#he needed the shadows as a crutch

[acourtofelriels]

As much as I love Azriel's shadows, I really love the idea of them slowly starting to fade when he finds happiness for the first time in his life. I think he hasn't truly felt joy in 500 years.

Imagine this: Azriel is finally happy, deep in his soul, and the old bruised parts of himself begin to heal and he can finally step out of the darkness. He is sad to see his shadowy friends go, but he finds that he no longer needs them, because he's found love and acceptance with Elain. His heart is full, so he says goodbye to the shadows one by one as they fade away, until the last one finally disappears. He turns, and sees Elain walking towards him, glowing like the sun. And not one shadow can be found on Azriel's smiling face.

[the-last-butter]

HC they first met a year or two after Yelan got her vision; post fighting the in abyss but when Kaeya was still navigating his identity from Kaeya, Brother and Right hand of Diluc Ragnvindr to Kaeya Alberich, Cavalry Captain and Quarter master of the Knights of Favonius.

[mr-1-2-3-4]

The real question is, would 7-11 help HiJack- @pampanope

[airosuiren]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔒𝔫𝔢𝔰 𝔚𝔥𝔬 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔦𝔠𝔢𝔡 𝔗𝔬𝔬 𝔏𝔞𝔱𝔢

A/N: Okay, so… You ever walk into a room where you were once unwanted, and every head turns because suddenly you’re everything they’re not? Yeah. That’s this chapter. 😌 This one’s for the readers who’ve leveled up in silence. Who were counted out too early, who walked out of the fire looking dangerous instead of damaged. This is [Y/N] stepping back into the space that broke them—and not breaking this time. Let’s be clear: this isn’t a reunion. This is a revelation. Grab your tea. Let’s shake a few foundations.

Thank You @arislia for this Idea!

And I'm sorry for not making this longer because I had this planned (I plan my series in google docs after tumblr deleted my old drafts). These will be shorter BUT, the next series I promise to make it longer!

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 1, 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 3

You weren’t supposed to stand out. That’s the irony. You had trained yourself to be unseen, unheard, unfelt—because the moment you started to feel, you started to hurt.

But when the League summoned their families to a secure location, the world you built in the shadows was forced into the light.

You arrived alone.

Lois had offered to fly with you. Clark had said they’d wait at the entrance. But you declined. You wanted them to see you walk in under your own power. No crutches. No borrowed names. Just you.

When you stepped through those doors, the reaction was immediate.

The Queens lit up like someone had flipped a switch. Ollie pulled you in for a hug, Thea waved you over, and even Dinah looked proud. Clark’s face softened. Lois’s arm went straight around your shoulder like it belonged there.

And the Batfamily?

They stared.

Not with joy. Not even with confusion.

They stared like you were a ghost. Like they were seeing something they’d buried come back to life and demand retribution.

You didn’t smile. You didn’t greet them. You turned away from them the way they once turned away from you.

Because if they wanted to pretend you never mattered, then they didn’t get to matter now.

Still, their eyes followed you.

And then the meetings started.

The League began dissecting the threat. Hackers. Leakers. Global-scale blackmail. Someone had infiltrated systems that were supposed to be airtight. It wasn’t just about identities anymore. It was about dismantling everything.

You knew how the media would spin it. You knew how Gotham’s elite would react. And most of all, you knew how fear worked when it had the public in a chokehold.

So you spoke.

You laid out a counter-strategy like you’d done it a thousand times. Because you had. In Metropolis. In Star City. Behind the scenes of political campaigns and corporate power moves. You’d sharpened your teeth while the people who threw you away forgot you even had a bite.

The room listened.

Clark deferred to you. Lois backed you. Oliver vouched for you.

Bruce stayed silent.

But you caught the flicker in his expression when the others nodded along. When Diana praised your foresight. When J’onn said you understood humanity better than most.

The others? Dick tried to pretend he wasn’t surprised. Tim’s stare was surgical, dissecting you in real time. Damian looked like he’d bitten glass.

And the new girl? She finally looked at you.

With fear.

You weren’t the quiet reject anymore. You were something else. Something dangerous. Something they didn’t make—and couldn’t control.

Later, in private, Alfred brought you tea. You almost cried at the gesture.

Almost.

He said nothing about the past. Just, “You’ve grown.”

You wanted to scream, I had to.

But you just nodded.

The truth was, they needed you now. And you were going to help. Not because they deserved it.

Because the world did.

And even in the darkest parts of you, that mattered more than revenge.

But they would never forget this version of you.

Not the one they raised.

The one they abandoned.

The one who rose anyway.

𝕭𝖔𝖓𝖚𝖘! (𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚊𝚢 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝙻𝚎𝚏𝚝)

(this is kind of a bonus I thought of while writing...)

It had been late. Quiet.

The kind of quiet that seeped into your bones. The kind of quiet that made your footsteps echo like they didn’t belong.

You were fourteen. Maybe fifteen. You don’t remember the exact age—only the feeling. Raw. Unseen. On the edge of breaking.

Your ribs ached. Your shoulder throbbed. You’d taken a hit meant for Damian—an instinct, not even a choice—and landed hard on a rooftop ledge. Rolled too close to the edge. Limped all the way back. No call of concern. No one on comms. No “Are you okay?” Just silence.

It should’ve earned you a lecture at worst.

Instead, it earned you her.

The new girl.

Barely two weeks in.

Bright. Perfect. Adored.

You limped into the Batcave, helmet tucked under your arm, dried blood crusted over your eyebrow. You expected quiet, maybe concern, maybe just the acknowledgment that you existed.

What you got?

Laughter.

She was in your seat. At the computer. Wearing your gear.

The armor you'd trained in. The one Alfred helped custom-fit after months of trials. The one you’d stitched, cried in, bled into.

And she wore it like it had never belonged to you at all.

Tim leaned over her shoulder, pointing something out on the screen. Damian hovered close behind. Dick was saying something about how “clean” she moved in the field.

And Bruce?

Didn’t even look up.

You stood there, waiting. Expecting. Begging, in that small, desperate way you told yourself you’d outgrown.

Then, finally—his eyes flicked toward you.

And his voice cut through the cave like a scalpel.

“You’re benched. Permanently.”

Just like that. Like a weather report. Like an afterthought. Like you were a dented weapon tossed in a drawer.

You opened your mouth—“But—”—

And then Alfred was there.

With a tray.

Tea and towels. The same ritual. The same script.

But this time, he didn’t meet your eyes.

Not once.

You watched him walk past you like a ghost.

And then—then—came the final blow.

The girl in your gear turned to Bruce, tilting her head with practiced innocence.

“Was I a mistake too?” she asked softly.

A test. You knew it was a test. A way to secure her place. But you didn’t expect the knife that followed.

Bruce didn’t even hesitate.

“No,” he said. “But she was.”

He didn’t mean for you to hear it.

But you did.

And the sound it made in your chest wasn’t a crack. It was a shatter.

You stood there for maybe another full minute.

No one turned. No one asked you to stay. No one noticed the way your fingers curled so tightly around your helmet that the edge dug into your palm and drew blood.

You went to your room. Packed your gear. One piece at a time.

You stood in the center of that tiny space—bland walls, no posters, a bed that had never felt like yours—and realized you’d been living in a house, not a home.

You left the suit on the bed.

Left the tracker on the desk.

Left your voice in the hallway.

And shut the door behind you.

You never opened it again.

A/N: Whew. They called the meeting to fix a crisis—and walked into their biggest one yet: the ghost they buried came back golden, angry, and smarter than all of them combined. And let’s talk about that power shift. She didn’t gloat. She didn’t lash out. She just existed loudly in the place that tried to erase her. And they couldn’t handle it. This wasn’t revenge. This was justice with restraint. Power without apology. Presence that didn’t ask for permission. Next chapter? Let’s make them earn the right to say your name again.

—Your eyes-still-wet, hands-still-shaking, soft-but-spiteful author 🖤💫

Taglist: @feral-childs-word, @trashlanternfish360, @astro-girly1, @suneaterscape, @thatcatladywrites, @arislia, @kittzu, @ottjhe, @tinybrie, @wpdarlingpan, @ryuushou, @simpingpandas, @lettucel0ver, @moonxmio, @kneelforloki, @sirenetheblogger, @xzmickeyzx

Let me know if I missed someone!

[aventurineswife]

Can I request a Jing yuan with an injured s/o, like a broken foot or arm or something and like how he would help them out and do things for them. I’ve been thinking of that bc I lowkey fractured my foot snd sprained my ankle and times have been tough with crutches and a cast💔💔😔

In the Arms of the General

Summary: After suffering an injury that leaves you struggling with crutches and a cast, you try to push through on your own. However, Jing Yuan refuses to let you bear the burden alone. With his usual lazy charm and surprising tenderness, he insists on taking care of you—whether you like it or not.

Tags: Jing Yuan x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Established Relationship, Injured Reader, Protective, Soft Jing Yuan, Domestic Bliss, Lighthearted Banter.

A/N: I hope you get well soon! 😭🙏

Pain was an unwelcome companion, yet it clung to you like a stubborn shadow. The simple act of moving had turned into an ordeal, each step sending a dull ache up your leg. Your foot—swollen, wrapped tightly in bandages, encased in a cast—was a reminder of the unfortunate misstep that had led you here.

Jing Yuan, ever the observant general, had noticed immediately when you tried to hide your discomfort. You had insisted it was fine, that you could manage, but the weight of his golden gaze told you he wasn’t convinced.

"Must you be so stubborn?" he sighed, arms crossed as he watched you struggle with your crutches. His voice held that familiar lazy drawl, but his eyes—sharp as ever—betrayed his concern.

"I'm not stubborn," you muttered, trying to maneuver onto the couch without making it seem like a battle against gravity. "I just don't want to be a burden."

Jing Yuan chuckled, a low, warm sound. "A burden? My dear, if anything, this is an opportunity."

You blinked. "An opportunity for what?"

He leaned closer, a teasing glint in his eyes. "For me to finally make myself useful to you. You do so much on your own—it’s about time you let someone else take care of you."

Before you could protest, he had already scooped you up effortlessly, cradling you in his arms as if you weighed nothing. Heat crept up your neck. "Jing Yuan—!"

He only hummed in amusement, settling you onto the couch with utmost care. "See? Much easier this way."

You huffed, but the warmth of his touch lingered. His hands, though strong and calloused from years of battle, were incredibly gentle as they adjusted the pillows behind you. The moment you tried to reach for the blanket, he tsked softly and draped it over you himself, making sure you were comfortably tucked in.

"I can—"

"Ah, ah, no arguing," he chided, pressing a single finger to your forehead. "Doctors' orders. And mine."

You sighed in defeat, though you couldn’t hide the fond smile tugging at your lips. "You're really going to fuss over me this much?"

"Absolutely." He knelt beside you, eyes unwavering as he took your injured foot into his hands, adjusting the bandages with practiced ease. "You think I would allow my most precious person to suffer alone?"

Your breath hitched slightly at his words, and he noticed—of course he did. He always noticed.

Jing Yuan chuckled again, softer this time, his fingers brushing over your ankle with care. "Rest, little sparrow. I'll handle everything. Meals, paperwork, anything you need—just leave it to me."

You arched a brow. "Even your own work?"

His expression turned downright mischievous. "Well, I never said I'd be efficient at it."

You laughed despite yourself, the pain momentarily forgotten. Maybe being injured wasn’t entirely terrible—not when it meant being doted on by Jing Yuan.

Maybe, just maybe, you’d let yourself rely on him a little longer.

[brief-artist]

Based off my personal outfit from today. When Shadow doesn't have his weighed shoes he needs a crutch to get around. Due to his mobility issues.

[theorist-fox]

Fair trade

John Price x Reader

Cross posted from AO3.

This one shot deals with heavy topics such as emotional manipulation, emotional abuse from family, and self-objectification.

I'm begging you to read the tags before pursuing the story. Thank you so much for taking care of yourself first. 🦊

If you're looking for some aftersex comfort, recommending this by @/karlachismylife. 🧡

Summary: John helps you out of the toxic pattern your family has woven around you, and finds how utterly gorgeous you are behind it. He cuts your strings, and loves you the way you deserve.

18+

Word count: 10k CW: smut (cunnilingus, blow jobs, sex as a form of self-harm, sex as a way to feel useful), heavy angst, hurt/comfort, dubcon if you squint.

Masterlist 🦊

“No, we can’t come over, darling.”

To have a life planned out must be a dream. No worries nor fears, because everything is already outlined—a step-by-step guide, given to you at birth. A path, a purpose.

To give is your purpose.

It’s been ever since before you hit the eighteen mark; the birthday being only a threshold that signed your legal independence.

But you’ve always been, haven’t you? Shadowed by bigger problems ever since you were a small thing because there wasn't trouble that mattered less than you did.

The difference being that before you were shielded by your naïveté, by the bleeding heart they’ve carefully built for you, so you’d bend and break pliantly, even willingly at times, without ever realizing.

Now you're an adult, they'd implied.

Now they can use you at your full potential, and you won’t even put up a fight. You won’t set boundaries, because this is all you’ve ever learned. This is all they’ve ever taught you. Their perfect mold, kneeling in perfect obedience.

But how much can one take in a lifetime?

“Thanks for the help, love. I’ll call you tomorrow.” 

“Will you?”

“Of course.”

But staring at the phone won’t make it ring.

When you’ve never had a moment for yourself but plenty of time to dedicate to others—where do you draw the line of this so-called purpose, then?

“Happy birthday sweetheart.”

“It’s next week, mum.”

“Oh. I must have mixed it up.”

This goal—this agonized prize, towering at the finish line you’re desperately running to, the one defined by your family the moment your first cry pierced the air—what is it, exactly?

It’s a cascade of praises. It’s a shower of love that reawakens you from your torpor like a bucket of ice-cold water. It's abrupt but somewhat needed until it slowly becomes fresh instead of freezing, and it hydrates your skin and soothes the thirst. You feel rejuvenated, coming out of your lethargy, and alive and thriving and—

It stops.

Your fifteen minutes of unbridled, limitless love just snatched away in spare seconds.

And you’re parched again. Sometimes, they leave you wanting until you’re on your knees. Sometimes, they never give it back.

And so, the questions arise—what happens when you’re not needed anymore?

What happens when the calls plummet?

When the visits diminish until there are none?

When you're a ghost haunting your own life because your purpose is slowly vanishing. When that prize stands in the distance as a rushing fountain of praises and kindness, but you've already given a hand, an arm, your legs, your voice, your heart. What then?

How do you move, exactly, if there are no limbs to which attach the strings? How will you speak, if they’re not shaping your voice?

How does your puppeteer lift you from the floor? Your ventriloquist—how will it force you to agree to every demand?

“You... met without me?”

“Sweetheart, we thought you were busy.”

“You could’ve asked.”

“You would’ve said no.”

But you wouldn’t have. You’re not even sure you can say ‘no’ to them.

Is there someone who will hoist you up, when you’re nothing more than a torso, and take you to the finish line?

“Uh, darling, mind calling later?”

“I’m not feeling fine, I was hoping—“

“I’m busy, love.”

A therapist for your mum.

A crutch for your dad.

An advocate for your brother, but you’re no one to them.

A child, once. A person, now.

A notification on their phone. A Google reminder of a birthday.

A missed call. An excuse.

A vacant shape in a family photo. A memory, then nothing.

Raised to serve. But what happens when there’s no one to serve?

“What you’re doing to me is not fair.”

“I don’t like that attitude. Don’t forget how much we did for you.”

Your hands are tight around the steering wheel. White knuckled fists and creaking leather. The car smells of stale tobacco, cigarettes you’ve smoked with your offhand limp out of the car window, then stubbed in the portable ashtray.

"We love you, of course we do. How could you ask that?"

It's raining but your window's rolled down, a ciggie snug between two fingers. Elbow propped on the car door, arm hanging out. The sleeve of your sweater is soaked, and the cigarette is sodden. You don't even notice it when you bring it to your lips and take a drag. Nothing fills your lungs.

It’s fine.

It's a habit. It's autopilot. You go. You exist.

“It really doesn’t feel like it. You haven’t called in weeks.”

“It’s just—we’re people too. We’re busy.”

“You’re not busy for my brother.”

“He’s—you’re different, darling.” You’re used. We’ve consumed you.

It’s a feeling of emptiness that spills out of every hole like heavy smoke, clouding your senses. A husk that billows dark tendrils from its eyes, moves mechanically like an alien imitating a human being.

It's fake. You're a dummy. Unhuman. A thing.

“I just need your help. I—I’m not fine. I’m not asking for much. Just an evening toge—”

"So much is happening right now. You can deal with it on your own, love.”

You close the car door once you've parked it in the garage. Up the stairs you go, dragging your feet on every step.

“Like you’ve always done.”

Would this world exist even if you weren’t in it? Would these stairs lead to your apartment, if you didn’t inhabit it?

Is your flat even yours? Sure, you’ve paid for it. The party you threw after your signature was placed on the contract is still a cherished memory.

But what were you even celebrating? Four walls. A roof over your head. A bed to kip.

