's just fired up. there's a lot of yoju for him to take care of," iharu observes, scanning the emptied streets from the rooftop of an evacuated office building.

"you idiots really don't pay attention at all, do you?" shinomiya mumbles under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. the rest of the officers with her stare at her blankly. "it's thursday, geniuses."

"is there something special about kaiju appearances and days of the week?"

"not that i've heard of," kafka states, scratching his head with a finger. "did new research come out?"

"maybe it's because of the full moon," haruichi says and the other men look up at its soft shining light, nodding in understanding.

"that makes a lot of sense."

"but why would that make the vice-captain angry?"

"maybe he's a werewolf," iharu whispers with sincere worry. "maybe kafka's not the only shapeshifter in our division."

"it's date night, you meatheads! the vice-captain's supposed to be off-base and relaxing," shinomiya explains impatiently like it was written on the floors in fluorescent paint. "he's probably angry that the attack came right when he usually picks up..."

"picks up who?" the officers stiffen and quickly fall into perfect lines. you smile at their professionalism and try not to laugh at how quickly they changed their gossiping demeanors. "you know, officers, you should be careful about what you say in regards to the vice-captain."

"our deepest apologies, platoon leader," kaguragi monotoned, ever the perfect soldier.

"at ease," you command them. "you have nothing to apologize for. i'm simply warning you of what might have happened had it not been me passing by."

"understood, platoon leader," izumo confirms. "if we may," he continues slowly and you can see the rest of the officers eyeing him warily. "were we...correct in our assumption as to the reason for the vice-captain's mood?"

"the werewolf assumption or the assumption that only shinomiya was correct about?" everyone but shinomiya reddens, looking down sheepishly at the toes of their suits. the axe-wielder straightens her shoulders with a proud glint in her eyes. "to answer your question, it would be the latter," you answer with a poorly-hidden smirk. "he'd barely knocked on my door when the alarm sounded."

"oh, i bet the vice-cap was seething."

"he definitely was," you confirm, recalling the colorful curses he uttered as you both begrudgingly shed your nicer clothes for your combat suits. i was supposed to take off your clothes under different circumstances, he'd lamented. don't go thinking our night is canceled because of this. i'll finish them off quickly for you.

your relationship with hoshina was no secret, considering that he talked about you whenever he was given the chance. every kdf member on base knew you preferred to keep your romantic life as private as possible to avoid questions of power dynamics from higher-ranking officials. hoshina, however, either didn't listen or didn't seem to care. he happily declared thursday nights to be date nights, threatening intense punishment for the officers below him if they caused trouble while he was gone. a static-filled message from the scouting teams sounds in your earpiece and you dismiss the officers, moving to join the vice-captain at the front line.

judging by the slowly increasing trail of dead monsters covering the asphalt, you find hoshina easily as he cuts a clean slice through a fast-moving yoju. you change the frequency on your earpiece so that you're directly connected to his.

"someone's been busy," you remark, pulling the batons from your back and electrifying them with the switch by your thumb. they hum in your hands, electric blue lightning crackling in sync with the released power of your suit. "save some for me, would you?"

"any other day, i would," he replies and you hear him smile despite his annoyance. "but it took me three months to get those reservations, so i wanna finish this up quickly." another yoju falls, your boyfriend a phantom blur in the darkness.

"are you calling me slow?" your hand plants itself on your hip as you continue to watch him cut down enemies, barely moving from your place between the dead kaiju. "i can't believe my boyfriend thinks i'm slow. here i thought you were my biggest supporter."

"that's not what i said," he huffs, the slightest waver in his exhale the only evidence of exertion. "i'm just faster." he pauses for half a second to catch his breath, and you snag your chance to overtake him.

"hmm, i think i'll take over for a second, then." launching yourself from the ground, your feet run perpendicular against the wall of a crumbling building as you close the distance. you can feel hoshina's attention on you while you dodge the yoju's swinging limbs and sink your batons into the skin covering its core, electricity surging through its body as it falls with a loud thud. "how's that, mister i'm just faster?"

"cute," he admits, offering you a hand as you hop down from the monster's head. you're shoulder to shoulder facing opposite directions and catch the challenge in his eyes as you look at him over your shoulder. "but i know you can go harder."

"go your fastest then, soshiro," you dare. his throat bobs as he swallows thickly, a subtle sign that you'd thrown him off. "i'll do my best to keep up."

---

"so, this is not how i wanted date night to end up," he says through a mouth full of noodles, slurping them loudly from the bowl on your living room coffee table. "and i'm sorry we couldn't go to that fancy place."

"to be fair, the website didn't exactly update its hours immediately," you remind him. "how were we supposed to know the place got demolished in the attack?"

"true, but i made you get all dressed up for nothing," he grumbles, accidentally dropping a vegetable and splashing broth onto his face. "ow." you snort against your spoon, setting it down in your bowl and swiping over the corner of soshiro's mouth with a napkin. "this was my favorite shirt, too. worst date night ever."

"good thing there's this place called the cleaners, babe." he continues to frown despite your unending patience, letting you clean him up while he indulges in staring at you in your nice clothes. you could make anything look pretty, he thinks, staring unashamedly at you wrapped up in a blanket and covering your going-out clothes. "hey," you murmur, gently grabbing his chin and turning him to face you. "i don't mind."

"you don't mind what?"

"this kind of date night."

"but we could do this anytime," he mumbles, avoiding your eyes. you shake your head, pushing away your food and climbing into his lap, your legs on either side of his hips.

"no, we can't. we don't know how many times we get this in our line of work," you point out with an ache in your chest and he finally blinks up to look at you. "so i'm grateful for any time i get to spend with you, soshiro." his throat bobs again, but he manages to give you a small smile.

"you're too good for me, you know that?"

"if you say so," you shrug, leaning down until your lips barely brush his.

"but, you know," he murmurs and you pull back, staring into his starry eyes. "there's not a lot of nights," he inhales, reaching behind him to grab something from under the couch's throw pillow, "where i get to pull this move."

"what're you--ohmygod." he smirks at you as you blink down at the small box sitting in his hand, covered in crushed velvet and embroidered with gold. "that's-you didn't..."

"i did," he whispers, memorizing every inch of your shocked expression. "so," he pushes open the top half of the box with his thumb to reveal something that sparkles even in the dim lights of your apartment, "please--"

"yes!" you scream before he can finish his sentence, your excitement echoing off the walls as you both break out into wide grins. "holy shit, yes!"

"baby, i didn't even ask the whole question," he chuckles, giving in and slipping the ring on your finger. "what if that wasn't the question i was gonna ask?"

"i'd skewer your head with my batons," you smile sweetly and he hums, admiring the jeweled band in the light. "that was the question you were gonna ask, right?"

"of course, sweetheart," he assures you, finally leaning up to press his lips against yours. "you're the only one i'll ever let keep up with me."

"you gonna marry me, hoshina soshiro?"

"i'm gonna marry you so hard, the entire base will know." you fondly remember your conversation with the officers earlier in the night.

"darling, i think they already know."

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[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Eight

Steve slices the apple into four parts, and then retrieves the clock from the hallway; this one will be best, there’s no glass or anything, so he can just force the hands around with his fingers. Eddie sits on a stool at the breakfast bar, watching Steve and waiting patiently.

“Okay buddy, what time does it say?”

“Four,” Eddie says confidently. Nice and easy that one, because Steve has the little hand on the four and Eddie has grasped to look at the little hand first pretty fast.

“Okay so,” Steve puts down the clock, and holds the pieces of apple together to make it whole. “This is a full apple, yeah? One. It’s whole.”

“Whole apple.”

“Right, so now, how many?”

Steve pulls the pieces apart so he has two slices held together in each hand, “two.”

“That’s right, but It’s also half.”

“Half.”

“Yeah, whole apple. One apple. Two slices. Half an apple.”

“Half an apple.”

“Right, so,” Steve puts the apple slices down, letting them split, and moves the big hand down to six, “half four.”

Eddie moves the apple pieces around, frowning, “half four. Two,” he points.

“Yeah, with counting. On the clock. Time. This is half past four.”

Eddie frowns at the clock again. He shakes his head.

“Okay, so,” Steve spreads out the apple slices, “four. Four quarters,” then he moves the big hand around the clock face again, “quarter past four, half past four, quarter to five.”

Eddie frowns again, face scrunching a little bit, and Steve can sense the distress from Eddie, upset that he doesn’t understand.

“Half, two,” he volunteers.

Steve sighs, “yeah buddy, but-”

“No! Half two!” And then Eddie picks up two apple quarters and shoves them in his mouth, presumably to make the problem go away, crumbs of apple and juice dripping messily onto his chin as Eddie chews manically with his pointy teeth.

The kitchen dims a little, thick clouds scudding over the sun. Steve looks out of the window, it’s suddenly dark.

Red lightning flashes.

Eddie moves, leaning over the counter to slide a knife from the block, “half. Two.” He says, pressing the tip of the knife to his tail; black, thick blood wells up and starts to drip, and Steve stands frozen.

Eddie's eyes catch the light strangely, flashing silver, then they glow red as lightning crashes, “it’s for the best, Steve-”

Steve wakes with his heart pounding and a scream trapped in his throat; he feels like he can’t breathe, all of his body shaking and not obeying him, the sheets and blankets tangled around his legs. “Fuck fuck fuck,” he pants to himself, finally getting out of bed.

The light in the bathroom makes him feel better and he splashes his face and then drinks a little water right from the faucet. He sighs deep, just a dream.

Just a dream.

It takes ten minutes before Steve feels better but...even though it doesn’t make any sense at all, he needs to check. He just has to see Eddie, just for a second, to make sure he’s okay. Then he’ll come back to bed and everything will be fine.

Even though it’s completely fucking irrational, and Steve knows it is, he checks the knife block first; everything is set in it’s little slot, nothings missing...which, of course it isn’t. Of course it’s fine. He’s just being ridiculous.

The kitchen looks completely normal, even if it does feel a little sinister in the dark. Steve tells himself again that it’s just a dream.

The lounge is only illuminated by the moonlight from outside, but it’s enough to make out the curled up lump that is Eddie, sleeping on the couch.

Steve breathes a sigh of relief, even as he tells himself he’s being ridiculous.

“Stee?” It must have been enough to wake him, and Steve watches as Eddie’s head, somehow, pops out from amongst the tangled ball of tail and today's blue sweater. Steve’s let him have four and washes them on rotation. They don’t come completely clean – the grass stains are impossible, and the bottom edges are already ruinously frayed, but it’s fine, they’re only sweaters.

“Sorry, Buddy I...I had a nightmare.”

“Night...mare..?”

“Yeah a uhm,” Eddie shifts, and Steve sits next to him on the couch, “a bad dream, you know when you’re asleep?”

Eddie nods, “sleep, dark,” he points to the outside.

“Yeah, right so...do you ever see things, when you're asleep?” Eddie cocks his head, “like, uhm, TV. Like watching TV,” and Steve taps the side of his head.

Eddie takes Steve’s wrist, pulling his hand away, nodding furiously, “dark TV,” he uses Steve’s hand to tap the side of his own head, “many. Many all.”

“You dream? Every night?” Eddie nods. “What do you...what do you dream about?”

Eddie frowns, so Steve gets up, retrieving colored pencils and a larger notebook, he flicks on a lamp. Steve sits back next to Eddie, and using his woefully inadequate drawing skills, he makes out a couple of withered, spiky trees, shades the sky dark, draws swirls of black on the floor and a crackle of red lightning across the sky, “do you dream of this?”

Eddie’s mouth pops open, eyes wide with terror, he taps the paper urgently, “Stee? Stee in?? Many??”

“Yeah… Stee in, but not many.”

“Stee no! Stee not safe!” Eddie taps the paper, “Stee no! Bad bad!” Eddie's clearly horrified by the thought of Steve in The Upside Down.

“I won’t buddy okay, no more,” Steve taps the page, “finished.”

That seems to placate Eddie, he sits back, staring still at what Steve’s drawn, “dark TV,” he says quietly.

Steve gets his pencil and draws a stick figure with curly hair and a long pointed tail, he draws a little arrow and writes, ‘Eddie’, next to it, “Eddidie?”

“Yeah,” Steve tells him, “we call this place The Upside Down. That’s where you come from, The Upside Down.”

“The upside Down. Stee come from?”

“Hawkins Indiana.”

“Hawkins Indiana.”

“Yeah Buddy, that's where we are now. That’s what this place is called. Listen,” Steve draws another stick figure with a tail near to Eddie on the paper, “are there more like you there?” Steve taps his little drawing. Then he draws another stick figure mermaid, just for good measure.

“Yes.”

“Many?”

“Many many.”

“Do you...miss them?”

Eddie tilts his head.

“Okay Buddy, you and me, we’re friends,” Eddie nods, “and the kids. Birdie. Jon, Nancy. They’re our friends.” Steve taps the page again, “friend?”

Eddie shakes his head, “no,” he purses his lips, looks around, thinking, “Stee...pear, celery, grape?”

“Yeah, I know, food. That’s food.”

“Food...no many food in Upside Down.” Eddie taps the page, then hisses, clawing and biting the air a little.

“Fight. You had to fight them for food?”

“Fight. Yes,” Eddie takes the pencil and aggressively scribbles out the other two stick figure mermaids, Steve can’t help but chuckle.

“Well, you don’t have to fight anyone here buddy. No fight. All the pears are Eddie’s.”

Steve wakes up to something tickling his nose and something else digging viciously into his ribs. He feels a little attacked considering it’s first thing in the morning. He blinks awake, shifting, and his back screams at him.

Well fuck. The couch might look fancy, and it might be alright for sitting on, but it’s shit for sleeping on.

Especially when you’ve got a bony as fuck fish guy sleeping on you, “hi Eddie.”

“Hi Stee,” Eddie replies into the front of Steve’s shirt.

“Any more bad dreams?”

“No. No bad dreams. Stee good,” and Eddie pats Steve’s chest, “Stee dream?”

“No buddy, I’m all good too. But...if you do have bad dreams, you should come find me, okay? If you want to.”

“Stee find Eddidie?”

Which, yeah, Steve guesses, that is what happened last night, “yeah Buddy, like that.”

Eddie shifts again, and Steve realizes that it’s Eddie’s bony fucking elbows that might be trying to stab him in the guts, “we should get up,” and Eddie does, sitting up with no regard for the fact that means he’s sitting right on Steve’s lap – and his morning wood.

Eddie wriggles.

“Right, nope,” Steve sits, spreading his legs so that Eddie falls through and gets dumped onto the couch cushion, letting Steve slide away and stand up, “I’m going to go shower.”

“And Eddidie?”

“Yup, but you can go after me,” Steve is telling him, as Eddie follows him up the stairs.

That night, Steve isn’t even really asleep yet when he hears the quiet noise of Eddie making his way up the stairs. The soft susurration of Eddie moving across the carpet, and then the door being pushed the rest of the way open.

Steve lifts the covers, inviting Eddie in, “but take that off, it’s got dirty today,” Eddie does, pulling off the jersey and climbing in, lying face to face with Steve.

“Hi Stee,” Eddie whispers.

Steve smiles, “hi buddy,” he whisper back, “bad dream?”

Eddie nods.

“What about? Tell me?”

“Tell...dream?”

“Yeah.”

Eddie thinks, biting his lip a little, probably trying to work out how to explain it. Eventually he volunteers, “in Upside Down.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, because he figured as much.

Slowly, Eddie brings both hands up. He puts his palms on his cheeks, then covers his face with interlocked fingers. Steve has a mounting sense of horror; already certain he knows where this is going.

Slowly, Eddie lifts them, unlacing his fingers, like the spread of petals on his face.

“Demogorgon,” Steve whispers.

“Eddidie is food.”

Steve can’t really express the sheer amount of horror the thought fills him with, so he just pulls Eddie into a hug instead, “you’re safe now buddy. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

Steve actually manages to fall asleep alright with Eddie’s tail wrapped around his legs, and if he dreams, he doesn’t remember it, coming awake to the now familiar sound of a chair being dragged across the kitchen floor.

Steve heads downstairs to see what Eddie’s up to; he’s at the bottom step when the smell of coffee hits him, and he vaguely wonders if Robin or someone is here.

No. Just Eddie. He’s seen Steve work the coffee machine enough times to work it out for himself, obviously, and there’s a full cup waiting ready on the counter. On the table there’s a plate with a piece of dry toast on it, but there’s a jar of jelly from the fridge. A half full bowl of cereal (no milk) and a single pear.

“Eddie...did you make me breakfast?”

Eddie grins at him, and Steve just about rescues the mug of coffee from him before Eddie tries to make it across the kitchen one handed.

