#even if he doesn't understand and responsability weights over his shoulders

[depressedtheatrekiddo]

(Spoilers? Issues 1-8 of Blue Beetle (2006), it's just a little screaming and analysis so yeah that <3)

Me when Jaime Reyes is expected to know everything and is tossed around to become something he never asked for, given no explanations and is only a teen *screams into the void*

It's worse that he hasn't really died. That he was just gone. That his family and friends mourned him. Because it's been a year.

Because he's the same. He's the same but his relationships with the people he loves, the people he believes he knows, those will forever be complicated.

His parents support him. But his mom doesn't believe it's his son at first and his dad tells him it's the grieve, he talks about the ideals you create when someone dies. But he didn't die. How do you overcome the expectation of who you were when you believe you're still you? And oh, aren't they different from how did you remember? Was there white hair there? Why do you wear a cane dad?Why's your smile so sad? I'm here, right?

Because Mili keeps feeling weird, because that's her big brother, right? He calls her Munchkin and she hugs him when he cries. Because that's her brother. But she also runs away when he appears or when he tries to hug her. He is, right? He has to be. And she keeps bothering him playfully, they both do. Because they're still siblings.

And the worst is when he looks at his friends. You believe they're the same. They believe you are too. But between laughs Paco will say that "they were there when you weren't". And looking at Brenda will remind you of who her aunt is, you haven't lied at her before, not about something like that.

And then you feel like Jaime Reyes is taken from you. That the home where you were still yourself is being taken from you too. You're shoved into being the Blue Beetle. You want to help the people, to do good. But you know nothing and you have homework to do. And you just want them to look at you like before.

[brunchable]

THIS, is your boyfriend, Mom? [4]

Pairings: Beefy Bucky Barnes x Our savage wittle boi Lucas x f!Reader.

Summary: The family went on a camping trip with Lucas' cousins. Warning: Lucas fell into a river but is unharmed.

A/N: I will just keep posting Step-Dad Bucky content, this doesn't really have set plot, just cute and funny moments while Bucky navigates how to be a Dad. ALSO, note I am still trying to fix the tag list for this.

The stars had just begun to shine as you, Bucky, Lucas, and a few of his cousins sat around the campfire, laughter filling the air as the kids toasted marshmallows and dared each other to make the strangest marshmallow combinations.

After a while, Lucas and his cousin wandered over to you, their faces lit with excitement. “Mom, can we go skip rocks by the river?” Lucas asked.

You nodded, giving them a warm but serious smile. “Alright, but don’t go too close to the water. Stay safe.”

They nodded, promising to be careful, and you watched as they bounded off toward the riverbank, their giggles mixing with the sound of the flowing water. Bucky was sitting next to you, his gaze steady on the kids as they skipped stones, trying to beat each other’s number of skips.

Everything seemed peaceful.

But after a few minutes, you overheard Lucas’s cousin daring him. “Bet you can’t skip one from way up close,” his cousin said, pointing to a spot near the edge of the water, where the bank was muddy and slippery.

Lucas hesitated, glancing back at you and Bucky, then shrugged, puffing his chest out a little. “It’s not even that deep. I’ll be fine.”

In that split second, he took a bold step closer, right to the edge, and threw his rock. But as he shifted his weight forward, the muddy bank gave way, and he slipped, his arms flailing as he tried to keep his balance—only to tumble forward into the icy water.

“Mom! Help!” Lucas screamed, panic overtaking his voice as the river’s current tried to pull him in.

His cousin tried to reach him, stretching out his arm, but the water was too strong, and Lucas was quickly losing his footing.

In that moment, Lucas looked up, his breath catching as he saw a figure racing toward him with unwavering speed and determination. Recognizing Bucky’s shape, he reached out instinctively, the word spilling out in sheer desperation.

“Dad!”

Before you could take a step, Bucky had already shot up, sprinting to the river with a look of pure terror etched across his face. Reaching the boys in seconds, he gently but firmly shoved Lucas’s cousin back toward you, his voice low and firm. “Get to your mom. Now.”

“Lucas!” you screamed, your heart pounding.

Without a second thought, Bucky stepped into the river, his boots sinking into the cold, swirling water as it tugged insistently at his legs, urging him to stay back. But he moved forward, steady and sure, his eyes fixed on Lucas as if the world held nothing else. The river pressed against him, but he barely noticed, reaching Lucas in a few strides, wrapping a solid arm under the boy’s shoulders, and lifting him up with a fierce certainty. Holding Lucas close, Bucky turned and waded back to shore, his grip firm, his gaze steady, as if he were carrying something infinitely precious.

As soon as they were safely on dry ground, Bucky knelt down, gripping Lucas’s shoulders tightly, his jaw clenched, his eyes blazing with anger and fear.

“What were you thinking, Lucas?” he snapped, his voice sharp and unwavering. “Didn’t your mother tell you not to go near the edge? Do you understand what could have happened if you’d fallen in deeper?”

Lucas glanced up at Bucky, then looked over at you. The sight of you standing there, tears streaming down your face, struck him like a punch to the chest. His mother, the person he always wanted to keep happy and safe, was crying because of him.

Lucas looked down, his face pale, but tried to stammer out a response. “I-I… I didn’t think it’d be that slippery…”

Bucky’s hands tightened on his shoulders, and his voice grew louder, thick with emotion. “Exactly. You didn’t think! What if the current had pulled you in? What if you’d been swept away before I got there? What if… what if you had gotten hurt or worse?” Bucky’s voice wavered, but his tone stayed stern. “This isn’t a game, boy. You could’ve been lost to that river in an instant.”

Lucas’s cousin, standing nearby, shifted nervously, his face turning pale as he realized the seriousness of the situation. Bucky’s sharp gaze flicked toward him, his tone still unrelenting.

“And you,” he said, his voice just as firm as before. “Why would you dare him to go closer? Do you understand how dangerous that was?”

Lucas’s cousin looked down, guilt spreading across his face as he mumbled, “I’m sorry, Bucky… I didn’t think anything bad would happen. I just… thought it’d be fun.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t soften as he spoke, his tone filled with disappointment. 

“Fun? What if he’d fallen in and the current was too strong? What if I hadn’t been here in time? You don’t push someone to take a risk like that, especially near the water. You’re supposed to look out for each other, not encourage recklessness.”

The weight of Bucky’s words began to settle over both boys like a heavy blanket. The “what ifs” replayed in their minds, each one sinking deeper, and they both suddenly felt small and helpless under Bucky’s fierce gaze.

Lucas’s voice shook as he whispered, “I… I’m sorry, Bucky. I didn’t mean to make you and Mom worry. I just wanted to see if I could do it…”

“Wanting to prove yourself doesn’t matter if you’re putting yourself in danger. Bravery doesn’t mean being reckless, Lucas. Do you understand that?” Bucky’s stern expression didn’t waver as he looked down at Lucas, still gripped by the terror of almost losing him.

Lucas’s shoulders slumped as the weight of his mistake settled over him like an unwelcome shadow. Tears spilled down his cheeks, and his voice broke in a whisper, “I’m really, really sorry, Bucky. I didn’t mean for it to be this bad… I just didn’t think.”

Bucky’s expression shifted, his face softening as he caught the guilt in Lucas’s tear-filled eyes. He let out a quiet, unsteady breath, the last of his anger dissolving like smoke. He pulled the boy into a fierce hug, an instinct older than words, holding him close as if, in that one embrace, he could keep the world and all its dangers at bay.

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” Lucas’s voice was muffled against Bucky’s chest, his small hands gripping Bucky’s shirt like it was his only tether to safety.

Bucky’s arms tightened around him, one hand moving up to cradle the back of Lucas’s head. “I know, kid. I know you didn’t mean it.” His voice was soft but steady, filled with something deeper than mere forgiveness.

He stroked Lucas’s back in slow, reassuring circles, feeling each shaky breath. “You scared me, you know? Really scared me.” The words were simple but carried a weight only Lucas could feel, pressing gently on his small shoulders.

Then, Bucky pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, brushing a tear from Lucas’s cheek with his thumb. “Listen. You don’t need to prove anything. You’re already enough, just as you are. And I need you here with me. Promise me you’ll remember that.”

Lucas nodded, a fierce, wide-eyed sincerity in his gaze. “I promise.”

Bucky’s lips curled into a small, warm smile, and he ruffled Lucas’s hair gently, his voice barely above a whisper. “Good. That’s my boy.”

There was a pause, a quiet weight to the moment. Then, Bucky gave Lucas’s shoulder a soft squeeze, his tone light but carrying an unmistakable note of resolve. 

“Now,” he murmured, a hint of mischief flickering in his eyes, “go apologize to your mom and get yourself cleaned up. You’ve given her enough to worry about for one day.”

× × × ×

The campfire crackled softly, casting a warm glow over the clearing as the night deepened. The kids were finally asleep in their own tent, their quiet breaths rising and falling in a rhythm of exhaustion and dreams. You stayed by the fire, arms wrapped around yourself, lost in thought as you watched the flames dance.

Bucky came up behind you, draping a blanket over your shoulders and pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. You smiled up at him, warmth spreading through you beyond the blanket.

“Thank you,” you murmured, reaching for his hand. “For what you did for Lucas today.”

Bucky shook his head, brushing it off. “It’s nothing,” he said softly, settling down beside you. But as he looked into the fire, a quiet chuckle escaped him, his eyes crinkling with a mix of disbelief and something almost… tender.

You turned to him, curiosity in your gaze. “What are you thinking about?”

He glanced at you, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his eyes still reflecting the firelight. “He called me ‘Dad,’” he said, voice soft with wonder.

You nodded, your own smile widening. “He did.”

Bucky’s eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief as he leaned back. “Think that’s going to cost me the dad fee?”

You laughed, a warm sound that felt like it belonged to the night. Bucky grinned, clearly pleased to lighten the mood, and his hand found yours as the two of you sat in comfortable silence, the fire crackling as the stars watched over.

After a moment, Bucky’s gaze softened, and he leaned in, closing the space between you with a look of pure adoration. His hand cradled your face as his lips brushed against yours, warm and lingering.

Just as you melted into the kiss, a small voice pierced the quiet.

“Oh, wow. Seriously? Now?”

You and Bucky broke apart to find Lucas standing outside his tent, hands on his hips and an exaggerated look of exasperation on his face. “Guys, it’s, like, bedtime. Some of us are trying to sleep here without… that in our minds.”

You stifled a laugh, and Bucky sighed, glancing at the sky as if asking for patience. “What do you need, kid?”

Lucas rolled his eyes dramatically. “Well, I was going to the bathroom, but now I’m scarred for life. So thanks for that,” he added with a smirk, gesturing toward the trees. “I’ll be back—try to keep it PG, alright?”

With that, he turned and shuffled off, muttering loud enough for you to hear, “Can’t believe I had to see that.”

When he was out of earshot, Bucky shook his head, chuckling softly. “That kid…”

You bit back a grin, leaning into him with a sigh. “So, where were we?”

Bucky pulled you close, a smirk on his lips. “Somewhere between dad fees and permanent interruptions, I think.”

× × × × 

Back home a few days later.

It was a quiet evening, and Bucky had been waiting for the right moment, nerves humming beneath his calm exterior. Lucas was sprawled out on the living room floor, building a small LEGO fortress, completely focused. Bucky took a deep breath, gathering himself, and then sat down next to Lucas, watching him for a moment before speaking.

“Hey, bud,” Bucky said softly, ruffling Lucas’s hair.

Lucas looked up, his face lighting up. “Hey, Bucky! Want to help me with the fortress? It’s almost done.”

Bucky chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe in a sec, kiddo. I actually wanted to talk to you about something… something important.”

“Okay… what’s up?” Lucas tilted his head, curiosity sparking in his eyes.

Bucky took a deep breath, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement.

“So… I’ve been thinking about your mom,” he began, his voice gentle. “She means everything to me, Lucas. You know that, right?”

Lucas nodded, a small smile forming on his lips. “Yeah, I know. She loves you, too.”

Bucky swallowed, his heart pounding a little harder as he reached out, resting a hand on Lucas’s shoulder. “Well, I was wondering… how would you feel if I asked her to marry me?”

Lucas’s eyes went wide, his mouth falling open in surprise. He looked down, taking it in, before glancing back up at Bucky with a raised eyebrow.

“You mean… you’d be my dad?” he asked, his voice tinged with a hint of sass. “Like, officially? You’re not just trying to get a tax break or something, right?”

Bucky laughed, the tension easing out of him a bit. “No, not for a tax break, kid. I genuinely want to be there for you and your mom. I want us to be a family.”

Lucas stared at him for a long moment, his face scrunched up in thought. Then, with a small, knowing smirk, he said, “So… you’re asking me for permission? Wow, you must really like us.”

Bucky chuckled, ruffling Lucas’s hair again. 

“Yeah, I am. It’s important to me that you’re okay with this. You’re the most important person in her life, and if we’re gonna be a family… I want you to know that you’re part of this decision.”

Bucky’s eyes widened, like he’d just been struck by the weight of Lucas’s words. For a moment, he could only stare, his heart swelling with an unexpected, overwhelming sense of joy. He felt a lump form in his throat, and before he could say anything, he pulled Lucas into a tight hug, holding him close.

Lucas’s face softened, and after a brief pause, he leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s neck in a tight hug. 

"You don't have to ask," Lucas whispered, his sass melting to something sincere, "I already know you're my dad."

As he closed his eyes, a tear slipped down his cheek, but he didn’t care. “Thank you, Lucky,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “That means more than you know.”

When they finally pulled back, Lucas wiped his eyes, his grin returning with a mischievous edge. “But… you still have to do it right. Like, you know, get down on one knee and everything. And maybe a big sign that says, ‘Will you marry me?’ in case you mess up your words.”

Bucky laughed, nodding. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m going all out. Your mom deserves the best.”

Lucas nodded, looking proud. “Good. She does. And you better not make her cry… unless they’re the good kind of tears. Otherwise, I’ll have to come after you.”

Bucky chuckled. “Only happy tears, kiddo. I promise.”

Lucas gave him a firm nod, his eyes sparkling. “Good then it’s settled. Now, are you going to help me finish this fortress, or are you too busy planning your big proposal?”

Bucky grinned, feeling the last of his nerves slip away as he settled beside Lucas, picking up a LEGO piece. 

“Alright, kiddo, let’s finish this fortress. Gotta make sure it’s strong enough to withstand all the big plans I’m about to set in motion.”

Lucas gave a mock-serious nod. “Good idea. Wouldn’t want you bailing on me halfway through.”

Bucky chuckled, nudging him gently. “Hey, I’m in this for the long haul. Fortress-building included.”

They both settled back down to work, side by side, focused on finishing the fortress together, each piece clicking into place as easily as their bond had over time.

[mariasont]

Talking to a Brick Wall - A.H

a/n: rip erin strauss you would've hated this fic

masterlist

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!reader

summary: in which you overhear your boyfriend aaron's phone call

warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, miscommunication, self-doubt, happy ending but also a terrible ending bc i SUCK at endings xoxo

wc: 2.3k

You had called out your boyfriend's name multiple times as you wandered into his house. He had asked you a while ago if you wanted to come over for a movie night tonight and hell would have to freeze over before you ever declined that offer. However, upon arrival, you were greeted by silence; no response to the doorbell, his phone, or your voice. Thankfully, the key he'd given you last year jingled in your pocket as you let yourself in.

You had a pretty strong suspicion he'd be in his office--after all, this was Aaron Hotchner, a man who definitely did not believe in leaving work at the office. 

And sure enough, his voice filtered through the slightly ajar door, the rich hue of his mahogany desk framing the gap. You were about to move towards the living room, assuming he was on a work call of some sorts, but his words stopped you dead in your tracks. 

"It's just... sometimes I feel like I'm speaking, but the understanding isn't there. You know what I mean? It's like the concepts just float in one ear and out the other."

You caught your bottom lip between your teeth, brows drawn together, as your hand found the wall, leaning towards the door. He couldn't have been talking about you, right?

"I try to share details, to get her involved, but it's met with this vacant nod. As if the depth of it all just doesn't register."

Oh. Her. You tried to fan away the wetness that threatened to fall down your cheeks, each rapid motion a desperate attempt to convince yourself you were imagining things. 

"And I'm patient, I really am. But when you're met with that blank look, it's... disheartening. You start to wonder if it's worth explaining at all. It's like talking to a wall."

Okay, that stung. It was like an immediate punch to the gut, your heart seeming to drop into the pit of your stomach. Your shoulders slumped slightly as you tried to rationalize his words, but nothing was really making sense right now.

The internal battle was a cruel one: stay and endure the sharp sting of his words or leave and miss more of what he had to say. The latter won, pulling you away from the door. 

You knew you were never going to be the smartest person in the room, and in the past, it was a source of deep-seated insecurity, always a silent specter in the corners of your mind. But then you met Aaron. And he made everything just better. His own intelligence and impressive job never became a yardstick for your worth; he ensured you knew you were more than enough, just as you were.

He had always been the voice reminding you that you were smart in your own right, telling you that your worth transcended any numerical measure of intelligence like a stupid IQ score. But now you were questioning everything. 

Anger seemed like the appropriate response, right? But it was hard to be when his words carried a weight of truth to them. 

You did have a hard time keeping up when he talked about the complexities of his cases, sometimes feeling like an outsider looking in. But, even if you didn't understand, his passion for what he did was infectious, and you hung on to every word when he explained all the ways his smart brain was able to deduce things about people. 

Still, a part of you imagined it was hard for him, that it probably got old fast when you weren't able to hold an intelligent conversation. 

Your knuckles were white against the steering wheel, and it somehow took you only ten minutes to get home when it should've taken you twenty.

It was only when you had taken a shower, put on your favorite pair of pink sweats, brought out some Ben and Jerry's, and turned on Legally Blonde, did you check your phone.

Hi honey. What time are you coming over?

You tried to ignore the sensation of an invisible band drawing tighter across your chest. 

so sorry, not feeling good. rain check? xoxo

You hated lying to him. Hated lying in general, save for the occasional white lie to protect someone's feelings. The fact that you weren't lying to his face was a small mercy, because obviously he'd be able to see right through you.

Do you want me to come there? I can bring food.

You wanted to be with him, you really did, you had been counting down the days to this movie night all week. But the thought of sitting beside him, wanting to ask about his day, about his work, now seemed like an intrusion. Knowing that your well-intentioned questions might be a chore for him or a source of frustration. The realization pressed down on you, a heavy weight that threatened to snuff your light.

no that's okie! thank you though <3 i don't want to get you sick!

Your phone was ringing, his name lighting up the screen for a FaceTime call, it felt like a betrayal of your own making. It was a skill you had recently taught him (which took forever), and of course now he was using it. Your finger jabbed at the red button, your cheeks turning the same color. 

i look & sound disgustinggg rn

I know for a fact that's incorrect. You have a magical talent of looking incredible no matter what.

I want to see your pretty face.

you can be so flattering when u want to mister!

im going to take some medicine & then ill call u l8, k?

Hmm, okay.

love u! xoxo

I love you too, pretty girl.

You hated this. Your eyes were puffy, swollen and wet as you discarded the phone onto the nightstand. He deserved someone who wasn't so pathetic. 

You wallowed in self-pity all night, and then all day, and then all week. You went through the motions--getting up, going to work, and then making up some lame excuse when Aaron asked to see you. Name it, and you had probably said it. In reality, you had been holed up in your room, trading glossy magazine pages for confusing behavioral books.

The subject matter was as dull as dishwater, making paint-watching seem thrilling. But you were committed to bringing some depth to your next conversation with him.

Today's excuse had been some half-truths about being buried in work--which in hindsight seemed comical, given you worked at a bakery and there wasn't much that could take up your time outside of contract hours.

You were splayed across the couch in an upside-down sprawl as you attempted to focus on the scholarly gibberish that filled the pages. 'Homology,' 'dichotomy,' and 'typology' melded into a migraine-inducing blur, tempting you to slam the book shut. You were fighting every urge to throw it out the window and paint your nails with that new glittery polish you've been dying to try.

At the insistent knock, you clapped the book shut (thank god) and stood, brows knitting, as you navigated to the door with a soft scuffle of slippers on polished wood. 

Flinging it open, you halted, breath caught. "Aaron? Oh, hi, what are you doing here?"

The words sprang forth before you could catch them, your hands scrambling up to smooth the evidence of your couch-induced disarray. 