It’s a lot, you’re aware. Not everyone can say they own all that. But do you? 

They’re things. Can you own things?

Surely, you are owned. By them.

But you’re not even sure you need things. You can’t need, because things don’t need. And what are you, if not a thing? Because things are used, not humans. Humans fight back, eventually. Humans hold their pride dear, it's the only character that separates them from animals, from meat. You never bit back, not once. So what does that make you, if not theirthing?

Your purpose is not a choice you made, it’s theirs. You have to give—that is why they made you.

You own, so you can give them.

You earn, so you can give back.

Because who’s given you a roof when you couldn’t afford it yourself? And the food in your belly?

Darling, it wasn’t for free. You were expensive to raise. You were costly to craft, to mold, to perfect.

But they haven’t called. No one has. No one will. 

The master left the strings—and what of you, now? Do you just lie limply on the floor, waiting for the next hand that'll hoist you up?

And if they don’t call to ask from you, how do you know you’re doing fine? How do you know if the finish line is close when they took your eyes already? How do you ask for help, if you don’t have a voice?

But that was the point. Their goal. They own you, and without them, you’re nothing but a heap of wood, infested with termites. Wooden rods on the floor, nylon strings cut short. You’ll grovel and beg, they’ll croon at you in mockery, bleeding you dry, but it will be enough for you—anything would be enough for you.

You unlock the door. John hears and his head peeks from the kitchen.

“Hi love,” he rumbles, and you feel it shaking your heart.

Does he need you?

John Price is a captain of the special forces who has gone through hell and back. He's witnessed things you've only heard from the mouths of journalists or read in black-and-white papers, and he came out of each one of them unscathed. Strong. Resilient.

He doesn’t need you. 

“Sortin’ out dinner,” he adds, and returns behind the wall that separates the living room from the cooking area. “You’re gonna love this pasta, I’m telling you.”

Of course, he doesn't need you.

The house is pristine. He takes care of it while you’re at work since he’s off deployment. He’s going to be home for a while now, a handful of months. That’s a good thing, you miss him when he leaves.

It’s you who needs him. But you can’t need, so how does this work, exactly?

How do you explain that hole in your stomach that relentlessly craves to be filled? That makes you want to curl on the floor. Turn into dust and seep through the cracks of the hardwood.

Disappear. Invisible. Paper-thin.

Because maybe you're tired of being needed. Perhaps you want to break through that mindset and start needing something.

You chastise yourself for even concocting the thought.

You stand stock still at the door. You hear nothing but the blood rushing in your ears and John moving pans around the kitchen.

You see his head at the doorway again.

“Love?”

Your eye twitches, but you don’t answer.

He doesn’t need you. Then why is he here?

There are plenty of people out there who’d love to bend for him. Mouths he can kiss. Holes he can fill.

That’s what people are, no?

No. That's what you are.

You’ll make him need you. You’ll show him that you’re fundamental, not just another hole. That you cannot be replaced, because you can't afford to lose him. You can't.

It’s selfish, it is.

You cannot be selfish, it’s not what you were taught. But you will. Just today, just now. The first apparent tear into the careful pattern threaded by your family.

But it's not really a hole, is it? If you're carving it to escape a trap, only to fall back into another one of your own making.

You hurriedly toe off your wet shoes and walk with purpose to the kitchen, dropping your bag on the floor as you do. He quirks a brow at you and your silence, but his face soon morphs into sudden confusion when you come to stand in front of him and drop to your knees.

You know how to do it—how to make people smile.

Your empathy is unmatched. You read people's tics, their quirks. Gauge them from the way they move their lips, the words they use, the way they look at you.

And John—oh, he loves how you work with your mouth.

And if he needs your mouth, then by extension, he needs you.

Your hands palm his thighs as you flutter your lashes up to him. He's forced to lean back against the kitchen counter, but he's not looking at you the way he usually does—not with his lidded blue eyes, heavy and wanton.

John looks dubious instead. Even flinches when you press your cheek to the crotch of his jeans, stroking the fabric to your skin. Denim’s rough, and it especially hurts when the plump of your cheek catches the zipper’s teeth.

Good. 

Let him take. And let it hurt.

“What’s goin’ on." He states, doesn't ask.

Please, take.

You’re already working through the button and the zipper when you answer, fingers shaking as you do. “I wanna suck your cock.”

Now, John wouldn’t normally complain, but you sound much different from the other times in which you actually do want to suck his cock.

He hums, allowing you to palm him through his briefs, gently but firmly pressing your hand where he’s still soft. You nose him through the cotton, flattening your tongue against his dick—you can feel it twitch under the muscle. Good, means his body is responding how you want him to.

His hands curl painfully tight around the lip of the counter.

It’s so silent except for your heaving breaths warming up his length and the buzzing fire on the stove.

You place tender kisses as you feel him harden under your lips.

He's looking at you to try and gauge the reason behind all this. It's clear to him that you're not being your usual self, there is something in your eyes that tickles him in the wrong place. You know he knows—you know he's gathered something's wrong. He’s ever so attentive, capturing every minimal change in the wrinkles of your face.

You're so akin to him when it comes to that.

You don't give him time to ponder for long, though. You take his cock out of his briefs and force it into your mouth.

John knocks his head back against the cupboard and fixes his eyes to the ceiling, wide open. A heavy breath leaves him languidly. His cock chubs up as it sits heavy on your tongue, and you can feel it fill up your mouth.

“Christ.”

Yes. It’s what you want, to hear him lose himself in you.

You start slowly, pumping your hand at the base along with the movements of your lips, mindful of keeping your teeth out of the way. Tilting your head sideways, you let the tip of his cock push against your cheek while your tongue lavishes the malleable skin around its length.

Your eyes swivel upward, and you're met with the view of his corded neck, tight and straining as he refuses to look at you.

No. 

He needs to know it’s you.

He needs to understand that you can give this whenever he wants, that you're not just another mouth. That no one else is as versed as you are when you eat him up. Your tongue knows how to follow the vein along the velvet of his skin, all the way to the slit on the tip. Your hand knows how to cup his balls and brush the seam in the middle—how he shudders, each time you do.

He needs to know that.

He can’t let you go. Not him too.

He has to hoist the limbless torso that you are towards the finish line, where you’ll get your caresses and your praises and your prize: the crumbs of love you’ll lap until your famished heart stops rumbling.

So, you drift your free hand upward and thread your fingers through the curls on his pelvis, gently grazing the skin with your nails. Then, you drum the pads on his soft belly, feeling them dip into the flesh and hit the harder muscles underneath. You splay your palm in the middle of his stomach, where you can feel the blood rushing madly as his heart pumps all the same.

It’s enough for you, the bodily reaction to the softness of your mouth.

But why isn’t he looking at you?

Recognize that is me. That I can make you feel good. That you need me, that you still do.

In the desperation of the moment, you opt for the best you can do: you take him deeper. The hand at the base of his cock moves to flatten on his thigh, and you carelessly widen your jaw to take more, and more, and more.

You flatten your tongue against the underside of his shaft and then twirl it around, all the while hollowing your cheeks without ever daring to take your eyes off him. That way, if he decides to look down at you, he'll find you teary-eyed and wanting—perfectly on your knees, like a devotee, no matter how artificially placed.

Your lips slide so easily up and down his cock, coating it with saliva, teardrops and precum. They swell so beautifully around it like a plump peach being ravaged; he always flatters you for it. Calls you beautiful when you suck him off so fervently, eliciting choked moans from you as you drink up the praise. 

You dive in and the head tips at the back of your throat, causing you to gag around it. The muscles of your neck clench and he curses under his breath. Your eyes water in joy and overexertion when he looks down at you at the sudden change in pace. You don’t care if it hurts, let him bruise your throat.

You can give him more. You can give him everything. 

You push even further until you're nuzzling against the coarse hair on his pelvis. You choke around his cock, a weak and wet cough that causes drool to dribble at the corners of your mouth. You pull back then, to take a wet gasp around his length, and then push forward to flush your nose to his crotch once more.

The tips of your knees hurt; the tiled floor in the kitchen is hard and merciless against the bone. It'll leave your joints aching and rough. They'll pop when you stand up, they'll hurt tomorrow when you go to work.

Good.

The knot in your stomach is ever so tight, seeking to be released and let go. It contorts in wantonness and, you’ll realize later, mortification. Just because you’re used to giving yourself so freely in exchange for crumbs, it doesn't mean it gets easier every time—to watch yourself bend on a whim, to see your pride shatter into even tinier pieces.

You feel his hand thread through your hair and tears fall down your cheek because yes, now he’s going to fuck your face like you want him to.

Use me. Treat me for what I am. Become the fucking puppet master. Take my fucking strings now that they’ve dropped them and guide me through this fucking shit I was left in.

But instead, he pulls you back, his cock escaping your mouth with the same ease you got it in.

A ragged breath, thick and wet, leaves your lips as soon as they’re free. Your coughs turn into a hack, as you stare at the glisten of your spit coating his shaft. A string of thick saliva tethers your mouth to it. Tears roll down your cheeks as you recollect your breath, nostrils flaring in the attempt to take in the air you’ve deprived yourself of.

“What’s this.”

You swallow down the liquid pooling in your throat, salty precum and viscous saliva like tar, gluing your tongue to the roof of your mouth.

“Let me.” You croak. The thought that you might sound pathetic doesn’t even cross your mind.

His brows twitch, but he keeps his voice even. “No. What’s going on? Spill it.”

Your pleading look morphs into a glare. Bloodshot eyes, tears, and snot. Spit and cum. Clumped lashes and runny mascara.

Whore. 

Your chest heaves, not from the strain, but from being caught red-handed, and you don't know how to behave.

No one ever asks why you do it, they’re simply glad you do.

You’re helping, aren’t you? It’s what you were crafted for, brick by brick, bone by bone. Made to change like a chameleon based on other’s necessities.

It’s what you are—so let me do it.

“I want to suck your cock.” You say as crudely as you can manage. “I want you to come down my throat and then I want you to bend me over the table and fuck me until you’re empty.”

He runs his tongue over his teeth, still holding your head by a handful of hair. His fingers aren’t tight, but your scalp stings nonetheless.

“Can do.” He shrugs. “Need to know why, first.”

You’re a heap of wood once again, piled up at his feet. Your limbs are jointless, just lying there, waiting to be thrown in the fire to rekindle its flame, so everyone else can be warm at your expense.

A broken puppet can still be used for other purposes until it's ash.

There's nothing in you, if not how wonderfully soft your mouth would be if only he'd let you wrap it around him again.

“Because I want to.”

He curls his nose, mustache following the stretch. “Hardly.”

“I do.”

He tugs at your hair and says your name in such a commanding manner that you can’t help but deflate. The glare in his eyes snuffs the defiant flame in yours.

"Please let me," you plead, and the way you sound is nothing short of degrading.

You don't care. You don't care if you reduce yourself to a puddle of pleas. You know you're not supposed to need anything, but you need this.

Your hands are sticky with dried spit and precum when they grab his cock again. You start pumping it fiercely, trying to make his orgasm hit earlier than what you had planned. He holds your head out of reach, meaning you can't wrap your lips around it—you'll have to make do with your hands.

Slut. 

But it’s okay, you’ll be a slut, if it helps him realize that you can make him feel good with everything you have to offer. That he won’t find another as pliant and willing as you are. That if he wants to be served, you will be his thrall.

Everything you own, it’s so you can give him.

Everything you earn, it’s so you can give back.

He can mold you. He can break you and put you back together the way he likes. He can craft a new puppet out of you, you’ll hand him the strings. He’ll take you to the finish line and love you, then.

Only then.

You see his mouth curl, bile on his tongue, as he reins in his own lust. There’s something wrong about you tonight, and he’s starting to understand what it is.

And so, he leaves your hair, favoring the softness of your cheek. He thumbs the plump of your cheekbone and then rubs a line along your lower lip.

It's then that you take your chance and rush forward, planting a kiss on the tip of his cock. Tongue out to leave kitten licks at the drops of precum you are squeezing out of him with your hands, knowing he likes those tiny shocks it sends up his spine.

And just when you think he’s relented to your pleas, just when you have your lips plump and shiny, ready to wrap around the flushed head of his cock, he takes ahold of your chin and tips your head back.

“I love you,” he croaks.

Words he’s said already, but not as often as he should’ve. It’s his fault, he grievously considers, if you think you have to be on your knees to receive them.

He realizes it when you shock into a stop. When your eyes widen a tick too much.

Blind idiot he is.

"I love you," he says again, more firmly this time.

Your face screws up as if you're trying to wrap your head around this language you don't know. You haven't done much to reach that prize—if anything, you’ve done the opposite. You’ve edged him until the head of his cock has turned an angry red that must be aggravating to handle, impossible to quench without the welcoming warmth of your mouth or that of your cunt.

You blink up at him. Tears fall down your cheeks. “But you need to come.”

If you’d have shot him, he would’ve handled the ache much better than this.

"I need nothing." He supplies gently, tracing the corner of your lips with his thumb, getting rid of the mess he's inadvertently made of your mouth.

His statement hangs in the air, stale and musty and threatening, not as sweet as he thinks. It clogs your nose and tightens your chest, curdling your blood into frozen lumps. The noises around suddenly feel deafening: the bubbles popping on the surface of the boiling water, the wet sound of your skin unsticking from his cock as your hands leave it, their thud as they fall in your lap.

If you’re not needed, then what are you?

Carefully, he tucks himself back into his briefs as he kneels to your level.

He whispers your name and cups your cheek as he does. "I love you.”

You know he does, but stuck in the web woven by your family, you always thought it was a purely transactional sentiment. A fair trade.

He loves you because you kneel prettily in front of the sofa.

He loves you because you let him stuff you up and fill you to the brim with his come at the snap of his fingers.

He loves you because you're a lovely addition to his arm when you doll up for his work ceremonies or other functions.

He loves you because you cook a mean Sunday roast when he comes back from deployment.

And you love him because he's John, because what's there not to love.

With gentle blue eyes framed by bushy eyebrows, and droopy eyelids that give his often scowling look a gentler feel to it. The honey smatter of freckles on his nose, and the sharply trimmed beard on his jaw. Plump rosy lips, how soft they feel when he places them on yours, juxtaposing with the prickly ends of his mustache.

His encompassing heart and the way he's enlarged it for you to fit better, so you're all comfortable and warm in his life.

John gently presses his lips on your forehead as he speaks softly, "I love you."

Your eyes flutter closed. A heaving breath again, one that stutters as you try to inhale it. Fat tears fill the cracks in your lips and flow down your tongue.

John brushes the back of his knuckles across your cheeks. “Don’t need all this to love you.” And then he looks in your eyes, searching for any sign of skepticism, and regrettably finds a considerable amount of it. “You knowthat. Right, love?”

No, you don’t know.

But you don’t have the gall to tell him. Suddenly, it hits how pathetic you look. On your knees, begging for him to stuff your mouth with his cock so you can feel useful, so he can shower you with love once you give him a reason to keep you.

You kneel there helplessly, deflated.

Useless.

You gesture with your hands at him, feeling how limply they hang from your wrists as if you've never used them on your own in the first place.

There is very little you can do to humiliate yourself further, and yet you manage.

“But you need me.” You cry, as your face scrunches in a pain so deeply settled that John has no clue how to work around it. “I need you to need me.”

However, he tries. He tracks your tears with his thumb, stopping their fall right above your cheekbone.

"Don't need you, love." He says tenderly. "I want you.”

He shifts a little closer and cradles your face in both hands so that you cannot avoid his eyes even if you tried.

“Want you.” He breathes hoarsely, “Ain’t with you ’cause I need someone. I don’t need anyone, and I don’t want just anyone—I want you. ‘Specially when you’re not on your knees.”

Your nose is stuffy, and you can’t breathe right. Suddenly, you feel so unbelievably tired. Your face plops in his hands, and the humiliation feels ten times worse. It's hard, however, to interject with a word that would make him understand how deep this pattern runs.

He doesn’t let you, but only because he knows already.

"Like you when you get all chuffed ‘bout your plants sproutin’." He drawls. "Love it when you hop into bed and shove your cold feet against my thighs ‘cause I'm much warmer. Or when you make love to me. But not when you—when you pull this."

His voice is heavy. Your heart aches because you're so tightly wrapped in deadly silk, stuck in your family's cobweb, that you've never noticed how it must pain him as well, to see you reduce yourself to this.

"Bloody hell, love." He sighs, furrowing his brows. "I love you, yeah? I don't need—whatever this is. I don't want whatever this is.”

John's eyes close, his face screwing up in that way that tells you he's thinking. He shakes his head subtly, and you're afraid you've gone and done it now. He's going to go because he already has so much shit to deal with that your puzzled self would only be another broken case to add to his file.

But alas, dread doesn't even manage to settle on your heavy heart that he locks you in place with his blues.

One of his hands drifts to the back of your head. He leans in, enough for you to smell the tobacco on his breath.

You swallow dryly, lips parted in shaky pants. Eyes lidded and tired, nose scrunching in sniffles.

