#felt that in my soul....and another place

[crunchymunchymonkey]

The field of war lay cloaked in smoke and ash. Fire cracked the air and the ground shook with each blast, as if the world itself were groaning in pain. The wind carried the scent of blood and blackened flesh, mingled with the sharp sting of winter. The dead lay thick upon the earth, their limbs twisted in final anguish, as if cast aside by some careless god. And yet, amid the stillness of death, there was movement in the trench.

I had died. That much I knew.

A bullet, silent and sure, had passed through my chest and claimed me. For a breathless moment, I had known the hush that lies beyond life. But that peace was not mine to keep. A wrenching came, deep and low in my belly, like the turning of the tide, like a hand dragging me through the narrow door between worlds.

The cold earth beneath me became warm once more. I felt the beat of a heart that was not my own. My fingers stirred. Eyes opened. Above me was the sky, grey with smoke, and there lay the man whose body I now wore. He had fallen seconds before I had. And now I lived again – not as myself, yet still myself.

There was no choice in this. No judgment. No gate. Only return.

This was not life renewed, but life borrowed. A soul untethered, fastened again to dying flesh.

His blood still ran warm where it soaked the coat. His mouth was open in a last, unspoken word. And already his memories came creeping in – broken images of fear, of fury, of hunger for life. He had fought long, this one. Fought hard. But he had lost.

And now I was here. Again.

I rose to my feet – slowly, as one must, when one has only just returned from death. Around me the battlefield groaned, a place neither living nor dead. Somewhere, a scream rose, sharp as a hawk’s cry. Another soul faltered. Another body to come.

I could not remember my name. I had borne many, and all had faded.

They said it was a mistake, a slip in the order of things. A fault in the working of the world. But names have power, and I had none. So I became a shadow, passed from form to form. Soldier, always. Stranger, always.

I stood over the one I had replaced. His armor weighed heavy on my limbs, like sorrow made solid. I knew the rhythm of this. Lift the weapon. Take the step. March once more into the fire.

I did not know if the wheel would ever cease its turning. I did not know if rest would ever come. But until it did, I would rise with each fall.

The war was endless. And so was I.

Due to a cosmic CHECKSUM error, you are unable to go to any afterlife after you die. Instead, you keep getting reset to (and resurrected in) the body of the nearest deceased person after you die. And you're a soldier on the frontline of the deadliest battle of your generation.

[janecafe]

future spouse's pac: how they will confess their love for you

uno - dos

tres - kwatro

paid reading is available here.

masterlist

don't expect much, this is a very short and simple read. you can just ignore and continue to scroll if you don't find it interesting.

©janecafe 2025

˚⊱🍀⊰˚

₊˚ʚ 𝐔𝐍𝐎 🪷 ₊˚✧ ﾟ.

their confession is a pressure and realization about the connection you'd have with them. it's like a realization about how significant your presence is in their life. the confession will leave a satisfied feeling about you. the day of the confession, they may be thinking about kneeling on their knees to you with their hearty and sincere poetry love. despite, the fact they doubt because they don't have an actual idea about your response. they still be waiting for that uncertain reply.

it's also juggling their thoughts about how they love you. this can be their first sentence before confessing; "i want to ask you before i assume anything". it's like a magical word. i was visualizing the place where they confess, it's a place where bougainvillea flowers is present and with an enchanted pavilion. this period is a magical and epoch times for both you. this is an enticing energy togetherness with pure emotions of two magnificent souls.

₊˚ʚ 𝐃𝐎𝐒 🪷 ₊˚✧ ﾟ.

it brings them emotions; in denial and repression. they don't want to admit it because there's a conflict between you and them. this is a feeling of hatred that turns into something special, i don't think you're gonna like each other at first that was the sight of the cards are giving me.

the day they confess? it will be the first time you two will share a kiss. they're the one who's gonna kiss, forgive them it was because of their madcap action. it was because all of their feelings for you were bottled up and they can't hide it anymore, they felt your lips are raw and kissable; it taste sweet and has another description that "they're seeing stars". it's corny but a mystical. but to retract this idea, is that you two used to love someone else.

i don't have any idea how this deep rooted hate came from but i think it's a normal that sometimes we used to hate someone without us even knowing where that come from. this is a real life reflection. where the two used to loved different people before having connection with each other. it's also a confirmation you two are capable to love again. it's like; we love, we failed and we learn and love again.

₊˚ʚ 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐒 🪷 ₊˚✧ ﾟ.

this person will let their feelings confess in a romantic and traditional way to express what they truly feel towards you. writing love letters and poems might be one of their ideal confessions, it can also be through a song that's how they're gonna express their affection to you. they may want to be modest but also be respectful with your feelings, somehow they consider about what you feel, they have where in their mind it's okay for them to get rejected or even turn down after their confession. they want to ensure that their intentions is pure and empathetic.

although, they are somehow timid about their feelings towards you. you will able to witness their love for you with their gifts giving like chocolate or flowers and act of service actions.

in my imagination, it is like an impression of giving a beautiful gift with a hidden hand letter where is holding their own words and feelings to express on a simple, clean and white colored paper leaving their outstanding perfume.

₊˚ʚ 𝐊𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐎 🪷 ₊˚✧ ﾟ.

confessing is one of this person's fear. imagining it, leaves them in a total fear of feeling. i think this confession will be planned so carefully, they may ask you for a date first. but their confession will end up being funny and chaotic this is because of their nervous they felt, they can't handle your presence and themselves. but after their calm themselves, i think you were leave on shock about their confession. it's a very heartfelt with so much adoration in it. this is a bond for you and them to have foster a better relationship.

that their love is so strong. so mature and not all that naive love is like a shallow attraction. this is a real love. and the thing that every song becomes like you and it's haunted them real bad. that you are the person they prayed for.

yeah, each word is true and honest the time they'll confess their love for you.

˚⊱🍀⊰˚

[thatfrailsoul]

– I think I dreamed you into life

Divinatory Jukebox: “I Knew I Loved You”, by Savage Garden.

tarot pick a pile reading → one, two, three

Those eyes, those smiles, that sweetest smell once they let you closer… A face that you could recognise in an instant, even though it never was caressed by your gaze before. A voice that you can almost hear, as you are walking through this life, one step after another, devouring the distance and the time keeping you apart… All of it, every single detail, feels more like a memory, rather than imagination and desire to find that someone. It seems more like a fate that is taking a little longer, a secret that you somehow know and await to manifest. Something that, each day and instant, is whispering to you sweetly about all those moments your hearts are destined to share. But there is a missing peace in there somewhere. A detail they don't mention, leaving it all to your imagination and dreams. But it is so important… to know when and where your encounter will be, and what to do in the meantime… isn't it?

There is a little spot in your heart, buried under all the emotions, all the memories of people that were once there, and those that stayed… There is a little corner that is still not filled, that nothing and no one really fits. Almost like it's being saved for someone special, without you knowing a thing. A little surprise, a gift, something so precious that the life itself can’t resist the urge to give you clues and signs about them. About that one person that stands out so much among the others, with so many threads of destiny that are pulling you closer. A lover, a friend, a mirror of your own soul, made of the same stardust that birthed you into this world... There is someone, out there, that you still need to meet, and yet every inch of you already knows them. You feel them, you know they are coming, that your paths will soon cross each other.

So slow down. Calm your breath, your heart, your mind. And pay attention, listen closely, to the message that the pile that is calling you has for you right now.

p.s. There is a way to keep the messages of the universe much closer. A little box of treasure with all the guidance, all the advices, secrets we discover… A way to find my readings right in your inbox, where they are safe, all yours, and you can savour each word with your own rhythm, whenever your heart wants it… Through my free newsletter to which you can subscribe right here, obviously only if you want to.♡

p.p.s. Which pile you felt called by? Let me know, or follow me for more readings like this one.♡

– Pile One,

the stork: the two of cups and the three of coins

The voice of your tired and lonely mind is so loud lately… So motivated and persistent to let you know that it will never happen. That there aren't people that are so perfect as you imagine them, not even you compare to the one you envision… The one you feel so real only when you dream, eyes closed, with heavy breathing, as you search for them through your unconsciousness, the only light among all those nightmares, and the only place they seem to live in…

One after another, so many faces, voices, words… and not even one seems to be the one. So you are starting to think that perhaps you should just accept it and stay still, finding enough in those that are around you… But then again you are overwhelmed, like in a fever, with all the details about them that you already love so deeply, that start to feel more and more like memories, and not only what you dream of, not something that is so easy to forget and give up.

There is a constant battle within you. The cold reality and pure need to feel that warmth of a connection that is deeper. The mind that is ready to give up, that feels ashamed and even guilty for nurturing for so long a dream that never became more real… And a heart that knows, somehow, that it is possible, that it is worth to believe in and wait for it, that you can't be the only one to long for such connection, and thus you should be able to find it, to find them, sooner or later.

But even if it is so… There is no need to consume yourself so much for it. To fight so strongly, to exhaustion, for something that will either way find you, even if you will not do every single thing to make sure it happens, or perhaps to force it.

This soul, whoever they are, or whenever they are now in this moment… they exist, you know? They are living, breathing, moving through their days and journeys. They are writing their own story, their chapters, their slow or fast moments. And with each decision, with each step, they are following that thread that pulls their hand tenderly but so reassuringly, showing them the right and safest way. A way to find you.

So please breathe. There is no time running out, chances missed, or obstacles not avoided. There is nothing between you if not just life. The journeys, the stories, that you need to live on your own first. Before sharing another one with them, side by side, exactly like you hope for. There are just things that you need respectively to experience, to create. The things that only you or them can manifest. You can’t do everything on your own, speed up the process, find the right path, and run right away to that person. And it makes you feel hopeless, just because you think that these things are the only ones that could give you reassurance, be those signs that everything is going well, that this dream is still possible… But you don't realize, in this frustration, how many confirmations and signs are here already. In you and in the reality around you. In your growth, in your confidence, in your courage to be honest about whom you want to walk on your journeys with, and the confidence to say it out loud, to not settle for someone that you don't feel right and aligned for the life you want now. You see only connections that won’t work, people that leave, the emptiness around you. And not the space that they are making for someone else, right by your side, giving you the real chance to welcome them in your life once you will find each other.

Give them and yourself some time, some space to live your separate stories. Focus on your journey, on the things that you desire to experience, to do, to make, but put on hold just because there isn't someone to witness it, to enjoy them with you, to appreciate or admire it the same way you do. Don't bottle them down, don't write those endless lists of what you would do once you have someone to share it with. Just do it for yourself, now, when you the most want it.

Follow your mind, not only the heart's calling. Give it something to love and to be nurtured by too, now, so it can calm down and stop being so judgemental of your heart’s desires and whispers about someone that is not here. Fill your life with joy, with appreciation, with true presence. With healing and growth. And those things that you will finally feel and live, not those that you need to, but those that you want to, will be the ones to guide you faster to the one you are hoping to find one day. Because the things that connect you are not the choices about the work, the place where you live, how you dress, talk, or look at others. How many things you want to do with that someone, or how many plans you have prepared for the moment you will be in front of each other. No, a connection like this goes right through your hearts, somewhere deeper, stitching you through all those things that make you both bloom with love and joy, not for someone else, but for the world around you.

p.s.

buy me a tomato 🍅 (if you want to)

– Pile Two,

the garden: the wheel of fortune and the stars

It is so interesting to have you here… Glimpsing silently into a story that is not really about you, but that you would like so much to live just to don't feel so strange and different for not having it… For not having that love, that someone special to run towards.

You are here, reading these words, looking for the answers to the questions that you don't even ask yourself, just because others made you feel like it is wrong, to find enough in just your self, in not needing someone else’s love to surround you and nourish you to help you heal and grow.

But… You are not wandering lonely and pointlessly around now. You are living. Experiencing this life, these journeys. You are becoming more and more you, with each step. Shedding the past, healing the wounds, creating space for the real you to bloom. And... it is not useless, it is not wasting your time, being too isolated, egocentric or antisocial. Just because you are not looking obsessively for someone to hold your hand, to warm you up, to love you… Just because you are finding it all in your own self, looking first in your own eyes, trying to understand that soul in the reflection of a mirror, instead of seeking someone else's gaze in hopes to find in there any answers.

So many of us heal, discover our true self, through the connections with others. Through their opinions, their actions, their decisions… And how they makes us feel, what they force us to feel, not leaving any room for hiding or second-guessing. And it is right. In the good and in the bad. It is normal and needed to have someone that shows us who we are, how much we are deserving of love, through giving it to us or by denying it... But it is also okay to understand it all on your own. To feel all of this within, growing and healing through a connection that is much deeper, hidden inside, and not somewhere out there, in another soul that you need to meet in order to realize it.

There is no need for judgement nor any forcing, there is no need for you to wait to feel and create precious moments just because so many souls want to do it with someone. You can do it on your own. You can be the love of your life, the closest and dearest soul. You can be the one that you share the deepest bond with. The one that you will never be not mesmerized by. The one that you could never forget, never stop believing in. The one you can't wait to meet, some day, looking in the eyes of who you will become, feeling their love and understanding overwhelming your soul.

You can do it. Even if some dream of a perfect love, or others are longing for a true friend… You can do it differently, you can feel the closest to the person you will become one day, feeling complete already, not waiting nor looking for anyone else. Because this is who you are, this is what your soul truly wants. Who it is truly looking and calling for. And it is more than enough.

p.s.

buy me a tomato 🍅 (if you want to)

– Pile Three,

the scythe: the page of cups and the six of swords

In a sense… they already saved you. Not by being in your life, right here by your side. Not by holding you, hugging you, protecting you from this world. Not by whispering to you sweet and comforting words… But by just being a possibility. The chance itself that there is someone, somewhere out there, who would understand you right after the first glance, feel you after the first smile… It was enough to save you. To save yourself in the meantime.

It might not be ‘’ideal’’, the healthiest, the most romantic and heroic way to survive… But it is the reality. In which, sometimes and for some reason, we do feel alone and vulnerable, in danger even, among the people that we trust our heart with, after they scratch and crush it... And we do need to hope that there is someone different out there, to give us the strength to go through it, when our own love is not unfortunately enough to make it.

There is nothing strange or shameful in this. In giving yourself hope, someone to believe in, even if you don't know yet the sound of their voice. And in surviving for them, for a chance to meet them and be with them. In looking for them in the eyes of others, sometimes believing that you finally found them, convincing yourself a little too much perhaps, just to be hurt once more, when you didn't expect it anymore… It is fine. It is all okay. You are not delusional, your head is not too much in the clouds, your heart is not too romantic for the harsh reality of how the relationships are becoming now. You are not too naive because of your belief, or too egocentric when you choose it over some poorly made promises of those that never deserved to come so closely.

We all have someone, someone that we connect with so deeply, understand so naturally, so easily as breathing. And that's it. This is the truth. But some people believe it and some don't. Some know it from the beginning, others forget about it or refuse to hope for it. And some… learn and understand it amidst and despite everything. Exactly like you did. Choosing to focus on this thought, on this feeling, rather than the bad endings of the stories that everyone is so fast to believe in, surrendering to it.

They exist. Many of them. All the souls that you will feel finally safe and at peace with. And each your breath, each your step and decision, is already guiding you to them, exactly like it is supposed to be. You just need to remind it yourself, for a moment. Now that the life seems a little too stagnant, a little more cold and lonely, with all those judgemental voices screaming so loudly. Don't look at them, don't listen. Turn around, focus your gaze on your direction, your goals, the things that you believe in. Let them stay behind, becoming more and more indistinguibile, in their assumptions, and inability to have peace when someone still has hope for being loved and appreciated. It's their way of thinking, their experiences, their choices. They don't influence you, or your own journey. Nor the one of the souls that are looking for you, as you dream about them, hoping.

p.s.

buy me a tomato 🍅 (if you want to)

_

[wrongbodies]

A Slippery Soul, pt 1

All my life I had the strangest feeling of not belonging. I could never quite put my finger on what was wrong. I didn't hate my life, or my family, or really anything. Instead, I felt like I could never connect with things that I wanted to. As if the desire existed, but the ability could never manifest.

My large hands couldn't grasp the bow of a violin well, nor could my meaty fingers practice the delicate strokes of painting. I yearned to create something beautiful. Instead, I was graced with the body of a linebacker. I was huge, powerful, and musky. Yes, musky. When I turned 13 it was like my body went into overdrive, I was gaining muscle fast, I could down food like the sarlacc pit. And I excelled at sports. Anything I played I tended to dominate. So much so, the football coach of my high school practically begged me to join.

When I gave in, my parents - well, my father really - were so proud. I was just a freshman and earned my way on the varsity team. By Sophomore year I was first string. No one disrespected me. I was the king of the school so early. But I had my secrets too. The artsy boys caught my eye. Something so alluring about their bodies, so delicate and slight... They had grace. I never possessed that grace. I was a hammer, and they were the graceful pen. I was bound to destroying things, knocking people down, and domination.

I wanted to feel something other than that.

I stand now before my mirror. The reflection shows the messy, smelly room behind me. I try to keep tidy but my schedule is crazy. Between school and practice, I could not keep up with laundry and cleaning. But I tried.

I focused on my reflection. Broad, tanned shoulders. Thick biceps, and even thicker legs. Some would say rippling with muscle. I wasn't ashamed of my physique. But I craved another life. My hair, brown and shaggy and often tucked under a baseball cap, almost permanently turned backwards. Tight tee-shirt almost painted onto my torso, as my pectorals and abs made obvious outlines. I had cut the sleeves off, so my shoulders and below were exposed.

My face was practically chiseled from stone, my white skin tanned from hours practicing in the sun. I shimmied on some shorts, and grabbed a hoodie before heading downstairs.

My parents were amazing. They were good, Christian types, and loved eating. Thankfully I was almost constantly working out. Otherwise I'd look like my dad. His golf shirt was ballooned out, and help tenuously in place by his belt, the shirt being tucked into his chino shorts.

"Morning, champ!" My mom sang. She was also portly, her stomach pushing out She plated some eggs and bacon. She didn't work, so she was basically always cooking, cleaning, or making some Christian art. She also volunteered a lot. Anyways, it meant I never went hungry and the meals were always quite robust.

I sat at the table and hungrily attacked the food. She made the eggs with the bacon grease, it was amazing. I also felt like my cholesterol was going through the roof, but this body was demanding fuel. I had to obey those signals.

"Practice today?" Dad asked.

"Yup!" I chirped, between bites.

"Alright then, I am excited to see your game this weekend." Dad added. He was my biggest supporter. He hardly missed a game, and was always on top of me getting homework done, good grades, and good sleep. He meant well, and I was happy to oblige. This life may be strange, but I was grateful.

After clearing my plate and putting the dishes in the sink, I kissed my mom goodbye and left, slinging the backpack by the door over my shoulder and grabbing my car keys.

The ride to school was fine, and so was the rest of the day. Even practice went off without a hitch. Perfect plays, some good, rough tackles.

And then it was time for fun. A couple of the guys and I went downtown. It wasn't a huge town, but the downtown area was a good place to haunt. We roamed around, bought overly sugary drinks, went shopping or just scammed around for girls. They never really picked up on the fact that none of the girls caught my eye.

But today we wandered down a side street we hadn't checked out before. The most interesting store down this way was some old esoteric shop. The signs claimed mystic curios and other interesting finds were on sale.

Entering the shop, the thick smell of cloying nag champa was pervasive. The place was pretty dark, the front windows were blocked with thick velvet drapery. Inside candles in various candelabras and lanterns flickered, almost like a medieval room might use for lighting.

We all split and began exploring the shop, no one seemed to be working, despite the sign having said it was open. I never would steal anything. My friends on the other hand? Probably, if they could take advantage.

And sure enough, I saw one, Mikey, shove something into his pocket. Before I could say something, a voice boomed from nowhere and everywhere.

"PUT IT BACK."

Mikey leapt, and him and the others rushed the door to leave. I made to follow but my way was blocked suddenly by a woman wrapped in a lace shawl, necklaces and bracelets covered in beads. Her eyes were drawn in heavily with eyeliner.

