#it’s the way he looks at her sometimes when she isn’t looking at him

[childrenofcain-if]

That one scenario where C and MC have a kid has my heart completely 😭 Can we get a follow up for that? How are things going on in the joint household? I'm also very curious to see what C would name their kid 🤭

the hershey’s kisses glinted in the late afternoon sun, crinkled foil catching the golden light that streamed in through the window. aster sat cross-legged on the sofa, a small island of contentment in the messy sprawl of school bags and discarded socks she’d left in her wake.

she was humming under her breath as she unwrapped another piece of chocolate, oblivious to the way her shoes lay in two opposite corners of the room and how her lunchbox sat precariously balanced on the edge of the coffee table.

you leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and watching her with the detached amusement of a parent who knows they’ll have to clean up the mess but hasn’t yet summoned the energy to do so.

C was in the armchair, one foot propped on the edge of the ottoman, clicking through their macbook with half an eye on aster. it was domesticity in its sweetest form, the kind you don’t think about when you’re young and idealistic, imagining love and family like perfect polaroids on a wall.

“did you give her those?” C asked suddenly, their voice louder than the hum of the dishwasher in the kitchen.

you blinked and set your coffee down, moving closer to inspect the crumpled foil wrappers littered around aster.

“nope,” you said after a beat. “not exactly either of our flavor. that’s… what is that, cherry? we don’t have those in the house.”

C arched a brow, and without missing a beat, turned their full attention to your daughter.

“aster,” they said, voice soft but with a worried edge, “where did you get the chocolates?”

aster’s head snapped up, her chalcedony green eyes lighting up with excitement.

“felix gave them to me!” she said, her grin wide enough to show the little gap where her front tooth had fallen out last week.

C froze, their hand tightening slightly on the edge of their macbook. you, on the other hand, were far more amused.

“felix, huh?” you said, crouching slightly to meet aster’s eye level. “and who’s felix again?”

her grin grew impossibly wider as she happily declared: “my boyfriend!”

you chuckled, leaning against the arm of the sofa. “oh, really? you have a boyfriend now, kleine ster? when did this happen?”

“this morning actually!” aster exclaimed, bouncing a little on the cushions. “he gave me the chocolates at recess and said he liked me, and i said i liked him too, and now we’re boyfriend and girlfriend!”

C’s eye twitched, a muscle jumping just beneath the surface. they sat up straighter, their attention now fully honed on your seven-year-old’s revelation.

“did he now?” they said, their voice tight. “and what else did this... felix boy say?”

aster frowned, confused by the sudden shift in tone. “uh… he said i could have the last red crayon in art class.”

“generous of him,” they muttered darkly, looking distinctly unimpressed.

“C,” you said warningly, but they ignored you, leaning forward with the intense focus of someone about to conduct an interrogation.

“and does this felix… hold your hand?” they asked, their tone too casual to be actually genuine.

“sometimes,” aster admitted, her brows knitting together.

C’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “does he share his lunch with you?”

“yeah, today he gave me his oreos!”

C’s jaw twitched. you pinched the bridge of your nose.

“C,” you said again, a little louder this time. “let it go, darling. they’re just kids.”

but they were too far gone now, leaning forward as though proximity might grant them any sort of control over the situation.

“aster,” they said with all the solemnity of someone at a funeral, “you can’t have a boyfriend. you’re too young. your brain isn’t fully developed. you’ll... you’ll explode! you’ll leave your parents all alone then and it’ll make us very sad.”

aster blinked at them, unwrapping another hershey’s kiss with deliberate slowness.

“i will explode?” she asked, clearly confused by this turn of events.

you rolled your eyes. “no, you wo—”

“yes, you will,” C insisted, cutting you off. “and anyway, you’re not allowed to date anyone until you’re like 30 and paying taxes. it’s a rule.”

“that’s not a rule,” aster said with the stubborn certainty of someone who knew she was right. she really was her parents’ daughter. “and felix is a good boy.”

“‘good,’” C muttered under their breath, glaring at the imaginary felix as though he was lurking in the shadows, waiting to hand their precious little star another chocolate. “i’m going to fight this seven-year-old.”

“C!” you snapped, stepping between them and placing a hand on C’s shoulder. “calm down, my love. it’s harmless.”

C leaned back reluctantly, their gaze flicking between you and aster, who was now watching them like they’d sprouted a second head.

“fine,” they grumbled, crossing their arms over their chest.

***

after dinner, aster sat cross-legged in the middle of the living room, her brow furrowed in concentration as she examined a tiny instruction manual for building LEGOs with the intensity of someone decoding the human genome. her fingers, small but deft, picked up pieces and slotted them into place, her movements sure and deliberate.

C sat beside her, their long legs folded awkwardly beneath them, one hand bracing their bad knee. their fingers worked slower than hers, more hesitantly. the gap between them—her bright enthusiasm, their cautious quiet—was almost laughable. but C didn’t laugh.

they watched her instead.

aster had inherited their stubbornness, the precision of their thoughts, the way they spoke with certainty even when they were wrong, the hard-headed refusal to back down in the face of a challenge. but she’d also inherited your warmth, your easy charisma, the way people seemed to orbit around you like you were some kind of gravitational force.

she was both of you, but neither of you. something wholly her own. and she shone so brilliantly.

“non,” aster said suddenly, shaking her head. she spoke in a tone that was equal parts exasperated and amused, the way one might speak to a child who couldn’t quite grasp a simple concept. “that piece goes here. look.” she leaned over, plucking a flat blue brick from the pile and snapping it into place on the half-constructed spaceship.

“ah,” C said, their lips quirking into a faint smile. “of course, petite étoile. how foolish of me.”

she beamed proudly, her confidence growing with each small victory.

“it’s okay. you’re still learning,” she said magnanimously, patting their arm. honestly, it amused C greatly to see her reflect you back when you both argued everyday like your life depended on it.

C snorted, shaking their head. “merci, mademoiselle.”

“pas de problème,” she replied breezily, her accent and pronunciation impeccably like a parisian native.

C felt a pang of pride so sharp it was almost painful. french had been one of their gifts to her, a piece of their heritage they had handed down like an heirloom. and she had taken to it effortlessly, as if it had always been hers.

she slipped between languages with a grace that left C in awe, her young mind absorbing everything like a sponge.

“wat is dit?” she asked suddenly, holding up a strange piece they hadn’t encountered yet.

“hmm,” you said from where you were sprawled on the couch, your legs stretched out and a book resting on your chest. you barely looked up as you answered her in dutch, explaining what the piece was and where it might fit.

aster nodded thoughtfully, her small fingers turning the piece over as she considered its possibilities. C watched her, their heart swelling with a mixture of love and disbelief.

how could someone so small hold so much brilliance? how could she be so much more than they had ever dared to imagine for themself?

“do you think felix likes LEGOs?” aster asked suddenly, breaking their reverie. she was staring at them now, her eyes—C’s eyes, pale green and perceptive—narrowed in thought.

C felt their jaw tighten at the mention of the boy, the ghost of their earlier irritation flickering to life.

“i have no idea,” they said evenly, focusing on the spaceship.

aster tilted her head, clearly unconvinced by their tone.

“he’s nice,” she said firmly, as though this simple fact should erase all of C’s doubts.

“i’m sure he is,” C said, their tone carefully neutral.

you glanced up from your book, smirking slightly as you watched the exchange. let it go, your eyes seemed to say.

but it wasn’t that simple.

it wasn’t about this felix boy, not really. it was about aster, about the inexorable passage of time, about the impossibility of holding on to something as fragile and fleeting as childhood. she was growing up, and there was nothing C could do to stop it.

C reached for another LEGO brick, their fingers brushing against aster’s. she looked up at them, her eyes bright with curiosity.

“tu vas bien?” she asked, her voice soft and earnest.

the question caught them off guard. for a moment, they didn’t know how to respond. how could they explain the tangled mess of emotions that had been simmering inside them all day? how could they tell her that the thought of her growing up terrified them in a way they couldn’t quite articulate?

“i’m fine, petite étoile,” they said eventually, forcing a smile. “just tired.”

she seemed to accept this, turning her attention back to the spaceship. but C couldn’t help noticing the small furrow in her brow, the way her hands moved more slowly now, as if she was trying to puzzle something out.

they watched her in silence, their heart aching with a strange, bittersweet kind of love.

***

later, when the spaceship was complete and aster had been tucked into bed, C found themself sitting on the edge of your shared bed, their head in their hands.

“okay,” you said, sitting beside them. “do you want to talk about what exactly is bothering you, my love?”

they sighed, looking up at you now.

“it’s just… strange,” they said, their voice low and tired. “she’s growing up so fast. too fast. i feel like i blinked, and suddenly she’s not my little girl anymore.”

you stayed quiet, letting them find the words.

“i still remember holding her in my arms for the first time,” they continued, their voice thick with emotion. “i remember her first steps, her first word, the first time she looked at me and called out for me. and now… now she’s talking about boyfriends and whatnot.”

they let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through their hair. “i didn’t have this. a proper childhood. a father who cared. i don’t know what i’m doing half the time. i just… i look at her, and i love her so much it terrifies me. so much so that i still don’t understand how my father could—”

“hey,” you interrupted gently, placing a hand on their arm. “you’re nothing like him. you’re such a wonderful parent, C. she loves you so much. you can see it every time she looks at you. and yeah, it’s hard watching her grow up. but that’s the deal. you love them, and you let them go, little by little, so they can become who they’re meant to be.”