John presses a gentle kiss on your lips, no more than a peck. And then another one, and another, and another, until you can’t discern whether it’s the salt of your tears or that of his skin.

Your breathing becomes heavier and it mingles with his own when he comes to rest his forehead on yours.

"I love you," he murmurs tirelessly.

The hand on your nape guides you to him, and he kisses you again. Unlike the previous ones, this is bolder, yet tender all the same. He holds you in place while the rest of the world falls into impeccable silence.

The gentle smacking of lips is all you can hear, and even if only for a moment, it manages to silence the voice in your head—a mimicry of your family’s cries, their lying coos, their grating, consuming, plastic love. 

You feel yourself uncoil under John’s touch and the deft work of his tongue on yours. Hands in your lap, you abandon yourself to him, but it's a different type of surrender; your eyes close and all your feelings, all your energy, flow into that kiss.

“I-I love you,” you venture, breathy voice brushing his lips.

John inhales sharply, and he realizes this might be the first time you said it because you wanted to and not because you had to.

His hand drifts from your cheek to your shoulder, down to your stomach and he guides you to lie with your back against the kitchen floor. His palms flatten next to your head.

Normally, John would have you on a fort of pillows and blankets and would never compromise about it—constantly making sure you’re as comfortable as they come as he ravages you. Beforehand, you'd get ready in the bathroom, having prepped yourself to a T. Shaved and moisturized and seasoned like a prized pig for him to consume, wearing the prettiest, skimpiest lace to frame the petals of your perfectly waxed pussy.

Because it’s a fair trade; he treats you like a princess, so you can be his pretty whore.

Yet tonight you think he won’t do any of that. There is a gentleness in his kisses that, while not uncommon, certainly feels unique. Your hands hover between your chest and his, unsure of where to place them. You hope he’ll guide you through this too, manhandle you into position like he always does.

But again, he doesn’t.

He barely feels like John at all. His behavior is so different that if you closed your eyes, anyone could be in his place right now. But that is only your perception, isn't it? Because John has always been tender with you, you were just too busy thinking about how to repay his kindness instead of living in the moment.

His lips leave yours only to busy themselves with the skin on your cheek, then down your chin and to your neck. You gasp at the goosebumps, and he stops.

His face comes into view and it is so flushed you think he must be collecting all his blood right in the apples of his cheeks.

“Okay, love?”

You blink. Your mouth tastes more like his cigars than tears and precum. It makes you feel less dirty, even if what you did (and have been doing your whole life) hasn’t changed.

You swallow thickly as he gazes into your eyes.

“Y-yeah, just—” A crease forms between your brows, “I should—I left you like that, and—”

He hushes you.

"No need to bother 'bout me." He reassures you.

He presses a kiss between your brows, smoothing the lines your concern has formed. You close your eyes, focusing on how warm he is in contrast to the tiles pressing against your back.

“Tell me what you want.” He breathes. As if you have an answer for that.

His kisses trail down your face and your neck, turning more open and wet. The rising gooseflesh, however, does nothing to stop your mind from running miles ahead.

What do you want? 

You must've been posed that question before because it's such a basic one. You try to think of contests in which one might ask that, such as your birthdays, or celebrations, or a teacher wondering what is it that you desire in the future: a career, a husband or a wife, a family.

But to desire is to choose, and you don’t think you’ve ever been given that possibility.

Hence why you're rattled, aghast. On your back on the floor, with John sucking love bites on your neck.

You give the answer you know will make him content.

“Fuck me.”

You’ll moan like a porn star. You’ll dig your pretty nails into his back so he can show off the marks you left on him with pride. You'll pretend an orgasm if yours is taking too long, so that his ego will be kept fed and full, and he’ll still find you appealing. So that he can go tell his friends and comrades how good you are, in and out of bed. What a gem. Wife material.

He’ll doll you up and tie the strings around your wrists. Make you dance and you will—coy smile, pretty eyes and all. A new puppet out of you, just for his sake.

John stills, and he shifts uncomfortably above you. His mouth is suddenly next to your ear, and he leaves a kiss at your jaw hinge.

“You don’t want me to fuck you.” He murmurs, and you swear there is a hint of guilt in the way he says it.

You feel dizzy at the thought of being caught. It’s scary to have your thoughts so out in the open after having spent an entire lifetime locking them up.

John nips at the shell of your ear. You venture with your hands and place them on his chest, still unsure of whether you want him closer or far, far away.

"Can I make you feel good?" He asks hoarsely. Your body responds naturally and it makes heat pool in your lower stomach.

You suck in a breath, eyes fluttering closed at the idea his words have instilled in you.

You reply the only way you know. “You don’t have to ask.”

“Yes.” He says forcefully, almost as if he wanted the answer to stick to your brain for the days to come. The switch is so abrupt your heart skips a beat. “Yes, I have to ask. Of course, I have to ask.”

He props himself up, hips snug between your thighs. He could roll them against yours and seek the friction his chubbed up cock must physically need after you teased it.

But he doesn’t, and it makes you feel both inadequate and nervous.

“So, answer me, love.” He rumbles, as his pupils dance between your eyes. “Can I make you feel good?”

You’re not sure why, but it makes your eyes water and your heart hurt. Your brows draw together in a frown that rips at John’s chest.

“Y-Yes,” you stutter, voice strangled in your throat. “Yes, please.”

John leans in to kiss your eyelids as you snap them closed.

And then he kisses your cheek, your nose, and your lips. His hand trails over your sweater. A gentle tug at the hem makes tears fall down your temple and into your hair.

You give an imperceptible nod at his silent request and he thanks you by pressing his lips to your jaw. He lifts it above your breasts, sitting atop the plain, skin-colored bra you're wearing. You haven't shaved, there's regrowing hair under your armpits and you're flushed to the bone. 

You're not the doll you allow him to see. You haven't prepped yourself for consumption this time, and it almost makes you squirm, as you force your biceps flush to your ribcage.

He can't see that you're not the perfect little puppet you've always shown him. If you aren't perfect, willing, and breakable, then he can find a thousand more like you—better than you.

But he presses a kiss to your sternum, ignoring sweat, squirming, and whatnot.

“Beautiful.” He murmurs, tongue out to trace the line of the bone. “Pretty fucking girl.”

You sob. It doesn't deter him, as he lines the plain fabric of your cup until his fingers meet the clasp conveniently placed to the front. With a quick snap, he undoes it, and your tits spill out to the sides.

He hooks your attention back with a look, and you understand he’s asking, once again.

He’s seen you naked a thousand times but you realize he’s never seen you this raw. Your cheeks are flushed and his eyes have never looked so gentle yet hungry.

You nod again and he dives in, wasting no time.

His hands grab the fat of your tits. Push them together. Thumbs teasing nipples as they pebble under his pads. Lips kissing anywhere they can land, latching on flesh until it darkens. His teeth graze the peaks of your breasts, and your back arches off the floor.

Each grunt that escapes him has your spine vibrate. You can't fathom the thought that he likes this, not when you’re tasting like a long day at work and wet rain, instead of buttercream and mango.

You try to snake your leg between his own, to give back what he’s giving you. Carefully, you stroke the curve of your foot against his hard length, but he pulls back with his hips and gently guides your thigh to rest once more around his waist.

“Don’t need tha’, sunshine.” He grunts, a murmur lost as his lips mouth at your nipples. "This 's more 'n 'nough."

His hands hold you by the waist now, fingers gripping the flesh with tenacity. His beard scrapes at the soft skin of your tits as he travels downward with his mouth, following the path lined by your sternum to the gap between your ribs.

He licks stripes as if your skin were covered with cream. His teeth sink softly where your flesh is plumper, causing you to writhe against him, and he chuckles under his breath as he remembers you’re ticklish.

Such tiny things he knows about you, you almost forgot it’s been years he’s known you.

His bites turn kisses, and they're chastely pressed on the line of your stomach, over your belly button, and to the seam of your jeans.

John looks up at you when his lips reach the zipper, and by doing so you notice his brows arching up, causing lines to wrinkle his forehead. Pretty blue eyes take you in and the mess that you've made of yourself. Runny makeup, bitten lips.

You know he can see how undecided you still are. Brows pinched in both pleasure and discomfort because this is so new to you.

But you nod a little sharply for him to go on, as your mouth curls down in the hopefully non-futile attempt at muffling your sobs.

John unbuttons your pants and shimmies them down your hips to your ankles in such an agonizingly slow manner you can’t help but think he’s doing it to give you time to rebut, in case you change your mind.

You don't.

He takes them off together with your socks and brings your foot next to his face. Places a kiss on the side of it, sending tingles up your legs that tip to the apex of your thighs. He leaves small pecks down your ankle and your calf, closing his eyes and sometimes brushing his beard against your skin.

You look away, cheek flat to the tiles, now wet with your tears and the rain soaking your hair.

It doesn't deter John in the slightest, not even when he slowly comes down to a crawl, chest to the floor and nose on your mound. He tugs with his teeth at the cotton of your panties, nothing more than plain white cheeky underwear. So different from the way you always present yourself to him, with your expensive lace and your silks and your soft skin—painfully waxed so it could mimic the feel of your babydolls.

Gingerly, you reach down with your hand and thread your fingers through his hair, smoothing them back from his forehead. You cup the side of his face and brush your thumb to his flushed cheekbone. He leans into your palm and kisses it, uncaring of the stickiness left by your previous activity.

You feel something inside of you crash and break, then, like a glass vase falling from a height. You’re not sure whether it’s a good thing or not, because it makes more tears collect at the corners of your eyes and those are never predictors of a good ending.

He digs the tip of his nose against your slit, following the wet stripe that inevitably formed the moment you dropped to your knees for him.

“Can I?” He asks, sending little spikes of electricity up to your chest when his lips brush against the sensitive skin covered by flimsy cotton.

You feel your chest get so tight someone might as well be curling rope around it.

You feel so pathetic for crying just because you’re being asked about what makes you comfortable and what doesn’t. You’re such an advocate for your friends to go out there and demand for their needs to be met, that you can’t help but wallow in your hypocrisy when someone asks for yours.

He waits patiently for your consent, even if he's a breath away from your private parts, with his hands caressing the back of your thighs. Even if he's done this to you a thousand times already, with your squirming body giving him a show worthy of the cameras, had they been there.

He makes everything around you look so soft, even the tiles of the floor that are uncomfortably sticking to your skin feel like plush cushions.

You wonder briefly if this is how it should’ve always felt, had you allowed yourself to recognize your needs instead of seeing your body as a means to make others happy.

It comes out of your lips as a breath that’s followed by a wet sniffle, your head nodding softly, contrastingly to how tight you’re biting your own teeth.

“Yes.”

No amount of pressure on your jaw could stop the sob that escapes you afterward.

John closes his eyes and a warm shuddering sigh brushes your skin. You’re starting to realize that maybe you’re not the only one who’s being affected by this sudden change in your and his intimacy.

His fingers hook at your panties and he slides them to your ankles, letting them hang down one foot. You swing it carefully and kick them off as he returns his attention to the apex of your thighs, hooking your knees on his shoulders.

He starts tenderly, pressing kisses on the soft flesh of your vulva, paying attention even to the smallest bits you weren’t even aware could feel good. He latches on your outer lips, feeling how puffy they get at the slight suction.

Your thighs are corded and stiff under his grip, arms hooked around each plush leg, and palms flat on your skin.

John’s eyes are closed, although you wish he’d look at you as he travels with his lips along your slit. A kiss on your hole without probing too much, then one along the middle of your slit, which was getting impressively wetter as time passed, and the one on your hooded clit.

It sent jolts up your spine, causing your hips to buck against his mouth. His fingers tighten around your thighs in response, as if he’s trying to rein it in for you.

You appreciate it more than he thinks. You don’t think you’ve ever been placed on top of the queue so blatantly in your entire life.

The tip of his tongue darts out, but it’s obscured from your eyes by the regrowing hair on your mound and from his thick mustache. So, it takes you by surprise when he all but licks a thin stripe over the protruding part of your clit.

You hiss, and your head goes dizzy. You feel tiny pinpricks tingling in your brain, making you lightheaded and more than a little breathless.

During the whole relationship, you’ve been so focused on appearing like a full meal to his eyes, that you forgot how good it felt to be that meal on his tongue.

He laps at you again, eyes now wide open to gauge more of whatever you were giving him. You feel them as bright spotlights aimed at your face, but you can’t find it in yourself to display the act you’ve always given him.

You're already too different from the woman he's so used to seeing. You wonder if he likes you anyway; or if he likes you less, or more. When your eyes lock with his own, a dark flash tells you to go back to your ways. To flutter your lashes and pout your lips in small pleas, whimpering moans that always make his eyes roll to the back of his head.

And just as you’re about to give in to those old habits, John flattens his tongue against your cunt and licks all the thoughts out of your head. You tilt it back in a groan that has never, not once, left your lips in his presence.

He seems more than excited to hear it and starts eating you out like you’re his first meal in a century. This time, there is no plasticity in the ways you move. You’re not squirming away and acting coy about it, meeting his eyes to make sure he realizes that you're his pretty doll.

This time there’s you and the pleasure he gives you. There’s a hand in his hair that shyly tries to keep him still, as he puckers his lips around your nub and sucks it in his mouth. There’s the subtle canting of your hips to press your cunt closer to him, and the way he makes sure you don’t pull away from his tongue with his thick arms coiled around your thighs.

It’s so strange to allow yourself to feel so much. All this time you’ve been oblivious to all this as it happened in your same body because you were too busy focusing on how you appeared to his eyes. Even as he tongued your hole, your head told you it still had to be about pleasing him—because nothing in this world could ever be exclusively about you.

It hits you sharply that your beliefs about yourself, instilled by the callous teachings of your family, had bled through every aspect of your life. You already knew that, of course, but you never realized they had seeped into your intimacy as well.

Yet now you have proof of it, because you're sure John has not changed his tactics, it's you who's finally allowing your body to feel all this.

He twirls his tongue around your clit and you’re seeing stars. It’s such a strong sensation that you think you might have lost a marble or two in the process. Each grunt he emits from his lips vibrates through you and elicits similar sounds from your own mouth.

You’re not even looking at him, and you don’t care. It’s too good. He feels fucking heavenly and you’ll probably end up apologizing later for not having included him more, for not having paid enough attention to him as you should’ve.

But now—fucking hell, now—there's only how his tongue toys with each and every nerve ending of your sodden cunt.

You let him manhandle you, then, like he did so many times in the past. But now he positions you in an unflattering angle you would've never allowed before. He sits up on his knees, carrying your pelvis with him, close to his face.

To help yourself up, you place your hands on your haunches, propping your elbows on the floor. The tiles press harshly against the bone, much like they did on your knees when you’d knocked them down to suck him off not even twenty minutes prior, but now that pain feels so fickle compared to the pleasure he’s giving you.

He locks his arms around your lower belly, soft thighs pressed to his ears, and he dives in again.

Like this, you’re sure he can see every stupid, unflattering thing about you. But there’s the catch—it’s stupid. You’re sure you’re going to rethink all this eventually, but now everything that isn’t John and his lips on you is so unbelievably, fucking stupid.

“Taste like honey, y’ do.” You think you hear him say, as he nuzzles your cunt for all it’s worth.

He delves his tongue into your hole, plunging as deep as he can until he’s nosing your clit too. Facial hair scrapes the inside of your thigh raw, but that only enhances the opposite bliss happening thanks to his mouth.

You whimper, but not for show; it feels criminally good, and John knows it's real because your thighs shake so fiercely his vision goes wobbly too.

He chuckles, but it’s not derisive. His eyes are incensed, the light blue barely a rim around enlarged pupils. He looks in utter awe as he takes you in; face flushed, hair still wet from the rain and now from the sweat too. With an expression he's never once seen before, not on you. The sheer discomfort of the position but also the complete bliss that makes you forget you could have this on a more comfortable bed.

“Look at you—fucking beautiful." He murmurs with his lips to your cunt. "Criminal to hide this from me, love."

Your lips part into an oval, and your eyelids tremble, fighting the need to close your eyes and just feel. But he looks so unbelievably stunning you refuse, categorically, to take your eyes off of him.

And he apparently thinks the same, because his gaze never falters, not even when you tighten the grip your thighs have around his head. Nor does his tongue, as he plunges it again in your cunt, nose nudging your clit just right. 

He might be fucking you with his mouth, but he sure is doing it with his eyes too.

And you’ve never felt so seen in your entire life. You’ve never felt so beautiful, so worthy, as right now. You wonder if he’s always been looking at you this way, but you were too lost in your own ways to notice.

You feel tears trickle down your temples again, mingling with your hair.

Jaw clenched tight, you breathe it out with all the strength you’ve got left in you.

“I love you.”

And John breaks into something different. You must have given him some final blow because his eyes shut closed and his brows knit together. An expression you've never seen, equally as pained as delighted.

He doesn’t answer, using his tongue for other purposes, keeping the stimulation both inside and out of you. Strong arms hold you still to his face, squeezing painfully tight around your hips. Thick palms flat against your lower belly, with his thumb tugging at your mons to unhood your puffy clit.

