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4ttack-ur-heart · 1 day ago

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Dr. Zayne will handle it.

Pairings: Zayne x afab! Reader

Summary: Zayne finds out your gyno appointment is going to be with a male doctor and he’s less than happy about it.

Warnings: not really any just Zayne being jealous yet respectful, idk if I wrote him ooc or not… but it’s a learning experience lol.

Ps- it’s a lil shorter than what I normally write but I have so many ideas brewing.

————

Zayne’s fingers type quickly on his laptop, a warm cup of tea steeping next to him. His glasses are perched on the bridge of his nose with the lenses reflecting reports and patient files. He had promised only an hour of working in his home office while you stayed with him.

He could hear your voice in the main room arguing with whomever you spoke with. After your tone sharpened slightly, he decided to close his computer, remove his glasses, and see what was happening.

“No, I’ve been waiting for this appointment for two months! There has to be something else you can do.” You plead with frustration.

Zayne raises a brow, wondering what kind of appointment has you so stirred up. He watches as you angrily huff and say goodbye before ending the call. Your phone is tossed to the couch carelessly and you rub your face in your hands.

He carefully comes up behind you, his large hands covering your shoulders and the pads of his thumbs gently massage the tissue.

“Is everything okay, dear?” Concern is evident in his voice.

You nod and turn around to face him. “Yeah, just my stupid gynecologist.”

Zayne remains quiet, obviously waiting for you to continue.

“I’ve been trying to see this specific doctor because the association recommended her, but they just called me and said they overbooked her for this month and she won't be able to see me."

“Why does the association even have a recommended gynecologist?”

His questions hung in the air for a few moments while you scooped up your phone from the couch.

“I guess Dr. Lina is the best in her field. Kinda like how you’re the best cardiologist- most hunters try to see you instead of anyone else for heart issues. I guess it’s the same for her, and since a lot of hunters are women, the association trusts her to handle any issues for us.”

Zayne hums in understanding and places a tender kiss on your temple, his hand stroking your back to relax you. “So, what are you required to do now?”

You let out a sigh, “They can either reschedule me a month from my original appointment or I have to see the other gynecologist that the association recommended… who’s a guy.”

He tenses up and his hand stops moving.

Zayne maintained a high level of professionalism in his interactions with female patients. He recognized that the primary objective of doctors, including himself, is to assist individuals in need. Nevertheless, he experienced a sense of jealousy at the chance of another man observing you in a vulnerable situation.

“And are you comfortable with that?” His voice grows more cold and tense.

You pull your lip that you were chewing on from between your teeth, “Not really… that’s why I was waiting for Dr. Lina. If I’m not cleared soon, then I’ll have to be put on desk duty until I am.”

The foreboding future of being limited to desk duty when you weren't even physically injured was sure to make you go crazy. It was one of the most frustrating things about being a hunter- forget the wanderers, no, it was staying on top of all the appointments to ensure you were completely healthy. Dental appointments, eye exams, physicals, and now gynecology.

“I’ll miss my deadline if I wait for her,” frowning, you collapse onto the sofa in defeat. “Hello desk duty for the next month.”

You glance up at Zayne, searching for a hint of his thoughts on the situation, but he simply exhales through his nose, a silent acknowledgment of your frustration. He settles beside you, and you allow yourself to rest against his chest, feeling the cool steadiness of him. As you roll your eyes at the absurdity of it all, you pull out your phone to dial the clinic once more. Unbeknownst to you, Zayne’s gaze is intently fixed on the screen, curiosity dancing in his eyes.

“I’ll just book with that other doctor,” you say dejectedly.

Zayne's hand clamps down on your wrist with a surprising intensity, preventing you from dialing the number. Shock floods your senses, and as your gaze meets his, you can't help but notice the piercing coldness in his green eyes. The tension in the air thickens, making it clear that this moment is more weighted than you had anticipated.

“Zayne?”

You look back to his hand locked onto your wrist. Little white snowflakes flurry from his arm, and from that, you can tell the doctor is having an internal battle with his emotions.

“Forgive me for my impracticality, but I don’t think I’m comfortable with you seeing a male gynecologist.” You don’t fail to notice the way his voice was now lowered and a chill ran through your body.

The flurry of snowflakes burst from his hand in quicker movements at your words and he quickly lets go of you.

“My, my, is Dr. Zayne… jealous?”

“I don’t see why I cannot clear you for this, I am your primary doctor after all.”

Aww, your snowman was jealous. He just didn’t want to admit it.

“Zayne, honey,” you lock your fingers with his, noting the way the snowflakes start to calm down. “As much as I would prefer you to do it over anyone else, the association wants someone specialized in that field.”

Zayne furrows his brow, a wave of frustration washing over him. He knows deep down that he lacks the authority to grant you the necessary clearance, and the thought that another man will see you exposed, no matter how justified it may be for medical reasons, angers him even more. The tension in the room thickens as he rises abruptly from the sofa, his movements are almost forceful as he unintentionally nudges you aside in his haste, caught between concern for your well-being and the turmoil within himself.

“Don’t make the appointment.”

And with that, he leaves the room.

"Zayne!" You call out, but the sound of his office door shutting was all you received in response.

—————-

About an hour ticks by and you never leave the couch, instead just opting to watch some soap opera to pass the time with a throw blanket covering your body as the rain pelts against the windows.

You could faintly hear Zayne's muffled voice speaking to someone over the phone. You didn't want to disturb him, understanding how difficult it is for him to express his emotions. If he needed some time alone, you would give him that space.

By the time the door opens, the main character is already in tears again for the umpteenth time. He stands over you and you turn off the show.

In the stillness, you can sense his struggle to meet your gaze, while your eyes remain locked on his, filled with concern and curiousness.

Finally, he clears his throat.

“You have an appointment with Dr. Lina at 8 a.m. on Monday. Please do not be late.”

Shock washes over your features and your mouth parts open.

“What? Zayne, how did you-”

“Being at the top of your field has its advantages.”

You're silent, not knowing what to say, just overall confused. It would’ve taken you another month to see her and now you’re seeing her in three days?

“One of my colleagues is Dr. Lina's cousin. I explained to him your situation and he talked to her. I guess she was delighted to find out that the one and only Dr. Zayne’s girlfriend wanted to see her- so she pushed back one of her appointments.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Without another thought, you move off the couch and wrap your arms around his neck. Zayne reciprocates the hug and cradles your head to his chest.

“Thank you.”

Zayne's hand continues to stroke your hair, a bit hesitant as he chooses his next words carefully. "Darling, I want to apologize for my behavior earlier."

You pull away with furrowed eyebrows as he meets your eyes.

"You were right, it seems I was a bit jealous." His hand brushes back a stray lock of your hair. "If you were required to go see another male doctor, I should have been more understanding of that. It wasn't right nor professional for me to intervene without your consent-"

"Zayne." Your sharp tone cuts off his apology. "You don’t need to apologize for anything. I understand how difficult it is for you to confront your emotions. Honestly, I couldn’t be more relieved. I had already told you that I wasn’t comfortable seeing a male doctor for this, so you being jealous and taking action like that is kind of sexy."

"You think that was sexy?" Zayne smirks as if humored by the situation. "Really."

You shrug and nod your head, "I mean, yeah. You being all protective like that and realizing you're jealous is something I don't get to see every day. Maybe I should make you jealous more often..."

He lets out a low growl and pulls you back to his chest, lips brushing against your hairline as he inhales your shampoo.

"It would be wise not to push it," He warns. "Besides, I’d much rather owe Dr. Lina a favor than you forced to be uncomfortable.” His thumb brushes over your ear.

“What’s the favor?”

“That I see one of her children. With the discovery of his new evol, I guess his heart had some abnormal fluctuations.”

You frown at his answer. A child with heart problems already?

Zayne notices your change in demeanor and he tilts your chin up to look at him.

“Don’t fret over it darling, I’m seeing him tomorrow and she had already given me a brief rundown on his condition. It sounds like it’s just the body getting used to the abundance of power. It's common in children.”

You nod, relieved. If anyone can figure it out, it’s your boyfriend.

The rest of the night was spent cuddling on the couch and snacking on sweets while the cliche drama played in the background.

———-

Your appointment with Dr. Lina went very smoothly and she said you were in perfect health.

By the next week, you were approved to continue out in the field and the heavy weight was lifted off your shoulders.

Zayne was very relieved to find out his hypothesis was correct with Linda’s son, Ivan. As it turns out Ivan’s evol was super speed and the fluctuations in his heart were just him needing to burn off the energy.

You were glad it all worked out, thanks to your Dr. Zayne.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lnds x mc #lnds zayne #love and deepspace zayne #zayne x mc #lads zayne #love and deepspace x mc #zayne x reader #doctor zayne

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boxoftheskyking · 2 days ago

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Might I give some advice:

Not everyone has (or needs to have) the energy to thoughtfully respond to republicans on the Internet. You do not have to do that.

But some people do, and can. And I think we gotta let them.

An example:

I have a former teacher, I'll call her Grace, who is an incredibly kind woman in her 70s. Devout catholic, had voted for various parties over the years, but has been pretty strictly democrat over the past 15-20 because that aligns with her values of kindness and service.

She shared a post about the pope's recent letter and expressed that she agreed with his concerns about how trump is treating immigrants. A friend of hers commented a long paragraph basically saying "dear Grace I care for you but I don't understand how you can be a Christian and a democrat. Blah blah abortion blah blah gender blah blah drugs."

Grace replied "I'm very busy right now but I am going to respond to you soon with my thoughts". When she did it was an incredibly generous, rational monologue that connected with this person's humanity, their shared religious values, and made a beautiful case for why she supports who she does. I didn't agree with a good half of what she said as I am not a Christian, but the result was an expression of values that I think put her on the side of justice and compassion.

The person replied and thanked her and said she had a lot to think about. It was probably the best case scenario for a Facebook politics conversation

You know what came very close to ruining it? A bunch of (mostly younger) people piling on with "fuck you you racist maga pos" and "no one has to explain anything to you, go to hell" etc etc. Even after Grace wrote that she intended to reply herself.

I watched this republican respond to all the easy, quick insults by saying "this is why I don't think any democrats can be Christian, this is how you all speak to me." If Grace hadn't put so much work into writing her response in a way that was tailored to fit this person, I would not be surprised if that person left Facebook doubly certain that Christian nationalism is the way to go.

I'm not saying we can't cuss out jackasses. I'm not saying everyone needs to respond to bad faith arguments like Grace did or use their time like she did.

But this was on Grace's Facebook page, and interrupted the work she already volunteered to do. Just so these individuals could feel like they "did something" and got a shot off at an enemy.

I think that's selfish and childish and unproductive. They could have said anything they wanted in their own space, but they made grace's job harder for no fuckin reason. And then "loved" her reply and said "that was beautiful Grace, thank you for sharing your thoughts"

Like... Buddies. Pals. If someone volunteers to scrub the toilet fucking let them.

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evermoreness · 3 days ago

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wingman | james potter

pairing: james potter x reader!

summary: james definitely has a crush on you, but he won't admit it. so his best friend sirius steps up to be his wingman.

masterlist

If Sirius Black had one true passion in life—aside from pranks, Quidditch, and being generally insufferable—it was meddling. Specifically, meddling in James Potter’s disastrous love life.

The problem wasn’t that James lacked charm. No, James was overflowing with charm, much to the dismay of every professor at Hogwarts. The problem was that James refused to acknowledge that he had feelings for you—his best friend, his ultimate rival, his favorite person to annoy.

And, as Sirius often pointed out (loudly, in the middle of breakfast), you were just as bad.

Which is why, after months of watching you and James dance around each other with an infuriating amount of tension, Sirius decided enough was enough.

It was time for some intervention

Step number one

It started in Transfiguration.

You strolled into class, fully expecting to take your usual seat next to Lily, but before you could sit, a strong arm slung around your shoulders.

“Ah-ah,” Sirius drawled, spinning you around and gently shoving you into the seat next to James instead. “New seating chart, love. Professor's orders.”

You frowned. “Professor McGonagall never changes the seating chart.”

“She does now,” Sirius said, smirking before plopping down beside Lily, effectively blocking your escape route.