"I know you steal nothing, boy." She said, her voice raspy. "But I see something in your aura. You must take a reading."

"A reading?" I asked, voice quivering a bit.

"Yes, I read your soul. See why you strike me different." She explained. Suddenly we were at a table, and she pushed a chair out for me. I sat, perplexed.

"I really should get- " I was about to get up.

"No, you stay. I read soul." She commanded. I felt myself compelled to stay seated.

"uh - ok!" I bleated.

"Good, good. Now I look into soul. Relax. Breathe. Clear mind." She instructed. She pulled out what looked like a magnifying glass, but it was faceted more like a crystal. She peered one eye through the lens.

"Ohhh most curious. Do you know the nature of your soul?" She asked, looking entertained.

"I don't know, other than what the church says..." I began.

"Ugh, hush with church bull-baloney. They no nothing of souls. Yours is a unique one. You are a slippery soul." She stated, matter-of-factly.

"What? A slippery soul?" I asked, uncertain what anything she was talking about meant.

"Yes, yes. It mean you once were in one vessel, and then you changed. Your soul move between one body into another. When?" She inquired.

"My soul? Vessel?" I was completely lost now.

"Yes, you had different body before. You made change to become boy you are now." She said.

"I don't know any of these words. I've always been me, Cooper." I said.

"Ohh, I see. Let me see palm." She demanded. I showed her my hands, and then she tsked, as if something made sense suddenly.

"I understand. You born, good day for mother and father. Bad day for weather. A storm, powerful and steeped in magic. You and other boy were born, caught in path of magic. The souls became flipped. You born one boy, then become another - this Cooper." She explained, and waved up and down at my body.

"Wait, you mean another baby and I switched bodies?" I asked.

"Yes, exactly boy. You and other boy are in wrong body. You both have slippery soul is best guess. It mean your soul easy to move between vessel - body. Would you find boy?" She asked, looking pleased.

"What happens if I do?" I asked.

"Up to you. Up to other boy. You stay as you are, feel wrong. You swap, your soul and body align. Be who meant to be. Align with universe, or defy destiny." She said, mysteriously.

"Well - how do I find him?" I asked, suddenly making some connections.

"I help. He lot closer than you know. He live in town. He sad. He lonely. He feel weak. But he want be strong. You strong, he want that. So give him that vessel, love. Give him life he deserve. He give you body you need. The passion. Take this." She almost seemed out of it. But she pulled a paint brush from out of her clothing somewhere.

"Take brush. When close to boy, it grow warm, warm, warm and then hot when very near. He will be same age, same date of birthing. I guess he will know, you will know when you found the right one." She concluded. "Now you leave. Go find destiny."

She shooed me out of the store. This was crazy. I looked at the chipped, battered brush in my hand. I had half a mind to toss it... but something felt right about this. Like she wasn't crazy. I was in the wrong vessel - the wrong body!

I had to find my real body.

[aventurineswife]

Is it possible for you to make reader who is just like Viktor from Arcane? In terms of personality, past and goals. With Ratio, Aventurine, The Herta, Ruan Mei and Screwllum?

An Elegance of Flaws

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Ruan Mei x Reader, The Herta x Reader, Screwllum x Reader, Viktor (from Arcane) based Reader, Collaboration, Internal Struggle, Complex Characters, Mentorship, Betrayal, Flaws & Perfection, Anonymity, Ethics of Innovation.

Warnings: Dark themes, Mentions of physical disabilities/injuries, Mentions of obsession and isolation, Mentions of manipulation and exploitation, Emotional tension, Possible self-sacrifice.

A/N: first time writing Screwllum, I still haven't watched Arcane so sorry if it's ooc

The low hum of Penacony's industrial district echoed around you, the staccato rhythm of machines matching the pace of your thoughts. You leaned on the cane in your hand, its polished wood a stark contrast to the soot-covered metal around you. As much as you despised this city, its chaos offered one thing: anonymity. But as your magenta and cyan-eyed companion sauntered into your lab, grinning like a man who’d just rolled a winning hand, anonymity was no longer an option.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Architect of Revolution,” Aventurine teased, leaning casually against your workbench. His glasses caught the dim light, making his smile even more maddening. “I heard rumors, but I didn’t think even you would risk your name for this. Creating miracles in the slums while dodging the IPC’s gaze? Bold.”

Your jaw tightened as you placed your notes down. "And yet here you are. What’s your game this time, Aventurine? Here to gloat? Or to use my work as another one of your high-stakes gambles?"

His grin faltered for the briefest moment. “Why not both?” He pulled a gold chip from his pocket, flipping it between his fingers. “I know what you’re trying to do, [Name]. Reinvent life, strip it of its flaws, make the world… fairer. It’s noble. Impossible, but noble.”

You turned sharply, the familiar ache in your leg forcing you to adjust your stance. “Impossible is your specialty, isn’t it? You wouldn’t be here unless you saw an angle to exploit.”

Aventurine’s expression softened, his usual flamboyance replaced by something quieter. “Exploiting you? No. I admire you, actually. You’ve taken the cards fate dealt you and reshuffled the deck. But… I’m worried you’ll bet everything and lose yourself in the process. Believe me, I know how that feels.”

You stared at him, searching for mockery but finding none. The mask he wore, the calculated charm, cracked just enough to reveal something raw underneath. Despite yourself, you laughed bitterly. “Coming from the man who’d gamble his soul on a coin toss?”

His grin returned, but it was tinged with regret. “Touché. But if you’re risking it all, maybe let me play too. Two minds like ours? We could rewrite the rules together.”

The vast dome of the Intelligentsia Guild library stretched above you, its vaulted ceiling painted with constellations of knowledge. Rows of books and holographic interfaces surrounded you, but your focus was on the intricate mechanism before you—a device meant to stabilize organic matter during transformation. It was your life's work, but even now, it felt incomplete.

“Your equations lack elegance,” a voice called from behind. You turned, finding Ratio standing there, arms crossed, his hair catching the soft glow of the library's lights. His eyes were sharp as ever.

You leaned on your cane, raising an eyebrow. “If you’re here to critique, Dr. Ratio, don’t bother. Elegance is secondary to functionality.”

He stepped closer, examining the device with a critical eye. “Functionality without elegance is like a star that doesn’t shine. It works, but it doesn’t inspire.” He glanced at you. “Your mind is exceptional. Why settle for mediocrity?”

You frowned, turning back to your notes. “Because inspiration doesn’t save lives. This will.”

Ratio’s gaze softened, though his tone remained precise. “And yet, your obsession with saving lives blinds you to the consequences. I’ve read your research, [Name]. You want to fix the flaws in humanity, but at what cost? How much of yourself will you sacrifice before you realize perfection doesn’t exist?”

You slammed your hand on the table, the frustration boiling over. “You think I don’t know that? I’ve lived my entire life shackled by imperfection—my body, my past, this broken world. I’m not chasing perfection. I’m chasing freedom.”

Silence fell between you, broken only by the faint hum of machinery. Ratio sighed, stepping closer. “Freedom is a worthy pursuit. But even the greatest minds need a foundation, someone to steady them when they falter.” He placed a hand on your shoulder, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Let me be that for you.”

For a moment, you allowed yourself to believe him, to imagine a partnership that didn’t end in betrayal or loss. “If you’re offering your help,” you said quietly, “be prepared to see the worst of me.”

Ratio smiled faintly. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

The lab was cold, the sterile white walls reflecting the icy demeanor of its sole occupant. Ruan Mei stood at the far end, her eyes fixed on a series of holographic projections detailing the evolution of a new species she’d been cultivating. She didn’t look up as you entered, though you knew she’d registered your presence.

“You’re late,” she said, her voice as cool as the lab’s atmosphere. “I thought precision was important to you.”

Leaning on your cane, you gave a faint smirk. “And I thought warmth was important to life, yet here we are.”

Her gaze flicked toward you, a faint twitch of her lips betraying amusement. “Touché. What brings you here, [Name]? Surely you have more pressing experiments than interrupting mine.”

You moved to the workstation beside hers, placing your prototype on the surface. “I need your insight. The molecular structure is stable, but the integration process fails every time. I thought… maybe you’d see something I don’t.”

She studied you for a long moment, her usually impassive face betraying a hint of curiosity. “You’re admitting you need help? That’s… unexpected.”

You chuckled, though the sound was bitter. “Even I have limits, Ruan Mei. I just hate that I’m reminded of them so often.”

She stepped closer, her hands brushing over the device. “Limits are what define us. They’re also what drive us to innovate.” Her eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw something other than cold intellect—a flicker of understanding, even kinship. “You remind me of myself, in a way. Always chasing something… unattainable.”

“Perfection?” you asked quietly.

“Meaning,” she corrected. Her voice softened, and she turned back to the device. “Let me help you, [Name]. Not because I think you’ll succeed, but because I want to see what happens when two flawed minds work together.”

You hesitated, the weight of her words settling over you. “Fair enough,” you said finally. “But don’t expect me to share credit.”

She smirked faintly. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The dim light of the mechanized workshop cast long shadows across the intricate gears and cogs spread across your desk. The soft, rhythmic tick of the clock overhead was your only companion as you tinkered with the device before you. The design was elegant but flawed, its energy distribution uneven, its purpose incomplete. You sighed, leaning heavily on your cane, the ache in your leg a familiar reminder of your own imperfections.

A voice interrupted the quiet. Smooth, refined, and tinged with amusement. “You’re going to wear yourself out, [Name]. Even the greatest minds require rest.”

You didn’t look up. “Rest doesn’t bring progress, Screwllum.”

He stepped into the light, his polished frame catching the glow of your desk lamp. His cape swayed as he moved, and his hat tilted slightly, casting a shadow over his glowing eyes. His presence was commanding yet unintrusive, like a puzzle piece slipping perfectly into place.

Screwllum examined your work with a calculating gaze. “You’ve overcompensated for the energy loss in the auxiliary channels. It’s elegant but redundant.” He paused, his head tilting slightly. “Much like your insistence on bearing every burden alone.”

You bristled, gripping your cane tighter. “And what would you know about burdens, Screwllum? You, with your perfectly crafted design and flawless movements.”

He knelt beside you, his mechanical hand tracing the device’s intricate patterns. “More than you might think. Perfection is an illusion, [Name]. One I’ve spent lifetimes chasing. But in my pursuit, I’ve come to realize something.” He glanced up at you, his cyan gaze piercing. “It’s the flaws that make the design meaningful.”

Your jaw tightened. “Meaning doesn’t solve problems. It doesn’t make the world better.”

“Perhaps not,” he admitted, standing gracefully. “But neither does burning yourself out in isolation. Let me help. Together, we might find a solution even you couldn’t imagine alone.”

For a moment, you hesitated. The pride that kept you locked in your solitude warred with the small, desperate part of you that longed for understanding. Finally, you stepped aside, gesturing to the device. “If you think you can improve it, be my guest.”

Screwllum smiled, a faint flicker of light in his expression. “Consider it a collaboration.”

And as his mechanical hands worked alongside yours, for the first time in a long while, the weight on your shoulders felt just a little lighter.

The faint light of the workshop filled the room, its ever-expanding landscapes swirling in holographic projections around you. You leaned on your cane, staring at the interface with a mixture of awe and frustration. The calculations refused to align, their inconsistencies gnawing at your mind like an itch you couldn’t scratch.

“Fascinating,” a voice drawled behind you. “Even someone as brilliant as you can stumble.”

You turned sharply, finding Herta lounging against the doorway, her arms crossed and a bemused smile playing on her lips. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and her hair framed a face that seemed untouched by the years. She looked entirely too amused by your struggle.

“I wasn’t aware I’d invited an audience,” you said dryly, adjusting your stance to ease the ache in your leg. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Madam Herta?”

She sauntered closer, her dress swishing around her ankles. “I heard rumors that the infamous [Name] was working on something groundbreaking. Naturally, I had to see if they were true.” Her gaze flicked to the calculations on your screen. “And I must say, I’m not disappointed.”

You frowned, turning back to the interface. “If you’re here to gloat, save it. I don’t have time for games.”

“Gloat?” she repeated, feigning offense. “I would never. I’m simply curious. You’re like a puzzle, [Name]. A broken masterpiece trying to make the world whole. It’s… endearing.”

Your grip on your cane tightened. “Spare me the poetry, Herta. If you have something useful to contribute, say it. Otherwise—”

“Otherwise what?” she interrupted, stepping closer. Her voice softened, losing its playful edge. “You’ll keep pushing yourself until there’s nothing left? Don’t pretend I don’t see the parallels, [Name]. You’re chasing perfection just like I did. And it will cost you.”

You glared at her, the anger bubbling up despite the quiet truth of her words. “What would you have me do, then? Abandon my work? Watch people suffer because I wasn’t strong enough to finish what I started?”

“No,” she said simply. “I’d have you remember that genius doesn’t mean isolation. Even the brightest stars shine brighter with others around them.” She placed a hand on your shoulder, her touch unexpectedly gentle. “Let me help you, [Name]. Not because I think you need it, but because I want to see what someone like you can achieve when they’re not carrying the weight of the world alone.”

You stared at her, searching for the mockery you’d expected but finding none. Slowly, you nodded. “Fine. But don’t get in my way.”

Herta smiled, a glimmer of triumph in her eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

[avacora]

Intimate Mornings ~ Bang Chan Drabble

Summary: A flirtatious and intimate morning with your boyfriend Chan.

Bang Chan x afab reader

18 + mdni

Warnings: fluff, suggestive, talks of intimacy from the night before, teasing, alluding to sex.

Word count: ~ 800 words

an: this is my first ever trying to write. Sorry if it's a bit messy and all over the place. Did not proofread thoroughly <3

The roughness of his fingertips were resting against your soft stomach, holding you in a cage of warmth. As your brain slowly starts to wake up, you blink the darkness away and welcome the morning sunlight. The mess of your room filling your sight as you take everything in. The remains of yours and Chan’s clothes sprinkled across your shared bedroom. The feeling of his lips ghosting your neck, as you feel his soft and steady breaths touch you lightly, indicating that he was still asleep.

The memories of how you both took your time taking each other’s clothes off, appreciating one another's bodies of last night, were flooding your mind. Closing your eyes you relive the way his lips were placing soft kisses all over your body. The way he'd started by placing soft kisses on your forehead, pulling you closer in by the waist as he hovered over you. Then slowly kissing you down from your cheek to your lips. When he had gotten to your lips, you welcomed a few soulful kisses that made you feel like you were floating. He then had moved down to your jaw and neck, and the kisses had become more open-mouthed and wet.

You had let out a slow and low hum as you felt Chan squeezing your waist, not realising he had just woken up. Your brain feeling fuzzy from the way that he was holding you now in his arms. Safe and secure. Chan’s hands suddenly tighten around you and your body gets pulled back into his. You squeal as your back presses against his solid chest. Skin on skin. His face is now nuzzled into the crook of your neck, with his nose nudging you below your ear.

"Morning baby" He says pulling you impossibly closer into him. His low, raspy morning voice sends chills down your spine and straight to your core, making you feel weak to him and his touch.

"Morning Channie." You reply, reaching your arm behind you to place your hand into his restless curly hair. You were raking your fingers through his hair, whilst scratching your fingernails against his scalp. Chan lets out a deep groan, slowly moving one of his hands up your stomach and resting it under the curve of your breast.

"Hmmm that feels really nice." Chan breathlessly says into your neck. His long fingers start to gently caress your under boob, as you feel your body getting goosebumps with how carefully he's handling you right now. You felt butterflies in your stomach, with how he was gently touching you so early in the morning.

"How are you feeling this morning? Was it good for you last night?" Your core was growing wet at the sound of his deep, raspy morning voice right next to your ear. You turned around in Chan’s embrace while he was talking, cupping his face in your hands, gently caressing his cheekbone with your thumb.

"Chan, baby. Everything was so perfect last night. You were perfect. It felt like I was in a fever dream, that I was floating." You could see the blush spreading across Chan’s cheeks and to his ears from what you were saying.

"Especially at the start when you'd laid me down and were kissing me all over. And the way you were touching my body with your strong hands ..."

"Stop it! You're making me blush." He mumbles, as he tries to hide his face into your hand that's still caressing his cheek, making you giggle. While he’s trying to hide himself from you, you move your hand to his shoulder and push him so that he’s laying flat on his back. Before he can even process what’s happening, you swing your leg over his waist so that you’re now straddling him. Your hands roam over his broad and naked chest. Fingers sliding down the crevice between his toned pecs.

“Baby, what are you up to?” Chan inquires in a mischievous tone. Moving his hands from his face, and placing them on the curve of your hips. Chan’s large hands encompass your hips, slowly massaging your sides whilst looking up at you with a small smirk on his face. As you hold onto his shoulders, you lean down so that you are face to face with him. Your lips place a soft kiss on his forehead. Then you travel down his face and very lightly place a kiss on his plump lips, whilst rolling your hips over his clothed, semi hard groin. Reciprocating how he was treating you last night.

“I want to make you feel as special as you for me last night” you whispered as you connected your lips with his. Chan lets out a deep moan as kiss him, pulling you impossibly closer by you hips. Quickly picking up where you left off last night.

[versevibess]

Commandress

Cassian X Reader

PART ONE

Part two

Summary:

Multiple part series. You lock eyes with the Lord of Bloodshed on the battlefield during Hybern’s attack and later his High Lord and Lady offer you a bargain you cannot refuse.

WARNINGS:

Later parts will contain more explicit content. Read at your own risk. Descriptions of violence and gore.

Please note:

This is my first time writing on tumblr! Please hang in there whilst I get the hang of things! :)

Bones cracked and crumbled beneath my feet, the battle field now paved with corpses; to the point that the mud beneath them was a sickly mixture of soil and flesh. I could hear the blood rushing to my head, my heart pounding so loud I could hardly hear my own self scream at my soldiers around me.

I could see the distaste on the many male faces the moment we stepped off of that ship, yet it did nothing but make me fight harder. A point needed to be proven, and I had done exactly that, my dagger disemboweling yet another of Hybern’s soldiers before me. I took a moment to catch my breath as his body turning into a sack of lifeless muscle, slumping to the ground, adding a tally next to the rest of them.

My surroundings were absolutely chaos, males bursting with red hot fury as their swords and shields clashed repeatedly against one another; no rhyme nor reason to their movement, just raw, unforgiving rage. Everything inside my body burned with fatigue, but I couldn’t let them know that, couldn’t prove them correct in saying that the battlefield was no place for a woman.

So I heaved for breath, unsheathing my sword from my side and hauling the heavy steel over my shoulder; waiting in anticipation for the next screwed up face to charge at me. I wouldn’t have to wait long, a large male clad in the Kings colours running towards me with a harsh snarl, his teeth grit. I paid it no thought as I swung my sword, once, twice, the metal of our weapons gleaming as they clashed, just before I took a brutal swing at his neck.

Clean. His head slid from his neck, a perfect seam of blood spilling from his throat and onto his armour before his legs finally caught up and collapsed from beneath him. Another mark next to my name.

Perhaps I had been too caught up in the brutality of it all, perhaps I simply couldn’t see through my white speckled vision as to what was happening before all of our armies - the King was dead. So I kept fighting, and fighting. Each body which fell to the ground was a reminder to my body to keep pushing, one more became two more, two more became three.

I may have become too confident as I took one more moment to catch my breath, hands still clenched around the silver handle of my sword which was hovered above my shoulder. So caught up in the middle of two thoughts - the disbelief that the King had been slain and the disbelief of how many dead bodies were trampled at my feet - that I hadn’t noticed the dagger which flew towards me.

The weapon cut through the air faster than light, the entire thing as if it was a dream that I didn’t quite have a grasp on. All I felt was pain, soaring, boiling pain from above my eyebrow, all the way down to the corner of my mouth. I may have been in a state of shock, my hand loosening around my sword as I screamed in agony, metallic tasting blood pooling between the seams of my lips as I screamed.