He goes on until you can’t hold yourself up anymore, arms giving out from under you. But he catches you anyway, hooking your legs better above his shoulders. The fact that your thighs are pressing against his ears gives you some sort of relief, knowing his hearing might have been muffled by your flesh.

So, you let go.

You moan loudly, fuck the neighbors, and whatever the world has to say. Fuck your head for sabotaging you, and taking you away from him.

You feel it build up slowly but suddenly; one moment it’s just fully encompassing pleasure, the next there’s a vine that stems from your ravaged cunt and curls around your belly, up to your neck.

Your throat blocks off, breathing shallow and sharp.

And then everything snaps.

John fights against the bucking of your hips just so he can keep his mouth on you and fuck you through it.

Your groan is so guttural you don't even think that was your voice. You don't even think, period. Your mind blacks out. A scorching heat develops from your sternum and coils around your chest like ivy in bloom.

You’ve had orgasms before thanks to his mouth, or his fingers, or his cock.

This, however, it’s so different you might consider yourself reborn.

It’s liberating. It’s new. It’s free and only, completely yours. 

You don't even notice, as his tongue slows down, that your eyes are staring at nothing on the ceiling. That they fill with tears. And that you're crying.

You notice nothing, but just how good your body trembles, from the tips of your toes to the conscience in your head.

You don’t notice the sobs that leave your lips, as John gingerly places your body back down. Nor the way your chest heaves as if you’ve just learned how to use your lungs, while he hooks his arms behind your shoulders, and lifts you up to sit butt naked on the floor.

He holds you to his chest and you painfully sob against it. Not a thought about whether this is the right time to cry crosses your mind.

He cradles your cheek to his heart, while wet lips press against the crown of your head.

“Let go,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “’M here, love. Let go.”

You cry so hard you think you might crack like porcelain on that floor. Your heaving sobs echo against the walls of the kitchen like the cries of a newborn child.

And John has no intention of letting you go through it alone. He is there with his hands, with his lips, with the strong, steady heartbeat against your ear until your wailing abates. Only then does he cup your cheek to lift your face.

You weep under your breath when you notice the bloodshot whites of his eyes and the clumped lashes. The dampness on his cheeks and the redness of the skin.

He smooths your hair back. Kisses your forehead with such intensity that he just might suck away the self-hatred your family has seeded in your brain with his lips.

He looks at you, then. Lips pursed in a tight line.

“You’ve never looked more beautiful than you do now, love.”

It’s inevitable the way your lips stretch in a smile that quivers and shakes in a breathless, wet chuckle.

You dig the heels of your hands in your eyes, sniffling painfully hard to get some air in your lungs. Your mouth is pasty and God, you must smell like proper shite.

But John leans down anyway and kisses your lips, uncaring of the salt of your tears, the snot, and the taste of you still lingering on his tongue.

And you kiss him back, this time threading your fingers through his hair, arms looped around his neck in an embrace you never want to break.

Noses flush against each other’s cheeks, lips parting only for you to take breaths because your nostrils are currently too stuffy for you to use them properly.

You sniffle and kiss and tug at his hair and hold him until you're both sated, but never enough. It won’t ever be enough.

A few beats of silence reign the kitchen as you sit on the floor, tangled in each other’s arms. The water in the pot must’ve boiled away, forgotten on the fire that still buzzes silently. John’s chest is your tiny alcove as you rest your head against it, and he holds you until your heart’s content.

Everything you’ve ever learned shakes before your eyes. Every thread that knitted the pattern carefully woven around you is slowly unraveling. The fabric wears down the more he shows you love without asking for anything in return.

He's making you regrow your limbs, returning the eyes they stole, allowing you to see that at the finish line, there's nothing but lies.

Nothing but missed calls, skipped appointments, and neglect. Honeyed words, saccharine pet names to render you soft as dough, willing to offer yourself to their exploitation. Sucking on every last drop of your sap, until only a hollow marionette is left.

John hasn't refilled you with energy; he made you realize you were never empty to begin with. Helped you see that they never smothered your fire to ashes, but only dimmed it to a flame, one you can rekindle easily.

One he cannot wait, for the life of him, to see ablaze again.

He’ll fight with you, give you the wood you need to keep yourself warm and your heart safe. Cut your strings once and for all, until you can get back on your feet again.

He thrives at the idea of seeing you glow like you did moments before, in your most raw and real form; a woman he's yet to meet.

However, being human, he does feel a temporary disappointment at the thought that you had put up such a blatant front for so long. Anger that he’d never noticed, thinking you were just this pliant little thing.

But he should've never thought of you as a thing. Never should've seen you as this obliging, pretty doll hanging from his lips. He should've dug deeper, like he always does even on the field, instead of falling for lies.

He’s often asked himself how you’ve never seemed to need anything, often pegging the behavior to self-sufficiency. You always took care of everything by yourself and promptly refused any aid when he tried to give it to you.

His mind reels with memories of the times he’s offered a helping hand, and you’ve politely declined it. It shatters him to think that you did it because you were afraid you had to give something back and maybe were too tired to offer anything.

It’s then that his mind deep dives into a place that sickens him.

How many times did you have sex with him and see it as a bargaining chip? Or as a way to repay him for something he’s done for you just because he loves you?

He shuts his eyes briefly, forcing the bile down his throat and deciding to dwell on the subject later. This moment comes first. You come first. So, he takes you in, blinking his eyes open once more.

He blindly reaches back to turn off the stove, before returning his arms around you. He brushes his lips to your temple, and your muscles soften under the way his breath tickles your skin.

You tilt your head back to lock your eyes with his own, gauging the earnestness swimming in his blues.

“I love you,” he breathes for the umpteenth time, that day.

No ventriloquist forces you to say it back. No strings move your arms to loop around his neck, as you lift yourself on your knees to be level with his eyes.

It's you, who rests your forehead on his own, brushing your nose to his in a butterfly kiss.

You feel like flesh and bone, more than polished wood tied to nylon strings. No voice box if not your vocal cords vibrating when you decide it, asking and giving all the same.

“I love you,” you whisper back.

There is no hunger for love, no finish line to reach. It’s not a race, not today.

And with John, you don’t think it’ll ever be again.

[lurkinglurkerwholurks]

Bruce is six years old when he promises Gotham that he will be her protector, if she will help him. He is too idealistic, too naive, too young to know what it means to make such an open-ended promise to a city like Gotham. Too like his parents. He means well, he means it truly, so young but already too aware of the need in her streets, the corruption, the pain, from murmured conversations by worried adults far over his head.

He promises. She accepts. But nothing comes for free in Gotham, especially not power. Her bargains are sealed in blood.

She takes his parents, a worthy sacrifice for the path carved out before him. She will be his guardian now—hard, demanding, exacting, the perfect teacher. She will be the shadows staining his steps.

He grows. He gives her everything he promised—his duty, his honor, his will, his might, his sweat, his blood. She gives him more. Two more bodies fall, blood in sand, and she gives him a son. A little light—a flash of anger, a spark of joy, the glow at the end of a long tunnel—to guide him onward and keep him moving forward, as he will guide others. Then another, swapped in payment for bloodied lips and scabbed needle marks, blood stopping cold and congealed. He loves them fiercely. He loves them too much?

She is life, so full of millions of flickering lives, but so she must also be death; with one so must go the other. She is a cat of a city, fanged, playful with a bite. She claws back the second gift, the second son. Not forever. It was never meant to be forever. Their deal was his parents, his blood sweat tears heart. But her other children have their own wants, though he is her first, her best, and she must let them have their indulgences. Life and death. Shadow and spotlight. Black and green. And that one had made promises of his own.

She borrows his boy and sends him another when he falters, almost falls. Shoves the twig of a boy under his arm like a crutch to keep him upright, allows for payment at a later date—a car crash, a sliced throat.

More come, and when they cross her borders, passage paid for by others, she delivers them to him. They are transplants, like the first, but they take root in her toxic soil like natives, sending out a rush of vines to climb her concrete. The girl knows Gotham, speaks her language with a fluency that rivals his; the boy is the blood of his blood, and she welcomes him as one of her own.

They change her, little by little, fight by fight, but not so much that the second son is out of step when he is returned, stained red by the blood of his own oath. Just borrowed, just transformed, returned to aid, to rival, to hack his own path. How they choose to fulfill their promises is not her concern.

She is life and she is death. She is vengeance. She is the night. She is dark shadow even as they turn her slowly, slowly into the light. She licks the blood from their wounds, the sweat from their brows, and breathes. And grows.

They are her forsworn. They are her children. And she will not let them fall.

[velvetvowsandvikingdreams]

˚₊‧꒰ა ꣑ৎ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚The Monster's Bride˚₊‧꒰ა ꣑ৎ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Summary: You are the daughter of King Ælle, beloved amongst so many people, and now forced to marry the cursed son of Ragnar—this is your wedding night...

Warnings: mdni! dubcon!, smut!, slight!non!conseual, dom!Ivar, posessive!Ivar, virginity, p!in!v, f!receiving, m!receiving, power imbalance, choking, enemies to lovers, shame, religious guilt, christianity, norse mythology, emotional conflict, inner turmoil, faith vs. desire, soft!ivar at the end, mentions of violence, aftercare (fluff)

Pairing: Ivar x f!christian!reader

Words: 7k

Note: Thanks so much to the anon who requested this! ᥫ᭡

The deed was done.

The blood eagle had been performed on King Ælle. They had avenged Ragnar.

But there was still one loose end.

You.

Ælle’s daughter. The beloved one. You had been taken alive, held now in one of the old stone chambers beneath the keep, locked away while they decided your fate.

Later, in the great hall, the brothers sat around a heavy wooden table, drinking mead. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows across their bloodstained faces.

Ubbe leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "What should we do with her?"

Björn shrugged. "What do you mean? She’s no threat."

"She’s still Ælle’s blood," Hvitserk said, voice low. "But she’s not him. Ragnar would not have wanted us to kill her."

Ivar scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You’re all soft."

"She’s a Christian," he added, lifting his cup. "And we all know what fate their kind usually meet."

Björn narrowed his eyes. "So what are you saying, little brother? You want to burn her at the stake? Toss her to the gods like driftwood?"

Ivar’s lips curled into a grin. "Crucifixion. Poetic, isn’t it? Let her God watch while she hangs on his symbol."

The others groaned. Hvitserk actually gagged on his drink.

"That’s not clever, it’s madness," Ubbe muttered.

Ivar looked affronted. "Madness is the only way."

There was a pause. Then Ubbe spoke again, his tone careful. "...We could use her."

All eyes turned to him.

"How?" Hvitserk asked.

Ubbe glanced at Ivar, then back to the fire. "What would be more unbearable for a Christian princess than to be wedded to a heathen? Especially If it's someone like Ivar."

"What do you mean someone like me?" Ivar snapped, straightening.

The others burst into laughter.

Even Björn cracked a rare grin. "You really need to ask?"

Ivar’s eyes burned, and suddenly, his fist came down hard on the table, making the cups rattle.

"I am not a joke," he snarled, voice low and trembling with fury. "You think this is funny? Do you think Ragnar would’ve laughed?"

His brothers fell quiet.

Björn leaned back. "Think about it, brother. What would be more torturous for her than to be chained to you? A man she despises, a heathen in every way. Your presence alone would haunt her. You—" his voice dipped low, "���you are her nightmare incarnate."

Ivar’s lips twitched, he thought about it for a minute and then, a slow, dark grimace crept across his face. He raised his hand, smirking into his palm. "A Christian princess wed to me... I like that." His ice-blue eyes gleamed with ruthless delight. "I need to see her."

── .✦

He pushed the door open.

The room beyond was dim, little more than a cell, with rough stone walls. You sat on a narrow bench, your hands bound, your hair wild around your face. You looked up when the door creaked—and froze.

It was him.

You scrambled to your feet instantly, eyes wide. "You," you breathed, your voice shaking with fury and terror.

Ivar smiled, slow and cruel, leaning against the doorframe. "Me."

You backed away as he entered, dragging the crutch with him, metal scraping faintly. He closed the door behind him, the sound final.

"We killed your father today," he said, voice low and almost conversational. "Cut him open like a pig. He squealed."

"Monster," you spat, trembling. "You’re not a man, you’re the devil."

Ivar laughed. Not a chuckle—a full, unhinged laugh. "Good," he said. "Call me more."

Your back hit the wall, and your fingers scraped at the stone as if looking for something, anything—to hold. "Heathen," you hissed. "Wicked, blasphemous thing—you’re cursed. Gods or devils, you belong to neither. You’re just... wrong."

That smile of his only widened.

He limped toward you, crutch in his hand, agonizing slowness, dragging one leg stiffly behind him. "And yet," he said, tilting his head, "here you are. Cornered by a wrong, cursed thing. Trembling."

You tried to dart past him.

He caught your arm, twisted you sharply, facing him.

"I like when you call me names," he whispered. "Means you’re afraid. And fear…" he dragged the word like a lover’s touch, "fear is honest."

You struggled, but his grip was tight. "Let me go!"

"Oh no, little dove," he said, voice dipping lower, mocking. "Not yet. You still think this is the worst thing that could happen to you. But your nightmare’s just beginning."

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

"You’re going to marry me."

You gasped, horrified.

Ivar grinned.

"You’re crazy," you whispered.

"I’m Ivar," he said simply, pulling back to look you in the eye. "And you, little Christian… You really should learn when to keep your mouth shut,” he muttered.

Ivar's hand shot up, fingers clamping around your jaw, forcing your face toward his. His grip was bruising. He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, breath hot with the stink of blood and mead.

And that’s when you did it.

You spit—right in his face.

It landed just beneath his eye, sliding down over the sharp edge of his cheekbone. For a second, everything froze.

He laughed.

Low at first. Then louder.

He wiped the spit away slowly, smearing it with the back of his hand as if it were nothing more than dirt.

"You really are your father’s daughter," he said, still chuckling. "But that didn’t help him, did it?"

His thumb pressed against your cheekbone, forcing your face up to his. "You think that defiance makes you strong. But it just makes this more fun for me."

You jerked your head away, but he held you there.

"You’ll kneel," he said calmly. "Whether it’s to your God or to me… doesn’t matter. In the end, it’ll be the same."

Then he let go of your face, suddenly and without warning.

Ivar took a step toward the door, tapping the crutch against the floor. Before leaving, he looked over his shoulder, eyes glinting.

"Sleep well, little Christian," he said. "In the evening, they’ll come to prepare you."

You stared at him, stunned.

"For what?" you asked, voice tight.

He stopped in the doorway, looking back with that same smirk.

"Our wedding night," he said simply.

── .✦

You hadn't slept. The stone floor had grown colder through the night, and no matter how many times you closed your eyes, your mind wouldn’t let go. You prayed, desperate prayers whispered into the dark. You asked God to take you, to end it, to make you vanish. Anything but this.

But morning came anyway.

You opened your eyes, still alive. Still here. Your prayers had gone unanswered.

The dread sat heavy in your gut, thick and sour. You’d been in the chamber so long you’d counted every stone in the walls—twice.

Then, finally, the door creaked open.

Three women entered—maids, or maybe slaves, you weren’t sure.

Their eyes were kind.

"We are here to prepare you, princess," one of them said.

You didn’t resist. What would be the point? They weren’t the ones forcing this. They were just part of the machinery.

They combed your hair, braided it with ribbons and beads, made intricate plaits like the ones you’d seen on shieldmaidens. You sat still, silent, as they worked. When the tears came, they didn’t stop you. One woman gently wiped your cheek with her sleeve.

"It will be alright," she murmured, though you could tell she didn’t believe it either.

You didn’t reply. You stared at the wall and let them do what they came to do.

They bathed you, rubbed fragrant oils into your skin—lavender, bergamot, something sweet and sharp beneath it. It made your stomach turn. One of the women whispered something in Norse, her hand warm as she touched your shoulder.

“I pray that the Gods will protect you tonight,"

"I don’t believe in your false Gods," you said, voice trembling.

They only smiled. No scolding. No argument.

Once they were finished, they led you through the long hallways, until you reached a heavy door. His chamber.

You stepped inside.

It was unlike anything you'd known. Animal furs spilled over the bed like something untamed. The room smelled of burning wood and mead—raw and primal. Trophies of hunts hung on the walls; antlers, wolf pelts, horns. A place for a predator, not a man.

Your eyes caught the mirror beside the bed.

You stepped toward it—and froze.

You didn’t look like a Saxon princess anymore.

Hair braided like a pagan, skin gleaming with their oils, wrapped in soft linen and foreign brocade. You looked... other. Like something wild. Not yourself.

"Forgive me, Father," you whispered, voice cracking. "I look like a heathen. Like a wild animal."

From the doorway, his voice cut through the stillness.

"Now you look like a real princess."

You turned sharply.

Ivar stood leaning on his crutch at the threshold, watching you like a hawk. He stepped inside, letting the door close behind him with a soft thud.

── .✦

You coiled away from him, instinct sharp as a blade. Panic surged through you, and you bolted toward the bed like it could protect you, clutching a pillow as if it were a weapon. You hurled it at him, voice cracking.