You turned to James, who was lounging in his chair, grinning like the cocky little git he was. “Look at that. You’re stuck with me.”

You groaned, turning to Sirius. "You look suspicious"

"When do i not?" Sirius said, grinning like he was planning something.

"Fair point." You said, before turning to James. “Merlin help me,”

James gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “How dare you? I am an absolute delight to sit next to.”

“You poke people with your quill and hum off-key when you’re bored,” you shot back.

“I serenade,” he corrected.

“You butcher perfectly good songs.”

James leaned in, his face just a little too close, and smirked. “Admit it. You’d miss me if I wasn’t here.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the way your heart did a stupid little flip. “Sure, Potter. I’d be devastated.”

“You could just admit you love spending time with me,” James offered.

You scoffed. “Or I could stab you with my quill.”

James leaned in, lowering his voice to a teasing whisper. “Kinky.”

McGonagall just ignored them all, she had learned a long time ago she couldn't keep up with the Marauders antics. So she just let them. It was best for her mental health. But she still could hear you and James bickering every time she turned to write something on the black board.

James, completely unbothered, leaned closer to you, elbow on the desk, chin resting on his hand. “Well, you heard the professor. We’re partners now. Best get used to staring at me all class.”

You rolled your eyes, flicking his forehead with your quill. “Merlin, you wish I stared at you.”

James grinned. “You’re staring at me right now.”

You huffed. “Because I’m contemplating how best to Transfigure you into a ferret.”

Sirius cackled from behind you. "Oh, young love" he said, making you and James glare at him.

"Don't you have a boyfriend to annoy or something?" James asked, rolling his eyes.

"Remus is recovering from the full moon, idiot" Sirius said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He was about to say something more but McGonagall glared at the three of them.

McGonagall sighed again. “I don’t get paid enough for this.”

At least, step one of Sirius' plan was definitely a success.

Step number two

The next part of Sirius’s plan required a little more... creativity.

Which is how you and James ended up in detention, standing outside McGonagall's office, glaring at a very pleased Sirius Black.

“Explain. Now,” you demanded.

Sirius shrugged. “Professor McGonagall may have received an anonymous tip that you two were planning to sneak into the kitchens after hours.”

“We weren’t,” you said flatly.

“Well, you should’ve been,” Sirius said, looking entirely unbothered. “Really, it’s your own fault for being so predictable.”

James groaned. “For Merlin’s sake, Padfoot.”

“Oh, don’t act so ungrateful,” Sirius scoffed, draping an arm around James’s shoulder. “I’m simply giving you both what you want. Quality time. Candlelit settings. Romance.”

“You’re sending us to detention,” you deadpanned.

“Exactly.” Sirius grinned. “Do you know how many legendary couples started with forced proximity? This is the perfect setup.”

James scoffed, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “You’re delusional.”

“And you are hopeless.” Sirius turned to you, wiggling his eyebrows.

You crossed your arms. “And what exactly do you gain from this?”

“An evening of uninterrupted flirting, obviously.”

James scoffed. “We don’t flirt.”

Sirius blinked. “Right. And I’m the Minister of Magic.”

Soon enough, Sirius was gone, and McGonagall assigned the two of you to polish the entire trophy room. Without magic. Which was, quite frankly, a crime against wizardkind.

“I think I’ve inhaled enough dust to choke a hippogriff,” you muttered, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn smudge.

James, sprawled dramatically on the floor, groaned. “This is actual torture.”

You snorted. “Oh, please. You’ve been lying there for twenty minutes. I’m doing all the work.”

James grinned lazily. “I’m providing emotional support.”

“Oh, how noble.”

“I try.”

You rolled your eyes and flicked a damp rag at him. He yelped as it smacked him in the face.

“Oi! That’s rude.”

“I’m so sorry, did I offend the Great James Potter?” you said, smirking.

James leaned on his elbow, smirking right back. “Oh, love, you offend me constantly.”

“And yet, you keep coming back.”

James’s smirk faltered for half a second—just long enough for you to notice.

His hazel eyes flickered over your face, something softer in them now. Something that made your heart do a completely unnecessary little flip.

Before you could overthink it, James groaned and rolled onto his back dramatically. “I cannot polish one more bloody trophy.”

“You’ve polished one,” you pointed out.

“Exactly!”

You snorted. “Oh, poor baby, suffering through a whole hour of detention.”

James gasped, clutching his chest. “You wound me.”

“Oh, shut up and hand me the polish.”

But James didn’t move. He was staring up at the ceiling, brows furrowed.

“Oi. Potter. Earth to James.”

James blinked and turned his head to look at you.

“Have you ever thought about it?” he asked suddenly.

You frowned. “Thought about what?”

He hesitated. Then smirked. “How gorgeous I am.”

You groaned. “Oh, for the love of Merlin—”

“I mean, really,” James continued, grinning now. “It must be exhausting for you, being constantly exposed to this level of handsomeness.”

“Exhausting, yes,” you said dryly. “Mostly because of your ego.”

James laughed, and it was so genuine, so warm, that you almost forgot why you were annoyed in the first place.

Almost.

By the time detention ended, you were both covered in dust, exhausted, and slightly delirious.

You both stumbled out of the trophy room, stretching like freed prisoners.

“Well, that was awful,” James said cheerfully.

You sighed dramatically. “If I never see another trophy again, it’ll be too soon.”

James turned to you, smirking. “You know, we should really thank Sirius for this.”

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpanned. “Maybe hex him as a thank-you.”

James grinned. “You do have the best ideas.”

You smirked up at him. “I know.”

James’s smirk softened slightly. His hazel eyes flickered down to your lips—just for a second.

Your heart definitely did not stutter. Absolutely not.

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then James cleared his throat. “So.”

“So,” you echoed.

James shifted on his feet, then suddenly grinned. “Race you to the common room?”

You snorted. “Please. You’d lose.”

James gasped. “Oh, is that a challenge?”

You smirked. “You tell me.”

James took a step closer. “Winner gets bragging rights.”

You took a step closer. “Loser has to buy Butterbeer next Hogsmeade trip.”

James grinned. “Deal.”

He started running before even counting to three, and you really tried to get into his pace but he was much faster than you. James got in front of the painting that guarded the Gryffindor common room, breathless, you got there second, just by some seconds of different.

James grinned, looking far too smug. “I win.”

You gaped at him. “That’s cheating!”

“Strategic advantage, love.”

“Oh, you’re insufferable—”

James laughed, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the common room. “Come on, loser. You owe me a Butterbeer.”

You groaned, but you were smiling. “You’re impossible, Potter.”

James squeezed your hand. “You love it.”

And, Merlin help you, maybe you did.

Step number— Intervention!

By the end of the week, you had reached your limit.

You slammed your hands down on the Gryffindor table, glaring at Sirius. “I know what you’re doing.”

Sirius, mid-bite of toast, blinked innocently. “Doing what?”

“Every time I turn around, James is right there. Transfiguration. Potions. Detention.”

Sirius smirked. “Weird how that keeps happening, huh?”

You jabbed a finger at him. “Admit it.”

Sirius leaned back lazily. “Admit what? That my best mate is tragically in love with you and needs a little push?”

James, who had just sat down, immediately choked on his pumpkin juice. “SIRIUS!”

You and James turned bright red at the same time.

“I—You—” You spluttered, words failing you for the first time in your entire life. “He is not—”

Sirius just grinned wider.

James, still coughing, thumped his chest and pointed an accusatory finger at Sirius. “Mate. What the hell.”

“Oh, please,” Sirius scoffed. “We all see it. You two are basically a couple already.”

Remus, sipping his tea across the table, nodded. “He’s not wrong.”

Sirius put an arm around his boyfriend. "Thank you, Moony, at least one person on this table actually supports me"

Remus gave him a look "I never said that"

Sirius gasped in mock horror "Hey! I told you all my plans to make those two," He pointed at you both "Start dating and you actually said it was a good idea"

Remus just swallowed a piece of bread "You have no actual proof i said that"

James buried his face in his hands. “Merlin, kill me now.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “We are not dating.”

Sirius waved a hand. “Yet.”

You and James simultaneously threw a piece of toast at him.

It bounced off his head. He didn’t even flinch.

Sirius just grinned. “Give it a week.”

Step number... five?

The Gryffindor common room was unusually peaceful that evening. No firework explosions, no magical pranks, no Sirius Black laughing maniacally while being chased by McGonagall. Just a cozy fire, the occasional page-turning of a textbook, and the low murmur of students finishing their homework.

It was exactly the kind of peace Sirius Black found unacceptable.

He leaned over to Remus, whispering conspiratorially, “It’s time.”

Remus, who had been this close to finishing his Transfiguration essay, sighed. “Time for what?”

Sirius grinned wickedly. “Operation: Get James Potter a Girlfriend.”

Remus pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sirius, for the love of Merlin—”

But Sirius was already in motion, zeroing in on James and you, who were currently seated across from each other at the Gryffindor table, mid-banter as usual.

James leaned back in his chair, twirling his quill between his fingers. “You keep looking at me like that, love. Starting to think you fancy me.”

You scoffed, flipping a page in your textbook. “Oh, absolutely, James. Nothing gets my heart racing like watching you struggle with fourth-year level Charms.”

James gasped dramatically. “You wound me! I am excellent at Charms.”

You smirked. “Oh, of course. Remind me again, how many times did you accidentally set your own tie on fire last week?”

“Once,” James muttered. “And in my defense, the spell was successful. Just...with extra flair.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Hopeless.”

Sirius plopped himself down between you two, grinning like a madman. “Wow, the flirty tension in this room is suffocating.”

Both you and James immediately groaned in unison.

“Sirius—”

“Nope,” he cut you off, slamming a hand down on the table. “I refuse to sit idly by while you two idiots continue this will-they-won’t-they nonsense. So, I’ve decided to help.”

James narrowed his eyes. “Help how?”

Sirius smirked. “Oh, just making sure you two spend as much time together as possible.”

Before either of you could protest, he waved his wand.

Suddenly, the two of you lurched forward, an invisible force yanking you towards each other until your noses were barely an inch apart.

You blinked. James blinked.

“What. The. Hell.”

James tried to lean back, but something—no, Sirius—kept you stuck together.

“Black, if you don’t undo this spell right now, I swear to Merlin—” you started, your face rapidly heating.

Sirius just beamed. “Ah, young love.”

“Padfoot,” James hissed through gritted teeth. “If I hex you right now, will you undo it?”

Sirius shrugged. “Dunno. You could try, but you are currently nose-to-nose with your one true love, so any sudden movements might result in an accidental kiss.”

You and James immediately went rigid.

“You're so dead, Black.” you shouted.

Remus, watching from the sidelines, sighed deeply. “You do realize McGonagall is going to kill you for this.”

Sirius waved a hand dismissively. “Nah, this is romantic. I’ll probably get an award.”

James turned back to you, his lips twitching despite himself. “So… reckon we just stay like this forever? Seems like Sirius has finally found a way to actually make you stare at me all day.”

You groaned. “Unbelievable. I’d rather kiss a Dementor.”

“Ouch,” James said, dramatically clutching his heart. “That’s cruel. I’d at least make a handsome Dementor.”

You huffed, crossing your arms—which was a bad idea, because now your hands were even closer to James’s chest.

Sirius gasped. “Oh, Merlin! Are you about to hold hands? Is this a moment?”

“I will kill you,” James said.

Remus, who was now actively ignoring the situation, muttered, “I’ll alert the authorities.”

Lily, walking past with a book, glanced at the scene, sighed, and kept walking. “You two deserve this.”

James grinned at you. “C’mon, admit it. This is the best day of your life.”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider. “Hm. Ask me again when I’m not glued to your face.”

Sirius sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine. I’ll undo it. But only if you both admit you like each other.”

James and you both froze.

Silence.

You turned to James. James turned to you.

And then, at the exact same time, you both blurted out:

"Absolutely not.”

Sirius groaned. “Hopeless. Utterly hopeless.”

And with that, he flicked his wand, releasing the spell.

The moment you were free, you shoved James off of you, and he—completely unprepared—toppled off the bench and onto the floor with a very undignified yelp, making everyone laugh at him.

Step number 10? (Sirius has definitely lost counting)

It was pouring outside.