I hadn’t even seen the dagger come at me for a second blow, straight into the left side of my stomach.

Blinding red flight burst around me, and for a moment I believed this was it; that the red light consuming me was in fact the underworld I was undoubtedly destined to be sent to once my soul left my body.

This was it, I thought.

Yet I could feel my body hit the ground. My face pillowed by cushions of mud, or perhaps a corpse. And once my eyes peeled open from the sheer pain of it all, they met the man who delivered the blow, being cut into ribbons by an Illyrian soldier.

No, not an Illyrian soldier.

My eyes drifted open and closed, and in what may have been my final moments, I watched as he scorched my attacker with his wrath, with siphons so bright they were almost blinding. He towered over the rest of his men, a beacon of power, destruction. I didn’t have the mental capacity to note the look of terror twist in everyone else’s faces, but I was sure I would remember it for days to come. If the gods allowed it.

Darkness consumed me once more, and for slightly longer this time; yet the adrenaline that soared through my body overpowered deaths calling.

My eyes shot open, the ringing in my ears now drowning back into the battlefield cries. I managed to press my hand into the mud and haul my weight onto my single arm, the other hand clutching at the weeping wound purchased to my side. My eyelids fought against me, squeezing closed at the mud and blood which burned through my vision. Yet I still found my feet, stumbling backwards slightly through the thick wet soil, my sword digging into the ground beside me.

I watched the man’s heavy wings flare, so wide, a pang of bitter jealousy hit me deep in my chest. I wanted to do the same, the sharp jagged lumps of carved bone in my back itching to mimic his movements. Sorrow washed over me, no matter how many bodies lay before me on the battle field, I held no where near as much grief for them as I did my wings.

He turned, his broad chest heaving, his bearded jaw jutted out ever so slightly as he gasped for air, for regeneration. His hazel eyes held mine, a face so beautiful, carved from the gods them selves before me, yet in such a horrible wicked place. My eyebrows furrowed as his eyes narrowed at me.

And then he pressed his lips together, giving me a short, sharp nod before turning his back to me and bracing what was left of the war.

•

I tried to think back to that time as little as I could.

A thought alone was enough to make my stomach churn, enough to make me spill the contents of my gut onto the floor before me at any given second.

I had lost many of my women, and with such a small army left, it made our training days shorter, our help lesser. It was ultimately down to me to cover all bases now.

My heart twisted as I observed the many tent archways which hadn’t been opened since we returned; snow had began to build around the entrances due to a lack of disturbance. My eyes would often well as I thought about the untouched, cold beds which still remained inside - the belongings which now belonged to nobody.

I tried to convince myself that it was the whole point of this secluded place. Women with no safety could seek comfort in knowing they would be fed, trained and live their life with purpose other than to be bred and wed, and when the time would come, they would put up their fight. Yet it didn’t make it easier, even time its self seemed to make it even harder.

It wasn’t often that a new presence could be sensed among the camp. Under the glamours which cloaked Cretea, the land in which we stood was deemed practically nonexistent.

That was until today.

I stood inside of my tent, leaning over my wash basin and listening to the quiet crackle of my fireplace when the archway of my tent rustled open. My teeth clashed together at the abrupt burst of noise, clutching my damp wash cloth with a white knuckle as I washed the days debris from my skin.

“Commandress-“ the young, female voice called from the archway of the tent. I turned, still scrubbing away at my forearm as I silently prayed for a day where I received a moment of interrupted peace. “There are some people here for you.” She declared.

I continued to stare at the girl through my lashes, harshly digging away at a dried patch of mud which clung to my skin. I almost paid no heed to her, usually when someone was here for me, it was to tell me that I was doing my job wrong.

“Who?” I asked, looking back down at the patch of red skin which I had rubbed raw.

She didn’t answer straight away, instead I watched as her mouth opened and closed without a word. I raised my eyebrows, flinging the cloth into the basin and bracing my hands at my hips, holsters still strapped to my fox fur lined leathers.

“The High Lord and Lady of the Night Court.”

•

The High Lady stood proudly in the snow, wrapped in bundles of fur and shawls; a long, deep navy dress cascading into the white fluffy ice. A crown of silver stars, incrusted with more jewels than I had ever laid eyes on in my life rested atop of her head of thick golden-brown hair. I hadn’t properly had chance to observe her striking beauty during the war, yet I could see why she was well matched, mated, to the winged male who stood beside her.

I was in no state to be seen by a Lord, nor Lady. Only partially clad in my leathers, I hadn’t properly had the chance to dress accordingly for such a visit before I threw myself out of the tent. My empty holsters still strapped to my hips, with a lousy black long sleeve which did little to fight the brutal cold; I simply couldn’t fight the anticipation as to knowing why on earth they were here.

My face feigned confidence as I braced myself before them, feet planted firmly in the snow as I stared at the two with questioning eyes. Not only did they have little reason to be standing in my camp, but they also shouldn’t have been able to find it.

“The Commandress“ the High Lord announced, hands pressed into his pockets as one foot waded carelessly through the snow. “It is a pleasure to put a name to the face.”

My lips pressed together firmly, arms crossed over my chest as one thousand questions threatened to spill from my tongue. Instead, my eyes trailed to his gracious wings, pain twisting deep in my heart until I met the soft smile of the High Lady.

I could tell she could sense my discomfort, my uncertainty. “Perhaps we should go somewhere warm, I would love to discuss a few things with you.” She offered kindly.

I hesitated for a moment, eyebrow twitching upwards before my eyes trailed their way to the dining tent. Curiosity coiled within me, not particularly willing to wait the walk to the warm shelter to know what their intentions were.

“Why are you here?” I asked, perhaps a bit forward. I was as taken aback by my abrupt words as the High Lord was.

The High Lady, Feyre, followed my eyes, slowly and cautiously wading through the snow towards the warm hue of the fire and the smell of roasting meat. I followed, as did Rhysand. My frozen hands clenching and unclenching at my sides, phantom wings tucked so tight, as if I was a hound with their tail between its legs.

We walked in silence to the tent, irritation slowly beginning to creep up at me as no words were exchanged any further. Part of me wondered whether they must have wanted me seated for whatever it was they had to declare.

Yet we sat, the mated fae side by side, myself opposite them and still not a word giving away their purpose. Rhysand’s violet eyes were so intense it was almost painful to bare them, Feyre’s equally so.

I took a deep breath in through my nose, staring down at my clasped hands before meeting their faces once again. “My Lord, Lady, to what do I owe the pleasure?” I tried a more formal approach, earning a brief scoff from Rhysand. Feyre simply smiled, glancing at her mate.

“I don’t think I had ever heard an Illyrian speak with such formality.” He remarked and my eyebrows furrowed.

“How do you know that I am Illyrian?” I asked. I certainly didn’t have the wings to prove it.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, bright violet eyes clearly tracing over the scar which was now embedded into the soft skin of my face. A permanent reminder of what our people endured. A wicked reminder.

“Illyrian woman are a different kind, different to us males.” He inhaled a sharp breath, his ankle crossing over his knee as he clasped his hands in his lap infront of him. I watched as his wings flared with his movement. “Stronger, driven.”

“I do not need your praise, just tell me what you need.” I pushed firmly.

His eyebrows raised, Feyre’s hand sliding over his forearm, a silent gesture for him to just get to the point.

“The war was brutal for all of us, as you know.” His head nodded towards the few remaining woman of the camp who had began to rustle around outside, undoubtedly eavesdropping on the conversation. “Yet once we grew brave enough to share our own stories-“ he paused for a moment, glancing at his mate. “The commander of my armies could only ask about one woman… one which he did not know the name of, yet fought as if she had something to prove.”

I swallowed dryly.

“He said she lead an army of woman, not just Illyrian, but from every corner of the immortal lands and she bought many men to their deaths effortlessly.” He continued.

“I believe you have the wrong person.” I bit.

Feyre’s lips rolled inwards, her eyes not meeting mine as she toyed with the sapphire and silver ring on her slender finger.

“He told us that if we were to ever find her, she would have a scar; one from the top of her brow to her lip.”

My eye twitched slightly, my hands gripping the wooden bench with enough force to snap it. Not only fear, but disappointment washed over me. I had kept us hidden for so long, my people hidden for so long, with only one promise to protect the scarred souls who lived here from the cruel outside world. Yet they could find me from something so small, as insignificant as a scar on my face.

“What do you want?” I asked, the quiver evident in my voice.

I had heard stories of the High Lord, whispers from Pyrthian; that he could turn an immortals mind to mist with as little as a thought. He could make them think things, whatever he pleased. I knew I had to be careful, perhaps more careful than I had ever been.

He feigned a look of thought, his lip curling outwards as he picked at a silver thread on his dark velvet tunic.

“Your guidance, in exchange for whatever you please.”

I prayed to the gods that they couldn’t hear the skipped beat of my heart.

I remained silent, peering slowly between the two as I waited for a catch to follow their offer. Regardless of whether it came, I knew my answer already. I had dedicated what little life I had experienced to helping less fortunate women, to ensuring they had another path. That couldn’t stop now, now that I had been offered a higher duty.

Silence continued to consume the High Lord’s offer, my eyes narrowing with thought as one of my soldiers who was tending to dinner, Synthia, brought over three cups of boiling tea. I only just managed to mumble a thank you in return, my vision now strained on the tumbling streams of steam emitted from the cup.

“I’m afraid I must decline.” I finally answered.

The two looked at one another for a few seconds, until Feyre’s gaze fell on me. She simply took a sip from her tea, with much more grace and elegance than anyone on this camp had ever managed, before settling the cup down in front of her softly.

“It is entirely your choice, but may I ask that you listen to our reasoning and in return, we will listen to yours.”

I hesitated but nodded, slightly taken aback by her response. I doubted that the High Lady often heard anyone decline an offer that her and her mate had composed, yet she handled it with grace.

“I understand why you took all of this on, the camp, the role of commandress…” The High Lady’s eyes trailed to where my wings should have sat proud. “In our Illyrian camps, the girls now train, learn to fly-“ her eyes lit up at the words alone, “yet you know how these Illyrian men can be, stubborn -“ her mate flashed her a look, although almost appeared as if he agreed. “- stuck in their old ways. The general of our armies expressed his admiration for your skill on the battlefield, and it was my idea to seek you out and ask if you would be willing to help.”

I let the words settle before I spoke, sparks of nerves erupting in my gut. My heart was beating so wildly in my chest that I thought it may tear through the muscle. Yet they remained the epitome of calm and composed.

“My wings were carved from my body long after the practice was banned, before I had even bled.” The words rolled from my tongue with such hatred and disgust, yet they both knew it wasn’t intended for them. “Woman still arrive to this island with their back and bones in bits-“

“Then help us put a stop to it.” The Lords words were cold, firm.

“May I ask why you do not wish to help?” The High Lady followed.

I had began to chew on the insides of my cheeks, my lips twisting as I let the question stew in the air for a moment.

“How could I live with myself, if I left this land for a fancy court and a new role after leading dozens of women to their deaths.” My words were laced with a raw sense of guilt. The thought alone twisted my chest, a dreaded sickness settling in the pit of my stomach as the scene played out behind my eyes.

“Your army will be cared for, and if they wish they may join you on whichever camp you reside on. We will have our finest Illyrian warriors continue to train them in the meanwhile - until you are settled in.” Rhysand followed, a tiny spark of hope igniting inside of me.

Perhaps I could end this once and for all. Without the sick evil bastards shredding fae women of their wings, draining them of the power in which they possessed, then there wouldn’t be a need to keep them secluded. The battle which shredded throughout my mind was enough to make me become nauseous, ‘what ifs’ plaguing my rational train of thought.

“You have my word, your people will be cared for, safe, they will never worry about seeking out a warm bed or a cooked meal again. They will receive whatever education we can give, whatever expertise we can pass on and you will receive whatever your heart desires.” The High Lord continued.

I watched as Feyre’s expression perked at the end of his generosity.

“What is it your heart desires, Commandress?” She asked.

“Happiness.” I breathed.

[noirscript]

sanctum | chapter three

Pairing: Yandere Preacher x Reader Description: You came because your friend said it would help—just a quiet retreat, a place to clear your head. But from the moment you stepped through the gate, you felt it: the way Father Caelestis looked at you, not like a stranger, but like someone he'd been waiting for… someone he'd already claimed long before you ever arrived. Warning/s: Yandere | Religious themes | Cult-ish | Brainwashing | Manipulation Note/s: Enjoy reading! Chapters 4 to 7 are now available on my ko-fi (it's currently locked and only accessible to supporters ^^).

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Chapter Three | A Garden Without Serpents “There is no temptation in sanctified soil.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The gardens stretch endlessly in every direction, a labyrinth of perfect beauty that leaves you disoriented. You’ve been walking in circles for what feels like hours, each turn bringing you face-to-face with more pristine roses, more marble saints, more paths that lead nowhere. The air smells sickly sweet, heavy with the perfume of flowers and something else—something metallic that lingers at the edge of your senses.

You pass a statue of a saint whose faceless head tilts toward the heavens. The word sanctity is etched at its base in elegant script, but the longer you stare, the more the letters seem to blur, twisting into something unreadable. The chanting from the main hall is faint but insistent, its rhythm burrowing into your mind like a melody you can’t escape.

You’re not sure why you keep walking. There’s nowhere to go. Every time you approach the edge of the gardens, someone is there—a gentle but unmoving wall of white robes and serene smiles.

“The world beyond the garden is not yet ready for you, Mother,” Grace had said earlier, her voice as soothing as the petals of the roses she tended.

Her words replay in your mind now, grating like static. Not ready for you. The phrasing feels deliberate, like a feint to obscure the truth: that you’re the one not ready, that you’re unfit to leave.

“You seem troubled, beloved,” Father Caelestis’s voice cuts through your thoughts like silk on steel.

You startle slightly, turning to find him standing a few paces away, his hands clasped in front of him. He looks as he always does—serene, unruffled, as though he’s never known a moment of doubt in his life.

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, too quickly, and his faint smile tells you he doesn’t believe you.

He steps closer, his presence filling the space between you like an encroaching shadow. “The Vessel cannot carry doubt, beloved,” he says gently. “Tell me what weighs on your heart.”

You hesitate, your gaze flickering to the faceless saint beside you. Its blank features offer no refuge, no guidance, and you find yourself speaking before you can stop.

“My friends,” you say, the words spilling out in a rush. “They warned me about this place. They said it wasn’t… that it wasn’t safe.”

Father Caelestis’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture shifts, subtle but unmistakable—a sharpening of his focus, like a predator catching the scent of prey.

“The voices of the outside world are tainted,” he says, each word heavy with sorrow. “They planted poison in your soul, beloved, because they feared your light. They saw in you what they lacked in themselves, and they couldn’t bear it.”

“That’s not true,” you protest, though the conviction in your voice falters under the weight of his gaze.

“Isn’t it?” he asks softly, his tone tinged with pity. He takes another step closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Tell me, what did they offer you, these so-called friends? Love? Freedom? Truth? All lies, beloved. All traps designed to keep you chained to their broken world.”

His words wrap around you like a vise, tightening with every syllable. You take a step back, but he mirrors you, closing the distance with a grace that feels almost predatory.

“They hurt you,” he says, his hand hovering just above your shoulder. He doesn’t touch you—he never does—but the proximity makes your skin crawl. “I can see it in your eyes, in the way you carry yourself. The world broke you, but you don’t have to carry those wounds any longer. Let me take them from you.”

“You’re twisting everything,” you manage to say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. “I’m not broken.”

His smile deepens, but there’s a sadness in it now, an almost unbearable tenderness. “The truly broken never know they are broken,” he murmurs. “But that’s all right. That’s why you’re here. To be made whole again, slowly, lovingly. Trust me, beloved.”

You want to scream, to push him away, but your body feels frozen, heavy with the weight of his presence.

“I need to be alone,” you say finally, the words barely a whisper.

For a moment, he studies you in silence, his gaze unreadable. Then he nods, stepping back with a grace that feels like a calculated release. “Of course,” he says. “But remember, beloved: isolation breeds doubt. Doubt breeds darkness. And darkness…” He trails off, letting the implication hang in the air like a blade.

You turn and walk away, your steps unsteady, the sound of your retreat swallowed by the endless garden.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

Later that day, as you wander aimlessly through the winding paths, a young woman approaches you. She’s small, barely out of her teens, with nervous energy radiating off her like heat. Her hands are clasped tightly in front of her, and her head is bowed low.

“Mother,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “May I speak with you?”

You nod slowly, unsure whether to be wary or relieved. She glances over her shoulder, her movements quick and furtive, before stepping closer.

“They’re watching,” she murmurs, her voice trembling.

“Who?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

She doesn’t respond. Instead, she presses a small piece of paper into your hand, her fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment. Her touch is cold, trembling, but there’s something electric in it—an urgency that sets your heart pounding.

“Please,” she whispers, her eyes darting around the garden. “Don’t let them see.”

Before you can respond, she’s gone, disappearing into the maze of roses like a ghost.

Your hands shake as you unfold the note. The words are scrawled hastily, almost illegible, but their meaning is clear:

“You’re not crazy. Get out.”

The paper feels heavier than it should, like it’s carrying the weight of all the fear and desperation she couldn’t say aloud. You clutch it tightly, the words burning into your mind like a brand.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You spend the rest of the day searching for her. You retrace your steps, scanning every face, every corner, every shadow for any sign of her. But no matter how many paths you walk, how many people you ask, she’s nowhere to be found.

Grace is the first person you approach, though you already know her response before you ask.

“I’m looking for someone,” you say, your voice strained. “A young woman. She spoke to me earlier.”

Grace tilts her head, her expression a perfect mask of gentle confusion. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she says. “I don’t know who you mean.”

“She was here,” you insist, your desperation creeping into your voice. “I spoke to her.”

Grace’s smile doesn’t falter. “There’s no one like that here,” she says softly. “Perhaps you were mistaken.”

You clench your fists at your sides, the note crumpled in your palm. “I wasn’t mistaken.”

She bows her head slightly. “If Father Caelestis wisher you to know, he will tell you,” she says, her voice calm but final.

You turn away before she can say anything else, your frustration boiling over into anger as you storm through the garden.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

That night, when you return to your room, something feels… off.

The furniture is the same, the linens still white and pristine, but the air feels heavier, colder. It takes you a moment to realize why.

The locks.

They’re on the outside now.

You stare at the door, your pulse pounding in your ears. Your hand drifts to the crumpled note still tucked in your pocket, the words a mantra in your mind: “You’re not crazy. Get out.”

But as the chanting outside your window begins again, rising in volume like an encroaching tide, the walls seem to close in around you. And for the first time, you wonder if escape is even possible.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

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[therealslimshakespeare]

|| Nuremberg

Rosie x Ida Saga, part 2

Previous: Wedding Night

18+ Warnings: very mild sexual undertones throughout between a married couple, the usual thematic warnings for the series apply in retrospect, angst, mentions of miscarriage, mentions of medical experiments and infertility, distressing scenes of post-war Germany and attitudes towards Germany citizenry.

Circa: late 1945

Summary: months into marriage and back on the continent, Ida finds the secret of her lost daughter overshadowing her marriage (or, the chapter where she finally tells Rosie about it, yayyy)

Edited and researched by my haggard self, lemme know what I may have missed 🥰

Nuremberg in the fall, and then early winter, and then closer yet to holidays once so eagerly anticipated, proves an odd place.

Ida feels herself in a strange, head down, mouth thin, orders to be exacted sort of domesticity. Everything feels exact and measured and more than a little dreadful. She learns the streets, she finds the city market place, she finds the city market place is empty of provisions, she finds the army commissary instead, she answers the boys questions there about a woman behind the yolk, she sets up house, she learns Robert’s hours and that they begin immediately, she relearns her typist skills, she works at her law books, she tries to eat the food she has purchased, she tries to appreciate Nuremberg in the fall.

She fails. It is too grim; but she tries. And she fails; none of it is Robert’s fault.