"Go away! Heathen!"

It hit him square in the chest and dropped to the floor, harmless. He laughed.

"You call me heathen," he said, limping toward you, voice slick with amusement. "But what makes you so holy, hm? Christian?" The word dripped with sarcasm.

He lowered himself to the edge of the bed with a grunt—small, but sharp. You noticed it, the flicker of pain he tried to mask, the stiffness in his movements. He didn't want you to see the effort it cost him to walk.

You pressed back against the headboard, every muscle rigid, your gaze full of loathing. He turned to you slowly, eyes burning.

"Your false Gods are cruel," you spat. "They demand blood and pain. My God offers mercy. Love."

He let out a quiet, bitter laugh. "Love?" His mouth twisted. "Where was His love when your father put my father into a pit of vipers?"

You swallowed hard.

"Even now, I choose my faith. Even now, I choose Him." You whispered.

A silence stretched between you. Then, without a word, he began to undress. His fingers moved with slow precision, unfastening the leather, dragging his tunic off over his head and then the braces on his legs.

Your breath hitched. The firelight danced across his skin—inked and scarred, taut muscle coiled over bone. The tattoos on his back told stories, they stirred something in you—fascination, fear.

"What are you doing?" you asked, voice brittle.

He said nothing, just crawled closer, dragging himself across the bed with effort that didn’t make him look weak—it made him look unstoppable. Inevitable.

His hand brushed yours.

Rough. Calloused. Real.

You flinched.

Then suddenly he was on you, his weight a hot pressure, breath mixing with yours. You thrashed, striking at his toned chest with balled fists, nails catching on the inked skin—but he didn’t budge.

"No—please," you cried out.

He caught your wrists and pinned them above your head, his grip firm, not cruel.

"I wish you’d stop fighting this…" he whispered, his breath stirring the fine hairs at your skin.

You turned your face away, hating the tremble in your body. Hating that part of you wanted to feel anything but fear.

"This is wrong…" you whispered.

"You want it to be wrong," he murmured. His lips brushed your jaw. "Because if it’s wrong, then you’re still innocent. Then none of this is your fault. Then it’s all on me—the monster. The devil."

Your stomach twisted, shame blooming like poison. Because part of you heard him. Part of you felt what he was saying. And worse, you hated your body for answering. The heat, the ache, the flush in your chest.

"I don’t want you," you whispered, hating how weak it sounded.

"You do," he answered, low and steady. "But you want to hate me more."

"Get off me, monster!" you whined, trying to get loose from his grip.

He froze.

And then, slowly, he let go. Just… let go. Your wrists dropped, free, and he rolled off of you, one arm flung behind his head as he laid beside you, staring up at the ceiling.

"I’m sorry…" he said quietly.

The words hit you like a slap. You turned your head, frowning, confused.

He was tense—jaw clenched, throat bobbing. His chest rose and fell, steady but strained. There was no mocking smile now. No cruel game.

Just silence.

Too much silence.

He turned fully onto his side, his back to you, shoulders tense beneath the thin fur draped across him. He said nothing.

You stared at him, at the line of his spine, the way his body curled in ever so slightly. For a moment, your hand twitched with the urge to reach out—to lay it gently on his shoulder, to ask if he was alright.

But did anyone ask if you were alright?
If you wanted this?

"I won’t touch you," he said quietly, voice muffled but clear.

Your brows knit in confusion. His voice held no threat, no venom.

"So… you’ll kill me?" you asked, voice fragile. The lump in your throat ached as you swallowed.

He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see the flicker in his eyes.

"Do you really think that badly of me?"

You didn’t answer right away.

"Well… yes," you said finally, honest and bitter. "You forced me into marriage. You murdered my father. And now you lie here like you expect me to pretend any of this is normal."

He turned toward you.

"I had to avenge my father," he said, low. "I had to. You would’ve done the same."

"I still could," you said, the edge of defiance curling into your voice.

His lips twitched. "You would’ve already," he replied, narrowing his eyes, jaw tight.

A beat passed.

You exhaled, resting your cheek against your palm as you watched him. The fire cracked somewhere near your feet. Without the snarl, the smirk, or the bloodlust, he looked... different.

Almost gentle.

Your eyes wandered—down the curve of his lips, parted slightly in thought, the thick lashes that kissed his cheekbones. His strong nose, the faintest scruff shadowing his jaw. He was rough, imperfect, and far too proud of himself—but he wasn’t ugly.

"You like staring at monsters?" he asked suddenly, voice dry, sardonic.

Your gaze snapped up. He was watching you now, those impossibly blue eyes glinting in the firelight. He’d caught you.

Your cheeks flushed hot.

He saw it—and something in him softened. Your expression—wide-eyed, caught off guard, flushed—made him still. You didn’t even realize how innocent you looked to him, just then. How untouched by war, even with everything you'd seen.

He wanted to reach out. He ached to. To cup your cheek gently, maybe brush his thumb over your lips. But he didn’t.

He knew what would happen. You’d recoil. You’d pull away.

So he stayed still.

But you didn’t.

You saw the tremor in his fingers. The one resting on his chest, the other tucked behind his head. You saw the way he waited—quietly, tense, wanting.

And you moved.

Carefully. You reached toward him, slow.

He flinched—barely.

Your fingers brushed his. Then threaded through them.

His palm was rough, calloused, all hard edges—so different from your own. But you didn’t recoil. Not this time.

He was flesh. Warmth. Breathing.

Your fingers stayed laced with his, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke.

"I don’t feel like a monster when you touch me like this," Ivar said quietly.

You glanced at him, surprised by the confession. His eyes weren’t on yours. They were fixed on the ceiling, as though he couldn’t quite bear to meet your gaze.

"I don’t understand you," you said. "One moment you’re cruel… and the next…"

"I’m not," he interrupted, turning his head to face you now, his expression sharp with sudden vulnerability. "I do what I must. I had to be cruel. I was born cursed, a cripple."

He paused, swallowing the weight in his throat.

"My mother told me I was special. A gift from the gods. But others—they called me a mistake. A punishment. Even now, even with all I’ve won, they still look at me and see something wrong."

Your hand tightened in his, just slightly.

He looked at you, eyes searching yours.

"Do you see me that way?"'he asked, his voice hoarse now. "Do you look at me and see… a cursed thing? A monster in a man’s skin?"

You shook your head slowly. "No."

"Liar," he murmured, but there wasn’t anger in it—just sadness. "You did. You still might."

Your lips parted. "I thought you were a monster. But then… monsters don’t talk like you do right now. They don’t shake when someone reaches out to them."

His breath caught.

"And your God?" he asked, voice quieter now. "Does He approve of you touching the Devil? Would He still call you pure?"

"I don’t think God’s afraid of broken things," you said, just as soft. "I think He loves them harder."

There was a pause. He turned to face you more fully, propped on one elbow now, your hands still joined. His gaze flicked down to your lips, then back to your eyes.

"You confuse me," he said, voice roughened. "You hate me. I see it. But you touch me like… like I matter."

You hesitated. "I don’t know what I feel. But I don’t hate you right now."

Ivar stared at you, expression unreadable. "All I ever wanted was to be understood—like I am not just a cursed thing that people pity..."

You didn’t answer. Maybe you couldn’t.

But you didn’t pull your hand away.

You swallowed, throat dry. "And what is it you want now?"

His eyes slid to yours, slow and dark.

"You."

It was a single word, but it echoed between you.

"I want you to believe that there is something in me besides blood and fury."

He reached out now, carefully, slowly. His fingers grazed your cheek, and though your breath hitched, you didn’t pull away.

"I could worship you," he whispered. "Not like your God does. Not with mercy or rules. I would worship you with obsession. With fire. I would tear down Gods for you, if you asked."

Your heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the fire.

"Ivar…"

He shook his head slightly, eyes still locked on yours.

"You don’t have to say anything," he murmured. "Just don’t lie to me. Don’t look at me like I’m something foul when you know you’re curious. When you know something in you wants to understand me."

You did. God help you, you did. And in that moment, you realized he wasn’t the only one who felt too much.

You didn’t kiss him. You didn’t dare. But you didn’t pull away when he leaned in, pressing his forehead gently to yours, his breath warm and shaky.

You lifted your hand slowly, brushing your fingers over his jaw, unsure if he’d allow it. He closed his eyes at the contact, lashes trembling. Your thumb ghosted over the faint stubble on his cheek. You could feel the heat under his skin.

"I don’t know how to… do this," you whispered.

His lips curved—just slightly. "Neither do I."

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. They were darker than before, but the whites of them had a faint, almost icy sheen to them.

"Your eyes," you murmured. "They’re… blue."

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked, as if choosing whether to lie or not.

"It happens," he said quietly, "when the pain is worse. Some days it’s just a dull ache. Other days, it feels like my legs are full of fire and glass."

Your heart sank. "Is it like that now?"

He gave a short laugh—tired, bitter. "Not the worst I’ve had. But close."

You leaned forward without thinking, pressing your lips softly to his cheek. He stilled completely beneath you, breath catching in his throat.

"Does this help?" you asked.

His hand came up, brushing your hair back behind your ear, fingertips tentative, reverent. "More than you know."

Your noses brushed. His lips hovered over yours, uncertain.

"May I?" he asked, so gently it made your heart swell.

You nodded, and his mouth met yours, clumsy but sincere. He kissed like he fought—with all of him, desperate and fierce, like it was the only language he truly knew. But there was hesitation too, like he didn’t trust himself to be soft.

Your hands came up to his shoulders, feeling the tension there, the strain in the muscle from dragging himself with every step. His body was stronger than it looked—he’d had to be. You could feel that just beneath your fingertips.

He grabbed your waist and pulled you into his lap. Your knees shifted on either side of his hips as you moved, lips never parting from his.

His hands rested on your thighs, tentative and trembling, thumbs tracing the shape of you through the linen that still clung to your form.

His fingers slid up your sides, gathering the fabric, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath it. You gasped against his mouth when his thumbs brushed just beneath your breasts.

"I need to see your body…" he whispered, voice rough, as if the need hurt him. "Please…"

You hesitated—your heart pounding, your hands frozen against his chest—but then you nodded, just barely. He sat up slightly, and together, you pulled the dress over your head, letting it fall behind you to the floor in a soft heap.

You were bare to him now.

Lit only by firelight.

Hair braided like his people, skin glowing like it had been blessed by the gods.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

His mouth opened, then closed—swallowed hard.

"By the Gods…" he murmured, voice hoarse with awe.

His eyes devoured every inch of you—your collarbones, the curve of your waist, the swell of your breasts.

You saw the way his jaw clenched. He didn’t know where to look first—he wanted to look everywhere. It was too much, too perfect. The first woman he had ever seen nude.

He leaned in, lips brushing the base of your throat. "You were crafted by Freya herself," he whispered against your hot skin.

His thumb grazed over your hardened nipple, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips that made his eyes flick up to yours—dark, dilated, hungry.

"You like that," he breathed, a hint of wonder in his tone.

He closed his lips around your breast, sucking softly, and your back arched instinctively, a moan escaping you before you could stop it.

"Ivar—" you whimpered, your voice catching in your throat as heat coiled low in your belly.

That sound—your voice saying his name like that—broke something in him. He swirled his tongue slowly over the peak, then moved to the other, lavishing you with the same attention. His faint stubble tickled your skin, his breath hot.

"You taste like the sweetest mead," he rasped against your fevered skin, voice trembling with restraint. "And I want every part of it."

You rocked slightly in his lap without meaning to, the friction setting your nerves alight.

Ivar groaned against your chest, the sound vibrating through you.

His mouth left your skin with a wet sound, lips flushed, eyes darker than you'd ever seen them. His breath was ragged as he looked up at you, his hand moved up—fingers grazing the column of your throat.

He wrapped them there.

"Look at you," he growled. "My little Christian princess, letting a heathen touch her like this… moaning under me like you were made for sin."

"Ivar—please,"

Your breath hitched. Heat surged through you—shame, need, both tangled like a knot.

"You’re so damn perfect," he muttered against your neck, his grip tightening just slightly, "I want to ruin you."

His other hand moved over your stomach, lower, slower, teasing—never quite touching where you ached for him most.

"I want you crying out my name so loud your God hears it."

Your lips parted in a gasp, hips circling against his body instinctively, begging for more.

"I want you to forget every holy word you’ve ever said," he hissed. "To forget heaven. To worship this. Us. Me."

His mouth crashed against yours then, all tongue and teeth and hunger, and you whimpered into it, helpless against the fire that had taken root in you.

He shifted his weight above you once more, but this time you welcomed every inch of him—every searing kiss, every burning touch. "Ivar—" you murmured into his mouth, voice trembling with need.

"Tell me what you crave, my sweet one," he whispered against your throat, teeth grazing softly as his lips trailed a scorching path down your bare skin. His hands gripped your hips possessively, claiming you like a man who had been starved for your fire. His kisses drifted lower, worshiping your belly until his lips brushed the sensitive curve of your pelvic bone, making your breath catch and flutter against your lips.

Raising his gaze, his piercing ice-blue eyes locked onto yours, devouring you with hunger and reverence. They roamed over your glistening core, and a slow lick of his lips told you exactly how much he desired you.

Your cheeks flushed crimson, mingled with shame and fierce want. You tried to close your legs instinctively, but he parted them wider, unwavering.

"Don’t hide from me... you are the most beautiful thing in all of Midgard," he whispered, his breath hot and heavy against your sensitive clit. A shiver ran through you as the heat of his mouth ignited your skin. You squirmed beneath him, but his hands held you steady.

"Ivar, please," you whispered, voice thick with need.

One finger slipped inside you, exploring your wet, trembling entrance, sending a jolt of fire through your nerves. You gasped, teeth catching your lip as he circled your clit slowly, deliberately, drawing out your moans.

"More," you begged, voice breaking with longing, but he was entranced—mesmerized by your response.

He would never let you go.

He then slipped another finger inside you, slowly—stretching your heat, filling your tight, velvety walls. Your back arched instinctively, a cry escaping your lips.
"Oh, fuck—Ivar…" you gasped, the curse tangled with pleasure.

"So tight," he groaned, voice low and reverent against your aching core. His mouth followed his fingers, tongue flattening against your drenched pussy—claiming you with slow, decadent strokes. His tongue flicked your clit with maddening precision, each movement coaxing more helpless moans from your lips.

You were unraveling beneath him, breathless mess as he pumped his fingers inside you, curling them just right. His tongue moved in slow, torturous circles over your pulsing clit, drawing out every drop of want from your body.

"So sweet," he whispered, mouth pressed to your cunt, the words vibrating against your most sensitive flesh.

You looked down at him, breathless, lips parted in a silent plea. Your fingers twisted in the furs, knuckles white, as your thighs trembled. The chamber echoed with the sounds of your surrender—moans, whimpers, the slick rhythm of his fingers, the deep growl of his voice against you.

"Oh—God," you cried out, your eyes rolling back as he found that perfect rhythm. His tongue moved with purpose now, stroking that spot, knowing exactly what you needed and giving it to you without mercy.

"Let your God hear you," he growled against your soaked pussy, his voice thick with hunger and pride. "Let him hear how desperate you are for me."

Then he spit on your cunt—hot and obscene—before sealing his lips over your clit, sucking hard, tongue flicking rapidly, insatiably. You writhed, hips jerking, body straining against the edge.

But he held you firm.

His hands dug into your thighs, fingers bruising, possessive.

You were his.

"I—Ivar, I—" You couldn't even form the words. They dissolved into breathless moans as your climax crept closer like a storm you couldn't outrun.

He didn’t stop. If anything, he grew more desperate. His fingers moved faster, rougher, curling to stroke that one place inside you that made your vision blur.

"I want to feel you come on my tongue," he growled against you, voice thick with heat and command. "Give it to me. Let me taste it, please princess."

That was all it took.

Your hips bucked wildly as you shattered beneath him, mouth falling open in a silent cry. Your body convulsed around his fingers, and he groaned deep in his throat as your slick flooded his mouth.

He didn’t stop. He devoured you through it, moaning against your pussy like your taste was the only thing that could save him.

"Too much," you whimpered, breath catching.

Only then did he pull away, slowly, his mouth glistening, his lips swollen and red from his devotion to you. He looked up, licking his lips, pride and possessiveness burning in those glacier-blue eyes.

"You look like a goddess when you fall apart for me," he murmured, his voice low.

You tried to speak, to say something, but your body was spent—limbs limp, chest rising and falling as you stared at him, dazed and glowing.

And then, he was climbing up your body again—slowly, deliberately—his mouth finding yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue as he kissed you deeply.

"Gods, I need you," he whispered against your lips.

You could feel him now—hot, hard, and heavy against your thigh. His cock pressed into your skin, pulsing with need, and your fingers moved on instinct. You reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around his thick length. He groaned into your mouth—guttural, needy.

"Princess," he breathed against your lips as your fingers curled around him, stroking him slowly. He was heavy in your hand, the skin hot and silky, the veins rigid beneath your touch. His hips gave a shallow thrust as you explored him, and you smiled softly against his mouth—you had this effect on him.