C nodded slowly, their eyes softening as they looked at you. “i know you’re right.”

you leaned in, pressing a kiss to their temple. “of course i’m right, i always am.”

they rolled their eyes, but a small, tired smile tugged at the corners of their mouth.

“do you think…” they hesitated, the tips of their ears turning adorably red. “do you think we should have another one?”

“another what?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

they scowled, burying their face in your neck.

“you know what i mean,” they mumbled, their voice muffled. “don’t make me say it out loud.”

you laughed, stroking their hair. “we’ll talk about it in the morning.”

but you already knew the answer.

[eiralunaire]

Headcanos of Damian Wayne.

1. Small Gestures of Tenderness.

Although Damian would never admit it out loud, he always feels inexplicably more relaxed when he's around his girlfriend. He often watches her in silence, observing the small details, like the way she laughs, her expression when she's focused, or how she always has something to say, even when she doesn't feel like talking. There's something about those moments that makes him feel, for the first time in his life, that war and fighting aren't everything.

2. Defender of Her Well-Being.

Damian, who has been trained to be cold and calculating, can't help but become extremely protective when it comes to her. If someone looks at her wrong, even in jest, he'll step in without thinking, making it clear with his gaze (and sometimes his threat of "don't do it again") that no one can hurt her. He's convinced that it's his responsibility to take care of her, but it's more of an internal desire to make sure nothing bad ever happens to her.

3. The Typical Sarcastic and Jealous Behavior.

When it comes to other men, Damian is relentless. Although he would never express it in an obvious way, he feels extremely uncomfortable if any kind of unwanted attention is directed towards his girlfriend. It is common for his sarcastic tone to appear when some guy talks too close to her. "Really? Do you think she wants to hear that?" he would say, with an almost imperceptible smile on his lips, as he takes a step forward.

4. Thoughtful (albeit weird) Gifts.

He is not the type of boyfriend to buy expensive jewelry or flowers (because he doesn't know how those things work), but what he does do is remember the little details about what his girlfriend likes. One day, unbeknownst to her, Damian shows up with a rare book she mentioned in a casual conversation, or with that chocolate she is known to like a lot. The truth is, he's become an expert at listening to her, not just because of his tactical intelligence, but because he genuinely wants to please her, even if his way of showing it is... unconventional.

5. Intimate Moments of Vulnerability.

When Damian is with his girlfriend, his guard is down in ways that only happen with her. It can be something as simple as watching a movie together, or lying next to her after a long day of training, but in those moments, he doesn't have to live up to his last name or his lineage. It's just him, Damian Wayne, simply enjoying her company. It's a luxury he doesn't usually get with anyone else, but with her, it's something that constantly draws him in and comforts him.

6. Interactions with His Family.

Despite his reserved attitude, Damian has found himself talking more to his family about his girlfriend, albeit in a slightly brusque manner. With Bruce, for example, his attitude towards her is a kind of possessiveness that makes it clear that he wants her in his life, but he also knows that his father will never really understand what he feels. With Alfred, however, he seems more relaxed, because he knows that the butler sees what he sometimes can't recognize: how happy their relationship makes him.

7. Subtle but Efficient Jealousy.

Damian can't help but show jealousy, although he does it in a subtle and almost childish way. For example, if his girlfriend talks a lot with another guy (even if he's a close friend), he may make comments like: "Since when are you so interested in what he has to say?" or suddenly offer to take her back to her apartment, as if there was some "urgent" business to attend to, to prevent her from staying too long with that person. It's his way of saying "I want you all to myself" without having to say it directly.

8. He Likes Deep Conversations.

Damian isn’t a man of many words, but when he’s with his girlfriend, he finds it easy to open up and share things he never thought he’d say. He likes to talk to her about topics that have nothing to do with war or fighting, like his views on the future or what he thinks about life. Sometimes, he catches himself talking more than he planned, but he doesn’t mind, because he knows he can be vulnerable with her, something he’s learned to deeply appreciate.

9. The Vulnerability of Being “The Man”.

When he’s with her, Damian feels weird about not being able to show off everything he knows how to do. I mean, with his combat skills and tactical intelligence, he could defend her from anything, but what really attracts him to her is how she calms him down and makes him feel more human. In her mind, that makes him more than just Bruce Wayne’s son or trained assassin. He makes her feel a little more normal, like any other guy in love, and that thought baffles him, but he loves it at the same time.

10. Sudden Moments of Insecurity.

Despite all his training and his confident facade, Damian sometimes feels insecure in their relationship. There are times when he doubts himself: Is he really up to par with her? Will he be enough for someone like her, who has so much to offer? Although he would never admit it, he has those moments of uncertainty that make him more human. However, as time goes on, he realizes that all he really needs to do is be himself, and sometimes, even a more vulnerable and caring Damian can be what attracts her the most.

11. The Unspoken "I Protect You".

Although he never says it outright, Damian is obsessed with the idea of ​​protecting her. If she is ever sad, he turns into a wall of ice, willing to face anything to make her feel safe. This leads to more possessive behavior, but he doesn't see it that way. It's his way of showing her that even though he's not the traditional boyfriend type, he'll always be there for her, even if that means walking away from conflict and just offering his company.

[nanenna]

This Group Chat Could've Been a Meeting

Sleepy King AU masterpost

Yeah... don't expect me to keep churning these out. I was just excited to share "god egg" lore with y'all. UwU

-----

Batman made no comment as Clark sat down next to him, angled ever so slightly so he could read his screen. Diana, likewise, was leaned over so she could read the group chat Clark had started to keep everyone in the loop. Batman was already archiving the transcript of their conversation.

Young Miss Fenton’s frustration and apparent determination to do things herself were a little worrying. Amity Park was currently an information black hole to them, they had no idea what she thought she could do. Perhaps it was youthful naïveté, perhaps the girl actually had something up her sleeve. Either way they could only hope the JLD came to a solution before she became an additional issue.

Danny tilted, slumping gently against Clark’s side. Clark looked guilty as he gently patted Danny’s head with the hand the boy wasn’t leaning against.

Batman could understand, this situation was incredibly stressful. They could only hope the boy would be understanding and forgive him for this deception after they found a way to pull out and banish the Ghost King without killing Danny in the process.

“Oh my god,” Dr. Fate hissed faintly, “it’s a god egg!”

Batman had no idea what a god egg was.

From the way Zatanna and Marvel tensed they did know. “You can’t be serious,” Marvel whispered harshly.

Batman glared at them and held a finger up to his mouth. Clark was doing likewise before he turned and reminded Danny to keep eating. Batman typed out a quick message.

Batman: Use the group chat. Batman: And define “god egg.” Constantine: The hell you mean god egg? What?@

Batman held up a hand as everyone save Clark had held up their communicators. He cleared his throat and added a glower to get their attention, then pointed at Fate. He had brought up the term, it was up to him to explain. Fate typed a message as a different kind of tension filled the room.

Dr. Fate: It’s a slight misnomer as it’s not just gods, but rather any being with god-like powers. Dr. Fate: But when a mortal is about to Ascend or a godling is about to mature into their powers, sometimes their elders will seal off an area to isolate the would-be god. Dr. Fate: This can be to protect a child from threats while teaching them to use their new powers, or it can be to give the would-be god trials and keep them from “cheating” with outside help. Dr. Fate: Often it’s both, so the child or mortal don’t get given trials they can’t possibly overcome on their own. Dr. Fate: Amity Park is a god egg, and this boy is the chick. Dr. Fate: THAT is the block preventing us from being aware of Amity Park until now, and continues to block all attempts to look into it.

Zatanna frowned down at her communicator before she furiously tapped out her own message.

Zatanna: Shouldn’t the chick be Phantom? Constantine: Bloody hell you can’t be serious! Zatanna: He’s the one who’s photos won’t show up on the internet no matter what. Constantine: If this kid is the chick of a god egg we need to get him back down there yesterday. Cpt. Marvel: How were we able to find any information on Danny if he’s the chick? Dr. Fate: I don’t know, I just know what I could scry. Constantine: It don’t matter! Zatanna: It seems odd for Danny to be the chick when we could find so much information on him but not Phantom. Raven: Are we sure it’s Danny and not the Ghost King who’s the chick? Dr. Fate: There is a high chance it’s the Ghost King, yes. Constantine: We need to get this chick back to it’s egg before a bunch of angry gods come looking for their godling! Cpt. Marvel: Are we sure we want the Ghost King to Ascend? Isn’t he already a tyrant?

Batman bit back a groan as the chat sped up. While he liked being kept in the loop, this was getting to be a bit too much like his own family’s group chat. He got Diana’s attention and nodded towards the door. She nodded back and stood up, herding the magicians out of the kitchenette.

Batman got up and started the eclectic kettle, then went looking through the cabinet, finding the instant hot cocoa mix. Once the kettle finished heating up the water inside, Batman made a cup of hot cocoa, which he handed off to Clark, who gave it to Danny, before sitting back down.

It was just the waiting game now, it was up to the magic experts to decide what to do with this new information. For his part, Batman set about updating the mission file as well as the personal files of all beings involved. This included starting a new one on Phantom, since Zatanna had brought up a good point.