He fixes you a pointed stare as he steps into your apartment, invitation be damned you guess. "I find myself repeating this, yet it seems necessary--peephole first, then the door, sweetheart."

You clamp your teeth onto your lip with such force, you're convinced you've tasted blood. "Oh, right, sorry... I should've remembered."

A flicker of foolishness and a heavy dose of self-consciousness threaten to surface. However, you quickly subdue them, tucking them away as you wrapped your arms around your body, offering him a small smile. Despite everything, your heart leaps at the sight of him. You missed him.

His face softens, his touch soft as he tilts your chin upward. "Look at me. It's fine. I just want to make sure my best girl is safe, that's all."

The temptation to simply crumble there and then, to forget everything and cocoon yourself in his arms, was overwhelming. 

You leaned into his hand without thinking, which now claimed the entire area of your cheek. He was always so warm. 

You watch as Aaron glances around the room, no doubt noting the absence of work-related clutter. "Still working?"

"Oh, I was, I told my boss I'd help with inventory reports." That part wasn't totally a lie, but it still made your conscience squirm with guilt.

"Do you want help?"

The proposal touches a raw nerve, sparking a defensive reflex. Did he think you were incapable?

 "Thanks, but I'm actually all done with them," you lie, your a smile a little too rigid as you head into the living room.

You're keenly aware of his approaching footsteps as you hastily stash that stupid book under a magazine, silently praying he didn't notice. You settle onto the couch, and he joins you, casually drawing your legs over his lap as you recline against the cushions.

"How was your day?"

You wince internally at the automatic question. 

"Not too bad," He replies with an easy shrug, his fingers sneaking under your sweats at the ankles, tracing lazy circles on your calves. "We wrapped up some paperwork, had a couple of briefings, and oh, we were introduced to our new consultant today. She specializes in crypto linguistics--really fascinating stuff."

Your eyes flutter briefly, a constriction forming in your throat, a twist in your gut. The mere mention of the consultant being a she amplifies your feelings of insufficiency. It leaves you wondering, why would Aaron ever be interested in someone like you?

"Crypto linguistics?" you repeat, trying to sound curious rather than lost. 

He leans in closer to you. "It's a specialized area of linguistics focused on decoding encrypted languages."

You offer a nod, managing a convincing "Yeah, of course," even as your eyes unwittingly drift away from his unwavering stare, betraying a hint of your confusion.

Aaron's hand cradles your head, his fingers sifting through your hair. "Hey," he murmurs, drawing your attention back, "what's going on in that pretty head of yours?"

Your chin touches your chest as you mumble, barely audible, "hardly anything."

Aaron's expression turns to a frown, his broad hands guiding your ass and thighs as he positions you atop his lap, face-to-face, leaving you exposed with no place to hide. Your name escapes him with a sigh. "I don't believe that for a second."

You match his frown with your own pout, nestling your face into his neck, concealing the rosy hue that has claimed your cheeks. "Just a rough week is all."

"Is that so?" His voice was a gentle murmur, his hands soothingly moving in gentle sweeps across your back as you breathed out unsteadily. "Funny, that's been my week too. My gorgeous girlfriend seems to have been avoiding me all week."

"Have not," you mumble, your breath warm against his skin, fingers weaving through the hair at the nape of his neck.

He hummed. "Why don't you tell me what's wrong."

"It's silly."

He guided your face back to his, eyes searching yours. "Listen to me. No, it's not. I don't like when you try to diminish your feelings. Talk to me, honey."

That was your tipping point. A wobble in your lip betrays the onset of tears as your voice breaks.

"I just--I know I'm not as smart as the people you work with or even your past girlfriends. I know I don't get things right away especially when you talk about work, and I see how everyone else is so quick, and I'm here, always a few steps behind. I know that it must be frustrating for you, and I'm scared that one day, you'll get tired of explaining, and your patience will run out, and well, you'll see... you'll see that--"

"Baby, whoa, slow down," Aaron urges, his palms tenderly framing your face, a frown plastered over his face. Your heart hammers against your chest, its rapid beats almost audible, as if it might jump from your body. "Take a deep breath, okay? Can you do that for me?"

You draw in a breath.

His thumb delicately erases the tears that have made their way down your cheek.

"When there is something about my work you don't understand, I will gladly go over it as many times as you need. I don't expect you to know everything about that stuff, why would you? That's not why I'm with you. I'm with you because of your incredibly kind heart and the way you see the best in people. I love you because you are you. What is making you think this way, honey? It's breaking my heart."

"I overheard you Aaron," you said, "saying that sometimes it feels like you're talking to a wall when you talk to me."

"What?" he questioned, but his confusion was quickly morphed into concern. "Oh, sweetheart, no. I was talking about Strauss and her lack of understanding of our fieldwork."

"Oh."

"I would never speak about you like that, you know that, right? And if, in some alternate universe, I did, you need to break up with me, or better yet, set me straight." His hands stayed firmly on your face. "You should never tolerate that from me or anyone else, understood?"

You bit down on your lip, hands resting on his shoulders as you nodded. "Yes, sir."

He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, sending fireworks to every inch of you as he mumbled against your mouth, "that's my girl."

taglist: @hotchhner

[latin5mamii]

5:42 am

genre: JudeBellingham x you; cute and fluff

summary: After a whole night of no-sleep, you decide to help your boyfriend forget about his overthinking for once.

author's note: Cute and fluffy! Didn't want to make it too depressing so i added a bit of humor; i know this is work is unexpected but i'm getting a lot of inspiration rn!

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ

The world is still asleep when Jude wakes, moving with the careful precision of someone practiced in not disturbing the peace. His hand reaches for his phone on the bedside table, and he shifts cautiously to sit up on the edge of the bed.

The room is dark save for the faint blue light creeping through the curtains, a soft haze that makes everything feel slower, quieter.

He doesn’t hear you stir behind him.

The mattress dips slightly as you roll over, and he freezes. For a second, he thinks you’ll fall back asleep, but your voice—soft and warm like the blankets tangled around you—breaks the silence.

"You're already up"

It’s not a question, and there’s no frustration in your tone—just a quiet understanding. Before every match, he could never sleep. He’d toss and turn, get up for water, but he could never settle—especially now, with so much to think about.

Jude glances over his shoulder, a little sheepish as he meets your sleepy gaze.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmurs. His voice is a whisper, rough from the early hour.

“You didn’t.” You stretch slightly, the movement slow and lazy. “You never do.”

He smiles at that—small, almost imperceptible in the low light. You sit up halfway, leaning on your elbow as you watch him tug on a sweatshirt over his T-shirt.

“Don’t go just yet,” you say, voice still quiet but carrying a softness that stops him mid-motion. “Come back here for a minute; you have so much time left. ”

Jude doesn't hesitate even for a second as soon as he sees you—still cocooned in blankets, your hair messy and your eyes heavy-lidded but bright. It’s not a hard choice, not really.

He slips back into bed without a word, settling beside you. Your arm loops around his waist instinctively, and he leans into it, letting his head rest against yours.

The silence in the room is thick but comforting, punctuated only by the faint hum of the world outside—a car passing, the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. Jude’s breathing evens out as he melts into your embrace, the tension in his shoulders softening. You run your hand gently along his back, tracing patterns you don’t think about but that he seems to feel, leaning into each movement.

“You think too much,” you whisper, your voice barely audible but close enough that he hears it.

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, his arm drapes over you, pulling you closer. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, and you feel him exhale deeply, as if the weight of what you said has settled somewhere in his chest.

“I just want to get it right,” he murmurs, finally. The words are small but heavy, like they’ve been sitting on the tip of his tongue for days.

“You always do.”

The response is automatic, and you mean it—every syllable. You wish you could pull his thoughts away, fold it neatly into something manageable. But for now, all you can do is hold him.

Jude pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. The dim light softens his features—his dark eyes are wide, thoughtful, his lips parted as if he’s about to say something but decides against it.

“You okay?” you ask, brushing a hand through his hair, which is still slightly messy from sleep.

Jude lingers in the embrace a moment longer, his face tucked against the curve of your neck, the warmth of your skin drawing out a softness he didn’t realize he needed. But when he finally shifts, there’s something lighter in his expression. He nudges his nose against your cheek, playful, and murmurs,

“You’ve turned me into a morning person, you know.”

You laugh, low and easy, your fingers pausing in his hair to tap lightly against the side of his head. “I don’t think you get to claim that title until you actually enjoy mornings, Jude.”

He pulls back enough to look at you, an exaggerated pout forming on his lips. “What if I just enjoy mornings with you?”

“That’s sweet,” you tease, your smile brightening the dim room. “But you still groan every time the alarm goes off, so I’m not sure it counts.”

“Details.” He grins, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your forehead before sitting up. The bed shifts under his weight, and you watch as he stretches, the hem of his sweatshirt riding up slightly. The sight makes you laugh—something about the way his early-morning dishevelment feels so ordinary and yet so utterly him.

He glances over his shoulder at you, catching the amused tilt of your smile. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say, shaking your head, though the laughter still dances in your voice. “You’re just...cute like this.”

His ears turn a little pink, and he rubs the back of his neck, feigning nonchalance. “Yeah, yeah. Come on, let’s make some coffee before you embarrass me even more.”

“Embarrass you? Never,” you shoot back, but you’re already sitting up, tossing the blankets aside. The cool air hits your skin, and you shiver slightly, reaching for the oversized sweater draped over the chair beside the bed. Jude is already standing, holding a hand out to help you up.

The two of you move quietly even though you're alone in the house, the soft shuffle of your steps the only sound. Jude goes straight to the counter, pulling out the coffee beans and the grinder.

“You want tea, right?” he asks over his shoulder, already reaching for the kettle.

“Mm-hmm,” you hum, leaning against the counter and watching him. He moves with a kind of easy precision, his focus shifting between the coffee and the kettle like it’s a little morning ritual he’s perfected. You can’t help but smile—it’s a far cry from the nerves that had him tossing and turning earlier.

“What’s funny now?” he asks, catching your expression as he sets the kettle to boil.

“Just you,” you say, your voice light. “All serious about coffee like it’s a science.”

“It is a science,” he replies, mock-indignant. “And you’re lucky I’m good at it, or you’d be stuck drinking whatever shit they call coffee down the street.”

“Oh yeah?” you shoot back, barely suppressing a laugh. “Says the guy who puts honey in his coffee.

Jude shakes his head, chuckling as he stirs the honey into his mug. “Is it that bad?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at you.

You shrug, fighting back a grin. “I mean, I wouldn’t say bad. Just...no okay it's actually bad.”

Jude groans dramatically, hand over his heart as if your words wounded him. “Wow. First thing in the morning, and you’re already coming for me.”

After a moment, you set your mug down and glance at him. “What do you want for breakfast? Or are we just surviving on caffeine today?”

Jude’s lips curve into a small, thoughtful smile. “Surviving on caffeine sounds very me,” he admits. Then, after a beat, he straightens and adds, “But pancakes sound better.”

“Pancakes?” you say, arching a brow. “Aren't you the man who claims he doesn’t need breakfast?”

“I’m evolving,” he says, feigning a look of mock importance. “Also, I think we have chocolate chips in the pantry.”

You laugh, reaching out to ruffle his hair affectionately. “Chocolate chip pancakes at dawn? I really am impressed.”

He nudges your side playfully, grinning. “Come on, let’s do it. We’ll make them quick. I’ll even let you flip them.”

“Generous of you,” you tease, already moving toward the pantry.

The only sounds are the soft clatter of bowls and utensils as the two of you work together, gathering ingredients and mixing the batter. Jude insists he’s got the perfect pancake recipe memorized, but you end up adding a little extra milk to the bowl when he’s not looking, just to mess with him.

“What did you just do?” he asks, squinting at you suspiciously as you stir.

“Nothing,” you say innocently, biting back a grin. “Just making sure it’s not too thick.”

He narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t argue, instead grabbing a ladle and heating the pan. “Alright, let’s see how this goes.”

The first pancake comes out a little lopsided, and you burst into laughter as Jude flips it onto a plate with exaggerated precision.

“Hey,” he says, pointing the spatula at you, “it’s not about how it looks—it’s about how it tastes.”

“Sure, Chef Jude,” you reply, still laughing as you lean against the counter, watching him pour the next one.

The second pancake is better—golden brown and perfectly round—and by the time the stack is finished, the kitchen smells like warm batter and melted chocolate. Jude sets the plate on the table with a triumphant flourish, and you grab two forks, sliding into a chair beside him.

Jude nudges your foot under the table, catching your eye as he chews his first bite.

“Not bad, huh?” he says, grinning.

You smile back, warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the pancakes. “Not bad at all.”

You pause eating and carefully set the little fork down on your plate. Looking at him, you offer a gentle smile, hoping to ease the weight of the long night.

“You’re going to do great today. I just know it.”

He slowly reaches out, his fingers brushing your nose and then your cheek. After a moment, his hand settles softly on yours.

"I hope your predictions are right, then"

[feyascorner]

“I love you.” The first time he says those simple three words, he doesn't mean it. Not really. And he knows you're aware of it too, with the stern glare you give him in response to his smug grin. He's teasing you—or, it looks that way anyway. In reality, he hopes that there's a glimmer, a sliver of your heart that welcomes his enticing and open arms. It’s routine. A habit. It feels more natural to lure you in with songs of promises than to simply tell you what he needs. He hopes you take his hand and ignore the sharp nails digging into your skin. He hopes you fall.

“I love you.” The second time is months later. He thinks he might genuinely mean it this time, considering how heavy his heart feels in his chest as the words leave his lips. But it’s hesitant. You can tell. And ever so patient, you only smile at him, taking his hand this time to squeeze it gently. Ah, that feels nice. Does he love you? Have you grown on his cold, dead heart? The fact that he doesn't want to recoil from your touch is enough if an answer..

“I love you.” The third time is at his grave. He’s confident now. Feeling. Wanting. He wishes he could hold your fingers against his skin forever. He doesn't want to even let go, because he fears you might vanish into thin air, like every other caring thing in his life. You're good. Understanding. Nothing like him. You deserve better than him. But he's always been a selfish man, and even though your presence urges him to be better, he remains selfish when it comes to you. He doesn't--no, he won’t lose you.

“I love you.” He’d feared he would never get to say the words again. He had faith in you of course, but an Elder Brain is no easy feat to defeat. But as he watches the brain sink into the darkest depths of the sea, the others cheering behind him, he feels the sun begin to prick at his skin again. It stings. Gods, does it sting. For a moment, he wonders if he should even run. He's had a taste for the sun kissed glow and he's not sure if he wants to part ways with it if it means he’ll rot away in the shadows forever. But when he feels you hurriedly toss a cloak over his shoulder, covering his face with the hood just enough for him to meet your eyes, you offer him something he doesn't want to ever imagine himself without again. Something he’s still in disbelief he has. Someone to worry for him.

I love you, I love you, I love you. As years pass, the words become more frequent, yet they never lose their weight, no matter how they're said or when. It’s funny, really, how he'd almost feared saying the same exact words just a few decades ago. To Astarion, they remind him that you're still here, allowing him the privilege to let him love you as much as he does.

“I love you.” The last time he says it, whether it be after an untimely death or simply from old age, he’s holding your hand again. He hates that instead of the adoration it’s supposed to convey, he hears more of the wobble in his voice as he realizes his time with you is up. Even though he's said it so many times, he finds that it still wasn't nearly enough. Open your eyes, he pleads to nobody in particular. He breathes. Why is he breathing? He doesn't need to. But the breaths become faster, and he realizes he’s crying too. Curses, how immature. Ah, your hand is so cold, almost like his own. He hates it. Don't be like him. And when he begs, he begs. Squeeze his hand again. Touch him again. Smile at him again. Live again.

Let him love you again.

[cressidagrey]

Lightning in a Bottle - Chapter 4

Summary: 

Eira Archeron was neither a Valkyrie, nor a Seer, nor the High Lady of the Night Court. She was actually pretty much useless. The only thing she wanted was to be somebody's first choice for once in her life.

Also known as: Azriel's shadows decide that if he doesn't treat his mate right... they'll just do it for him.

Warnings: 

ANGST, very bad self image, some sort of non graphic self-harm (if you squint), Rhys is kinda an asshole, vomiting

(super pretty dividers by @tsunami-of-tears)

There wasn’t so much as a scratch on his son. 

Not a hair on his head was harmed. 

Nothing. 

Feyre cleaned him with shaky hands, running a rag wet with warm water over his skin. Nyx was babbling in response, shaken but clearly…alright. 

Nyx. His son. 

The sudden weight that was lifted off Rhys' shoulders, as he crossed the room in three long strides...it felt like he could breathe again…as he pressed a kiss to Nyx’s head breathing in that scent that was unmistakenly his and then doing the same with Feyre. 

Her scent was thick with misery, shaking against him…Lilac and Pears, usually so perfect...

“Eira’s blood is all over him,” Feyre whispered. “I’ll wipe it off and I just find more.” 

Elain was sitting across from them, silently drinking tea, eyes concentrating on something far away. He wondered if she saw anything…any vision at all? But she didn't say anything. 

Feyre hung onto his hand and he cast out his mind, feeling Madja’s determination, as she…she tried to…

Save her. 

Save her from dying because she had thrown her own body between death and his son. 

For years, Rhys had believed the second-born Archeron sister to be... 

She had just been there. 

Existed in his periphery. 

She had been the only one who had at least tried to make Feyre’s life easier, the one who had cooked and cleaned and hacked up wood and washed the blood out of Feyre’s clothing and mended it when she had taken a tumble…Eira had at least tried. He still didn’t think that it had been enough but she had that going for her. 

Privately, Rhys had thought that the only thing that was fierce about Eira Archeron was her ability to love. 

The one and only time she had outright argued with any of them… had been about her sister… about Nesta and their intervention. 

She had argued harshly and fiercely about how they had no right to do this, about how it wasn’t fair…about how she would pay back that money if it meant that they would leave Nesta in peace. 

It had not only surprised him but also Amren and even Feyre…and even when they hadn’t listened to her…

It didn’t matter what Nesta threw at her head, her sister was still there every week, waiting for him to bring her up to the House of Wind. 

Every week. Like a clockwork, she had been there. 

Rhys easily admitted that he hadn’t been particularly understanding to her at that time.

And now, that ability to love had been…it was going to be the one thing killing her, wouldn’t it?

He hadn’t said it. He had only said that it looked bad…but he could feel how Madja was slowly reaching the limits of what she could do for her. 

Everything that was…

Eira Archeron, the one cauldron-born sister with no great ability. The one that had seemingly adapted well enough to being fae…never complained, never said anything. If she had suffered, she had done so silently. 

The quiet one, the one that liked the background…the one that had pined away silently over his brother, when her twin sister had been the object of his desires. 

Rhys had half expected that to end in a brawl, but once again…Eira hadn’t…nothing had been said. She had been willing to silently pine away.  

And then the mating bond had snapped for Az and that had been…

Quite frankly, the last fucking thing Rhys had expected. 

Every…every other female would have somehow made more sense in his mind. 

“Where’s she?” Nesta stormed into the room, Cassian hot on her heels. 

“Upstairs,“ Feyre answered. “Nesta, let Madja work,” his mate tried but Nesta fixed her with one look. 

“She’s our sister. If she dies, I am not letting her die alone!” Nesta snapped out, stomping upstairs. 

And that was that. 

Nobody tried to stop her. 

“She won’t die. It’s Eira,” Elain said, her voice strangely detached. Like that was written in stone, with all the trust in the world and Rhys wished, he had some of her confidence. Nobody else had it. 

Mor sat on one chair, knees hugged to her chest. His normally always so bright, colourful cousin curled together in one miserable ball. Feyre shook next to him and he reached out for her hand, gently squeezing it, before he let her go. 

He could feel the very foundations of his brother's mental shields wobble. 

His eyes snapped to Azriel.

To Azriel who stood there, hands still covered in Eira‘s blood, red streaks on scarred skin. 

Outwardly there was only a flurry of shadows trailing around him, worriedly. No other signs. 

But his eyes…his stare was empty. 

*Cassian. Don’t let him leave your sight,* he told his other brother sharply, mind to mind. *And try and get him to clean his hands,* he added as an afterthought. Maybe that…Maybe that would help…maybe…

*Rhys,* Caddian whispered into his mind. *If she dies…I don’t know if we’ll be enough.* Cassian didn’t say anything that Rhys wasn’t thinking. Nothing that he wasn’t dreading. *You know how he…he spent centuries waiting. He never talks about it but we both know how much he wanted a mate. How much he just wants to be loved…and…*

And the mating bond had just snapped. And if Rhys hadn’t pushed for Azriel to wait, they wouldn't even be in this fucking situation. 