The Quidditch pitch was soaked, the thunder rumbled, and the storm showed no signs of letting up. You both had just gotten out of the game, and everything would’ve been fine, except you and James were currently locked in the Gryffindor locker room.

Courtesy of Sirius Black.

James banged on the door. “Pads, you absolute menace, open this door right now!”

Sirius’s laughter echoed from the other side. “Not until you both admit you’re in love with each other!”

You groaned. “You child!”

“Nope, just a genius. Have fun, lovebirds!”

And then—silence.

James sighed, running a hand through his soaked hair. “He’s never letting this go, is he?”

“Nope.”

You both stood there, dripping wet, silence stretching between you.

And then James said, “We could just… do it.”

You turned to him. “Do what?”

James shrugged. “Kiss. Just to get him off our backs.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So now you’re willing to waste your first kiss on me?”

James laughed softly. “I never said I didn’t want to kiss you.”

Oh.

The air between you shifted. His usual smirk was gone, replaced with something softer, something almost shy.

Your heart hammered. “Well… if we have to.”

James took a step closer. “Right. Just to get Sirius to shut up.”

Another step.

“Obviously.”

His hand brushed yours.

“No other reason.”

You swallowed. “None at all.”

And then he kissed you.

It was soft at first, tentative. But then you grabbed the front of his stupid Quidditch jersey, pulling him closer, and suddenly—it wasn’t just to get Sirius to shut up anymore.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and dizzy, James just grinned.

“So,” he said, “how mad would you be if I told you Sirius left five minutes ago?”

You blinked.

And then you shoved him.

“POTTER!”

James stumbled back, laughing as you shoved him again, harder this time. “You knew?” you accused, hands on your hips, still breathless from the kiss.

He grinned, looking far too pleased with himself. “Well, I suspected.”

“You absolute menace!”

James only laughed harder, dodging as you lunged for him. “Come on, love, don’t be mad—”

“Oh, don’t you ‘love’ me, Potter! You tricked me into—” You stopped mid-sentence, suddenly realizing what you were saying.

James smirked. “Into what?”

You scowled. “Into… into…”

His grin widened, and he leaned in. “Into kissing me?”

Your face burned. Damn him.

James stepped even closer, so close you could smell the rain still clinging to his skin. His voice was lower now, teasing but softer. “You did kiss me back, you know.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Only because you kissed me first.”

He nodded solemnly. “And you’re saying you hated it?”

You opened your mouth. Shut it. Opened it again. “That is not the point.”

James just laughed, and before you could shove him again, he caught your hands in his. His thumbs brushed over your knuckles, and suddenly, the air between you wasn’t just playful anymore.

You swallowed. “Potter—”

He leaned in again, close enough that your noses nearly brushed. “I think,” he murmured, “we might have to do that again. You know, just to be sure.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was pounding. “Oh, for research purposes?”

“Exactly.”

And then he kissed you again—this time slower, sweeter. No tricks, no games. Just you and him.

Outside, the storm raged on, but in that moment, all you could feel was warmth.

#harry potter #fanfic #marauders era #x reader #x yn #marauders #james potter x you #james potter x reader #james potter #sirius and remus #sirius black #remus lupin #wolfstar

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beckyninja · 3 days ago

Text

Hope

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x FemReader

Warnings: So. Much. Angst.

Description: Guilliman mourns his beloved's "death".

Oof, this was a rough one to write, even though it's short. I've really put this poor blueberry through the wringer.

(This is a continuation of my Guilliman x Reader series. To find the previous chapters, check out my Masterlist.)

Guilliman observed the rage in Captain Takahashi’s black eyes as if from a great distance. Dimly, he registered her voice as she bent over the holographic star map.

“We will come to the beginning of the Wards in a few standard hours’ time.” She gestured with her left arm, the right ending in a bandaged stump just below the elbow. “I’ll need a moment to observe the maelstrom and discern the patterns, before I can begin imparting instructions.”

The Chief Navigator stood at her elbow, double-jointed fingers steepled before his gray lips. “These ‘Wards’, you say? They are a… maze, in the Warp?”

“And out of it.”

“How is this possible?”

Guilliman let his gaze drift between the two.

The Captain’s eyes remained fixed on the map. “You’d call it, Archeotech. The secrets of its creation have been lost to time though, thank the Light, TerraNova’s original colonists preserved the knowledge of its maintenance. I am no engineer, but every school child learns how our forebears scattered mechanical ‘beacons’ of a sort behind them as they fled the Machine War.”

Pressing her remaining hand to her lips, she gave a single, tearing cough. A medica in a charred uniform, half her face bandaged, stepped forward.

“Captain, you should return to the infirmary for your next round of anti-rads.”

Captain Takahashi waved her away. “In a moment, Lieutenant.” She returned to the star map. “As I was saying, these ‘beacons’ emit frequencies that twist both the Warp and Realspace, bending reality and unreality into a knot of ever-shifting pathways. The Wards.”

The Navigator’s white eyes widened. “As a child I heard rumors… stories of Navigators caught in such knots… driven mad….” His head jerked toward the Captain. “How do your people pass through such insanity?”

“Few ever do.” The Captain’s lips tightened. “But for those who must, we are taught to recognize the patterns in the maelstrom, our reflexes sharpened to make split-second navigational corrections. It is a brutal process, and in the last few decades has mostly been delegated to new navigational computers.” A sharp snort. “Mine, which now happens to be charred debris in the void.”

Something rose inside Guilliman, clawing at his shield of detachment. “You made promises, Captain Takahashi.”

Every soul in the room, even his Ultramarines, flinched. The TerraNovan Lieutenant cowered back against a wall.

The Captain trembled a moment, then turned to face him. “I did. And I will keep them, Lord Guilliman.” Her eyes rose to his face, but did not meet his gaze. “I am of the last generation of naval officers trained to manually navigate the Wards. I will see your fleet through.”

“Some would call your actions treasonous.”

Her eyes managed to meet his. “All those to whom I swore oaths of service betrayed me, Lord Guilliman. Because of them, hundreds of my crew are dead. Not just proud voidsmen and women of our Navy, but the families who sailed with them. Children. The ship we called our home lies a broken corpse.”

Her eyes dropped away. “I failed them. And I failed the only one of our royal family for whom I felt any true loyalty. Let them call it treason.” She clenched her one fist.

“I call it vengeance.”

For a brief moment, a flicker of understanding passed between them. Primarch and Captain. He felt himself nod before turning away and exiting the room.

He moved without conscious thought, feet following patterns drilled into him long before his ten thousand year stasis. Corridors, doors, people all passed in a blur. The cacophony of the ship morphed into a meaningless babble. Vaguely, he registered the heavy tramp of ceramite boots behind him.

Too late did he realize his destination.

The door to your quarters stood before him.

No��.

His hand reached for the control panel.

No…!

He watched himself enter the code, heard the hiss of sliding metal as the portal opened into darkness.

Stop….

But his body refused to obey. Or, perhaps, it obeyed some urge far more powerful than conscious will. He heard himself ordering his guard to remain outside, and stepped through the door…

…into memory.

Your scent rose all around him, overwhelming, choking. It shattered the frigid defenses he’d erected around his mind and hearts. It stabbed. It soothed. He loved it. He hated it.

He stumbled forward, hands pawing blindly until they met the bed. His knees buckled. He crashed to the floor, hands still tangled in the sheets that smelled achingly of you.

You…you…you…you….

You, standing before him for the first time, single heartbeat fluttering like a bird in his ears.

You, face earnest as you advocate for the home and people you care for.

You, giggling at one of his ill-timed, foolish jests.

You, laid out beneath him, eyes shining as you tell him you love-

“No…,” Guilliman groaned, “stop. Please….”

The memories ceased, replaced by something far, far worse.

You, dressed in purest white, standing before him at the altar, pledging love and faithfulness for the rest of your days.

You, blushing fiercely, as he presents their new Lady to the cheering crowds of Macragge.

You, panting his name as he worships your perfect body.

“No, no, no!” He buried his face in your sheets, only for the concentrated fragrance they carried to unlock his most searing fantasy.

You, glowing with joy as you bounce a golden-haired child on your hip, your belly growing round yet again.

“Pater! Pater!”

“Come, Roboute! Work will wait. Come spend time with your family, my love!”

Roboute Guilliman, Primarch, Lord Regent of the Imperium of Man, wept.

He did not weep as he had as a young man when Konor Guilliman, his true father, lay dying before him. He did not weep as he had when, after his reawakening, he discovered the memorial to Tarasha Euten deep within the Fortress of Hera.

Even in those times, he’d known there to be a future beyond his pain.

But now….

Fabric tore as his fists clenched around the sheets. He raised his eyes to find one of the innumerable skulls carved into every surface upon the ship. A grisly symbol of the deity supposedly watching over them all.

“Why?” His voice felt ripped from the bleeding center of his being. “If you have the power people say, why do you use it to torment me?”

He staggered to his feet, still clasping the torn sheets. “Have I not given enough? Did you find me undeserving of even the smallest modicum of happiness? Why, then, did you let me feel it, only to rip it away?”

His next words came as an agonized roar. “Why did you give me hope?!”

The very cruelest of punishments.

Guilliman looked down at the shreds of fabric in his hand. “What did she do to deserve your ire?”

But, deep within, he knew the truth. The Emperor had not doomed you. He had. His love was a poison worse than any follower of Nurgle could concoct.

Hadn’t everyone he ever cared for died?

“I am sorry. Oh Throne, I am so sorry, my love.” Once again, he buried his face in your fragrance. “Forgive me. Please, forgive me.”

He knew he tortured himself. He also knew he deserved it.

Vengeance and rage could only light his steps for so long. He would destroy all who had taken you from him. And then their fire would flicker out, leaving him with nothing but a cold, lonely trudge into the gray of the future.

At the thought, all strength left him.

Roboute Guilliman curled onto the floor, knees tucked to his chest, whimpering like a child left alone in the dark.

…ping….

His eyes snapped open.

…ping…ping….

He clawed to his feet, chest heaving in great gasps.

…ping….

Guilliman hurtled from the room, nearly bowling over Cato Sicarius. The Commander’s queries went unheeded as he crashed through the great gilded doors at the end of the corridor and into his personal office.

ping…ping…ping…

There, on his desk, lay a small vox receiver, gifted to him by Captain Takahashi. The unfamiliar device was set to receive one specific frequency from one specific source: a miniaturized beacon set into a band of gold and sapphire.

A band he’d placed upon your finger minutes before you left the Macragge’s Honor.

“If you need me, press the largest gem in the ring. A beacon will activate.” He’d grasped your chin, ensuring you looked into his eyes. “And I will come for you.”

Ping!

The receiver lit with a pulsing, golden light.

And hope, that cruelest and most enduring of flames, ignited in Guilliman’s hearts once more.

@remembrancer-of-heresy @solspina @sleepyfan-blog @moodymisty @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

@bispecsual @kit-williams @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @adhd-fandom-hyperfocus @lemon-russ

@justeverythingnothingelse @scriberye @bleedingichorhearts @c-u-c-koo-4-40k @mooniequeen

@passionofthesith @noncon-photobomb @sinistermojo @b-rabbitboss @vyzz-undercover

@missmannequin @rivalriotrenegade @iloveoutlinesiswear @jaghatai-khock @hatsubara-8chan

@justanothermemestrider @meervalv0 @grimdark-raccoon @garlickedbreads @riokunova

@ailujsenutna @emiemiemiii @astrohymn @synfiction @soul-of-leya

@n0cturn4 @mgrm99 @seirensou @zamzmak @elita1

@ilovewolvezz @primordialsneeze @summersong2262 @nereidof40k @ahrianee

@sunsetlobster

Please comment if you'd like to be added/removed from the Taglist.

#warhammer 40k #roboute gulliman #roboute guilliman x reader #primarch #primarch x reader #this poor man cannot catch a break

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ivoraic · 20 hours ago

Text

Stay with me (Even if it kills you)

pairing: gojo x reader | wc: 6.6k

summary: Gojo kidnaps you after he kills all the higher ups. He says it's to keep you safe. But love like this always ends in ruin.

cw: psychological horror, dead dove, kidnapping, forced pregnancy, non-con, graphic violence, dead dove, self-harm, major character death, mental deterioration. did i mention dead dove

an: MDNI. definitely a little different from what i usually post. you will probably cry while reading. i cried while writing it. read on ao3

Month 0

You wake up to silence.