He was beginning to suspect far, far more had been going on than they had assumed, even more so than just a whole town in distress no one had known about. After all, they had images of Pariah Dark, and the entity they’d seen last night didn’t match that description.

They also had no description of Phantom, though what few bits of information they’d found on him described the ghost as appearing to be a teenaged boy. Oracle had found one particularly poetic fan of the ghost boy who described him as having “hair made of starlight” and “piercing peridot eyes” that could describe the entity they’d seen last night. Batman got Clark’s attention as he went back to the currently silent group chat.

Batman: Are we sure Pariah Dark is still the Ghost King?

Clark’s eyes grew huge as he read the message. He whipped out his own communicator and tapped out a message he didn’t send, but held up the screen for Batman to read. “It sounds like at least one of them choked out there.”

Batman nodded, it was the base assumption this whole fiasco was hinging on. But if Pariah Dark had managed to escape from and be sealed back into the Sarcophagus of Eternal Slumber without a single magic user being the wiser, was it not also possible he lost his crown in the process? And if the new king, likely Phantom, hadn’t been officially crowned yet even if the title had passed on, again how would anyone know? And if he is in fact the chick of this god egg, could not that simply have been one of his trials?

Wonder Woman: There is a strong possibility that Pariah Dark lost his crown to Phantom, who is the actual chick of this god egg. Wonder Woman: That does not change that he is currently asleep in Danny and can’t be removed without killing him. Batman: Since Phantom wasn’t in the Sarcophagus of Eternal Slumber, are we sure he was asleep? Constantine: It doesn’t matter! Constantine: We need to return the chick to it’s egg. Constantine: I’m sorry for this danny kid mate Constantine: I really am Constantine: But we can’t risk a bunch of gods being pissy about a missing chick. Cpt. Marvel: If I remember the brief earlier, isn’t Phantom a good guy? Cpt. Marvel: I doubt he’d want to hurt Danny if he can help it. Batman: We don’t have enough information to draw any conclusions on Phantom.

Clark held up his communicator with another message tapped out but not sent. “They’re doing a vote and a debate right now, half are for just sending Danny home and half want to find a way to get the king out of Danny.”

Batman sighed then, the dangers of having an even number of people in a mission. Sadly neither him nor Clark were knowledgeable enough to be taken seriously as the tie breaker.

[coffee-and-geto]

THE SPACE YOU LEFT BEHIND

“Will you stay with me?” It’s like a wish waiting to be granted. “Forever.”

pairing: satoru gojo x sorcerer! reader

summary: indeed, after suguru has defected, you’ve been trying to heal yourself and to not loose your mind. but healing ourselves is always harder than helping others, isn’t it? but don’t forget the goal of a sorcerer: protect humans at the risk of your life. and sometimes, death is closer that we think it is.

warnings: heavy angst, injuries, mention of death, blood, depression, eating disorder, pinning, mention of vomit, mention of cigarettes, mei mei, nanami & shoko make and appearance, mention of yaga, the lion king movie mentionned, jujutsu sorcerers’ life sucks, the story takes shape after suguru's defection, bittersweet/happy ending.

wc: 5,039

When you committed to the world of exorcism after middle school, you hadn’t realized just how much you had underestimated the darker sides of this life, where exorcists dedicate their lives to protecting humans — the primary source of the curses’ existence.

Suguru was right, wasn’t he?

It’s because of them that your classmates died. It’s also their fault that your best friend deserted school after massacring an entire village during a mission.

That put an end to all the memories you cherished so dearly, kept, and illustrated in a diary.

Sunny afternoons after class, eating ice cream with your friends Shoko, Suguru, and Satoru. The setting sun signaling the end of a fulfilling day, leading into sleepless nights of sleepovers, where Satoru brought piles of sweets ready to infest your mouths with cavities as Suguru told scary stories about his hometown.

Or shopping days with Shoko, dragging the two boys along to test makeup products on them — the ones you’d never buy considering their outrageous prices.

Or those dangerous missions where you hunted curses, tracking them down to uphold your values: protecting the weak to maintain order and peace.

Such a beautiful motto, isn’t it?

A motto meant to help you, guide you, and support you so you wouldn’t lose sight of your goals.

So why did it fail so much that your once-beloved diary now sits open on your desk, collecting dust since the last time you opened it — not to add a new memory, but rather to look at the last ones you wrote.

Suguru’s departure left a void far more significant and meaningful than you had expected, didn’t it?

Life feels duller. The sky no longer seems as sunny — replaced by a grayish one, heavy with dark clouds threatening storms that mirror your emotions. If you had no tears left to cry, the rain would suffice to push you into your room after classes and missions, both as exhausting as your mind, consumed by draining thoughts.

The silence left by Suguru’s absence is far louder than all the times you screamed into his voicemail after he stopped responding to you. Of course, eventually, you gave up. Not out of choice.

Simply because he had blocked you.

And when changing SIM cards proved futile, you quickly realized through the automatic response that the number you sought was no longer in service.

It felt like all your regrets had come crashing down at once. But in truth, they had only arrived right on time.

If you had helped Suguru the way he needed, he wouldn’t have left. 

He wouldn’t have been condemned.

You wouldn’t have stopped eating, stopped living your life the way you were told you should, or started losing your friends one by one.

Suguru was the first.

Shoko isn’t the second. The brunette seems to hold up much better — although the number of cigarettes she smokes daily has doubled — she doesn’t withdraw into herself the way you do. So, you’re sure you won’t lose her... right?

And as for Satoru… Will he be the next to leave, one way or another?

Or will it be you?

Either way, you’re losing yourselves. It’s been a while since you stopped keeping track of how long it’s been since you last saw Satoru after Suguru’s departure.

Mr. Yaga confirmed that he hadn’t assigned him a single mission — the situation critical, delicate, and as fragile as a flower filled with poison that could make The Strongest falter at the slightest misstep or careless move.

He could very well be dead, and no one would know.

“So… you haven’t heard from him either?” Nanami murmurs, his deep, low voice almost swallowed by the muddy ground and heavy rain that poured as much as your overwhelmed mind.

You shake your head. “Not a single sign of life,” you mumble with the tip of your lips.

The two of you are on your way back to the school after a long mission assigned by your teacher, Yaga. It took you the entire day, but at least your mind feels lighter, despite the constant fatigue weighing on your shoulders like the weight of the world.

As the rain falls harder on you both, Nanami takes the initiative to open his black umbrella, holding it over your head as you stare at your mud-stained shoes.

“Almost three weeks.”

Your friend’s voice sounds distant, like hearing someone underwater.

Your head jerks up. “Hmm?”

“He hasn’t been out in almost three weeks,” Nanami repeats, his gaze fixed straight ahead. The crunching of your shoes and his on the gravel fills the silence before he continues. “Yaga gave him some time, but it’s getting harder to assign missions to others who are on Satoru’s level, you know.”

You don’t react to his words. Of course, he’s right.

Just as he’s wrong.

While Satoru’s behavior of shutting himself away without contact for so long isn’t responsible, his reasons remain entirely valid.

He just lost someone dear to him.

So, can you blame him?