Azriel’s mate’s blood…Feyre’s sister’s blood…Eira’s blood…it was on his hands. On Rhys’ hands. 

*I know.*

*If she dies, I don’t know what he’ll do.*

Neither did Rhys. 

“Madja is the best. If anybody can save her it will be her,” Cassian said aloud, probably for Azriel’s benefit, crossing over to Az, gently reaching out to touch their brother’s shoulder. “Come on, we’ll get you cleaned up,” he said quietly, gently pushing Azriel from the room, probably in search of a bathroom. 

Rhys pressed a kiss to Nyx's head, who was looking around the room wide-eyed, not understanding a thing what was going on. There seemed to be no sign of their son being exhausted from the magic he had expelled. Nothing. 

A problem for another day maybe. As long as he seemed fine... 

 “Mor?” he said quietly as he kneeled at his cousin’s side, reaching out for her, hand hovering…Mor looked at him, brown eyes wide and tearful. 

His cousin. He had killed Keir with nary a thought. 

“I never thought he would…do this,” Mor whispered, reaching out for his hand. “I thought…”

There was a tiny part of Mor that still believed that her family could change…that had still loved her parents…hadn’t wanted them dead. And he had taken that from her. 

“I know,” he whispered and she squeezed his hand in response. 

*I am sorry…* he said nonetheless in her mind and he could feel her surprise and then her acceptance. Mor wasn’t angry. Even when she had every right to it...Right to hate him for killing her father, even when Rhys had every right to do that as well. Hate could fester easily under such circumstances. 

*I am not,* Mor disagreed. *He got what he had coming…* A pause. Then she pushed a memory at him…Eira’s still body…the grey pallor of her usually pale skin…the way she had been limb and cold in Mor’s grasped as she had winnowed them to the River House and then fetched Madja…all in the span of seconds.

The blood…the dagger to the heart she had taken…Azriel’s magic pulsing around her, the shadows that hovered…all of it…it looked like the scene out of a nightmare. 

*It’s not looking good, Rhys,* Mor whispered. *Az doesn’t deserve this.* No, he didn’t. But neither did the female laying up there and fighting for her fucking life. 

All of it just because of…

He had pulled it all out of Keir’s head before he had killed him. The whole hare-brained plan, if one could call it like that. 

Nyx’s wings an obvious sign of his “half-breed” status…and with that, not something that Keir could stomach the thought of bowing to one day. Kill the heir, destablise the whole Night Court…Hope that Rhys could be baited. And then Keir would have made his move and the Night Court would be reunited under the glorious reign of Keir. 

And because of that, of the obsession of one male…his son had nearly died. 

He looked up sharply as he heard the steps. “Madja.” 

“I removed the knife. I stopped the bleeding,” Madja said, the dress she wore blood-flecked. “I did all I could.” 

He didn’t doubt that. The question was just if that was going to be enough. 

“She’s alive. For the moment,” Madja cautioned them quietly. “She’s…She’s fighting. The poison they dunked that knife in was…particularly nasty. It stops the blood from clotting…makes the pain feel much worse than it is.” 

She didn’t need to spell it out. It was torture. “Is…Is there an antidote?” Feyre asked, her voice shaking. 

“None that her body would be able to absorb without killing her right now,” Madja said carefully. “She’s…magically exhausted. She expelled…most, if not all of her magic.” 

“She never had much in the first place,” Mor choked out. “She probably tried to winnow and…”

And that hadn’t worked. It had failed. 

“What…what can we do?” Feyre asked, her voice shaking. 

“We wait,” Madja answered calmly. “I gave her every potion I could…I healed as much as I could… If she pulls through the night…I would be cautiously optimistic,” she told Feyre, her voice gentle. “Infection has already set in. She’s feverish. Lady Nesta is with her.“

And Rhys didn’t doubt for one moment that Nesta would stay right at her side…she was stubborn like that. 

“Is she…is she in pain?” Feyre asked, her hands tightening on Nyx, who was sucking on his thumb. 

Madja hummed softly. “She will be for days, High Lady,” she told Feyre, not unkindly. 

*Rhys…Could you…Please, I don’t want her to be in pain. Even if she doesn’t…even if she dies, Eira shouldn’t be in pain.* 

No, she shouldn’t be. 

*Of course, Feyre Darling,* he agreed quietly. As much pain as he could take from her, he would. 

“Mor?” he said aloud, and his cousin looked up, unfurling from her little ball. 

“I’ll deal with the fallout,“ she said, her voice only shaking around the edges. “Amren and I will manage." 

“She should be back soon,” he said aloud.  *She’s dealing with…the carnage,* he said into Mor’s mind and his cousin just nodded. It was better that…most people didn’t know what had happened...they didn't need to deal with the bodies…especially when they themselves didn’t even know how it had happened yet. 

Instead, he pressed another kiss to Nyx’s head and then, even when he didn’t want to leave him…he walked up the stairs to Eira’s bedroom. 

She had taken over a room on the third level of the house…away from both the master bedroom and also the room Elain had chosen, overlooking the garden. 

Eira’s room overlooked the River. It wasn’t the biggest bedroom either, with sloped ceilings that made it look smaller than it was…and the usual furniture that Feyre had picked for every room in the house. 

He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but maybe he had expected the room to have gotten a little bit more personality in the over 2 years that Eira now lived there. Something. Anything. 

The only thing that made it obvious that it was her room, was a box of thread spilling over her desk. 

Eira was on her bed and Nesta was sitting at her side, glaring at him as he opened the door. “Out!” Nesta snapped. “I do not want you to see her like that.” 

“See her like what?” Rhys asked, eyebrows climbing into his hairline. Half dead? Her skin was still grey, breath raspy…as he stepped closer to the bed, he could see the sweat beading at her hairline…

Nesta glared at him as she tugged a sheet around her, covering her.  

“In a state of undress,” she told him sharply. 

He blinked twice. 

He really couldn’t care less about it. Besides, she was still wearing a dress, even when Madja had cut it open to make it easier for her to reach the wound on her ribcage. And he had seen her in less…when she had been thrown into that cauldron and spat out again, the white cotton of her nightgown had become translucent. 

He hadn’t cared, because the only female he even wanted to look at anymore was Feyre, and her sisters were his now…

“I really don’t care about that,” he assured Nesta, who just glared at him. 

“She would,” Nesta spat out. “Eira would care, Rhysand.  She saved your son at the expense of her own life. The least you could give her is some fucking respect and her modesty.”

Right. 

“Is there ever going to come a day where you don’t expect the worst of me?” he asked with a sigh, moving to her desk to pick up the chair and bring it over to her side. 

He watched with surprise as shadows started to cover her body…becoming nearly solid in places, obscuring her torso from view, only leaving out her face and her limbs. 

Nesta stared at them for a moment but then seemed to think that they couldn’t possibly make it any worse. 

“Why are you here?” Nesta demanded from him. 

“I am a daemati,” he gave back drily as he sat down in the chair, mustering Eira’s prone form. Fine-boned, pale skin with a smattering of freckles just like Feyre. Not fragile, but…delicate.

“You are not poking around in her head,” Nesta seethed. 

“Even if it would take away her pain?” he offered lightly. Nesta harrumphed.  

“Then what the fuck are you waiting for?”

 Rhys took that as the only agreement he was going to get.

He reached out with his mind, expecting to carefully brush up against Eira’s mental shields…It seemed to be the only magical thing that she had easily caught on to. 

He had always left her mind alone, no reason why he should delve any deeper than surface sweeps he did on instincts…not when Eira’s mind had always been…soft in a sense. More worried about how other people felt than herself…

Now…unconscious. Ravaged by fever…there were no shields. Her mind bloomed under his touch, suddenly, harshly... She dragged him inside and he tumbled right into her memories. 

One quick snapshot after another. So quickly…too quickly. 

***

Wooden Ruler to her knuckles. Pain biting. Hard. Crying. Do not lie to me. 

She hadn’t lied. She hadn’t. The letters had truly changed places in front of her. She couldn’t help it. She couldn’t…

***

A hand grasping underneath her chin, so tightly that it hurt. Steel grey eyes. Her eyes. She inherited them. 

Your resemblance to a mole rat is rather unfortunate. But don’t worry. I am sure you’ll make a proper wife someday. To a farmer maybe. 

That was alright. She could be a wife. She wanted to be a wife. Even to a farmer…she…She wanted to be a wife. She wanted to have children…a baby…

***

Molten ore being poured into her veins. Humanity burned away. Fury. So much fury poured over her body. Your sister stole from me… And she paid the price. In blood and pain and drowning. 

Heat and Cold and burning alive and freezing…

She hit the floor, her whole body not her own…not anymore. 

Not her body. Never her body. Never again. 

***

Again. And Again. And Again. 

Back and Forth and Back and Forth and Back and Forth…

A quiet moan as she pulled at her ears, too long, too pointy, not hers, not hers, she never wanted these, but they were there sprouting from her head and they heard too much and she saw too much and she…

Back and Forth and Back and Forth…Iron taste in her mouth, too sharp teeth biting into her lip. 

She didn’t care. 

Back and Forth and Back and Forth and Back and Forth and maybe she would fall asleep and she wouldn’t hear heartbeats and she wouldn’t hear voices and she wouldn’t be heard, sat in that closet, in that tight and dark little place, because everything else felt too much. 

Back and Forth and Back and Forth and Back and Forth…

***

Peace. For the first time…in a long time. Peace. Just her hands, stitching on that button, one after another…the notes building in her throat. A children’s lullaby. Feyre had loved it. 

Stop your screeching, girl, I am getting a headache.

Said the scary one. 

The words stuck in her throat. 

She didn’t do it again. Not where anybody could hear it. 

She should make no noises. She wasn’t allowed to make any noises. Not allowed to take up any space. 

***

Screams muffled by pillows, shaking and crying and weeping and she didn’t know how she could stand it…Griefing and crying and she wanted to shout and scream and she couldn’t…she couldn’t…she couldn’t…

***

She was a failure. She always was a failure. Never enough. It didn’t matter what she did. She was dumb, she was stupid, she wasn’t good enough. 

As far as cauldron-made goes, she is pretty much useless.

So pretty. So beautiful…so blonde, with golden hair. So powerful. Everything she wasn’t. 

Everything she shouldn’t be.

Laughter. 

It was the truth. She was useless. 

She couldn’t do what came so easily to everybody else. No winnowing. No anything. Not good enough. Regardless of how hard she tried. 

***

Please. Please. Please. Just once…Just one time…

Garden. Wrought Iron table and chairs…broad wings sunning in the sun…a quiet conversation…a male’s laugh. So beautiful…so handsome…so kind. 

Her sister turned…he smiled. 

So beautiful.  So handsome. So kind. Hazel green eyes…dark curly hair. 

She wanted him. 

But he didn’t want her. 

So in love. With Elain. 

Not with her. Never with her. Never would be. 

Nobody would ever want her. He wouldn’t ever want her. 

***

Her sister. Her sister. Regardless of anything. 

Don’t come crying to me if she bites off your head. I warned you.

She wouldn’t. Her tears didn’t matter. To anybody. She would deal with them herself. It was her own fault. She didn’t listen. 

She couldn’t listen. Her sister. Her sister. 

Her fault. 

She should know better. 

***

Don’t you have anything better to do? Like make another ugly dress?

Silver embroidery floss, red silk. 

Black thread. 

Little hands painstakingly stitching, only for the dress to be just as painstakingly wrapped up and put in the chest at the bottom of her bed, never to be seen again. It was better that way. 

Never would be worn by a bride on her wedding day…or a Valkyrie on the day of her mating ceremony. 

Ugly Dresses. Not pretty enough. Not good enough. Never good enough. Not for Nesta. Not for anybody. 

***

Her own fault. Shouldn’t eavesdrop. They never heard anything good about themselves. 

We don’t need Eira. Quite frankly, it’s better if she doesn’t go. Elain is the prettier one, anyway.

Nobody needed her. Better if she didn’t bother anybody. Elain was prettier. Always was. Always would be. She was the ugly one. She wasn’t needed. She was worth nothing. 

***

Delicate tea. Ginger Cookies. Her sister’s favourite. Sun outside in the garden, dancing on the wooden floor…

Eira, find somewhere else to be. I really have more important things to do. 

Of course. She was a bother. She shouldn’t. She should know better. Others were more important. Shouldn’t bother. Stupid. Stupid. STUPID. 

***

Quiet. Don’t bother anybody. Make yourself useful. 

Nyx. 

So beautiful. 

Just like Feyre. 

Sing. Softly. So nobody could hear. 

So nobody… just Nyx. Hers and not hers. Feyre’s. 

Envy. So much envy, because she wished she had what her sister had. She wished she had a husband and a baby and somebody that loved her. 

Somebody who didn’t hate her. But she didn’t. 

So she sang. Another human lullaby for the future High Lord. 

Again and Again and again and her broken heart broke even more. 

***

Blue velvet box. Winter solstice. 

Pearl Earrings. Beautiful. So beautiful. 

But for her…for her useless. Her ears weren’t pierced. 

He hadn’t even noticed that. It hurt worse than even his smiles at her sister. 

He had brought her a gift…but it wasn’t a gift that she could use, no gift that…no gift that was special to her…no thought behind it… just an item on a list to be checked off. 

Something for Eira. Beautiful and Impersonal and…

No attention paid to her. 

She didn’t deserve his attention. Never. 

But she wanted it. Just once…

Please, Please, Please, Please…

***

She wanted to help. She always wanted to help. 

At least I found two males in my life willing to marry me. The one you have your ridiculous puppy crush on is never even going to look at you!

Her sister. Her sister. Her sister. 

She wished to cease existing. She didn’t care anymore. 

She could disappear and she would do them all a favour. 

Especially him. 

***

Fledgeling happiness shattered like a glass bottle on a stone floor. 

Could you at least try to get over him? It’s…it would be better for…this court.

Her feelings. An inconvenience. Should get over them. Now. Before they make trouble. 

Even when she never told anybody. Kept that secret close to her heart….

Of course. She would never tell him. 

She would never say a word. She would close her eyes and wish herself far, far away. 

Better that way. 

Wasn’t good enough. Useless. Stupid to think that she had a chance. She didn’t. Ugly. Not Enough. Worthless. Do not take up space. Melt into the background. Cease to exist. 

***

Rhys snapped himself from her brain, and then promptly wretched, vomiting onto the floor. 

[heich0e]

Touya's not usually one to check his text messages.

Never has been, ever since he got his first cellphone when he was 13. He finds it more of a nuisance than anything, the way people always want to get ahold of him. Always expect a response from him over the most mundane shit. He barely likes talking to anyone as is, let alone during his private time—therefore, as a general rule, he doesn't respond to texts.

Especially not ones that pop up on his phone on a lazy Saturday afternoon with the contact name 'Bird Brain' listed as the sender.

But when these particular message previews appear, rudely interrupting him in the middle of watching a cake decorating video while he lays sprawled across the couch, Touya can't help but click through to the conversation to give them the response that they deserve.

His response is about as succinct and unamused as he is.

Three telltale dots appear at the bottom of the conversation before Touya can click away, and he finds himself waiting to see what Keigo comes back with—for reasons not even he quite understands.

Touya pushes himself up off the couch in an instant, stomping into your bedroom.

He finds himself hesitating once he makes it to the doorway, his body having moved relatively of its own accord, realizing only once he's standing at the threshold that he's not even really sure what he's going to say.

You're laying across the bottom of your bed on your tummy with your sock-clad feet lifted in the air behind you. You have one headphone in your ear and your laptop propped in front of you with that stupid romantic drama you like so much playing—the one Touya pretends he hates but always gets a little pouty when you watch an episode without him. You turn when you spot him in your peripheral vision, popping your headphone out of your ear and hitting the spacebar to pause your show.

"I'm almost done," you tell him, glancing back to your screen where the male lead is paused mid-confession—his mouth still open in the middle of his ardent monologue. You peer back at him again over your shoulder with a slightly smug look. "If you hadn't watched ahead without me we could be watching it together, y'know."

"That was an accident," Touya grumbles, sniffing a little indignantly. "It started playin' automatically when I turned the TV on."

"Sure, sure," you chirp, turning back to your laptop. When you realize Touya's still lingering there, you face him again, this time pushing yourself up on your elbow so you can twist around to look at him more fully. Your brow furrows. "What's wrong?"

Touya sucks in a breath of air and holds it in his cheeks, narrowing his eyes slightly.

"Can I see your phone for a sec?" he asks.

The pinch of your brow slackens as one of them lifts in surprise.

"Yeah," you say, though your tone is still a little wary. You nod towards your bedside table at the head of the bed. "It's plugged in."

Touya shuffles towards you, rounding the end of your bed frame and approaching the device in question. He sit down at the edge of the mattress, and it dips under his weight. Beside him, you shuffle a bit closer to him as you resume watching your show, one of your feet brushing gently against his back as you kick them idly back and forth.

Touya knows your passcode, just like you know his, so it's no effort to unlock the device once he has it in hand. Finding the app in question is another story entirely.

He turns to you.

"Which one of these is Instagram?" he asks, holding the device in front of your face with the home screen open.

You pause your show again.

"This one," you say, pointing to one particular app icon, but your voice is notably perplexed.

Touya's never had any interest in social media. He had a couple of accounts when he was a teenager but hasn't properly logged in for years. As new social networking sites have risen and fallen, he's never bothered to even sign up, seeing no need in signing away his personal data to a platform he'll never use anyway.

Touya taps his thumb against the icon that you pointed out, waiting for the application to launch. His leg jiggles impatiently while he waits for it to load.

Beside him, you don't unpause your show.

When the screen finally loads, Touya is immediately accosted by an unfamiliar interface. There's some photo of a girl he doesn't know taking up most of the screen, and a few bubbles in the upper right hand corner that he can only assume are notifications you haven't checked. Touya may not use social media, but he's not an idiot either, so after clicking around the screen for long enough he finally manages to pull up what he recognizes as your personal profile.

"Touya, what are you doing?" you ask, thoroughly bewildered now, having just watched your boyfriend visit just about every corner of the Instagram app.

He sucks in a sharp breath.

Slowly, he turns to look at you.

"Did you just post this?"

He doesn't really need to ask, considering the baggy t-shirt you're wearing in the photo—his t-shirt, he recognizes immediately—is the same one you currently have on as you lie stretched across your bed. It's all you have on, save for the frilly little socks on your feet and the edge of the panties he can see peeking out where your shirt's hem has ridden up.

The photo blessedly has left those out.

You clear your throat, almost like you're embarrassed, reaching out for your cellphone. "Yeah, a little while ago."

Touya holds the device out of your reach, and a little sound of indignation slips from your lips. He keeps scrolling.

Your profile is full of photos of you that are just as charming as the first one he'd seen. Some are of friends, or food, or places you've visited. Many are even of him, or the two of you together. The collection is like a series of little snapshots into your life—of all the moments you wanted to save or share. But every so often there will be a photo just of you.

You with your lips pursed coyly, or maybe quirked with the ghost of a smile. You wrapped in a skimpy little dress you bought for a special occasion that Touya is all too familiar with. You with your eyes bright, or maybe one where they're heavy lidded in a sultry expression that makes something possessive and primal scrape against Touya's ribs.

His face feels hot when he looks at those ones. Hotter still when he realizes other people have seen them too.

"I think you should delete your account," he says suddenly, turning to face you with a completely serious—and markedly insistent—expression.

"W-what? Touya!" You exclaim plaintively. You push yourself up onto your knees and scrabble for your phone. Touya doesn't fight back to any real degree. He lets you crawl into his lap and wrestle it out of his hands, though the two of you do go tumbling back across the bed in the process. Once you've safely tossed the phone down to the other end of the bed out of his reach, you turn back to him with an irritated pinch to your features.

Touya meets your gaze easily, like a man without guilt.

"What's gotten into you?" you ask him softly, still straddling his lap. Your hands rest over his sternum, fiddling idly with the strings of his hoodie.

Touya sighs, reaching up and tugging you down to his chest before snaking his arms around your waist to keep you pressed against him. You don't try and wiggle out of his grip like he thinks that you might, instead you let him hold you, nuzzling your face into the collar of his sweatshirt.