"You’re so hard for me," you whispered, voice trembling with awe and need. "God, I want to feel you inside me…"

But you weren’t ready to give in just yet.

Not before teasing him. Not before tasting him.

You pushed gently against his chest, and he let you—though confusion flickered in his eyes.

"Lie back," you whispered, lips brushing his jaw. "Let me taste you now."

His breath caught.

He hesitated, but only for a heartbeat, before obeying—leaning back into the furs, chest rising and falling, muscles tight with anticipation. You moved between his thighs, eyes locked on his thick, aching cock. It stood proud and heavy, flushed dark with need, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip.

You leaned in slowly, deliberately, blowing warm breath against the head. His hips jerked.

"Gods," he groaned, fist clenching in the furs.

You kissed the tip first—just the softest press of lips—and he cursed low under his breath. Then your tongue flicked out, tasting the salt of him, teasing around the head in slow, circular strokes.

"Ivar—" you whispered against him, loving the way his thighs tensed under your touch.

Then you took him in your mouth, slowly, inch by inch.

His moan was raw. Boyish.

You hollowed your cheeks, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock as you slid down further, letting him fill your mouth until he hit the back of your throat.

He growled—his hips twitching upward before you pressed your hand to his stomach, holding him down.

"Please, princess," he gasped. "You’re going to kill me…"

You pulled back with a soft pop, licking him from base to tip, your spit and his precum making everything wet, messy.

And then you did it again.

He was panting now, chest heaving, his muscles twitching under your touch. Every time you swallowed him deep, he cursed like a man coming undone.

Your other hand gripped his thigh for balance, fingers digging into his skin as you increased the pace—wet, rhythmic, sinful. You moaned around him, just to feel the vibration ripple through his cock, and he choked on a desperate whine.

"Gods above—please," he gasped. "You're going to make me come—fuck, stop or I’ll—"

But you didn’t stop.

His hands tangled in your braids. Guiding.

You wanted to see him fall apart. You wanted to taste every last drop of him.

You kept going, faster now, your mouth and hand working in perfect rhythm, and his hips began to stutter—losing control.

"Let me… let me come in your mouth," he rasped, voice thick, pleading. "Please, sweet one—I need—"

And that's when you stopped.

When you finally pulled back, lips swollen, eyes shining—you looked up at him.

He stared at you like he’d never seen anything so devastatingly perfect.

"By the Gods..." he breathed, still panting. "You’ll be the death of me."

You smiled.

He hadn’t stopped staring at you since you pulled off him, lips slick, eyes glowing with something that looked like awe.

And then he moved—slow and strong, climbing over your body once more, his arms braced on either side of your head, caging you in. His face hovered inches from yours, breath ragged, lips parted.

He kissed you.

Hungry.

Your tongues met in a heated dance, slick and wet and perfect.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, your legs parting instinctively beneath his hips.

"Ivar," you breathed against his lips, your voice shaking with need, with truth. "I need you inside me…"

He circled your entrance with the swollen head of his cock, dragging it up and down your soaked slit, letting it brush maddeningly against your aching clit. He teased you slowly, lazily, watching every gasp, every flinch of your hips.

"Ivar…" you whimpered, need thick in your voice.

"Tell me to stop," he rasped against your neck, "and I will."

You shook your head, hips bucking.

"Then tell me what you want, princess."

"Stop teasing," you whispered, almost broken with desire. "Put it in. I want you."

With one powerful, careful thrust, he slid inside you—slow, deep, and all at once.

Your breath left your lungs in a gasp—his too. The stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming tightness. He filled you completely, the heat of him burning through your entire body.

And then there was the pain.

You whimpered, body tensing beneath him. The sting tore through your center, raw and sharp, and you felt the unmistakable warmth of blood between your thighs. Your nails gripped his shoulders, and tears pricked at your eyes.

He froze instantly, his entire body going still.

"I’m here," he whispered softly, forehead pressed to yours, his voice shaking with restraint. "Look at me."

You did.

His eyes were gentle now, pleading. His hand came up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing away tears you didn’t even know had fallen.

"If it’s too much—if it hurts—I’ll stop. You tell me. Just say the word, and I’ll stop."

You swallowed hard, blinking up at him, heart racing.

"No," you whispered, voice small but firm. "Don’t stop. Just… just stay like this for a moment."

And in that stillness, your body began to relax around him. The sting faded. The pain and pleasure began to blur.

And beneath it all, was love.

He stayed inside you for a long, perfect heartbeat, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked like nothing in the world could pull him away. You felt everything—his warmth, his breath, the stretch of him inside you.

Then, slowly… he moved.

He groaned low—deep in his throat—and it made your skin bloom with heat.

"Gods, you're so tight," he whispered, the words more reverent than vulgar. "You feel like you were made for me…"

His thrusts were slow, careful at first—his brow furrowed in concentration, lips parted as if every inch inside you unraveled his sanity.

Your hands slid up to his shoulders, gripping tightly—Odin’s ravens, inked across his chest—Huginn and Muninn—watching like silent sentinels.

You dug your nails into them, half in awe, half in instinct.

He gasped.

He dropped his head to your neck, breath hot against your skin, hips rolling deeper, slower now, but harder.

"Princess," he whispered into your ear. "You feel like… like everything I’ve ever wanted."

You whimpered, legs wrapping around his waist tightly, the friction building now—each movement rubbing that perfect, sensitive spot inside you.

"Faster," you begged, breathless. "Please, Ivar—"

You felt him twitch as he drove into you again, harder, the rhythm growing.

"I need—I need to see you fall apart again," he breathed. "Need to feel you come on me,"

You cried out at his words, your hips rising to meet his thrusts, the pleasure mounting fast now. Every drag of his cock inside you had you gasping, clenching tighter, needing more.

"Are you mine?" he asked, voice low and raw.

"Yes," you gasped, without hesitation. "I’m yours—Ivar, I’m yours."

And something wild bloomed in his eyes—pride, obsession. He kissed you fiercely, tongues clashing, your nails digging deeper into the dark ravens inked across his shoulders as he began to lose himself in you completely.

"Am I a monster now?" he groaned, voice dark and breathless as he slammed into you, deeper than before—so deep it made your body jerk, made your mouth fall open in a strangled cry.

"N-No—!" you whimpered, the word broken, swallowed by the sheer stretch of him, by the slick sound of your bodies colliding—wet, fast, relentless.

He licked across your throat, sucking marks into your neck like he wanted the Gods to see who you belonged to. Then he bit your lower lip—hard—pulling a filthy, desperate moan from your chest as he devoured your sounds.

Your pussy clenched around him, fluttering uncontrollably, and he felt it—gasped like he was the one being fucked.

His eyes, those piercing ice-blue eyes, locked on yours.

Even as your eyes fluttered, rolling back with each brutal thrust, he held your gaze. Like he was drinking you in. Like he needed to watch you come undone just for him.

You reached between your legs, fingers finding your swollen clit, desperate for more.

"Rub your clit for me, princess," he groaned into your ear, the heat of his breath making your toes curl. "I want to see how filthy you can be for me."

You obeyed instantly, two fingers circling, flicking over your slick bud. The added stimulation sent your body lurching into madness.

"Ivar—fuck!" you cried out, legs shaking as your orgasm built fast, too fast.

He growled—deep and feral—his thrusts growing rougher, needier.

Then his hand wrapped around your throat.

Firm. Possessive.

"Look at me when you come," he whispered, eyes wide, lips parted, wild. "Please…"

And that did it.

You shattered with a scream, your back arching, your thighs shaking as your orgasm ripped through you. Your vision went white. Your mouth stayed open, the cry dragging out far too long.

And still—you looked at him.

When your eyes cleared, you saw him, undone. His mouth open, pupils blown, his entire face twisted in awe and disbelief as your pussy clenched around him again and again, milking him, claiming him.

"Oh—Princess," he gasped—and then he came.

You felt it.

His cock pulsed deep inside you, filling you with his release in thick, hot waves. His breath stuttered, and his moan—vulnerable, sinful—filled your ears like a blessing.

You felt him twitch again inside you—once, twice—his cum still leaking as his breath finally evened out. His lips grazed yours in a kiss too soft for how wrecked you both were.

And through it all… he didn’t look away.

── .✦

You laid together in silence, bodies tangled in the thick furs, skin damp and warm, the scent of sex still lingering like incense in the air.

His arm was draped around you, pulling you into his chest—you felt safe.

He was quiet for a long time. One of his fingers traced absent circles against your hip, but his mind was elsewhere. Heavy.

Finally, in the hush between heartbeats, he spoke.

"I never thought…" His voice was hoarse, low. "I never thought I could feel this whole."

You lifted your eyes to meet his.

"Because of my legs," he continued, almost like a confession. "Because of what I am. What I’m not."

You opened your mouth to speak, but he shook his head gently.

"I’ve had power. Fear. Victory. Women scared of me. But none of them ever looked at me the way you did." He turned to face you now, those ice-blue eyes suddenly fragile beneath all their fire. "You cried my name like I was a God. You touched me like I was whole."

You reached up and touched his face, your thumb brushing over his lips. "You are whole."

"I forced this," he said, bitterly.

You nodded slowly. "I was taught to fear men like you. That you were wicked. That your Gods were false and your hunger sinful."

"And now?" he whispered.

"You are human, just like me."

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖✶ ✦　　

taglist (if you want to get added write/comment) 💙

@tessakate @ivarlover @deathsthighs @oddsnendsfanfics @mighra

[occasionalsnippets]

Okay I'm so very curious on what would happen in case fd!mc died. I've not caught up on all the lore but the idea that they'd focus on everyone elses tragedies, only to forget they're now a character too with their own problems and enemies and that (or something else) being their end. Like the angst potential just calls to me.

Taglist: @dragondevinity, @lonely-star2044, @sheep-from-rad, @ilxandra, @thethingwiththefeathers, @star-wars-lycanwing-bat, @sackofsadstuff, @zonked-times, @paastaboi, @venfia, @fantasy-angelo, @linaisadream

Asdlaskjdh I would love to kill them off, maybe like a bit after Jason comes to the manor. I just know that everyone is going to be trapped in the shadow of the pedestal they built for you!!!

Like, Bruce’s perpetual longing to make things right by you. He forever catches himself thinking “what would you do” and “what would you tell him to do”, but never able to rely on your guidance to fix things again. Even though you acted essentially as his emotional crutch and translator and the initial impression of you basically being a (not) adult in his life, he’s eternally going to wish he could’ve done better for you. He isn’t your father and you weren’t his daughter. But, maybe you could’ve been something. It’s too late now, regardless.

Even though you’re six feet under, you’re no farther than you were in life. Dick remembers the distance between you and him more than anything else. Be it the distance he placed between himself and the manor or the ravine you dug yourself. He had always been more focussed on Tim than you and in many ways, you had orchestrated things so that it would be that way. You didn’t need him. Not like everyone else. And that leaves him with nothing of you but distant text messages and memories of you, dancing just out of his reach.

Jason remembers you amidst fluttering fabrics and blurry faces, shutters of a past he can barely recall. Your face in childhood is smeared in washes of green, blending with the images of the you of now that blares with every headline of your death. He’s never gotten to know who you are now when you aren’t hidden behind velvet curtains, in dresses covered in rhinestones worth more than an apartment complex. It haunts him. Just a bit. The same way he knows the memory of who he was before his death haunts Bruce.

Tim mourns in the Drake manor that has always been filled with more you than either of his parents. You’re gone now, just like them. It hits him harder than anyone he’s ever lost. Unlike everyone else, he almost had a surplus of memories of you, the good, the bad, the annoying and kind. It casts a daunting shadow of a role he’ll never be able to fulfil. A role that you, his perfect, unfailing, older sister, have left behind. The lingering warmth will kill him someday he thinks as he traces your path and follows in your footsteps.

Damian only knows you from stories and photographs and the half-aborted actions that the rest of the family takes. They are all trying to be something good for him and in the depths of the records his father keeps, he knows that it is your doing. You have always been larger than life to him. An idol-like figure he can never reach or know. There are millions of photos of you, thousands of angles, all of which he has learned to draw. He can imagine the gentle curve of your smile, mimic the posture when you stood, count the number of lashes on each of your eyes. But, he can only grasp at the ghost you left behind, unable to reach who you truly were.

The family will grieve. They will mourn. But, they will collect themselves eventually. You did not spend the last years of your life forcing them to communicate only for them to fall apart after you’re gone, after all.

[revelboo]

Please, more Jazz 🙏🙏 it's one of my favourite storyline of yours, and I honestly love jazz so much, the nicknames are doing things to me 🫡

Don't feel pressured tho, take care of yourself. You're the best! 😋

I’m good. Just slow down when I write long form rather than these quick fics

Over It Now Pt 13

IDW Jazz x Reader

• Spreading out the blanket on the grass in the shade of the pin oak, he fidgets with the pillows he’d taken from the furniture on your porch. Satisfied, his attention turns back to your house. Watching your shadow moving around in the kitchen, as he heads back to the house and waits. When you finally open the door, you’ve got a tote bag in your fist as you awkwardly shuffle out the door with your crutches. Not even protesting when he reaches to pick you up and carry you across the grass to that pile of pillows.

• When he’d asked if you’d share a meal with him, it had seemed so silly to you. Knowing neither of you can eat what the other does, but he’d looked so serious when he asked. Not smiling like he’s teasing you and that’s what had made you agree. There’d been something real and vulnerable in that request. It’s chilly outside even with your jacket and you shiver as he settles you in the midst of what you’re certain is every decorative pillow and cushion that had been on your porch. “Thanks,” you say, reaching to touch his servos as he nudges a pillow closer and sets your crutches aside.

• “Surprised at how domestic I am, doll?” He asks, flashing a grin as he sits with a leg outstretched and the other drawn up, that little touch spreading warmth through him. Waiting until you unpack your strange smelling human food before reaching for his own energon cube.

• He’s sipping at that glowing goop, and you can see the mesh of his throat working as he swallows. Reminding you that even if he’s metal, he’s alive. It’s not like you haven’t known he wasn’t just a machine for a long time now, but it strikes you every now and then. “Just surprised you’re behaving,” you counter as you pick at your food, very aware of that visor flaring slightly. That he’s watching you eat with open curiosity to make you feel self conscious.

• “Nah.” Watching you shiver and huddle into your coat, he’s leaning forward. Picking you up plate and all, and settling you on his thigh against his frame as you inhale. “I have a reputation to maintain.” Servos lingering against you, he waits for you to get mad. But it’s your turn to surprise him by leaning into him. It’s only that he’s warmer than you are and he knows it, but that little show of trust throws him off balance.

• “The lying,” you say as you take a bite and he stiffens against you. Immediately on guard making you almost let it go. But that’s you, always unable to leave well enough alone. “You want to talk about it?”

• “Nothing to talk about.” He’s smiling still, but it feels brittle as one of his servos gently taps against your ribs. Wants you to let it go, don’t push. Don’t ruin this for him, because he just wanted to share a quiet moment with you. A little peace. Because the truth is that he doesn’t know how not to lie anymore. Playing spy, wearing a smiling, harmless face to hide how awful he really is underneath. Smiling instead of screaming at the things he’s been forced to do throughout the war. Things that haunt his recharge. That’s why he needs this, needs you. Your innocence reminds him of who he’d been and what he’d lost. And protecting you so you don’t end up broken and bitter like he is? It’s everything. “I’m just a liar, doll.”

Previous

Next

[omgfangirlland]

Kinda want a batfam x reader where she was actually loved but she just didn't notice it.

Bruce didn't want reader to be involved so he hid her but to her it came off as Bruce not wanting to deal with her. She never noticed the loving and longing glances they gave her.. The yearning of wanting to call her their sister/daughter but they couldn't as she was born weak and they didn't want her to be in danger. She began to loathe them but also loathe herself for being born weak. She was smart, able to learn and copy moves but never had the strength to properly execute the techniques. She never noticed how the batfam would protect in her in the shadows while she continue to hate them for not caring for her.

(Bonus, she dies and get sent back to the past, finding out that they care for her or the batfam goes back to the past.. Months before her death and makes up for everything)

-🔱

The born weak part immediately made me think of Jeff "Joker Moreau(I still believe we were robbed of this romance option much like how I think EA were cowards for not letting us romance Garrus and Tali from the first game) from Mass Effect the trilogy, because he has a mild(to severe but it doesn't look like that in the games, just the brittle bones and maybe breathing problems? can't quite remember) case of brittle bone disease, and it's essential to his character, so I'm taking a lot from him- needing leg braces, crutches/cane/walker, his attitude-

I'm also making the batfam go back into the past-

Hope this is the thing you were referencing here 😩⬇️

CW: death, inaccurate depiction of brittle bone disease(my only knowledge is wiki and one videogame character)

PS this will have a part 2 because I started at like 4- it's almost 7:30 rn 😩😩 I'm tired :))

When Bruce first saw you in the back of Gordon's police car, you were a mess. Glassy eyes, busted face, both legs broken, and your nondominant hand bruised to hell. The aftermath of a Bane attack that left you alone, no other family members wanting to take in a sickly child like you, too much responsibility.