The kind of silence that feels unnatural, thick and unmoving. There’s no hum of your bedroom heater, no distant city noise filtering through the window, no comfort of the world outside. Just the cold, creeping awareness of your own body, the dull ache at the base of your skull, the sluggish heaviness in your limbs, the strange pressure around your wrist.

Something isn’t right.

Your eyes flutter open. The ceiling above you is unfamiliar. Plain white, a single overhead light casting dim, yellowed shadows across the room. The air is stale, carrying the faint scent of dust, something metallic, something wrong. The space around you is small, claustrophobic. There’s a bed beneath you, a nightstand, a table close enough to reach. The walls are bare. No windows.

You try to move, but you feel a sudden resistance. The cold bite of metal against your wrist.

Your pulse spikes instantly, panic setting in. You yank your arm, and the chain rattles in response, a sharp, awful sound in the quiet. Your breath catches as you follow its path, the gleaming silver links stretching from your wrist to the leg of the low wooden table beside you.

No, no, no-

Your fingers tremble as you pull again, harder this time, but the metal doesn’t budge. The realization crashes over you in jagged, gasping pieces. It’s not a dream. Not a nightmare. Real. Real. Real.

And then you see him.

Satoru sits against the far wall.

He’s still in his uniform, the fabric stained dark in places where blood has dried. His blindfold is gone, leaving his eyes fully exposed. It’s too bright, too sharp, too unhinged against the dim room.

His hair is a mess, matted, strands sticking to his forehead where sweat and blood have dried. His chest rises and falls in slow, steady breaths, but there’s something off about it, like he’s still riding the high of something unspeakable.

He hasn’t moved since you woke up. Hasn’t spoken.

Just sits there. Watching.

Your breath trembles as you stare at him, words tangled in your throat.

And for a moment, you don’t understand.

For a moment, you forget the cold metal around your wrist. You don’t notice the blood staining his uniform, the eerie stillness of his body.

Because all you can think of is a memory. A summer day, long ago.

("Here, try this."

You had pressed a small candy into his palm, grinning as he eyed it with suspicion.

"What is it?" he asked, rolling it between his fingers.

"My favorite. But if you say you don’t like it, I’m never speaking to you again."

Gojo had laughed, tipping his head back dramatically. "Oh no, anything but that." He popped it into his mouth, humming as the sugary sweetness melted on his tongue. His eyes softened, his expression one of quiet delight.

"It tastes like you."

The words had left him so naturally, so effortlessly, that you had barely registered them at first. But then your face grew warm, and Gojo had grinned at your reaction, nudging you with his shoulder teasingly as the summer sun bathed you both in warmth.

"Guess I’ll have to stock up on these, huh?")

“…Satoru?” Your voice comes out weak, hoarse. You don’t know why you use his name like that, like it’s still yours to say, like things are still normal. “Where… where am I?”

His pupils are blown wide, the blue of his irises swallowed by the darkness of his dilated pupils. Not normal. Not him. The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but something like the memory of one.

“You’re safe,” he says, ignoring your question.

You flinch. Your body knows something is wrong, even if your mind is still struggling to catch up. He notices the faint movement, his lips pressing together before he exhales slowly, almost like he’s trying to be patient.

“I had to do it,” he murmurs, tilting his head back, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. His hands are too still in his lap. “You get that, don’t you? The higher-ups, the elders… old bastards playing God while people like us bled for them.”

There’s something off about the way he speaks, like he’s explaining something obvious, something undeniable.

Your stomach twists. Your throat is so dry it hurts. “What did you do?”

Gojo finally looks at you again. You wish for his gaze to be directed anywhere else.

“I saved you,” he says simply.

You don’t move.

His voice drops lower, quieter, almost affectionate. “They’re gone now.”

The words settle like lead in your stomach. Gone.

Your breath stutters. “Gone…?”

You shift back instinctively, but the chain rattles again, reminding you of its presence.

His lips part, and for a moment, you think he’s about to reassure you, tell you that everything’s fine, that this is just some horrible misunderstanding.

But instead, he tilts his head, smiling faintly.

"You’re scared of me."

The words aren’t a question. He’s simply stating a fact.

Your throat tightens.

"I did this for us," he continues, voice slow, deliberate. "You don’t have to worry anymore. No one can hurt you. No one can take you from me. I took care of everything."

Gojo’s fingers brush over his uniform absently, and only then do you notice the dried blood under his nails.

"You don’t need to be scared," he murmurs.

Satoru shifts, pushing off the wall with an easy, unhurried motion. His movements are smooth, like he has all the time in the world.

You flinch as he steps forward, every slow, steady footfall ringing too loud in the quiet room. Your back presses further into the headboard, fingers curling into the sheets, but there’s nowhere to go.

He crouches in front of you, close, too close, the warmth of his presence bleeding into your skin. He tilts his head slightly, studying you the way one might observe something delicate, something fragile. His voice is quiet when he speaks again.

"See?" he murmurs, reaching out. "You don’t have to cry."

His fingers graze your cheek, thumb swiping away a tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen. His touch is warm, gentle. You feel sick.

His expression softens, his lips parting like he wants to say something else.

Like he truly believes this is love.

“I lost everything,” he eventually says, almost to himself. “But I still have you.”

“You’ll understand soon.” His voice is almost sweet now, almost normal. “Just be good for me, and we’ll be happy.”

Your blood runs cold.

"Stay still," he rasps, breath hitching. His forehead presses to yours, sweat dripping onto your lashes. Blood smears where your bodies are joined.

It hurts. His hips jerk involuntarily, sinking another inch, and you scream.

"Fuck-" He’s gripping you so firmly, nails carving crescents into your hips. "I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m-" His breath hitches as your walls flutter around him weakly.

You feel him press you tighter to him as he nears his finish.

"Mine," he grunts, burying his face into your shoulder. Cum floods inside you in hot, violent spurts, his hips grinding deep to pump every drop into your quivering womb.

He collapses on top of you, dazed fingers tracing the curve of your belly, sticky with your combined mess. "...Take root. Let me feel it."

He takes you 2 more times to make sure.

Month 3

The door is unlocked.

You stare at it.

At first, you think it’s a trick. A test, a mind game, something cruel designed to break you further. It has to be. Your pulse quickens, hands twitching at your sides, instincts screaming at you to run.

But you don’t. Not yet.

The chain around your wrist had been the first to go, within the first month, when he realized you weren’t stupid enough to try anything reckless. Then, just a week ago, he had started leaving doors inside the house unlocked, granting you access to the rest of the space, as if that meant anything at all.

You remember how he had sat beside you on the bed, his voice low, almost absentminded as he toyed with the ends of your hair.

"You don’t fight me anymore."

The words had settled deep in your stomach, wrong and suffocating, bile creeping up your throat. You had stayed silent, too exhausted to recoil, too numb to pull away when his fingers traced down to the nape of your neck, pressing lightly, as if mapping something fragile beneath his touch.

"You’re so good for me now."

His hand had lingered for just a second too long before finally pulling away.

"I can trust you, right?"

You hate it. Hate him. But still, you couldn’t stay in that claustrophobic room forever. You wandered around the house many times, memorizing the layout. There wasn’t much worth noting. Nothing that could be turned into a makeshift weapon or a lockpick of any kind.

There was one door that had always remained locked. The front door.

And now it isn’t.

Your breath comes unsteady. You know better than to believe in coincidences.

There was a time you hadn’t been afraid.

(A cool autumn morning. A quiet street. The weight of Satoru’s arm slung over your shoulder as the two of you walked side by side, his steps effortlessly falling into rhythm with yours.

"If anything bad ever happens," he had said, his voice light, playful, "just call for me, okay?"

You had scoffed, nudging him with your elbow. "Oh? And what exactly would you do?"

Satoru had grinned, tossing an arm around you, pulling you in close with a casual, effortless strength. "I’d protect you, obviously."

"From what?" you had teased. "A stray cat?"

"From anything," he had said, voice so easy, so sure. "Doesn’t matter what. Just call for me, and I’ll keep you safe. No matter what.")

And back then, you had believed him.

The warmth of that moment lingers in your chest like phantom smoke.

Its cruel, really. How the memory comes to you now, when that same Satoru is the one you need protection from.

Your breathing stutters.

Your mind screams at you that this isn’t real, that this isn’t possible, that it’s a trap-

But hope is a disease. A sickness that clings to your ribs even after everything. Even now, knowing what you know, after all he’s done, a part of you still wants to believe.

The outside world shouldn’t exist anymore. There’s nothing left for you. Nothing left but him.

But what if… against all logic, against all odds, this time, he truly just forgot? What if it had slipped his mind, just this once? What if you could step forward, reach for the handle, and-

Your body moves before your mind can come up with a denial.

You step forward.

Because what else do you have left in these empty walls but the faint, desperate ache of hope?

You’re barefoot, breath held in your throat. The world tilts around you as you move as quietly as possible.

The floor creaks.

You stop immediately, heart racing, waiting for a voice behind you, for a rough hand to grab your wrist-

Nothing.

He must still be asleep. You don’t plan on sticking around long enough to find out.

You step forward again, slower this time. You lift a trembling hand. Your fingertips brush the handle, the metal cool against your damp skin.

The handle turns.

For a moment, you don’t move.

It feels unreal, impossible, like something that should shatter the second you dare to believe in it. The world outside is right there, just a breath away, the space beyond the door yawning open into something dark and endless. You push it open slowly, inch by inch, scared to break the moment, scared to let yourself hope.

And then, you feel it.

The air shifts.

A night breeze brushes against your skin, featherlight and cool, the first time in months you've felt anything that wasn’t him. It carries the scent of rain soaked earth, of distant asphalt, of a world that still exists beyond these walls. It smells like freedom. Like everything you had nearly forgotten.

Your throat tightens. Your knees threaten to buckle.

I could run.

You step forward, afraid it’ll disappear. A shaking hand reaches forward, the tips of your fingers barely grazing the open air. You feel it. You feel it.

There’s a presence behind you.

It’s not sound that gives him away.

Not footsteps. Not breath. Not even the rustle of fabric.

Just a feeling. Something impossible, inescapable, pressing in from all sides, curling tight around your throat before you even hear his voice.

"Going somewhere?"

The door slams shut, cutting off that cool air, along with any remaining hope you ever dared to have.

You barely have time to gasp before you’re roughly pulled back.

He moves so fast. Too fast. His arm is wrapped around your middle as he yanks you back against him, your body colliding with the solid warmth of his chest.

"You really disappoint me, you know that?" His voice is calm, almost amused.

His fingers tighten around your waist, his breath tickling your ear as he sighs.

"I thought we were making progress."

You struggle. You twist, kick, claw at his arms, but his grip doesn’t falter. If anything, it tightens, until you can barely breathe.

"Shh. Stop struggling. This is already going to be bad for you. Don't make it worse."

You can barely hear his words, heart pounding in your ears.

He drags you back, grip unyielding, and your stomach coils with primal fear.

No. No, no, no-

He throws you face first on the bed, the breath leaving your lungs in a strangled gasp. He doesn’t give you a chance to get back up, straddling you, hands pinning your wrists above your head.

"You tried to run."

Gojo exhales slowly, and his smile is almost sad.

"You’re quite stupid, aren’t you?"

Your body shakes. "Please," you choke out. "Please-"

His grip on your wrists only tightens.

"Please what?"

Your mouth opens, but no words came out.

Gojo hums, tilting his head.

"Try that again… and I’ll make sure you have no legs to run with."

You try to struggle against him as he removes your clothes, lifts your hips up. But he’s always been stronger. The strongest.

But there’s something more than that. Lately your body feels different. Heavier, unsteady, like it isn’t yours.

You claw at the sheets desperately as he forces his cock into your unprepared ass. He muffles your cries by shoving your face into the bed. It’s all too much. You can hardly breathe. Your head feels light.