"You're being weird," you mumble.

"No, weird would be me asking you to throw your phone away and never leave the house again so I'm the only one who gets to look at you," Touya replies, his fingers dipping under the hem of your—his—shirt and creeping up along your spine. "I'm actually being pretty normal, all things considered."

You huff out a little laugh and Touya feels the warmth of it break against the skin of his throat. You lift your face so you can look at him, and Touya admires the view of you from so close up. The curve of your lips, the colour of your eyes, the tip of your nose. He could look at you all day, he realizes then. Every part of you. Every inch and dip and curve that makes you up. He could study them. Map them out with his eyes closed, long committed to memory.

You make him feel kind of insane, sometimes. More insane than usual, anyway. He worries that he likes you too much.

"What are you thinking about?" you ask him quietly.

You.

Touya purses his lips.

It wasn't his intended goal, but he's happy to accept the little kiss you press against them anyway, a laugh slipping out of his mouth and into yours before you pull away. He shuts his eyes, letting his head tip back against the bed again, letting out a long, exhausted breath.

"Wanna help me set up an instagram account?" he finally mutters after a long stretch of silence.

You push yourself up overtop of him, and when he cracks one eye open he finds you looking down at him excitedly.

"Really?" you ask him incredulously, but undeniably pleased by the prospect.

He nods a bit, pulling you back down against his chest. He lets his eyes shut once more.

If deleting your account is out of the question, he might as well have his own so at least he gets to admire it.

You wiggle comfortably in Touya's hold, your TV show long forgotten at the other end of the bed, content to just let your boyfriend trace lazy circles into your thigh as your legs tangle together with his.

Touya's eyes pop open again suddenly, an unpleasant and not-so distant memory rushing back to him.

Your gaze meets his own, a quiet concern swimming behind it.

He takes your face in his hand.

"How do you block someone on Instagram?"

[ssahotchnerr]

Jack still sort of maintaining a relationship with Roy the first few years after Haley dies (Aaron thought it was important to maintain those connections for Jack even tho it hurt Aaron to do 😭 it was easy with Jess who he loves but SUCKED with Roy) but he gets extremely exclusionary once Ellie is born. Him being like “I will spend time with MY grandson who belonged to MY daughter but I will not be wasting my time, energy, and money on a child you’ve had with another woman. A child who – might I point out – would not have been born if you stayed married to my daughter and didn’t get her killed in the first place.”

Aaron being pissed on Ellie’s behalf (and his feelings are hurt tbh) and you being pissed on both of their behalfs. But, unexpectedly, Hc that Jack overheard this conversation and basically says to Aaron the next time Roy wants to take him somewhere (Aaron didn’t want to make HIM feel bad on top of everything else by banning him from seeing his grandfather, so he was gonna let him go), “I don’t want to spend time with grandpa Roy if he’s gonna be mean to Ellie. Thank you, but I’ll stay here.” SUCH A GOOD BIG BROTHERRRRR you and Aaron are so proud 🥺❤️

OHHH MY GOD??

roy just completely refuses to acknowledge that ellie exists 😭

it happened right from the start: when aaron shared the two of you were expecting, roy brushed it off, muttering something incoherently in response. after she's born, aaron invites him over for family dinners, he refuses to come. he's invited to ellie's first, second, third birthday party, doesn't come. every time he comes over, he acts like he's never seen her before. disregarding her completely.

it becomes very clear very fast that he wants to spend time with jack and jack only. as much as aaron hates to admit it, in a way, he understands. roy's bitter about what happened to haley, so this was somewhat expected. it's a different situation that's hard to navigate - ellie isn't related to him, so if roy doesn't want to bring her along to places, whatever, aaron's not going to force roy to do anything. the issue is what an issue it is. how ellie is being treated.

it's more of a problem when ellie is a bit older, and wants to tag along with jack wherever he goes. she just wants to be included 🥺 sweet ellie simply says hi when roy comes over to pick up jack, he ignores her. the next time, she draws him a picture, and he doesn't accept it.

aaron gently confronts him, and that's when roy brings up haley and how this child is a disgrace to her. imagine he full-on admits he wishes she never existed?? 😭 ellie's a product of what happened to haley, he'll never forgive aaron for getting her killed, so he'll never accept this child's existence. she shouldn't exist.

that angers aaron and he starts going off - ellie is a part of this family, whether you like it or not. and fine, you don't have to love her (saying that SHATTERS aaron's heart) but do not treat her like she's nothing. aaron won't let that stand.

it starts a huge argument 🥺 roy refuses speak to aaron, except when it comes to arranging his time with jack, and the conversation is very short at that. he doesn't speak much to you either (never has). again in his eyes - you're haley's replacement. jack's new "mom"

and it's especially sad because ellie knows about haley too :( - not the story, but the simple, good things: jack has another mommy, she's not here with us anymore but you can talk to her with a candle. haley has never been a avoided topic in the house, she's encouraged. and so ellie loves haley in her own way :( so to call her a disgrace in haley's name?? when she's also keeping haley's memory alive? :((((

you feel awful. you know how hurt aaron is but he doesn't allow himself to show it. he hates talking about it, and he's always in a mood whenever roy's with jack. you feel awful for your daughter who doesn't know what's going on. you feel awful for jack who's taking an unnecessary weight on his shoulders in terms of this too.

ellie's confused and upset, this is the first person who's ever shown her unkindness. aaron gently tries to explain, but also, how do you explain this to a toddler? so he simply apologizes and scoops her up into his arms and holds her close :( he feels awful, and as if he's failing her in someway. this is "his fault", isn't it? 😭

so if roy's taking jack out, aaron or you, or both combined, take ellie out for the day to do something fun. or try to keep jack heading out on the down-low. it sucks, you still both encourage jack to spend time with his grandfather - maintaining that important relationship - even though it's exceedingly complicated behind the scenes.

and jack, being the sweet sensitive kid he is, picks up on the tension immediately. and he's torn 🥺 he wants to appease his grandfather, knows what he's doing isn't right, but also doesn't want to betray his little sister, letting behavior like this continue. he feels guilty :( he takes the initiative and brings it up to roy himself, asking if ellie can come with them someday, like to the zoo or to a movie. but roy's pretty level-headed and his mind is made up - absolutely no ellie.

so jack gets really upset :( he gets home one day and cries about it :((( you're trying to console him, as is aaron (who's close to tears himself), and ellie wanders over :( she gets sad whenever jack is sad :( and while she has no idea what's going on exactly, she just buries herself right up into jack's side as he's crying. to comfort him too 🥺🫶🏻

overall it's a reallyyyy messy situation, one that you can only hope resolves with time :(

[lostintransist]

More on you hating getting frustrated with the guys when they care for you. Apologies for any spelling errors I'm on mobile and fighting a migraine.

Gender neutral reader.

Find Simon and John here.

Nikto: Every piece of him had tuned into caring for you. If you could catch him doing it you would ask him to stop. Okay maybe not stop but slow down. Nikto learned early into sharing space with you that you could wield a wooden spoon as well as any grandmother and weren't cowed by any of his hard stares.

The first time he tried to coax you from the kitchen so he could finish cooking for you hadn't gone well.

"Andre if you touch me one more time with the intention of moving me from my task I might stab you." You hadn't even turned from the counter where you chopped carrots.

He glared at you, arguing with the parts of him he didn't dare name. He worried that by naming them they would stay.

Toss her into bed and tie her there the snarling voice rippled across the internal atmosphere.

Nikto would never tie you down, he doubted he could when with consent. The remembrance of restraints brought gooseflesh to any of his body not cemented with scar tissue.

"Glaring at me won't change the fact I'm going to continue to care for myself and you."

How the hell did you always know?

Turning your head and seeing him you turn fully and lightly place your hands on his hips, one place he has agreed you can touch without permission. Your voice holds the lilt of a laugh that soothes him when you speak again.

"Your stares hold weight my love." Lifting one hand you hover over his cheek until he nods. Holding him as if he is a precious treasure you continue. "If I let you care for me like this how long until paranoid Nikto doesn't let me out the front door?"

Nikto opened his mouth to argue the point but the single lift of your brow stops him. You did have a point.

"Go back to making my life easier in ways that make me question what changed love and leave me to my cooking."

Nikto acquiesced to your ask, slightly annoyed that he had been found out. He dropped a kiss to your waiting lips before slipping from the kitchen.

Kyle: The drive home from the hardware store has a decidedly different feel than the drive there.

"What's on your mind Kyle?" You question as you crane your neck to ensure you were safe to pull out of the parking lot.

"I'm upset with you."

Always pragmatic your lover is. Your face screws up as you think over the past few days of his leave. No fights, good intimate times, and a general lull into happiness give you no clues as to why he is angry now.

"Care to share with the class?" You glance at him as you drive catching nothing more than his broody nose scrunch.

"Why did you let the employee help you but not me?"

That would never have crossed your mind as to a reason to be upset.

"Why did I let the person being paid to haul heavy things move the stones for me instead of my boyfriend who can't hurt himself while on leave?"

"Dammit that is not what I am saying and you know it," Kyle snaps at you.

Focused on driving as you are the only response you can give is the tightneing of your fingers on the steering wheel.

"Kyle I am going to ask you to stop yelling at me. I don't understand why you are upset and I don't like the volume you are choosing. We can discuss this or you can let it go." The calm tone you chose carries an undercurrent of your stress.

He takes three deep breaths as you merge onto the freeway. You wouldn't have a chance to look at him now. Good. Maybe this dicussion could end before you got home and everything would settle back into the normal joy of having him home.

"You fight me on who gets to pay for dinner," he lifts a finger in your peripherals.

Cutting in before he can continue you defend yourself, "I work hard and like splitting the bill or taking turns."

The flat stare of his eyes has you curling your shoulder into your neck to hide from his gaze.

"You don't like gifts except on your birthday and Christmas," he rushes ahead before you can interject again. "You never let me help around the house when I am home. Yes, except for the garbage because you hate the garbage. If I were to pay for a spa day for you I bet I would get yelled at for wasting my money."

"I wouldn't yell at you until after..." you mutter to yourself.

"The point is that you refuse to let me be apart of this relationship and I'm hurt by it. Why won't you let me love you? It makes me think you don't want me."

That statement shook you. It rattled out a deep thought from your brain, one that you and your therapist had been digging to find.

Tears sprang to your eyes as the realization rocked through you. If you let him in you worried that Kyle would leave. If you let him start to take care of you he would abandon you like everyone did. The instant you learned to lean he would disappear as if he had never been.

Blinking to stay focused on the road you took the next closest exit.

"I'm having a revelation, I can talk about this once I can pull over."

Kyle slides a hand onto your thigh, squeezing lightly as you tense your muscles under his touch. The first parking lot you found is where you parked and the sobbing overtook you. It took a long time for you to breathe past the tumult of emotions you had uncovered. He holds you as well as the car allows until you can sit up, back muscles pulling sharply. Damn getting old was hard on a body.

"I...uh...I realized my brain says I can't lean on you, or let you do anything for me because if you do then you will disappear like everyone else has on me."

Kyle looks shattered.

"Baby..."

You rush to reassure him.

"It's not you, and I know," you point to your forehead, "You wouldn't... that if you didn't come home it has nothing to do with me. But me, little me," you point to the lowest point on the back of your head "they don't know that yet. I will email my therapist when I get home and we will start working on it."

Gripping his hand in one of yours you pepper it with kisses.

"I'm so sorry I made you feel so bad. I want you. I want you so badly it aches to breathe sometimes. I need a bit of time to work on this, can you do me a favor?"

Kyle looks at you, tears rimming his eyes.

"Anything."

"Can you tell me when letting you do something for me would help you feel loved?" The sentence sounded weird but you needed to know he would tell you when you were getting to far into your own head about things.

Kissing the tip of your nose Kyle rested his forehead against yours.

"I would do everything for you if you would let me. But can we start here? Will you let me drive us home?" He whispers the words to you.

Your mind violently rejects the idea, some deep piece of you rebelling at the thought.

"Yeah. I think that can be a place we start."

A/N: Oooh I liked these ones! LMK if you would like to see any more of these.

HC Masterlist | Masterlist

[batfam-my-beloved]

AU where Batman has a "no killing" rule but that only applies to Batman

Bruce understands that people have their own form of morality and justice. He's not going to fault a soldier for doing what they have to do to protect people. It's just that he personally would probably never go that far. Not that he can't, mind you, he's fucking Batman! Just that the mental and emotional toll would fuck him up so bad he'd be a danger to himself and society.

So when it comes to his murder happy children his rule for them is: "Wait until you're 18."

Bruce: "Dickie, I know Tony Zucco killed your parents and he deserves WAY worse than a punctured lung, two broken legs, a fractured skull, and a dislocated shoulder. But you're also 10 yrs old and the parenting books say that murder at such a young age is not good for a child's emotional development. So how bout we keep him locked up in jail, good and tight, and if you're still mad about it when you turn 18 then you can have at it. Sound good chum?"

Dick, pouting and kicking rocks: "I guess."

Tim "forever 17" Drake is just counting down the days until his 18th birthday because that mother fucker has a list. He doesn't mind waiting because he god damn knows there are worse things than death one can do to someone.

Damien has been killing since he could walk and hold up a sword, so when he comes to live with his father under the "no killing until 18" rule he is NOT happy about it. Until his brothers start poking fun at him.

Damien, pouting: "It isn't fair! Todd gets to go out and kill people!"

Bruce: "Jason is over 18 yrs."

Jason: "Yeah! And besides, its not my fault you're just uncreative in how you beat up bad guys!"

Damien: "What is that supposed to mean!"

Tim: "It means that there are worse things than death but you're just too dumb to know it."

Damien, furious: "Am not!"

Jason and Tim, teasing: "Are too!"

Damien: "AM NOT!"

Jason and Tim: "Are tooooo!"

Dick, tired: "Guys, stop making fun of him. He's just gunna take it as a challenge."

Damien, determined: "Well I accept this challenge! I'll provide my superiority as a vigilantly by taking out the enemy in non-lethal yet appropriately brutal ways of punishment! Just you watch!"

Bruce, weary yet appeased: "Well at least he's not gunna attempt murder for a while."

Jason didn't come with an automatic kill switch so Bruce didn't really have to worry about it. But then Jason died and Dick got to see first hand as to why Bruce had a no killing rule for himself. The insurmountable destruction, the overall apathy for the harm to others around him, the deep seated rage ready to just destroy everything he comes in contact with. Alfred tells Dick that they need to stop him because Bruce won't just stop at the Joker, he'll go after Jason's mother (in this au I'm making Sheila live for the extra angst factor)and whoever else he deems even remotely responsible for the death of his son. Bruce won't care if it starts wars and conflict across nations, he will NOT stop until he gets his revenge.

So they stop him, practically have to sedated Bruce with enough tranquilizers to put down an elephant 10x over. And then they lock the Joker up in the deepest underground pits of Arkham with a broken spine and enough security measures that it's very much impossible to brake him out least you're the Batman himself. Bruce isn't happy about it at first but Alfred and Dick are there with him through it all and it helps a lot.

When Jason comes back he still doesn't know about the "no killing until your 18" rule, nor does he know the reason WHY Batman doesn't kill. So he's still angry and does his whole thing as Red Hood but when he reveals himself to Batman as Jason Todd Bruce is just so happy to see him again. And Jason is confused cuz like: "I just killed a bunch of people, aren't you disappointed?"

And Bruce is like: "I am a bit mad that you hurt Tim but other than that you are technically over 18 yrs old now so I'm going to assume you understand the weight and responsibility that is put upon you when killing someone."

Jason, softly: "What...the fuck?"

Then Jason quickly snaps back into gear with his plan, demands Bruce to choose between killing the Joker or him and Bruce hits back with: "Oh, I'd like nothing more than to kill Joker but I promised Dick and Alfred I wouldn't after almost starting an international war that one time."

Jason, extremely frustrated that his plan isn't going how he wanted to: "What. The. Fuck!"

So Jason dips and tracks down Dick so he could explain what the hell was going on. And Dick does explain. He explains the absolute monster Bruce almost turned into when Jason was murdered and how Bruce would most definitely not stop at the Joker if given the chance.

Dick: "You don't understand Jay, it was bad! Like really, really bad! He was going to kill your mom!"

Jason, shocked: "The fuck?!"

Dick: "He still has her on a tracker! We found him just before he killed Joker, but he still managed to paralyze him from the neck down!"

Jason, slightly disturbed: "That was him!"

Dick: "He was beating Joker's ass with a crowbar! And even after we managed to sedated Bruce and pull him off the clown we still had to make sure that Joker was locked up good and tight underground because if Bruce even caught a glimpse of him in a photo he'd go into another spiral!"

Jason, horrified: "What....the fuuuuuck???"

[margoshamangolord]

I'm reading Exodus right now and a detail that i cannot get over is the fact that Optimus had to fight the major part of the war before he got the Matrix. Like, yeah, he got renamed alright, but his career path was straight up "some guy —> the goddamn prime", and while he got a new name during the council meeting, he literally stayed the same. fucking. guy

He had to make decisions for a whole planet without the Matrix, he ended someone's life for the first time without the Matrix, and while he had smart talented friends to help, he did this all right after being Some Guy his whole life. He didn't flinch or break down, knowing what war means and understanding that he's responsible for a whole planet's future. All that without the collective wisdom of the Primes or emotional block or whatever, while logically and technically still being Orion Pax.

In the end of the first season of TFP, he forgets all his time as Optimus Prime, but i never understood why did he forget the war he fought as a Prime, but without the Matrix too. It seemed like a logical mistake to me; he didn't remember the council meeting, or the war's beginning, it's unclear what was the last thing he remembers, but i started to imagine how different things would go if he correctly remembered everything right until the moment he got the Matrix. If he remembered the council meeting, their quarrel, the beginning of the war and major fights. He asks if he's worthy, he doesn't remember the whole goddamn war he carried on his shoulders without the Matrix.

The literal first thing he uses his new power and respect for is to stop the council from shooting Megatron, and when Megatron asks what he would do if he didn't ask his army to not shoot Optimus, he replies that he would rather die for his planet.

He may have been unsure of himself, he may have doubted that he can be a Prime, he may not have saw in himself what others did, he may have stayed in the Archive to do archivist work, but the council meeting speech shows us that he is truly full of emotion and fire for his planet and that he is ready to work towards peace.

He is fierceful and kind, strong and gentle, there's so much to him it's insane! I have a lot more moments that fascinate me, but I don't think they'll fit into this post.

He is fucking worthy. This guy is insanely mentally strong even without it, this is why Alpha Trion noticed him, this is why he was chosen. He was just a regular worker one moment, and then he got the whole Cybertron's weight a moment later, and he fucking carried it instead of dropping.

Orion Pax really should be respected.

[pilim]

cw: pregnant reader, fm!reader, anxious Remus, caring Remus, young Remus, fluff.

tw: —

summary: the reader is eight months pregnant and Remus is very worried about them. sometimes even neglecting sleep.

After the news of your pregnancy broke, Remus became more than protective. It was as if a multitude of worms of doubt were swarming under his skin, roughly and greedily eating away at his flesh.

Milk, nappies, cribs, first baby teeth, colic in the stomach, rashes, baby powders... and the possible risk of being infected with lycanthropy. This point unnerved Remus the most and he spent many hours in the library to find out whether this disease can be passed on by inheritance. You had to personally pull your husband out from under the mountains of scrolls so that he could finally straighten his hunched back and eat. Only thanks to your persuasion, a couple of books with several hundred pages each and encouragement from Sirius and James, Remus with difficulty but still managed to put his paranoia on his plan.

Nevertheless, he did not stop treating you as the most gentle creature in the world, especially before the full moon.

The darkness of the bedroom enveloped you like a warm cocoon. You quietly exhaled in your sleep, pulling the blanket tighter over yourself. Because of your rounded belly, sleeping anywhere other than on your back or side was simply impossible. Remus had not closed his eyes that night. He had been lying awake for about two hours. His body ached from fatigue, his leaden head drooped toward the feather pillow. Remus sighed hoarsely, his rough lips tenderly leaving a kiss on the crown of your head, cheek, shoulder. His hands, covered with a bandage, gently stroked your belly. The weight of the child inside you made Remus get goosebumps. The sweetness of anticipation when a small child should finally be born mixed with the fear of responsibility, leaving a bittersweet taste on his tongue. Remus squinted, burying his face in the neck of his beloved.  She smells of lavender, milk, and something else that Remus can’t quite place. Perhaps this is the specific smell of pregnancy. He ponders, then kisses the soft skin again, pressing it as close as possible, as if she could escape from him. Sleepiness falls on him like a soft lump, but Remus doesn’t allow himself to relax completely. He listens attentively to her every breath, to every contraction of her heart.