And it was- but that wasn't what worried Bruce. The man didn't know how soft he could be with his touch, the pats of praise he gave Dick, Tim or Jason could easily hurt you- what if he squeezed your hand too hard and broke your finger? What if he hugged you too tightly and dislocated something, or cracked your rib?

He was terrified. So terrified, he flinched away the first time you tried to hold his hand- he wasn't prepared, didn't expect it- he was sad for two weeks when you didn't try to hold his hand again. And Dick wasnt any better- he was stressed, shaking with the need to just grab you and swing you around like a doll- which you were in his eyes, the porcelain kind that the tarot reader at the circus always warned threathened him not to touch or he's bound to shatter them into milion of tiny pieces.

Jason met you a lot later, and when he first heard Bruce say that you had brittle bones, he didn't much care. "She's not a china plate, Bruce, she won't break if you look at her wrong." He remembers saying, but seeing you was another story. Your room was on the ground level, and seeing your stiff walking, hearing the metal of your leg braces, your hand around a cane, made him choke on his words.

He knew he shouldn't patronize you, shouldn't baby you- you were more than capable, that was very clear- but everytime you went to sit up, to grab something deemed a bit too heavy in his opinion, every time you were going for the stairs, he was the first to say something against it or to react- hindsight 20/20, he came off ruder than he meant to be.

Tim wasn't talking to you. He was afraid his tired mind would slip and say something that would make you hate him beyond repair, and while he wasn't afraid to touch you, he did think you'd hate it if he did. So he kept to the shadows, to the internet, keeping you out of the eyes of the media and nuking comments he didn't like before you could even have a concept of their existence.

Cassandra was your second shadow from day one, simply refusing not to follow you from the shadows once you were out of your room, which was starting to be less and less. She thought it was a bonding activity, but to you, it was just weird events you refused to acknowledge, because your mind immediately went to ghosts. The salt was way too high? You sigh and turn around to try and find Alfred, but the clicking of a glass on the marble countertop stops you. The salt wasn't on the shelf anymore. "...Thanks?" You take the salt and refuse to look at the cupboard again. Cassandra nods to herself, happy to be of help.

Damian was Bruce's little spy. You thought kids didn't want to be your friend because of your illness, but the truth was that Damian was a jealous and protective kid, and Bruce was ready to bite heads off at the slightest mishap. Like when one kid laughed at your walking aid- Damnian was quick to report back to his father, and Bruce was even quicker to threaten the school and student- nobody would believe how terrifying Bruce "Playboy" Wayne actually is when it comes to his kids.

But all that to you seemed like no one wanted to be near you, that nobody wanted to know you because of how you were born. And slowly, you started resenting your supposed family. You didn't care about your colleagues at school- they were strangers, but Bruce took you in- he was supposed to be different.

At one point, you thought he did it for PR reasons- "Bruce Wayne adopts disabled kid" - you were ready to be paraded around, for him to act up in front of the cameras, but the man barely agreed to let you go to an in-person school. Soon after your mind settled that he simply wanted to hide you, that he deemed you a stain on his name or simply not useful to him since you couldn't be Robin- so you remained quiet, a good kid with high grades, because what else could you do in their eyes besides dream and learn?

You didn't remain quiet when Bruce mentioned that a team of pilots and a spaceship crew would be at the next gala. You begged for an hour straight, almost cried, and when he gave in, you sure did- in the coziness of your own room.

On the day of the gala, you dusted off a dress you bought out of pure spite, expensive and too showy for the graduation party your school had planned- you fully wanted to sneak out and just catch a taxi or get a bolt to your school since Bruce forbade you from going, but when the day came you were simply crying too much due to overhearing tit bits of Jason arguing with Bruce about you.

So your day was spent in your room, doing your hair, having a mental breakdown over your eyeliner being sisters, not twins, and you felt amazing- until Bruce stared you down. He was biting his tongue to not cry, he still sees you as the little tween, and seeing you all dolled up made him realize how fast time passed. To you, he seemed utterly disappointed. And an argument almost broke when he refused to let you use your cane, insisting on the wheelchair. He won. For now.

You were on a mission, and a wheelchair won't stop you, not when you'd be so close to your dream- you just didn't expect to meet your dream while Ivy was attacking. Alas- you stole the spaceship Bruce was presenting as a something-something for the Justice League - you didn't care, you just wanted to pilot the babe.

When his voice came through the coms of the spaceships, you did panic, your replies being grunts and hums, and as they complimented you, you felt vindicated- finally, you couldn't wait to see their faces when they realized it was you who learned in second how to maneuver this beauty through Ivy's attacks, that it was you using the weapons on her plants to get them out of trouble.

Ivy wasn't having it. Her anger and desperation only fueled her powers, and as she took care of the bats, for now, she refocused her full attention on the airship. Attack after attack, you evaded and shot, but one vine came down hard on the tail of the craft, taking the wing out with the engine.

The craft was built to withstand a crash, the interior was made to move as little as possible during such a scenario, and the belts were made to hold tight. Anyone else would have gotten some ugly bruises, but anyone else didn't count for someone with brittle bones.

The crash didn't kill you, the broken spine and punctured lungs from the jolt of the impact and hold of the belt did. It was slow and painful, but you couldn't be happier in your last moment.

The family was in ruins.

They didn't sleep that night... or the one after. Everyone felt guilty to some extent, like they could have done more, better, but Bruce knew you would have stolen the ship either way, your diary said as much. You wanted to prove to him and the others you could do it- could be the best at anything you put your mind up to- and you were. You were amazing, your laughter through the coms will be a memory he'll hold dear to his heart. He wished he had said that while he could.

Dick was punching his way through dummies when he wasn't lethargic, while Jason simply locked himself in his apartment, drowning into his own sorrow. Tim and Cassandra busied themselves with anything they could, anything that would distract them from the need to cry, and Damian was close to stealing your corpse and throwing you in the pit- Alfred decided to sedate them- slightly-, what really put them to sleep was the cuddle pile as they watched movies they took from your room.

When they woke up, they did so in their own rooms, deciding to just lie in their own beds for the day, not quite having it in them to get up... Everyone but Tim, who got up to steal the coffee pot.

The young man stopped dead in his track as he saw your disheveled self eating breakfast. He did something he's only done while severely sleep deprived. Passed out. Your mouth hung open as he made impact with the floor, and all you could do was yell for Alfred with worry.

[b1eeding-sun]

It's a little unclear to me if the sage of Truth is like a pre-corruption shadow milk or an alternate universe design for him where pure vanilla and him like swapped places? Anyways I kinda mashed the sage of Truth design with the fount of knowledge design for my pre corruption SM (I'll probably be calling him blueberry yogurt/the fount of knowledge for reasons unless we get a cannon name for him).

Also I hc that he floats bc he can't walk unaided (well he technically can it's just super difficult and painful) and he's like super insecure about it (because he would probably see needing mobility aids as a sign of weakness and he'd rather die than show any sign of weakness) so you get him getting used to using crutches because I use crutch(es) and I'm definitely not self projecting or anything.

[belle--ofthebrawl]

Well, it's out of my system and out in the world. I don't want to look at it any more. I don't think anyone should. Consider this my Pandora's box, with hope being something that makes it all worse.

Hurt with no comfort. Both physical and emotional pain. Good luck in there.

It happened so swiftly they all thought it was a joke.

One minute they were walking in straggled groups to the hotel; Tempest had outdrank Mountain and the big guy was keeping her tethered so she didn't float off and alert the humans something unnatural was lurking. Cirrus and Aurora were with Rain a little ways behind discussing the pros and cons of various skincare items and routines. and Dew was limping along on his crutches like a good sport half-listening to Aeon tell Swiss something stupid. Good stupid. The kind of stupid that was funny in a drunken haze and would no doubt become another one of the many private jokes they had with each other. Hearing Swiss laugh, Dew smiles faintly. Things were different with Lus and Aether gone and a new Papa and ghoulette to work around and into their group. But good different. He could handle the tour if it kept going like this. Even with a broken foot, it wouldn't be as hard on him as last time and Cirrus had his strength to draw on.

They come to the end of the avenue. Mountain looks both ways before he starts to cross the street, giggly Tempest in tow. Dew shifts on his crutches, wishing he could light up and walk at the same time. He'd given anything for a human dose of nicotine right now.

He's about to call Swiss' name to pester him for a smoke when it happens. Swiss is replying between laughter, clapping a hand on Aeon's shoulder and saying something like “That's nothing, this one time I saw-”

Aeon never hears what Swiss saw. He's gone in the blink of an eye, in the space between breathing. There's nothing to mark his disappearance; no gust of wind or flash of light.

He's just.

Gone.

“Woah…” Aeon slurs, turning around to squint at Dew with his mismatched eyes, his scar puckering as he frowns. “Where'd he go?”

“Around.” Dew says nonchalantly, balancing on his good foot to use a crutch to gesture idly at their surroundings. “Been a while since he did his shadow shtick. Surprised he's risking it here.”

But that was always Swiss, wasn't it? Pushing the limits, testing his luck.

“Oooh…” Aeon says with a toothy grin. “Right. Shhhadow shhhtick.” He looks around with exaggerated movements, high and low. “Swiss? Where did you goooo? That's soooo crazy, he was right here!”

Dew rolls his eyes and takes Swiss' spot next to Aeon, resting his head on the kid’s shoulder for a moment. Debates asking for a bit of quintessence but decides against it. Maybe at the hotel.

“I got your man.” Dew announces to a particularly suspicious looking shadow. “He's mine tonight if you don't re-claim him.”

Swiss doesn't reappear.

“Jackass.” Dew mutters, but fondly. Things had been so tense lately with the transition, he's a little bit glad Swiss is pulling his usual tricks. Not like Dew will ever tell him though. Alright, maybe he will. When this cycle is wrapped up and they have their last night out before heading home. Maybe. Maybe Dew will tell him.

They keep up the game as they walk to the hotel, talking like Swiss isn't hovering in the shadows five feet behind them. Swiss, can I use your cologne tomorrow night? Oh, did you see that? I think that was a yes. Swiss, can we trade bunks? I don't think it's fair you got to pick first. Did you hear the wind? He's being so generous tonight!

Each time they expect him to pop back up, take Aeon's elbow and berate them in his usual manner for stealing all his stuff. Each time he doesn't and while Aeon is drunk enough to think he's dragging it out, Dew feels the faintest tinge of unease in his gut.

Something isn't right.

“Swiss.” He says before they head into the hotel. “It's old, bud. Come on, let's put this brat to bed.”

Aeon protests at being called a brat, at the implication he needs a bedtime but Dew doesn't hear him. He's got his eye on a liquidy shadow in the dim alleyway. Strange animalic eyes reflect luminously at him and for a moment, Dew’s shoulders drop. There he is, the bastard.

“Swiss-” he calls, only to startle, genuinely startle as the black cat leaps from the top of the trash can and into the light, hissing as it goes between his boot and his crutch. Aeon’s snickering but as Dew turns to watch it flee, all he feels is dread.

“C’mon man.” Aeon says, smacking his back. “He's up in the room waiting for us, I bet. What a jerk.”

“Yeah.” Dew says as Rain and the girls shoulder past them, still talking. Unaware of the shift that has subtly taken place. “Yeah.”

Saying anything else doesn't feel right because he already knows. He already knows as soon as Aeon slides his key card in and throws open the door, asking Swiss to come out with a laugh and is greeted with silence. He's not there. His stuff is, his duffle and a half-finished bottle of water with black lipstick drying on the rim.

But no Swiss.

“Go to bed, kid.” Dew says quietly, shifting his weight to take the pressure off his armpits. Fucking crutches. “I'll track him down.”

Aeon goes down like a puppy, tail wagging and big eyes closing innocently. He trusts Dew, which makes the lie hurt even more.

“Tell’im he's a jerk.” Aeon says into his pillow. “I wanted snuggles.” Then, as if to clarify, “Swiss snuggles. Swuggles.”

He's still giggling over it when Dew closes the door, leaning against it so he can pull out his phone to check their room assignments. Heads to his own first, just to make sure they didn't guess wrong, cussing under his breath the whole time at Swiss for making his handicapped ass hobble around like this. The anger feels good. A distraction from the nugget of fear.

But it only grows bigger, a deep pit opening in his stomach when his own is empty. Mountain's in the shower and it sounds like he's alone. Dew leaves without tipping him off and heads to Aurora and Rain next. They both confirm they haven't seen him but they'll keep an eye out.

He doesn't have to tell Cirrus when she opens her door. She instantly clocks something's wrong by the look on his face. Dew can feel his expression faltering, worry creasing his brow.

The decision to keep V out of it is mutual. The usual excuses of his newness feel wrong but they're still said. It only takes an exchange of glances to know they don't trust V with this, not yet. Pack handled pack shit. They would get this sorted out and if…and when they found Swiss, they'd both tear into him for making them worry.

Dew texts Mountain while Cirrus goes to grab Aurora. The little ghoulette is one step ahead of them, already sitting crisscross on the bed with her eyes aglow when Dew and Mountain join them. Rain’s filing his nails by the window, looking like he doesn't have a care in the world but Dew recognizes the way his tail is twisting around itself and so does Mountain. The big guy goes to stand by him, putting a hand on his shoulder in such an eerily similar way to Swiss that it nearly sends a shudder through Dew. He puts his crutches against the wall and collapses into the cuck chair, stretching his legs out, wincing as a jolt of pain streaks up his calf.

“Where did he vanish?” Aurora asks, sounding strange and ethereal.

“At the crosswalk.” Dew says. He gives her his hand so she can see his memory and at the moment of Swiss vanishing, she screams.

“No!” She cries, scrambling to get up, reaching out into empty space, into the memory of the past she cannot change. “Swiss!”

Before any of them can catch her, she tips over. Going down on the thin carpet hard, hitting her skull with a sickening noise and by the time Mountain’s gotten to her, helped her up, checked her over, she's shaking and sobbing, dry-heaving as she tries to explain and only makes herself cry harder.

“He's gone!” Is all she can repeat, rocking back and forth. “That stupid, stupid…He's gone!”

When Dew looks at Cirrus and Mountain, he knows with grim certainty it's no longer pack shit.

________

“What do you mean he's gone?”

In any other circumstances it would be funny. V in his bathrobe with a bare face. Copia on the other line, seething with fury. Speaking at the same time with the same words.

“I would've-” Aurora gasps, wiping away tears. “If I had seen, there's a, there's a moment where you can grab them back when they go and I could've, if I had seen, if- if Aeon had seen-”

Aeon hadn't seen. He'd been laughing too hard, too drunk to realize. No one wants to be the one to go get him for this. Tempest is an afterthought. She should be involved. She's one of them now.

No one moves.

“His summoning contract.” Aurora says in a low voice to keep it from breaking. “Up for renewal before we left. But there wasn't any time and he forged the renewal paperwork with my help, he told me not to worry and that he knew what he was risking, he told me it would work out!”

Her voice cracks and they lose her again as she buries her face in her hands.

“You're telling me you lost one of my best ghouls.” Copia growls and to V’s credit, his own voice is steady when he answers,

“Seems like this happened under your watch, Frater.”

Copia swears a bluestreak at V, who stands with his hands together like he's about to give a speech. Dew’s neck prickles at the way he seems to be studying them.

“Let me go look if we carry proper ceremonial equipment to resummon a ghoul.” He simply says and turns away from them to take his leave.

“I'll see what I can do on my end.” Copia mutters, and hangs up.

It's probably for the best if the new guy keeps his space. Already Dew feels better as V opens the door, let them mourn but Dew’s heart sinks again when he hears the sleep-scratchy voice of Aeon just outside.

“Where is everybody?” He asks with a jaw cracking yawn. “I got the weirdest feeling I don't want to be alone right now guys.”

“We have lost one of our band mates tonight.” V says succinctly. “And I am off to see if we can summon him back.”

Suppose there was no way to break it gently to him. Aeon goes from sleepy to stunned in a heartbeat, staggering into the room looking at V as he walks away. Turning to them all with shock etched in every line of his body.

“He's gone?” He asks quietly.

Dew nods slowly. He thinks the others do too.

“But I was…” Aeon walks to the bed on unsteady feet. “He was standing…and I was there, I didn't even…”

“There's nothing when we leave.” Aurora says softly. “It's like when humans die. One second we're here and the next…”

“Why do you know.” Mountain says, sounding utterly heartbroken and Aurora's face crumples. “Out of all of us, why do you know?”

“I don't know why he picked me to help him!” She snaps, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. “He said he didn't want anyone else to worry, okay? Like it's okay to make me feel like this is my fault. I trusted him to make things okay!”

“We all trusted him.” Rain says. “And he trusted us too.”

“Not enough.” Dew says cynically and hates himself for it. He has the grace to avoid the dirty look Cirrus gives him and taps his good foot against the bad to make it hurt.

“He could have told me too.” Aeon says, dropping onto the mattress like a stone sunk in water. “We could have kept an eye on him, Rory, I could-I could have helped, right?”