“Buddy this is...so good. Thank you so much.”

Part Ten

[dark-dawn]

you peel a pomegranate and watch as it bleeds, its juices staining your fingertips as you rip apart its flesh and devour the seeds within. you wonder if this is how the gods feel when they consume you, too. or, satoru gojo is born as the son of zeus. his fate does not change.

✭ pairing: demigod!gojo x mortal!reader

✭ contains: fem!reader, mutual pining, obsessive!gojo, religious imagery, greek mythology, slight manga spoilers, it's about him being used as a weapon, it's about him rediscovering his humanity, hurt/comfort, mortals can’t usually see him, but then he meets you, it drives him a little insane, mild sexual content, everyone is doomed by the narrative, slight angst, daddy issues!gojo, son of dionysus!geto.

✭ word count: 10k (utter agony) ✭ a/n: chapter 261 destroyed me, so i decided to write this as a coping mechanism :')

The first night you meet Satoru, the rain is relentless — a heavy downpour saturating the world in a thick curtain of silver. You stand alone on an empty street corner, the flickering glow of streetlights casting long, shifting shadows across the slick pavement. Water streams down your skin, soaking through your clothes and dripping from the ends of your hair.

Then, in a blink, a man appears on the opposite side of the street.

You notice how his lips curl into a sly, knowing grin, as if he’s been expecting you — as if he’s been waiting for this exact moment. You feel an unsettling sensation gnawing at the edges of your consciousness. You can’t shake the feeling there’s something slithering beneath the surface of his skin, raw and untamed, waiting to break free from its constraints.

The rain does not touch him, and the air crackles with an energy that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. It feels a little like you’ve stumbled upon a creature masquerading as a man — familiar yet foreign, like opening your bedroom door only to find a wolf staring back you.

A flash of lightning illuminates the sky, followed by a loud crack of thunder. The storm intensifies, and you see it — electricity surging through him, piercing deep into his flesh. He stands with his arms outstretched like a crucifixion, his body twisting in agonised ecstasy as tendrils of light entwine around him. The heavens roar, a judgment passed, and his form is illuminated with a halo of searing, holy light. It’s blinding, and then gone in a heartbeat. As if you imagined it.

He tilts his head ever so slightly, assessing you, weighing your worth. It’s not quite human.

You wonder how swiftly you might be devoured, a rabbit caught between his teeth, the taste of your own vulnerability lingering on his tongue.

“You’re different,” he finally speaks, his voice cutting through the roar of the tempest. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re not like the others.”

You swallow hard, the weight of his gaze pressing down on you like a physical force — prey caught in a trap. “What do you mean?”

He takes a step closer, his movements fluid and graceful despite the violence of the storm. “Most mortals are blind to the truth,” he replies. “But you see me.”

“I don’t understand,” you breathe, heart pounding in your chest.

You notice that his eyes are a preternatural shade of electric blue, lightning trapped within the confines of human form.

“You will,” he promises. He says it with such certainty, as if it were an undeniable truth of the universe.

Perhaps it is. Perhaps he truly possesses that kind of power.

“What are you?” Your voice is barely audible over the cacophony of rain and wind.

His laughter echoes in the darkness, mingling with the rumble of thunder. “I am many things.” His smile widens, a gleam of amusement flashing in his eyes. “A messenger, perhaps.”

Before you can reply, another bolt of lightning splits the sky, illuminating his form in stark relief against the darkness. In that brief moment of clarity, you catch a glimpse of something beyond comprehension — something primal and ancient, older than time itself, gazing back at you with a smile.

---

Satoru is his father’s favourite child, and so the gods watch him every day.

He eats when they command. He sleeps when they command. When they ask for his devotion, his rage, his life, he cannot deny them. Their whispers infest his mind — always judging, decreeing, demanding — and he cannot silence them. He has been neatly erased and sculpted anew, again and again. The pain has long since faded.

He wants and wants and craves and needs and wants. They do not hear him. He fears he is forgetting his own name. His knees are raw and bruised and bleeding. How long must he pray? How long will he repent? He feels the blood under his skin and his heart throbbing in his chest, and he wants to claw it out and swallow it whole.

And then Satoru meets you. His longing grows teeth, and he wants to sink them into the marrow of your bones, to consume until there is nothing left but the echo of his name on your lips.

You can see him. He doesn’t remember the last time someone has.  

And so, he follows you.

He observes your every move, drinking in the sight of you as if trying to decipher a puzzle that has long confounded him. Other mortals pass by without a second glance, their minds clouded by the mundane concerns of their mundane lives.

He’s currently trailing behind you in a grocery store. He doesn’t think he’s ever been in one before.

The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a sterile glow over rows of neatly stacked shelves. It’s been years since he’s tasted mortal food, years since he’s felt the sensation of hunger gnawing at his insides. He can almost remember what it was like — the taste of ripe fruit on his tongue, the feeling of warmth spreading through his body with each bite.

His childhood memories are but fragments now, faded and softened like aged parchment, but he thinks of his mother often. She had treated him with kindness — fed and comforted him. He remembers the way she whispered stories of heroes and villains, of spirits and curses. It is perhaps the only vestige of humanity that remains within him. But then she had died, and left him with his father.

The gods are cruel and fickle. This is the oldest story he knows. Maybe it’s the only story that matters.

But now, he has better things to occupy himself with.

“Hello, little mortal.”

You’re startled by the unexpected voice. “You...” you begin, mouth agape like a fish. “I remember you. From the storm.”

“It seems fate has brought us together once again,” he says, smiling in a way that shows too many teeth.

“…In a grocery store?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he replies, his tone mocking and sharp. “Perhaps a dark alley is more to your taste? Maybe an abandoned warehouse?”

Other customers pass by without so much as a glance in his direction, their eyes sliding right over him as if he were nothing more than a ghost.

“Why are you here? Are you following me?”

“You’re asking the wrong questions, sweetheart.”

Then —

“Who are you?”

“There,” he grins. “Much better.”

He leans in closer, his presence electrifying the air around you. “I am the son of thunder and lightning,” he says, his voice low and resonant. “You are the first in centuries to see me for what I truly am. And for that, you have my interest and my gratitude.”

“I — you’re welcome?” you reply, your confusion palpable, and he finds himself quite enjoying the sight of you flustered and disorientated. “But what’s going on? Why am I the only one who can see you?”

“Maybe you’re blessed by the gods,” he muses. “Or maybe you’re just very lucky. Both, perhaps.”

“Lucky? This is crazy.” Your voice falters like a dancer stumbling mid-performance. “You’re crazy.”

He smiles. “Overwhelming, isn’t it? But don’t worry, you’re not losing your mind. Everything you see and hear is quite real.”

Satoru often wishes things were not real — that he had been born a simple soldier, just another grunt faithfully serving his leader, destined to fight and die in some random, meaningless battle. He would be lost to history, lost to the gods, and no one would remember his name or who his father was. Sometimes, he even thinks that might be preferable to this world, but he doesn’t want to scare you off that badly.

You exhale slowly, steadying yourself. “Okay, okay. So, what happens now? What do you want from me?”

“Nothing more than your company,” he replies. Satoru had always been a selfish child, unwilling to part with his toys, reluctant to share. This would be no exception. “You can expect to see me again soon. Don’t miss me too much, sweetheart.”

He watches you for a moment longer, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. And then, just as suddenly as he appeared, he fades into the shadows once more, leaving you standing alone in the store. As if you had imagined it.

It isn’t until later, when he’s alone with his thoughts and the gods’ whispers, that he realises something peculiar: the voices in his head fall silent in your presence.

He’s uncertain of its implications, yet strangely pleased by the trouble it promises. He’s always had a talent for pissing off his father.

---

The steady beat of the rain against the windows is soothing as you step into the shower. Steam envelops the room, clouding the mirrors and curling into a comforting haze around you. It had been a while since you were able to relax like this — thoughts of gods and monsters plaguing your mind with unsettling frequency. You were familiar with Greek mythology, of course, but it was one thing to enjoy studying history, another thing to relive it.

You had tried to convince yourself that it had never happened, that you just had an overactive imagination fuelled by reading too many fantasy books as a child. No, you weren’t being followed by a demigod; this was just a prelude to a wild, miraculous adventure. Maybe you’d slay a dragon, marry a handsome elven prince. This story wouldn’t be a Greek myth — you wouldn’t be swallowed by the sea, molten wings dripping down your spine; you wouldn’t walk into hell, never to return.

You’re halfway through rinsing the shampoo from your hair when you hear a strange rustling sound from outside the bathroom. You pause, water streaming down your face, listening intently. The noise is faint but persistent, coming from the direction of the kitchen. Your pulse quickens, mouth dry. It seems unlikely someone is trying to rob you; your apartment holds nothing of real value, nothing worth stealing. Perhaps a wild animal has found its way inside, seeking shelter from the storm.

You turn off the shower, wrapping a towel around yourself as you cautiously step out of the bathroom. The sound grows louder as you approach the kitchen. Your mind races through the possibilities, each one more improbable than the last.

Peeking around the corner, you brace yourself for whatever you might find.

Instead, you find the Son of Zeus rummaging through your cabinets. He looks up at you, unfazed by your dripping state, and grins widely.

You suppose you were right about the wild animal creeping in.

“You should really keep more snacks,” he says, holding up an empty bag of chips accusingly.

“Oh my god, I thought I was going to die.” You’re uncertain if you still might.

“Gods,” he corrects, and you’re really struggling to reconcile the image of him in the storm with the person now, complaining about your food options and grammar.

“You can’t just appear out of nowhere and start raiding my kitchen,” you hiss, wrapping the towel tighter around yourself.

“But it’s raining. You should’ve known I’d drop by.” he says, frowning, as if this were the most reasonable explanation in the world and not completely insane.

“Next time, send a text, a messenger pigeon, literally anything else. I think I’m going to have a heart attack.”

He shrugs, unperturbed. “Consider it a lesson in being prepared. You never know when a god might appear.”

“I could have been naked!” you retort, your voice rising in frustration. This is perhaps the least of your worries, but common sense and self-preservation has apparently abandoned you.

“Don’t shout at me about that! Besides, you’re in a towel, so crisis averted!” He seems disappointed by this fact. You want to throw something at him.

“I am not shouting!” you say, shouting. “I am communicating my annoyance.”

“With what? Your lungs?”

You cross your arms tightly over your chest, a stubborn set to your jaw as you turn mulishly silent. You can’t believe you’re being stalked by a demigod.

He heaves a deep sigh, leaning against your kitchen counter. “Fine, I’m sorry. I had not meant to upset or startle you.”

“Please stop following me.”

He ignores you completely, instead pulling out a can of soup and examining it with a bemused expression. “Seriously, how do you live like this? No ambrosia, no nectar. Not even a decent piece of fruit.”

“Get out of my apartment, I swear to god.”

“Gods,” he grins, before disappearing once more.

--- You realise you must have terrible luck when he begins to follow you around more persistently after the shower incident, no longer bothering to even hide his presence. It’s a little odd to have a demigod trailing behind you like a stray dog, but any initial wariness melts away when you catch him eating your cereal. He develops an immediate liking for Rice Krispies, insisting you keep the cupboards stocked with them. It feels as if you’re catering to a spoiled prince, but you suspect even that would be easier to handle.

But the sight of him — this divine, impossible entity — utterly engrossed in his breakfast is strangely endearing.

You still wish he wasn’t eating your cereal, though, and he never cleans his mugs after using them, and —

“You’ve never asked for my name, you know,” he says, interrupting your thoughts.

“Believe it or not, there’s a reason for that,” you reply, eyeing him cautiously. “Namely, you were never invited into my apartment in the first place.”

“You’re always so mean,” he sighs dramatically, “but I suppose I can forgive you this once. It’s Satoru.”

“I would say it’s nice to meet you, but I think I’d be lying.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Everyone likes me.”

“Are you sure? How many people do you talk to? Humans, I mean, not gods.”

He pauses, considering. “Then the gods like me.”

“Is that a good thing?”

He shrugs, his expression pensive. “I’m not sure.”

It occurred to you that you should be frightened of him. You are not.

You suspect he might just be lonely.

(And you, well, you’ve always had a soft spot for strays.)

---

His random appearances in your apartment were becoming a daily occurrence now. One moment you’d be brewing coffee, and the next, he’d be sitting at your kitchen table like he was the one paying rent. He would ask questions incessantly, about the most mundane things — the colour of your curtains, the taste of cake, the texture of your favourite sweater. It made you wonder if you were hallucinating, if perhaps the stress of daily life had finally taken its toll on your sanity. But the more you interacted with him, the more you realised that he was undeniably — and annoyingly — real. You couldn’t possibly invent a creature like him.

In response, you had started asking him questions back. If he was going to be spending an uncomfortable amount of time with you, he owed you this. Plus, it seemed like he enjoyed the sound of his own voice — perhaps you could tire him out and he’d go find another mortal to pester.

The likelihood of that happening seemed slim at best, but one could pray.

“What are the gods like?” you ask, biting into a croissant he bought from a little bakery down the street. You’re not exactly sure where he got the money, but you’re not going to argue with free food.

“Describing the gods to a mortal is like trying to paint a picture without a canvas.” He furrows his brow, searching for the right words. “They’re vast, incomprehensible beings, each embodying different aspects of existence. Some are benevolent, while others are more…capricious.”

“And you’re similar to them?”

“In some ways, perhaps. But I’m also different,” he begins, “I’m not bound by the same rules and regulations that govern the gods. I have a bit more... freedom, you could say. I’m not beholden to any particular domain or duty.”

You nod, definitely not admiring the way the sunlight catches in his hair as he speaks. “What about your powers? Are they granted by your father?”

The idea that his father is a god is still strange, lingering in your thoughts like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit into the picture of the world you thought you knew.

“Yes, in a way. Zeus’s blood flows through my veins, so I can control the elements. I have the power to summon storms, manipulate lightning, bend the fabric of reality to my will.” He smiles, and it reminds you of a cat, smug and self-assured. “I’m powerful, you know.”

You roll your eyes at him. “You’re so cocky.”

“You would be too if you were me,” he grins.

But then you notice a shadow pass over his features. “Don’t mistake it for pride, though,” he continues, his expression tightening into a scowl. “I may not be bound by their rules, but I’m still expected to worship them, perhaps more than the average mortal.”

You furrow your brow. “But you’re the son of Zeus, why are you still expected to worship them?”

His laughter echoes through the room. “Because that’s the way it’s always been. You know the myths — they give you attention when it suits them, but they can just as easily cast you aside when they grow bored.”

“You’re caught between two worlds, then — not quite mortal, yet not fully divine,” you reply, frowning. “It sounds painful.”

“You seem worried about me,” he grins.

You can tell he’s trying to deflect, and you let him.

You briefly wonder what would happen if he carved out every unwanted emotion until only his soul remained. Would he shatter that, too? Break it down into more manageable pieces?

Had he tried to purge them, surgically extract sorrow, fear, anger, believing that what remained would be purer, stronger?

“I’m not worried about you,” you retort, crossing your arms defensively.

“Of course not,” he replies, teasing. “But don’t worry, I can handle myself.”

“On your own?”

His falters for a moment. “On my own,” he repeats.

Before you can press further, he seems to shut down, his expression becoming unreadable, like a mask slipping into place.

And then, without another word, he disappears.

You’re left standing there, alone, as if you had imagined it.

---

The next time you see him, Satoru is standing outside the door of your apartment. It’s a rare sight — he hardly ever bothers with such formalities as knocking. Usually, he strolls around your place without a care in the world, as if the boundaries of your home were mere suggestions rather than solid walls.

You notice the tension in his stance, the way he seems almost hesitant to cross the threshold. But it’s only when you see the blood that your unease turns to alarm. Flecks of red dot his hair, his hands, staining the fabric of his clothing, none of it his own — there’s not a scratch on him.

You hesitate, unsure whether to approach or flee, to lock the door and pretend you never saw him. But there’s a look in his eyes that stops you from walking away.

“What happened?” you ask cautiously.

“It’s nothing.”

“You’re dripping in blood, and that’s nothing?”

He exhales heavily, and he suddenly reminds you of Atlas, the weight of the world resting upon his shoulders. “Trouble,” he replies cryptically, his shoulders sagging. “More than I bargained for.”

You step closer, reaching out your hand to touch him, but he flinches away, as if the contact is too much to bear.

“Can I help?” you offer tentatively, the words slipping from your lips before you can fully comprehend their weight.

“I don’t know,” he admits, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

“Why don’t you come inside?”

He nods, conceding defeat. “Alright,” he murmurs. “Alright.”