“Here’s your lesson,” he’s snarling, fingers bruising your hips as he thrusts. “You don’t get to leave. You don’t get to leave me.” Blood drips down your thighs to stain the sheets below.

“Beg,” he hisses, pulling you up by your hair to meet his gaze. “Beg to live, beg to die, I don’t care-

Satoru can’t sleep.

It starts as a whisper. It’s so faint he barely notices, blending into the steady hum of his own thoughts. But then it sharpens, curling around his brain, sinking into his skin.

"You should end it."

His fingers twitch.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed of your shared bed, body hunched forward, elbows braced against his knees. His head feels wrong, like there’s something crawling just beneath his skull, eating him alive. He squeezes his eyes shut, drags his palms over his face.

The whisper doesn’t stop.

"She will never love you."

His teeth clench. His hands tremble. The air in the room is suddenly too thick, pressing down on him, suffocating. He wants it to stop.

"You’ve already lost her. This isn’t love. What a joke."

His fingers dig into his temples. Shut up shut up shut up-

The mattress creaks as he moves. Without fully knowing why, he’s reaching under it, fingers fumbling blindly until they close around something cold.

Metal.

The knife.

His last resort. His last grip on reason.

He pulls it out, stares at it, watches the way the dim light catches the blade.

And the whisper-. No. His own mind laughs at him.

"You know what you have to do, don’t you?"

He swallows, throat dry, hand tightening around the hilt.

You could end it here.

Stop this before it gets worse.

He turns his head, gaze falling to you.

You’re asleep. Curled on your side, your breathing soft and steady, face turned toward him in the faintest glow of the lantern. Even in slumber, the evidence of what he’s done is still there. Faint tear tracks, dried on your cheeks. A bruise darkening along your wrist. A sharp contrast to the peaceful rise and fall of your chest.

Satoru exhales shakily, gripping the knife with both hands.

He moves. Slowly, carefully, he kneels beside you.

He lifts the blade.

It hovers above your throat, just a breath away from your skin. His hands shake violently. He grips the handle so tightly his knuckles go white.

One motion. That’s all it would take.

One movement, and you would be free.

But would he?

His breath catches.

You shift slightly in your sleep, your face scrunching, brow furrowing as if sensing something. Even in unconsciousness, your body is still afraid.

A thousand voices crawl beneath his skin.

"Do it."

"This is mercy."

His hands tremble uncontrollably. His lungs burn. He can feel his pulse in his skull, thudding, screaming.

His arms refuse to move.

Something inside him, some desperate, clawing part of him, won’t let go.

He exhales a breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. The knife suddenly feels too heavy in his hands.

He lowers it.

He doesn’t put it back right away. Just sits there, kneeling beside you, staring at your sleeping face, listening to your quiet breathing.

Then, finally, he shoves the knife back under the mattress.

The whispering doesn’t stop. He ignores it.

He lies down beside you, body sinking into the mattress. He squeezes his eyes shut, exhales slowly, tries to let sleep take him.

But the knife is there. Even hidden beneath the mattress, he can feel it.

It presses against his skin, cold metal, even though it shouldn’t. It lingers in his thoughts, even though he doesn’t want it to.

The weight of his conscience. The last remnants of the part of him that knew better.

Month 6

The world has started to blur around the edges.

You feel it in the way time slips through your fingers, the days bleeding into each other with nothing to mark them except the slow, aching stretch of your body, the weight of something growing inside you, the creeping sensation that this is it. This is what life has become. There is no more before. There is no after either. Only this house, these walls, and him.

Satoru seems happy.

It should unsettle you more than it does, the way he carries himself now, light and loose. You of course, don’t know how he once hovered over you with a knife, shaking from the weight of his sins.

He moves without hesitation, no longer flinching at the sound of his own name, no longer stopping to second guess his own actions. The hesitation, the doubt, the guilt (if there ever was any) is gone. The whispers that once plagued him have dulled, become easier to ignore. He barely remembers the knife that lies beneath him.

But you remember.

You feel it more than he does now, the weight of something unresolved pressing down on you, suffocating you in ways you don’t have the words to explain.

You sit at the table, staring down at a meal you don’t want. The bowl in front of you is carefully prepared, the steam curling up in soft ribbons, carrying the scent of something that should be comforting. You don’t taste it, even as you force yourself to eat, one slow bite after another. Satoru is watching you from across the table, propping his chin on his hand, his mouth curled in a quiet, satisfied smile.

"See?" he murmurs, nodding toward the bowl. "Told you I’m not useless in the kitchen."

You don’t answer right away. Your body moves on muscle memory alone, lips parting, chopsticks lifting, food pressing against your tongue before you even register it happening. There is no pleasure in eating, no sensation beyond the way your throat tightens against the effort of swallowing.

Satoru hums, pleased with your compliance. "You used to be such a picky eater," he muses, tapping his fingers lightly against the wooden table.

Something stirs at the back of your mind, a memory so distant it almost feels like it belongs to someone else.

(A winter evening. The kind where the air was crisp and heavy with the scent of street food, steam rising from crowded stalls. The golden glow of streetlights had cast soft halos around the people rushing past, their hurried footsteps blending into the distant hum of the city.

Satoru had been grinning at you over a steaming bowl of food, his chopsticks expertly gathering a bite that was soaked in sauces, stacked high with toppings, an abomination of flavors that should never have coexisted.

"You’re disgusting," you had said flatly, watching in horror as he mixed everything together into a chaotic mess.

"You’re just jealous of my sophisticated palate," he had teased, lifting a particularly overloaded bite to his lips. He had chewed with an exaggerated look of satisfaction, then paused, eyes flicking toward you, something mischievous gleaming behind them.

"Here, try some."

Your face had scrunched in horror. "Absolutely not."

But Satoru had already leaned forward, chopsticks aimed directly at your mouth, his grin widening when you had instinctively flinched back.

"C’mon, live a little."

"Gojo, no-"

"Gojo, yes-"

The chopsticks had pressed against your lips, and you had twisted away, laughing, shoving at his arm and sending food flying in the process. He had gasped, scandalized, but the way his laughter had spilled into the night had made something warm settle in your chest.)

Was any of it real?

The food on your tongue is tasteless, the moment nothing more than another act of survival. You set your chopsticks down, hands tightening into your lap, staring past the bowl, past Satoru, past everything.

"It’s good," you murmur, the words leaving you like an exhale, weightless and empty.

Satoru beams. "Told you."

He is completely unaware of the nausea twisting through your stomach.

The days pass like this, slow and unchanging, until the world outside feels like nothing more than a dream you barely remember. Satoru treats you differently now. There is no more violence, not in the way there was before. He sleeps beside you every night, arm draped over your waist, breath warm against your skin. He brings you gifts, little things meant to make the house feel more like home.

You don’t tell him that it never will be.

One afternoon, he takes you outside.

The air feels different on your skin, the sunlight kissing your face in a way that almost makes you dizzy. You wonder for just a moment. If you can make it past the porch.

If I ran now, would he kill me?

Would that be better than this?

Satoru shifts, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face.

You don’t flinch. You don’t pull away.

You just sit there. Still. Quiet.

You know he would never let you leave him. You have no life apart from him. The growing mass in your stomach reminds you of it every day.

Satoru stretches beside you, arms lifting in a lazy motion, tilting his face up to the sky.

"Nice out, huh?"

You don’t answer.

You barely register the warmth of his hand when it presses over your stomach, fingers curling gently over the growing swell of life inside you.

"Any name ideas?" he asks, voice light, almost teasing, as if this is something normal, something that belongs in casual conversation.

Something inside you cracks.

You let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

"It’s not going to live."

The words cut through the air, sharp and irrevocable.

Satoru tenses. His fingers twitch against your stomach, his grip tightening slightly before he exhales slowly, voice dropping into something softer.

"Don’t say things like that," he murmurs. "Of course it is."

The certainty in his tone is nauseating.

You look at him then, and for the first time, you see it clearly. The belief in his eyes, the absolute, unshakable certainty that this life he’s built around you is real, that there is a future here, that the two of you will raise this child together, and you will play the role he has carved out for you.

The weight of it is unbearable.

You don’t want to do this anymore.

You don’t want to be here.

You don’t want to exist in this house, in this life, in this body that is no longer yours.

You aren’t sure when the tears start. You aren’t sure when Satoru reaches over, brushing his fingers against your cheek, tilting your chin up with a quiet, murmured, "Shh. Don’t cry."

You wonder why it feels as though he’s holding back tears of his own.

That night, as he drifts off beside you, Satoru feels the absence of something he once held close.

Something that, a few months ago, had weighed against his back every time he lay down.

Something that had whispered to him in the dark, begged him to listen, to wake up, to realize what he was doing.

There’s no voice now. No whispering.

The knife is still under the bed.

But Satoru barely feels it anymore.

Maybe he’s almost gone, too.

Month 9

The house is quiet.

It always is, now. The world outside doesn’t exist. There is no more passing time, no change in seasons, no difference between morning and night. It’s just you and him and the rotting child inside you, a grotesque imitation of a family.

You sit on the bed, motionless, staring at nothing. The weight of your body feels heavier than ever, your limbs sluggish, your mind clouded. You barely feel real anymore. Every movement is slow, deliberate, a distant echo of someone else’s actions. You breathe because you have to. You eat because it keeps him from forcing it down your throat. You exist because he will not let you die.

Something breaks.

Maybe it’s the way he looks at you. The way his hand brushes against your belly with something disturbingly tender, something hopeful. Maybe it’s the way his voice, so light, so falsely warm, slips into idle talk about the future. The nursery. The first steps. The way he truly believes there is a tomorrow for all of you.

Maybe it’s the realization that he has won.

That there is no escaping this. That you will be here forever. That even if your body survives this birth, you will not.

The thought grips your chest like a vice, and suddenly you can’t breathe. Your pulse spikes, the air in the room too thick, pressing down on you from all angles.

(The two of you had once laid under the stars together, talking about the future. The world had felt endless then, stretching wide above you in a sea of constellations, infinite and untouched.

"What do you think we’ll be doing ten years from now?" you had asked, voice soft, curious, as you turned your head to look at him.

Satoru had been lying beside you, one arm folded beneath his head, the other lazily twirling a blade of grass between his fingers. He had hummed, long and thoughtful, as if truly considering the question.

"I don’t know what I’ll be doing," he admitted, eyes tracing the patterns in the sky. "But I know wherever I am, whatever happens," his voice softened, gaze flickering back to yours. "I’ll find my way back to you."

You laughed, nudging his shoulder. "That’s cheesy."

"Hey," he’d grinned, nudging you back, "I mean it, you know.")

You no longer recognize the man standing in front of you.

"Kill me."

A silence stretches between you, taut and trembling.

Satoru stills. His entire body goes rigid, muscles locking as if the words have reached into his chest and squeezed.

His voice is quiet. Too quiet. "What did you just say?"

You don’t hesitate this time.

"I said just kill me already-"

The slap comes before you can finish.

Your head snaps to the side, a burst of pain erupting through your skull as your cheek explodes in fire. You hear the sharp crack of it before you even register what’s happened. The force knocks you off balance, sending you half-sprawled against the mattress, your trembling fingers cradling the fresh, throbbing sting. Your lip is split, the sharp tang of blood filling your mouth.

Satoru stares down at you, breathing heavily, something wild burning behind his eyes.

"Kill you?" His voice is hoarse, disbelieving, panicky. He lets out a shaky exhale, running a hand down his face, gripping his jaw as if trying to steady himself. Then he laughs. Short, sharp, humorless. "Kill you?" His hand trembles as he gestures vaguely between you, between your stomach, his breath shuddering out of him. "And what? Leave our child without a mother? You think I’d do that? You think I’d let you leave me like that?"

The air crackles with something unstable, something desperate. His voice is breaking apart, unraveling at the edges, the last remnants of his control slipping through his fingers.

"You want to die?" His teeth grit together, his hands curling into fists. "No. No, you don’t get to die. You don’t get to do that to me. You don’t get to leave me alone. We have a family now. We have something now. Don’t you get it?" His voice fractures, barely more than a breath. "You can’t leave me."

Your body shakes as you curl into yourself, hands cradling your belly as if trying to protect the only part of you that’s still alive. Sobs wrack through you, weak and broken, spilling from your lips in quiet murmurs.