He seems utterly content, if perhaps not happy. Neither had anticipated unaudited happiness here and it is no great discovery to find themselves slightly out of balance meshed together like this, he seems cheerful and content and Ida forces herself not to mind the watchful carefulness of his wise eyes. The busyness is a boon, they both know that and accept it without complaint, he gets thrown deep into his role of assistant council a paltry forty eight hours after hopping of the plane and Ida is aware that he knows how much she needs this independent reconnaissance of their new life on her own.

They had strolled together through the streets the first day, hand in hand, gloves without holes and coats smartly cut in the newest style, there was a hollow echo of horror to walking past the signs she had only seen through train slats. She had gripped his hand so tightly she felt foolish for how difficult she found it to convince herself she was safe, if she wished to go down one street and not another she might. German surroundings and German voices and German intentions held no power over her any longer

Nuremberg had been, to put it bluntly, bombed to ash. One direct hit to the judicial building had decimated that palace of evil legislature in one single strike, a strike that was so utterly final and untempered it made Ida think of Maureen’s pickle- barrel-exactitude right on the damn dome. She could almost hear the bombardier gloat over the radio in her ear: “yup that’s a hit, gone to shit”. The grand building was now a caved in mass of rubble and the trials were being held elsewhere in adjacent and better preserved buildings.

It was something to tell Kendeigh on the phone that night, when asked how it was to be settling in.

“Love what we’ve done to the place.” Ida had snarked and she felt sick from it. There were orphans and poor and hopeless faces everywhere, around every bend and milling around the barren marketplace, and the terror of that cruelty and her part in reducing them to such straights wreaked havoc with Ida’s soul, rage at the monstrous prisoners brought out each day for trial warring with the guilt of the maimed citizenry she had to step over to get to her newly appointed lodgings.

No amount of reading about conquering Caesars had prepared her for the sickening, omnipotent feeling that being a victor in a vanquished place made in one’s belly.

Robert had taken to popping toast into her mouth himself in the mornings, strong hand on her chin closing the hinge of her jaw. Playful, yet not to be defied, “Eat.” he told her in that voice and she liked it, she would shut her mouth and chew and swallow and her toes would curl and his hand would leave and so would he.

Then he would come home and hang up his hat and she would take his coat and he would kiss her and she liked that, too. It was easier to eat dinner, she wasn’t sure why.

She told Maureen that. Maureen agreed, she wasn’t sure why; said that Jack was the same but Tilly was feeding him anyway.

“Why do we all need someone to feed us?” Ida had huffed over the line in embarrassed confusion, it was easier talking of this with Kendeigh than Rosie, each thing Ida admitted to, Maureen was right away saying she too must irrationally psych herself up to use a public toilet and use a stall and disrobe half in public and assure oneself that no one was going to burst in and catch them at it. Rosie knew all that, he knew it and he understood it and yet it was still utterly shaming; and worse yet, he didn’t seem a bit sorry for what they had done with the place.

“You ever wonder what your count is?” she could ask Maureen, and Maureen could reply that she did, all the time, and Ida could tell her the list of dead here in Nuremberg, the wives and the mothers and the brothers and the pastors and the sons and the ones who only were in the wrong place with the wrong leader at the wrong time. The ones she learned about going about in her tweed suits and scarf down to the empty marketplace only to find civilians kicking and beating a pilot into the earth, screams and demands of “where were you when they dropped their bombs?” hurled at the poor boy who’d done his best but America had done a bit better, a bit bigger, always a winner.

It reminded her so gravely of Fritz she had unthinkingly kneeled next to him and tried to triage the damage to his bleeding head. He’d staggered away from her, fast as if she was death come calling itself with his eyes pinned to something behind her. When she rose she saw the American MPs standing behind her, unmoving and unseeing.

She hated that barren marketplace; she kept going back anyway.

“You’ve got to eat.” -In the mornings their home felt foreign, it felt wrong, it felt like they were doing what they were doing: living as a unconsumated couple in a displaced German family’s home in a country they had reduced to ash.

“I’ve missed you.” -By the evenings she had been home all day at study, the sun had set and the gray skies had dimmed to dark and the smell of cooking food was domesticating the place and the lamplight made a returning Robert in his felt hat and dark overcoat look gentle and kind and warm.

She would bury her face in his scarf and feel his cold mustache against his forehead and ask how his day went as if he wasn’t trying monsters for war crimes.

“You can come, if you want. I’ve got you a pass. Secretary, it’s not a pity post.” he told her after a few weeks, “I’d like you to, when you want.”

She had been genuinely too busy with setting up the house, then she had been too busy with her studying, then she had run out of reasons and gone. They went to work together, carefully not entangled, carefully a full half yard apart, carefully parting without a backwards glance and taking to their positions in the court with impressive dispassion until the proceedings were over.

Coming home together, subdued and distant until past their front step- Ida suspected there could be some mischievous enjoyment of this entire professional ruse by two married people if they were different than they are. If they were free and easy and she was a good wife and if they were in some habit of tripping over the threshold and yanking at each others coats and then shirts and the belts and on and on like those who marry do, married folks who find some game in playing they aren’t for half a day only to come together in a heated rush of desire deferred.

They do not. She and Robert cross their threshold and they undo their own coats now and Robert still kisses her, that ritual remains but these times both their faces are cold and there is no happy delight to the reuniting. Ida hates the cold, and the home now feels as foreign at night as it did in the mornings. Ida feels wretchedly ungrateful for this haven he has afforded her with this life. She wants more from it and somehow she feels she must discard herself first if she is ever to get it. It’s a very lost sort of feeling and she loathes it, and she’s sure her face shows it when he kisses her. He still does it, and she thinks he’s the bravest man she has ever met. Patient as a father, fearless as a leader, warm as the fast waning sun.

She asks Maureen if she knows that way of feeling, the feeling of being utterly hollowed out inside. For once her lieutenant disagrees, but that is quickly amended to an admittance that she is too busy worrying for the way Gale seems the same as Ida, gone in his mind too often, too restless and miserable and thin. He won’t eat- Maureen tells her in anguish, sometimes he just won’t eat. Ida suspects that she would hear the same story of Cleven from Bucky were she to talk with him- but he doesn’t call, and she doesn’t know where to call him.

Robert begins to look at her sternly over dinner, and after a few weeks he outright commands her to eat; gentle as at breakfast but not to be disobeyed. It all sticks in her throat and she goes to bed with a belly ache.

“What is it?” he asks her that night as they lay side by side and when she takes a series of breaths that are entirely calculated to prevent a sob he takes pity, and specifies kindly, “What is it tonight?”

As soon as he asks it she realizes there is something specially sad about today, every day seems to have its own sorrow but today has something she can form a sentence for. “All the holidays,” she gets out, “going to miss them all again.” she means with her family, because they never were holidays in the stalag, she went along with that ruse too but they weren’t holidays, “My Birthday, too.”

Why had she thought to spend them all in Germany again, first year she had some freedom of choice about it all.

“You’re lonely, aren’t you?” he hums, utterly sympathetic.

Perhaps she is, it hadn’t even occurred to her. The other officers’ wives are kind and lovely and eager to talk of their husbands, their households and what they did with themselves during the war, they talk of trying for babies and they talk about fashion and they don’t mention the children on the streets and the lack of food at the market and they don’t know what to make of flying a bomber into war as a woman.

No, Ida has to gently disagree with each new friend in waiting, not a WASP, she was in the actual airforce, bombers, a pilot, yes the 100th. That 100th. Yes, she was Ida Brady, thanks for your concern, she’s fine. No, the papers got all that about as right as they get everything else. No, her girls were golden, yes, her girls are fine, the ones left, thanks for the concern. Yes, that happened, but then again, male veterans blow their brains out after coming home, too. Statically there’s nothing special about one female sergeant in thousands of male ones. Tragic of course, but one has to get on with it. Yes, lovely to meet you, maybe she’ll pop in for quilting next Tuesday.

“I guess.” Ida realizes and Robert humms again and Ida wants to bury herself into his chest, make him understand she only ever really wants him these days, she just wants him in a way that makes her need to not be herself any more. It’s really all so glum. She was thinking the holidays would be better than this.

“We could go home.” he dares to wrap an arm around her in their bed and she folds for it, lets herself be tucked into him, legs intertwining, his heartbeat a thud under her ear, Ida not even bracing for more- a month and a half side by side in this bed and he’s not taken an inch more than the first night, his chest is warm and his voice deep under her cheek. It’s the homiest thing here. “We could go home for them, just a bit, do us both good. They’re offering passes for some on the bench.”

The big shots can afford to go home because their deputies and assistant councils will keep up the slack in their absence; Robert is just such an assistant council and the opportunity to rise to the occasion in such a manner is crucial for his reputation, his future recommendations, his own morale. This assignment means everything to him and Ida is not about to jeopardize all his hard work and commitment by skipping off to be glum, frigid and not herself in New York when she can be all that right here in Nuremberg.

“I don’t want that.” she says it with conviction.

“Ida, we co-“

“No, Robert, we couldn’t and we shouldn’t and I don’t want it.” she tries not to sound too harsh, she thinks it comes out gentled by the press of his chest against her lips, “I just- I am trying to get settled.” that hangs over them and their bed for a few false moments before she corrects, “I am in a funk, and I want to get out of it. And we need to stay.”

“Ok.” he murmurs and he sounds so fine with the idea of being stuck in Nuremberg with the gray rubble and the grim business of trying monsters and the starving populace and the wretched cold and his shell of a wife.

“I only hate the cold.” she realizes that folded together like this is the only time it’s gone, now that she leaves the house and goes to work with him most days.

Robert just squeezes her tighter and it’s very brave of him. Her heart stops then picks back up, double time for the omission. She splays her hand out on his chest, right where burning hot skin smears into flannel.

“Then we’ll stay.” he agrees.

Staying is necessary for it. For all of it. For the both of them making it.

She thinks for half an hour about rolling on her side of the bed and falling asleep in the usual routine. She doesn’t manage to before she feels the rhythmic breaths beneath her cheek that signal sleep has claimed him. She stays frozen there, clammy tears wetting the lapel of his pajamas beneath her cheek, wishing to God she could be herself again. Something reminds her that if she were herself, she would have held him closer and kissed him harder and swore she loved him and didn’t regret this and that all she needed was to share herself with him and she’d be alright.

She remembered not thinking she was herself as she pushed out a child, but then Bucky Egan held her, told her there was nothing more like herself than to survive this. And then she did. She doesn't know where Bucky is these days, she’s lost track of all of it.

They stay for her birthday and Robert makes a stupendous effort to make it sweet and he manages it - it is sweet - and small and cozy and festooned, and Ida chokes down the horrible beat of her heart at the memory of Bucky’s makeshift streamers in the stalag and Jack’s embroidered gift of wings patched onto her shirt. It’s a peacetime birthday and there’s only four blocks of town not razed to rubble for them to paint red but they do, and it’s not so cold with a full bottle of Schnaps in one’s belly and a gaggle of very new friends laughing and joking and complimenting for all the world like life is ever so worth going on for.

She’s in her pajamas, freshly bathed and recently danced with when the American side of the pond wakes up and calls to send her their good wishes. The line breaks down once, while she’s speaking to Jack, and on accomplishing the arduous redialing and waiting for the ringing of a transcontinental number, Bucky’s voice answers at the newly minted Brady residence. It’s a mild shock and she can tell it is on his end too, but he plays it off well and she can hear the impatient scuffle when Jack grabs the receiver back.

It was odd and bothersome but Jack treated it as perfectly normal. When she calls three days later Jack mentions the backyard project they’re working on together, and when she dares to ask what Bucky does these days her brother seems shocked she didn’t hear he’s taken up at an army flight school in New York, an easy twenty minute commute. The inference his home is Jack’s home goes unsaid.

Ida doesn’t know what to say to that, because she should have known: Bucky was never not where he was needed.

And apparently he had decided Jack needs him more than Gale. That alone makes her stomach turn again, it’s such a worrying choice. She hasn’t heard from Cleven, rarely from Lu and while she talks to Jack as thanksgiving whirls by and Christmas approaches, it is always about all his plans for “Tilly and Bucky and I.”

Ida supposes she hasn’t got much room to chide, to judge, to eye any domestic arrangements with suspicion. She doesn’t know what’s going on all the way over there with all her mother’s sons who once were hers, not now when they’re someone else’s and what she’s managing over here is a pathetic attempt at living.

“John Egan is living with Jack.” she tells Robert that night, tucked into his chest, because otherwise he’ll know she’s thinking a hole through her skull and ask her on his own. “One presumes on the couch. But he’s there, job and all.”

“Hmm.” her husband sounds approving, yet Ida feels very like when she used to run off over eager girls who wanted to paw at her brother fresh off a juniorhigh bandstand. “I think you should try going to mass.” he says instead of commiserating and Ida thinks he has a point.

She goes next available Friday and it is, like most other things in this city, a humiliating exercise of talking to locals to find which bombed out cathedral is still in use. They are civil enough, it is she who is off-sorts and finds the eye contact galling, the directions past rubble much like the next block grating to hear. The padre at St. Sebastian’s greets her in perfect German and she replies in her own sparsed dialect, when he asks her name she gives him “Brady” without thinking it through and he barks out a laugh.

“O’Malley.” he admits, and what were the odds of an Irish priest serving in Nuremberg? Two and a half years since her last confession and it feels good and right to sit in the drafty stall and list off to O’Malley every evil thing that keeps her up at night. The absolution for the murder of hundreds due to it being her paying job sits less so, as ineffectual as Robert’s insistence they did what needed doing. She tells him about telling secrets that weren’t her own, of trying to coerce a man she owed so much to, she tells him she betrayed Cleven and he asks if she asked forgiveness of the man and she says she did and he tasks her lightly as penance. She wishes he would flog her, beat her, order Robert to do it, to take some penance from her flesh for her or him both. The padre must see something of this wretchedness in her face, he offers her work in the food line on Saturdays. Her days are too full as is, but she agrees.

“I’ll be there.” she swears, and means to be since they are staying.

They stay and Robert shoulders a supreme amount of the work at the trials during the holiday season and in their domestic moments they laughingly agree it’s for the best that they have to spend their first religiously diverse holidays together and alone, without relatives and the predictable stumbles of navigating a fractured season like that. A New York Jew married an Irish Catholic- sounds like a joke, Rosie would often say.

There’s sweet little traditions to be shared, cultural superstitions to be adopted and theological differences to be accepted. Ida warms to it and something that feels like the courtship days blooms again, an eagerness to know him, to build themselves together as a unit.

She goes to mass and she sees relief on his face when she does, even for the Saturday afternoons which she spends in the food line, time she can hardly spare from work and study and her attendance to him, but he seems gladdened by it. She meets one of their neighbors there, a doctor and his three young children who share their front stoop. His wife is near bedridden, he tells her. Ida only learns this when she’s returning home and the familiar faces are along the sidewalk beside her, going up the adjacent steps and she realizes they have been neighbors all this time. His wife is half invalid and his children go to the makeshift school that the padre has set up to help the children catch up on the grades the war has robbed them of.

Ida gives them her hand to shake then, no ladle or plate to give her excuse otherwise, and she tells them “Ida Rosenthal” and he tells her “Captain Bauer, and this is Greta and Ingrid and this one is Joachim.” Ida thinks she should take the wife some prepared food sometime, then wants to laugh at the absurdity of herself adopting this sort of life. She tells Robert in hopes of making him laugh, he doesn’t, he just smiles and asks why the woman is bedridden.

“She’s pregnant.” Ida answers, and her nightmares that night have her nearly falling from the bed in her thrashing.

Still, Robert smiles often these days, and still makes her eat. He apparently finds that it’s easier when she’s tipsy, and she’s not so far gone to see the cautious worry in his eyes when she is that free and easy only from its influence. He himself is a delightful man with a few shots in him, gregarious and silly and sometimes rather tight in his embrace and sometimes Ida has such hopes he’ll dare something he wouldn’t otherwise.

Yet Robert Rosenthal is the same when drunk or otherwise, he takes not an inch more than first allowed, only grasps it firmer and relents later -Ida loves him for it and her hope dies all the same.

Every morning she still wakes and finds them tangled together as is the new habit and he will stir and kiss her forehead and squeeze her shoulder and carefully pull his body away before she can feel anything remotely like desire, want, maleness. He gets up then and he often showers and Ida lays there and wonders. He will leave the shower, wet hair in ringlets and face flushed and looking just sleepy enough he needs that coffee he will inevitably make for the two of them and serve her in bed before she’s fully dragged her feet out of the covers.

Shortly after Hannukah ends -the precious eight days strike early this year with the last candle lit on the seventh of December- there is a morning unlike the others. Robert doesn’t kiss her, he doesn’t move away, and for a brief moment panicked excitement thrills through her as she concentrates on feeling, trying to feel any part of him beside her, until she hears a panting breath escape him.

She knows pain, she knows the sounds of it being ground out of a person, the sounds of it suppressed just enough not to wake another. She bolts upright before she can even recall that there’s no guards, no guns, no immediate reason for such a calamity. Yet she was right in instinct, Robert has his head turned into the pillow a terrible grimace on the side of his face that she can see.

“What is it?” she whispers in what she’s ashamed to recognize sounds a little closer to rage than panic.

He grits his teeth and his pretty pink lip snarls up along his teeth before he can form the words. “S’my neck. Head. Whole thing. Happens sometimes.”

She recalls the way he waved off an anecdote back at Thorpe Abbotts about breaking his neck in one of his crashes. Back in the saddle six weeks later, that was the focus of the story. Back in the saddle! Indomitable Rosie! The new boys had loved telling Colonel Brady about that one. Ida had wanted to ask if it still hurt, in the same way her pelvis ached for no reason at all.

She hadn’t then, it wasn’t hers to know.

She knew now. It happened sometimes. And it was awful, it would seem.

“From breaking it?” She asks now, clipped and very like an officer and it relieves her immensely to hear that voice come out of her mouth after months of disuse.

Rosie manages a hissed, “Yeah.”

“What helps?”

The stubborn man just winces his eyes shut and tries to shake his head only to cry out. “Nothin’.”

Ida makes a noise that is the anger incarnate given voice.

“It’ll pass.” he tries to molify even as he whines in agony.

“What makes it pass?” she demands, raking back the wildness of her morning hair and staring down at him with the oddest feeling in her gut, anger at his stubbornness, terror at his pain and a very new feeling of surety that she can fix this. No one can stop her, she can fix this.

Robert remains in agony and unhelpful. “I just lay here, Ida.” and his tone holds a request to be left alone, to be left to, in fact, lay there.

Ida glances at the clock and realizes work will not be happening with him laying here. Neither will relief in any timely manner. “Well that’s unsatisfactory.” she decides and carefully gets out of bed so she does not jostle him more than necessary.

Robert only answers the hasty noises of her toilet with moans and she bites her lip and resolves not to find them aggravating: she does so hate the sound of a man moaning, and she’s never had occasion to hear Robert at it. His seem very like all the others and her skin crawls from the sounds of it. Pain or pleasure, it matters nothing to her roiling stomach but she shoves it down and comes back out and places her hand on his crinkled cheek.

“I’m going to get you a hot pack. Then I’m going to tell the judge you’re calling off, then I’m getting a damn doctor with a muscle relaxant. Hold tight.”

She phones the office and finds that without her scalding supervision the secretaries are unhelpful. So after heating an actual warm water bottle and straddling it along his neck and kissing his forehead, she throws on her coat and takes to the streets to visit the court buildings personally and threaten them all into usefulness in his absence. Having accomplished this she sets out to track down the listed three army doctors she was informed might actually be continental despite the holidays. She finds two have indeed gone back to America, the third is continental but vacationing in Austria and a fourth she ferreted out herself refused to leave the army base for love of life or balls. Determined to make local inquiries after first rechecking on her felled husband, she encountered Captain Bauer on the steps again, a perceptive look in his eye at the sight of her crisp urgency.