But perhaps it’s time to bring your friend back, even if it means risking losing him — and yourself — in the process.

~~~~

You knock three times on Satoru’s dorm door.

A dead silence answers you.

You try again.

The same response.

So, you try the handle, testing whether it’s locked. However, it gives way under your hand, and a moment later, you step through the doorway into an unrecognizable environment.

Indeed, your best friend’s room — usually adorned with decorations and elements that so vividly reflected Satoru’s lively personality — is now unrecognizable. The windows, typically allowing sunlight to flood in and brighten the room, now shroud it in an ominous darkness. On the floor, clothes, likely dirty, are scattered at your feet. Satoru’s desk is covered in a visible layer of dust despite the dim light. And finally, on the bed you’ve always known, rests a long shape wrapped in thick blankets.

With his back turned to you, Satoru seems to be asleep from where you stand, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Even when you call his name, he doesn’t show any sign of awareness.

So, you close the door and kneel by the side of his bed.

“Satoru?” you murmur, placing a gentle hand on a shoulder covered by your friend’s indigo comforter.

The slight shiver running through him proves he’s very much awake.

But was his mind equally present?

“Satoru, were you sleeping?” you ask, shaking him carefully.

He doesn’t respond, not even with a gesture.

Your throat tightens in the face of a situation you’ve never had to face with him before.

How do you help someone who’s in the same situation as you?

In fact, it’s even worse.

Satoru is Suguru’s other half. Their symbiotic relationship always stopped you from seeing further with Satoru, leaving you questioning what he truly felt for Suguru. Because deep down, you knew you didn’t stand a chance. You’d never hold a place as important as Suguru’s in Satoru’s heart.

So, you chose to fill the void in your heart with love for him. It’s far from enough, but you’d rather not dwell on it. Unrequited love always ends this way, doesn’t it?

You straighten up just enough to lie down on the small remaining space on Satoru’s bed, carefully rubbing your friend’s arm to avoid startling him while offering the overflow of affection that aches to be reciprocated but, for now, can only warm the albino.

You don’t dare complain about the stale smell in the room, prioritizing Satoru’s comfort above all else. You drape your arm around him as he breathes in and out with a shaky rhythm, ignoring the cold of the room that freezes you just as much as the rain from earlier did.

Perhaps half an hour passes. 

Maybe an hour. 

Or more. 

Or even just ten minutes.

The oppressive silence of the room quickly catches up to the sleep deprivation you so desperately need to cure. The cold vanishes. In the end, it doesn’t matter, right?

The only thing that matters is having Satoru in your arms, no matter what, his back pressed securely against you as your breaths synchronize, and your heartbeats merge in a way you’ve always dreamed of.

But when you flutter your eyes open, the absence of cold is quickly replaced by body warmth. Satoru’s thick comforter is draped over you, and his body is pressed against yours.

But what strikes you most is that he’s no longer facing away.

Satoru, his eyelids closed, breathes softly and slowly, the shadow of haunted dark circles staining his angelic face.

You’re about to sit up when Satoru, still without opening his eyes, slides a hand over your arm.

“Don’t move,” he mumbles.

And his raspy voice nearly gives you a heart attack.

There’s only one way for someone to have that effect.

And more than anything, the slight swelling and redness of Satoru’s pale eyelids confirm your suspicions.

Resting your head back onto the pillow, your forehead lightly brushes against Satoru’s.

“Can you look at me?” Your lips move in a near-inaudible whisper.

Almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head.

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Satoru,” you insist, maintaining the same melancholic gentleness.

So you take the initiative to slowly raise your hands, bringing them toward his soft face to gently lift his eyelids. But what you see causes a crack in your heart, one akin to the shattering of ice under the raw heat of fire.

A small, wet pearl escapes from one of his eyes, deliberately rolling down his cheek, crossing his nose, and vanishing at the corner of his mouth.

Without a word, Satoru opens his eyes, and the embodiment of pain meets your distressed gaze.

His cerulean irises, usually alive with mischief, are as dark as an abyssal chasm. It’s as though a curse itself has taken hold of his gaze, condemning anyone who dares to meet his bloodshot eyes.

Your eyebrows slowly knit together, and with your heart already shattered, you decide to wrap your arms around him, pulling an unrecognizable Satoru against you as his chest releases a trembling breath and your neck grows damp from the occasional drops of warmth falling from his face.

“I’m here,” you mutter in his ear. “I’m here no matter what.”

Your eyelids close slowly, letting the tears you’d held back finally roll down your own cheeks.

Once again, perhaps ten minutes, half an hour, or even the entire afternoon passes before you finally decide to sit up, gently pulling an exhausted Satoru into your arms.

And to your surprise, he allows it.

You help him stand, supporting him with an arm around his body despite the height difference, and guide him to the bathroom. The decision had been made a while ago, even if your consciousness hadn’t fully caught up. After all, you would have wanted someone to do the same for you.

But aren’t we always better at caring for others than for ourselves?

Without protest — even though the idea of seeing Satoru naked might have made you blush last month — immersing him in the warm bath you’ve carefully prepared doesn’t feel as awkward as you’d expected. You’ve never seen him without at least his boxers, so out of respect, you avert your eyes as the poor boy settles into the hot water.

You grab a bottle of shampoo lying around in Satoru’s bathroom, squeezing out a small amount to wash his angelic hair. Despite having likely neglected his hygiene as much as you have lately, your friend is in desperate need of someone to care for him.

Satoru, his eyes still closed, seems almost asleep under your slow, gentle, and careful movements.

It looks like you’re washing a real dead man.

But perhaps part of him has been dead ever since Suguru left? Perhaps a piece of him vanished the moment Suguru was gone?

The faint hum vibrating from Satoru’s lips reassures you that he’s still conscious. You take it as a good sign that he’s relaxing. Your nails softly scratch his scalp, and he lets out a low groan of satisfaction. The foam grows thicker as you continue to massage Satoru’s head.

You rinse the shampoo from his hair with warm water, droplets trickling down his perfect face.

One of those droplets slides just below his eye, so imperceptibly that you wonder if you’d have noticed it at all if you weren’t gazing at his face with almost religious reverence.

Using a washcloth, you pick up Satoru’s body wash this time, lathering it across his skin, applying slightly more pressure to tense areas in need of a soothing massage. Soft sighs escape his nose, signaling that you can continue without bothering him.

After several massages where you pay special attention to certain spots, you fetch a robe, wrapping it around Satoru’s now-clean body. He’s like new, more ready now to hold onto a semblance of consciousness.

But one thing that strikes you is that Satoru, despite being entirely naked and in such a vulnerable state of weakness, allowed you to care for him without opening his eyes even once.

With a faint, gentle smile, you guide Satoru back to his room, grabbing some clean, comfortable clothes for him while he collapses onto his bed under the weight of the world on his shoulders. You help him into each piece of clothing, his body too weak to move as usual, almost lifeless. Then, you lead him to your room, crossing the school’s corridors so he can rest in the clean and organized space you’ve managed to create after pulling yourself together following your own depressive episode of endless, self-destructive days.

Your room is a true haven — tidy, clean, and orderly.

And so your freshly made bed with its crisp sheets seems to call to Satoru. The softness of the mattress cradles him as you drape your immaculate comforter over him.

Like laying a deceased loved one to rest in their coffin, Satoru keeps his eyes closed, his face void of expression, yet with a weariness that seems to have lifted ever so slightly.

~~~~

“How long?”

“I already told you.”

“Liar.”

Satoru pushes the food tray toward you, the arm of the mechanical table brushing against your torso. “I’m not hungry anyway.”

You sigh, the exhaustion of the past few days weighing on you like a heavy, unpleasant rain.

“First of all, you just got back from a mission where you were inches from dying if Shoko hadn’t been there. Second, you refuse to tell me how long it’s been since you’ve eaten — unless it’s been a month — and now you’re saying you’re not hungry?”

Satoru, lying under the pristine white sheets of his infirmary bed, simply turns his head away. It’s as if he’s acting like a machine. 

Mechanical movements, curt responses, and barely any signs of life.

During one of the recent missions assigned to him by Principal Yaga after weeks of absence, Satoru resumed his routine. He sleeps, does his missions, and returns to sleep in his room. Ever since you took the time to clean and organize his room, you haven’t exchanged more than a sentence. The only memory that still haunts you is the blood-red hue of Satoru’s eyes that night in his room.

The void left by Suguru has wreaked havoc.

And while you’ve managed to patch yourself up — or so you think — you’re now trying to help your friend in need. But how do you help someone who refuses to speak?

“And ‘I don’t know’ isn’t an answer,” you add in the face of his silence, rubbing your face, which feels warmer than usual. Perhaps it’s the heat of the room? December is a month where illness comes quickly. But it’s nothing, you reassure yourself.

“You’re flushed.”

“I know.”

“That wasn’t a question.”

Both of you avert your gaze, equally annoyed and concerned with one another.

“When was the last time you even slept? You spend more time watching over my sleep and my meals than looking at yourself in a mirror. You look like a Halloween costume.”

Ouch.

You glance at your reflection in the mirror near the nurse’s desk, and despite Satoru’s harsh words, your state seems even worse than his.

You’ve lost weight lately. The dark hollows under your eyes mirror your grueling schedule, where you spend most of your day juggling missions, watching over Satoru, and helping the school with any task.

Like an escape, you’ve found any excuse to avoid being alone. Especially with yourself.

But isn’t that exactly what Suguru did? The poor guy had no one to talk to, and the one time he tried, you thought he was just exhausted from swallowing curses. That was when he broke down and sobbed in front of you.

The memory alone stings your eyes. And unfortunately for you, you’re not in any shape to hold back the tears threatening to spill down your cheeks.

You stand abruptly, turning your head away to avoid showing the cracks in your courageous facade to your best friend.

“Eat. I have a mission in half an hour. I’ll be back tonight.”

As you slip out of the infirmary, Satoru painfully sit up in his bed, opening his mouth to call after you, to say something. Anything. His words were harsh and cruel, while you’ve been patient with him, caring for him more than for yourself.

But he hates it.

Because you only remind him of what Suguru used to do. When he felt terrible, Suguru helped him despite his own pain, despite wanting to vomit up the curses he’d consumed or even die. Suguru cared about his appetite, just as you do now with Satoru. The same with his sleep, his recklessness during missions.