Slender fingers gently bury themselves in honey-colored hair. You turn your head towards your husband with difficulty, blinking sleepily. The shaky veil of sleep still fetters your mind, but nevertheless you smile tenderly.

- “Why aren’t you sleeping, Wolfie? Is something wrong?”

Remus shuddered, turning his head towards you. He gently cupped your cheeks in his hands, gently stroking them.

— “No, no, nothing. Everything is fine, sweetheart. Did I wake you?”

You shake your head, slightly raising yourself to be more comfortable.

— "No, you didn't wake me. Everything is fine."

You gently stroke Remus' head, kissing his rough cheek.

— "Why aren't you sleeping?"

Remus sighs heavily, pressing his forehead to yours. He feels a little ashamed of his anxiety, because he should be your support, your confidence. Even though Remus doesn't answer, you understand everything at first glance. Smiling softly, you put your hands on Remus's shoulders.

— "I know, Wolfie. You're worried again, aren't you? Come here."

Remus leans into the touch without thinking, softly moaning. Your hands always instill calm, a sense of security and trust in his heart. He wants to curl up, completely dissolve in her arms filled with warmth.

— "Sorry"

— "Nothing. Sleep, my silly Wolfie. You need strength"

Soft lips touch the place where, according to legend, a person's third eye is hidden. The wind outside the window sings a lullaby as two souls fall asleep.

ps: i don't really like the result, but let's accept it. sorry for any mistakes.

[meownotgood]

quiet dream. / dan heng x reader, 18+, smut, reader is fem bodied, grinding, thigh-fucking, fingering, creampie, soft dan heng, reader is super needy, dan heng offers to help when you can't sleep. word count: 4.7k

You can't sleep. 

It's a realization you've slowly come to after waking up in the middle of the night several times in a row, but it really starts to hit you like a truck after the fourth. This time, you don't even bother to try and close your eyes again. You just sigh, twist onto your back, and stare begrudgingly at the shadows on the ceiling. 

You want to get some rest, you really do. You know you're going to need it. You can't let exhaustion affect your performance on such a difficult and important mission. But no matter how hard you try, it's damn near impossible to sleep when every time you start to drift off, you get interrupted by dark visions and terrible nightmares and loud voices you don't recognize echoing inside your head. 

It's been plaguing you ever since you first set foot in Belobog. You were almost starting to think you were losing it. Perhaps this hotel is cursed. Or maybe not, since none of your comrades seem to be suffering from the same fate. 

You stumbled out of your room and saw your teammates already waiting for you in the hall. March chuckles and tells you she had a nice dream about making snow angels with Pom Pom. Dan Heng doesn't look up from his phone as he answers, I didn't have any dreams. 

So it's just you. 

At this point, you've tried absolutely everything — you've made yourself comfortable in every position you can think of, you've got up and paced around hoping it'd relieve some of your energy, you've tossed and turned and yet still, nothing has helped. No, no, you can't take this, you have to do something. When your missions are only getting more and more difficult, you're going to need all the energy you can get. You can't go another night without sleeping. 

Your brain spins with ideas of possible solutions. You can't get any medicine, it's way past the time for any stores to be open. Can't get any food or something to drink either. You don't feel like bothering March 7th, she'll just babble on and on and keep you up even further. Sitting here alone in silence though, with nothing but the idle hum of the passing train cars to keep you company does nothing but make your insomnia worse. 

When it comes down to it, there's only one last idea you can think of. 

You fling the covers away from your face and sit up to plant both your feet on the ground. You open the door to your room as slowly as you can to keep it from creaking, and you carefully make your way down the hall, rounding the corner, to the first room on your left. Sucking in a nervous breath, you raise your knuckle and knock, but when there's no response after a few seconds, you twist the doorknob and invite yourself inside. 

The blankets shuffle and Dan Heng lifts his head immediately, hair messy and eyes squinted as they adjust to the sudden flood of light. He seems to relax, tense shoulders slumping once he realizes it's only you. 

"What happened?" His voice is rough and laced with tiredness, but he's sitting up further, and he's getting right to the point, "Are you okay?" 

"Nothing, I'm fine. Relax." You raise your hands defensively and gently close the door behind you with your heel. It clicks shut. "I can't sleep, so I figured I'd stay with you for a bit. If that's okay." 

Dan Heng eyes you up and down, considering, before he flops back onto the bed with a quiet sigh, the mattress bouncing from the sudden weight. 

"Sorry, I'll leave if you want me to." 

"No," He retorts sternly, shaking his head, his response catching you a little off guard. Is he really okay with this? 

Much to your surprise, he continues, "It's fine, I understand. Here." Then, he shifts, turning over and onto his side to make some space next to him. "You can sleep with me if you think it'll help." 

Quickly, without giving him a chance to change his mind, you make your way over, and Dan Heng lifts the covers so you can crawl in. You aren't used to seeing him like this; his hair all ruffled, his clothes casual, just a blank t-shirt and sweats. When you settle in and he leans his head onto the fluffy white pillow, you swear you catch him trying to stifle a yawn. 

Honestly, you really didn't expect him to let you in so easily, either. You haven't known him for very long, but you're somewhat familiar with each other, to the point you'd consider him your friend, but Dan Heng's a private sort of person. He's a bit stiff, a bit hard to talk with — You like him, you really do. You like those parts of him. You like the way he's serious and smart and strong, how he's much kinder than he appears. 

You like the way his nose scrunches when he's focused on something. You like how he cares for you awkwardly but earnestly, slipping his jacket off of his arms and draping it over your shoulders when you first arrived to Jarilo-VI and said you felt cold. He cleared his throat and glanced away, muttering something half-hearted like, Just thank me later. 

The thing is, despite all that, despite everything he's done for you, you can't seem to figure out the way he feels. Dan Heng is the most impossible person you think has ever existed. 

And right now, even though he's invited you to come lay next to him, you still can't decide, and your brain is a little too scrambled to really start thinking about it. 

He's already shut his eyes again, his face is close, wisps of dark hair messy. His chest rises and falls, up and down. 

"Did I wake you up?" 

He cracks his eyes back open when he hears you speak once more. 

"Yes." Dan Heng answers bluntly, and if you weren't feeling so shitty right now you might've just chuckled. 

"Sorry." 

"Don't worry about it." The smallest specs of golden light cast from the street lamps outside reflect in his gaze. "I wasn't upset. I'm more concerned about you. Why can't you sleep?"

"Mmm," You look away, shrugging your shoulders, "Bad dreams." 

"Nightmares, huh?" 

Yeah, he'd surely know a thing or two about that. Though, strangely, he hasn't had any bad dreams since arriving in Belobog. Maybe it's because the plush hotel beds are way comfier than his little setup on the Astral Express, he figures. 

The exhaustion in your tone doesn't lie: "They've been happening ever since we got here. And it's not a regular thing, it's the first time I've had so many dreams like this and… they're relentless." 

If the room was a little less dim, and if you were paying just a little more attention, you might have caught the way Dan Heng's expression starts to soften. 

"I'm sorry. I wonder if there's a reason for it. Something with the environment here." He says. You let your eyes close at the sound of his voice. "I'll check the data bank tomorrow. I researched Jarilo-VI thoroughly before we came here, and I don't remember anything like that in any of the submissions, but… I suppose I might've missed it." 

You snuggle into the pillow, your body feels warm and light; Dan Heng's presence alone provides you with comfort, and you're already starting to drift off. You silently hope to yourself that this will be the last time, and then you murmur in response, "Dunno. I'm tired, you can tell me about it later." 

"Right." Dan Heng answers. "I'll see you in the morning. Goodnight." 

Dan Heng is losing his mind. 

When you first stumbled into his room, he didn't think anything of it. He knows how difficult nightmares can be, especially the ones that seem to be affecting you. Until now, he's never seen you so troubled. He doesn't have a problem keeping you company — you'd do the same for him, and he knows that.

The first time, you managed to drift off for an hour or so. He stayed awake for a while to watch over you, and when you ended up waking up from another bad dream, Dan Heng slung an arm around you, he rubbed your back with his palm and tried to mutter something into your ear to help you fall asleep: some boring story he learned from the archives.

But you were quick to wake again. And again, and again. Nothing worked, trying his best to help you has only served to make him just as restless as you are, and right now you, you're just —

"Dan Heng, please." 

You say his name in a voice so pleading, so sweet and sugary it takes nearly everything he has to struggle to resist. A warm blaze of heat rushes to every corner of his face, his breath is hot and thick, the slightest bit shaky when it fans over the expanse of your neck. In your tossing and turning, you've chosen to face away from him now, with your back pressed deft to his chest. Dan Heng wonders how strongly you can feel the thudding of his heart. 

The proximity alone is enough to get his heart pounding — you're so warm, so close, he can't take it — but each and every word you say makes it so much worse, and you keep shifting back, you keep pressing into him and you just have to know what you're doing. 

"You're still awake." 

Dan Heng breathes the words into your ear, his voice as still as he can get it. Matter-of-fact, just an observation. Not acknowledging anything but not ignoring you either. Exactly as you'd expect him to respond. 

Softly, barely audible, you grumble back a simple response: "Yeah." 

"Get some rest."

You back up into him a bit more, your ass rubs against his groin, right there; you both sigh in unison, yours of relief, his more like exasperation. 

Dan Heng grips you hard, fingers curled into your side. "Stop it." 

"I can't, I can't fall asleep like this. You're so stubborn." You huff, and you sound honest with that, you're seemingly breathless already. 

It's half his fault this is happening. He'll take some of the blame. Perhaps he shouldn't have held you so close earlier. When your breathing got faster, when you hugged him tighter, maybe it was wrong of him to let his lips ghost over your neck, or his palms drift over your thighs. 

He wasn't trying to take things this far, he's never had any bad intentions. He's the one in the wrong for getting carried away. You were just so close, and Dan Heng hasn't been able to stop his heart from pounding for hours now. 

It wouldn't be the first time he's thought more with his heart than his brain. Stupid. 

He swallows the lump in his throat. "I'm sorry." 

He's realizing he's weaker than he thought he was, he's more obvious about his feelings for you than he intended. He has to be stubborn, but he's already failed, because you've gone and found him out. Now, you know. 

You know, because you're gripping his arm with an urgency, you're twisting around and forcing him to meet your desperate eyes while your free hand finds and fiddles with the loose drawstrings of his sweatpants. 

Dan Heng, please fuck me. 

God, how can you say that without even hesitating? His head is spinning. He feels dizzy, he feels like this isn't really happening.

"You're- that's enough." He presses his hand to your shoulder and shoves, but clearly with no force behind it. You don't budge. 

"How many more times?" Your warm fingers are working their way under the hem of his pants now, teasing his bare skin ever-so slightly, "How many more times do I have to ask?" 

How much longer, because you know he's going to give in. 

"I-" Dan Heng looks away, anywhere but where you're staring at him. He breathes a long, heavy sigh out from his mouth. There's an ache in his chest he can't possibly shake, and an even harder throb between his legs. 

He shouldn't. He really, really shouldn't. You don't have protection. You're not even dating. 

One hand twists up to hold the back of his neck, and when the other brushes down to squeeze the bulge of his stiffening cock through his sweats, Dan Heng starts to forget about all the things he'd better not do. 

He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, and with eyes half-open, he looks towards you again, finally. "You think it'll help you sleep?" 

You nod, "Mhmm." 

"And you're okay with that? This is really what you want?" 

"Yes, it is, I'm sure," You say, you're starting to tug his sweats from his hips and his breath is hitching and stuttering in his throat, "I can't wait any longer. I need you." 

Dan Heng gives himself just one more moment to attempt to compose himself. Your thumbs brush the space just underneath his hip bones, and he takes an unconvincing deep breath in. Then, he's placing his hand on your chest and gently pushing you back; the hotel bed creaks, the mattress shifts and the sheets rustle as he slowly climbs on top of you. 

"Need is a strong word," Fingers grasped around the hem, he makes quick work of shedding his t-shirt. The crisp night air is colder than he thought. The dim light casts most of his face in shadow. "What's got you like this?" 

"You want it with me just as badly, don't you?" 

You've dodged the question. But you aren't wrong. 

"Just this once." Dan Heng affirms, "We won't bring it up again." 

One time. That'll be enough. If he's lucky, you'll save him the embarrassment and remember this as just another dream. 

When it comes to you, he's just too weak. 

"Dan Heng-"

There it is again, you're saying his name in a tone reserved just for him — Dan Heng gasps, he fucks up into you a little harder, he rams right into your sweet spot and you grasp his forearm to steady yourself, his muscles firm when you squeeze. The sound of skin against skin along with the rhythmic creak of the bed echo around the walls of the small hotel room. Arm wrapped around your stomach, you're on your side, and his body curls around yours, his head leant on your shoulder, hand tightly gripping the fat of your thigh. 

Sweat coats his skin, his head feels hazy, thoughts dreamy. By now, he's come to lose any semblance of lucidity he once had, any hope of not taking things any further. But when he's buried all the way inside you, he's hardly even come to realize.

His voice feels sore and tired, but he still manages to mumble into your ear, "Say it again." 

And you do, you say his name once more, twice more. Dan Heng fucks his cock right into that perfect spot for the hundredth time and you're cooing each syllable for him even louder. 

"S-Shit, you-" He interrupts himself with a gasp for breath, "You feel so amazing, I'm- I can't," He never sounds like this, so needy and awestruck. A soft moan uttered right into the nape of your neck, then, "I'm gonna cum again." 

Your fingers clench the sheets tighter, your breath comes out in short pants, "Wanna hear you say my name too, Dan Heng-"

His arms are shaking, and once he teeters over the edge he's practically biting down on your shoulder to keep himself from getting too loud; he focuses less on hitting the right spot and more on getting off, his thrusts into you become sloppy and clumsy and erratic. As he cums, chanting your name with each fragile breath, he just barely manages to find a moment of clarity, slipping out to fist his cock and empty all over the sheets. 

His heart thuds incessantly in his ears, drowning out everything else. He's gasping, wiping his hand off on the sheet, resting his forehead onto your shoulder and swallowing to keep his throat from drying up. 

"You alright?" Of course, your well-being is the first thing Dan Heng is concerned about. 

"I'm fine," You answer immediately. 

Dan Heng stays quiet for a few agonizingly long seconds. Slowly, he guides his half-hard cock to your thighs, he slides it in between them and feels it start to throb and pulse with need again once you squirm, adjusting to give him more room to work with. 

Warm, you're so warm, he closes his eyes and thrusts forwards and he's already thinking about how it's going to feel so much better when he puts it back inside you. 

"Sorry, what am I doing?" Dan Heng suddenly freezes, rubbing his temple with his fingers. He's absolutely losing his mind. "I'll stop. I'll stop if you want me to." 

"Don't," You reply, and he finds it difficult to object, "I want to keep going, come here." 

You're twisting around then, pulling away from him and shifting onto your back, splaying your arms above your head and blinking away whatever exhaustion is starting to form behind your eyelids. Dan Heng is quick to follow suit, settling into his familiar spot on top of you. 

He raises his hand, and he lets his knuckles brush tenderly over the side of your cheek. "You sure? You're still not tired?" 

Your response comes in the form of a hasty shake of your head and an eager grab of his arm. 

It's been like this for hours now. Dan Heng gives you what you want, you're satisfied for a bit until you beg and coax him into giving you more. The faintest hints of sunlight are starting to creep past the curtains now, and as much as Dan Heng is trying to hold on to his sanity as best as he can, he's really starting to think he's past the point of no return. 

How is he supposed to face you tomorrow? Hell, tomorrow is already practically here, and yet he still can't stop. 

He keeps telling himself the two of you need to calm down — but as you're gripping his hand, as you're pressing his fingertips over your swollen clit, dragging them down and getting them nice and wet on your arousal, his heart is once again caught in his throat and all he can do is listen. 

Dan Heng's whole body shivers. He gives you exactly what you want; he sinks his fingers into you knuckle-deep, he pumps them in and out to a slow and careful rhythm, slick sounds ringing in his ears. 

"Dan-" 

He quirks his fingers up and presses them right where they belong, and you can't manage to get out the other half of his name. 

"More?" Like he already knows what you're going to say, he pulls his fingers out before he even sees you nod, just like that. 

His palms find your waist, he holds you with shaking hands as if you're delicate. Shiny, wet precum is already budding at his slit, and he aligns his hips to press the needy tip of his dick to your entrance. His bottom lip finds its way between his teeth as he's sliding in, just barely, stretching you with just the fat tip of his cock; the rest of him aches, his eyelids flutter and he groans, he can't move. He can't, or he already won't last. 

Please, Dan Heng. Put it in all the way. 

You're greedy, so ridiculously insatiable. He doesn't blame you though. He can't. 

Here you are, always so kind to him, always asking so nicely. Always saying please, always loyal, always sticking by his side. Begging for him, all for him. He'd be stupid not to give you everything — everything you ask for, and every last second in the stretch of this infinite universe. 

Because you're special to him. You mean more to him than he'd ever be able to admit. And after being cooped up in the Astral Express for so long, after so much running and running and never finding his place, after never having time for anything like this and never realizing how badly he needed it, he knows he's even worse. 

It fits in so easy when he finally slides all the way in, like he was meant to be there. He stays still at first, taking deep breaths, getting used to the feeling. He's sensitive, way too sensitive. He tries his best to ignore it and focus on you. He rolls his shoulders backwards, waits for the moment you start to impatiently squirm. And then, he pulls back only to press all the way in; he starts up a gentle rhythm, taking things slow, fucking you nice and softly. 

Even just his shallow thrusts feel heavenly. Your nerves feel like they're on fire, you're warm all over from head to toe. You're a second away from choking out a plea for him to go harder, but Dan Heng seems to read your mind before you've spoken a single word. 

You're pretty when you're underneath him, pretty face and pretty wide eyes locked onto his. It's a pretty sight each time he buries the length of his cock all the way inside you, shaft slick and wet and glistening when he pulls it out. You make the prettiest noises when he shoves in deep only to pull out and slam himself back inside, you've got the prettiest expression as he grips your legs and folds them up to fuck his dick into you even harder than before. 

You've always been pretty in his eyes. But more than anything, he wants to see how pretty you'll look when he makes you fall apart. 

"You're getting loud," He mumbles, in that matter-of-fact way you've come to expect. He doesn't slow down though, doesn't give you a moment to breathe; he squeezes your thighs and rubs them with his palms. "If we keep going like this- they'll hear. You know that?" 

"Don't care," You can barely get out the words, your back takes on a tell-tale arch, "Let them. Just don't stop." 

Dan Heng isn't sure how thin these walls are. But in hindsight, it might be too late. The thought makes him feel dirty. He should have considered quieting down a long time ago. 

Forehead to forehead with you, his pace speeds up a little, a tight knot forms in the pit of your stomach. His hair is a thick, tangled mess, even messier when you reach up to run your fingers through; you grasp and tug, sending waves down his spine, and Dan Heng can't help but whimper. He bucks into you hard, desperately, and you can't do anything but claw at his back, leaving scrapes and marks of red. 

He's panting, his face is inches away from yours; he can't take it anymore. He starts with a single quiet please, and when you cup his cheek in your hand he's sighing and stammering without even thinking, "Please I- please kiss me, please please please-"

You pull him closer, he tilts his head and you shut him up as your lips connect for the first time tonight — Dan Heng kisses you softly, his lips plush, his heart flutters and flips. His first kiss with you, and it's so much more desperate than he expected, but he needs this too badly to take things slow. Your lips part and he's groaning, licking into your mouth, sucking on your tongue. 

He takes the opportunity to grab your thigh, tossing your leg over his shoulder to give himself a better angle. He pistons in and out at a steady pace until you're about to snap, until everything else is melting away and you're focused on nothing but him. Until he gets carried away, the tip of his cock shoves in too deep, and you're tossing your head back, crying so loudly you're certain someone would hear. He feels so good you can't bother to care. 

"M'close," You're mumbling once he gives you a moment to breathe, dragging away from your lips to plant wet kisses onto your cheek, your jaw, your neck. Your fingertips drag along his back, you feel out the shape of his mismatched scars — you're whining even louder, begging for him to make you cum, and Dan Heng is really, really done for. 