“All well?” he asks her in his typical, immaculate English.

“My husband is ill.” she gives him that cursory civility.

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you.” while she digs for the key she ponders about asking him for a local recommendation but his rank sticks in her throat, a captain of the late forces, it’s irksome at best.

“Have you located a physician?” he asks her instead and Ida snaps her head up, giving him a sharp look. “Holidays- it is hard.” he amends, placating, it strikes her as a leading question.

“It is.” she agrees, stalled on her front stoop.

“I know.” he ventures, “I am one.”

She’s quite sure she snarls. It’s a freedom of expression that she has not learned to regovern. There’s something satisfying with the way it makes the man’s eyes drop instantly. “Are you.” she goads, suddenly back under the knife at Sagan, German ethics and German medicine and German practicality robbing her of everything. Worse still, it feels like a betrayal to Jack to even speak with one. This doctor looks poorly chastened. Ida hates him for it but it’s the most she’s felt in awhile and it’s pleasant in its way. So is the crestfallen meekness she’s just elicited from him.

“Ja.” he answers her, nods down at the pavement, a shuffle in place of his once strong stance, the German word is not lost on her, all presence of friendliness somehow dissipated by her single expression.

“Are you offering your services?” she wonders herself if she’s asking only to throw it back in his face. She’s never been so unsure of her motive before.

“I would like-“ he casts about for a word and raises his eyes when he does not find it in the paving stones, “-to be of help. Neighbors and all. It is the holidays.” the way he adds the last part is so simple and plaintive she thinks if this man had been able to vocalize such a sentiment before, there’d have been no war at all. Her blood rushes and she feels close to fury.

She chooses to bite. “My husband is a Jew.” she has never had reason to say that before, it is always Rosie making the jokes and she has never cared. Not until now. “Will that be of any matter, captain?” she asks, daring him.

The shake of his head is violent, instant, closer to a shudder. “Nei- no. No. Not- no.”

Ida finds the fury leaching away. “Mm.” She looks him up and down and he is younger than he seems, only maybe in his mid thirties but worn down and graying, and he carries himself like a man recalling his defeat only recently: somehow it is more palatable than the crushed figures at the marketplace. “It’s an injury, his neck from a crash. I think a relaxant might be in order.” she watches him nod, meek and unassuming and it’s a wrong look for that strong Aryan jaw but it’s smart of him. “Have you any supplies?”

“I- yes, I do.” he insists. “The padre he- I help. He sends me patients.”

Ida turns her key, the door cracks open and she thinks worryingly of how long she’s left her husband. “Then bring them, please.” she steps over her threshold, “The supplies, not the patients. Ring the bell.”

She enters her house, her home -such as it is- and shuts the door on the noise of the street before she can reconsider her choice and her neighbor. Her hands shake and it is cruel to be so helpless against this tide of rage that never ebbs fully and comes rushing back at the least provocation. She hangs up her coat, scrubs away gathering tears and sets a kettle to boil before taking off her heels to make her way quietly into the bedroom. It’s a fruitless courtesy, Robert is not asleep when she enters. He doesn’t acknowledge her return. He doesn’t seem capable of moving at all, if anything his grimace is stronger, his face tucked more rigidly into the pillow, making a white knuckle fist of the covers. All of him is as still and rigid as a statue, except for the ragged expansion of his chest with each quick breath.

“Oh darling.” Ida mutters, tossing her purse aside and kneeling beside the bed, she presses her palm to his lips, trapping in his breath just a little, like Bucky used to when Jack would hyperventilate and no paper bag was available. His eyes clear at her touch, laser focused and pupils a pinpoint dot in his anguish. “I’ve gotten a doctor. And I’ve called off work. For you and I. All will be well. All will be well.” she says it once more for herself, and he must know, his hand forgoes its grip on the sheets and folds itself around her wrist, pale digits that are clammy and unlike him except for those calluses on their work-worn pads that she has grown to know better than her own nose.

Her batting eyelid cannot catch it before it falls, one stupid tear betraying her but Robert doesn’t even blink, his hand only tightens and Ida lays her face beside his and presses her hand tighter to mouth and his chest slows its frantic gasping just enough that she feels important. They stay like that for eons, the most unified she’s felt with him in weeks, until the doorbell sounds, distant and hollow in the foyer.

“It’ll be the doctor.” she whispers and he gives an assuring wink of his crystal blue eye that fortifies Ida enough to stand up and slip her heels back on and open the front door with the confidence of a woman who is not living in someone else’s home in some enemy’s city.

Ida is not sure if she is pleased or chagrined Doctor Bauer has regained his confidence when he steps over the threshold- it bodes well for the surety of his treatment, yet is all too reminiscent of Wehrmacht efficiency.

“Through here.” and she does not wait to watch him wipe his feet.

It is a rule amongst most stubborn folk that upon being visited by those with the power to help, they will summon as much composure to appear less helpless than moments before. Rosie, by such a rule, has regained some semblance of calm in his breathing, his eyes barely squinted and his position slightly pulled out from the pillows she left him buried in by the time the doctor came up to his bedside. She watched the men exchange their pleasantries. The doctor inquires and Rosie replies, a solution is suggested. Rosie inquires of the man’s family as the doctor draws up the remedy, they are, bizarrely, perfectly amenable to each other. The doctor uncaps the needle, flicks at the glass syringe and Ida, gripping the headboard until splinters dig beneath her nails, watches memories of Jack’s arms and legs and belly flash before her, mottled and pitted from that damn syringe—

Bauer plunges it in. At the neck. Ida holds her breath but Rosie’s mild inquiries about the ages of his erstwhile enemies’ children only hiccup slightly from the small stab, then resume again. Bauer’s children are nine and seven and six— and, after some hesitation, there is mention of one on the way. Oddly his tone was kinder in addressing Rosie than it is when he mentions this latest blessing. Ida could have told Rosie of these children, she has seen them and the Captain at the soup lines.

“Would you like coffee?” Ida asks him as he clasps his small briefcase with its horrid little tools shut and out of sight.

“You have coffee?” he sounds entirely stunned.

Another damned luxury she did not know she was fortunate for in this wasteland. Rosie has turned to lie on his back, his face softening as the spasm retreats, not in death but in comfort. Her heart thuds back to life. The doctor has done no harm.

“We do.” she murmurs, and leaves the men speaking of parachute ejections to go into the kitchen and brew a cup and hyperventilate some strange relief into her search for the sugar packets.

Doctor Bauer, over a cherished and slowly sipped brew, recommends rest from desk work for three days, warm baths nightly and to summon him at the least hint of a return in the drawing up of the muscles. “My daughter has fallen ill,” he continues, “if I fear contagion, I will leave you the vial on your doorstep, so as not to bring you a cough to go with your Christmas pudding. You do celebrate Christmas, ja?” he asks after seeming to recall her admonition in regards to Robert’s faith.

Robert’s smile is serene and fully crinkly with his newly mobile face, “yes we do, doc.” he agrees. “You?”

Of course the Bauers do. They are German. Although, as Ida walks him to the door, she realizes with gut wrenching certainty that the Bauer’s haven’t any components nearly rich enough to make a pudding to celebrate, perhaps not even food to keep his children from sickness. They are her neighbors— she should have called months ago.

Even so she does not recall saying thank you, when she shuts the door on him, gently and with a wave, to her credit, but her throat is closed up again and it is an awfully nostalgic misery. She will thank him with something more tangible tomorrow, food and a visit to his wife who she ought to know intimately by now and yet, has barely exchanged a word with.

Robert is still on his back, sweat drying tacky on his pale face but a droopy eyed relief covering his features that is unmistakable and comforting. He sees her come back into the room and his hand outstretches to her. She bypasses it with only a graze of her fingertips before tumbling into bed beside him, exhausted beyond reason. Ever adaptable, Rosie offers his other hand, and she clasps it and puts it under her cheek and he hums to her gently as she closes her eyes against the press of the damp sheets.

“I should drag you into the bath.” she mutters after what has likely been an hour of dozing on and off.

Robert’s answering hum is too saucy for belief. “When you put it like that…”

“Doctors orders.” Ida gripes back, cheek still smushed against his knuckles; the room has gone dim, night has arrived.

“Yeah.” her husband concedes, “Seems like a nice guy.”

“He’s a captain. Was a captain.”

“Yeah, he said.”

“He did? To you?”

“Yeah- while you were standing here. Didn’t you hear?”

“I didn’t - I was not invested in the conversation.” She mutters, “You looked in a terrible way, Robert.”

“I know.” he uses his other hand to pet her weary head and Ida wonders how it is that she is ever restless when he is so wonderfully disposed to doting. “Sorry, lovebug.”

“Don’t be sorry.” she insists and forces herself out of her nest of sheets and soothing hands, “Bath, doctors orders. Come on.”

She runs the bath to make it warm for him, rolls up a towel for his neck. She even helps him in to it with a stabilizing arm, the revelation of seeing her husband nude for the first time being a transient and oddly mild shock, replaced easily by the need to steady him down into the water and to switch off the glaring electric light to spare his bloodshot eyes.

“Stay?” he asks, so plaintive she knows he somehow feels guilty for asking, and that is likely his bare body and fragile health talking and she is made of stronger stuff than this shadow of herself and so she kneels down beside the tub, reaches in up to her elbow in suds to find his hand and holds it.

“Of course.” she whispers back, thumbing at the beloved knuckles.

His head lolls on his towel and that handsome face with its pristine mustache and starling eyes gaze at her ardent. “Your shirt is getting soaked.” and he’s right.

A normal wife would have joined him in the bath, a normal wife would have stripped down too and thought nothing of it, a normal wife would not find her mouth dry and her thoughts ablaze at the fresh sight of her ailing husband’s glistening shoulders. “Tell me about football.” she begs, and he does.

Robert sleeps fitfully and the next day his vertigo remains so extreme he might as well be in pain- he is incapacitated. An expected result of the spasms and its treatment but it makes for rough going and finally Ida props him in bed with a breakfast board firmly in place and his case papers and glasses laid on before him. “I’m in bed, it’s not desk work.” he argues, insisting he is not violating any doctor’s order by toiling so and, knowing when a cause has been lost, Ida leaves him to it and busies herself in their kitchen with good intentions that kept her up most of the night.

A basket, to begin, for the Bauer’s. If the child is sick the mother won’t be at mass, or likely at the soup line. So Ida does what she should have done months ago, and exits her own home, clops down her three front steps, rounds the small iron railing dividing the stoops and ascends her neighbors’ three steps. She knocks. She waits. She steels her nerve and knocks again. Robert is alive and well and it is due to this man’s kindness. She has coffee and flour and citrus fruits and it is nearly Christmas. She raps her knuckles again and the door opens before her hand has dropped to her side.

Anya Bauer is a pleasant looking woman, like her husband her age is a copy case of fatigue etching away at vitality, but after her initial showing of shock, she is polite enough to assume a mask of mild surprise at Ida’s appearance on her stoop.

“Mrs Rosenthal, a pleasure.” her English has always seemed exceptional, Ida had noticed that before. “Come in?” her hospitality does not shrink in the face of an invader.

“I come bearing gifts.” Ida uplifts her loaded basket, not missing the somewhat glassy eyed inventory Frau Bauer seems to be making of its fresh and plentiful contents, “A thank you for your husband’s service to mine, yesterday, and well wishes for your daughter's recovery.” Cowardice waivers briefly and Ida steels herself with the thought of what Robert would think of her shirking the small act of righteous contrition, “And an apology, for letting so many months go without making myself known.”

“You need not be sorry, you are busy.” the door remains open, against all rational expectations, and Ida realizes she would commit a grave injury but remaining without on the stoop, and so, with what she is sure is an ill-fitting smile, she ducks her head and enters the Bauer home.

Like most things put off out of fear, it ends up being the thing Ida might have needed all along. She doesn’t want to tell her so but- Frau Bauer isn’t like the other ladies at the market, at mass, or at the officer’s club and it suits Ida just fine. Perhaps she is though, perhaps all these haggard and sad eyed women are like her yet Ida won’t know because Ida doesn’t live next to them, doesn’t come over and provide ingredients and insist on shared suppers as often as possible in the following weeks so that it’s not just herself and Rosie Rosenthal sitting at their lonely table after a days work, quizzical yet separated by too much.

By the time of ramshackle warmth and reverence that the prescribed series of epiphany masses produce, Ida has Robert on one arm and a Bauer child in the other when entering the bombed out, hollow gloried, frigid Nuremberg cathedral.

“We should spend Christmas with them.” Robert suggests, eyeing a new batch of chocolates and oranges that Tilly Brady has sent them in holiday greeting. Ida sent back the ever so plentiful wooden toys and trinkets that line the streets here- if German children could eat wooden figurines they’d be fattened and sated. “At least, I think we should ask.” Robert adds, and when Ida muses on wether that would truly be welcome or merely accepted out of obligation for the food, he shocks her by informing her that he’s not only kept up with the Captain since, but is quite sure they’d be welcome from his hinted invitation. “I think we’ve got the wires crossed, they think we’d assume we’re wanted for the food, and they know we’re in need of…” he trails off and Ida is desperately, painfully curious what Robert considers them in need of- company, might be the kindest word for it. The kind of mild word Robert Rosenthal would choose for their aching marital predicament.

She never learns, but his eyes look terribly lonely, if she were to judge him like any other. And of course he is, his wife has only grown further apart from him since marrying him.

“Then let us celebrate with them.” she agrees.

On the day of, between Mass and the Christmas festivities she plans to bring over to the Bauer’s in an hour, Ida downs a few fortifying gulps from the bottle of Jameson her brother sent her. Jack sent her five of them with little red velvet bows tied around their green bottle necks and she feels dopey and loved at the surety he tied them himself, and at the conviction he knows she needs the booze. Maybe it takes one to know one and she calls him, calls to ask how its been, their Christmas stateside. Dials mother’s number, because that’s where they’ll be. And predictably he answers after two rings, up before everyone else despite the late night. Between Jameson and the hearing of Jack’s measured good wishes, she’s in the right spirit for a festivity and she loads Robert’s arms with those treats and pies and meats she didn’t take over to Frau Bauer’s the day before, and they join their neighbors in celebrating Christmas as they should.

By nights end it’s one of the most magical Christmases that Ida can ever recall. Made so because it was about the children, it was about providing joy and relief. It was all the things the season was about anyway. It’s because it was Christmas. Simple as Captain Bauer had made it sound on her front stoop. If only all things could be so easily solved.

Their men share a cigar in the living room when Ida and Frau Bauer tackle the washing, the children running about the house, high on the rare taste of sugar and actual, elaborate, American gifts.

“We have running water since you moved in.” Frau Bauer tells her at the sink with a relieved laugh, “I knew someone had to be important who was moving in when they fixed the whole block.”

Ida chuckles uncomfortably and glances sideways at her ponderous belly. “When are you expected to deliver?” she asks, and tells herself it is so she might make herself available to keep the children and provide food or anything else needed in the recovery. Not because she’s terrified of losing a friend from it. Not out of morbid curiosity to see another blood-slick newborn, the first since her own.

“Sometime in early January, it’s assumed.” she replies gravely, “It’s an estimate, always. Went late with two and early with the other. There’s no pattern!” she assures Ida merrily, as one would a bride likely to have children of her own one day.

Ida’s throat begins to close in that old familiar way and she reaches for someone’s near empty wine glass on the counter and downs it, likely to the distaste of her hostess but she has to get over this horrible panic every time the topic comes up. She wonders if Jack has to do the same, if there’s a topic or a word or- god forbid but it’s likely- a compliment that sends him choking and incapacitated into own his private hell. “I’m sure the captain will be very happy and helpful,” Ida rambles around the cool aftertaste of vintage red, “but if you need anything- I’ll be here.”

Frau Bauer shuts the tap off and observes Ida intensely. Ida’s cheeks flush from drunken mortification at her state, and her offer considering it. She doesn’t strike one as dependable. She knows it. Even her husband knows it. She’s not.

But she used to be. And Christ on high knows she wants to be again.

“You’re not like other the officer’s wives.” Anya Bauer says Ida’s thoughts somberly.

Ida hears her drunken guffaw before she can fully clip it short. “I am an officer myself.” she mutters, realizing the drunken admittance adds a clarity for her own predicament.

“Really?” There’s admiration, not skepticism in that question.

“Colonel, yeah.” she affirms. “Retired. Obviously.”

“I’d appreciate your help.” Frau Bauer affirms in turn, specifically personal, “And your husband’s friendship with mine has come not a moment too soon for us. I am afraid it might very nearly end him.”

Ida startles a little, more than she would without so much booze inside her to loosen her up, feeling a surge of adamant conviction when she protests Frau Bauer’s prediction, “No, no don’t talk like that. You’re going to make it, he won’t have a thing to be worried about. I’ll see to it, you and the baby. Your husband’s a capable man, he’ll be glad to be needed, most men just have to wait in the other room or stand around and hold your hand.”

Thoughts of Bucky and thoughts of Jack and being upheld by them flash unbidden and are shoved back into the recesses of her mind.

Frau Bauer’s eyes track past Ida to the children’s gleeful mayhem and beyond to the partition wall and the men still smoking behind it, animated bits of unintelligible conversation discernible. “No, I don’t mean dying.” she answers, “You’re not like the other wives.” she repeats, as if reminding herself of something.

“Then what.” It’s simple when Ida asks, and she feels more like herself for the clipped sentence rolling off her oiled tongue.

Frau Bauer meets her eyes, “I’ve confessed it already,” she assures as preamble in a perfectly steady voice and Ida braces with the a pilot’s intuition that something invisible up on the horizon is different from other invisibles and is headed straight for her own fuselage, “but I’ve wished this child would pass.”

Ida feels a spark run up her nerveless hands, her body going half numb, half electric.

“And if it doesn’t,” she continues, rote and resigned as any of Ida’s memories of the same, “I don’t know that he’ll handle it well.”

Ida tried to think of a right response, there’s not one and that’s why Any Bauer is telling her and not some other wife. So she asks what comes to mind, “You think he’ll leave you?”

“No, but I don’t know.”

Ida thinks of a January due date, she thinks of Rosie and his Berlin missions. April. Her mind does a quick math problem. It’s apparent, “Is it not his?”

“No.”

“And he knows.”

“Ha, yes.” Her laugh is mirthless, “I had not seen him in years.”

“And he came home to you- like this.” Ida understands.

“Yes.”

“I see.”

“He might have forgiven an infidelity.” she draws slightly closer, a sobriety that is not skittish cloaking her confession, “He cannot forgive it being the child of an enemy.” she gives Ida a small smile as she explains, “Seeing him with your man has given me some hope. I’d have thought him unable to find magnanimity. But perhaps time does heal.”

Ida glances back at the men herself, in full agreement; thoughts of Bucky’s rabid devotion to her own child whirl. Some men had that capacity, to be generous to the point of delusion. Some men, or maybe just Bucky. “So- the baby is an American’s?” she prepares herself for some dismal and entirely probable revelation that the American boys were as cruel as any other, that all over the world, women get hurt by men from all over the world.

“No, I was in Berlin when it fell.” She shook her head adamantly, “We prayed you’d get to us first.” Frau Bauer had started to sound half-strangled herself for the first time, “You didn’t. Those first Russian brigades were… they were-“

Ida’s arm reached out before she had thought of what to do, it had reached out and gripped the woman’s own, a handshake of sorts like she’d seen the pilots do when touching back down after a hairy mission. “I’ll be there.” she swore. “And it’ll be yours. That’s all that matters. It’s your child.”

“Yes.” an enlightened conviction spread over Anya’s face, as if all she needed was one other person’s verdict to cement her own, “Yes, it’s mine.”

It’s a bloody, gruesome, perfectly mundane affair when it comes, first week of January in the Bauer’s front room, the half naked mother near as possible to the solitary radiator as she can get for heat, a dismal blizzard outside and only Ida, the Captain her husband, and some beneficent aunt there for support.

It is enough. They both live, mother and child.