Together, you guide him to the nearest chair, his body slumping heavily as if drained of all strength.

You step into the kitchen, your footsteps soft against the cool tile floor. Opening the cupboard, you retrieve a clean towel and a small bowl, filling it with lukewarm water from the sink.

As you return to the living room, you offer him a small smile, much like coaxing a stray cat, as you place the bowl and towel within reach. “Close your eyes,” you instruct gently.

He complies without hesitation, tilting his head back to grant you better access. Dipping a corner of the towel into the water, you carefully press it against his scalp, the fabric absorbing the blood with each gentle pat. Root to tip, you work your way through his hair, your touch light as you cleanse away the stains. As you work, you can feel the tension slowly seeping out of his body, his muscles relaxing beneath your touch.

After a few moments of silence, Satoru speaks, his voice barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

You pause, glancing at him. “Are you okay?”

“What?”

“I’m asking if you’re okay.”

He sits up, his expression guarded, as if he’s shielding himself from further vulnerability.

“That doesn’t matter right now,” he replies. “My feelings are irrelevant to the gods.”

You can sense the bitterness in his tone, the weight of centuries of servitude pressing down upon.

“That’s ridiculous,” you counter, your voice firm. “You’re a person, with your own thoughts and needs and wants. That matters more than anything.”

“You don’t understand. Being okay, feeling okay — it’s not something I can afford to indulge in.” He hesitates, his expression unreadable. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with such trivial matters. I am what I am, and nothing will change that.”

“You deserve more than that,” you reply firmly. You won’t let him deflect again.

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, his expression shifts from stoic resolve to something resembling surprise. It’s as if the concept of deserving more — of having a life beyond duty and sacrifice — is a foreign idea, one he has never entertained. He blinks, his eyes widening slightly, and you realise that no one has ever told him this before. The idea that he could desire something beyond his obligations seems to catch him off guard.

“Do I?” he asks cautiously, as if afraid of the answer.

“Yes, you do. You’re not a machine. You’re a person. You’re more than what the gods expect of you.”

He looks away, his gaze distant as he processes your words. “It’s hard to believe that after everything I’ve done,” he admits quietly. “I’ve spent so long being what they wanted me to be. I don’t know how to be anything else.”

He takes a deep breath. “No one has seen me in years, not really. I’ve forgotten how long it’s been. The only ones who notice me are the gods and cursed spirits. My friends are long gone. Some are in the Elysian Fields, others in the Underworld, forever lost to me.”

He pauses. “I’ve watched centuries pass, mortals live and die, while I remain. Your kindness is something I haven’t felt in a long time.”

For a moment, he looks at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and uncertainty.

Then, with a voice barely above a whisper, he confesses, “I often feel like I am no more than a ghost.”

Oh, you realise, he has no one else.

He’s all alone.

“I see no ghost.” You grasp his wrist gently, feeling his pulse, the warmth in his hands. “Only a man, flesh and blood, right here with me.”

A corner of his mouth twitches, as if trying to restrain a smile. You wonder what would happen if he let go of all his control.

But then he clenches his jaw, steeling himself again before speaking. “I owe you an explanation for showing up here like this.” He looks away from you, his eyes fixed on some distant point. “The blood is from cursed spirits. The gods ordered me to kill them. Hundreds of them, for days on end. Over and over again.”

As he speaks, you can see the weight of his burden etched in the tension of his muscles, in the tautness of his posture. “The spirits were twisted, corrupted beyond redemption. They brought only chaos and suffering to those around them.”

“But why you? Why not another demigod?”

“Because I’m the strongest. And if I refused, the consequences would have been dire.” He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “This is not new to me; I have been doing this for hundreds of years.”

“The gods... they speak to me constantly, relentless in their demands. There’s no respite, no break from their commands.” His voice softens slightly as he looks at you. “But with you, they’re silent. I’m not sure why. Only that I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into this.”

You blink, and then without thinking — instinctively, inevitably — your arms move towards him, pulling him into a hug. At first, he stiffens, as if unaccustomed to touch or kindness after years of solitude. But gradually, almost imperceptibly, he relaxes, leaning into your warmth.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe into the side of his neck.

“What for?” he asks, his voice tinged with bewilderment, as if he can’t quite comprehend your empathy.

“For everything you’ve had to endure. For the weight you carry, for the constant demands placed upon you. For helping people for centuries, without anyone to thank you.”

“I never expected...” he begins, his voice trailing off as he struggles to find the right words. “I never expected this.”

“Thank you,” you say, “for everything.”

His arms tighten around you, and it’s a small victory, a crack in the armour he wears so tightly.

As you pull back from the hug, there’s a brief moment of hesitation, a reluctance to let go. But you step back, allowing him some space.

“So,” you continue, “how about some pizza? I know a great place nearby.”

Terrible junk food always cheered you up — perhaps it would work on demigods, too.

His brow furrows in confusion. “What’s that?”

“Oh, I have so many things to show you.”

Has he ever had ice-cream? Greasy chicken nuggets? You realise with startling clarity that you want to introduce him to everything he’s missed, to show him the world, if you can.

You’ll psychoanalyse yourself later.

“I feel like a stray cat that’s just been adopted.”

“You are,” you grin.

---

That night, you dream.

Darkness envelops you, a suffocating shroud that clings to your skin. You find yourself standing in a desolate landscape, the ground beneath your feet cold and lifeless, covered in a fine layer of ash. The sky above is a vast expanse of swirling shadows, devoid of stars and moonlight. You are utterly alone.

And then, from the shadows, a figure emerges.

“You have trespassed into a realm not meant for mortal eyes,” his voice rasps, as though unused for years.

The figure steps closer, his form shifting and flickering like a flame in the wind. Long black hair frames a face that seems too perfect, too flawless to belong to any world. He reminds you of Satoru, but colder, more distant.

“You are in the Underworld,” he continues. “A place where the boundaries between life and death blur, where mortals are not meant to linger.”

“Why?” you manage to ask, but the words feeling thick and foreign on your tongue.

The weight of the atmosphere presses down on you, making your limbs feel heavy as if you’re wading through sticky, dense molasses.

“Because of the Son of Zeus. Mortals are fragile, easily ensnared by the allure of gods.”

“I don’t understand.” You wish he would speak clearly, cut through the riddles and half-truths.

“Satoru is bound by duty and legacy. His path is one of sacrifice and solitude. To draw close to him is to court danger.”

“But he needs help. He’s suffering.”

“Suffering is his burden to bear. Mortals and gods do not walk the same path.” He pauses, his gaze distant, like he’s not even looking at you anymore. “Turn back. Forget what you have seen. Forget you ever met him.”

It’s as if you’re underwater, each movement slow and weighted by unseen currents. But you know what you’re saying is important, that it carries weight.

“I can’t do that.”

“You defy the natural order. To involve yourself in the affairs of gods and their chosen is to court calamity.”

“I can’t turn away,” you insist. “He’s all alone.”

Uncertainty churns within you, a tumultuous mix of emotions that you don’t know how to navigate. You’re unsure when these feelings caught up to you, but you can at least recognise the depth of your own attachment. You’re scared of the consequences, but it pales beside the thought of doing nothing — of knowing you could do something, be something, and still choosing to walk away.

So, you take a step closer. “I won’t abandon him.”

The figure’s form shimmers momentarily, as if contemplating your words. “Fine,” he concedes, a fleeting hint of sympathy in his eyes. “But know this, mortals who tread where gods roam seldom emerge unscathed.”

“I understand.”

With a nod, he gestures toward a faint glimmer in the darkness. “Go then, but don’t say I didn’t warn you both.”

You wake suddenly, drenched in sweat, your heart pounding in your chest. For a moment, the darkness of the dream clings to your senses, blurring the edges of reality and casting your world into a cold, disorienting haze. Gradually, the details of your bedroom come into focus — the familiar contours of furniture, the posters on your walls, the soft glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains. You sit up, pulling your knees close to your chest, attempting to steady your breathing.

And then, as if he can sense your discomfort, Satoru is by your side.

“You’re awake,” he says gently, a tenderness in his voice that catches you off guard. It hadn’t occurred to you that he might care about your wellbeing, too,

You nod silently, unable to find words, your hands trembling.

“A nightmare?” he asks, his eyes searching yours.

“Yeah,” you manage to whisper. “Of the Underworld.”

“I’m sorry you had to see that.” he says softly. “Even the gods find it unbearable.”

“How did you know something was wrong?”

“…I’m not sure. It felt like I was missing a limb.” He pauses, contemplating. “It felt like a part of me was torn away, and I couldn’t find it.”

“What’s going on with the two of us?” You feel as if you’re two stars in orbit, drawn together by something neither of you can understand. “Why is this happening?”

“I’m confused too,” he admits, almost apologetically. “But I’m going to do some research, try to understand what’s happening.”

You exhale slowly, thoughts swirling as you try to make sense of it all. “In the dream, I saw someone. They warned me about you, about being close to the gods.”

Satoru’s brow furrows slightly, his expression troubled. “They have reason to caution you,” he replies. “There are dangers you don’t yet understand.”

“But I don’t want to leave you,” you confess. A simple truth, but it still feels disarming to admit. “I want to understand, to help if I can.”

Satoru reaches out, his hand finding yours in the dark.

“You already do,” he murmurs. “But I don’t expect that of you.”

The faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen blends with the occasional rumble of passing traffic outside, but otherwise, all you can hear are his slow, steady breaths, calming in the quiet of the night.

“Will you stay?” you ask.

He feels as safe as the earth and as steady as the trees — natural and unwavering, like something that can withstand time itself.

“Of course.” He says it without hesitation, as easy as breathing.

You shift slightly, making room for him on the bed, and he settles beside you, close but not quite touching.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“Sleep. You’re safe here.”

You allow yourself to relax, reassured by the knowledge that you are not alone. That he isn’t, either.

---

You wake to the scent of something burning. It feels almost symbolic.

Groggy and sluggish, you stumble out of bed and shuffle towards the kitchen, silently praying that your apartment isn’t ablaze — that you aren’t the target of divine retribution from some irate deity. Pushing open the door, you find Satoru standing by the stove, a look of intense concentration on his face as he prods at a pan of charred bacon.

“Satoru?” you call out, half-amused and half-concerned. “What are you doing?”

“I... uh, thought I’d try to make breakfast, but it didn’t exactly go to plan.”

“Well, it looks like you’ve mastered the art of making charcoal,” you reply, moving to his side.

“It’s harder than I thought,” he admits, frowning at the pan.

“The big, scary demigod can’t cook,” you coo, gently nudging him with your elbow.

He stares at the bacon with contempt.

“Cereal?”

“I’ll get the milk.”

You set aside the burnt bacon and clear the stove, grabbing a couple of bowls from the cupboard while Satoru retrieves the Rice Krispies. Together, you sit at the table in comfortable silence, the early morning sunlight filtering through the kitchen window.

“You know, it’s nice to see this side of you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that you’re no longer particularly intimidating to me anymore.”

“Don’t tempt me. I could still burn you to a crisp,” he huffs.

“I’ll take my chances.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re not as terrifying as you pretend to be.”

“Please don’t tell anyone.”

“No promises,” you laugh.

A pause, and then —

“Can I show you something?” he asks you, still smiling. “Hold your hand up.”

Curious, you extend your hand toward him, but as your palm nears his, you feel a subtle resistance, an invisible barrier surrounding him. No matter how hard you try, you can’t get close.

“Is this a magic trick or something?”

He laughs, the sound warm and genuine, and you definitely don’t want to admit how much you enjoy hearing it.

“Not exactly. You’re the first to call it that,” he replies. “What you’re feeling is my Limitless technique. It creates an infinite amount of space between me and everything else.”

“So, nothing can ever touch you?” Despite being in the presence of the most powerful, impossible man you’ve ever encountered, your mind can only fixate on the idea of touching him. You should be in awe, or even fear — literally anything else — but apparently, logic and reason evaporate in his presence.

“Only if I want it to,” he answers, his gaze steady on yours.

The air hums with a faint energy as the barrier fades, allowing your palm to finally connect with his. He slides his fingers between yours, his touch surprisingly gentle, almost reverent.

“There,” he murmurs. “Now you can feel it.”

You can’t help but notice how large Satoru’s hands are, his fingers long and strong as they intertwine with yours.

You blink, and a sudden, sinking realisation washes over you.

Your eyes trace the unblemished ivory of his skin, the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his throat. You can’t help but wonder what it would feel like if his touch roamed further.

Then, as if sensing your thoughts, his thumb grazes the bare skin of your arm. His touch is so delicate as he traces a path down from your elbow to your forearm, it’s almost as if he’s not touching you at all.

You realise with sudden clarity that you want him to touch you. You fear you might not let him stop, that you would allow him anything he asked.

The intensity of your emotions takes you by surprise. You reluctantly pull away, breaking the spell that had woven itself around you.

Now is not the time for this.

You couldn’t shake the feeling you were adrift in a storm-tossed sea, waves crashing around you, threatening to pull you under at any moment. And yet, strangely enough, you felt no fear. Not of him. Perhaps you should be terrified; perhaps there was something fundamentally broken inside of you, something that even the gods couldn’t save. But his presence, despite its intensity, was the eye of the storm, the still point around which everything else swirled. And somehow, that made all the difference.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I’m fine.”

(Having a crush on a demigod was very much not fine, but he doesn’t need to know that.)

---

“Are any of the gods happy?”

You’re lying side by side, nestled in a field of tall grass that sways gently in the breeze. The warmth of the day hangs thick in the air, while the branches of nearby trees rustle gently, their leaves casting dappled patterns of sunlight over your intertwined fingers.

It was your idea to get out of the house, to show him something good and pure and timeless. The spot you had chosen is a favourite from your childhood, a place you’d escape to when you were stressed and overwhelmed. The scent of grass and earth brings back memories of those afternoons, when time seemed to stretch lazily and worries felt distant. Here, the biggest decision was whether to sit by the stream or follow a path through the woods.

As you lie there together, the scene feels almost sacred, as if the world has paused just for this moment of quiet between you.

You look at him and see the way the sunlight falls softly on his face, highlighting all the details you’d come to know by heart — the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, the warmth in his eyes. His features are etched in your memory so deeply now that you could recognise him by touch alone.

In moments like these, it’s easy to forget the boundaries between mortal and divine.

“Happy?” he repeats. “I don’t know if happiness is something they seek,” he muses, more to himself than to you. “They are driven by duty, by ancient laws and responsibilities that are beyond even me.”

The breeze brushes against your skin as you wait for him to finish his thought.

“They experience moments of contentment, perhaps,” he continues. “But true happiness? I’m not sure they even understand what that means.”

“Do you think they envy mortals, then?” you ask.

“Perhaps in fleeting moments. Mortals possess a freedom we cannot fully grasp, but envy implies a desire for something different. I’m not sure they allow themselves such thoughts.”

“Do you?”

“There are times when I wish I had their capacity to experience emotions so deeply and openly — joy and pain, love and loss,” he says, glancing down at your intertwined hands on the grass. “But I also understand my path is different. My duty lies elsewhere, even if it means sacrificing certain desires. I cannot change what I am. I just wish I could offer you more.”

“You’re more than enough,” you reply, gently squeezing his hand.

He hesitates for a moment, then nods slightly. “Thank you,” he murmurs, squeezing back.

After a moment of silence, he sits up a little straighter, his expression pensive. “About the nightmare,” he begins, “the man you met...” His voice trails off, and you can sense his reluctance to delve into something so distressing for you.

You offer him a small smile, encouraging him to continue. “It’s okay, don’t worry.”

“Did he say his name?

“I don’t think so. He just said that I was in the Underworld, that I should stay away from the gods. I remember he had dark hair and eyes, and…” you pause, recalling another detail, “and he mentioned he’d warned you, too.”

“Suguru,” he breathes. “It has to be.”

“Do you know him?”

“I knew him a long time ago, perhaps. He was the son of Dionysus. We grew up together, and for most of my life, he was my only friend.” He clenches his jaw, and you can’t quite read the emotion in his eyes. “He’s gone now. It’s been more than a hundred years since I last saw him.”

“Do you miss him?”

“I miss him and hate him in equal measure, even after all this time.” His tone is perfectly neutral, carefully restrained. “He was a genocidal idiot. I was ordered to kill him.”

“Oh,” you respond, unsure of what to offer someone who has lost so much. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he dismisses with a bitter laugh. “It was written by the fates long before you were born. I’m just confused as to why he’s haunting your dreams in particular.”

“We’ll figure this out together, Satoru,” you reply gently. “Whether it’s fate, the gods, or something else entirely, we’ll find answers.”