"Why…? Why me…?"

Satoru watches you crumple into yourself, his breath hitching in his throat. His pupils are blown wide, his chest heaving. He drags a hand through his hair, fingers tangling in the strands, tugging sharply as if trying to physically ground himself.

"Why you?" The laugh that escapes him is hollow, barely more than an exhale, shaking at the edges. He sways slightly, his balance off, his body betraying the panic surging through his veins. He looks at you, really looks at you, sees the dark circles under your eyes, the gauntness of your face, the sheer emptiness in your expression. He sees the wreckage of what you used to be.

He swallows thickly.

"Because… I love you. You… you loved me too. Didn’t you?"

The words taste like ash. The scorched remains of a love that’s long gone.

He staggers forward, falling to his knees before you, hands reaching out but not touching. His fingers hover over your face, then your stomach, trembling as if he’s afraid that if he presses too hard, you’ll shatter completely.

"You should’ve died with the others," he whispers, voice barely above a breath. "I should’ve let you. I should’ve-"

His voice cracks. His whole body trembles as he finally collapses. His arms wrap around you, dragging you forward until your face is crushed against his chest, his nose buried in your hair. His grip is suffocating, too tight, too desperate, rocking you both as he lets out a choked sob.

"I can’t." The words come out strangled, broken. "If you die…, what will I…?"

There’s nothing left of his strength now, nothing left of the careful, artificial control he had been maintaining. His body trembles against yours, his breath uneven, his fingers digging into your back like you might slip through them if he lets go for even a second.

He stays there for a long time. He doesn’t speak, just holds you, his forehead pressing against the crown of your head, his breath coming in sharp, uneven exhales.

You can feel his reverse cursed energy mending your split lip with clumsy, frantic precision.

He tucks you into bed, smoothing the blanket over you with careful, deliberate hands. You’re unresponsive, your body still trembling slightly even as exhaustion weighs down your limbs. He thinks you’ve fallen asleep.

Maybe you have. Maybe you haven’t.

Satoru kneels beside the bed, resting his chin against the mattress, his eyes fixed on the soft rise and fall of your stomach beneath the blanket. His fingers twitch, reaching out, then retracting, hovering uselessly in the space between you.

"Tomorrow…" he murmurs, hesitating, voice thick, breath catching slightly. He swallows hard, his gaze lingering on your belly, his expression unreadable.

"…I’ll get you that candy. The sweet ones you…"

His sentence trails off. He doesn’t finish it, knowing you’re not listening.

His hands move without thinking, sliding beneath the mattress, fingers reaching for something cold, something solid-

Nothing.

His brows furrow slightly. He reaches again, searching, feeling for the familiar weight of metal, but there is nothing.

The knife is gone.

His breath stutters. A strange, hollow sensation curls in his chest, spreading through his limbs, something unidentifiable gnawing at the back of his mind.

Was there ever a knife to begin with?

He doesn’t know anymore.

He’s too tired to care.

Tomorrow. (Was it so wrong?)

Tomorrow, he’ll come back with the candy, and apologize. (Satoru Gojo, born to live and die as nothing more than a weapon.)

Tomorrow, everything will be okay. (Was it so wrong for him to cling on to the one thing, the one person who made him feel human?)

Tomorrow-

But there is no tomorrow.

Not for you. Not for him. This was always how it was going to end, wasn’t it?

It’s a beautiful spring day. Trees rustle softly, cicadas hum in the distance, the warmth of afternoon sunlight spills golden across the floorboards.

Satoru doesn’t notice any of it.

His attention is on the plastic bag in his hand, fingers curled loosely around it, the weight of its contents feeling heavier than it should. He turns it absently, peering through the translucent sheen at the colorful wrappers inside. It had taken him nearly an hour to find them, scouring shop after shop, fingers drumming against his thigh, voice tight as he repeated the name to each store clerk.

And now he has them.

It would be okay.

Everything would be okay.

He opens the door.

The bag slips from his grasp before he even realizes it.

He’s greeted by the sight of your hanging corpse, bathed in the soft glow of afternoon light.

His body locks, every muscle seizing, his breath stolen clean from his lungs. The world narrows to a single, suffocating point. You, swaying ever so slightly, the fabric rope taut around your throat, your feet dangling lifelessly above the floor. The air shifts with your movement, a gentle, almost imperceptible motion, like the house itself is breathing.

His eyes catch the raw, bloody crescents on your fingertips, the dried streaks beneath your nails where you had clawed at the rope in those final frantic seconds. Pieces of your clothing are torn, tattered pieces missing from the hem, now knotted above you, tied together in a noose.

The bag of candy hits the floor.

The rustling sound is deafening in the silence.

"No."

His vision fractures, the edges of the room twisting, warping, wrong. His legs move before he can even think, a sharp stumble forward, fingers reaching for you, pulling you down-

Your body collapses into his arms, cold, limp, gone.

His Infinity flickers violently, crackling like a dying flame, his cursed energy reacting to his unraveling mind. He grips you tighter, cradling your weight against his chest, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. Your head lolls, lifeless, against his shoulder. Your eyes, half-lidded, stare up at the ceiling, unfocused, unseeing.

You look so peaceful.

It isn’t fair.

A choked sob catches in his throat as he lowers you onto the ground, his hands moving in frantic motions. His cursed energy surges, bright and erratic, spilling from his fingertips as he presses them to your chest, trying to force life back into you.

"Come back." The words shake, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Come back, you selfish bitch! You don’t get to-"

The baby kicked.

His entire body seizes.

His wide, trembling gaze drops to your stomach. His eyes lock onto the movement, the subtle shift beneath the curve of your belly, the tiny drag of a foot against your skin.

Still alive.

His hands move without thought, tearing fabric aside, pressing against your stomach as if he can somehow hold onto that last, flickering sign of life. His breath hitches, a noise trapped between a sob and a laugh, his mind spinning, fracturing, trying to grasp at something, anything-

Something inside him snaps, utterly and completely, as he stumbles back, collapsing beside the mattress. His fingers twitch as they move beneath it, reaching, searching.

The knife is there.

The metal handle is cool, the weight familiar. He grips it tightly, his chest heaving, his pulse hammering against his ribs. His mind is eerily blank as he turns back to you, to your still form, to the stomach that still holds something alive.

He knows what he has to do.

The blade sinks in.

The room fills with the wet, slick sound of flesh parting, of muscle and tissue yielding beneath sharp steel. Blood sprays, painting his arms, his chest, pooling on the ground beneath you. He barely notices. His hands move with surgical precision, parting skin, slipping into warmth, searching.

And then, a cry.

Thin, sharp, alive.

His breath shudders as he lifts the infant into his arms, the tiny body slick with blood and fluid, so small, skin still flushed and new. The baby writhes in his grasp, fragile and helpless, its cries cutting through the thick, suffocating silence of the room.

He clutches it to his chest, his own body wracked with trembling sobs, pressing his bloodied lips against its damp forehead, rocking back and forth. His arms curl protectively around the tiny, screaming form, his breath coming in harsh, broken gasps.

"Shh. Shh, it’s okay," he whispers, voice raw, shaking. "I’m here. I’ve got you. We’re okay. We’re okay."

The words are senseless. A lie even he doesn’t believe.

His gaze flickers to the side, to you, still sprawled lifelessly where he left you, eyes dull, empty, never to open again.

It trails a little farther, to the bag of candy.

It sits where it fell, candy spilling out on the floor. Blood is streaked all over the wrappers, staining them red.

His throat tightens violently, his grip on the child trembling as something cold washes over him, the final, crushing realization settling in like an avalanche.

He ruined you.

He ruined everything.

His gaze lowers back to the baby in his arms. The tiny chest rising and falling. The delicate fingers curling, uncurling.

His own fingers tighten around the knife.

The steel glints in the dim light, poised over the baby’s throat.

He exhales shakily, pressing his lips to its hair, eyes fluttering closed.

"We’ll follow her," he whispers, breath warm against fragile skin. His fingers press tighter, the blade steady, certain.

"Together."

thank you for reading to the end. let’s cry together 😭☹️ the knife was symbolism for his last remaining sense of rationality, and the candy symbolic of her innocence. i was lowkey tweaking out while writing this

#gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #gojo x you #gojou satoru x reader #gojou satoru x y/n #gojou satoru x you #dead dove do not eat #gojo smut #gojo satoru smut #yandere jjk #yandere gojo #forced relationship #tw:noncon #dark content #yandere

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fancyfeathers · 1 day ago

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Imagine Daughter!Reader having a phone that is constantly going off and the batfamily is just like "Who is that?" then one day they look and it's just one of her friends but they literally talk all the time. Nothing wrong with that! Then they find out it's a boy. Batfamily is probably thinking, "Friend that's a boy? Oh hell nah she already has a boyfriend but two boys that aren't family in her life need to GO" Cut to Damian stalking Daughter!Reader at school(it's normal at this point) only to find her arguing with said friend that's a boy and acting like competitive siblings. No seriously, Damian walked into lunch and saw the two arguing over the school brownie that they had found still wrapped up in it's plastic on the lunch table. So the batfamily continues their regular stalking and with how they've been so far I can only assume the siblings will be super jealous of this random boy that's suddenly stolen their "Sister's" attention from them and treating the rando like a sibling more. Side note: I love your writing and I love your page! I hope you have a lovely day/night<3

Yandere Batfam w/ Wife/Mother!Darling & Daughter/Sister!Darling

To be honest they would block his number the second they felt even slightly threatened by someone else, they probably did the same with her boyfriend but they can’t get him out of her life because their families are in the same social circle and they go to the same school.

But honestly I am imagining her friend as like the most unthreatening person imaginable, like a scrawny art kid that she met in her AP psych class. But since they go to the same school the only person who would know what he looks like is Damian, all the rest of her siblings have not the slightest clue. They probably meet him when he is dropping off a hers and Damian’s schoolwork when they both got sick with something, and they honestly did not picture a teenager who probably has more interest in painting butterflies than socializing.

But then when they talk to each other it’s like all walls completely come down, like one day Damian came home and showed them all of a video of Daughter!Darling and her friend getting into a paint fight at school, which is also supported when Daughter!Darling comes into the room ten seconds later with dried paint all over her.

Now Damian will make comments at the boy that are slightly threatening and telling him to back off and mind his business, especially when Daughter!Darling confides in her friend about her home life a tiny bit.

Dick will try to ask her if she wants to do things that she has done with her friends and obviously gets upset when she says no because if she does it with them then why does she not want to do it with him?

Tim may or may not hack his grades to get him moved out of some of her classes, but he won’t if he if a scholarship student because that could end up with him being kicked out of school and Tim has enough of a conscious to not ruin someone’s life just because they piss you off.

Now once graduation comes along and he goes off to college then that is when they completely cut her off from him and any of her other friends, because most of them are leaving Gotham for school and they are already blocked on her phone so if she has no contact with any of them then their relationships are going to begin to break apart until they don’t exist anymore.

Honestly those few months after high school and before she runs away are the worst because she is not allowed to leave the house, she is hardly allowed out of her room without someone else out of fear she’ll try to run away because she is eighteen now and there for no longer has a legal guardian, so that fear of loosing her just becomes more real.

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nanavn · 22 hours ago

Text

[ID: Several photos, totaling a chapter from the book BUTCH is a NOUN.