Captain Bauer allows the aunt to catch it, a boy, and hand it over to rest on his mother’s heaving breast. It’s better formed, more realized and alive than Ida remembers babies to be.

That makes sense, though. This one is alive. This one’s mother did right by him. This one’s mother kept him safe inside until he could make it on his own.

It’s still odd, though. Neither mother wanted it. But this one lived.

Captain Bauer waits patient and unperturbed until the placenta is expelled, then carries it in a trash bag to the kitchen. The blood slows, his wife is going to live. Ida watches him scrub his hands methodically of blood and fluids and return then, a cold, clean set of fingers pressed to his wife’s pulse.

The look she sends up to him, through clumped lashes and bleary eyes, is enough to knock a man flat. He kisses her brow, still counting her beats.

Ida feels her pockets for a cigarette, unable to put it off any longer. The aunt is helping the baby latch on anyway, they’re both alive, her husband has forgiven her for something she didn’t do. There’s nothing else for Ida to oversee.

She steps outside. Onto the Bauer’s stoop, unable to go into her own house yet, despite the way the blizzard tries to put out her light. Shortly after it’s fizzled out she hears the door at her back open and shut. It’s the Captain with his own coat and scarf firmly fixed, a lighter and pipe in hand.

“Your husband gave me this.” he holds it aloft, already packed and collecting snowflakes in the sheltered bowl.

She thinks of Jack, predictably, and his Christmas Day smokes he’d share with her. How he had to light them fast before the snow could dampen it. She realizes Captain Bauer intends to make her one of the men with this ritual, a shared pipe with the buddies after the wife has done her job. “Hurry or it won’t catch.” Ida warns.

He does, grinning softly with the stem between his teeth and Ida’s chest aches. He puffs it until it flames strong, maybe too strong- he chokes, he laughs, he offers it. He’s seen her own soggy fag. She takes it and inhales, feeling gutted, feeling at peace. She didn’t think the two feelings would suit each other. There’s just a little bit more hollowing out to do, she thinks, just a scrap left, then she’ll be entirely empty and can begin to refill again.

She knows what she needs to do. And she’ll do it tonight.

“You are kind.” the captain breaks their companionable silence. Ida accepts the compliment with a wordless nod and offers the pipe back a third time. “To spend your holidays and your time with us.”

She is being watched, puzzled together, made a study of; Ida knows the feeling. She doesn’t care.

“I did not think you liked us at all.” he admits, and it is obvious he meant in the past, when she first arrived.

Ida doesn’t assure him otherwise and his sad smile cracks wider at her honesty: she thinks to herself that she has come to like not only his family, but him.

The pipe is almost empty, their hands numb. He says one last thing, as one does when a smoke is concluding. The heart of the matter. “It is Christian indeed, to care for those who are not your people, much less for your enemies.”

Christmas, they’re so fresh off Christmas. The thing that could have solved everything, if everyone could recall it year round. But it’s not just that. And Ida knows it.

She takes the pipe back from him, “You are my people.” she realizes: she has a German daughter, nothing will or can or should change that. “My enemies are also my people.”

Ida tells Robert about the birth over dinner, relieved that there’s an innocuous story to share amongst the clatter of their cutlery. A mundane preface for the horrific personal truth she still needs to share with him. Left to herself she’d have told him about her own child over the first bite of pork chops, probably after a nip of whisky this evening, get the damn thing over with.

She does not, because Maureen sounded less than enthused at the concept when Ida called her earlier, fresh off the birth and the smoke and determined to bare herself once and for all to Robert.

“Don’t make a fucking briefing out of it.” Maureen had advised knowingly, “He loves you, like a husband does. Show him Ida, just- show him.”

So after dinner, and after a bit of companionable paperwork, and before it was too late, Ida reminded him of his prescription to continue with hot baths. Robert leveled her one soft, searching look before conceding without an ounce of his usual grumbling or cheeky quips in regard to the same.

He knew…something. Once again, Ida appreciates his keen intuition and the chivalry that constrains him to forever prioritize her comfort over his own curiosity. Helping set up the bath, arrange the towel, exchange jokes and small talk as he slips into the steam, all gives her the momentary illusion of piloting this, of being in control of how this occurs.

It feels breathtakingly easy. Even down to the moment when he’s settled in with his arms on the side and eyes droopy, and she asks, unprecedentedly, if she could join him in the bath.

Nothing drowsy about the way Robert’s eyes snap sharp, cautious, suppressing their surprise. “I’d love ya to.” he decides to say, she can watch him flick through a few choice sentences before he settles on that simple one. She moves to stand at the foot of the tub, right across from him, intentionally, he seems to realize this too, not choosing his usual compulsion to gallantry, to look away. She locks her eyes on his to keep his on her’s, then steps out of her trousers, undoes her shirt, lifts the cotton singlet she wears beneath it.

Watches him watch her, watches as his eyes shift from cerulean eagerness, to shadowed interest, suppressed desire, then to blatant shock at what he sees. She does not let him recover before she tosses away her brassiere, slips down her underwear. By the time she steps into the tub between his feet she knows he’s seen the stretchmarks all across her belly and breasts, and the ugly crescent scars above her ovaries, the one long gnarled line at her womb. When she sinks down on her haunches, into the steaming foam of soap suds, she knows he knows she carried a child once. She is sure he suspects what the other scars mean.

Maureen had been right. This way was better. Showing him was better.

Robert looks at her like a man who loves her, and cannot believe there is still more to be discovered about his cherished one, like he cannot believe that he has not found the bottom of her pain. Never in those eyes does there flash distrust or distaste, anger or accusation, although the guilt she sees startles her.

“Ida.” he breaths, no longer lounging back, drawn forward to her with the intensity of his compassion. “You didn’t say-“

She leans forward to meet him, knees knocking into each other’s, it feels so right, sitting naked in a bath with him, foreheads close to touching. She thought this would drown her at one point, it only feels right, it only feels like peace. “I can barely admit it to myself. Not for- not until very recently. I didn’t know what to tell you.”

His frown enlarges the concerned pout of his mouth, its endearing and tender beyond belief. “So this is not- from before? Before the war?”

“No.” she shakes her head

Robert’s careful whisper barely moves his lips, “This was- in the camp?”

There is always the offer to leave it here. No more, no less, now she’s told him, he’ll let her off the hook if she asks. Ida just leans forward further, their forearms touch atop their bent knees, shins wedged against each other. “I began to vomit and-and to swell, a few months in. Didn’t stand a chance but she hung in there for so long, for months- it was a girl, Robert. She stayed so long I could tell she was a daughter when she was born- and, and we could feel her kick. The winter saved us from being caught, all of us bundled in coats, it didn’t attract attention. We were going to try to run.” Bucky had been ready, everyone had made such sacrifices, taken such risks, “But those seventy some odd soldiers broke out, escaped, and they tightened the security. One night after, at roll call, I-“ Ida bit her lips savagely to steady it, felt Robert thumb swiping along her arm, the heat of his face near hers, a comforting presence, “-I couldn’t keep her in anymore.”

“My God.”

“It was horrible.” she admitted for the first time ever, years late,“Pushing her out in the barracks, trying to stay quiet- they surprised us with an inspection half way through, I remember Jack had to hold me still in the bunk until they left.”

“Did they find out?”

“Yes. They took me away, to the hospital ward. Solitary. Didn’t matter, I wasn’t awake for much. Everyone else was punished far worse.”

“Ida.” Robert’s angel-soft voice held a stern admonishment against such a lie.

“No, Robert, far worse.” she insists because it was true, yes she was robbed of her fertility in her sleep but Bucky was beaten, progress lost for all, Jack and Gale- barred themselves for the rest. It didn’t compare. “The worst had already happened. I’d lost my baby, and no, I can’t have more now but it doesn’t matter. I couldn’t bear to anyway. I meant that, when I- when we married.”

“That’s not why I care.” she felt his hand reach up from the bath water and grasp the side of her neck, warm and firm and very bold, she felt that touch in her soul, “I care because that is- darling, that’s a violation few have ever had to live with. And you’ve been livin with it- all this time?”

“I told you it doesn’t matter!” she felt desperate to be heard, “I don’t fucking care, Robbie.” it felt so good to admit, even to his mildly affronted, very dubious face, “I likely should, but I don’t. It’s not the future I can’t swallow, it’s-“

“What? What then?” he begged.

“Her!” she wailed, it flooded out once she realized, “I can’t forget her and the longer she’s dead the realer she becomes and that’s not how it should be! They opened me up and cut me apart and I don’t care about it, it’s- it’s what they did to my girls, to my boys, the way those Nazis fucks lived to torment my brother, that’s why I hate them, and it’s, it’s because when I am here, she’s not far away. She’s just a few hundred miles away, buried with the rest. With our boys and with the guards. All mixed up. And I can’t ever- ever get her back. Not even a grave. I don’t- Robert I don’t fucking care about the other!”

Robert had tugged her crumpling self into his arms, over his knees and to the firm shelter of his wet chest before she knew it, “Shh, I get it.” he mumbled against her forehead as she tried to catch her breath back from the drowning torrent of tears. “I get.” he assured her of what she needed to hear, and she focused on the gallop so his heart under her cheek and the warm, soft feeling of his thighs beneath her hip, the comforting cage of his arms, realized she’d managed it.

She’d done it.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, I couldn’t-“

“Sweetheart, you’re to never apologize about this again, alright?” he demanded sweetly, sounding deliciously strong in her unraveled state. “You’re gonna cry about it as much as ya need, and you’re gonna go on trips if they help you find peace and you’re gonna stay at home if it helps you figure things out and your gonna have days when you have it figured out and nights when you can’t sleep and it’ll all keep being like it is until it softens. Because it will. But you don’t have to do it alone anymore. Not with me. Not without her, either, she belongs here, as part of you. She won’t let you alone if you don’t leave a chair empty for her. In time she’ll fill it, and it won’t be a torment to have her close, it’ll be a comfort. Sometime, sometime down the road, it’ll be like that. I promise.”

Absentmindedly absorbing his gentle logic, Ida pet the curly wet hair spread across his chest, chestnut with a gleam of red in the low light, just like his mustache. She never wanted to leave his arms, the sanctity of this trusted embrace, the bone deep surety he meant every word. She could only hope her future self would be so determined.

“I’m sorry about the children.” she whispered, knowing he’d married her without expectations, but it felt a bit like cheating him all the same.

A firm squeeze of her arm made her gasp. “Apologize one more time about the actual crimes against humanity that were inflicted on you and I’ll be forced to take drastic measures. Don’t test me, woman.”

Ida actually giggled, gone a little mad with her emotion careening wildly out of her tight hold. “Wish you would.” she sauced back, her voice almost unrecognizable in its husky quality, probably from the tears, but it jolted him all the same.

He about snapped his neck in shock- “Say what?”

“I-“ she retracted, “say what?”

“No- you say what first.””

“I- it’s, nothing.”

She could tell his vibrant mind was whirring away behind wide blue eyes when he looked down at her askance, “Another topic for another day, yeah?”

“Yeah.” she conceded.

“Yeah.” he still sounded shocked, “Jesus, love bug. Way to clear the air.” He shook his head disbelieving, clearing his mind of it and returning to the topic at hand. “Do you want to get away from here? Or do you want to try to find- I don’t know, where she’s buried? Anything? What would help?”

“I don’t know.” Ida admitted, uselessly, pulling herself up a little, sitting between his legs. The water was getting cold.

“You don’t have to know yet.” He said, “But the minute you do, you let me know. Don’t sit on it, whatever it is- I’ll make it happen. I’m dead serious about this Ida, you tell me.”

“Alright.” she agreed soberly, “I don’t think I want to go. Not yet. There’s so much to do here. What you’re doing is too important.”

“Don’t bring that into, we’ll figure it out. Just focus on what you need. Maybe it’s this, what we’re doin’, maybe it’s not. But don’t, I’m beggin’ you, don’t keep me out of it, please Ida, let me help carry it.”

“I think,” she pondered aloud, fully gutted, almost hopeful something new could finally fill her now, “I think it’s that I’m just desperately trying to find some good in these people, my daughter’s people, and it’s so wrong. I’m here to try their crimes, to uncover their atrocities but all I want is proof that they can be good, that they can be like all the rest of us. Bad and good and…and the more we find, lately what we learn of, learn what was done by them, the death camps, the- all of it I, -it seems so small, what happened to me. Even to my girls. But it’s eating me, it’s eating me while I’m here Robert, you understand? You’re here for justice and I thought I was too. Especially after the way the airforce screwed us over. And I was so angry when I got here but I- I want to know her people. I want to know the people I might’ve brought my daughter back to, told her where she came from, told her some of them at least were noble and kind and resilient, that they loved Christmas and gave of their last resources to help another. That they could heal and pray and- I want that and then I wake up another day and I want them to be the monsters we're finding every day, but it’s killing me all the same. Learning they are. Learning they’re not. They’re just like everybody else. I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t. And I don’t know what -what it is I need. What I want. I don’t know but I-“ the bare truth came out in a staccato of ragged breaths, “-but I want you to know me. Even though I'm not, not at all who I want to be anymore but I want you to, I need you to, to know me.” -the thought like Bucky does comes and goes unbidden and savage, “Know me fully.”

Robert’s lips were up against hers when he said it, “I want that, too. That’s all I’ve ever wanted from you.”

“Carry me to bed?” she asked through a shiver, suddenly bone-tired and weary.

His grin melded into his kiss, “Say the word’n’ I’d carry you anywhere, Mrs. Rosenthal.”

💋 Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it! If you’d like to be added or taken off this tag list, just drop me a note!

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[vivicnjacobs]

when vivian agreed to get coffee, she didn’t expect she’d be sitting there across from soren, opening up about her relationships, the things she liked, or even her bond with her sister—but there she was, pouring her heart out, talking about sauni. sauni was her favorite person, even if sometimes she wondered whether she still held that title, or if antonio had quietly taken her place. she rambled about their connection and soren just sat there, watching her, listening with the same quiet attention she tried to give him. the world faded to the background—it was just them, in their small table, talking about everything. and it felt nice. she didn’t feel nervous. she was enjoying how calm he was, how easy he made it to just be, and she wondered if he felt the same. “blood doesn’t make family,” she said, “you choose your family”—something her foster parents had reminded her of often. “she notices everything about everyone,” she added with a laugh, “if observing was a job, she’d be the best at it,” a soft smile tugging at her lips. vivian felt lucky to have found another chance at love, another family that reminded her she was worth it. “so i only drink coffee once a day, that’s the reason,” she shrugged, “i tried matcha but it tastes like grass to me, so… i’d rather be tired.” she always found a way to play with the lightness of things, even in sad moments—like she did with her photography, it all depended on the light. and she couldn’t help her curiosity about his poems, never having met someone who wrote poetry before, at least not like him. “relationships are difficult, tell me about it,” she said quietly, nodding at his story. exes leaving was often a good thing, even if it didn’t feel that way at first—she had learned that the hard way. and when he didn’t take her joke badly, she was relieved—it was how she coped, softening edges with humor. his reasons for not sharing his poetry made sense. “i totally get that, it’s personal. you write it with your whole soul, and now i see how it wouldn’t feel fair to just give that away,” she said gently. “but if you ever decide to share, i’m sure the world will be wowed by your art,” she smiled. as the conversation shifted back to her, she lit up. “i’ve worked with a local wedding planner—she’s super nice and always recommends me—and i got a little job at a skate park,” she chuckled, “but it’s not easy to put my photos out into the world… not when everyone’s got a phone in their pocket.” still, she liked keeping things small. “i guess i like it this way—keeps room for little things, like going out for coffee or talking to someone who wants to listen to my silly jokes.”

Soren sat there, his focus completely on Vivian as she spoke. There was something about the way she spoke, the casual ease in her tone, that made him feel oddly at peace. He didn’t often get this kind of attention, the kind that made him feel like nothing else mattered in the world but this moment. It was strange but comforting. It felt like the whole world slowed down when he was listening to her, and he couldn’t help but savor it, even if it made him a little anxious, too. He smiled when she mentioned Shauni, the soft warmth in her voice making him feel like he was getting a glimpse into something deeply meaningful for her. He couldn’t relate to the sibling bond, never having grown up with someone in that way, but he could see how important it was to Vivian. He knew other foster kids but most of them walked into his life and back out of it once they got adopted. "That’s great," Soren said softly, a quiet smile on his lips. "It’s special to have someone like that in your life, even if they’re not blood. Shauni's observant. I keep noticing how she looks at everyone." His thoughts drifted briefly, wondering if he had ever experienced anything quite like that connection. He didn’t think he had. Sure, he’d lived with many kids in foster care, but those bonds were fleeting, often temporary. He didn’t keep in touch with any of them now. So hearing about Vivian’s closeness with Shauni made him feel something unexpected—maybe a little envious. He chuckled softly at her story about her parents and the coffee ban. It was so... human, the kind of funny thing that made people relatable. "Sounds like they were really trying to help, even if it didn’t quite make sense," he remarked with a soft laugh. He liked how she could find humor in even the strangest situations, how she made things feel light even when the world around them wasn’t. Then, there was the poem. When she asked about it, Soren felt that familiar flutter of nervousness, but he quickly masked it. He’d never been one to talk about his poetry, especially when it was so personal. The fact that she’d asked, though, caught him off guard. It felt like a moment of vulnerability, and Soren wasn’t exactly used to being open. Still, he didn’t want to seem distant, so he gave her an honest, if somewhat guarded, response. "Yeah, it’s about an ex," Soren said quietly, running a hand through his hair, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. "It wasn’t the healthiest relationship, but... I guess it’s a part of my past now." He noticed how Vivian shifted a bit, as if she realised she might’ve asked too much, and for a moment, Soren felt guilty for making her feel uncomfortable. He was just getting to know her, and he didn’t want to make things awkward between them. "You’re right," he said softly. "If they left, then it was for the best. It just... takes time to realise that, I guess." Her attempt at humor made him laugh, and for a moment, the tension between them seemed to melt away. He liked how she could turn serious moments into something lighter, how she could make everything feel less heavy. At her question about why he didn’t write for a living, Soren paused, thinking for a moment. It wasn’t the first time he’d been asked that, but it still made him feel uncertain. "I don’t know," he said with a slight shrug. "I guess... I write for myself, mostly. It’s hard to think about sharing it with the world, you know? There’s a lot of me in those poems, and it’s not always easy to open up like that." He hesitated for just a moment, his eyes meeting hers with a mix of genuine interest and quiet admiration. "You know," he began, his voice soft but steady, "I bet you could make better money with your photography skills. You’ve got a real eye for it." He paused, trying to find the right words. "So... what’s stopping you from sharing that with the world on a bigger scale too?"

[isalisewrites]

I just read your addition to another persons ask where you said the Harry Potter fandom not being responsible for JRK bullshit and honestly thank you.

I am so freaking exhausted of having to defend myself for finding comfort in a fandom that has been with me since I was a kid. Just because I’m not burning the books I bought 20 years ago doesn’t mean I support anything about her now.

She has her billions. Even if no one on earth bought another Harry Potter thing again. She would still have it. Whether or not I read fanfiction or watch movies I already own make zero difference.

You said it better than I ever could. But One day she will be dead and gone. And no one will care. But Harry Potter will still be around. Because it and its community is bigger and better than JKR will ever be.

Anyway. Just wanted to say that. It felt good to read something other than hate for HP again. If you would be up for talking without the anonymity let me know?

*huggles*

I’m just as weary, too, sweetie.

“There’s no ethical consumption of Harry Potter.”

Let’s be brutally realistic here. If you’re not living off grid in the woods where you’re 100% self sufficient with growing your own food, making your own clothes, drawing up well water, generating your own power, and buying nothing, then you’re not living ethically either. If you’re getting a Starbucks, then guess what? You’re supporting genocide. McDonalds? Yup, genocide. Going to Target? Uh oh, you’re supporting racism and sexism.

The reality is there is no ethical consumption under CAPITALISM.