You feel as if interacting with a demigod on a daily basis has made everything feel more possible, like you could pluck the stars from the heavens or reshape the very earth beneath your feet. You’re uncertain if this is a positive development.

“You’re taking all of this remarkably well.” His brows crease in confusion. “I’ve told you my dead best friend appeared in your dreams, that I killed him — hell, that the gods are alive and real — and you’re comforting me?”

“Sometimes, acceptance is just easier than disbelief and denial. You’re my friend, as strange and impossible as that may be. I trust you.”

Satoru laughs, a touch of disbelief in his voice. “Thank you,” he replies, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “For everything.” He leans in, kissing the top of your head.

“Plus,” you say, rummaging in your tote bag, “while things may seem messy and confusing right now,” you admit, pulling out a small box, “I did bring cupcakes.”

“Cupcakes?” he repeats, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Yep,” you confirm, handing him the box. “Chocolate chip with vanilla frosting. I figured something sweet might help, even just a little.”

“I knew following you around was a good idea.”

---

Satoru is his father’s favourite son, so when the gods call, he answers.

He tries to avoid meetings like this as much as possible, but a summoning from Zeus cannot be ignored.

He stands in the throne room of Olympus, the distant rumble of thunder echoing through the halls. Marble columns stretch toward a vaulted ceiling adorned with celestial frescoes, the air heavy with the scent of ambrosia and incense. The throne, carved from solid gold and studded with precious gems, rests upon a dais, elevated above the chamber like a sentinel standing watch over its domain.

Satoru thinks it looks tacky.

Servants and lesser gods scurry about, casting furtive glances at the demigod standing in their midst. They know him by reputation — Zeus’s strongest warrior, his favoured son.

He resists the temptation to kill them all.

Time stretches on, but the wait is a familiar ritual. He is nothing more than a dog on a leash, awaiting his owner’s return.

Zeus’s arrival shatters the silence with a crash of thunder, shaking the very foundations of Olympus. The torches flare, casting wild flickers of light as the King of Gods materialises upon his throne. Seeing his father always feels like staring into a distorted mirror — the same blue eyes, the same white hair. It’s a bitter irony that he bears such a striking resemblance to the deity who holds his life in an iron grip.

“My son,” Zeus begins, his voice a deep rumble reverberating through the chamber. “You’ve been avoiding your duties.”

“I do as I am commanded, Father,” he replies. The words feel bitter on his tongue, but meetings with his father are always like this — laden with expectations, heavy with the weight of centuries-old obligations. Satoru often wondered if he ever got tired of hearing his own voice.

Zeus leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Do not think you can run from this,” he warns. “Sukuna must be faced, and it is you who must do it. You cannot shirk this responsibility.”

Satoru clenches his jaw. “When have I ever run from a fight? When have I ever lost?”  

“And yet you hesitate, you question your purpose.” Zeus counters, his tone sharp. “You are my son. This is your destiny.”

“Destiny,” he repeats, almost spitting the word. “Is that what this is? Or is it just another way to keep me bound to your will?”

Satoru is his father’s son through and through – he could never control his anger in his presence, could never hide behind a façade of humour and indifference. He hates himself for it, but he hates his father more for gifting him these traits, like some fucked-up inheritance.

Zeus’s expression hardens. “You would be wise to remember who you speak to.” He rises from the throne, his steps heavy and resonant. “This is not a matter of choice. You are bound by blood and fate. Do not let your arrogance blind you to the responsibilities you bear.”

“Responsibilities that you have imposed,” Satoru retorts. “I have never chosen this path, yet I carry its weight while the gods do nothing.”

“I assume this is the mortal’s influence, then,” Zeus says, looking down at him with disdain. “Pathetic.”

“Do not mention her,” he growls.

“You have grown attached,” Zeus observes, a hint of mockery in his tone. “You forget your place.”

“She is not just another pawn in your games.” Satoru can feel his power crawling under his skin, the air humming with electricity like a gathering storm.

He had nearly forgotten how the gods watched him, how every moment of vulnerability could be seized upon to remind him of his place. He had grown too comfortable in your presence, allowed himself to slip into a sense of normalcy that the gods did not allow for.

Zeus’s expression darkens, the air thickening with his displeasure. “She is a distraction,” he asserts, his voice cutting like a blade. “Sukuna’s threat grows stronger with each passing day, while you’ve found yourself a mortal whore.”

“Careful, Father. Keep talking like this and I will let Sukuna feast upon your lands and swallow your oceans whole,” he hisses.

Zeus’s eyes flash with divine fury. “Do not test me, Satoru. The mortal’s fate hangs in the balance of your obedience.”

“You would threaten her?” Satoru’s voice cracks like thunder.

“She is mortal,” Zeus counters coldly. “Fleeting and fragile, her existence is insignificant.”

“And it still holds more meaning than you can comprehend.”

Zeus steps closer, his presence overwhelming. “Do not mistake defiance for strength, Satoru. If you defy the will of Olympus, you will face the consequences.”

“You underestimate me, Father. Defiance is all I have left,” he seethes. “I will face Sukuna on my terms, or not at all. If you threaten her again, you will face the consequences.”

---

To Satoru, worship had always tasted bitter — rituals steeped in obligation, prayers echoing hollowly through marble halls. It has been a tangled knot of obligation and distant reverence, something to be endured rather than embraced.

And then he met you, and found a different kind of sacred.

As a child, he remembers his father telling him how he had divided humans into two, each forever longing to reunite with their other half. Satoru had scoffed at the notion then, dismissing it as another tale spun by gods to amuse themselves. But now, he wonders if perhaps there was truth in the tale after all.

“I wasn’t expecting you until later.” You smile when you see him, and Satoru wonders if this is what home feels like.

He remains quiet, his expression softening as he lifts you off your feet with ease, carrying you towards the couch. You settle onto his lap as he sits down, his arms wrapping securely around you.

The conversation with his father has left him brittle, fraying at the seams, but you always made it easier to breathe. 

You run your hands through his hair, noticing the tension in his muscles, the furrow in his brow. “What’s wrong?” you ask, concern lacing your voice.

“Nothin’, just missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you reply, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“It’s just been a long day,” he admits.

“What happened?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “I don’t want to drag you into my mess.”

“It’s not a mess if it’s you.”

He doesn’t quite know how to respond that, so he just presses his forehead to yours, tightening his embrace.

He wonders if this was inevitable — if this is always where he was supposed to be. Here, with you, like this.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“You worried about me, sweetheart?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, cheeks flushing, “I’ll always worry about you.”

He can’t help but wonder how far that redness might spread — if it travels down your neck and across your chest, if it touches places he’s only dared to dream about.

“You’re so cute,” he hums.

He notices you look especially pretty today, though you always do. Your dress fits you perfectly — cinched at the waist and snug at the top, with a neckline that’s a bit lower than usual. Not that he should be noticing any of this, or where the fabric ends.

But he can’t help but let his gaze linger on you for longer than is appropriate, tracing the curve of your thigh where your dress has ridden up. For a moment, he’s frozen, his mind racing with thoughts of the bare skin beneath — how easy it would be to push that little dress of yours up higher. He suspects that would solve most of his problems.

But he tears his eyes away, forces himself to focus squarely on you instead.  And then you shift in his lap, and all coherent thought abandons him. He feels the heat of your body against his, the softness of your skin, how effortlessly you fit against him.

You are the only divine thing he believes in — the altar at which he willingly kneels, pleading and beseeching.

He would beg if you asked him to.

(He would do anything you asked of him.)

Satoru has always been a selfish creature; perhaps that is why he’s unable to resist you, unwilling to contemplate ever letting you go. You have become his closest friend and greatest desire. He hasn’t stopped thinking about you since the moment he first met you.

He wants your hands in his hair, his fingers grazing against you, holding you down a little. He wants to push your skirt up until maybe, miraculously, you’re begging for him, too. He wants to take care of you, treat you how you deserve. Wants to feel how wet you get, the noises you’d make. He wants and wants and needs and —

“Satoru?”

“Sorry,” he says immediately, “I was just thinking about—”

Things he shouldn’t be, gazing at places he shouldn’t be, indulging in fantasies that are dangerous to entertain, especially with Zeus’s warnings ringing in his ears and Sukuna’s threat looming ever closer.

“—that Thai place down the road, want to order something?”

Casual. Normal. Perfectly in control.

(He’s decided he can’t have you sitting in his lap anymore; he worries he might accidentally set something on fire.)

---

“It’s so peaceful here.”

You’re sitting outside with him, staring up at the night sky. The stars sparkle like scattered diamonds, while the faint glow of city lights spills from below, casting a gentle haze on the horizon. It’s one of those nights where everything else seems distant and unimportant, the world shrinking down to just the two of you.

But something has shifted between you in recent months. There’s a new intensity in the way he holds you, his touch lingering longer, his gaze searching yours for something unspoken. Before, he was content with a hand resting lightly on your back, but now his grip around your waist is firm, almost possessive. He’s on edge, his body taut like a bowstring pulled too tight.

(And you really want to make him snap.)

You sometimes wonder if a constant battle rages within him, if his mortality wrestles with the divine power coursing through his veins. You see flashes of thunder in his eyes, the lightning crackle of emotions suppressed yet seething beneath the surface. It’s as if he stands at a precipice, teetering on the edge of control, where every touch, every word exchanged between you threatens to tip the balance. It both frightens and excites you, this dichotomy that makes him both ethereal and achingly human.

“I don’t think I ever want to leave,” he replies, tugging you closer to him. “And I won’t let you go anywhere, either.”

“You’re so clingy,” you say, laughing.

He grins, his fingers tracing a slow, teasing path along your waist. “Can you blame me?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

(You wish his fingers were touching other parts of you.)

“It’s not my fault you’re so pretty.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, flushing red.

“I don’t think I will, sweetheart.”

(You want to strangle and kiss him all at once – he’s always so frustrating.)

Down the hill behind you, someone is hosting a party. The faint hum of music weaves through the air, accompanied by occasional bursts of laughter. Lanterns sway gently, casting warm, shifting patterns across the dew-kissed grass. You wish all nights could be like this.

Here, with him, like this, you feel truly happy.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

“Just how insane it is I even met you. How it’s even more insane that I like you.”

“You like me?” His grin is devilish.

“I’m trying to have a moment of introspection here, not inflate your ego.”

“No, no, tell me how much you like me.”

“I take it back. I barely tolerate you.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I hate you so much.”

“No you don’t, quite the opposite actually.”

“Okay, fine,” you relent, unable to suppress a smile. “Maybe I like you a little.”

His grin turns into a satisfied smirk as he leans in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “Only a little?” he presses, his voice low and coaxing.

“Just enough to tolerate your cheesy lines and incessant teasing.”

He laughs, the sound rich and warm, causing a flutter in your chest. “That’s good to know.”

“I like you enough,” you say, “to want to stay here with you, too.”

“Careful,” he replies quietly, “You shouldn’t tempt me. You might find out just how much I like you back.”

Your feelings for him were beginning to feel like an oil spill; you’d let them overflow and now there was no way to clean up the mess. You’re not sure you even wanted to.

Your eyes flicker to his lips for just a second — a moment so fleeting, so small, you pray he overlooks it — but his lips curl into the smallest of smiles, and you know you’re truly fucked.

So, without thinking, without letting yourself pause and think for a second longer, you ask him a question you cannot return from:

“What if I wanted to tempt you?”

He looks at you like a predator would his prey, assessing and intense. You can’t help but think he is the most beautiful man you have ever seen.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “Would you let me kiss you?”

“I…” You’re embarrassed to realise you’re struggling to speak. His lips hover close to yours, a breath away, and you can imagine the feel of him against you, his body flush against yours. “Maybe.”

There’s a small smile playing on his lips, a blend of amusement and chastisement flickering in his eyes. “You really shouldn’t.”

His mouth traces a slow path down your neck, teasing and deliberate, but he refrains from kissing you. It’s as if he’s savouring the anticipation, drawing out the moment with a teasing, maddening patience. You wonder if he enjoys keeping you on edge like this, if he enjoys leaving a trail of heat and desperation wherever he lingers.

“Or maybe,” he continues, “you want me to kiss you?”

“Satoru,” you grumble, red-faced and wishing you could melt into the ground. “Stop teasing me.”

To his credit, he only lets out a small laugh. You genuinely think you might have murdered him otherwise, demigod or not. “I take it that’s a no, then?”

“You’re being so mean,” you whine.

“Am I, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “How about you tell me what you want?”

Your heart pounds in your chest, and you wonder if this is what Pandora felt like before she opened the box.

“I want you to kiss me,” you confess, both a surrender and challenge.

The moment you give him permission — the exact second — it’s as if he can’t resist any longer, pulling you close and pressing his lips against yours. Inevitable. Instinctual.

The kiss is anything but innocent; far from gentle or kind. You grasp his shirt, your fingers tightening as his hands roam appreciatively over the back of your dress. He holds you as though savouring something sacred, as if you’re the answer to a prayer he dared not utter. The world around you fades into a blur of sensations — the warmth of his body pressed against yours, the taste of him on your lips. You think you might die if he stops.

He deepens the kiss, intense and demanding, as if trying to leave a part of himself with you, to express what words alone cannot. You feel his breath hitch against your lips, a soft groan escaping as his tongue traces the line of your lower lip. There’s a hunger in the way he touches, an intensity that speaks of longing held in check for too long.

You wonder why you didn’t do this sooner — why you wasted so much time when you melt into him this easily, when your bodies fit together like they were made for this moment.

Your breath quickens, each inhale and exhale more desperate than the last. His touch sears through you like a wildfire, consuming every rational thought and making your heart race with an intensity that borders on painful. You cling to him, your fingers curling into his hair, urging him closer.

But then he breaks away, his forehead resting against yours. His breath is ragged, mirroring your own, and he brushes a strand of hair from your flushed face.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmurs.

“Why’d you stop?” you whine.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll always give you what you want.” His thumb traces the curve of your cheek. “I want to take it slow, take care of you properly.”

“I want you,” you whisper, a simple truth you cannot hide from.  

You knew that in all of the decisions in the world, he would be the most difficult. He was not something you could experiment with, not something you could predict or control — he was as wild as the winds, more myth than man, but you would choose him, again and again.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours with a hunger that matches your own. “And you’ll have me,” he vows. “We have all the time in the universe.”

---

Satoru is Zeus’s favourite child, and so the gods watch him every day.

Their gaze is unrelenting, their judgments immutable. They see his every move, his every choice. They see the shift, the subtle yet unmistakable turn of his loyalty toward mortal ties, and they want to watch the world burn.

The gods whisper among themselves, their voices carrying on the wind like a prophecy. They speak of consequences, of debts that must be paid, of balances that must be restored. They have tasted this before, have sunk their teeth into the bitter flesh of mortals who dare to defy divine decree.

They will consume you, too.

For while mortals may forget the weight of their choices, the gods do not.

Sukuna won’t, either.

[aizawaz]

Soap being a munch 🗣️

Had a vivid vision of this, so……and it’s also my birthday so this is a present to myself LOL

Warnings: cunnilingus so fem!reader , slight praise , spitting , Soap’s a messy eater

! NSFW under the cut !

A near animalistic noise rips through Soap’s throat as you gush into his mouth, your syrupy essence coating his tongue and nearly sending him straight to the grave. Your whines and pleas for Johnny to have mercy on your swollen cunt fall upon deaf ears. He’s so entranced by you; the way you smell, the way you taste. He could spend hours between your legs just slurping and drinking in your sweet taste, and he’s halfway there already.

You’re certain Johnny hasn’t taken a breath in five minutes by the way groaning into your pussy, tongue prodding at your drooling hole. He’s been able to pull two orgasms out of you with his mouth alone, and very close to making it three. Your brain is mush from the unending and overwhelming pleasure, eyes dazedly staring down at him as he suckles on your clit. It pulls a deep moan from your chest, finally catching the attention of Soap.

You’re gone as soon as he looks up at you. Those baby blues darkened with hunger, cheeks a dusty rose, pupils blown so wide with furrowed brows that are just begging you to flood his mouth with your cum again. You can only hold eye contact for a few seconds before the coil in your stomach snaps, the warmth that was building now erupting and spreading through your veins like lightning. Johnny doesn’t look away, though. He’s watching every little reaction from you, gruffly murmuring into your slick folds. “Yes, cum in m’fuckin’ mouth. Tastes so goddamn good, mo ghràdh.”