So he doesn’t want to lose you, at the risk of dying a second time.

~~~~

That same evening, you don’t return.

And Satoru notices immediately, because at bedtime, around 10 PM, you usually stop by his room — even more so now that he’s in the infirmary.

Missions take time. So Satoru reassures himself, thinking that you simply took longer and that by the next morning, you’d be by his side to check on him. He would apologize. He’d ask for forgiveness and try to understand the reason behind the instability in your voice before you left earlier.

Did he hurt you that much?

His train of thought is interrupted by urgent voices barking orders, and Shoko putting on her apprentice doctor’s coat as she grabs a spell manual on her way out, meeting Satoru’s confused gaze.

And he understands immediately who it’s about.

Despite his still weakened state and his inability to perform Reverse Curse Technique for some time now, Satoru pulls on his exorcist uniform, leaving his sunglasses on the bedside table, and follows Shoko and the team of medics heading toward a school car. But he swiftly grabs Shoko’s wrist.

If something happened to you, taking a stupid car would only lead to a certain death.

With a gaze as panicked as it is void, Satoru questions his friend.

“Mei Mei went to check on what happened,” Shoko murmurs gravely. “The mission was simple. She should’ve been back over five hours ago.” She points to the time on her watch.

1:20 AM.

Did he fall asleep while lost in thought? How had so much time passed since he noticed your absence earlier that night?

“And you think taking more time in this car is enough?” Satoru spits his words, his voice low but echoing nonetheless into the snowy night as flurries begin to fall around them. “Just tell me you want her dead now, then.”

Shoko glances at the waiting car.

“Then what do you suggest?” she asks, narrowing her eyes, scrutinizing her friend from head to toe before yanking her wrist back sharply. “Look at you. You can barely stand.”

“I can still teleport. You’re far more competent than these clowns,” Satoru replies in the same tone, grabbing her wrist again. “And let me remind you, we cannot lose her.” The warning in his voice sounds like a threat.

It’s only when Shoko finally relents that Satoru teleports them both after she gives him the location where Mei Mei last reported finding you. The pressure of the spell makes them feel like they’re being sucked through a narrow tube, or squeezed in a vice. When they finally arrive at your location, it’s with a pop sound, like a bubble bursting free.

Releasing Shoko’s wrist the very second they arrive, Satoru scans the surroundings — then freezes.

Mei Mei’s blue hair is bent over a body on the ground. In the dim light of the night, only the moon’s rays illuminate a pool resembling wine.

And Satoru would’ve prayed for it to be only wine.

He and Shoko rush toward Mei Mei, who steps aside to face them with a furrowed brow, her expression a foreboding omen.

“Internal bleeding,” she announces to Shoko.

The words ring like a gong in Satoru’s ears, now buzzing. His paralyzed body stands mere inches from you. Your half-closed eyes stare blankly into the void, your arms lying limply at your sides, and a streak of dried blood stains your cheek. Despite the presence of your friends, you don’t react.

Not even when Satoru says your name.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

And as many times as it takes before Shoko and Mei Mei push him back, as he struggles to try to hold you in his arms, his hoarse voice cracking, begging you not to leave him.

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, Satoru Gojo, whose senses granted by his Six Eyes had long been dulled, awakens once again.

He hears your heart beating faintly. The pulse of your arteries, the successive waves of blood pushed by your struggling heart. Your shallow breaths slipping through damaged lungs. The warmth of your blood slowly leaking life away.

Please, no…

As long as it took for Satoru to recover a fraction of his powers, the same amount of time seems to pass while Shoko works quickly to stop your hemorrhaging.

He knows because he no longer hears the blood flowing out of your body. Your pulse has slowed, and though still weak, your heart beats with slightly more determination.

That determination, Satoru perceives as a flame.

A flame you refuse to let extinguish, because he knows you’re fighting not to pass on.

And if you no longer have the strength, Satoru will be the lighter forcing you to keep fighting. He will stay by your side as long as you need him.

And he will refuse to die a second time — unless it’s for you.

~~~~

A few days later.

The roles have reversed.

Satoru, fully recovered from his mission for a while now, devotes all his time to your care. He’s moved his belongings to the infirmary, where you remain recuperating. He insisted on pushing a bed right up against yours to monitor your sleep, your eating habits, and your overall well-being. 

Every movement you make is instantly picked up by his Six Eyes.

Your survival after your mission was nothing short of a miracle for Satoru.

A prayer he made — and one that was answered.

“You tired?” he asks softly, tucking a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. His cerulean eyes linger on your still-fresh bandages, and a bitter pang squeezes at his heart.

You shake your head despite the telltale dark circles under your eyes. “I’m feeling better.”

“Bored?” he guesses then, raising an eyebrow slightly, his tone tinged with amusement. Is he planning something?

A small smile tugs at your lips. “Got something in mind?” you reply, curiosity sparking enough to make you want to laugh genuinely.

Lying beside you in his own infirmary bed pressed against yours, Satoru gently takes your hand in his. He lifts it to chest level, absentmindedly playing with your fingers. “I could put on a movie for us if you’d like…”

“What kind of movie? If you even think about suggesting that cursed Terrifier again, I swear I’ll strang—”

Satoru bursts into laughter at your disgusted expression. His chest shakes with every sound, lifting the weight of any lingering pain in his heart.

“I was thinking more along the lines of the new The Lion King movie,” he says with a mischievous grin.

“Mufasa, you mean?” Your face lights up for a moment. “But the movie has just been released,” you add, frowning slightly. “We can’t go anywhere.”

“Who said anything about going somewhere?” He wraps one long arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer just before planting a chaste kiss on your temple — a gesture that nearly makes your lungs give out.

Somehow, Satoru always manages to surprise you.

Despite the movie’s exclusive release at cinemas, half an hour later you find yourself watching it. 

Nestled against Satoru under some thicker blankets he brought, the two of you share snacks scattered across your laps. The only light in the infirmary is the soft glow of the film projector casting the movie onto a pristine wall.

Your cheek rests against Satoru’s chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat serving as the perfect lullaby to lull you to sleep. On top of that, his long fingers gently scratch your scalp, soothing you further into relaxation.

The moment feels so perfect you almost mistake it for a dream — but no.

Right now, it’s as if the depressive haze that had weighed down both you and Satoru has been blown away, replaced by a fleeting moment of happiness wrapped in the cocoon of this night.

Just like your feelings, the situation between you and Satoru is undefined and confusing. A shared closeness restored, mutual personal care, and a clear attachment to each other.

It seems like friendship, doesn’t it?

But then, why does your hand, resting on your friend’s chest, tremble at the thought of sliding around the back of his neck to pull him closer—close enough for your lips to finally meet his?

Feeling your trembling hand, Satoru shifts his attention away from the movie to look down at you. “Sweetheart?”

Your eyes meet his, drowning in the deep ocean of blue they hold.

With every passing second, you try to speak, to respond, to confess everything. To tell him everything. Yet, with your lips parted, all you can manage is a soft whisper:

“Nothing.”

~~~~

December 25th.

All of Tokyo Jujutsu High has gathered amidst the scents of warm food, the laughter of groups of friends, the unwrapping of gifts, and the feeling of family.

Yet, Satoru feels like something is missing.

This December 25th marks the first Christmas you, Shoko, and Satoru spend without Suguru.

So what’s the point of celebrating? What is Suguru doing right now? Is he spending such a special day all alone?

Alone, outside the school’s festive hall, Satoru stands bundled in a winter coat, snow as white as his hair delicately falling onto his frame. He’s leaning against a wall, as if that simple act could help him stay upright.

His throat tightens.

He wants Suguru back.

But he knows all too well that he won’t have him.

So Satoru doesn’t celebrate Christmas when the one source of his joy has vanished.

Inside the hall, you’re laughing wholeheartedly with a few friends, a glass of champagne in hand and a large scarf draped over your shoulders for warmth.

But amidst the small crowd, the one person who holds your heart is nowhere to be found.

Your smile slowly fades as your eyes frantically scan the room for Satoru. You excuse yourself hastily and begin to search — the hall, the restroom — before finally heading toward the door to the courtyard.

Almost sprinting, you step out into the biting December cold.

And there he is.

With measured steps, you move to stand beside him. He doesn’t budge, even as you gently wipe the dried tears from his face while he sniffles absentmindedly, his nose reddened by the sharp chill.

“Do you believe that he’s thinking of us right now?” Satoru murmurs, his voice rough and low.

“I’m sure of it,” you whisper softly in reply, pulling a tissue from your pocket and holding it to his nose so he can blow. A faint smile tugs at your lips as he thanks you with one last sniffle.

You’re about to put the tissue away when Satoru abruptly but tenderly pulls you into his arms, pressing you firmly against him.

“Satoru?” Your eyes search his, confused, as he leans his face as close to yours as possible, nearly sending your heart into overdrive when his long, slender nose brushes against yours.

“I love you,” he whispers, his tone carrying a small smile.

Those three little words leave you speechless, your lips parted in shock at the confession and the sincerity behind it.

It’s as if your entire being comes alive again, breaking free.

After so long without crying, it only takes those words to bring tears back to the surface. Salty streams trail down your cheeks as your face twists, trying to hold back sobs.

“I love you too,” you cry, your voice trembling all the same.

Satoru, his own smile tinged with fragility, wipes your face just as you did for him. His thumbs gently rub your cheeks in a bittersweet comfort.

And in a synchronized motion, your lips connect, pressing against each other with an intensity that makes your souls whirl like the wind does with the falling snow.

Every time your lips part to end a kiss or catch your breath, you find each other again in the next second, as if eternity had tried to keep you apart. The cold ceases to exist around you; the warmth of your finally united souls is enough to melt the ice that had formed within you since Suguru’s departure.

Reluctantly, you break the kiss to catch your breath, your eyes no longer shining with tears, but with love this time.

Neither of you pulls away from the closeness you share. Your bodies speak for you, the silence between you filled with mutual understanding.

Satoru clears his throat. “Will you stay with me?”

It’s like a wish waiting to be granted.

“Forever.”

tags: @ssetsuka @zara-zara11 @bearwithmoo @elliesndg @lymsfm @mutsu422

@drippymcdrippison @koshhin @v31v3t @wawuwe @cybersomniq @sanemistar

@monokaix @moonlitwitchdaisy

a/n: hello everyone :)) this fic was special to write thh. it’s the one that came out of an episode of impostor syndrome where i just wrote without thinking. i’d been wanting to write angst about satoru for a loooong time, so here it is :) (why do i secretly hope i’ve made all of you cry?). anyway, we can finally breathe after big exams! i’ve never looked forward to the christmas vacations as much as this year, lmao. take care of your little faces <3

reblogs, likes and comments are always appreciated <3

[littlerequiem]

we mourned the sea ˚⁎⁺ chapter 3

> Crossposted on AO3

Levi hasn't seen you in a year, and he wonders how you will find him. Changed, perhaps. Lost, definitely. Or: After the war, you and Levi learn to live in this new world.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 - Levi Ackerman / Female Reader (Attack on Titan)

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓��𝐍𝐓 - Rated Explicit (18+). Post-Canon, Post-War, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Domestic, Fluff, Angst, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Grumpy/Sunshine, Friends to Lovers, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Chronic Pain, Panic Attack, Depression, Ambulatory Wheelchair Use, Irregular eating habits mentioned specifically in this chapter (WC: 5.5k)

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-

You spot him alone in the library. Months have passed and winter has made its presence known.

Levi is staring at the fire. When his eyes lock with yours, you think they lack their usual cutting edge. Instead, he just looks tired.

“You gonna gawk much longer?” he asks. 

“Well…” Your grip on your book tightens; you stay rooted to your spot. “You don’t mind if I intrude?”

“This is a public space, isn’t it?”

It is, but it doesn’t mean you won’t ask.

Levi doesn’t leave when you sit on the sofa opposite him. The two of you stay like this, letting the crackling fire be your guiding light into the night.

.

.

.

It isn’t that Levi always preferred being alone, it’s just that it’s had a way of finding him.

Growing up, Levi remembers seeking affection—craving it, in fact—like a moth seeks a flame. Levi worshiped the ground his mother walked on, loved to listen to her speak, imitated her, anything to hear a “Well done, my Levi”. He imagines it made him a needy brat, that he was probably a burden to his mother.

When she died, he thinks that's when it happened. When he began to close in on himself, when he started to keep his emotions close to his heart.

"My boy, what wonderful craftsmanship!" Mr Jakowski's joyful voice assault's Levi's ears, plugging him out of his wandering thoughts.

Levi looks up at his boss, ignoring the smell of fresh paint.

Mr Jakowski is leaning over Levi’s shoulder, spectacles shining under the dim amber light. A large grin creeps on his rosy face, a contrast to the blue paint smeared on his white shirt. "What are ya making, hm? Is that something—"

"—personal," Levi cuts him off, shifting in his seat to conceal his work.

His boss lets out a loud bark. He pulls back from Levi. “Hah, mysterious as always, our Levi!”

Levi has been working at Mare Lumber Co. for a little more than a year now. His boss, Adam Jakowski, originally an Eldian from Liberio, is the sole carpenter in town. Levi likes working here. Most days, Levi tends to the till, manages the inventory, and assists Mr Jakowski with customer orders. It's routine work, really, but it feels good to be working with his hands, with his mind. 

“And how are you doing?” Mr Jakowski asks, propping his back against the edge of the counter, a habit of his whenever he chats idly with Levi. 

“I'm fine.”

"Are ya sure? You seem a little distracted, dear boy."

Mr Jakowski got in the habit of calling Levi ‘dear boy’ shortly after he took the job. At first, Levi told him off—sure, Mr Jakowski was older than Levi, but Levi was nearing his forties at this point. Levi was not a boy—never had been, perhaps.

And yet, he soon noticed something strange: every time he corrected the man, Mr Jakowski would correct himself, a distant glaze in his stare… only to make the same mistake the next day.

One day, his wife took Levi aside.

“You musn’t be cross with him, Levi,” Mrs Jakowski had said with a gentle voice. “My Adam and I… we lost our son ten years ago. Marleyans butchered him. And ‘dear boy’… that was Adam’s nickname for our son. Sometimes, I think… I think in his heart, my husband never quite got over it.”

After that, Levi never corrected Mr Jakowski again.

“Levi, are you listening to me?" Mr Jakowski laughs. "You’ve got that glaze in your eyes of a dreamer, the way my daughter be sometimes. Never seen it on ya before.”

Levi scowls. “I think you need to clean your glasses, old man.”

“Is it that missy staying at your house that’s got you looking so—”

“No.”

“Sure about that?”

At that, Levi stays silent. Of course, he’s sure. He'll be damned if he lets trifling innuendos get under his skin.

And yet, Mr Jakowski's eyes glint knowingly all the same, as if catching wind of something Levi isn't aware of. It almost makes Levi want to speak up (though, to say what?), but before he has the opportunity to say a thing, the man leaves him be. Levi listens to his receding footsteps and the tinkering noises soon coming from the workshop area of the store.

Levi reverts his attention onto the wooden figurine in his hands, casting it an altogether unimpressed look.

What he’s making… it’s stupid, isn’t it?

For the last week and a half, Levi has been using his lunch breaks to work on it. Right now, this wooden creation is simply a great blob of nothing. And yet, Levi can’t stop from continuing it. It started with your arrival, this idea, when something spurred deep in him to create and he doesn't know if it will lead to anything.

Perhaps he's wasting his time, perhaps—

The bells on the door chimes. Levi's eyes swerve up.

And he promptly places the figure on his lap, concealed right under the counter.

Because you've just entered the shop, greeting him with a pleasant smile. “Afternoon, Levi!” The door closes, light pooling around you, dewy and delicate. "Are you on your lunch break?"

Levi lifts a brow but gives you a slow nod. 

"Oh, good, I was scared I got your lunch time mixed up..." You lift a basket that was hidden behind your back, showing it off like it was some prized thing. “Ta-da!”

Levi just stares, not understanding what he's supposed to be seeing. 

“I brought lunch.” 

Oh, that's a first. You've never come all the way into town to visit his place of work, let alone have lunch with him. Is this because he accidentally let it slip that he sometimes skips lunch on his work days? You seemed particularly affronted last night; you'd washed the dishes grumbling something beneath your breath... 

“Miss Adler, is that you?” As if on cue, Mr Jakowski appears to Levi's left side, safety glasses still lodged on his head. He lets out a full-belly laugh, scratching the back of his neck. "I thought I recognized your melodic voice. It's good to see ya! I’ve been telling Levi to bring you around for some time now, but he's kept you all for himself."

"Has he, now?" you muse. "That's not very polite of you, is it, Levi?"

Levi keeps his expression blank.  

Mr Jakowski steps around the counter. "Is that lunch I see? You know, Levi rarely eats much in here."

“I know, that’s why I’ve come. I'm on a mission to change that, sir. I've brought lunch and even my secret trump card… cake!”

“You sure know the way to a man's heart, Miss Adler!” You pinch your lips, seemingly flustered, but Mr Jakowski is already shifting his attention to Levi, something almost devious splitting in his boss' expression. Levi's gaze narrows instantly, suspicious of whatever is to come next. “Now, you heard the lady, dear boy. You wouldn't want to reject the hospitality of such a kind woman, would ya?"

Levi considers Mr Jakowski. His offer sounds tempting enough, but Levi's already shirked his duties by working on his project. His lunch time is practically over...