FAGGOT BUTCH

“I hated that essay,” he says to me, “about femmes who care for you when you travel; I really hated it.” And when I ask why he tells me that he thinks it sounds like all butches should be soothed by femmes, and vice versa; he says, “Why would those femmes have assumed that you were a butch who liked femmes?” He says, “Maybe you’re a faggot butch, did they even consider that?” He says, “I know you’re not just for femmes.” That’s what he says, but I know what he’s thinking. And even though I know how dangerous it is to assume I know what someone is thinking, I know this butch maybe as well as I know myself, and he’s thinking, “Fuck you, for having it easy even in being queer. Fuck you for going along on your happy little way to San Francisco and finding a bunch of femmes who see you as a big stud-duck butch and just want to pour themselves through your fingers. It’s just as hard to be a faggot butch as it is to be any kind of fag.” There’s all that masculinity to consider when you want to rub up against someone, like that old joke about porcupines: How do porcupines mate? Very carefully. He’s saying, “I want to show up at brunch someplace and assume that anyone who I want to flirt with will want to flirt back, and will do it, will want to, without fear of recrimination from hir community. I want you to put something in that book of yours for me. I am a butch whose identity, sexual or otherwise, has nothing to do with femmes. They are not my natural partners in this gender crime the way they are yours. I wake and sleep in the arms of butches like me, butches who understand a whole host of things about my life, my world, the way I see things, the way things affect me that no one else could understand. Write about us. Write that we have sweet, hot sex in which no one has to put on a pair of panties, or take them off; write about how good it feels when ze fucks me hard, so hard. Write about how it feels to fall asleep with the weight of a butch on you, one tattooed arm and one furry leg pinning you down and grounding you in your sleep. “Write about all the ways in which butches care for each other, comfort each other. Write about how we understand all the shit that comes in the world for our partners and salve it as best we can, about how I have all the more respect for hir because of all I know it takes to survive as a butch.

“Write about how, as soon as butches were no longer the scourge of dykedom for aping masculinity, or whatever that baloney was, it became faggot butches who were scorned and derided. Everyone understands butch/femme because it seems familiar, like Ozzie and Harriet but with better hair and more pussy. Everyone understands femme on femme, even though you don’t see it all that often cause it doesn’t read queer, you know, but it’s in the first images of‘lesbian love’ most of us see, in porn or on television. Two longhaired pretty girls smooching in a daring fashion wherever they happen to be. No one’s threatened by that, not the dykes, not the men, nobody, but if I want to kiss my butch anywhere, I’d better be damn sure of my audience, or better yet, be sure we don’t have one. “I can be a butch without opening doors for girls,” he’s saying. “I can do it even if I follow while dancing, I can do it without spending my Saturday afternoons as a femme’s shopping bottom at the mall and I do. I am. I am honorable, I take good care of the people I love as well as I possibly can; I watch out for my community. I have a butch heart full of love that I can express when I feel safe enough; I walk in the world resisting gender norms and transgressing gender rules, transcending them. I am fixing whatever I can, whenever I can, and I laugh, and play, and let the spaces in my masculinity show, just like you, just like every butch. I get all slicked up for a date in a suit and tie and I pick up my date, also in a suit and tie, and we just open the door if we get to it first and we take turns paying, and it doesn’t make me less a butch. It doesn’t make me less of anything. It doesn’t mean that I don’t think femmes are swell, I surely do, but they are not my salvation when I travel, they are not the North of my heart’s compass. That’s butches for me, and I will always go a little weak when I see someone who looks scared and hardened and delighted and ashamed and proud — proud, just like me.

“You’re writing a book? Of course, I’m glad, but don’t chicken out. Don’t write a book that speaks so many volumes about your adoration for femmes that it leaves out the ways in which I know you cherish butches too. Yes, not the same way as you cherish femmes, entirely differently, butches and femmes are different creatures, sure, but I don’t just mean how glad you are and always will be to have butch brothers, abutch tribe. I mean, make sure you don’t forget to mention that you put butches on their knees in front of you and enjoy them, that you kneel down too, that you sit sometimes stunned by how much you want to lick a buzz cut or a hot tattoo, that you know what a great grace it is to fall asleep next to a butch’s heart and muscle and skin and ink and fur, that you understand how wonderful it can be to feel butch arms around you. Make sure you mention me, make sure you give me and my lovers and my life the same benefit of some of your words, make sure you don’t write another book that leaves us on the cutting-room floor. Give us a place on the landscape, help us become visible. Say this: Say that when butches love butches they hold lightning between them, but that as much as it burns it also illuminates. That it’s the sweetest burn I’ve ever known in my life of searing pain, that it keeps me from feeling the flames of the world’s hate licking the soles of my boots, that I hold it in my heart and it fuels me every day. Say that it shows me things I could never see any other way, that without it I would grow cold and die. Say that there is nothing else I would rather be.”

End ID]

Text from the link in OP

butch is a noun, s. bear bergman 2006

#queue do it

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gingernut1314 · 2 days ago

Note

Hey! Please feel free to ignore the request if it doesn't inspire you, but i was wondering if you could write something with a reader who is dating luffy. She is a little insecure ( perhaps a plus sized reader or just not super comfortable in their body reader) when encountering Boa Hancock. But here is the twist, Boa is obsessed with both reader and luffy and wants to be with both of them. I thought it would be a fun twist on a prompt I've seen a lot.

Thank you, and I hope you are having a good day!

We Belong Together

Content: Luffy x gn!reader x Boa Hancock, feelings of jealousy, feelings of insecurity, Hancock obsessing over reader and Luffy, expressing feelings, denying feelings, enemies to....what the hell??, second half takes place during time skip (no real spoilers besides Silvers Rayleigh mentioned)

Word Count: 1.3K

A/N: Sorry this took so long 😅 buuutt here it is!! I had too much fun with this! I wasn't sure if you wanted reader to be like--down with dating Hancock too so I didn't add that but I would be willing to do another, shorter part 2 if that's something you would like to read! Again this was too fun to mess around with! I hope you enjoy!!

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Boa Hancock.

The name set every nerve within you on fire.

Why? Well, it was simple really.

She was beautiful. Otherworldly so. Beautiful and thin and tall and powerful. Men drooled over her and she had the ability to turn them to stone for it. Turn them to stone before the drool even began to dry on their chins.

You could possibly get over your jealousy and insecurities around her, you had with the members of your own crew, had it not been for one simple fact.

She was in love with Luffy.

Luffy who you were dating.

She was so insanely obsessed with Luffy that she believed they were going to get married.

At first she had been venomous towards you like the snake she was. A venom you were quick to spit right back. But recently that venom was lessened.

It started out small. She wouldn’t stare stony daggers at you. Wouldn’t try to belittle you and keep you far from Luffy. In fact, she had begun making sure you could be with Luffy as much as you wanted.

Then it turned into honey-dripped compliments, blushing cheeks, and bashful behavior when around you. She had even begun to serve you food. Something she had only ever done for Luffy.

It was strange. You trusted nothing she gave you, whether verbal or physical.

“She’s up to something.” You confined to Luffy one night as you two walked through the Kuja village. The occasional warrior would greet you both warmly as you passed. “She is being too--” You struggled for a moment to find the right word to describe just how she had been treating you, “Too nice to me.”

Luffy stared at you for a long moment…a moment he took to either think over what you were saying or think over just how hungry he must be growing. Either could be entirely possible, but before you could prompt him to say something, he did.

“...Okay.” Just that? That’s all he had to say about this situation?

“It’s not okay!” You huffed, “She hates my guts. The only reason she hasn’t killed me yet is because it would displease you.”

“Maybe she wants to be your friend now.” Luffy suggested with a shrug. “She’s cool.” You tried not to let your envy get the better of you at Luffy’s words. Tried not to let your mind work and work on it…

But what if he loved her back? What if he loved her more than you? She was beautiful--fit and you just--you weren’t. What if Luffy wanted that over you?

No. No you knew that wasn’t true. Would never be true. Hancock was a friend in Luffy’s eyes, nothing more.

“Hancock doesn’t have friends. She has allies and she has enemies.” You continued to disagree with your captain. “I am currently enemy number one on this island to her because she wants to have you all to herself.”

“Maybe…but she told me she wishes you could get closer.” You blinked at his words. Closer? What did that mean?

She wants to get closer so she can lower your guard. So that she can turn you to stone like those idiots who drool all over her like dogs.

No. Never. You were her number one enemy and she was yours. You were determined to keep it that way.

Luffy grabbed hold of your hand then, his warm skin pulling you instantly from your spiraling thoughts. “Quick! I smell meat grilling!” And he sharply pulled you through the village.

“So…you’ll be staying with us till Luffy gets back?” Hancock asked all too timidly after she had returned from dropping Luffy and the Dark Knight himself off on Rusukaina Island. You had stayed behind on the island, watching as they had sailed away. Had stayed on the cliff side feeling all too lost without Luffy by your side. Hadn’t moved till the Snake Princess’ voice sounded in your ears.

“Don’t worry. I’m going to stay in the village far away from you.” You spoke, finally pulling yourself together enough to turn and head back inland.

“Oh but…I have made up a room for you within my castle.” You shot her a bewildered look, finding the woman was keeping her eyes downcast. Finding she was blushing like it was Luffy who was paying attention to her. “But, of course, if you truly wish stay in the village I can have a house readied--”

“Stop.” You snapped, halting your steps to face the princess. She turned her blue eyes up to look at you shyly. Look at you in a way that makes you feel--not how you wanted to feel when being looked at by the woman. “What is wrong with you?” Hancock’s perfectly groomed brows furrowed in confusion.

“I--do not know what you mean.” You crossed the small distance between you two to stare jaggedly up at the annoyingly tall woman. A woman whose breath hitched at the closeness.

“You have to be up to something, right? You’re trying to get me to lower my guard enough so you can swoop in and finally get rid of me. So you can have Luffy all to yourself.” You demanded, not letting up your boiling glare. A glare she only seemed to grow more and more flustered under. “Right? Tell me I’m right.”

“N-No. I--no. You love Luffy.” You--blinked. Was all this just--her acting defeated?

“I--yeah. So?” You didn’t dare let the bite in your voice lessen. Hancock fiddled with her fingers, again those shimmering eyes downward.

“And…I love Luffy.” Anger spiked in your chest so fast it was painful.

“No. You don’t.” Hancock met your gaze then. Met it with that burning intensity and stubbornness you hadn’t seen directed at you in a while, but it was an all too familiar gaze. One that had your muscles tensing, readying for an attack.

“Of course I do. But…” She hesitated, eyes going wide as if she was remembering who she was talking to. A hesitation you only grew irritated at.

“But? What? Spit it out.” Hancock seemed to whimper at your tone. A pitiful thing--like some scared child who was getting punished by their parents.

“But I--I love you too.” She got out on a rushed bit of air, cheeks turning so red they almost blended into her hardly covering outfit.

You--didn’t know what to say. What to even think. All you could do was stand there, mouth a gap as you stared up at the princess in complete and utter shock.

“Uh--you--what?” Hancock nodded smally.

“Yes. It’s true. I thought I despised you. Thought you were stealing Luffy from me when--when really he is for both of us. Just as I am for both of you. And you for both Luffy and I.” She explained. An explanation that did nothing but hurt your brain. “We three--we belong together. I love you both.”

“AH--stop. Oh gods please stop.” You plead. “You can’t--you don’t love me, Hancock. You’re confused.” Before you could even stop talking, Hancock was gasping sharply, a delicate hand shooting upward to cover her mouth.

“You--you said my name.” Again you stood there all too confused.

“I--yeah. Want me to call you something else.” Hancock was on the verge of tears, she looked so happy.

“You can call me anything you like, my love.”

“Oh gods.” You moaned, turning on your heels to start marching quickly to the village.

No, no, no. There was no way this was happening. How the hell did she even get that in her mind? That you three were meant to be together?

She was more delusional than you had originally thought.

“Oh! Wait for me, dear!” Hancock called, the sound of quickened footsteps following after you. “Shall we talk about plans for our wedding now or should we wait for Luffy to return?” She asked, slowly once at your side to match your steps. “Yes. Yes, you're right. We should wait.”

This was going to be a very, very long two years.

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parkersbliss · 2 days ago

Note

Okay after the last request I am official kinda obsessed with the American! reader one shots! I was wondering if you could one where the boys learn that reader knew Graves somehow from back home? Like they find pictures of them together and reader is like “Oh that’s my ex!/friend” and we see the boys reaction? I love your writings sm!!🫶🏽🫶🏽

babe I am SO sorry for the wait. college was kicking my ass. but like oh my god I love this request. I love it so much I wrote 2,000 words! thank you so much!! xx

TO THE GRAVE(S)

PAIRING: task force 141 x female!american!reader WARNINGS: phillip graves, implied ex relationship with ghost / price, mentions of death and violence, frat boy graves thoughts A/N: I got SO carried away with some of the au's of reader and graves. sorry gang he's my baby girl

Masterlist | Taglist | Requesting (open for cod!)