And he doesn’t stop lapping at you until he can feel you begin to squirm away, weak hands pushing at his head and shoulders while mewling broken cries of “Please, Johnny…can’t.” and he just finds you so cute that he can’t help but grin and give your throbbing clit a gentle kiss. Then Soap’s lifting his face from your sex, the entire lower half of his face coated with your arousal, and you think that he’s finally going to give you a chance to breathe. That is, until his hands hook beneath your knees and pushes them up towards your chest before lowering his head back down to nestle between your trembling thighs once more.

A whimper is all you can do to protest, body too limp and head too hazy to stop him. “Shh, baby,” Soap coos, smiling at the dumbstruck look on your face. You look the prettiest like this, he thinks. All doe-eyed and drunk on lust, thinking of nothing but how good he’s making you feel. “You’re doing so good, makin’ me so proud.” The praise would be sweet, if it weren’t for the way he’s now staring at you with a renewed and growing desire.

“If you’re good for a li’l longer,” he appeals, punctuating his remark by spitting on your pussy, the glob of saliva dribbling between your folds and towards your awaiting entrance. You clench in reflex, your hips jerking up towards Johnny’s shiny face and earning a pleased hum from the man. “The next thing you can cum on is my cock. How’s tha’ sound?”

———————————————

A/N: I kinda rushed through this one so I’m sorry for any grammatical/spelling mistakes, and I hope that I got the Scottish right but lmk if I didn’t🙏🏻

© aizawaz on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not cross-post, translate, copy in any way, etc.

[dark-and-kawaii]

꧁༺ 𝒞𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑜𝓃𝑒 ༻꧂

Astarion loses sight of you in a fight, he fears the worse has happened to you. He finds you and manages to bring you back to shadowheart for healing, only to discover he has more to protect than just you…

Angst - Hurt - Comfort - Pregnancy

(Click For Part Two)

You were fearless. He watched as you swung your dagger effortlessly, piercing into the necks of their enemies.

He wondered how you still managed to look elegant even when covered in the blood of fallen warriors.

His gaze never left you for too long, making sure you were safe, while he stealthed around the makeshift arena, racking up his own share of kills. How glorious this was! There was so much blood splattering all around them and with his love at his side it truly couldn’t get any better.

Astarion’s eyes couldn’t be everywhere though, and at some point, he lost sight of you. The last person to recognize him for what he’s worth, the one person he truly couldn’t afford to lose.

His head darted across the battlefield, desperately trying to find you. His panic plunged into sheer dread as fear overcame him. It was happening all over again, he’d seen this before… Alone.. No, please, he couldn’t let this be his fate.

He hadn’t felt fear this whole day; why should he? He was free of Cazador, had you- A subtle manic laugh drew from his throat, he’d never be free of fear, instead of fearing for himself or what his old master would do to him he now feared what would happen to you when in danger.

His red eyes turned a dark shade of black. The expression of a crazy man etched onto Astarion’s face. No, he wouldn’t let fear consume him, no more! He’d finally be the protector! Overcome with fury he went on a rampage. Cutting through the battlefield, slaughtering anyone and everyone in his way, determined to find you. He raced over to where he last saw you, faster than a blue dragon's lightning splits through the air in a storm.

Was he truly going to be the reason you passed on to the next life. Was his fate to destroy everything he held near and dear to his heart? He nearly killed you before with his own fangs and now, no! He wasn’t the cause of that, was he? He hadn’t ever tasted human blood before, but if he was stronger it wouldn’t have happened! If he would’ve ascended he would’ve been able to stop this, however he’s still just a spawn… How could you have fought for his love, a fool who couldn’t even protect you. A fool who was going to be the reason you die.

“FIND HER” He roared at the top of his lungs. “FIND TAV!”

The group of companions didn’t dare hesitate and instantly started searching the grounds, Gale being the second most worried.

Astarion was about to collapse to his knees before hearing Gale's voice, “I’ve found her!” in the distance. It filled him with more apprehension. All he could think is, ’what if she’s dead’.

Staggering up the hill where Gale’s voice had come from, Astarion can see a figure laying in the dirt next to the wizard, “No! You can’t die dammit! Get up!!” he rushed out his words, dismay evident in his tone as he knelt next to you.

“She is unconscious, but alive. There’s hope.” Gale replied.

Astarion let out a shaky breath of relief.

“We must get her back to camp,” Astarion demanded. “She needs Shadowheart, she’s the only one who can fix this!” His voice cracked despite his efforts to mask it.

“I agree.” Gale, mere inches from grabbing you to lift you in his arms until the pale elf stopped him, “Don’t touch her!- I- I will carry her.” Trying to compose himself he lifted you bridal style.

Astarion never left your side during Shadowhearts attempts to heal you. Time never bothered him, not after his 200 years of torment, he waited as “patiently” as he could.

“Honestly, how long does it take! You could at least give me some good news!”

Shadowheart continued to focus on you best she could, everyone including the gods were used to Astarions fits at this point. Gale on the other hand not so much, he could hear Astarion all the way in his own tent which caused the wizard to scrunch his nose. Eventually, leading him to where you were being treated, “Astarion, why don’t you join me in some wine. I’ve got quite the choices, besides… It might be best if we give her some space.”

Astarion scowled, “You expect me to leave her side to join you in some cheap wine? Really? I didn’t think you could get anymore annoying, Gale.”

“It’s done. She’ll be fine after some more rest.” Shadowheart stood from your side and wipes the blood off her hands. She’s been traveling with you and these two men for far too long, toning out their bickering was a skill of hers at this point.

Turning to face you, if his heart could beat he knows it would’ve dropped in his chest this very moment… “Leave us-“ kneeling down next to your bedroll, his eyes fixed on your bandaged wound, “please.”

“I was able to save her,” -Shadowheart bent down towards Astarion- “and the child, but it took most of my energy and resources… Don’t ask for me again for a while. Keep them both safe.”

He was quiet, his eyes wide after the news he was just told.

“Ahhh,” Shadowheart’s voice was surprised, “she didn’t tell you yet? Hmm or perhaps she hadn’t known yet? Curious.”

Astarion could only stare at his love, “A-are you for certain?”

Gale interjected, “I doubt her magic would deceive her, congratulations.”

Dark bruises and cuts decorated your once perfect skin. A deep purple shade surrounded your right puffy eye. His eyes traveled further down your body, stopping at your stomach.

He caressed your still flat stomach, causing you to wince and awake. Retreating his hand, he awaited for your eyes to open and look up at him.

A-Astarion?” You spoke with a small smile carved on your lips.

“Yes, my love. It’s me.” He struggled out, trying his best not to crumble.

You were both silent, hands entwined with one another thankful that you both can spend another day alive in the presence of another.

He was the first to break the silence, “thank you.”

You were so weak, but you wanted to know why he was thanking you out of the blue, “For what?” Your voice barely heard.

“For this,” his hand stretching out to rest on your abdomen, “for giving me purpose again.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, not knowing what he was talking about until it finally hit you. Your arm wavered as you lifted it to place your hand atop of his on your belly. A gentle smile forming on your lips as you stared into his vermilion eyes.

When your breath became labored indicating you had fallen asleep again, Astarion’s attention was back at your torso where the bandage was slowly being stained by your blood. This moment of relief turned to anger again as he lashed out, slapping a metal canister of water out the tent with force. The absolute intrigued him at first, more power meant being stronger to protect you, but now… He was beyond ever considering it again. The cultist not only almost killed you, but the child growing from within you!

“How dare they…” He seethed, “How dare they harm her and my child!”

Astarion was pacing around angrily, how could he have allowed this to happen? He started to blame himself.

“Astarion-“ You spoke up, attempting to calm him down.

“I’ll show them, my love-“ he cut you off, “that nobody is allowed to touch what is mine.” He growled.

His eyes darkened again: “I’ll make them pay.”

[senualothbrok]

Mortal pleasures

Summary: Gale has shown you how gods bond in the astral. Now, you show him how good mortal pleasures can be.

Word count: 2.1k

AO3 link

Disclaimers: NSFW. 18+. Smut. Gale x female Tav/reader.

More disclaimers: Oral sex (blow job). Vaginal fingering.

A/N: This fic is long overdue, because I am a Gale-deserves-a-blow-job truther. Dedicated to @practicallydeadinside-blog who I love more than words can describe!

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

“And that’s how I got this baby.” Karlach smacks the scar on her right thigh with a grin. 

You nod absently. You can barely make out the jests that roar around your companions, their faces illuminated only by the campfire you huddle around on this spring night. Your focus is on him alone.

Gale’s gaze is sharp and hot, his lips curled in a sideways smile. He tilts his head ever so slightly. You do not move your eyes from him. It does not escape you, the dart of his tongue through the briefest parting of his mouth. You bite your lip.

Astarion coughs, slapping his knees as he rises. “And with that revolting tale, I think it’s time for us all to clear off.” 

“What?” Karlach whines. “Already? Boooo…”

“Take a hint, darling,” Astarion drawls. “I’ve had enough of whatever this is.” He makes a gesture of distaste towards you and Gale. 

You flush. Astarion chortles.

“Enjoy the magic, but please keep it down. We know how…verbose…the two of you can be.” 

You shrink at the winks, grumbles and jostling of the rest of your companions as they file away to their respective tents. It was wishful thinking to hope they were not aware of your time with Gale the night before, when your souls bonded in the astral. To think that they could not see how both of you had been transformed by the experience.

There is a chill in the air, but your core flames. There is no embarrassment in Gale’s eyes. Only the raw heat of desire.

“Alone at last,” he breathes.

Tonight, he is unusually quiet. He lets his actions speak. You barely make it to his tent. He wraps his arms around you from behind, unlacing the straps of your bodice with uncanny speed. Your struggle for breath as his deft fingers clutch at your breasts, your shoulders, your hips. You have been waiting all day for this moment. To be with him, to have him all to yourself. To give yourself to him again. 

You grind backwards against his thrumming body, aching for more of his touch. He clasps your chin to angle your neck back, as if he is starving to see your face. Your tongues glide against each other, frantic with hunger, a frenzy of moans. He tastes sweet and strong, like aged wine, and you cannot get enough. You can never have enough of him. 

“I didn’t lie,” you whisper when you break apart to breathe. “You’re a good kisser.”

He smiles against your lips before he plunges back in, lapping eagerly at your wet warmth. You are drunk from his musk, the sourness of sweat, the smoothness of sandalwood. You are not careful as you whip open his robe, shoving his sleeves down his arms, pushing them desperately down. You need to see him. You need to feel and smell and taste every inch of his quivering flesh. 

He lets out a little laugh, surprised, not displeased. Then, with one swift motion, he wrenches your breeches off your quaking legs. You gasp at the force of it, the smouldering in his eyes. His fingers dive behind your panties, already damp with desire. He almost rips them off.

“I want to show you more,” he pants. “Everything you could possibly imagine. Let me show you.”

A crackle of blue thread sizzles between his fingers. A spasm of bliss tears through you like lightning, sending you gasping for breath. You burn for more of it. But you steel yourself. 

Since your night together, you have not been able to get the idea out of your mind. You have been ravenous for it. And now is your chance.

You pull back.  

“No.”

Gale falters, the blue light of his magic fading into the purple of his glowing chest. You press against him again, licking at his bottom lip, gently sucking it into your mouth. He buckles against you.

“No?” 

You smile, teasing but resolute. 

“Yesterday, you showed me how to bond the way gods do.”

Your hand trails down his abdomen, following the hairs that meander from his navel to his groin. His breath hitches. He hangs on your every word, your every move. You are not a wizard or a sorcerer, but he is under your spell.

“Today, I want to show you how good mortal pleasures can be.”

His eyes flash. Before he can object, you push him downwards and back, so that he is reclined on his bed roll. Uncertainty blinks across his features as you pull his briefs down to expose the thrust of his cock. You clench your thighs as a string of moisture trickles from your folds.

He stares at you on your knees by his side. You lean forward, taking hold of his shaft, so thick and long in your small hands. Dark pink and purpling, veins drifting down to a wiry nest framed by the muscles of his lean thighs. You wet your lips. His cock pulses in your fingers, a bead spilling from its tip as he exhales sharply.  

“Gods,” he heaves.

You bend over. You are acutely aware of the way his body is suspended in the anticipation of pleasure. You can feel it vibrate, chasing after your touch. The tent is awash in his purple flame. You flare with yearning as you flick your tongue into his slit, gathering this first trace of his salty sweetness. He arches his back and groans.

“Has anyone ever done this to you?” 

Your tongue traces a slow, winding stripe down the underside of his cock. He trembles. You look up at him, mouth open, eyes wide and expectant.

He swallows. “A long time ago. Once, when I was very young. It was…quick. Clumsy. Messy.”

You suspected this might be the case. There was no way Mystra would have ever lowered herself to give Gale such a human gift, and you cannot imagine Gale asking any lover for such raw, unbridled ecstasy.  It makes you even more desperate. You want nothing more than to give this to him now.

“We’ll rectify that.”

You drag your tongue in a smooth circle at the base of his cock. He stifles a whine as his hips roll closer to your mouth. Gale’s longing is so palpable that it throbs wet and hot within you. But when you look up, he is frowning. He reaches towards you. 

“My love,” he huffs. “You really don’t need to-”

You anticipated this. Gale prides himself on giving, not receiving. He never asks, for fear of being turned away. He cannot fathom that anyone would get on their knees to show him their adoration. That anyone would ache to give him this most mortal of pleasures.

“I want to, Gale.” 

You take his straying hand and run your mouth over his palm. His eyelids flutter as your tongue flickers softly over the pads of his fingers. 

“I want to taste you. I want to show you how good this feels. Please let me show you.”

It is not completely selfless. You have been dreaming of doing this to Gale since you shared a moment in the Weave. You enjoy this act much more than he knows. He will find out just how much you enjoy it.

He grasps for a response and fails. For an instant, you savour the sight of Gale rendered speechless by your designs. Then you resume your position, your face tilted upwards beside his growing hardness. You can see him unravelling at the sight of it resting against your cheek, hovering beside the shining plumpness of your lips. His brown eyes are almost black, dilated in a stupor of need. 

“Or does this not feel good?”

He lets out a guttural moan as you slide his cock into your mouth. Your lips tighten around his girth as you roll your tongue around its head. You pump forward and backwards, once, twice, three times. With each stroke, waves of molten heat blaze through your centre, your clit swelling against your folds as you rock. Moisture trails down your chin as you draw back and look up at him.

“Do you like that?” 

The sound that escapes his lips is a muffled plea. His face is flushed, helpless, urgent. 

You grin. His back bows as you take him back inside you. You take your time, drawing out his pressure points, feeling for the rhythm of his pleasure. The slick sounds of you lapping and sucking at his cock fill the tent as you drive his length deeper and faster into you. Something about these wet, gulping noises makes you suddenly, overwhelmingly voracious.

“By the gods…”

You cannot decipher all the words that start tumbling from Gale now. You glide hungrily down to the hilt of his cock, thrusting it against the back of your mouth. Small bursts of his pleasure trickle down your throat like nectar as he shifts and sighs. Every blast of his yearning pools like lava in your belly. You whimper into his shaft, your hips grinding down into the bedroll, searching frantically for release.

As the storm surges within you, you realise that his groans are growing louder and closer together. You can feel him hardening, stretching your jaw with each tremor of your arousal. He fills you up so completely, there is almost no space for breath. You are famished, gorging yourself on him. 

You are abruptly aware of urgent fingers pressing between your thighs, demanding entrance. You sit up, turning to face him.

“Allow me,” he rasps.

You shake your head, trying to push his hand away. He does not budge.

“Please. Can you not tell what your pleasure does to me?” His gaze is ravenous. “Let me. Please.”

It was not your intention to allow it. You were to give and not receive. But you are powerless to resist as his fingers nestle into your gleaming folds. When he finds your throbbing clit, you crumple against him. His groin rises to meet you, his cock twitching at your undoing. You suck him back into your mouth with a needy cry.

You do not need a tadpole to know each other’s feelings now. You can taste the hardness of his desire, as he can feel the wetness of yours.

You shudder against each other as the world becomes a chaos of purple spasms. All you know is the whirling of your tongue around the head of his cock as he traces frenzied circles around the centre of your fire. A hot stream of slick melts between your thighs as he bucks against you. You can no longer distinguish between his moans and yours.

As his fingers flutter in their maddening dance, your mouth quickens to match his speed. You are aware of his muscles tightening as you grind against his hand, rubbing at every coiled nerve until it is ready to snap. Your whines are muffled vibrations against his skin. He lurches and keens as you lap and slide up and down his shaft with increasing fury, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy.

Then the ache within you explodes. 

The world shatters into blinding shockwaves of white heat. It is all you can do to keep your mouth wrapped tightly around his swelling cock, your only anchor as you drown in the searing surges of your pleasure. As you writhe through the aftershocks, you feel a convulsion down his chest, snapping through his hips, jolting at the back of your throat. 