His boss seems to read his mind. "Take an extra hour." Mr Jakowski walks over, squeezing Levi's shoulder—not painfully, but not lacking zest. The man leans closer, the smell of paint weaving into Levi's space once more. "Shop's quiet today, anyway—I'll handle it. And don't forget to hide that little secret of yours. Wouldn't want her to see your gift before it's finished, hm?"

Levi's eyes flicker from Mr Jakowski, then onto you. His shoulders rise... then fall again. He gives in with a sigh. You came all this way, after all, and Levi was never one to waste food.

“Fine,” Levi mutters, eying Mr Jakowski, “I'll be back in an hour, on the dot.”

.

.

.

“What are you reading?” you ask him one night. The two of you are at it again—sitting on different armchairs, reading in front of the fireplace. It's been a routine of yours these last evenings. 

“History books.”

You raise a questioning brow—that wasn't what you expected Levi to be interested in. 

Levi seems to pick up on your question before you even voice it.  “I want to understand why you upsiders do it.” 

Upsiders, the term coined by those living in the Underground for those living above.

You tilt your head. “Why we do what?”

“What you live for.”

.

.

.

Levi feels like he’s about to outright melt.

The park at this time of the day seems to gather heat like a damn magnet. Sitting on a picnic blanket under a large willow tree isn’t enough to stop sweat from coating his neck—summer is in full swing, and even the yellowing grass blades around them seem to feel its effects.

Over the last minutes, you’ve been telling him all about your morning: how you worked in the garden, how you cleaned up around the house.

“… then I went back into town to buy lunch," you explain, one hand outstretched as you caress the grass blades with the tip of your fingers. You seem content, relaxed. "I'm very excited to hear your thoughts on the cake, 'Vi. It’s a specialty from the Southern part of Marley, apparently.”

Levi squints, the eyelid on his bad eye trembling from the glare cast by the sun. Laid out between the two of you is something that’s just short of a small feast. Sandwiches, sliced fruits, fresh lemonade, and a takeaway box that contains what Levi can only guess is this infamous cake you're so excited to make him try. 

Vegetables, cheese, sugar. Levi still isn’t used to having these ingredients in such abundance. Maybe he never will be. 

But he certainly won't let any of it go to waste. 

"Hey, didn't I tell you to take it easy?" Levi mutters, picking up a cheese sandwich. "You didn't need to waste your free time doing all of this.”

"Come on, after my big freakout from last week, it's the least I could do."

"I told you, it was nothing—“

“But it wasn’t to me. I wanted to do this,” you cut in, weighing each word like it held its value in gold. Levi notices you reeling your hands into fists... only to be ushered out of existence as you shrug off the uncertainty. “Besides,” a bright smile brackets over your face, "all of this is keeping me busy. If I don’t do this, well… I've found that I just want to sleep all the time. At least, like this, I’m too occupied with thinking too much. Know what I mean?”

Levi thinks he does. It's why he always enjoyed cleaning so much, to some extent; it kept the edge off of things. He isn’t sure what that says about either you or him.

"I'm glad I could see where you work," you continue. "The shop has a certain aura to it, doesn't it?"

"It's the smell of saw dust and paint. You get used to it."

"I meant there's warmth to the interior." You snort, rolling a particular grass strand between your index, tugging at it without ripping it out. "But I like the smell, too, now that you mention it. I've only dabbled in oil paintings here and there, but it reminds me of that. I imagine adding color to something—anything, really—for a living must be rewarding. You get to style furniture according to someone's wishes, make sure it's dear and personal to them. That's pretty amazing, right?"

Levi almost smiles. Count on you to spin what some might consider mundane work and describe it as something magical. You've always had a knack for doing that, even in times of adversity. 

"And that boss of yours sure seems eccentric," you muse as you lean back, "bet he makes every day feel extra special.”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Your eyes drift up to the sparse clouds. “Special’s… good. Special’s fun.”

Levi's lips twitch. Yes, he supposes that's true. Many things can be said about Mr Jakowski, but boring is not one of them.

"You and him are similar in that way," he murmurs beneath his breath. 

(You make every single of his day feel special, too.) 

A gentle breeze picks up the front section of your hair; it makes the smile on your face more noticeable, somehow more in the spotlight. For a moment, a delicate silence settles in, one filled with the sound of tree branches swaying above, its shadows moving across your face. Levi catches himself staring at you—again. Before he knows it, he's watching as you draw your attention on the food options laid on the picnic blanket. Your eyes stop onto a particular plate. 

Without even thinking about it, Levi raises the plate towards you.

You grin, grabbing a slice of spinach pie. "Thanks." As Levi retreats his hand back, placing the plate back on the picnic blanket, he notices you pausing. His eyes meet yours; your eyebrows knit together. "Hey, what's that on your hand?"   

Levi feels the heat of your attention as he glances down at his palm. Ah, that. The bandage. Levi forgot all about it. Earlier, while working on his personal woodwork project, Levi accidentally cut himself. The cut is superficial in nature, and the blood that leaked out of it felt excessive. Like his body was being dramatic for no good damn reason.

Unsurprisingly, your reaction blows out of proportion, too. "Are you alright? Did you hurt yourself?" 

"S'fine." Levi now holds his sandwich with both hands, trying to shield his bandaged hand so you don't reach for it (somehow, he thinks you will). He's not sure how to handle your care right now, so he turns away from you, pretending to be interested in seagulls foraging nearby. "I patched it up."

“Still, you should disinfect it when we’re home…”

(Levi still isn’t used to that term of possession. We. Like it's his home, as much as much it's yours. Something shared.)

"I can make an ointment that'll speed up the healing process, perhaps, so you're not encumbered for very long,” you continue. Levi glances back at you. You're holding your chin thoughtfully. “I’ll need to go buy some tea tree oil for that. Maybe I should also stock up on ethanol and other essentials while I’m at it...”

The sight of you all pouty causes Levi to scoff. “Thought you weren’t a doctor no more?”

He takes the last bite of his cheese sandwich. 

“For you, Levi, always.”

Levi chokes. He begins to cough, the half-eaten bread hammering at his chest. 

Your hand is on his back just as soon as his coughing fit starts. "You okay?"

Levi nods with a blank expression, swatting your touch away. He stares at you from the corner of his eyes, disbelief lodged behind his gaze. Shit. Why do you have to say stuff like that? It's like you're trying to make his heart explode or some shit. 

“Cutting yourself at work and almost choking to death.” You whistle lowly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re losing your touch, Ackerman.”

“I choked because of you, Adler.”

“Because of me?” You blow air with your lips. “Why, what did I do?”

“You—“ Levi feels himself growing hot—too hot. Blast this damn heat. “Forget it.”

You lean back, looking at him curiously. “Is this the fate that awaits me in a few years when I reach your age? Choking and half-finished sentences?”

Levi’s eyes narrow. “Well, aren't you full of jokes today?”

“Thanks. I’m trying real hard, in case you couldn’t tell.” You bite back a full-teeth grin; Levi hates how adorable you look, even when you're teasing him—especially when you're teasing him. “Maybe that’s what I should pursue next, huh? Comedian… that'd be quite the career change.”

Levi shakes his head. “I’ll have to support you financially for the rest of your days.” 

A burst of laughter rolls out of you. It makes Levi feel queasier still.

“Hey," you say once your laughter has dimmed down. Your gaze holds his, bright and true. "What were you working on anyway, that you ended up cutting yourself?”

“Nothing.” Levi doesn’t supply you with more information, the memory of the unfinished figure flashing in his mind. It's trivial, the sort of work he's been doing, especially compared to what Mr Jakowski builds. “Just keeping busy.”

Because Levi’s life is just that now. He has to keep himself busy, to fill it with things so he doesn’t stop moving.

“Hey, Levi?” Levi looks back at you, and you shoot him a lopsided smile. “Do you ever think your past self would believe you’re out here now, carving wood for a living?”

Levi considers your question. He’s not the sort of person to wonder about these questions, but he’s not surprised that you still are. 

The answer is simple. No, his past self wouldn’t believe it. His past self wouldn’t believe most of it.  

He tells you as much, aching to change the subject. “What about you? Picked up a pencil yet?”

“Hm… not yet. Haven’t been feeling it, to be honest." There's something a little sad hanging on your face for the shortest moment, only to be replaced by wide eyes and parted lips. “But, oh, I promise, that doesn't mean I don't like your gift or anything. The supplies you bought—I'll make sure they don't go to waste! I just—”

"Hey, breathe," Levi interrupts, his eyes charged on you. "It's fine if you don't. There's no pressure.”

Your shoulders deflate. You give him a tired smile. “Thanks.”

In the distance, a school bell rings. Children begin to pour out of the building, like a flock of birds leaving the nest, knowing it is there to come back to.

“Anyway,” you say, reaching for the sealed container. “Enough of that. It's time for my favorite part of any meal: sweets. I’m eager to know your thoughts on this lemon tart.”

(The answer? Levi will discover he has a taste for lemon desserts.)

After that day, it becomes a routine of sorts. You show up some days to have lunch with Levi. On the grass under the willow in Mare, you and Levi watch the sea drift from afar, cake laid out between the two of you.

.

.

.

“Oi, what’s this?”

You look up from your notes on your desk. Levi has barged into your office, holding the silver tin you asked to be delivered to him. 

"That's Valerian root,” you answer.

”Valerian root,” he repeats, eying you suspiciously. “Why?”

"Um... think of it as a gift, I guess?"

"Why? We’re not friends."

A grimace flashes on your face—ouch. So, Levi doesn't see you as a friend, even if you're starting to consider him as such, anyway.

"Well., I noticed you seem to have insomniac tendencies, so I...” You clear your throat, swatting a dismissive hand in the air. “If it makes it easier to accept it, think of it as a medical order."

"A medical order." Levi scrunches his nose, pinching his lips together. "And what does Valerian root do, anyway? "

"Valerian root is tea. Or well, not tea. It's an infusion. But you can brew it the same way and it helps... it helps to fall asleep."

.

.

.

When Levi comes home that night after work, the sun is setting low over the sea, a red dot over the horizon. There's a gentle breeze in the air, one that carries with it the smell of salt and sand from the beach just below the valley. 

As soon as Levi is home, he slips into his usual patterns. He takes his shoes off, swapping them for the soft slippers Gabi and Falco once gifted him. He grabs his indoor cane by the entrance, just where he left it. Then, like a rite of passage, he makes his way to the common room, expecting to find you. 

You're not there. Instead, the quaint room that serves as a kitchen, living room, and dining room is empty, a distinct smell of herbs in the air.

Levi recognizes the scent almost immediately; it's the same fragrance that hung around the Survey Corps infirmary on any given day. Frankly speaking, Levi equates the smell with, well, you. It's been years since he smelled it.  