There are literally hundreds of companies that support Israel’s genocide of Gaza and hundreds who financially supported Trump. I wonder how many companies supported UK’s ultra conservative politics. It’s not just JKR, I can promise you that.

It’s impossible for the average person to avoid every company. You have to buy food. You have to buy essentials. You have to buy gas if you use a car to get to work. 

You have to survive.

It’s not our fault these greedy companies support the politics that preserve their power and their ability to make more and more money. JKR is a drop in the bucket of hate. She is one of MANY. Where the UK’s fucking 900 paged manifesto of hate? The American Project 2025 that’s currently being pushed by the Trump party wants to make it so that the mere appearance of wearing clothes that don’t align with your birth sex equate to pornography.

And then they want to make pornography a federal crime.

But I understand. We all feel powerless. So, what people do to give themselves power is they target someone easy. Instead of going after the roots of the problem, they attack the budding flowers on the tree. 

I’m aggrieved for UK’s transpeople. I’m devastated for them. But it’s bad everywhere and we’re not to blame for the actions of our government leaders. We can vote. We can protest. We can spend our money in the right places as best as possible. A storm is likely coming, but it’s not our fault. Evil people are in power. The wealth imbalance is astronomical. The world is controlled by oligarchs and there isn’t a ton that we can do, except survive and try to spend less money overall. 

In the end, I cope by taking these characters and creating something beautiful. Terrible, But Great is about love and redemption. Elysium’s Sanctuary is about love and healing. TBG contains my soul, while ES contains my broken heart. Badger Prey and Moon Rite are also about love; they're written to shake off the chains of purity culture. All of these stories are precious to me.

I’d hope that in a hundred years, there will still be readers discovering Harry Potter fanfics. Someone years to come will read our works and be touched by our words, both our stories and our author’s notes. JKR will go down in history as a woman who used her influence for terrible things while the Harry Potter fandom will stand as a beacon who rose above her. 

What she hates, we celebrate. We protect. 

Yes, you are absolutely free to DM me. Anyone can. Just DM me with more than a Hi, haha. Otherwise, I won't know it's more than a random bot or something.

I know it’s so very hard to maintain hope in these times. I keep having to repeat to myself, "Show me how good it can get." Even when it feels like everything is falling apart. Instead of falling into despair, I pour my soul into writing for both my own healing and the healing of others.

Spread love, not hate. And when you can, create. Keep trying. <3 Because it’s worth more than all of the combined wealth in the world.

Isa

[steve-s-slut]

👅

[heretodefyfate]

gosh, seeing people happily discussing about their OCs make me want to show my OCs too but then i realized i still have not make any "official" art of them and their background details are still being worked on

[thephantomsdream]

"If you keep staring at me like that, I'll have to ask you what are we?" Imagine being the witness of a serious crime, but the team thought you were involved somehow and needed to rule you out. Cue to big, scary, mysterious, masked Ghost trying to intimidate you by existing near you.

Soap snorts and pats Ghost on the back, which earns a glare from him, all after the man blinked confused. He had pretty eyes. Gaz moves to a corner to smile way too much, and Price sighs loudly.

After a few more minutes of explaining that you were just on your way to your shitty job and that they needed to wrap this up before you are to inevitably getting fired, Ghost still looks straight into your soul, now with more intensity somehow.

At this point, you grit your teeth. You might legit not have a job after this, since you're already half an hour late, and this (weirdly cute) fucker is trying to read your thoughts.

"Oh, you're really into me, aren't you?" He blinks seemingly uninterested and you raise a brow at him, starting a staring contest until Price (as he previously introduced himself) got in between you two.

"I don't think you understand the situation that you're in." It took all of your will to not groan like a child and roll your eyes at him.

Cue to another round of you doubling down and explaining that you're extremely lame but a good person, all while Gaz still looks you up.

"She might be telling the truth, boss." He whispered to Price in the corner of the abandoned shop they broke onto to have some privacy. The man has been trying to confirm your identity all this time, meanwhile you looked up at your number one fan to say "I told you so" and gave him an exasperated sigh when you already caught him intensely staring into your eyes.

"Seriously..." You mutter and you almost believe seeing a crinkle of amusement in his eyes. Your eyes almost twitched. "I pronounce us husband and wife." You say, rolling your eyes at him. Yeah, take that, fuck-face. You childishly thought, absolutely thriving at his slow, surprised blink. Soap cackled and tried to hide it with a cough.

Long story (not) short, you were indeed let go after Gaz confirmed you're broke, lame and basic. No secret villain or anything. After they kinda apologized, Price basically tried to gaslight you into thinking everything is fine then tried to dip his toes into mansplaining the importance of greater things beyond you, he nodded to himself and patted you on the back before barking an order to his soldiers to move. Pretty brown eyes stayed glued onto your soul until you were pretty much skipping away out of sight, rushing to your job incredibly annoyed.

You couldn't really explain your absence to your boss and he didn't care much either, he told you to get to work.

Surprise, surprise, though, because at the end of your shift, he sugarly informed you that you're fired. He gave you the pay he owed you and there you were. Jobless. And probably homeless in a month's time.

A week later and some intense job hunting done, you're at your wit's end, truly. Job market is shit and nobody is looking to hire. As you enter your ratty apartment, you sigh and almost want to cry in frustration. You've been cursing the terrorists, soldiers and any motherfucker involved in last week's incident, entering your kitchen to grab a drink and eat some air since you needed to save money, when you froze in place.

In the middle of your tiny living room stood a massive dark frame, the outside lights shining through the balcony door behind him made the man unrecognizable. You were getting robbed. You just caught a dude right in the middle of robbing you. As if it was the cherry on top, every frustration you felt erupted out of you, and while you were still terrified by the massive frame, you growled a "Get the fuck out of my house."

A deep chuckle was your only response and you felt dread.

"You got spunk. And a shit survival instinct." He stepped closer. You stepped back immediately, calculating your route to the door, hoping he wouldn't be able to catch you. Denial. You knew. But you froze again in surprise. You knew that mask.

"What the fuck are you doing in my house?" It came more of a whisper, thinking you'd never meet those people again. Even standing up in front of him, he's massive. Maybe he came back for those dumbass comments you made. Oh, this is revenge, isn't it? He's built, he can legit destroy you with a punch. Oh, God, you're fucking dead. They still think you're a terrorist or some shit and he's here to destroy you out of existence.

Your mind rambled until he moved, and when he did, you tensed, mind blank. The man, the Ghost took a couple of steps towards you and placed his large hand on the back of your neck, pulling you close. Oh, you're gonna fucking die for sure. He leaned down to your eye level, making you stare into his dark eyes as he studied you.

"Came back to take care of my wife." He said. It was your turn to slowly blink at him. What?

[blkkizzat]

🗂️—𝙲𝙰𝚂𝙴 𝟶𝟶𝟷........... THE STRONGEST ......filed under the that's not my jjk man series

visitor log: its midday and your clingy-ass boyfriend—gojo satoru—should be hard at work right getting rid of these doppels not knocking at your door—gotta be a fake... right?! classifications: bimbo!reader (canonverse of otaku!gojo's bunny!reader), yandere-esque Gojo, nipple play, recorded sex, lots of sex toys, dirty talk, panty theft, extreme overstim + slight omorashi. incidents: 4.4k .......shout outs to @yung-notorious for beta-ing some of this!

*knock-knock-knock-knock-knock*

Rapid, insistent knocks interrupt your laughter as you chat with friends, carefully brushing a fresh coat of polish onto your toes. You weren’t expecting anyone, but the familiar, overly enthusiastic rhythm—knocking out the tune of Rick Astley’s "Never Gonna Give You Up"—leaves no doubt who it is.

Satoru.

You sigh.

Although you haven’t seen Gojo much lately and are usually happy to see him, his timing this time irritates you for a couple reasons—first, of course he’d interrupt right in the middle of your much-needed girl time! You were desperate to hang with your friends again, especially after being stuck in lockdown for the last 2 weeks.

There was some juicy tea getting spilled on the call too! 

More importantly, you weren't in a hurry to get up from the sofa—especially with your freshly painted white toes you’d propped up on the coffee table to dry. The last thing you wanted was to ruin them by getting dust on them while answering the door when Gojo wasn’t even supposed to be here right now.

“BBL, y’all.”

Reluctantly ending the call, you switched over to your Ring camera app. 

Sure enough, the security feed loads to reveal Gojo, grinning up at the camera with his glasses perched on the brim of his nose and a large pink shopping bag in hand.

Huh? There’s no way he’s off-work already! 

Taking note of the time it reads 1:30 p.m. confirming that Jujutsu society’s strongest sorcerer is skipping out on work, again—pshh typical. 

“C’mon babe, let me in!”

Urgh, what was he even doing here?! 

Shouldn’t he be the one leading the charge to kill all the doppelgängers? The faster he exorcized them, the sooner you’d finally be able to go outside again.

This doppelgänger outbreak felt like covid quarantine all over and it sucked! 

Satoru needed to get his ass back to work so you wouldn’t waste the best years of your life cooped up inside!

“Go away, doppelgänger!”

You use the intercom feature to speak to Gojo, still not budging from the sofa.

Gojo pouts.

“But it's me, baby! Open the door Bunny bae, please I missed you princess—it’s been too long!”

Satoru’s annoyingly pretty baby blues look even bigger as he pleads into the camera, his lip quivering, making you roll your eyes.

It’s barely been 48 hrs since you’ve last seen him and he still blows up your texts all day! 

But the world’s strongest sorcerer was also the world’s clingiest—so you suppose his doppelgänger would be too. Although, you were pretty sure this was the real deal, that still didn’t mean you wouldn’t give him shit for skipping out on work.

“Huh, that’s funny because there's no way you could be my boyfriend, Gojo Satoru, the strongest—and the one who is supposed to be making sure I’m not stuck in the house for another 2 years. It’s been freaking 2 weeks already Toru, I’m going batshit in here!”

Pushing his glasses back in place Gojo hides his scoff, standing up straight. 

Shit.

He hopes you aren’t onto him. 

Sure, he could have contained this whole thing in a few days tops.

Despite the doppelgänger ability to mimic appearances and cursed energy patterns, Gojo’s Six Eyes could see right through it easily. His power allowed him to perceive the core of a soul with perfect clarity, instantly distinguishing the souls of a human and a curse.

But instead of resolving the problem quickly, Gojo made up all kinds of excuses to you (and especially to the higher-ups) about why it was taking longer than expected. 

The truth was, simple though—for once, just this once, he decided he had earned the right to be selfish.

Not having met you until after the covid quarantine, Gojo had never experienced that kind of isolation with you—and was immensely jealous that your last boyfriend had. Now that he had a taste of it, there was nothing he wanted more than to keep his lil bun-bun safely caged up, waiting for his return everyday (and he did try to make it back everyday).

Okay, so he is in fact being really selfish.

Luckily for everyone else though, most of these doppelgänger  curses are relatively harmless other than causing absolute chaos with their mere existence alone—unfortunately they could also be seen by people even lacking cursed energy.

Gojo took care of the stronger ones, the ones with more nefarious intentions, while letting the little ones continue to run loose—all so he could have you to himself. 

Unbeknownst to you, Gojo is intentionally sentencing you to what seems like a never ending cycle of boredom so that when he finally gets home you cling to him like a grain of sweet sticky rice. So eager for any external stimuli or interaction you’d be up for all manner of his perversions you’d normally shoot him down for.

That didn’t mean you weren’t still a brat though, making him work for it—something that Gojo also noted was his fault though for spoiling you rotten, not being able to deny you anything. So you pretend to be annoyed when he showed up, but Gojo knew the truth—those thick thighs of yours would soon have your slick running down. Your cute, slutty lil pussy dripping would start dripping the moment you’d hear his voice.

Yeah, yeah, he’d get rid of those things eventually—but Gojo was going to enjoy this quarantine with you for a bit longer. 

“Even the strongest need a break baby! I need my sweet lil’ energizer Bunny to recharge my batteries, eh?”

You crinkle up your nose seeing him wiggle his eyebrows on camera. 

He's such a dorky cornball.

“And this break…it’s approved by Yaga, hm?” Gojo whines at your questioning, not wanting you to deny him any longer nor throw technicalities in his face he didn’t wanna have to answer.

“Come on, Bunny! I even brought you real nice gifts to show you how much I missed you!”

The hot pink shopping bag sways in front of the camera, Gojo dangling it as if it were supposed to be a tempting treat. 

But he’d have to do better than some generic pink shopping bag to impress you!

You’ve gone back to your toenails, starting to apply the top coat while you let him squirm out there for a while longer. You knew he could break the barrier in the blink of an eye but you also knew that he was a big enough baby to want you to let him in on your own. 

Well tough luck brah.

“That sure doesn’t look like a Chanel shopping bag, Toru!”

“Um, that’s cause it’s not—Bunny you told me you don’t even like me picking you out clothes anymore!”

You clicked your tongue and rolled your eyes—of course you said that as whenever Gojo picked something out for you, it ended up being the most scandalous or over-the-top piece in the store. How he would even managed that at a classy brand like Chanel, you had no idea. (Though, little do you know, in reality, he always acted they were ready-to-wear while they were custom-made—just for you.)

“I got us some toys, baby bun! Don’t you wanna play with me?”

You don’t need to ask him ‘what kind of toys’ from the goofy ass expression that is on his face. 

“That’s not making me want to let you in at all, Doru!”  

“Hah? Wha—Doru!?”

“Yeah, short for Dopple-Toru.”

You try to keep a straight face but can’t help giggling as you sneak a peek at your phone, still putting on as if you're completely ignoring him. His expression on the camera is priceless though and you wish you could snap a screenshot of his mouth wide open, glasses nearly sliding off, looking utterly incredulous.

“Hey! Come on, Bunny bae, that's not funny! I know you know it’s me—and I also know your pretty pussy misses me!” 

Oh knew, it was your perv ass boyfriend and yeah you did miss him—but you missed your freedom more! And for that reason you are gonna make him think twice before trying to skip out on work again. Not to mention, for having the nerve to show up once you finally found something interesting to stave away your boredom other than him!

“Hmm, I don’t know—prove it then, Doru…”

While Gojo loves goading you into playing games and usually lets you win them too, after nearly 48 ‘grueling hours’ away from you, all he wants now is to simply relax in your company. Ya know, nothing too crazy, just the typical cuddles with him calmly resting his face on your titties while his cock nestles deep up against your cervix—just something casual.

Gojo calling your bluff, ups the ante.

“Heh, kay…”

You’re actually not paying attention this time, admiring your work on your toes and contemplating on the color you should paint your fingernails as Gojo goes silent for a moment. 

Yet once you hear a loud zip, the rustling of fabric, and a belt clank to the ground your eyes practically bulge out of your head as you grab your phone, bringing it comically close to your face while blinking multiple times just to be sure. 

Satoru quite literally has dick and balls out, dangling in the breeze, in front of the entire goddamn neighborhood!

And despite your initial horror and best efforts to remain upset, you pause, your inner slut causing a slight brain malfunction—as even from the small ring camera you can see his deliciously thick cock bobbing fully erect while his mushroomy tip shamelessly drips viscous globs of pre onto your welcome mat.

Thankfully your short-circuiting of common sense only lasts a few seconds before it starts functioning again.

“TORU HAVE YOU LOST YOUR FUCKING SUGAR-FUELED MIND!? YOU KNOW THE HOA IS ONE MORE INCIDENT AWAY FROM KICKING ME OUT, RIGHT!?”

Sighing, you groan in dismay as you’ve been on thin ice with your HOA for a while now because of Gojo. 

Not only have you received the most noise complaints in the neighborhood by far, but he also made ‘alterations’ to your home by installing unsanctioned rows of cypress trees. Claiming it was a safety precaution to block the view inside your home from your ‘sketchy neighbors.’ He also ever so obnoxiously takes up 2 parking spots on the street so no one could even “park too close to scratch his Benz” and even sometimes double parked in front of your neighbors house when all the street parking was taken.

You would most definitely be kicked out if anyone in the neighborhood saw all of Gojo’s fairly large bits and pieces freely on display.

And yeah, Gojo did know that. 

He also knew if you got kicked out and had to move you’d have no excuse then not to move-in with him.

Where else would you be able to stay on such short notice? He soon turn that temporary situation into a more permanent one too.

Finally leaping to your feet, you practically trip over yourself—all thoughts of preserving your polish forgotten—as you sprint to the front door.

You can’t get there fast enough, yet as soon as you do, you don't hesitate to lower the barrier and fling the door open.

“Hey sweetn—”

Cutting him off, you grab Gojo by his collar and yank him inside before slamming the door shut behind you.

But you don’t get a chance to scold him. The moment you turn to face him, your lips suddenly meet his, and his large frame envelops yours into a warm embrace.

Your first instinct is to push him away, but even when meeting your furious eyes he just grins knowingly—twirling his pointer finger in the air above him. You frown, confused, until it hits you—Gojo has set up another barrier over your own.

No one could have seen him, but he’d let you believe that so you’d let him in faster.

Urgh, Toru is far too crafty for his own damned good.

It's your turn to pout now, having clearly lost this round badly. 

But Gojo doesn’t let the expression linger—his mouth is hot and hungry on yours again in an instant. Your soft lips are easily parted by his thumb as he slows to tease his way past your lips to glide his silken tongue into your mouth causing him to sigh—you taste sweeter than any candy to him.

The kiss soon turns more passionate as the strokes of his tongue flick longingly over yours, devouring you as he skillfully melts away your anger—in addition to all the bones in your legs. Reduced to a puddle of goo you completely forget you were just about to cuss him out as your legs now press together from the throbbing between your thighs. Your need becoming more agonizing as you grow dizzy from the lack of air.

When Gojo finally lets you breathe again, he chuckles at your dazed expression. Your lids are lowered and you press your body deeper into his own, clutching onto his collar as you nestle your face into his neck, savoring his scent washing over you. 

“So despite all that sass, I take it you actually missed me then?”

You nod eagerly against his skin, in spite of yourself. Even though he isn’t supposed to be here right now, you can’t hold back any longer how happy you are to see him.

“And my pretty Bunny girl is going to let me play with her now?—All of her?”

You gasp as Gojo does not wait for an answer before slipping a hand into your shorts. Hissing at your heat, Gojo swipes his thumb over the outer folds of your cunt and his fingers quickly are becoming soaked before they even got the chance to get up inside you.

Placing a chaste kiss on your temple Gojo's agile fingers had merely confirmed what he already knew: You’re utterly drenched—his needy, cute lil’ pussy was quite literally begging for him and who was he to deny her?

ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩

“F—Fuck! P-pussy too good. Keep the phone up though, nice and straight Bunny! T-That’s it, you’re the best! SHIIIIT— n’you got the cutest sluttiest lil cunny! C-Can you get a close up of how well my cock is digging out your pretty lil’ bunny hole?”

“Mmmgh!”

Gojo’s filthy words and his even filthier fat cock are bringing you closer to your ecstasy filled ruin as they push you past your limits, engorged veins scraping your walls with every thrust. You're covered in sweat and your entire body buzzes—quite literally as there are vibrating clamps suctioned onto each of your nipples. 

Mmmm, it all was driving you wild!

Not imagining yourself in this position when you woke up this morning at all.

Especially as initially, when Gojo said he bought toys, you thought he had meant fuzzy handcuffs, silken ropes or maybe even some more of that warm edible candle wax that tastes like strawberries—but all this!? 

You could barely see out of your bleary, tear-filled eyes completely caking your cheeks in streaks of your mascara that while supposedly waterproof, definitely is not Gojo Satoru proof. 

In addition to the mind-numbing bliss radiating off your swollen perky buds, your body was covered in some sort of edible oily slick. The warmth was initially similar to that of candle wax—yet morphed into anything but. This time the heat was coming from the flames your own body generated as the effects of the candied warming oil made every part of you saturated in the fluid buzz with need. 

Of course, after soaking your body with it down the tips of your toes and paying extra attention to your nipples, Gojo had been thoughtful enough to pour the most of the remaining bottle over your throbbing lil’ clit. 