He shouts out a strangled sound, his toes curling, his free hand clinging to the side of the bedroll. You quiver as the taste of Gale fills your mouth. You swallow each rush of his delight as he rides out the peak of his climax, his features twisting in the beautiful anguish of release.

You remain in that position as your breathing returns to normal. Slowly, your vision clears. His cock is still half hard and glistening as you part from it. You brush away drops of his spend from your lips and chin as you sit up, steadying yourself. 

He looks up at you from where he lies panting, his tousled waves a tumble around his head. His face is radiant with passion. His chiselled abdomen heaves with the exhaustion of bliss. The mark on his chest glows a muted violet.

“That was…”

He has no words for the experience. His gaze is bright with awe, gratitude, adoration. Swollen with love. It glints with desire, still pure and unquenched.  

You beam. “That’s how mortals do it.” 

He pulls you into his arms with a throaty laugh.

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

Liked this fic? Check out my other work.

[leiatalon]

Ink and Intrigue: Romantasy IF

It's here! It's here! 🎉

The game is out and you can play it now! ❤️‍🔥

Play the demo for free!

Heed magic's call! Find love on a lush tropical island among immortal warrior-mages as you explore ancient mysteries, craft dragon-rune tattoos, and discover your true loyalties. When mystery tempts, how do you answer?

Ink an Intrigue is a standalone Heart’s Choice IF fantasy romance adventure set in the same world as Their Majesties' Pleasure.

Plunge into a world where magic calls the passion in your soul.

Choose your kindred: a powerful dragon, a shapeshifting griffin, or a blue-lightning phoenix.

As you train to become a warrior-mage, do you romance or befriend a sexy tattoo artist, a feisty initiate, a playful sage, or a maverick with an unfulfilled quest?

Ink and Intrigue is an interactive high-heat fantasy novel by Leia Talon, where your choices control the story. It's entirely text-based—300,000 words and hundreds of choices, without graphics or sound effects—and fueled by the vast, unstoppable power of your imagination.

As a seasoned spy from the kingdom of Minare, you have been sent as an emissary to the Kitherin warrior-mages of Ra'zai, whose tattoos give them supernatural abilities and whose magical rites bond them to powerful creatures from another world.

But, as soon as you enter Ra'zai, you hear the call of the Kitherin. The magic has chosen you, and now, your fingertips tingle and your heart pounds. An unnamed need grows within, like a thirst that can't be quenched. Magic infuses your very breath.

As your magic expands, so does your heart. Which of your new Kitherin companions calls to you?

TEO: Are you attracted to Teo, the soft-spoken tattoo artist whose muscular body is covered in tattoos and whose eyes blaze with amber fire? When he paints dragon runes onto your skin, do you feel the power of his heart as well as his magic?

KAI: Or to Kai, whose dark hair contrasts with brilliant blue eyes: his mastery as a warrior is unmatched, but his quest to overturn a corrupt regime has earned him the opposition of the Kitherin Council.

RAE: Perhaps you prefer Rae, a feisty fellow initiate, with her dark skin and wicked smile. Rae's determination is legendary—she has failed the trials before, but never stops trying—and her boisterous spirit is unbreakable.

THEA: Or maybe Thea is the one for you, with her sea-green eyes and copper hair. Elegant and serene, dedicated guardian of the temple—but if you earn her trust, she will show you her playful side, and sing the songs of her Fae ancestors.

What does the call of the Kitherin mean for your duty to the crown? Will you confess the clandestine role you've played for your king, or keep your secrets and leave your past behind? What information will you send back? Will you use your position to build alliances with the Kitherin Council and other nations, or will you use your spy skills of blackmail and poison to get what you want?

Play as male, female, or nonbinary; gay, straight, bi, and/or asexual.

Romance a passionate artist, a serene sage, a feisty initiate, or a determined warrior.

Choose high-heat or sweet options, or avoid sex scenes entirely.

Form a psychic bond with a magical creature: choose a dragon, a griffin, or a phoenix.

Learn how to craft dragon-rune tattoos, and infuse your art with powerful magic.

Explore a lush island paradise crowned with ancient temples, peaceful healing gardens, a hidden library, and sun-swept beaches with the perfect waves for surfing.

Indulge in magic elixirs and delectable food as you revel under the full moon.

Dive through portals to strengthen your ties with your bonded creature, and explore other worlds!

When magic calls, where will your heart find its home?

Play the demo of Ink and Intrigue and try the first three chapters free to see if the adventure sucks you in!

Big shout out to everyone who has given feedback on the WIP demo and during beta testing. Thank you so much for your suggestions and for sharing in the excitement for this game!

I can't believe Ink and Intrigue is 300k words! It's actually upwards of 375k words including repeated text (much of which still has to be edited for different situations). I meant to write it much shorter, but I accidentally wrote a whole extra chapter during beta testing and added to all the paths.

There are so many gems to uncover in this game!

If you have any asks, hit me up! I'll do my best to answer. Just please be patient as sometimes I forget to check socials for days at a time. 🤣 After working for a year straight on this game I'm taking a breather. I'll rest, you play. Let me know what you think!

Play the first three chapters for free!

Ink and Intrigue is published by Heart's Choice, the romance division of Choice of Games. Game art by Adrien Valdes.

[cybsoo2]

blind fight

╰┈➤ synopsis — Poor Beomgyu is scared of storms. The thunder threatens his pride, and the lightning leaves him with a sudden switch of personality. He just hopes his hostage doesn't mind taking care of her captor.

╰┈➤ pairing —yandere!beomgyu x reader

╰┈➤ word count — 1.3k

╰┈➤ content warning — yandere behavior, verbal abuse, small section of violence, strong language, run girl run.

Thunder strikes down the sun. The chaos it creates is a cacophony of loud noises and bright lights. Beomgyu hesitates for only a second, a hitch of his breath and halted movements before he continues on his tirade. 

“Are you fucking stupid!?” A mix of anger and amusement make up his expression. “Running off in the middle of the night. It’s dangerous out there! Anyone could have gotten a hold of you and, fuck– How many times do I have to tell you before you get it through your thick skull!” He draws closer to where you cower in the corner. You keep your eyes on him as you crawl backwards, bringing some sort of distance between you and his stone-cold stare. At the sight of you scampering away like prey from its predator, Beomgyu makes a sudden move to seize you. He takes your wrists in both hands and slams your back against the wall. “Do you want to test me? Is that it?” His psycho stare stabs into you and a sick sense of terror seems to have tripped into your stomach. 

“No! No, I-” A rushed response falls from your lips only to be interrupted. 

“You like hurting me don’t you? Does it give you a sick sense of satisfaction?” He leaves no room for you to respond before his dangerous delusions continue their rampage. “You need me don’t you understand! You need me! You’d be dead in a ditch if you didn’t have me!” His screams shake your body. A growing fear begins to fester deep in your heart. You can feel your throat tightening, unable to stumble out even the simplest of apologies. 

The second strike of thunder is worse than the first. This time Beomgyu finds himself fumbling over his words. The teases he taunted you with are now trapped in his throat. He can feel the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as his anxiety eclipses. 

“You’re sick! Why do you keep hurting me like this?” His words are weak. Voice trembling under the terror of the storm. His hands loosen their grip only slightly. His body betraying him as it shrinks down to appear even smaller than you. He tries to use his cold words to regain control, but a crash of thunder beats him to it. 

He flinches back at the flash of light. Rapidly blinking back the blue tears that threaten to fall. In his eyes, all he can see is the light. An attack of blinding brightness burns deep into his eyes. It takes control of his thoughts and eats at his emotions. He struggles to see past the terror of the storm, and for a second, he forgets what he was so angry about. 

“You can’t leave me. I won’t let you.” 

The fourth strike is what ends him. Beomgyu collapses at your feet, crying and crumpled up into a ball. He has the bottom of your pajama pants clutched tight in his hold. Trying to find an anchor while fighting through his fear.  His fists shake and his knuckles whiten with the force of his grip. This small action is as much for himself as it is for you. While he lays like a pathetic pile on the floor, he still holds you tight in fear that you’ll run away again. 

He utters his last words before he loses his breath to the sobs that shake his body, “I’m all you have. Why can’t you understand that?” With those final words, the fight flees from his body. All his anger has bled him dry only to be replaced with a bout of sadness. 

You peer down at him in shock. It’s a pitiful sight to see, him sobbing at your feet begging you not to leave while you hold all the power in the palm of your hand. You could run away right now and he wouldn’t have the strength to stop you. You can’t help but let out a little laugh at how pathetic he is. His rageful rant was rather hypocritical wasn’t it? You can see through all the lies he’s strung through his sentences. Lies of how he’s your only hope. Lies that you need him. Lies that you love him. When really it’s all the opposite. 

Lovesickness is a dying disease. Beomgyu clings to you like a second skin. His bittersweet affections are suffocating. He sets up unrealistic rules so long as you stay by his side. He can’t live without you and he refuses to accept that. 

Escaping a life-like hell is all you’ve ever wanted. Failed attempt after failed attempt filled you with desperation. Now a miracle has shown you mercy. Beomgyu is powerless, paralyzed by fear and succumbing to his internal emotions. 

After struggling to get out of his grip, you take a step away from the boy that’s bawling at your feet. You walk backwards into the dark hall behind you. Closer to the door and further away from the life you once lived. You reach for the door handle, freedom at the tips of your fingers. The apartment is dark and decaying, it’s slowly killing your soul to live like this. You can see the light shining through the cracks of the door. Heaven holds out its hand, trying to take you in its arms and away from earth. Crying is all you can do, because wishing on a star finally filled you with wonder. Your heart is so happy now that you’ve been given a chance to escape your cage. To fly free like the birds you watched from the window. So why can’t you open the door?

Your doubt doubles down and you make the regretful choice to take one last look. Your eyes immediately meet his. His eyes are but sunken circles, drained of colour and stained with sadness. Six steps away and he’s already accepted your escape. His soul is slowly dying with every step you take. His heart still beating but body bleeding out in betrayal. Tears trail down his face. He looks pretty with a pink nose and pathetic look in his eyes. Under the last bit of moonlight, he looks like the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen. This sliver of vulnerability makes you see him in a different light. He’s fragile and troubled but oh-so beautiful. 

His love is a little rough, it leaves marks like red kisses. And his life is a little lost, abandoned as a boy and searching for a soulmate. But, Beomgyu is worth loving, and who would do that if not you?

You take a step back into your lowly life. Walking towards the inconsolable boy, you kneel down to be on his level. You hold out your hand, offering up your heart for him to keep. 

Beomgyu looks up at you through thick lashes. He blinks back his tears and a look of confusion crosses his face. His eyes lock in on the hand that hovers over his own. Hesitantly, he grips your cold flesh in his hand. Even after everything, you still chose to stay. With that realization, he breaks down completely. Throwing himself into your arms and crying away all his tears until the drought. Beomgyu clings to you, clutching you tightly and trying to get closer. He cries into the crook of your neck, not holding back. It’s an ugly expression but he doesn’t care. He won’t hide his heart away any longer. He’ll bare his brutal truths and be the most honest man you’ll ever meet. Because as long as he’s a lovesick loser, you’ll stay by his side for forever to come.

© cybsoo2 2024, all rights reserved

[valdomarx]

"It's easy!" Crowley waves a nonchalant hand. "Humans are simple creatures. All it takes for the blossoming of romantic love is a bit of rain and an awning."

"And that..." Aziraphale looks at him sceptically, "works, does it?"

Crowley puffs up, a little offended on behalf of his thorough understanding of human psychology. "Of course it does. I'm the expert in temptation, aren't I? Here, watch."

He grabs Aziraphale's wrist (warm. and soft.) and tugs him out of the bookshop and into the street.

"Ordinary day, right? Sunshine, blue skies, blah blah blah. All very nice, yes, but no atmosphere. No," he pauses meaningfully, "va voom."

Aziraphale merely raises an eyebrow.

"But with a little work," Crowley snaps his fingers decisively, and thunder booms. Deep grey clouds pile high in the sky, rushing in towards them and gaining momentum as they do. He turns to Aziraphale with a grin as lightning forks overhead, illuminating the sky in bright flashes. Aziraphale returns an indulgent smile, and the air is thick and heavy between them.

It starts as a soft pat. pat pat. and then builds to a pat pat pat patpatpatpatpat as the heavens open and rain cascades down on their little street, fat drops bouncing off tables and cars and the pavement. Within seconds the rain crescendos into a torrential downpour, soaking them both. Aziraphale's fluffy hair is flattened, sticking to his forehead as the humans around them squeal and duck for cover.

"And now," Crowley holds out one hand with an ostentatious curtsy, "we shelter."

Aziraphale takes his hand with a roll of his eyes, and Crowley steps neatly under a shop awning which is miraculously free of any members of the public. He doesn't let go of Aziraphale's hand, the incoming rain forcing them to stand just a few inches apart. The storm rages above, the smell of rain on concrete surrounding them like a bubble.

"And what do we do next?" Aziraphale asks. Crowley is close enough to catch the way his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip.

"We. Umm." Crowley is having some difficulty in focusing. He's very warm, despite the chill and the wet, something blazing hot and ashy pulsating in his chest. "Traditionally, we look into each other's eyes."

He considers whether he should facilitate that by taking off his sunglasses, but Aziraphale has never had any trouble reading him with them on. And anyway, his hand won't stop shaking.

He takes a step closer instead, squeezing Aziraphale's hand and dropping some of the practised hardness from his face. He feels, abruptly, extremely exposed as Aziraphale regards him studiously.

Time seems to freeze in place, though whether that's a miraculous phenomenon or merely an effect of proximity, Crowley couldn't say.

"Oh," Aziraphale breathes.

Crowley ought to say something. Something clever and irreverent. There had been some point he had been trying to prove, hadn't there? It's quite flown his mind.

Instead, he finds himself leaning in to brush a lock of soggy hair off Azirpahale's forehead.

"Well." There are spots of blush on Aziraphale's cheeks. "I can certainly see this seems to be. Erm. Surprisingly effective."

Every idea and plan and argument has deserted Crowley's mind, replaced by an enormous blooming sensation he doesn't want to examine too closely. Aziraphale's face is soft and sweet and very close.

"And now?" Aziraphale asks, voice quiet and barely audible over the crashing of rain and thunder.

"I. Uhh." There's something he's supposed to do. There's something he's supposed to do. It's important, it's pressing, it's urgent.

But not one single thought remains in Crowley's head as he gestures vaguely and tries, "Va voom?"

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Storm - A Tommy Shelby/Reader Smut Short.

Had Tommy on my brain. Now you can, too ;)

Words - 800

Warnings - Smut below the cut, minors DNI!

Storms; they always made you feel a little uneasy, the foreboding rumble of thunder preceded by a flash of light cracking the inky purple of the night sky. You weren’t too sure why any longer either, no longer being the scared little girl living in the Small Heath back-to-back abode, with its flimsy windows that you felt the fork of the lightning could smash to smithereens.

Now, you were lady of the manor, living in the fortified luxury of Arrow House, but yet you still needed something to take your mind off the raging weather on the other side of the much stronger windows.  

That person is your lover, and yes, he does a very good job of making sure the only lightning in your world is the type that streaks up your spine in hot flashes of pleasure, just like he is right now. Holding your legs spread, his hands tour in loving stroke over your thighs, his tongue circling licks all over your opening, that radius increasing.  

When it laps wet heat over your clit, you mewl for him, hands rooting in his soft hair. Your body keens against each lick, his breath warm as his tongue licks a tempest over your little bud, full lips closing to suck gently. A grunt wells in his throat, and the sound of it settles over your bones, pleasure lighting you up like a firework the harder his lips pull at you.  

He has you soaking, your little hole flexing around nothing in its emptiness, needing him inside you. Equally, you’d be more than happy for his mouth to remain exactly where it is, every lick gilding your nerves, the honey of your cunt bathing his tongue as he eats you greedily. His fingers sink into the soft of your thighs, eyes like blue shards of topaz glinting through the low light of the room, smiling around the mouthful of you he so happily feasts upon.  

“I’m starting to think you actually quite like it when there’s a storm, you know,” he muses, pausing for a moment, gently blowing over your swollen clit before skimming it with a teasing lick. “You always know this is what you get when one comes along.” 

“I get this enough as it is anyway, Tom,” you quip, laughing softly, “but I still appreciate the distraction.”  

Another flick, Tommy rumbling a little moan as he watches your bud twitch for him. “Minx.” 