He's thought himself to be somewhat of a strong person. Someone with a good resolve. Tonight, you're making him rethink everything. 

He's close too, movements getting sloppy, it's growing harder and harder for him to hold back how you make him feel. He's never felt like this, never been so desperate. Dan Heng's fingers twitch, he moans and wraps an arm around your back securely. He rests his head in your nape and sighs, breath warm and heavy on your skin. 

"I-" He hesitates, because even now, even after all this, he's nervous to speak; his chest heaves, his whole body's trembling. "I want to cum with you."

"Don't pull out, please Dan Heng, it feels so good, you're making me feel so good-" 

He shouldn't listen to you. But he will. And he won't even think twice. 

"Gonna cum," His shoulders tense, his voice nearly breaks, "F-Fuck, you're so sweet, I'm-" A stuttery whine, "I'm cumming, I'm cumming…" 

A few more sloppy thrusts and you're both done for. Wet sounds fill your ears, Dan Heng reaches up with an unsteady hand and grips the headboard to keep himself steady. When you cum, clenching hard and throbbing around his cock, chanting his name just as he hoped you would, Dan Heng has little pent-up tears forming in the corners of his eyes, he hastily covers your mouth with his free hand, your noises muffled on his palm. He's riding his high out with you and fucking you through it all, biting hard on his bottom lip to stay quiet, shamelessly spilling every drop of his spend inside. 

It takes a while for him to finally slow down, for his vision to unblur. He nearly collapses on top of you, and it takes him even longer to work up the strength to pull out. 

The early-morning sun shines even brighter through the curtains. His fingers slip over your cheek, they fiddle idly with your ear. He kisses your lips once before finally settling, rolling over next to you with his eyes already closed. 

"Dan Heng." 

He was hoping you'd managed to fall asleep, finally. He gives himself a second to regain some energy, and then with a huff, he lifts his head and props himself up on his elbows, meeting your eyes. 

"I don't want this to end." 

Your words catch him by surprise. Your genuine expression does even more so. 

"It won't," He concludes, earnest as ever. Your hands are splayed out above your head, clenching and unclenching, and he grips one to give you something to hold onto. "I'm not going anywhere. And I won't forget about this, or about you. I'll be here when you get up, do you think you can try and get some rest now? It's late." 

It's early, more so. 

You offer him a shallow nod in response, and Dan Heng wastes no time fluffing your pillow, pulling the covers over you, and giving you some space to curl up. He doesn't bother to find your clothes, he just tucks the blankets in around you and hopes that'll suffice for now. 

"I…" He gets comfy next to you, resting his head on his arm. "I don't want this to end either. I don't. I didn't even think it was happening for a while. I think… I think we should focus on our mission. We can't afford to get distracted. But when we're back on the Astral Express- Once we've got more time on our hands, we can talk about this. How's that?" 

You don't answer. He takes a few moments to realize you've stilled, your chest calmly rising and falling. 

"Are you asleep?" 

[rottiens]

⊹ ˚. how to be human (again), ft. gojō satoru

tags. secret relationship au (the beginning), strangers to friends to lovers, gojo is a bad cook (he's trying), cw blood, inspired by the canon universe, references to geto, the system and the higher ups suck, the reader is (was) a gojo fan, slightly angsty (the reader loses a friend on a mission and has a crisis) to comfort, female terms used for the reader. | wc. 6.3K

notes. this was quite a journey and I'm not sure if anyone will read this but if you do and enjoy it thanks for reading, hugs and kisses <3

It's not like you've thought about it before, it's definitely not like you've stopped to think about it for more than five minutes a day or like this has been a conversation you've had more than once with some of your friends, however none of the theories you may have discussed in secret could compare in how it felt to have the great Gojo Satoru in front of you.

You take a quick glance off your lap to check on him and verify that he's certainly still focused on his phone —even if he's still wearing the blindfold, it's not like that's going to stop him from answering his messages, right?— and upon verifying that he is indeed not paying attention to you, you go back to feigning interest in the magazine you are holding in one hand: in the colorful pages showing the latest fashion trends and in the 3D red-haired girl who is almost coming out of the magazine while making the peace sign with two fingers, even though she doesn't manage to stop your thoughts from orbiting around Satoru again. 

You think it's strange again... you feel him, you know he's there but at the same time it's like he's not there. Sometimes you have to look up to verify that he is really still there and that it is not a trick your senses are playing on you. Being in front of Satoru feels like when the back of your neck bristles and your heart shoots up at an accelerated rate for no apparent reason, like feeling like you're being watched by something even though you know it's the middle of the night and you're really home alone. 

You could feel his cursed energy vibrating, coming in intense waves from his direction, dulling your own and in turn making you feel like a little bug. His energy wasn't rough or violent, you couldn't describe it that way no matter how intense it was, it was more like being under the sun as its rays burned your skin. You couldn't say there were any bad intentions in this one either but what you were sure of was that he was alert, as if he was always waiting for an attack, like when your feet are on the edge of a tall building and vertigo bites your spine and the soles of your feet. 

In front of you, a few inches from your crossed legs sits a small wooden table; on it are cluttered magazines and two cups of tea that were served for you at least an hour ago. You've barely taken a drink from your cup, too nervous to make an unplanned move, after all with your luck you'd most likely end up tripping over the cup and spilling everything in front of one of the people you admire the most.

There wasn't a sorcerer who didn't know Satoru and all that he was capable of, so knowing that if all goes well you will be allowed to teach at the same institution as him puts some extra weight and responsibility on your shoulders. That you will likely have the opportunity to work with him or share missions together makes your guts tangle with each other. Although you couldn't understand why the director had taken so long to arrive, you had been flipping through the same magazine for the last few inexhaustible minutes, trying to distract your eyes, controlling your impulses not to look at him again....

However, you can't help yourself and end up looking him up and down at least a tenth time. He really is tall, much taller than you remember and taller than you can tell from the pictures. Besides the fact that, sitting with one of his arms stretched out on the back of the sofa and his legs spread apart, his knees far apart from each other, make his body look bigger, this one manages to occupy almost the entire space of the sofa. His thighs spill out into the uniform making the baggy pants look full. 

Your head falls slightly to one side and you wonder what he is seeing behind that blindfold, how much he is able to see, could he really see you or were you just acting like a fool looking at him out of the corner of your eye whenever you could, could you really keep looking at him without being afraid that he is going to say something about it?

Satoru stirs, his legs close to imitate yours. You run away unnoticed to turn your eyes back to the magazine, to the model who has been the only witness to your nerves on edge for the last hour. With your heart pounding in your throat, you turn the page only to find two actors kissing passionately on the front page with the headline that their love has crossed over from the big screen to real life. 

Flustered and not sure if you're feeling guilty about nothing, you glance back at Satoru and the lopsided smile he greets you with makes you jump a little in your seat. Pools of sweat gather on the back of your neck and trickle down the small of his back. 

Did he...?

You lean over the table to grab the cup and hydrate your throat, however, your body turns to stone. 

"Did you know it's rude to stare?" He speaks after so long of silence and your grip on the porcelain trembles. "I don't think we've met before, have we?"

You improve your position against the backrest and try to regain your composure by sipping some of the cold brew before speaking. "I don't think so, no." You hate tea. 

Satoru clicks his tongue and pushes his body forward to get a better look at you as your eyes struggle to stay somewhere fixed on his body other than his lips or thighs. "I could have sworn I've seen you somewhere." 

You're so embarrassed at what you're going to say next that you think you're going to faint.

"I had asked you for a picture before." And your voice cuts off at the end, unsure about the recent confession.

If you get to work together there could be no lies between you so you decide to be honest from now on, no secrets. Then everything also served as an excuse for the way he caught you looking at him. Yes, you did meet him once in person but you were so nervous that you barely remember the details of your encounter. 

Satoru rubs his jaw with his fingers, then the smile widens pulling at the corners of his mouth. 

"Hm. At that convention a few years ago maybe?" In a stupor where you can only move your eyelids and head, you nod in his direction. "The cutie with the colored hair..." He really did have a very good memory, you think and memories of that day begin to overwhelm your head in the form of embarrassing polaroids. "You're such a fan! You were so excited," Satoru adds, laughing, as if everything he mentioned before wasn't embarrassing enough.

"I wasn't officially a sorceress yet back then..." 

"Oh." He wasn't laughing, but he had a grimace that threatened to do so at any moment. "You're justifying yourself? You're not a fan anymore then?" He almost sounded disappointed and at this point it was impossible for you to keep looking at him, so arranging your posture on the couch you adopt another position where it allows you to maintain your dignity somehow. 

"I wouldn't say I was a fan..." You try to explain but Satoru interrupts you.  

"You definitely looked like a fan to me." He was laughing now. 

"What I mean is that I've matured now." You speak quickly as if trying to make a point. "I'm not a fan, just an admirer." You clarify, trying to get him to see that between those two words there is some difference that you are seeing clearly.

"Does that mean you don't want a picture again?" 

That photo you still keep in your nightstand drawer, well hidden under books, your phone charger and one or two other bracelets you wore as a teenager haunts you even in your dreams. You had forgotten about it. 

"No..." You force yourself to answer by shaking your head. "I don't think it's necessary now that we're going to be working together." 

Which fills you with pride, by the way. You were personally recommended by the principal of your old school, being transferred as soon as you graduated to Tokyo High to work under their jurisdiction alongside the strongest, someone you've looked up to since you started attending sorcery school is something that fills your chest so much that you could barely breathe normally.

You always wanted to have the opportunity to defend the weakest, that's why even though your clan was strong and you possess a cursed strong technique, you worked and trained every day earning the recognition of special grade sorcerers, among them your former director. Being in the capital and being able to protect more people, all this shoulder to shoulder with a man you admire was like a dream come true, one that slowly turned into a nightmare. 

Over the years you realized how corrupted the system was, the bad decisions made by the council and the higher ups, making sorcerers die every day without anyone stopping to mourn or miss them because all they were good for were as tools.... 

... You don't know why suddenly the first time you interacted with Satoru comes to your memory now, the only two things in common between the two events is that you couldn't breathe and perhaps that you were both sitting next to each other in an enclosed space that seemed to close in on you. At the time you were proud of what you were doing, sure of your every decision since protecting the weakest was something you had lived for—  though now, you weren't so sure of that anymore. 

"Hey." You feel him touch you, but not really. His cursed technique gets in the way once again, as always, protecting himself from you and the outside. The metallic smell of blood is permeating you, your hands and your uniform to a point where it's unbearable and overwhelming, your gut twists and your mouth fills with saliva threatening to make you vomit at any moment. Your eyes on the verge of popping out of their sockets carefully fixate on the calluses on your hands and the crimson liquid that stains them and gets trapped under your fingernails along with a bit of dirt. "Are you okay?" Satoru asks and that's the problem, you weren't. None of this was okay.

"Ijichi, stop the car," you say still admiring your hands, perplexed.  

"Ijichi, don't stop the car." Satoru retorts. 

"Ijichi..." Your call sounds like a warning and the man pulls over to the side of the road immediately, you hear him apologize right away along with the thousand and one reproaches that follow behind it from Satoru. 

The blood is left plastered on the door as you leave, it is left on your face as you push some of your hair away from your face. 

The desert heat manifests itself in small droplets on your forehead, limiting your vision and in an unquenchable thirst that scrapes your throat.

"I'm going to quit..." you whisper to yourself but the wind carries your words to your companion who was hurrying to your side battling with the sand in his shoes. 

"You're not going to do it." 

"You can't tell me what to do." 

Your heavy footsteps were soon leading you away from him as a stabbing pain bit into your muscles and your feet complain of the pain your shoes have been giving them all day. 

"It's just a mission gone wrong!" 

You stop suddenly and turn your body to face him. You're planted in front of him shaking with anger not just because the higher ups were going to reproach you and probably stop giving you special rank missions for months, maybe years—

"It wasn't just a mission gone wrong, someone is dead, Satoru!" a scream rips your throat as you shout the sorcerer's name, the feeling burning in your chest is not just that of a mission gone wrong, it's the death and blood of your friend on your hands.

Those spikes must have gone through that civilian, not your friend, that person who was with you since you started working for Tokyo, that person who supported and encouraged you when things weren't going so well. Just twenty hours ago you were having coffee with him in the coffee shop below your apartment and now you talk about him in the past tense. As life faded from those beautiful eyes, full of kindness, always ready to tell you that you were going to be okay they were gone.

"You need to calm your emotions or you're going to curse him." Was that really all he could say to you while you were getting wrecked in front of him? Your hands that tried so hard to stop the bleeding in your partner become fists. "This is not what he would have wanted, [Name]."

You snort, then start pacing in circles, searching for the right words other than fuck you. Suddenly you stop to face him and find yourself with that usual annoying blindfold that separates him from everyone else, that never lets you see what he was thinking, and you point an accusing finger at him.

"What do you know what he would have wanted, Satoru? You didn't know him." And you know you shouldn't keep talking, you're biting your tongue because you know you don't have to say it but if you don't that vein in your temples is going to explode. "You don't know anyone because you don't let anyone in, not even me who is supposed to be your friend." The word friend comes loaded with imaginary quotation marks and with the weight of all the years and missions you've shared together.

He says your name a second time, now sounding weak. 

"You are so busy, on your unreachable throne as the strongest that you would never think of the idea of being vulnerable and watching those you love die because you love no one." His jaw muscles are tense, showing you that you may have struck a chord. 

"That's not true. I'm trying to make this a better place, I want the sorcerers who are growing up to be better, stronger, who don't need someone like me and I understand you—" 

"You have to recognize the privilege you have, Gojo." He hated that you called him by his last name because it puts distance between you and makes you those strangers again in that meeting room while you waited for Yaga, but you have a point you wanted him to understand. "Please don't pretend you understand me, because you don't."

Tired of the conversation that seemed to be going nowhere you turn around, there is sand inside your white socks and uniform pants, with a heavy heart and head thumping you set out to get as far away from him as you can. Somewhere far away from those six eyes that always see everything and his cursed energy that seem to drown the whole desert beneath his aura. 

Satoru stops you by pulling your arm towards him, his fingers are an invisible force holding your wrist prisoner and you have no strength left to fight, the adrenaline from the fight that ended badly starts to evaporate along with the sweat on your forehead and you let him stop you, your anger replaced with a deep sadness. 

"I can't," you mutter closing your eyes, giving in to the flame of the sun toasting the top of your head. "Let me go." 

"I won't." He couldn't do it because he already saw what happened to a friend the last time he did it. He wasn't going to make the same mistake twice, even if he had to fight yourself in the process. 

"I'm not going back to Jujutsu High," you say and your voice sounds steadier, swallowing the lump that ties your throat.

"I won't make you do it," Satoru snorts through his nose. "But at least come with me." 

You don't have the courage to turn and face him so you just nod, giving him permission to do as he pleases. Everything happens so fast you don't have time to process it, his big arms wrap around you in an invisible embrace, his cursed energy is vibrating all over the place and you don't stop him or try to complain the moment his arms squeeze you tightly and it only takes a couple of seconds for you to open your eyes and the hellish heat of the desert is replaced by a safe roof and four walls surrounding you. 

The thermal sensation of the air conditioning makes you shiver from the sudden change in temperature, making your skin bristle. You take a breath of air and step back finally breaking the safe space Satoru created for you and he doesn't stop you when you take space between the two of you or when your curious eyes examine the place, though the answer was obvious— an unstoppable "Where are we?" slips out of you, needing to hear a verbal confirmation that he too saw the same thing you did and that this was not an illusion. 

"My place," Satoru says so simply, hitting the bull's-eye on the idea created in your head. There are questions about teleportation you'd like to ask him but for the moment you keep quiet, admiring your friend's comfortable apartment as if it were a museum. 

You were in the middle of the kitchen and your body felt tingly and somewhat weak from the teleportation, your feet not quite sure that the ground they were walking on was real. You were surrounded by white colors and a few shades of brown coming from the countertop. You never imagined how Satoru would live, in fact he was so god-like that sometimes you forgot that he also ate and slept like you, yet for the money he must have had in his bank account the place seemed very... simple.

"Why do you have less stuff than me in my apartment?" The question comes in a joking tone wanting to break the ice even though you were still annoyed. "I thought you were rich," you add. 

Satoru emits a laugh that sounds more like a snort. "What makes you think I'm not," he declares arrogantly. You write him off as a smug fool, though you try hard not to roll your eyes at his attitude. "I don't need to buy so much stuff because I'm always traveling. I just come here to sleep."

Satoru motions inviting you to move around his apartment with him. You decide to follow him, walking down a short hallway just behind him. You watch as his fingers curl around the door handle at the end of the hallway, opening it for you and revealing the bathroom. You feel your eyes fill with a mixture of fear and insecurity, similar to the eyes of a wary deer as you enter the room. With a slight creak, Satoru closes the door behind you, leaving you disconsolate and alone along with your tangled thoughts.

The walls are lined with pristine white tiles, with a sheen that reflects the light like mirrors. You approach the sink and notice the golden faucets emerging from the white porcelain with elegance. As you face the wall-mounted mirror, your own reflection seems to show confusion and an overwhelming sense of uncertainty.

Your hair is a mess, the strands had escaped from the tight bun you usually wear when going on a mission, the scrunchie about to fall out. There is a small scar on your cheek that runs horizontally across it and barely noticeable stains from your own blood-covered fingers that got there when you try to pull your hair away from your face. 

You look down and guilt hits your bile, the innocent color of the sink had been replaced by your bloodied hands which clutched at it tightly. 

Through a glass window, a ray of light filters in, bathing the room with a faint luminosity. The sun's rays draw mysterious patterns on the tiled floor. Shadows dance in the corners, and in the midst of this overwhelming sensory experience, your mind is flooded with gloomy thoughts and unanswered questions. 

At that instant, the sound of tapping against the door startles you, bringing you back to the reality of the bathroom. 

"I'll leave some clothes outside," says Satoru, who doesn't wait for an answer before leaving and giving your thoughts space again.

You turn back to the reflection in the mirror and again to your hands, give way to the water trapped in the faucet and scrub your hands with the liquid soap resting on the ceramic, helping yourself with it to clean up the mess you had made. 

Then, you get rid of your uniform and with your foot drag it to a corner to get into the shower, from there you step under the stream of water in an almost automatic way. You barely react to the coldness of the water but after a moment you get used to it, let it run over you and clean with the help of the soap the mud stains and something else that crawl into the drain. 

You squeeze until your skin hurts, until the water carries no more dirt in the drain and you scrub until you have no more tears to drop, it is only at that moment that you turn the shower and force yourself to leave the comfort you had found in that cold wall to get out of the cubicle and dry your body with a towel you found neatly folded hanging above the toilet. 

As you open the door you find on the floor articles of clothing that you pick up and close the door again to examine. The first was a white T-shirt, large enough to reach your thighs, this was accompanied by blue shorts into which you slip, forgetting that you needed underwear. 

If it were up to you, you would stay all your life in that bathroom that smelled of coconut and oatmeal but you had to pretend to be brave. You take one last look at the image in the mirror, ignoring the fact that you still need to fix your hair and that there are dark circles under your red eyes you decide to finally leave, being seduced by a sweet smell and sounds of dishes clattering against each other you are guided to the kitchen. 

"What are you doing?" you ask confused, in front of you was a Satoru whisking something with a fork inside a bowl in an exaggerated manner, being extremely extra and loud.

"Pancakes." You stand silently admiring the technique, feeling like laughing because it looks ridiculous but not giving him the pleasure of listening to you. Satoru had changed out of his uniform into casual clothes —baggy jeans in a worn blue and a strapless T-shirt—and had ditched the blindfold, gifting you for the first time what his naked eyes looked like.  "I'm trying to cook. I usually eat canned stuff and I've been wanting to learn how to cook, at least basic stuff." Satoru commented something like that before, that he would forget to eat or buy meals on his travels that he would then bring home and forget to consume, you didn't expect him to be serious back then. Imagining him cooking was very out of character for you. 

You approach the countertop in disbelief, stepping through the door frame and then climb a stool to admire him up close. With the help of your hands you hold your jaw and soon your whole head is filled with Satoru stirring the batter, inevitably silencing your thoughts and lulling you into a sort of trance. 