There's something in the way Aurora curls up in on herself that sends a message to Aeon none of them can interprete.

“You bitch.” He says quietly, so angrily it makes Aurora lean away from him.

“I'm sorry.” She whispers. “You're too much of a risk, we wanted to keep you safe,”

“Is that how you all feel?” Aeon demands wildly, standing up and swaying on his feet. He pushes back his shock of white hair, forces the eyelid of his blind eye open, glaring at all of them as he digs his nails so hard into the ropey tissue of his scar that it hurts Dew to look at it. “You all think I'm a fucking liability? Just cause of this?”

“No one thinks that-” Mountain starts.

“My powers work fine!” Aeon shouts. “I was cleared by Omega after the fucking dust settled! I'm sorry I was too excited to be up here with everyone. At least I only hurt myself.”

He jabs a finger at Aurora.

“You promised no secrets.” He spits. “And Swiss promised he wouldn't leave so I guess you two are fucking made for each other.”

He's crying by the time he storms out the door, stomping down the hallway. Dew struggles to stand, reaching for his crutches but only succeeds in knocking them down loudly on the floor. Distantly, some part of his brain points out the noise complaints they're all going to receive.

“What do we do?” Aurora asks, looking to Cirrus for guidance. “Just wait? Wait around and see if we can get him back?”

Cirrus' expression is tight as she sits next to Aurora, awkwardly filling in the role of comforter Cumulus so easily played. Cumulus would know what say here, Dew thinks. Cumulus would have chased after Aeon and calmed him down. But she's not here and all Cirrus does is rub little circles into Aurora's back as her eyes fill with tears again.

“What if we can't?” Aurora asks. Dew wishes she would shut the fuck up. Each word out of her mouth makes everything worse. “What if we can't get him back?”

“Show goes on.” Dew says, sounding hollow. He lifts his bad leg and drops it down heavy, the pain so quick and intense it makes him a little nauseous. Anything to keep him from thinking about the future stretched out before then now. “The show must go on.”

[marigold-hills]

@wolfstarmicrofic | August 25th: win | 1000 words

CW: attempted mugging, mentions of broken bones

Remus Lupin is well aware what he looks like: the wrong side of lanky, with a nasty scar across his face from falling off a bike at five, and a nastier one down his sternum from heart surgery at fifteen. Weak knees, weaker ankles. Breakable wrists. He surrounds himself in soft things, wears sweaters and cardigans even in the summer, when his varied blood deficiencies keep him cold in the heat.

He doesn’t usually go out in the dark. His library desk job keeps his work hours to a respectable 9-to-5, and he’s not one for bars, or clubs, or any other sort of entertainment that would require him to be out in the evening.

Today? Well, there was a book signing at the library. It run late, and he was having a nice chat with the writer, managing to keep his fan-boying to a minimum (it was the James Potter, after all). There was wine, which he doesn’t usually partake in. So: it’s well past his work hours, he’s pleasantly buzzed and on a high from a successful social interaction. Then he sees him.

It’s probably the most beautiful human specimen Remus’ has ever seen. He was stunning in the library, where he accompanied the James Potter for the signing, and he is just as lovely now, in the dim unflattering streetlamps. The hair, the bone structure, the shoulders. Everything about him made Remus decide not to say a single word to him, only gape half-open-mouthed and watch from across the room.

(Doing it now, as he as good as follows him down darkened South London streets, feels roughly stalkerish. Again, Remus knows what he looks like. He’s got too big ears and slightly too big front teeth and definitely too big a nose. He wouldn’t even try to talk to someone like this, not for all the embarrassment in the world.)

Remus is slower, especially with the crutch he has had to use since he broke his ankle a month earlier. His foot is still in the awkward boot-cuff. There should be no way of him catching up, so no chance of an interaction, successful or, more likely, otherwise.

Out of the shadows, appears a figure. Hooded, wide-shouldered, knife-wielding. The beautiful friend of James Potter doesn’t notice until the man is almost on him, knife pointed at the Nirvana logo on his T-shirt.

Remus can’t hear what’s said, but he doesn’t really need to. He’s lived in South London all his life, from Lambeth to Peckham - he’s seen his fair share of muggings.

Something comes over him. Maybe the late hour, maybe the wine. Maybe the impossible wrongness of a man so pretty being in such a situation. Whatever it is, before he even thinks about it, he’s somehow caught up.

Next thing he knows, he’s behind the mugger.

Next thing after that, the heavy, metal leg of his crutch makes heavy, violent contact with the side of the mugger’s head.

He falls to the ground in a heap of limbs and dark fabric and dropped knifes and for a terrible second Remus thinks:

“Fuck. I think I killed him.”

Through the wine-haze or adrenaline-haze, or maybe your-dodgy-heart-finally-gave-in-haze, he realises he said it out loud.

The pretty man leans down and checks the muggers head, then his pulse. “He’s fine. Well. He’s probably concussed. That was a mean hit,” he looks at Remus with something like appreciation in his eyes. “Thank you, Remus. Lucky you were here, or he’d have probably made off with my phone.”

“You know my name?” Remus asks rather dumbly. The answer is obvious and self evident because the man just said it.

“Of course I do. I’ve been watching you all night,” the cheekiest smile Remus has ever seen. The man prods the prone mugger with the tip of his shoe. “Who knew it’d take something like this to actually get you to talk to me.”

“Huh,” Remus says. (He has a degree in literature, he should really be able to string a sentence together with some intelligence, but apparently it has abandoned him.)

“Should probably call an ambulance.”

And that brings Remus out of his stupor. “You’re hurt?” He just stops himself from checking the man over, hands itching to reach out and feel for the damage.

“For this one. Can’t really leave him just lying on the side of the road.”

“Oh. Right, of course.”

“And they’ll probably arrest him, while they���re at it. Win-win.”

“Silver linings.”

The man – Remus doesn’t know his name – laughs at that. It’s oddly dog like and on another person it’d be too much, too loud, but on him? Perfection. Remus wants to ask to record it. Maybe playing it in the evenings will cure his insomnia.

Adrenaline wearing off, Remus realises that his broken ankle hurts way more than it should. More than it has for a while. The same amount as…

“I’ve re-broken my ankle,” he doesn’t mean to blurt out loud. There’s immediate concern in the man’s face. Remus half-sits half-slumps down to the pavement. “Yup. I’m pretty sure I’ve re-broken my ankle. Fantastic.”

That’s what he gets for chasing down would-be-muggers down the streets of London. It’s probably some cosmic price to pay for hearing that laugh. It must be delirium: Remus thinks it’s worth it.

There are gentle hands on the side of his face, guiding it upward, and gentle eyes full on sincerity. “Thank you for helping me,” the man says again, “let’s get you to the hospital, alright?”

Through the pain-haze or wine-buzz-haze or maybe you-just-assaulted-someone-haze, Remus becomes shameless. “Will you stay with me?”

“As long as you’ll have me,” the man says and the way he looks at Remus? Like he doesn’t have too-big ears and too-big a nose, or the scar, or the hair he can never get to behave.

Remus, more than shameless: “forever, then.”

The laugh he gets in return is somehow even better. There is nothing mocking about it. Instead, agreeable. “Alright. Forever.”

NOTES:

does this count as a meet-cute?

[mercillery]

can you please write a series of headcanons for yandere Zenon falling for a nun female reader who is a friend of sister Lily and father Orsi?

btw i really love your writing 💕❤️

WARNINGS: FEMALE READER + RELIGIOUS TOPICS + NOT PROOFREAD

NOTES: IM ALIVE GUYS I SWEAR IM ALIVE. ALSO, I DID THIS ON A WHIM SO IT MIGHT NOT BE THE BEST. SORRY AND THANK YOU.

Oh, you poor, unsuspecting soul.

You're about to hop on a roller coaster so wild and unpredictable that even the most hardcore adrenaline junkies would pause and reconsider their life choices before strapping in. Seriously, who could have predicted that someone as cold and ruthless as Zenon—yes, Zenon, the guy whose hobbies probably include brooding and looking dramatically into the distance—would ever let thoughts of anything other than his missions and duties creep into his mind?

And not just anyone, mind you, but a nun? The irony is ironing. Zenon falling for someone devoted to peace and virtue? It’s like discovering the Grim Reaper secretly volunteers at a kitten shelter on weekends. But hey, life has a funny way of throwing curveballs when you least expect them, and Zenon catching feelings might just be the curveball of the century.

Zenon's interest in you doesn't start as love—oh no, that would be too simple, too human. Instead, it begins as a fixation, a curiosity he can’t quite shake. You see, he’s drawn to your purity, your unwavering faith, and that infuriating devotion to something greater than yourself. For someone like Zenon, whose life is steeped in shadows and bloodshed, these qualities are both intriguing and utterly alien. It’s like he’s found a rare, delicate flower growing in the middle of a battlefield—something that shouldn’t exist, and yet, here it is, flourishing despite the chaos.

Your kindness and warmth are stark contrasts to the cold, brutal world Zenon knows so well. To him, you're almost like a living embodiment of everything he's not—and, frankly, everything he’s never wanted to be. Zenon is perfectly content with his dark, brooding existence; thank you very much. The idea of being anything else? Laughable. But still, there’s something about your devoted nature that tugs at him in ways he doesn't fully understand.

It’s not love—at least not yet—but there’s definitely something there, something that keeps him coming back, if only to try and figure out why someone like you exists in a world like his.

Zenon doesn’t harbor any outward disgust toward religion—he’s not the type to waste energy on something as trivial as disdain. Instead, religion just makes him tilt his head slightly, those dark, intimidating eyes narrowing as if he's trying to solve a puzzle he doesn’t really care about. He’s genuinely baffled by how someone could be so dedicated, so selfless, so utterly consumed by their devotion to something intangible. How could anyone willingly bind themselves to something as abstract as faith?

If we're being completely honest here, Zenon probably finds the whole concept of religion utterly useless. In his mind, power is the only currency that matters, and in the face of overwhelming strength, everything else—including religion—seems trivial at best. He sees religion as something that would only hold a person back, a crutch that prevents them from grasping real power. After all, why rely on divine intervention when you can take matters into your own hands?

But does he care if someone else wants to cling to their faith? Not really. Zenon’s not interested in converting anyone to his worldview; he’s too focused on his own goals for that. If people want to hold themselves back with their religious beliefs, that’s their problem, not his. He just shrugs it off, filing it away as another incomprehensible quirk of humanity that he doesn’t need to understand and thinks it just holds everyone back.

But anyway—over time, this curiosity of his starts to twist and morph into something far more dangerous—an obsession. As this obsession deepens, Zenon begins to rationalize the strange feelings he's grappling with, trying to make sense of them in a way that aligns with his dark worldview. He starts to see your innocence as something fragile, something that needs to be protected—by him and only him.

Of course, Zenon’s idea of protection isn’t exactly comforting. It's dark, suffocating, and possessive. In his mind, the only way to keep you truly safe is to isolate you from the world, to lock you away where no one else can reach you or taint your purity. This twisted logic extends to everyone around you, even those closest to you, like Sister Lily and Father Orsi.

Sure, even if they’re like your family, even if you dearly love them with every fiber of your being, and even if Zenon knows all of this—he still sees them as obstacles. And let’s be real; that’s not exactly surprising. To him, they’re not threats, just hurdles he needs to clear before claiming his prize: you. I’m not saying he’d immediately jump to murder, but it’s definitely crossed his mind. Whether he goes that far depends entirely on how much resistance they put up.

Zenon isn’t one for subtlety or long-winded schemes. He’s not going to waste time orchestrating elaborate events to make it seem like Sister Lily or Father Orsi are in danger or untrustworthy—that’s just too much work for something he could easily solve by just killing them. He’s got power, and he’s more than willing to use it to carve a quicker, more direct path to you. If they become too much of a nuisance, well, let’s just say Zenon’s not above using lethal force to clear the way. Sorry, but in his mind, it’s a simple equation: they’re in his way, and he’s not one to let anything stand between him and what he wants. Of course, if by some miracle Sister Lily and Father Orsi step aside and let him through—though let’s be real, that’s about as likely as Zenon deciding to take up knitting—they might just live to see another day.

That being said, once Zenon realizes that he’s not just obsessed with you and that his feelings run far deeper than mere fixation, well, say goodbye to your freedom. Forever.

Zenon’s first move would be to isolate you completely, cutting you off from everyone and everything you’ve ever known. He wouldn’t hesitate to threaten the lives of those around you if it meant coercing you into submission. It’s just a necessary step to secure your loyalty and your obedience. He’d present himself as your only protector, the one person who can truly keep you safe in a world filled with chaos, danger, and evil—a world that’s constantly trying to kill that innocence you have. To Zenon, this isn’t just a twisted power play; it’s an act of love. He genuinely believes that by keeping you close, by holding you tight in his suffocating grip, he’s shielding you from the darkness that he knows all too well.

And yes, Zenon is the very embodiment of that darkness, the very thing he’s supposedly protecting you from, but in his mind, that’s just more reason for you to stay with him. You’re precious, sacred even, and he can’t bear the thought of losing you—especially after what happened with Allen. Oh how much you remind him of that sunshine boy, that bright light that was snuffed out too soon. He doesn’t want to experience that pain again, that devastating loss. So he convinces himself that this is the only way, that by keeping you close, he’s protecting both you and himself from a repeat of the past.

But while Zenon is dead set on “protecting” your purity as a nun, he's also not above trying to chip away at the very core of what makes you who you are. He takes a strange satisfaction in subtly undermining your faith, poking holes in the foundations of your beliefs whenever he gets the chance. He'll challenge your views on life, death, and the morality of your God, all while weaving in his own twisted philosophy, as if trying to make you see the world through his cold, unforgiving eyes.

As much as he’s intrigued by your devotion, it also kinda grates on him. How can someone be so unwavering in the face of a world as dark and merciless as this one? He might be your self-appointed protector, but there’s a part of him that wants to see you stumble—a lot, actually. Zenon’s not satisfied with just keeping you safe; he wants to break your spirit and mold you into someone who sees the world the way he does. He’s not just after your obedience—he wants your mind, your very soul, to align with his own warped perspective.

In fact, at some point, Zenon would likely want you to abandon your faith altogether. He’d see it as a weakness, something that blinds you to the harsh realities he believes in. In his mind, your faith and ideals are naïve, a set of fragile beliefs that will only lead to your destruction if left unchecked. He sees his efforts to sway you as an act of mercy, a twisted form of salvation. To him, if you could just shed those old beliefs and embrace his darker, more “realistic” worldview, you’d be stronger for it—stronger and safer, as far as he’s concerned.

So while Zenon might claim to be protecting your purity, the truth is much more sinister. He wants to strip away everything that makes you who you are, to rebuild you in his own image, and in doing so, bind you to him in a way that goes far beyond physical control. To him, that’s the ultimate act of protection: not just guarding your body, but reshaping your very soul.

Moreover, Zenon’s icy logic and emotional detachment would make it utterly futile to try and reason with him—even if you’re usually a master at persuading others. With him, all your skills in negotiation and reasoning would hit an unyielding wall. Zenon isn't the kind of man who can be swayed by emotional appeals or logical arguments. His mind is set, and once he’s decided on something, there’s no changing it. If you ever attempted to escape or reach out for help, you’d quickly learn just how unforgiving he can be. Any act of defiance would be met with swift and brutal consequences, the kind that would make you think twice about ever trying it again.

Zenon doesn’t see you as an individual with your own thoughts, feelings, and agency. To him, you’re a precious, pure possession—something to be guarded, controlled, and kept away from the world. He might speak of love, but his version of it is suffocating, possessive, and devoid of the genuine respect and care that real love requires. Instead of being cherished as a person, you’re reduced to an object of obsession, someone whose freedom and autonomy are sacrificed on the altar of his twisted affections.

In Zenon’s mind, the endgame is crystal clear. He’s convinced that by breaking your will and dismantling the person you once were, he can rebuild you into something that aligns with his dark, twisted worldview. If you were to ever fully submit to his control, he’d see it as a victory—a validation of his power and a confirmation that his way is the only way. But here’s the thing: that victory wouldn’t bring Zenon any real peace or happiness. Despite his relentless pursuit, Zenon is a man consumed by darkness, and even if he managed to break you, he’d likely find himself staring into an abyss of his own making.

The purity and innocence that first drew Zenon to you would be gone, stripped away by his relentless need to control and reshape you. In their place would be something hollow and broken—a reflection of Zenon himself. He might have you under his thumb, but the person he was so fascinated by, the light that caught his attention, would be extinguished. And what then? Zenon is too far gone to appreciate what he’s lost, but on some level, he would likely feel the emptiness of his so-called victory.

Overall, Zenon’s pursuit of you is more than just a desire to possess; it’s a reflection of his own inner turmoil. He’s a man who, in trying to hold onto something pure, only succeeds in dragging both you and himself further into the darkness. The very thing that made you special to him—your purity—becomes a casualty of his obsession. And in trying to mold you into something that mirrors his own brokenness, Zenon only deepens his descent into the void, leaving behind nothing but the remnants of what once was and what could never be again.