He pulls a gasp from you, the flat of his tongue dragging hard over you. “Yeah, that’s me.” All talk is abandoned, your body the rhythm set by the song of his mouth, pleasure bursting like little stars as he adds speed to every lick. He builds you steadily, each ministration set up only to topple, the constructor of your utter ruin giving you one last, long suck before moving to kneel before you.  

“Mmm, oh,” you sigh, hissing with desire as his cock fills you deep. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”  

“Never let it be said that I’m not a giver, eh, love?” 

No, you truly wouldn’t, hands stroking over his pale chest, nails dragging the chiselled muscles as he pulls back and then bottoms out once more, eyes falling to watch how you splay so prettily for him. Your cunt glazes him, hot and slick, your walls pulsing around every last thick, vein-ridged inch of his cock, the thunder outside booming as he leans to kiss you with soft heat.  

He ruts a little deeper, and it sends a wave of ecstasy washing through you, the deep punch of his cock drawing moans that spill from your mouth to his. The sumptuous, velvet hug of your cunt pulls at him, hugging him in slick divinity as he quickens, drawing your legs up against his chest, panting hard as he scatters kisses against your ankle.  

“Ahhh, god you feel so good in me,” you pant, nails trawling over his abs, spurring him on with the allure of your gaze. “Yes, that’s it. Fuck me harder.”  

He does, and it burns neon over your veins, your cries shrill as he daggers you with utter finesse. You feel both boneless and mindless as he fucks you hard into the bed, grasping his forearms as he lowers to you, sucking violet welts at your neck. 

Outside, the lightning splits the sky, just as his does within your body, ecstasy streaking hot beneath your skin as you fall apart around the white-hot surge. His crest tingles his cock as he spills into your fluttering core, panting against your neck, his hands stroking your face as he nuzzles and kisses you. 

The storm outside continues to rumble overhead, but you and Tommy sleep upon a cloud of bliss until morning, when the skies glow blue once more. 

[megalony]

Mayday, Mayday

This is an Evan Buckley request I finished so quickly. Re-watching season six has put me in another Buck mood and made me desperate to write about the lightning scenes. I hope you all enjoy. Requests are always open.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem@sj-thefanthefan@hellsdragon@im-an-adult-ish@crazylittlethingg@allauraleigh@onceuponadetectivedemigod@ceres27@avyannadawn@noonenuts@sleepylunarwolf@coverupps@justagirlthatlovedtoread @musicistheway @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @luula @missdreamofendless @bradleybeachbabe @woderfulkawaii @topguncultleader @amberpanda99 @daggersquadphantom @marvel-and-chicago-fan @angryknightstatesmantrash @minjix @lyjen

911 Masterlist

Summary: Evan's worst nightmare comes to life when he watches his wife get struck by lightning. And he does everything in his power to save her.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Go get 'em, cowgirl."

A jolt ran down (Y/n)'s spine when the safety clip was hooked onto the belt around her waist, pulling her onto her back foot. Her eyes landed on the red cable clipped onto her back that reached down to the winch at the bottom of the ladder she was on.

"Thanks. Do me a favour and move the ladder closer, I'm not jumping onto the balcony, you know." (Y/n) nudged her shoulder with Eddie who saluted and nodded to her request, squinting to look at her through the rain.

The ladder was close but not quite close enough for (Y/n) to make a safe jump or climb over onto the balcony. They had to be at least another five inches closer, there was no way (Y/n) was jumping that distance because if she missed, she would be hanging in mid air with no way up or down.

With her fingers curled round the ladder, (Y/n) started her ascent and climbed up. She took deep breaths and rolled her lips together, trying her best to look around despite the rain pouring down down. It was so heavy that she couldn't see the ladder in front of her with the torrential downpour that made her helmet jutter on her head and raindrops fell down the rim of the helmet onto her nose.

Her lips were drenched, her lashes were fighting off the rain and every inch of her skin was shaking from the low temperature.

"Fucking weather," She muttered to herself as she reached the end of the ladder and took a quick glance around.

She could feel the ladder moving beneath her, getting her as close to the fifth story balcony as they could so she didn't have far to climb. There were three families still stuck inside who needed evacuating and the 221 team were trying to get inside through the lobby and clear the stairwell. (Y/n) had to head in through the balcony and escort everybody down and make sure the building was clear.

Eddie's voice came through the radio in muffled clumps of static so all (Y/n) heard was 'you… ch.. o.'

"Come again?" Her left hand curled around the radio and she leaned her head closer, pressing her ear as close to the radio as she could to try and workout what he said. He was either giving her the go ahead to climb over or giving her some sort of instruction. "Eddie?"

(Y/n) tilted her head over the side of the ladder and let herself look over the edge.

A fond smile lit up her wet lips when she clocked her eyes on her husband stood at the bottom. He had one hand on his hip in a rather cocky manner and the other pressed against his helmet to shield his eyes as he looked up at her. He wasn't heading into the building just yet, he and Bobby were waiting to help guide everybody out and get the hose to put out the lower fires. And Evan wasn't about to start that until he watched his wife get into the building to make sure she was alright.

If she were a bit lower down, (Y/n) knew she would have seen Evan grinning at her.

A shudder bolted down her spine and she tremored on the ladder, hunching forward when a horrid noise rattled through the sky. Her eyes lifted and her head snapped up towards the sky but all she could see was thousands of white droplets raining down from the heavens. The sky was a misty blue mixed with swirls of black like a canvas with only a few swirls of clouds to be seen through the rain.

Looking up from this angle made the rain seem like it was being sucked up from the ground rather than falling down from the clouds.

"What the Hell is that?" (Y/n) didn't realise she still had her fingers pressed into her radio while her attention was on the sky.

Evan pursed his lips, morphing his smile into a frown as he watched his wife look up towards the sky.

They all heard it too.

The rippling noise that made them feel like they were deep underwater. The sky looked unforgiving, full of darkness without a single glimmer of light to guide them tonight. It made the building look like a beacon in the sheet of blackness, shining a vibrant burgundy with melted orange flames flickering at the sides. Leaking brown ash clouds up into the night sky.

"Babe you okay?" Evan gripped his radio and raised a brow, keeping his eyes on his wife. It wasn't strictly professional but Evan wasn't used to saying her name, even on shift he rarely ever used her name and none of the team seemed to mind. As long as they did their jobs and weren't all handsy with each other, no one cared if nicknames slipped past their lips.

"I-"

Lightning. It broke through the clouds, a true act of God right before their eyes and Evan swore he could see a hand throwing the lightning bolt down at them like an act of vengeance.

He watched in horror as the streak of pure crystal white lit up the blue hue in the sky. But his knees caved in and sent him down towards the floor when he watched it strike his wife.

How was that possible?

How had God timed that so unjustly? How had it gone towards (Y/n) like that as if she were a magnet attracting such force? They couldn't have wished for something like that to happen or planned it in a million years, but the lightning caught her. It was so precise, Evan thought that he was watching a trick unfold before his eyes.

He heard her scream. It was the howl of a banshee that tore through his heart and set off an explosion in his chest.

Evan had never seen anything like it.

Sparks flew out from the end of the ladder like a firework display as (Y/n) fell backwards. Her back hit the very edge of the ladder which seemed to throw her up into the midnight air like an acrobat. Her body flipped, throwing her legs up while her head and shoulders fell over the edge of the ladder and plummeted down into thin air.

Evan didn't realise he was screaming until he felt Bobby's hands on his shoulders, holding him up so he didn't collapse down to his knees. He forgot for a second that (Y/n) would be on a harness. The buckle clip was holding steady to the harness around her waist which kept her suspended four stories in the air. Her legs and arms dangled down, limp and lifeless and her head snapped so far back it was almost touching her shoulder blades.

Her helmet fell through the air, carried by the rain and landed with a crack just three feet away from Evan. He could even see the crack that split up the back of her helmet, cutting right between the K and L, splitting up their joint last name like the universe was separating them forever.

"Get her down!" Evan pushed away from Bobby and bolted through the rain, slapping his boots against the concrete until he was stood directly beneath her. He tossed his helmet away from him, wanting to break it and anything in his path. The rain trickled down the back of his neck as he stared up at his wife, begging to be in her place instead of down here.

It would waste too much time climbing up onto the truck to try and winch her down himself when both Eddie and Chimney were already up there.

"Get her down! Get my fucking wife down now! Now!"

"Hen get a gurney, Chimney release the winch." Bobby spoke into the radio just in case his voice couldn't travel through the storm to his team while he stood directly beside Evan.

Eddie was already halfway up the ladder when they looked ahead into the sky and he fell down, hanging his upper body over the side of the ladder to grab the rope. He couldn't pull her up. Not if he had all the team up there with him, the rope was caught on the ladder and her weight was reaching towards the floor, dragging her back up wasn't an option.

A guttural cry left Evan's lips while Eddie screamed, waving one hand at Chimney to get him to go faster. And he threaded the rope between his gloved fingers, easing it down as (Y/n) started to lower like a package being delivered from the Gods down to Earth.

Evan's arms stretched up into the air and he waved his hands continuously while he stood on his tip toes to reach up for her, desperate to grab her. Despite being six foot two, Evan felt one foot nothing while he waited for his wife to come down from mid air. He couldn't do anything until she was in his arms and precious time was being wasted with her dangling there like bait on a hook.

"Unhook her." Evan pushed up and curved his hands beneath (Y/n)'s limp body as Bobby unclipped her so they could save two or three precious seconds to lower her down.

With the gurney placed directly beneath her, Evan laid her down and tore the gloves from his hands as they were an unwanted delay.

Terror ransacked Evan's body as he tore (Y/n)'s luminescent jacket apart, busting the zipper that flew out like a bullet and disappeared into the background. His numb, trembling fingers looped into the collar of her cotton shirt that needed to go. It would have been easier if she wore her button up shirt like he had, but it didn't matter now.

Evan tore apart her shirt like it was a tissue, split seams forming jagged lines all down the middle until it was nothing but a flimsy bit of cotton hanging off each shoulder. Revealing her dark blue bra, sodden chest and skin that was bubbling and swelling from the strike.

"Baby… oh baby," Evan's left hand cupped her cheek and kept her head straight but he hated how cold and lifeless her skin felt. There was no colour, no heat and no twitching muscles beneath his touch. He pressed his right hand against her neck and waited before he moved his hand down and pressed his palm down over her sternum. "I don't have a pulse and she isn't breathing!"

"Get the pack."

Hen placed the medic pack down beside (Y/n)'s left thigh and opened it up but she stopped when Evan smacked it so harshly a loud bang echoed around them.

"She's drenched and she's been electrocuted. You'll fry her!" Spit and rain spat past Evan's lips as his ocean blue eyes darkened into black holes, consuming everyone who dared look him in the eye.

She had been drenched before she got on the ladder, their suits weren't exactly water proof and now he had opened her shirt, she looked like she had taken a bath in her clothes. She had already gotten a shock which had stopped her heart, another one wasn't going to help her right now and they would do damage if they used the defibrilator on her while she was wet.

"Get an ambulance over here now. Mayday, mayday. This is Captain Nash, we have a firefighter down. Repeat, firefighter down, struck by lightning. I need a team on standby at the nearest hospital."

Evan tore his florescent jacket off his shoulders and let it fall into a puddle behind him before he clamped his fingers down on the stretcher and climbed onto the metal frame. All eyes fell on him in worry but no one dared stop or question what he was doing.

They watched in utter panic and defeat as Evan climbed up onto the gurney and clamped both his knees down into (Y/n)'s thighs harsh enough to leave bruises. He straightened his chest out, locked his arms and curled one hand over the other before he pressed them against her chest just to the side of her sternum over her breast.

"Don't you dare do this to me. You won't leave me, I won't fucking let you."

His elbows tensed and locked in place to keep his arms straight as he pressed down, trying to measure five inches down so he was pressing enough to reach her heart.

(Y/n) couldn't die.

She couldn't die here and now. Not when the whole team was here to bring her back and Evan would give his soul to the devil if it would keep his wife safe. She wasn't allowed to leave him, there was no way Evan could cope living a life without her. He would end himself before he lived a life of grief.

"Somebody bag her she needs air!"

Why was Evan the only one doing something? Why were they all staring at him like headless chickens waiting for orders?

He stopped his compressions when he reached thirty and waited for Eddie to place a mask over her mouth and squeeze two breaths of air past her lips before he started again.

The stretcher jolted his movements between the sixth and seventh compressions but Evan regained his composure and continued while they wheeled the stretcher into the ambulance. Both Eddie and Hen climbed in the back with him and Bobby rounded to the front as Chimney drove. The whole team were going to the hospital.

No one was waiting behind when one of their own was in peril, they stuck together. The 221 and the rest of their station house could deal with the fire and get the truck back to the station while the rest of them took (Y/n) to the emergency room.

"Baby come on. Don't do this to me. Baby please," Evan spat each word through gritted teeth that were clenched down so tightly they were about to shatter.

He could feel the rain and sweat rolling down his skin, sinking beneath the collar of his shirt, beneath his arms and even through his trousers. His skin was flushed red and radiating heat despite the cold night air and goosebumps prickled over his arms as his numb fingers continued to press down into his wife's chest deep enough to feel her ribs creaking beneath his hands.

Hen took over the air bag so Eddie could move round and grab some flannels from one of the drawers. He furiously wiped down (Y/n)'s neck and across her chest and stomach, trying his best to clear her of any water so they could shock her.

He clipped the monitor to her index finger and grabbed the two blue and white stickers, placing them at the top left of her chest and lower right side before he patted Evan's shoulder.

"Stand clear."

Spit rolled down the corner of Evan's mouth and he heaved each breath until stars danced across his vision. He let go of (Y/n)'s chest, braced a hand on the roof of the ambulance and pushed up on his knees so he wasn't touching (Y/n). He couldn't climb down yet because he needed to continue compressions if the shock didn't work.

He winced, choking on a mortified sound when the shock burned through (Y/n)'s chest and arched her back up from the stretcher before she flopped back down, lifeless.

"Going again-"

"You're not frying her heart." Shocking her too many times would only ruin her heart that had already received a horrific shock. Her lungs, heart and probably her liver would have been affected by the lightning, they couldn't give her too many shocks or she would never come back to him.

Evan started compressions again, blinking away the tears that dripped down onto (Y/n)'s cheeks as he started to growl and gasp each time he pushed down.

"Go," Evan braced both hands on the roof and leaned his head back until his neck clicked and strained in pain.

His head jolted forward after the second shock when the monitor started to beep.

"We've got a rhythm! Pushing fluids and a dose of adrenaline." Eddie slumped back down into a seat and grabbed an IV bag and a needle, He threw the bag on his shoulder and pressed his thumb against the back of (Y/n)'s right hand until he found a suitable vein and slowly inched the needle through. He opened the IV cap wide, letting the fluids pump through into her system to give her a boost and keep her going.

He then grabbed a dose of adrenaline and capped it into her vein, her heart needed all the help it could get.

"She's not breathing, I need to intubate."

Evan swung his leg over the side of the gurney and flopped down onto his feet before he turned and slumped his body over the gurney. His hands grappled for (Y/n)'s hand and pressed it against his burning, sodden lips that were quivering from shock and pain.

He watched Eddie tilt (Y/n)'s head back and hold the air bag while Hen cupped her chin and pressed a tongue clamp into her mouth. She slid a thin, clear tube down (Y/n)'s throat and as quick as anything, Eddie attached the air bag and started squeezing.

The relief was evident in Bobby and Chimney's eyes when they opened the back doors to the ambulance and heard the heart rate monitor steadily beeping. They had gotten a pulse back on (Y/n). Evan wasn't sat on his wife's hips too give compressions any more. A heartbeat meant she had a chance and that was all they could ask for right now.

Evan kept tight hold of her hand while Hen and Bobby pulled down the stretcher and Eddie stood on the other side, squeezing the bag to give her each breath she needed.

"What have we got?" A team of three doctors and two nurses were waiting on standby in the paramedic entrance to the hospital, as requested.

"(Y/n) Buckley, female, twenty-two, struck by lightning."

"She had no pulse for three minutes and seventeen seconds," Evan could barely hear himself speak but those times rattled around in his head. He could feel the stop watch in the front of his mind clicking on and off, flashing those numbers before his eyes. He had counted how long his wife had flatlined. That wasn't something he thought he would ever have to do.

"Compressions, two artificial shocks and a dose of adrenaline administered on route."

Evan ran his fingers through his hair and tugged so harshly he winced and felt a few loose hairs become stuck between his fingers. What were they going to do? How were they going to take care of his wife? What did someone do for a lightning strike? Did people usually survive this kind of thing- had this ever happened before?