Satoru stops his task to set the batter aside and focus on you, it was even worse without the blindfold, you didn't know where to hide to escape him. His blue eyes were on yours, then briefly went to your lips. 

"You said earlier that I wouldn't let you in, I want to." 

"You don't have to." You reply curtly, keeping up the mask that you don't mind losing his friendship, clinging to your anger. 

"I want to try." 

You're silent for a moment. "I'm not going back to Jujutsu High." Then you warn him. 

Satoru breaks the dueling stares to grab the bowl with white batter again which was starting to take on a fat texture, you wrinkle your nose at the strange consistency and at the tiny bubbles in it and the thought of criticizing his style of making pancakes lingers on the tip of your tongue. 

"I'm not going to force you to stay." Satoru takes a ladle and dips it into the batter, pouring a first misshapen pancake into a previously buttered pan. "But Maki is going to miss you." You roll your eyes. 

"You're not going to blackmail me."

"I'm not!" he laughingly defends himself, with a spatula poking the pancake around the edges to check if it was already browned —spoiler, it wasn't—. "But she really will." You think he's not really talking about Maki, though. 

Satoru flips the pancake which wasn't burnt or browned, it hadn't even been cooked and the spatula along with the pan are sticky from the batter. Exasperated, you get up from the stool to head over to him. 

"Come here." You don't wait for him to answer you to pull the spatula from his hands and try to save the pancake which screams in the pool of boiling butter.

"Oh, you're going to show me how it's done?" he asks half indignantly, half laughing. 

"Uh-huh." You reply, turning down the stove flame. "I'm not a teacher anyway, I don't have anyone under my care. And if I'd had a chance before I've blown it now." You return to the subject, ignoring the stove as you pay more attention to the coat of paint on the wall.  

"You were good today." Satoru says softly, it's so comforting the way he addresses you that you feel like crying but you mask it with a brief pout. 

"It's not enough to just do well. I lost more than the respect of the higher-ups today." You distract yourself by flipping the pancake over, the top showing you a burnt golden color, much more decent than what Satoru was doing.  

"Nobody's perfect, [Name]."

"You are." You reply too quickly as you victoriously scoop out the first pancake and throw another bit of batter into the pan, more butter. 

For longer than you would have liked to admit, all you hear is the bubbling of butter toasting the batter. 

"That's what you think of me?" Satoru breaks the silence and you notice out of the corner of your eye that he's folding his arms. 

"What does it matter what I think?" 

"It matters to me," he admits, looking at you for the first time. "You are my friend after all. You don't care what I think of you?" 

"Not really." You lie, taking the opportunity to flip the pancake. Even though Satoru probably knows you're doing it, his eyes widen slightly, looking you up and down. 

"I thought you were my fan." He puts a hand to his chest for added drama, gasping for air at the same time.

"Please forget that!" 

"You were eating me with your eyes thinking I didn't see you. That's workplace harassment, I could report you, you know?" 

"Shut up!" you threaten him with the spatula smeared with the mixture and a couple of drops fall to the floor. 

Little by little the plate was filling up with the pancakes that to your surprise didn't taste so bad, you shared one with Satoru before finishing cooking them and you even flattered him —they're okay, they were literally your words, it was the only praise you could give to his first attempt—, you knew he was going to get better.

From the shelf Satoru takes out two porcelain plates and places them side by side and brings them towards you, you are sitting on one of the stools. 

"Thank you."

"Are you going to stay over or do you want me to take you home?" Satoru asks before sitting down, poking at one of the fluffy pancakes. 

You take your time before answering, honey drizzling over the mountain of pancakes and making a puddle on your plate. The question bounces around in your head, reliving memories of the recent failed mission. 

"I think I want to be alone." You answer finally, focused on pinching a pancake with a fork. 

Satoru says nothing more, his gaze not falling back on you while you, on the other hand, check him with the side of your eye every five seconds. You force yourself to fill your mouth not to talk anymore because you had nothing more to say and whatever comes out of your mouth now could be dangerous. 

So you swallow and chew the words you never said, mixing them with the sweetness of honey and the burnt part of pancakes. Even though the silence is uncomfortable, there is a certain tranquility to it. 

After eating you help him wash the dishes and Satoru offers to drive you home. It was on the tip of your tongue to refuse but you were sure that it would be faster and the sooner you arrived the sooner you could throw yourself on the bed and get warm under your sheets next to your cat, so without time to lose you picked up your uniform from the bathroom and sent him your address through the gps which made you realize that you didn't live so far away. 

On the way you didn't talk much, just chattered about the irony of the weather and the heavy drops splashing against the window. You asked how his students were and he asked how your cat was, and before you could realize it Satoru was parking his car in front of the entrance. 

You accept his invitation to accompany you to the door, trotting in front of the coffee shop that had already closed, inhaling the smell of freshly brewed coffee that lingered in the air. He steps forward when you invite him into the warmth of your home. The light from the bulb chases away the shadows and draws your gray cat towards the entrance to greet you between meows, his soft fur brushes against your legs and then as if he has known him all his life he rubs against Satoru's legs and Satoru can't help but be seduced by the little animal and squats down to pet him while you smile at the scene. 

Satoru stretches out his knees again, lifting his size above you. 

"You're safe and sound," he says." You don't have to-"

Your bottom lip is quivering and you blame the raindrops you caught on your mini marathon from the car to your door, Satoru frowns and takes a step in front of you. You see his hands shaking but he forces them to keep still on either side of his legs, you can't see his eyes because they are hidden under the sunglasses but the concern on his face is more than evident. 

"Can I hug you?" Satoru doesn't say anything and just pounces on you, as if he's been waiting for you to give him permission. It's like always, you can't feel him but you're thankful he's here. "I was so scared there," you confess, forcing yourself not to cry and he realizes the fragile state you're in. "I don't want to see another friend die." Your arms tighten around his waist, lending weight to your sentence. 

"It's okay," he points out, stroking your back as if it were your cat. "I'm the strongest after all, you don't have to worry about me." 

You snort, sinking your face lightly into his unreachable chest and give him a light smack from behind that he never feels. 

Suddenly, as if something is pushing you, you fall on top of him, your face sinking into his chest and you quickly raise your head to look at him. He was smiling, a grimace that reassures you and pushes the heavy tears you had been holding out of your eyes. You hide your face in his torso again and it's so warm, you can't help but inhale as he pats your head, through it all you realize that unlike you, he's not wet. 

"It's going to be okay." 

"Satoru..." You look up at him again.

"That day, the day we met for the first time your cursed energy was all over the place... it was soft and warm and I wanted to tease you for that, I waited impatiently for you to come near me." Your heart pounding, it squeezes your chest and you think he might have noticed. "But I couldn't say anything, I'm never at a loss for words but being next to you... I could feel your purity and your good intentions, the desire inside you to help others. So I lowered my defenses and let you touch me because I wanted some of the sweet sweet smell of your energy to permeate me, I know you don't remember it because of the euphoria of your fanaticism." He lets out a chuckle. "I haven't let anyone touch me in years and you're the only one to do it again after that day."

Incredulous and short of words you stare at him, stare at him and stare at him again, blinking as if you have all the time in the world to admire him, the sound of the rain pattering against the window competing with the drum that is your heart. Your mouth opens and closes a couple of times before you realize you don't know what to say. Satoru's cheeks are painted red and you've never stopped to feel the effect being near him has on you. 

You push your body close, intoxicated from the moment until your mouth finds his. Warm air seeps out of his mouth in the form of a gasp and reaches your tongue, you have to part your mouth further to let it in and swallow his gasps. 

Tentatively you deposit a kiss on his lips and he growls, you feel his fingers squeeze the fabric of your shirt and grip your skin. Unable to hold you another second not knowing how it would feel to kiss him you join in a slow kiss, you are surprised by the way he uses his tongue to lick your upper lip and touch the tip of yours only to pull back and place a hand behind the back of your neck allowing him to taste you better. 

Your journey with Satoru had been strange. You were his admirer —c'mon, you never stopped being one— then his co-worker and finally his friend. At some point you buried your feelings because you were too busy working on getting better and stronger to earn the place to stand and fight by his side, to earn the respect of the elders, you were sure nothing was going to happen between the two of you. You convinced yourself that you were happy with his friendship and the support that being close to him gave you, it was safe and it felt real... just like this moment. 

Satoru's hands were on your back, then under your shirt directly touching your skin. His fingertips were ice cubes that bristled your flesh, traveling in a sort of massage in all directions as you continued a slow dance, drowning out your mewls with rain and each other's lips. 

When Satoru finally breaks away your lips were slightly swollen, red, the same color as his. There was a dreamy look on your face that you hid by closing your eyelids and biting your lower lip, when you opened them you found that he was still there, hiding behind those sunglasses not really knowing what he was thinking but it was real, he really was here. At least you were sure that had really happened. 

"This thing that just happened," you say, trying to catch your breath. "It won't change my mind about quitting, I hope you know that." 

Satoru snorts a chuckle. 

"We can try a second time." You allow him to move closer to you again, his head cocked to the side taking hold of your lips, sinking his teeth into these. "Or a third." He gives them a little lick. "Or all night, I'm very persistent." 

You join in a shy giggle you both share. Satoru fixes his back and withdraws his hands out of your shirt and you almost miss them immediately, these are now on your face, cradling your cheeks and carving away the tears that managed to spill. 

"I care about you." 

"I know." You sob, your cheeks burning. 

"And I'll be there tomorrow for you and to face any punishment with you," he speaks sweetly, pausing briefly. "You know they don't have to mess with me, though. I'd destroy them in a second for you." Ah, there was the Satoru you knew. 

He leans in once more to kiss you and you think you could get used to this. 

"Should I leave?" he murmurs against your lips. 

"Stay," you say, your knees trembling from the closeness. "I too... I like you too." 

"Oh, I never said I liked you." Satoru smiles mischievously. You shoot him a dagger-filled glare along with a frown that gradually relaxes. 

"Thank you for being here," you sigh. 

"Thanks for letting me do it."

I still can't believe I wrote so much for something that isn't smut, sobs. But I've realized how much fun it is to write different genres and I can't stop. I was going to say something else but totally forgot lolol maybe I'll edit this later.

[novaursa]

Hey again! 😃 Ok, so I've got 4 requests for you (since now it's 1K words per person).

I was thinking of some "lost" scenes from that Alicent fic I requested, but this time it's about the Reader's bond with each of his children.

With Aegon - A scene in which R catches Aegon drunk after a night out, and pulls him aside to listen to his concerns about fulfilling his duties and being responsible in general. Reader remains understanding and tells Aegon that no matter how old he gets, he can always count on his help, but that he has to find his way on his own (Aegon looks more closely at his father and sets him as an example of how a prince/king should behave.

With Helaena - A scene in which Reader takes her to Essos for a trip to a jungle (idk if there exists jungles in Essos, but let's pretend they do) on a quest to find more exotic bugs. Should be fun and playful! Maybe R trips over a root and lands on his bum, and that's what makes his darling daughter laugh so much.

With Aemond - That one scene after he gets gifted with "The Pink Dread". The Reader comforts him and even dares to tell him that should he have had a pink(ish) dragon, that's the nickname that he would bestow upon it (think of how people would expect TPD to be some small creature - yes, like a pig - but no, it's a FRIGGIN' DRAGON! 😂😂😂). Also, R mentions how he sees a lot of himself in Aemond (particularly related to his own youth).

With Daeron - The scene where he visits him in Oldtown and where R goes all buddy-buddy with Gwayne (one of the only sane guys in HoTD, I swear). Daeron impresses R with his musical skills and takes him to see Tessarion (who is happy to play the part of a big puppy - like rolling around on its back and bearing its belly to get free scratches 😉).

Where Dragons Dare (Lost Chapters)

- Summary: Unrecorded moments with each of your children, that no Maester will ever write about.

- Pairing: father!reader/targ!children (platonic)

- Note: Since this was regarding your previous request that was turned into three part series, I've made an exception for you. Enjoy. ❤️

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Previous part: 3/3

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @literaturedog

You stride through the torchlit corridors of the Red Keep, the evening air heavy with the scent of incense and wine from the feast held in your honor. A king’s life is one of constant vigilance, not only for the realm but also for your own blood. The weight of your crown and responsibilities settles upon your shoulders, the unspoken burdens of the Iron Throne. It is a life you have come to accept. 

But not everyone does. 

The clink of armor catches your attention, and you hear a hushed voice speaking to one of the guards near the side entrance. You already know what you will find before you round the corner. Aegon—your eldest son, your heir—is once again trying to sneak into the keep after a night in the lower city. His form, slightly slouched, leaning against the doorway, makes it clear that his night's indulgences have taken their toll.

You sigh softly, but there is no malice in it. This is not the first time. It won’t be the last.

"Aegon," your voice, even and steady, cuts through the stillness of the night, causing your son to stiffen. He turns slowly, his eyes glassy, yet there is a flicker of recognition. His silver hair, unkempt, falls into his face as he gives you a sheepish smile, one that reminds you so much of his mother when she tries to conceal her worries. 

"Father," he mumbles, straightening himself as much as his state will allow. He’s a prince of the blood, but in this moment, he looks like nothing more than a wayward boy caught in the act.

"Walk with me," you say simply, motioning for him to follow. There's no need for a reprimand, not yet. You both know where this conversation is headed. You step into the open air, out onto one of the quieter terraces that overlook the city below.

Aegon follows, his steps slightly uneven, but he doesn't protest. The two of you stand there for a moment, the distant sounds of King's Landing below humming in the background. The city never truly sleeps, much like a king’s responsibilities. 

After a while, you glance at him from the corner of your eye. "You’ve been out drinking again."

Aegon leans on the stone balustrade, staring at the lights flickering in the darkness. "It’s not like anyone missed me," he mutters, his voice heavy with bitterness. "I’m no good at all this. What does it matter?"

"It matters because you’re the future king," you reply, your tone calm but firm. "Your actions don’t only reflect on yourself; they reflect on the crown, on our family."

At this, Aegon snorts softly, his lip curling into a sardonic smile. "Aegon the Unready, that’s what they’ll call me," he mutters, almost to himself. "They all expect me to be like you. I’ll never be that. I can barely stand the weight of their stares, let alone a crown."

There is silence for a moment, broken only by the distant sounds of the city below. The firelight dances across the sharp planes of your son’s face, making him seem older than he is, and yet still so young. You can see the weight of expectation, the fear of failure, all of it etched into his features. 

You step closer, resting a hand on his shoulder, the familiar comfort of a father’s touch. "I wasn’t always certain either," you admit, the words carrying the weight of your own journey to the throne. "When I was young, I doubted myself just as you do now."

Aegon looks at you, surprise flickering in his eyes. It’s rare for you to speak of your own vulnerabilities. You are the king—stoic, dutiful, unwavering. But tonight, you let that mask slip, if only for your son.

"You don’t need to be me," you say quietly. "You need to find your own way. Being king isn’t about perfection. It’s about responsibility, about understanding that you carry the hopes and fears of an entire realm on your shoulders. And yes, sometimes it’s heavy. But that’s why we’re here—to bear it, so others don’t have to."

Aegon’s gaze falls to the ground, his fingers tapping nervously against the stone railing. "I’m not sure I can," he admits after a long silence, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t want to fail you."

Your heart clenches at the vulnerability in his words, the rawness of his fear. You step closer, turning to face him fully. "You won’t," you say firmly. "Not as long as you’re willing to try. You will make mistakes, we all do, but that’s part of the journey. You don’t have to do it alone. I’m here, Aegon, always."

His eyes meet yours, and for the first time in a long while, you see not just the rebellion, not just the stubbornness, but the uncertainty and the longing for approval. He is so much like you were at his age, fighting against the very things that would one day define him.

"You’ve always been there for me," he says, his voice softer now, more introspective. "I just…I don’t want to be a disappointment."

"You’re not," you reply, without hesitation. "And you never will be. You will grow into this role, just as I did, just as many before us have. But it takes time. You will find your way, but you must be willing to take the first steps. Recklessness won’t serve you well when you sit on the throne."

Aegon nods, swallowing hard. He’s listening now, really listening. You can feel the shift in him, the internal battle as he begins to process your words. His posture relaxes just slightly, and he looks at you with a newfound respect.

"I look at you," he says quietly, "and I see what a king should be. You always know what to do. How did you learn?"

You smile faintly, the memories of your own trials and lessons flickering in your mind. "By making mistakes. By learning from them. And by trusting in those who love me. You’ll learn too, Aegon. But you have to start by taking responsibility for your actions. If you want to be a good king, you have to be a good man first."

He nods again, more resolutely this time. There’s still doubt in his eyes, but also something else—a spark of determination, a glimmer of hope.

"I’ll try," he says, the words holding more weight than any drunken apology ever could.

"I know you will," you reply, squeezing his shoulder one last time before stepping back. "But for now, let’s get you to bed. You can begin to prove yourself tomorrow."

As you guide your son back into the castle, you feel the familiar pull of duty and love intertwine within you. The road ahead will not be easy for Aegon, just as it wasn’t easy for you. But tonight, at least, a small part of that path has been cleared, and your son—your heir—is beginning to take his first steps toward the man he will one day become.

The warm, humid air of the jungle clings to your skin as you lead Helaena through the dense foliage, her excitement as palpable as the buzz of insects that fills the air around you. She’s always been different from her siblings—quiet, introspective, but with a mind that sees wonders where others see only the mundane. Today, her joy is infectious, and as you glance over your shoulder, you see her eyes wide with fascination, darting from tree to tree in search of her beloved bugs.

"Father, look!" she exclaims, her voice bright with enthusiasm. She crouches down, her slender fingers delicately picking up a beetle with iridescent wings, the colors shifting from emerald to sapphire in the dappled sunlight that pierces through the canopy above.

You smile at her, marveling at how her joy lights up the whole forest, making even the most alien surroundings feel like home. "That’s a beautiful one," you say, stepping closer to inspect her latest find. "What do you suppose it eats?"

Helaena tilts her head, her eyes narrowing in concentration as she watches the beetle crawl over her hand. "I think it feeds on nectar from the flowers," she muses, "or maybe the sap from the trees. Look at the way its legs move—so delicate, but strong."

You crouch beside her, nodding as you study the small creature. "You could be right. You always know more about these things than I do." Your tone is light, teasing, but there’s truth in your words. Helaena’s understanding of the natural world has always been beyond her years, her connection to it deep and mysterious.

The two of you continue your journey deeper into the jungle, the air growing thicker with the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers. Vines drape lazily from towering trees, and the occasional call of a bird echoes in the distance. Helaena moves with purpose, her gaze constantly scanning the ground, the trees, the air above for any new creatures she hasn’t yet discovered.

"Do you think there are bugs in Essos that no one in Westeros has ever seen?" she asks suddenly, her voice filled with a childlike wonder that makes you smile.

"I’m sure of it," you reply, pushing aside a low-hanging branch to let her pass. "That’s why we came here, isn’t it? To find something new, something no one’s ever written about in their tomes or sung about in their songs. Maybe you’ll discover the most magnificent bug the world’s ever seen."

Helaena beams up at you, her lavender eyes shimmering with excitement. "And I’ll name it after you," she says with a giggle, skipping ahead a few paces. "A beetle, maybe, or a butterfly—something regal."

You chuckle at the thought, shaking your head. "I can’t think of anything less regal than a bug named after me. But if anyone could make it sound important, it’s you."

The laughter between the two of you echoes through the trees, light and easy, as you continue on your way. You’re not following any particular path—there are no roads here, no guides to lead you. Just the two of you, father and daughter, on an adventure through the wilds of Essos.

As you step over a moss-covered log, you glance back at Helaena to see her crouching low again, examining a cluster of bright red flowers. Her fascination with the natural world has always been a source of pride for you, something that sets her apart in a family so often consumed by politics and power. Out here, in the quiet of the jungle, she’s in her element.

You’re so focused on her that you don’t notice the thick root winding through the underbrush until it’s too late. Your foot catches, and before you can catch yourself, you’re tumbling forward, arms flailing as you lose your balance. You hit the ground with a soft thud, landing squarely on your backside.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then—

Helaena bursts into laughter, the sound bright and musical, like the ringing of silver bells. She clutches her sides, doubling over as the laughter shakes her small frame, tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

"Father!" she manages to gasp between fits of giggles. "You—you tripped on a root!"

You sit there for a moment, stunned, before letting out a laugh of your own. "Apparently, your father is no match for a jungle root," you say, shaking your head as you sit up, brushing leaves from your clothes. "I was so busy watching you, I forgot to watch where I was going."