Gaz:

The space you shared with Gaz was empty, to say the least. You had recently moved in, so it made sense. You couldn’t stand it. You had been sitting for hours with your boyfriend on the couch, ordering various pieces of furniture. You were lucky you even had a bed.

Thus was the process of moving in, especially with a sergeant who had to try and time it for when he was home. You wouldn’t trade it for anything, though.

Sure, the space was blank, a few things from your previous place, but nothing that screamed The Garrick’s (or soon to be).

This leads you to sit on the couch you took from Kyle’s, box in your hand as you search for some photos to frame and hang up. Something to signify people lived here.

Kyle is sitting next to you, arm slung over your shoulder as he continues browsing for furniture. He listens to you talk when you find a photo that triggers a memory, loving the excited gleam in your eye as you talk about your high school days.

That was until you pulled out a certain photo.

He nearly does a double take as you hold it up, head tilting to the side as you examine it. “Who’s that?” He asked as nonchalantly as possible. You could hear the strain in his voice though and raise a brow. You turn back to the photo of you and Phillip side by side, leaning against each other and flashing a four on your fingers like some frat boys.

“Phillip,” You said. “He was a good friend.”

“Was he?” Kyle snorts, unable to hide the obvious disdain for the man. How dare someone as vile, putrid, and untrustworthy as he ever lay hands on his girl. You, his sweet, beautiful girlfriend.

You roll your eyes, setting the photo on the table. “He was just a friend, babe. Seriously. I only knew him because I was sophomore class president, and he was senior.”

Kyle grabs the photo from the table. “You look a little more than friends.”

“I have actual exes, you know.”

“None as bad as him.”

You furrow your brows, plucking the photo from his hands. “You don’t even know him. He was smart, funny, charis—”

“Okay!” Kyle huffs, cutting you off and you blink in surprise. He was never this harsh with you, and certainly not over things in the past.

“What is this about?”

Kyle sighs, leaning back on the sofa with crossed arms. He tried to keep you out of his work life. Hidden away in your flat in London, a quiet corner of the world where he was Kyle and not Gaz. Knowing Graves had experienced some semblance of the peace you brought irked him. It shouldn’t bother him, because, like you said, it was a while ago. Still, the burn from his betrayal is charred.

“You remember that day I called you panicking over Soap and Ghost?” He asked. “They were in Mexico.”

“Yeah.”

“They were being hunted by an opposing military team,” He starts, gently grabbing your hand. “Shadow company.” He can see the confusion in your eyes. The wariness as you’re unsure where he’s going with this. “Graves runs that company.”

There’s a heavy beat of silence. You weren’t really attached to him. Again, just class presidency stuff. You would’ve probably never thought about him again if you hadn’t seen the photo. “You know,” You finally said, voice bouncing off the empty walls. “I always did think he was a little power crazy.”

Kyle nearly cries in relief, grabbing you in his arms as he buries his face in your neck, and you giggle. “You have no idea.”

Ghost:

Simon prided himself on being a good partner to you. His entire existence was tethered to you and the smile on your face. He did his best to make sure it stayed there. He was always gentle with you when he was upset, never yelling. There was a certain softness you brought out in him, and he adored it. Now, Simon was still a jealous man. He hated to see others looking at you with nothing but lust in their eyes. But when you would turn around to face him, eyes brimming with love only for him, it didn’t matter.

Except for this time.

You’re lying in bed with him, flipping through your yearbook from high school. Your friend had texted you earlier in the day about how one of your old friends had just had a baby with someone you least expected. Thus prompting you to scour the yearbook for this “guy.” And then you just fell down the rabbit hole of past memories.

You’re tucked into Simon’s side, his arm wrapped around your shoulder and head leaning against yours as you point out various pictures.

His breath halts when your finger traces over a certain one, a small frown tugging at the corner of your lips.

He would recognize the face of Graves anywhere. Even if it was your yearbook from a youth spent in the South. What are the odds?

Simon’s free hand balls into a fist as he takes in the photo and its implications. Graves is in a football uniform, giant 01 on his jersey. He’s younger, with no stubble or scar on his cheek but otherwise the same cocky smile. The same one Simon had mistaken as friendship and later realized it was all deception. Grave’s has got you sitting on his shoulder, bright smile and arm raised with a pom-pom as you cheer.

“That’s Phillip,” You said. Of course, when you talked about your ex Phillip, you meant that Phillip.

Simon clicks his tongue in response, voice gruff. “You look happy.”

You sigh, moving the yearbook to rest on the bed. “I was.”

Simon’s calm on the outside, but truly, he was a tea kettle boiling over. Every glance at that damned photo sent him a little more towards the edge. He had wanted to throttle Graves not so long ago, and now? It was worse knowing he was that Phillip. The ex that left you torn apart.

“He was good for a while,” You admit. “It was all rainbows and unicorns. He was the kind of player that runs up and kisses you after a touchdown.” Simon’s lip twitches. “Then he left for the Marines, and he was never the same.” You lean more into Simon, unaware of the rage churning inside him. “I think the war changed him, Si. He was so angry after and I realized he just wasn’t the same.”

Should he tell you? The man that broke your heart was, in fact, also his enemy? That they’d come face to face, and Soap had killed him? That war had changed Phillip into a power-crazy, lap dog, sociopath?

“I just hope wherever he is now, he’s okay.”

Well, that settles it. Simon watches as you close your yearbook, still frowning, and he knows telling you would be worse.

“I’m sure he is,” Simon said, squeezing your shoulder. “I’m sure he got everything he ever wanted.” There’s a double meaning there, but you don’t catch it. You have no idea that your ex has been presumed dead. Ironically, Simon doesn’t know he’s alive.

You kiss your boyfriend on the cheek. “I’m always so grateful you come from deployment the same. You’re too good to me.”

That’s simply not true. Simon could always be a better man — for you. His hand cups your face, and he places a kiss on your lips.

Soap:

Johnny’s hands shake as he holds his phone. There was no way, no fucking way he was seeing this right. He’d been putting off a visit to the eye doctor for a while, but it couldn’t be this bad. He must be imagining things. Otherwise, how else do you explain that his girlfriend is clearly posing in a photo with his mortal enemy?

He had lost it. The head injuries had finally caught up with him.

He repeats that like a mantra even after he zooms in and out on the Instagram post and stalks your best friend's page for clues.

Cue Johnny’s with about an inch of space between his sight and the phone when you walk in.

He’s sitting at the kitchen table, and you’re leaning against the doorframe, brow raised. “Whatcha got there, bubs?”

Johnny’s head snaps in your direction, phone slamming down on the table. “What?” His accent is thick.

“What’s on your phone?” You walk over towards him, plucking the device out of his hand and examining the photo of you, your best friend, and Phillip. It must be some school event because all three of you are in blue tutus, green and blue face paint, and more accessories of the same color. “Oh my god,” You laugh. “I haven’t seen this photo in years.”

Johnny’s brows furrow. “Why—,” He coughs. “What is it?”

“It was our homecoming game,” You said, still looking over the photo fondly. “The student section where we stood had like leaders that would direct chants and stuff. Phillip was one, and this was his last game doing it so we went all out.”

You said it so casually. The name of the man who had put his head on a bounty. He wasn’t mad at you, of course. Clearly, this was a time before the present Graves. Still, the coincidence — the idea — irked him. He never told you about Mexico. Johnny didn’t want to worry you about it. Besides, when he was home, he’d rather listen to you talk about happier things. And Graves was dead now.

“Haven’t seen him in years, though. He’s some CEO now of a private company. Jenna doesn’t really talk to him much anymore. Says he’s like really busy.”

“Jenna?” Johnny questioned, referring to your best friend. “She’s still… in contact?”

You give him a funny look, setting the phone down on the table. “Yeah? It’s her brother, after all.”

Johnny’s eyes doubled in size, spluttering. “What? That’s Jenna’s brother?” He was aware your best friend had a brother, older, a good friend of yours. But he never gave it much thought than that. She was married, so her last name had changed. If that was the case… she couldn’t be in contact with him. He was dead. Johnny would know. He killed him. “Bloody fucking hell, babe,” Johnny mumbles.

“What’s going on?”

Johnny shakes his head. “She doesn’t know what he does?”

“I don’t know! He doesn’t talk about his work. Who cares?”

Your boyfriend grabs your hands, pulling you into the seat across from him. “When was the last time she talked to him?”

“What is happening?”

“Love.”

You’ve never seen your boyfriend look so panicked. Sweat was beading on his forehead, hands shaking in yours, and his accent much harder to understand. “The holidays.”

“Fuck!” He drops your hands, standing up and running a hand through his mohawk. He wasn’t dead.

“Can you just tell—”

“Phillip Graves owns a private military company that tried to kill me in Mexico.”

Silence as you stand there dumbfounded. Your best friend's brother was… he was bad.

You eventually approach your boyfriend, grabbing the hand that was running through his hair. “I didn’t know.”

Johnny embraces you tightly, pushing your head into his chest. “I’m not mad at you, love. Just got some unfinished business now.”

He kisses your forehead, swaying you side to side, a plan forming deep in his cortex. One to kill him once and for all.

Price:

There was a reason John Price was called a captain. He was a natural leader, someone who commanded the attention of those around him. Still, that wasn’t enough to warrant running his own team. To be responsible for others' lives took more skills. He was a good decision-maker under pressure. He could control his emotions better than others. He wasn’t rash when it came to the lives of others. That’s what made him a good leader.

It’s also what made him a great husband. He was a gentle giant with you. Every decision you make, from the color of the walls to the couch in your living room, was made with thorough consideration.

It’s what you loved most about John. Being around him made you calm. You can't even think about a moment in your relationship when you’d seen him harsh and yelling.

You were both sitting on the couch, some sports game playing on the TV in the back. You’re leaning against him, flipping through a photo book. You had gotten a few prints back from your wedding photographer and had filled them into your wedding book and then got distracted but the others. You and John were sentimental people, and you took it upon yourself to create memory books to show your kids one day.

John hadn’t really seen yours since they ended up getting made by you and stuck on a shelf. So, here you were, lecturing him on all the years of your life he hasn’t been present. Truthfully, he knew most of the stories, but he enjoyed listening to you talk and the small facts you’d sneak in.

“And then we lost this meet horribly. I think Layla got injured and went out.” You flip the page, various photos of you and your teammates on the mat.

John hums, leaning over you to look at the photos. “That must suck.”

You shake your head. “Depends if you got the cute athletic trainee that day or not. I think a lot of girls faked injuries to see him.”

Your husband laughs, a deep rumble you feel next to him. “You got a picture?”

You flip through a couple pages until you find him. You snort at the photo. You’re sat on the floor of the gym, leg extended and bandaged from whatever injury you had sustained. A young boy is next to you, kneeling with his arms wrapped around your upper half and leaning his head against yours. John’s brow twitches slightly as he sees the widesmile on your face, and small hands clasping the arm of your… ex.

What’s even more concerning is the recognition brewing in the back of his head. He uses a hand to gesture for you to hand him the book. You do, and he holds it up to his eyes, scanning for why this guy was so familiar. Ashy blonde hair, baby blue eyes, and a grin that he wants to wipe off. It’s only when he catches a glimpse of the name on the upper corner of his jacket does it hits him.

“Graves.”

“How’d you know his name?” You asked with surprise.

“Saw it on the jacket,” John answered with ease. His fingers itch to rip the photo to shreds.

You hum, sliding the book back from him. “He was really popular. Took the athletic training class for fun his senior year and then had to do the internships at games.”

John huffs. “You dated?”

You shrug, offering no real sort of attachment to him. “Sort of. Was more like a few weeks, couple games, Valentine’s Day.”

“Seems like a good lad.”

“I guess. There was something kind of off about him, though. But everyone at school loved him.”

John quirks a brow at that, pressing his head to yours as he glances at the photo again. “What do you think he’s up to now?”

You tap your chin in thought, pushing the book to the side. “Probably some power-crazy CEO.”

John laughs, threading a hand through your hair. If only you knew. He wouldn’t tell you. He saw you didn’t really care for him. Probably hasn’t thought about him in years. Your husband plans to do the same. “I bet he is.”

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