"S-she's allergic to anaesthetic and morphine, don't give her any morphine." He jolted forward as if he might grab a doctor when none of them looked at him or looked like they were listening to him.

When a doctor prescribed (Y/n) morphine after an injury last year she almost went into cardiac arrest. She had never had morphine before and her allergy was severe. They couldn't give it to her not even by mistake or they would surely kill her.

"We'll take her from here," One of the nurses placed a hand on Evan's chest while one of the doctors took over the air bag to administer each breath (Y/n) needed and the other two doctors tried to wheel her away.

They couldn't take her from him.

He was the reason she now had a heartbeat back. Evan had to stay with her in case she flatlined again and no one here was competent enough to bring her back. What if she needed him? What if she could sense that he was no longer by her side and she panicked? Evan couldn't wait out here for her in agony, he wanted to at least be in front of the window to keep watch over her.

"No-"

"Buck come on, they'll look after her."

"I look after her! No- she's my wife get off me-" Evan tore his body forward and wrenched his arms out of Bobby's grip, only for Eddie to stand in front of him like a boulder.

A wave of hurt washed over Evan's face and torrential tears flushed his face when Eddie gripped his shoulders and Bobby held his biceps to pin him back. They weren't letting him go with her. They were purposely keeping him separated from his wife. Why were they doing this to him? Why were they trying to hurt him?

"Take care of her."

"We'll do our best."

"Your best isn't fucking good enough!"

Evan didn't want them doing their best. He wanted certainties and results and to be right by his wife's side, holding her hand to ensure they weren't doing anything wrong. He wanted to oversee her care and be the one administering the care so he knew for certain that she was going to be okay.

Both Evan's hands scrunched up Eddie's jacket and he let himself fall forward until Eddie went down on his knees with Evan in his arms and Bobby knelt behind them.

What were they going to do?

***

"Why don't you try and get some rest?"

"No thanks," Evan didn't bother looking up, his eyes stayed intently focused on the hand he had clasped between his fingers. He could barely keep his eyes open properly, for the past two hours they had been half-lidded like shutters about to close, but he didn't care.

If he looked at (Y/n)'s void, blank expression it just made him tear up and feel ready to cry. If he stared at the tubes stuck up her nose and down her throat and the wires in her veins, he felt like he needed to be sick. And if he closed his eyes, he was afraid to go to sleep and have something happen to her. The only option Evan had was to stare at the walls or stare at their entwined hands and pray.

"Evan, you need to rest. Making yourself sick won't help her." Usually when his sister used his name it made him shiver and relent. But not today.

He only wanted to hear his name pass through his wife's lips; she was the only one who called him Evan.

"Come on, I'm taking you home. Bobby said he will watch over her-" Maddie gasped and took a step back when Evan flung her touch off his shoulder and batted his hand out, coming within an inch of slapping her to get her away.

"Don't you get it?" His eyes were null and void of anything but anguish, it was all he could think, feel and taste. "If I leave her, something might happen. I can't rest, Maddie. I can't close my eyes because she gives me nightmares; I can see her dangling on a wire, ready to be snatched away from me and in my dreams I can't get her back. When I try to sleep and I don't hear that heartbeat, I can hear her scream ringing in my ears and it makes me sick."

Evan didn't want to leave the room, let alone the hospital because he had a sick, twisted feeling that if he left, she would get worse. He didn't want her state to change for the worst or for the better unless he was right beside her.

When Evan closed his eyes, his mind fell to sleep too easily but it dragged him back to that night two days ago. He could see his wife hanging there, her body limp, swaying in the torrential downpour. And when Evan stretched his hands out for her, the red wire keeping her afloat suddenly reeled up and lifted her high into the clouds, out of his reach forever.

He couldn't see her face in his nightmares and when he tried to sleep in the corridor yesterday, the silence was too sickening. He fell asleep and woke up to the sound of (Y/n)'s banshee scream ringing in his ears, curdling his blood like sour milk.

He had to stay here where they were both safe. Together.

"But if you don't look after yourself, you'll be in a bed in the next room and that won't help her."

"I don't care."

It was too hard to think about drinking, eating, sleeping and generally caring for himself when his wife was on a life support machine at his side. Evan didn't care if the world crashed and burned around them. He didn't care if he passed out from malnutrition since his body was used to three meals a day and at the moment he was barely having three bites of food. He didn't care how much muscle mass he started to lose, how many headaches he started to have and how ill he made himself.

He couldn't move away from his wife, not for longer than a minute to use the bathroom. That was his only exception.

"Buck, please-"

"What's happening?"

Evan tore his eyes away from his sister and looked back down at his wife when she suddenly started to move.

She had been placed into a coma when she arrived at the hospital, she was on a ventilator since she couldn't breathe on her own and her heart and lungs had suffered an extreme shock. Her body needed time to heal with Evan's body deteriorated by her side. She shouldn't have been moving at all.

Her shoulders hunched up, her chest compressed on itself and tightened up and her back started to flail up and down on the bed. It was her chest and torso that were moving horribly, pulling inwards and jerking with violent spasms.

The monitors were screaming, red lights flashing and the emergency alarm sounded for assistance.

"Maddie what's happening?!" Evan let go of (Y/n)'s hand and stood up, allowing his sister to pull him a few feet away to the end of the bed as two doctors filtered into the room.

"She's not getting enough oxygen," Maddie whispered the words quietly into her brother's shoulder as her fingers clamped down on his biceps. Her lips pressed against his bare arm and her chest pressed into his back while she felt his trembling hand reach up to grab hers.

"Why, s-she's on a ventilator?" How could she not be getting enough oxygen when she wasn't even breathing on her own? The machine was set to give her a certain amount of oxygen and CO2 to level her out and keep her body working. Why was she suddenly unable to take in enough oxygen?

As he watched her continue to jerk and spasm, a sudden breathlessness came over Evan and he felt like he too should be put on the machine. His lungs were shrivelling up in his chest, his shoulders were quaking and his hand pressed into his chest as he started to gasp.

"She's gonna leave me," His voice came out through a gasp with a burning, snorting inhale of air before Evan let his knees give way and went down to the floor.

He curled up, pulling his knees to his chest as his fingers tangled in his hair and he started to croak. He was going to lose her. She was going to die. His efforts to save her, his prayers, the rosary beads Bobby had given him to help him pray, it was all going to be for nothing. God had decided to strike her down with lightning. He was using (Y/n) to punish Evan and now she was going to leave him.

A bubbling sob burned past Evan's lips and before he knew what he was doing, he buried his face in Maddie's chest when she knelt down behind him. His arms coiled into his chest and his forehead pressed against Maddie's neck as she wrapped her arms around his broad frame and let him start to rock back and forth.

"I- I can't, I can't,"

"Hm? You can't what?"

"No, I can't be alone," His voice crumbled, his words came out in a low whine like a child and his chest burned as he started to sob. Evan couldn't cope on his own. He wouldn't live if (Y/n) died. He wouldn't stay here without her.

***

"What if she doesn't breathe on her own?"

Evan looked like death on two legs. There was no colour left in his face, his complexion had turned a pasty grey with deep black and purple creases beneath his eyes and pale burgundy lips that were chapped and broken. His cheeks had sunk into his face, his eyes were hollow and held bags beneath them. His throat looked tense and shrunken, his hands were trembling and split at the knuckles.

Five days he had been sat here. He hadn't gone home, he hadn't eaten more than a slice of bread each day. He barely drank four cups of water. He didn't wash, didn't sleep, didn't move or exercise and didn't go farther than the bathroom.

The only thing he had done while he was here was shave. (Y/n) didn't like him unshaven and he couldn't hold her hand against his cheek if he had stubble cutting on his face.

The doctor was stood at his side, waiting patiently to answer his questions and get ready to remove the intubation tube.

"Then we put the tube back in and wait a little longer."

Evan wasn't stupid. He knew if the tube came out and she didn't breathe, it would go back in and she wouldn't be waking up again. If she couldn't breathe on her own after a week of ventilation, her body was unlikely to recover and Evan would have to commit to the idea of watching his wife die and find a way too end his existence too.

"Okay,"

He ran a hand over his face before both hands went back to gripping (Y/n)'s hand that he pressed to his lips.

He could feel Bobby standing nervously behind him, rosary beads in one hand and his other hand resting on Evan's shoulder. He was the only person who knew what was happening today; Evan couldn't bear to tell anyone else. He didn't want Maddie here because if this went south, she wouldn't be able to hold Evan and herself together and they would both have a breakdown.

Their parents were waiting anxiously at Maddie and Chimney's house, wanting to help in any way they could but Evan had nothing for them to help with. They couldn't persuade him to leave and when they tried to stay, all he did was stare blankly at the wall or cry when his mum tried to hold him.

And Evan didn't want the team standing at the window watching anxiously. If (Y/n) didn't breathe on her own, Evan was going to crumble and he couldn't have an audience for that.

He needed Bobby. He needed the man he classed as his father here to be his moral support and hold him together if this went badly. Bobby would be able to contain himself and console Evan if (Y/n) couldn't breathe on her own. No one else would be able to help like Bobby could.

"Here we go,"

Evan took the deepest breath he could and straightened out his shoulders. His lips smothered the back of (Y/n)'s hand and his eyes focused intently on her blushing lips when the tube was slowly pulled from her throat.

"Come on baby… please, please breathe for me." He interlocked their fingers and took to rubbing his left hand up and down her arm while he whispered against her hand.

He wanted to close his eyes. He felt desperate to close his eyes and pray and wish and beg until someone told him she was okay and breathing on her own. But he couldn't. Evan couldn't close his eyes, he couldn't look away from his wife, he had to stare at those beautiful lips he had kissed millions of times before. He had to watch and wait in agony for her to do something so simple and easy.

"Breathe," He growled into her hand, jolting his chest forward a little with a sudden urge to lean down and shake her, but he held himself back.

A bursting, agonising gasp left Evan's lips and his knees bent, about to give way on him when (Y/n) started to breathe.

Without another thought, Evan grabbed the chair he had been living in for over a week and scraped it across the floor towards the bed. He let himself slump down into the chair, bumped his knees into the bed frame and leaned his elbows down into the mattress. His fingers skimmed up and down (Y/n)'s arm as he grinned into the back of her hand, letting the tears fall freely down his face.

She was breathing.

Her heart was beating on its own and now she was back to breathing. Lightning hadn't ruined her organs or snatched her life away, she was pulling herself back from this. She was clawing, desperately fighting her way back to Evan.

"That's my girl," He pressed numerous kisses to the back of her hand, keeping his lips there even as he looked up at the doctor who was smiling down at him.

"Let's see how does coming out of the coma."

Turning his head, Evan looked up at Bobby who was smiling encouragingly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand to try and keep his composure. This was good, everything was going in the right direction so far.

He found himself mumbling encouraging, incoherent things against (Y/n)'s hand while the doctor clipped a needle into her IV to give her the medicine that would bring her out of her coma. She had been locked up inside her mind for over a week now, her body had had time to recover and get back into working order. It was time for her to come back to them, back to Evan and see how she was and get her back on track.

Her life had been put on pause for long enough.

When (Y/n)'s eyes started to flutter and her lips pressed together like she was trying to make popping sounds, Evan grinned and leaned over. He kept their tangled hands tucked up against his chest near his collar bone and his free hand moved to cup the back of her head so he could press his lips against her temple.

He felt her fingers twitch in his hand and her lips tickled his neck as he hovered over her and he grinned against her temple, unable to stop himself from crying. But it was the feel of her other hand cupping the back of his neck that made Evan begin to sob and laugh into her skin.

"Oh God, thank you. Thank you," He wasn't sure if he was thanking the doctor, (Y/n) or even Bobby. Words fell from his lips before he could stop himself. "I love you so much, don't ever do that to me again."

"I love you too."

[cuubism]

I've been sitting on this little happy ficlet for absolute ages because there was a time I thought I might incorporate it into another fic. That seems increasingly unlikely though, so here it is.

--

The Dreaming was beautiful when Dream was happy.

It wasn’t always beautiful, though Hob would never say those words to Dream. It was always magnificent, always awesome in the old sense of something grand and beyond understanding. It was terrifying sometimes, too. But in Hob’s opinion, the Dreaming was really only beautiful when Dream was happy.

Like now.

Lying on his back in the wildflowers, bare arms thrown back above his head, dressed down in a black t-shirt and long flowy skirt, feet bare. Happy crinkles at the corners of his closed eyes, the barest hint of a smile that might have been bright as the sunrise for how it looked on Dream’s usually subtle face. The bumblebees and dragonflies that kept landing gently on him and brushing off again in cheerful spirals, as if delighted by their creator’s presence.

Hob had never been to this part of the Dreaming before, which, admittedly, wasn’t saying much when the Dreaming was effectively infinite. Dream had brought them to an expansive field of yellow grasses and rowdy wildflowers of green and teal and mauve and a hundred other colors one would never see in the waking world. It wasn’t Fiddler’s Green; it was wilder than that: rock bluffs dotting the fields in the distance, an endless grey-blue sky that was clear for now but threatened to tip towards rain at any moment, sweet warm wind that tugged on Hob’s hair with grabbing hands. A fierce, untamed landscape holding itself gently, for now.

That was the way Dream was beautiful, Hob thought.

He leaned on his elbow, looking down at Dream’s peaceful expression where he lay beside him. As he watched, an iridescent wasp lit upon Dream’s nose, its six sharp legs stark against his pale skin. Hob moved instinctively to scare it off, before remembering that this was the Dreaming, and stilling his hand.

The wasp didn’t try to sting Dream, of course it didn’t. This dream space lived on the border of danger, but wherever it touched Dream, it turned soft, indulgent, adoring.

Dream opened his eyes to look at the wasp. He didn’t say anything to it, at least not in any way that Hob could understand, but he stroked a very light finger along one filigree wing, and it flitted off again, away back to its hauntings.

In its absence, Hob traced a fingertip down Dream’s profile, in much the same way he had touched the wasp. Dream’s eyes fluttered shut again at the touch.

“They all love you,” Hob said.

Dream hummed. “I feel a particular accord with this landscape,” he said, a ghost of a smile on his lips at Hob’s words.

“Yeah, it reminds me of you. More than the Dreaming as a whole usually does.”

“Oh?”

Hob sat upright and tugged Dream up with him, brushing strands of grass from Dream’s hair. Then he kissed him softly on the lips and said, “Constantly on the verge of thundering.”

Dream grumbled under his breath, something about making it rain in Hob’s flat later. Hob just kissed him again, this time on the cheek, saying, “That wouldn’t be the most fun way to end a date, darling.”

“I suppose not.” Dream leaned back to meet Hob’s eyes, his expression now glinting with mischief. “I did have other plans. But if you insist on thundering.”

He blinked, and the sky split open with a tremendous crash, rainwater pouring down in a torrent that soaked them both immediately to the bone. Hob noted with amusement that Dream was letting himself get wet, too. His shirt was sticking to his narrow frame, skirt clinging to each bend of his legs. And his normally fluffy hair was unmentionable.

Hob grinned widely at him, water streaming over his nose and lips, dripping into his eyes. “The things you will do just to have your way.”

Dream’s eyes narrowed in challenge. “Must I have you struck by lightning, as well?”

“C’mere, you.” Hob dragged him into a hug, wet and sticky and clinging, as the rain kept pounding down and sinking into the grass around them. Flowers were nodding under the weight of the droplets, and the corners of the sky had gone dark and grey — but Dream was happy, was the thing. Hob could tell by the way he let Hob manhandle him into the hug, pressed the side of his face against Hob’s, the twitch of a smile on his lips that Hob could feel against his cheek. Storms in the Dreaming were so often indicative of Dream’s sadness or rage, and it was thrilling to be caught up in one that was born of playfulness instead.

The rain was even warm.

“You’re so beautiful,” Hob told him.

“Everything you say is at random,” Dream complained, somewhat hollowly considering he still had his fingers clutched in Hob’s dripping shirt.

“Nah. You just don’t understand the incredibly complex workings of my mind.”

He could sense Dream’s eye roll without having to see it.

“Isn’t it simple enough to just know that I always think you’re beautiful?” he asked, quieter now and almost hushed out by the rain. “It’s like the sky. It’s really always beautiful, but sometimes you catch it at a certain angle and you think, oh.”

“I am, in fact, also the sky in the Dreaming,” Dream said — just to be ornery, Hob thought. But then he said, softer, “You have a gentle perspective of me.”

It was true, Hob thought, that most might not look at this tempestuous landscape with generosity, might not be so easygoing about its overbearing rain. But Hob saw Dream smile and all he wanted was to tip his face up into the storm.

He ran his hands through Dream’s sopping hair. “You can count on that.”