Helaena, still laughing, steps over to you and offers a hand, her grin wide and infectious. "Here, let me help you up, Father. You’ve fallen in the dirt like one of your regal bugs."

You take her hand, letting her pull you to your feet, though it’s more symbolic than anything—she’s small and slender, and you mostly stand up on your own. Still, the gesture warms your heart, and you smile down at her.

"I suppose even kings can fall every now and then," you say, brushing off the last of the dirt from your breeches. "Especially when they’re distracted by a daughter who’s far too clever for her own good."

Helaena’s laughter finally subsides, though her smile remains, bright and full of affection. "I’m just glad I was here to see it," she says, her voice teasing but sweet. "I’ll have to remember this next time Aegon or Aemond try to act all serious."

You raise an eyebrow at her, unable to stop the grin spreading across your face. "Oh? Are you planning on using this against me?"

She shrugs, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Maybe. It depends on how much I need to bargain with them next time."

The two of you share another laugh, and the moment feels light, easy—like the weight of the crown and the responsibilities you both bear have been left far behind in Westeros, forgotten in the simplicity of a jungle trek and shared laughter.

As you continue walking, you let Helaena lead, her steps more confident now as she moves through the underbrush. The jungle is alive with sound—chirping insects, rustling leaves, the distant calls of unseen animals—and you find yourself marveling at how small and vast the world can feel all at once.

"Father," Helaena says after a while, her tone more thoughtful now, "thank you for bringing me here. I know there are more important things you could be doing back home, but…this means a lot to me."

You smile at her, feeling a swell of pride and affection. "There’s nothing more important than spending time with you, Helaena. The realm can wait a few days. Besides, I think we’ve both learned something valuable today—like how to avoid tree roots."

She giggles again, but there’s warmth in her eyes, the kind of warmth that makes you realize just how precious these moments are. The crown may be heavy, the throne demanding, but here, in the jungles of Essos, it’s just you and your daughter, sharing an adventure neither of you will ever forget.

"Now," you say, clapping your hands together as you glance around at the trees towering above, "shall we see what other exotic bugs we can find? Maybe one that doesn’t involve me falling on my backside this time?"

Helaena grins, her face lighting up with renewed excitement. "Let’s!" she says, darting ahead into the greenery, her laughter trailing behind her as you follow, ready for whatever adventure lies ahead.

The halls of the Red Keep seemed quieter than usual today. It was a rare stillness, the kind that hung heavy with unspoken tension. You could sense something had happened, though no one had yet brought it to your attention. You had spent much of the afternoon in the library, pouring over old maps of the Narrow Sea, but something in the air felt wrong.

As you rounded the corner toward the private wing where your children’s chambers lay, you heard faint sniffling. The sound was quiet, but unmistakable. You quickened your pace and followed the sound until you found Aemond, sitting alone on the cold stone floor, his knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. His face was buried, but even from this distance, you could tell he had been crying.

"Aemond?" you called softly, kneeling beside him. "What’s happened?"

Aemond looked up at you, and your heart sank at the sight of his tear-streaked face. His usual stern, stoic expression was gone, replaced by vulnerability, the kind only a young boy trying so hard to be a man could wear.

"It’s nothing, Father," he muttered, wiping furiously at his eyes, though the gesture did little to hide the redness.

You sit beside him, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Something has upset you, and I would like to know what it is."

For a moment, Aemond says nothing, as if weighing whether or not to burden you with whatever weighs on him. But eventually, his resolve crumbles, and he sighs, his voice barely above a whisper. "It’s them. Jace, Luke...and Aegon. They—they played a trick on me."

You feel a tightening in your chest. You had heard rumblings before of the teasing that occasionally happened between your sons and your sister Rhaenyra’s sons, but this felt different. There was something more painful in Aemond’s voice.

"What kind of trick?" you ask gently, though you already have a sinking suspicion about what might have occurred.

Aemond’s cheeks flush with shame as he looks away. "They—they told me they had a dragon for me," he begins slowly, each word weighed with embarrassment. "I’ve always wanted one, and I thought… maybe this time…"

His voice trails off, and you feel your heart break for him. You know how much Aemond has longed for a dragon of his own, how he watches his siblings and cousins with their dragons, envy and longing etched into his every glance. 

"They said it was waiting for me," he continues, his voice shaking. "So I went to the dragon pit. I was so excited, Father. I thought—maybe, finally—" His breath hitches as fresh tears well in his eyes, but he quickly wipes them away, trying to be strong.

"And then I saw it," he says bitterly. "A pig. They dressed up a pig and called it the 'Pink Dread.' They were all laughing, all of them, even Aegon."

A cold anger flares in your chest at the cruelty of the prank. You can picture it all too easily: Aegon and the boys snickering behind Aemond’s back as he approached the animal, thinking, for one precious moment, that his dream had finally come true. You know how deeply this would have cut Aemond, how much it hurt him to be humiliated in front of his family. But for now, you push that anger aside. This moment is about Aemond, not them.

"Come here," you say softly, pulling Aemond into your arms. He resists at first, too proud to cry in front of you, but after a moment, he lets himself lean into you, his small frame trembling as he clutches at your tunic.

You stroke his hair, the familiar silver strands soft beneath your fingers. "I’m sorry that happened to you, Aemond," you whisper, your voice full of warmth and understanding. "That was cruel, and you didn’t deserve it."

He pulls back slightly, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "They all have dragons," he says, his voice thick with frustration. "Why not me? Why am I the only one without one?"

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of his question. "Sometimes, life doesn’t seem fair," you say honestly. "It can feel like the things we want most are the things we’re denied, no matter how hard we wish for them."

Aemond looks up at you, his eyes still glistening with unshed tears. "But one day, Aemond," you continue, your voice full of quiet conviction, "you will have a dragon of your own. I know it. And when you do, you’ll be a better rider than any of them, because you’ve waited. You’ve longed for it. That’s something they’ll never understand."

He listens intently, his shoulders relaxing slightly as your words settle in. "And you know," you add with a smile, "if you ever did have a dragon that was pink, you could give it a name far more fitting than they ever imagined."

Aemond blinks at you, confusion flickering across his face. "What do you mean?"

You lean in conspiratorially, a playful grin tugging at your lips. "Think about it. A pink dragon, breathing fire, soaring over the battlefield. No one would laugh then. And you could call it the 'Pink Dread'—a name that would strike fear into the hearts of your enemies. They would hear it and tremble, knowing what it meant."

For the first time, a small smile pulls at Aemond’s lips. The idea takes root in his mind, and you can see his imagination sparking to life. "The Pink Dread," he murmurs, as if testing the words. "That… that would be funny. No one would laugh at a pink dragon breathing fire."

You nod, your heart warming at the sight of his growing confidence. "Exactly. They may laugh now, but one day, you’ll be the one laughing."

Aemond looks up at you, his blue eyes searching yours, and for a moment, you see a younger version of yourself reflected in him. The same yearning, the same fierce determination to prove oneself, the same frustration at being left behind while others surged ahead. You had been that boy once, trying to find your place, trying to prove you were worthy.

"I see a lot of myself in you, Aemond," you say softly, your voice filled with quiet pride. "When I was your age, I often felt the same way. I watched others get what I longed for, and it made me feel… less. But it didn’t stay that way forever. And it won’t for you either."

Aemond frowns slightly, looking down at the ground. "You were like me?"

You chuckle softly, ruffling his hair. "More than you might think. I wasn’t always so sure of myself. It takes time, but you’ll find your way, Aemond. You’ll grow into your own, just like I did. And when you do, there will be no one more capable than you."

Aemond’s small smile widens slightly, the last traces of tears fading from his eyes. "I’ll remember that, Father," he says, a quiet strength returning to his voice.

You wrap your arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. "You are strong, Aemond. Stronger than you know. And one day, the world will see that too."

As you sit there with him, the warmth of the Red Keep surrounding you both, you know that the sting of today’s prank will fade, but the lessons Aemond is learning now—about resilience, about strength, about finding his place in the world—will shape him into the man he will one day become. And you will be there, guiding him, as he grows into the prince, and the dragonrider, you know he is destined to be.

It had been far too long since you’d visited Oldtown, and the excitement of seeing Daeron again filled you with anticipation. His letters had spoken highly of his time here, his training, and how much he had grown, but there was nothing quite like seeing it for yourself.

The familiar scent of saltwater from the Whispering Sound mixed with the spices and perfumes of the bustling city as you made your way through its cobbled streets. Your memories of Oldtown were filled with childhood games, racing through the alleyways, and the company of old friends. One of those friends, you knew, was waiting for you just inside the Hightower.

As you passed through the gates, you saw him: Gwayne Hightower, your childhood companion and steadfast friend. He stood tall, wearing the colors of House Hightower, a broad smile spreading across his face as he caught sight of you.

"Your Grace!" Gwayne called out, his arms open in welcome as he walked toward you with the easy confidence that only an old friend could have. "I was wondering when we’d see you again."

You smiled broadly, clasping his forearm in a firm handshake before pulling him into a warm embrace. "Gwayne, it’s been far too long," you said, clapping him on the back before stepping back to look at him. "You haven’t changed a bit."

Gwayne chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Well, I could say the same of you, but we both know a crown has its way of changing a man."

You smirked, shaking your head. "Perhaps, but Oldtown doesn’t. It feels like I’m stepping back into my youth."

"And that’s just what Daeron’s been waiting for," Gwayne said, his voice filled with pride. "He’s been practicing something special for your arrival."

The two of you made your way into the Hightower, exchanging stories of the years gone by. Gwayne filled you in on Daeron’s progress, not only in his studies but in his musical pursuits, something that had come as a surprise to you when you’d first heard of it. Daeron had always been a quiet boy, thoughtful and dutiful, but you hadn’t expected him to take to music with such dedication.

As you entered one of the private chambers, there he was—Daeron, your youngest son, sitting with a lute in his hands. His bright eyes lit up when he saw you, and he quickly set the instrument aside to rise and bow.

"Father," he said, his voice filled with genuine warmth. "I’m so glad you’re here."

You smiled, stepping forward to pull him into a quick embrace. "It’s good to see you, Daeron. I’ve been looking forward to this visit."

Daeron stepped back, a hint of shyness in his expression, but there was also pride. "I’ve been practicing," he said, gesturing to the harp behind him. "Would you like to hear?"

"Of course," you said, sitting down as Gwayne settled in beside you, both of you eager to see how much Daeron had improved.

Daeron returned to his seat, his fingers brushing the strings of the lute with ease. The melody that filled the room was soft at first, delicate and sweet, but soon it grew into something more complex, full of emotion and depth. His fingers moved skillfully, the notes flowing effortlessly across from the lute, creating a sound that was both soothing and captivating.

You watched him closely, impressed by the concentration and passion in his playing. He had grown so much, not just in skill, but in confidence. When he finished, the last note lingering in the air, you clapped your hands together, beaming with pride.

"That was beautiful, Daeron," you said earnestly. "You’ve improved so much. I never knew you had such a talent."

Daeron blushed slightly but smiled, pleased with your approval. "Thank you, Father. I’ve been practicing every day. It helps me focus."

Gwayne leaned over, grinning. "He’s the pride of Oldtown, your Grace. Everyone speaks of his music as much as his dragon."

At the mention of Tessarion, Daeron’s eyes brightened even more. "Speaking of which, would you like to see her?"

"I wouldn’t miss it," you said, standing and motioning for him to lead the way.

The three of you made your way through the halls of the Hightower and out toward the dragon stable where Tessarion was kept. As you walked, Daeron talked animatedly about his time in Oldtown, how much he had learned, and how attached he had become to his dragon. You could hear the excitement in his voice, and it warmed your heart to see him so full of life and purpose.

When you reached the stable, you were greeted by the sight of Tessarion, her blue and silver scales gleaming in the soft light of dusk. She was still small by dragon standards, no larger than a large horse, but she had a regal air about her. However, that air of regalness disappeared the moment she saw Daeron.

With an excited rumble, Tessarion bounded toward him, her wings fluttering slightly as she lowered her head and rolled onto her back, exposing her soft underbelly in a clear plea for scratches. You couldn’t help but laugh at the sight—this mighty dragon, one day destined to be a force to be reckoned with, now behaving more like a playful pup than a creature of legend.

Daeron laughed too, kneeling beside her and rubbing her belly with both hands, her tail thumping happily against the ground.

"She’s just like a dog!" you exclaimed, amusement bubbling in your chest.

"She likes to be scratched here," Daeron said, his voice full of affection as he rubbed Tessarion’s side. "She’s still young, but she’ll grow big and strong. One day, she’ll be the fiercest dragon in all the realm."

"That, I have no doubt," you replied, watching as Tessarion nuzzled into Daeron’s hand, her eyes half-closed in contentment.

You knelt beside Daeron, reaching out to touch Tessarion’s shimmering scales. Her hide was warm under your palm, her breathing slow and steady as she basked in the affection. "She’s a beauty, Daeron. You should be proud."

"I am," Daeron said quietly, glancing at you. "She’s my closest friend."

There was something in his voice, a depth of connection between boy and dragon that was rare and powerful. You had seen it with your other children and their dragons, but with Daeron and Tessarion, it felt different. There was a quiet understanding between them, a bond that ran deep.

You smiled at him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "She’ll be a great dragon, Daeron, and you’ll be a great rider. Tessarion’s lucky to have you."

"And I’m lucky to have her," Daeron replied, his hand never leaving her side.

For a while, the three of you sat there in the dragonpit, Tessarion’s soft rumbles the only sound in the still evening air. The world seemed far away, the troubles of the realm forgotten in the warmth of family and the comfort of an old friend.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting Oldtown in shades of gold and pink, you looked at Daeron, filled with pride at the man he was becoming. He had found his place here, among his studies, his music, and his dragon. He had grown into himself, and you couldn’t wait to see what the future held for him.

"Thank you for bringing me here," you said quietly, your voice filled with affection. "I’ve missed this. I’ve missed you."

Daeron smiled, his eyes filled with warmth. "I’ve missed you too, Father. I’m glad you’re here."

And as Tessarion rolled over onto her side, thumping her tail against the ground with contentment, you realized that moments like this—simple, peaceful moments with your children—were worth more than any crown or throne.

[ilovedagain]

A story of Damian's place in his family, told in verse.

There's a book in a library in Grandfather's castle, with people's illustrations and yellowed pages. Lines connect their names and faces, forming branches spanning generations. And down at the bottom is Damian's name. Mother's face and name are there, a beautiful portrait and sprawling calligraphy. But the space for Father's place is empty. He traces his small fingers over the space where Father ought to be and wonders what the reason could be.

"Am I a bastard?" He asks Mother one day, his mouth and mind running as she runs a comb through her hair.

The comb stops. She meets his eyes in the mirror, facing him in the gilded frame. For a moment, it's as if her portrait from that book has come to life. "Why would you say that?"

"My father is never here. And his name is not in the book—the book of our family tree..."

Mother turns and holds his shoulders with careful hands. There is something in her expression that he can't understand.

"Your father is the greatest man," she says. "And you are his precious son. His name is Bruce Wayne and he lives in Gotham. One day, my love, you will meet him and know exactly how deep his love for you grows."

That is the day Damian steals the book and hopes. He hides, takes out a quill, and replicates with careful hands his family tree. It is with a child's hope that he draws sprawling leaves and bountiful apples, deep roots, and entwined branches. And in each apple, he writes a name. Ra's al Ghul. Nyssa Raatko. Mara al Ghul. Dusan al Ghul. Talia al Ghul. Bruce Wayne. And Damian al Ghul Wayne.

From then on, Mother regales him with tales of Bruce Wayne. The king who protects his city like a knight, the man whose love for people burned bright. Damian drinks up the stories he hears from Mother like thirsty roots, and he loved and loved. One day, his mother said, he will meet his father and find the same love.

Like a sprout, Damian grows. His feet are grounded, and his heart burns with sunlight. His hands are tough as tree trunks and calloused like them too. He sheds blood and bleeds from his blades. Then, night fades, dawn breaks, and his promised day comes.

He meets his father at Wayne Manor. He is everything Damian hoped he'll be. Except—

Except—

Damian is nothing his father wants him to be.

There is a family in Wayne Manor and Damian's not part of it. They come from different trees, and yet Father treats them like branches from his own pedigree. And Damian—Damian—is the unwanted one.

It doesn't make sense. It's nurture against nature. With every moment Father dotes on his wards, approves of their choices and hands them responsibilities—

but not to Damian, never, no—

Damian's heart rots. A worm finds its way into his heart and scours. He is spoiled skin streched over an eaten core. Yellowed fruit, left out, and nothing more.

And yet, he loves. He loves Father again and again: when he breaks his bones to save them all, when he admonishes Damian because he cares if his heir knows right from wrong, when he writes detailed notes about his wards and never forgets a word, and when he settles his hand on Damian's head in a rare moment—a warm weight, like feeling sunlight for the first time, and Damian leans into it.

Drunk with sunlight, he opens his sketchbook and draws the day Mother said he was ready to meet his father. It was the coldest night in the desert, with blue-tinted sand and red blood pouring from his victims. The sandstorm that shook his bones was nothing compared to the relief vibrating in his body when he heard those words: "Good work, my son. You are ready to meet your father."

There is a page in Damian's sketchbook from when he was young: a forgotten drawing of his family tree. An al Ghul is not one to concede, so Damian takes the page and tries to understand.

He reconstructs the tree with hope it will reconstruct himself. More branches. More apples. More sons and daughters, even if he has to pause because his hand shakes as he draws. Faces drawn in detail and referenced from a family photo he wasn't in.

He gives each portrait a personality. Richard Grayson is penciled in feather-light strokes, hair wind-blown. Jason Todd is inked again and again, lines darker and thicker each time. Timothy Drake is penned in simple lines and logical symmetry. Cassandra Cain is painted with a thin brush, every curve in her lips and line in her shoulders there for a reason. Alfred Pennyworth is drawn with exquisite detail in the finest fountain pen. Martha and Thomas Wayne are brushed to life with oil paint.

Father adopts new wards, Damian adds more and more. He thinks he understands. Father chose them all, but Damian he did not. There are blood ties that flow in veins, and then there are waters that flow in trees. Water may come from rivers, seas, ponds, and rain. Blood, however, is always the same.

Damian looks at the family tree he made. Father's side is vast and flourshing with new fruit. Mother's side is small and old. It looks like it's not getting enough water. Damian resolves to change that. Al Ghuls live in harmony with creatures spanning the globe and time itself. Surely, surely, he can do the same with his father's family.

He loves again and again: when he cuts through the air beside Father; when Grayson is the first to understand Father, and Drake is their first responder; when Todd swaps his bullets for rubber and Father claps his shoulder; when Damian fights with the blunt edge of his katana, and Father observes the cuts in his victims a second longer.

"Not everything is a fight."

Love feels like a fight. He fights love and it fights back. He holds his tongue with barbed wire and shoulders past names like 'Demon child'. He marks down their birthdays on his calendar because they say it matters. Leaves his heirloom daggers in the back of his closet, feels stripped naked even fully clothed, and tells himself it doesn't matter. He loves, and he remembers those words—"you will meet him and know exactly how deep his love for you grows"—and he finds his mother's side of the family on a blacklist, and silent stares are trained on him whenever "Ra's" is uttered as a suspect.

"Did he kill again? Whose blood is that?"

He loves again and again. The inside of his heart is flayed and raw, red lines crisscrossing his love. He loves until it consumes his heart, and then he loves again. When Cain is Father's choice for a partner and Damian is an obligation. When Drake is entrusted with a business empire and Damian is watched out of the corner of their eyes when he holds a kitchen knife. When Grayson is away and Father calls him, Damian is always here and Father seldom speaks to him. When Father suggests books for Todd to read and frowns at the men lying dead in a desert in Damian's sketchbook.

"Don't draw these things, Damian. Violence is not to be glorified."

He loves. And he loves. He loves and stays awake nights wondering why his family's love is a forbidden fruit. He deeply yearns but he's not allowed it. He reaches towards it and it reaches opposite. He kills little parts of himself to have it and it can easily live without him.

"Who did he kill this time?"

There is a page in a sketchbook in Damian's closet. With people's illustrations and fraying edges. Lines connect their names and faces, forming branches sprouting apples. And down at the bottom, is Damian's name. On his mother's decaying branches. The poisoned apples.