Except now there isn’t just a shallow throb between your legs as the fiery sensation of every individual nerve in your cunt was cries out for him to ruin you harder. 

Your legs are wrapped around him impossibly tight as your heels dig into the small of his back and yet somehow, he still manages to snake a hand between your slippery bodies to pet his favorite girly spot on you—your clit. Toying with the swollen nub in a painfully slow manner compared to the intensified thrashing of his hips against your own. 

The motions only serve to push the heart-shaped platinum and pink sapphire adorned butt plug deeper into your ass with every loud vulgar smack of your wet bodies joining—the strange feeling of it jostling against the very walls his cock was drilling has you drooling as Gojo further tests the limits of passion he can push over.   

“C’mon Bunny, you're going to miss the best part, ya better capture it really well how much squirt I can pump out of this cute cunny—or we’ll simply just have to do another take. Not that I’d mind spending all day in your pussy…”

You're not in your right mind to scold him for trying to skip out on more work and you certainly don't have the full capacities to hold his phone up any better—what with your hands were tied together over your head to the bed. Gojo utilizing the fuzzy cuffs afterall.

You can’t even really see if you are getting the right angle as you desperately hold onto the device, keeping it straight and upright lest it slip and drop right on your head. 

“Always such a good girl for me huh, princess?”

Tuh—like he was giving you a choice!

You're unable to clap back though as your tongue, so lax from all the pleasure, sinks back to the roof of your mouth. The slobber gathered pools past your lips, over your chin, down your neck to your tits and Gojo is eager to slurp the train up your body and back to your lips, kissing you. 

It goes without saying, but Gojo in ‘director’ mode is absolutely diabolical. 

The reason being needs the perfect footage of him playing in your guts to make sure he had good enough material to fap to if you wanted him to spend more time away from you while he hunted down the doppel-curses.

“Be good for me a bit longer, ‘kay baby?”

Yet his gentle coos don’t match his demeanor. 

Glasses long discarded, Gojo’s own blue eyes looked crazed. He’s unconcerned with the sweat matting his hair to the sides of his face or the wave of slick your pussy splashes onto his taut abs. Abs are shuddering from just how tight of a hold your pussy has on him—working him overtime as his heavy pants soon twist into deranged lil whines.

“M-Me and my lil’ buddy missed our two girls so, so, s-sooo much—AH-HAH-F-FAHHHCK! G-Gotta show ya just how much!” 

Shamelessly, Gojo had dubbed his cock—his little buddy—the joke that would have emasculated some men but Gojo made it intentionally with the irony that he was anything but little.

“T-They were made for each other baby—lil’ buddy and the wet pretty girl between these thighs, yeah?”

The ham that he is, Gojo always sounds extra insane whenever a camera is recording, howling with amusement when he watches the playbacks. Yet in this very moment, he was as serious as a heart attack—and you definitely weren't laughing as your weeping pussy gets pounded into deeper into ecstasy filled oblivion. 

“Shhh—Stawwp, S’toruuuuu!”

Tsk, you still could form a coherent thought?  

That simply wouldn’t do for Gojo who is working so hard and bought all these new toys to see you come completely undone—and he needed you too soon as he wouldn’t last much longer in your squishy gooey core himself—not how your cunt was holding him in the wettest sluttiest lil hug. 

There's still one item left that he hadn't used yet though, that in trying to keep up his sleeve he'd nearly forgotten about entirely—his own brain quickly leaving itself on simmer by your greedy lil’ pussy sucking him in so sloppy.

Slightly changing your position for more leverage, he throws one of your legs on his shoulder slotting himself between your cushy thighs while he straddles the other leg. Fucking you sideways with increasing intensity from the bruising grip on your hips pulling your pelvis towards on him as he meets your thrusts smacking directly into your cervix.

“Heh, I know what will finish you off! Ya ready to cum baby? Squirt all on this dick you love so much, eh Bunny?—Yeah ya fuckin' will.”

When you don’t answer right away Gojo delivers a harsh slap directly on your clit, the moisture causing the increased sting to intensify sending your senses into a state of floating. Yet, bringing you back to reality, another harsh smack lands on your cunt and you jerk against your restraints, nearly dropping the phone on your face for real this time.

You don’t understand what he's saying to you but you not regardless, eyes rolling back into your head—every single pore on your skin submerged in pleasure. Completely unaware, you don’t hear the additional buzz of the final toy until you feel its silicone lips latching onto your clit while the rigid faux tongue juts back and forth across your bud.

Eyes practically leaving your skull for the second time today, everything flashes white, blinding you even with your eyes wide open. A scream so guttural it comes out silent, the ball of tension in you finally bursting as releases flushes through your entire body.

Cumming harder than you ever had before, you just let go completely, gushing around Gojo’s thick cock still pistoning in your now drenched pussy. The splash zone from your cunt is quite a bit more than usual as a giant warm wet spot begins to soil and expand underneath you both.

Ears ringing, Gojo sounds a million miles away as you hear him chattering on about something—the phone?

You wiggle your fingers, realizing you must have dropped it, but you’re still clueless about what has him so excited—until Gojo’s voice finally slices through your haze, yelling out in absolute wonderment—

“HOLY SHIT BABY, DID YOU JUST PISS ON ME??? MMM FUCK ME FOR REAL!?—SHIT! YOU WETTER THAN A WATER PARK BUNNY—SO FUCKIN NASTY! PLEASEEEEEE PLEASEEEE TELL ME YOU GOT THAT ON CAMERA!”

Suddenly, it dawned on you that when you had let go, you had quite literally let it all go. 

You could die—and if you could muster the strength to move you surely would have raced out to the backyard to quickly dig yourself a whole to do just that in. Yet that clearly would not an acceptable conclusion for your degenerate perv of a boyfriend who is acting like a sinner saved—praising pussy like a newly reborn evangelist baptized in the essence of your erotic filth. 

His elation is simple as he figures how much you really had to trust him to be able to let go and lose yourself to him to that extent—now he wants to lose himself to you as well.

Easily drowning all inside your sloshing pussy like he never swam—Gojo doesn't stop, your pissing only encourages him to fuck himself further into a pussy drunk state to rival your own cock-induced stupor.

Yet, somehow he still maintains enough control to effectively lavish praises for how naughty and shameless your lil pussy is. 

The frenzy drives him directly to his nut, eyes dilate further and slobber frothes past his lips while spearing his cock into you with renewed vigor. Whimpering and stuttering his words and hips alike.  Gojo presses your leg draped across him back against you to be sandwiched between the two of you as leans forward to further ravage your swollen kiss bitten lips again. 

Twisting you up like a pretzel and near the point of passing out from overstimulation you his insane joyous laughter sounds miles away as he topples over his peak pumping ropes of his vicious cum—that he’d been saving up for all you over the last two days—into your battered creamy core. 

Gojo’s thrusts begin to slow but he’s in your guts just as far pushing cockhead right against your cervix stealing your lips into another fiery kiss.

Once Gojo finally lets you breathe air again, you’re completely out of it, the dopey blushing smile on your face. The embarrassment from pissing all over him is completely forgotten as hearts all for him linger in your eyes.

Sex with Toru was never dull to say the very least.

“There you go, there’s my good girl, huh Bunny? Not bored anymore baby?”

Gojo smirks down at you knowingly while peppering your face with sweet loving kisses as you’re steadily drifting off, allowing every exhausted nerve to claim you.

It's still a good minute before Gojo slides out of you, seeinghis discarded phone next to you—it's still recording. A mischevous smile plays on his lips.

Wanting to capture the aftermath of his handiwork, Gojo sweeps the phone across your body, thumbing off moisture from your dewy soft skin soiled with warming oil and sweat. Making sure to linger longer on your lightly heaving chest and the sporadic quiver of your thighs.

Zooming in even closer, Gojo’s two long fingers to part your swollen lips open, admiring more of his work—his masterpiece that was the copious amounts of cum and piss dribbling out of your abused lil’ hole down to the crack of your ass. 

Now Gojo really has a dilemma—he wants to keep filming you as his cum, ever so slowly, trickles out of you. He thinks this scene would make the perfect time-lapse of the creamy sap seeping from your cunt like sugar maple. But he’s also fighting the urge to also suck all the creaminess out of you himself—the cum rimming around your puckered lower hole tempting him to Gojo start there and slurp and suck his way up your clit. 

Truly, he never gets enough of how his taste mingles with yours—and he’s quite curious to know how the additional waterworks will add to your delectable flavor. 

You were so fucking filthy and so willing to try new things all thanks to this doppel quarantine causing you to make this big a mess in the first place.

God he needed this.

More. 

He had to have more from you. 

Gojo couldn’t possibly bring this all to an end anytime soon.  Cooing against your inner thigh Gojo makes a promise to your cunt.

“Heh, don't worry pretty girl, I'ma give you six more months of quarantine at least! Can't wait to—” 

“—TORU, ARE YOU FUCKING SHITTING ME RIGHT NOW!?!?”

Whoops.

Yeah he definitely thought you were already fast asleep—teehee.

......RESULT: PASSED 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚜𝚕𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍—𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚒𝚗’𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚎.

that's not my jjk man series (visit series page for full animation)

comment and reblog! next up toji, already finished posting—10/20

©blkkizzat 2024. do not steal works or gfx, do not translate.

[kittysylus]

⋆˚࿔ the best pillow 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

-the LaDS men cuddling with you and laying their heads on your lap (fluff)

୨ৎ── . Sylus

The living room was peaceful, bathed in the soft golden glow of the late afternoon sun. Sylus lay stretched out on the couch, his head resting on your lap, while a book was placed in his large hands. His white hair fell messily over his forehead, as his red eyes scanned the pages with sharp focus.

The low hum of music played from the speaker across the room, a slow, soulful tune drifting through the air.

You absentmindedly ran your fingers through his hair, scrolling through your phone, when you glanced down at him. “Hey, can I connect my phone to the speaker?”

Sylus didn’t look up from his book. “No.”

You blinked. “No?”

A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Listen and appreciate real good music, sweetie.”

You rolled your eyes, sighing dramatically. “You sound like an old man.” The comment made him smirk, but he didn’t respond, his eyes still on his book.

A slow, mischievous smile spread across your lips.

Sliding your fingers beneath the frame of his glasses, you gently pushed them down just enough to reveal his striking red eyes. Before he could protest, you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss between his eyebrows, right at the root of his nose.

Feeling his body tense ever so slightly, you knew your 'attack' was effective. Bingo.

Sylus inhaled through his nose, his grip on the book tightening just a fraction. "I'm trying to read, kitten." he murmured, his voice as smooth as ever.

But you saw the way his ears tinged just the faintest bit red, the way his fingers twitched against the page.

A giggle escaped you and you felt him exhale, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

Sylus shifted, pretending to be unaffected as he grabbed his phone to check what song was playing.

That’s when you saw it. Your gaze flickered to the screen and your teasing smile softened. The playlist title was clear as day.

“Songs That Remind Me of Y/N”

When Sylus noticed where you were looking, his thumb casually covered the screen, as if that would make you unsee it.

You grinned, warmth spreading through your chest. “You big softie.”

He scoffed but didn’t deny it. Instead, he flipped the page of his book, still looking entirely unfazed. But as you glanced down at him, you caught it—the barely-there smile playing at his lips.

Sylus’ free hand moved from your tight to intertwine with your own hand, before bringing it to his lips and plant a soft kiss on your knuckles.

୨ৎ── . Zayne

The clock struck midnight as Zayne stepped into the apartment, exhaustion weighing heavy on his broad shoulders. His dark hair was slightly disheveled from running his hands through it all day, and his sharp green eyes, usually so intense, were dulled with fatigue. But despite the ache in his muscles and the relentless pull of sleep, he made his way to the living room—because he had made a promise.

And Zayne never broke a promise to you.

You were sitting on the couch, papers spread out around the couch and the coffee table, biting your bottom lip in concentration. At the sound of his quiet footsteps, you looked up.

"You're home," you murmured, a mixture of relief and concern in your voice. "Zayne, you look exhausted."

"I'm fine," he said softly, his voice gentle despite the obvious tiredness in his tone. "Let’s get this done."

You sighed, but didn’t argue as he settled beside you, his broad frame sinking into the cushions. He leaned slightly toward you, your shoulders brushing as he picked up a form and started filling it out with his precise handwriting.

Minutes passed in comfortable silence. But with each passing moment, Zayne's pen moved slower, his eyes blinking sluggishly as he fought the exhaustion clawing at him.

Then, without warning, his head dipped forward before he caught himself.

You turned to him, your lips pressing together in fond exasperation. "Zayne…"

"I'm awake," he murmured, but his deep voice was quieter now, softer, laced with drowsiness.

Another few moments passed, and then—he slumped.

His head rested against your shoulder at first, his body leaning heavily into yours, before he finally slid down, laying his head on your lap with a deep exhale. His dark lashes fluttered once before his breathing evened out, the exhaustion finally winning.

You glanced down at him, your expression softening. Even in sleep, he looked serious, but there was a rare peace on his face that made her heart ache.

Gently, you adjusted his position, letting his head rest more comfortably on your lap. You ran your fingers through his black hair, smoothing it back, with a featherlight touch.

With a small smile, you picked up your pen again and continued working in silence, letting him recharge. After a while, you feel a big hand gently squeezing your leg. “You’re such a nice pillow, you know that?”

Zayne looks up at you with only one eye open and a tired but fond smile on his lips.

“Look who woke up! Hi sleepy head.” you tease him, caressing his cheek gently. “I’m almost over with these papers.”

He nodded as a small yawn escaped his lips. “I’m sorry, next time I’ll be more helpful.” he whispered softly before falling asleep on you once again.

୨ৎ── . Rafayel

Rafayel stretched out across the bed, his head resting on your lap, his eyes half-lidded with contentment. The soft fabric of your sweater brushed against his cheek as he exhaled slowly, savoring the warmth of your presence. But something was missing.

Your fingers weren’t running through his hair. You weren’t teasing him with a sly remark. You weren’t paying attention to him at all.

Instead, you were glued to your phone, your delicate fingers tapping away at the screen. Occasionally, you let out a quiet chuckle, further fueling his mild irritation.

Rafayel pouted. "Babe." No response.

He shifted slightly, pressing his forehead against your lap. "Baaaabe."

Still nothing.

A smirk curled at the edge of his lips as an idea formed. He nuzzled against you, his breath warm against your skin. Then, he let out the most dramatic sigh he could muster, his broad shoulders rising and falling with exaggerated defeat.

"Are you really going to ignore your very handsome, very lovely boyfriend, who just wants a little attention?" his voice was laced with playful desperation.

You hummed absently, still not looking up. "Mhm. Sounds tragic."

Rafayel gasped, clutching his chest as if you had mortally wounded him. "Tragic?! This is abuse, beloved. I'm starving for affection."

You snorted, shifting your head the slightest to peer down at him.

“Put your phone down..” he murmured, drawing patterns on your thighs with his fingers.

He was pouting, so you followed his instructions. “Yes?”

A grin tugs at the corner of his lips. “Hi gorgeous.” he smirks, as you grab his pretty face between your hands.

“You really become a brat if I don’t give you attention for five minutes, don’t you?” you chuckle, brushing your thumbs along his cheekbones.

A pleased rumble vibrated from his chest as he closed his eyes, leaning into her touch.

"Yes," Rafayel declared, looking up at you with the biggest, most pitiful puppy-dog eyes his irises could manage. "Because my beautiful, sarcastic, heartless partner is ignoring me."

You bit your lip, trying—and failing—to suppress a laugh. "You are so dramatic."

"And yet you love me," he shot back, smirking before going back to leaving pecks on her legs.

You feign a sigh, when you feel him playfully biting your skin.

“Ouch!” you immediately half-heartedly slap his forehead, while he laughs amused by his actions.

“Stop it or I’m gonna crush your skull.” you playfully glare at him, but he just shrugs.

“A nice way to leave this world, not gonna lie.”

He proceeded to nibble her thigh again, so you squeeze his head between your legs, chuckling.

“Now beg.” you challenge him, raising one eyebrow. But he simply cackled, pressing a slow, lazy kiss to your thigh. "You really think I’m gonna complain about this?"

୨ৎ── . Xavier

The door clicked shut softly and Xavier stepped inside, his frame carrying an air of quiet exhaustion. His light-colored hair was slightly tousled, his big blue eyes dimmer than usual, lost in some distant thought. He didn’t say a word.

You knew this version of him well. The one that withdrew into silence when something weighed on his mind. He was lost in his own thoughts, tangled up in emotions he didn’t know how to put into words.

So you didn’t ask. Didn’t press. Instead, you took his hand, gently tugging him toward the bed. Xavier hesitated for a second before letting you guide him, his shoulders relaxing just a little under your touch. You pulled him down until he was lying on top of you, his head resting against your lap as you softly ran your hands through his hair.

With a small smile, you let your fingers drift from his hair down to his back, as you began tracing invisible shapes against the fabric of his shirt. At first, you just doodled—little swirls, hearts, nonsense patterns—letting him feel your presence without forcing him to talk.

Then, slowly, you spelled out the words.

I love you.

A heartbeat passed. Then another. You felt his breath hitch ever so slightly, his tense shoulders easing as if a weight had been lifted. So you kept going, tracing a small heart at the end.

Xavier shifted, turning his head just enough so he could glance up at you, his deep blue eyes no longer clouded. A soft, almost bashful smile ghosted his lips. Then, without warning, he rolled over, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you closer in a way that was both shy and desperate.

His face was buried against your neck now, and you could feel his breath warm against your skin. Finally, he spoke—his voice quiet, but steady.

"…Again," he murmured.

You blinked. "Again?"

He nodded against you, his grip tightening slightly. A soft laugh escaped your lips before you resumed your gentle tracing of sweet nothings and hearts.

୨ৎ── . Caleb

Caleb sighed dramatically as he rested his back against the couch, his broad frame comfortably settled between your legs on the plush carpet. Your fingers worked gently through his thick brown hair, separating strands to weave into intricate braids. Every now and then, you’d clip a tiny butterfly or flower pin into place, giggling to yourself at how utterly adorable he looked.

He loved this. The feeling of your hands in his hair, your presence surrounding him. But there was one small problem.

He couldn't sit still.

His hands roamed absentmindedly, his fingers lightly tracing over the soft skin of your thighs. The warmth of your legs bracketing him was too tempting to ignore. Without thinking, he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her knee, then another, higher this time.

You huffed, tightening your grip on his hair just slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to warn him. "Caleb. Stop moving."

He grinned. "But you're so soft" he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing along the inside of your thigh now. "How am I supposed to resist?"

You rolled your eyes, though he couldn’t see it. "You're not supposed to try to resist. You're supposed to sit still and let me finish your hair."

Caleb chuckled, but he didn’t stop. His hands squeezed your legs gently, thumbs stroking the inside of your thighs in slow, teasing circles. "M’sorry, baby," he muttered, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. "You're just really distracting."

"I’m distracting?" You scoffed. "You’re the one squirming like a hyperactive puppy while I’m trying to make you pretty."

"Hm..pretty, huh?" He smirked, tilting his head back against your stomach, his striking purple eyes gazing up at you. "Does that mean you're finally admitting you like playing with my hair?"

You flicked his forehead, making him laugh. "I've always liked playing with your hair. I just don't like when you make it impossible to finish."

"Okay, okay." Caleb raised his hands in surrender. "I'll behave."

"Good." You started braiding again, your fingers moving deftly through his locks. For about ten seconds, he actually sat still. Then his lips ghosted over your thigh once more, this time leaving a soft bite.

"Caleb!" He burst out laughing, his shoulders shaking with amusement. "I tried to behave, I really did," he said between chuckles. But then he finally stopped moving around and let you finish your masterpiece. “Wanna grab something to eat later?”

“But it took me so long to make these braids.” you pout slightly, already sad at the idea of having to remove all the cute clips from his hair.

“Who said I’m gonna take them out? Everyone needs to see what an amazing job you did!”