Peppermint, chamomile, tea tree oil... there was always a particular mixture of herbs you favored to treat ailments. Funding within the Survey Corps was sparse, after all, all the more within the medical wing, so to remedy this, you had to get creative: you bought cheap herbs in bulk and created balms with what the Survey Corps could afford. The same herbs Levi now smells in the air.

And Levi suddenly gets a sense of...

Home. 

It's corny, really, that all of a sudden, he feels more at home than the home he's inhabited in the year of living alone. But maybe that's the thing about getting older; there's just smells that remind of the past, things that feel impossible not to acknowledge.

In a way, Levi is grateful that those scents are what he associates with your infirmary, with your hands. Later, when his leg was wounded, and he became accustomed to the stomach-flipping stench of strong antiseptic solutions prevalent in Marleyan hospital tents, the memory of you—of his fucked-up sense of home—remained untainted.

"Oh, fuck!"

A crash assaults Levi's ears. He turns, only to find you half-bent down, picking up a pile of books from the ground. You straighten back up, looking flustered at the sight of him.

"L-Levi,” you huff, “y-you scared the living out of me!"

Levi's brows draw low, shooting you an unimpressed look in return. "Then you should pay better attention." You're holding onto a bunch of books that pertain to gardening. 'Flower symbolism' reads one cover.  "If these were the streets, you'd be a dead woman by now."

His words cause you to roll your eyes at him, although a playful tug of a smile graces your lips not a second later. "This isn't the streets, 'Vi. There's no one out there to hurt me, least of all within the confines of this house."

Levi knows you make a point, but his nature has always been to be suspicious of everything, and that much hasn't changed here. He wishes you'd be a little more careful, at least for his sake.

"Anyway, welcome back... how was the rest of your day?" You dart past him, placing your pile of books on the kitchen table.

Levi notices you've changed since he last saw you; you're now wearing a long skirt that reaches below your knees. Levi has never seen you wear anything like this. He wonders if you got it at the market in Mare, or if this is something you bought on your travels.

"Levi?"

Levi swerves his attention back to you.

Right, your question.

"Same as always." The rest of his day was, in fact, just as Mr Jakowski had predicted. Quiet. "What's all of this, then? You starting a bookclub or something?"

"Not quite. I spent my afternoon at the public library. Have you been?" Levi shakes his head. "Walls, Levi, it's even bigger than the one we had back hom–I mean, back on Paradis." You pick up a random book, flip through it and show him a page that's all about flower propagation. "I'm gonna make sure your garden's perfect."

Levi’s brows scrunch low. Truth be told, he doesn't see the big deal with flowers. Aren’t there more practical things to grow, like vegetables? Flowers seem to take up place and suffer the risk of easy destruction.

But maybe it's simply not for him to understand. 

"Hey Levi, are you listening to me?"

"Yeah.”

"What was I talking about?"

Levi glances at you. There's a spark of defiance flashes in your stare. 

He crosses his arms over his chest, face impassive. "Something something... gardening."

You chuckle, placing the book back on the table. "Actually, I was asking you if I could get your opinion on where to plant what tomorrow. You've got the next two days off, right? Can I spare a moment of your time?"

Levi doesn't work Saturdays and Sundays. The weekend, as Marleyans call it, is for rest.

"Yeah, I'll help." 

"Great!"

With that decision out of the way, Levi leaves you to it. He stops in his bedroom to grab a clean change of clothes and then heads to the bathroom to start his rigorous pre-dinner routine (Levi's found that he will not, cannot, rest before he completes it). 

It all starts with a shower, where Levi rubs at his skin until it is raw and pink, massages his scalp and hair until it's lathered and soapy, the scent of his lemon-scented soap rampant. Once Levi is pleased that every part of him is clean, he rinses himself with hot water, the act oddly meditative as he feels every muscle, every bone in his body come undone, one limb after another.

As soon as he's done and toweled dry, it's shaving time. 

Tonight, as Levi lays out his shaving kit by the sink, he can't help but pause at the sight of his reflection.

Levi stares at himself. 

Over the last three years, time has caught up to him, in more ways than one. His hair has gotten longer, yes, but it's the strands of silver now framing his face that Levi lingers on. Then, there are wrinkles on the sides of his eyes, on his forehead, on his smile lines that are new. He's even accrued a collection of freckles on the ridge of his nose; somehow, he thinks the warmer weather in Marley is responsible for that. 

In some strange ways, with every new year Levi ages, he thinks he looks more and more like Kenny, minus the facial hair. That son-of-a-bitch got his way with him after all, it seems, and despite this, Levi suspects Kenny would still call him a runt if he were here standing next to him right now.

"Still can't grow facial hair, huh, kid?" Kenny would say. "And you're still just as short."  

Yeah, that sounds like Kenny alright. 

"Hey, 'Vi?” A shy knock makes Levi turn his head towards the door. “I forgot to give you the balm I made for your cut. Do you want it now?"

"Gimme a moment," he mumbles. "... I'll be right there."

Levi finishes his routine. He shaves his face and massages his leg. He changes into indoor clothes. 

By the time Levi’s done, he finds you sitting on the sofa, flipping through one of your books while stroking Scout. It seems you've already started the preparations for dinner; there's simmering onion soup that's replaced the previous smell of herbs over the stove.

This time, upon hearing him approach, both you and Scout look up, almost synchronically. It makes Levi's heart a little warm—why does it feel so strange to have an audience waiting for him? 

Before Levi can contemplate on this very question, you've swung to your feet. "Here, sit down; I’ll get the balm."

Levi does as he's told, taking a seat on the free spot—on the other side of the sofa, next to Scout. His peripheral catches you first washing your hands over the kitchen sink, then retrieving something from the ice-box. 

Scout's purr pulls him back to the sofa. The kitten has made her presence known, demanding attention from Levi, and Levi obliges her. He scratches her under her chin like he always does, using his unwounded hand to do so.

Soon, the cat's purr vibrates against his fingertips. 

"She misses you, you know." Levi glances over your shoulders. You're standing on his other side, bending down. "May I?" you ask, looking at his palm laid flat on the arms of the sofa.

Levi nods.

Carefully, you take his hand into your own, flipping it to remove the bandage and analyze the cut. The wound runs across the tender flesh of his palm, ending with his index. It's not a deep cut by any stretch of the imagination, but it is on his five-fingered hand. Just his luck. 

“Did you know that Scout sometimes goes into your bedroom, meowing into the void?" you say in passing, eyes focused on his wound. "It's like she's looking for your ghost or something.”

"That cat needs to get used to me being absent." 

"She's just attached to you. Can you blame her?"

Levi's throat goes thick. No, he supposes he can't blame Scout, not when he's felt that same emptiness himself before, knows how damaging it can be.

"Anyway, I hope she grows used to me being here, too. For now, she still refuses to enter my room when it's just the two of us, but I think we may bridge that gap soon." Your voice turns into a coarse whisper, leaning closer to Levi like Scout might somehow overhear—and understand you. "I may or may not have bribed her with some leftover tuna."

"You mean you’re spoiling her."

"Hey, all's fair in love and war." You lean back. A knowing smile tugs at your lip, delicate like the first bloom of spring. "Besides, there are worse things for a cat to be."

After that, you focus on tending to Levi's wound—disinfecting it, adding balm, wrapping a clean bandage by the careful press of your hands. It brings Levi back to the old days, when he'd watch you either tend to him or his comrades. There was always this intensity, this non-bullshit attitude, that would always wash over you. It made Levi aware just how seriously you took your job, how dedicated you were to your craft. It was one of the first things that made him respect you.

Now, as Levi watches you at it again, there is something else, too. Something that speaks volumes of just how touch-starved he's become. He tries to ignore the warmth that blooms under your touch, tries not to think about how long it’s been since anyone that wasn’t his doctor touched him like this.

He fails.

It might be why, when at last you seem satisfied with your work and rise to your feet, Levi finds himself doing the same. He stands, moving with no objective in sight, the scent of herbs and home and you beckoning him closer. 

As he does, he ends in your personal space, his fingers almost grazing yours. 

He freezes. 

You seem just as surprised to find him in your space. Levi watches as your lips subtly part, the smallest shift in your expression that narrows into your eyes widening. He listens to your breath catch; it makes the tip of his fingers tingle.

"Um... Levi?" 

Levi blinks, panic swelling in his chest, but before he can say a thing, a sudden "mrrrp" vibrates below. What happens next is a blur, but Scout has somehow jumped off the sofa, intertwining herself between you and him, and the sudden feeling of fur on your bare legs must have taken you by surprise.

Because the next moment, you’ve bumped the back of your calves against the edge of the sofa, almost tripping back. 

Luckily, if there's one thing that hasn't changed, it's Levi's instincts. He instantly latches onto your elbow, steadying you, your warmth blooming beneath his grasp. 

“Walls,” your voice vibrates against the shell of his ear, breathless. "... Thanks." 

You straighten, taking a subtle shift back. Levi finally lets go, clears his throat, and moves away. He flexes his hand, trying to rid himself of the tickling sensation he'd just felt. 

"It's nothing." He focuses on Scout, who's skittered away and in between the dining chairs, looking at you and Levi with wide eyes. Levi exhales harshly as he stares at her. "Tch, have a care, you damn cat. We're practically titan-sized to you; don’t creep around like that unless you want to end trampled on."

The rest of the evening is uneventful. Like every other evening since you moved in, you and Levi share a meal, seated at the dining table, facing the window with a viewpoint on the sea. You share tidbits of information you've learned about the village and its inhabitants, while Levi provides scarce comments here and there. You discuss Gabi and Falco’s upcoming visit for the solstice, and everything you plan to do with them.

Everything is just as Levi remembers it being. The setting is different, there are people missing… but there is something soothing that he is here now, with you, with scents that don't feel foreign, with foods that feel familiar. 

One thing does loom over Levi's mind, though.

Levi swears you drew closer when he stood.

.

.

.

One night, you fall asleep in front of the fireplace.

Come morning, Levi's gone, but there's a blanket draped over your body.

.

.

.

That night, Levi can't sleep. That in itself isn't shocking; Levi's always been a chronic insomniac. Still, when the telltale signs of a sleepless night make themselves known and Levi realizes he's in for one of those nights, he doesn't waste time. He gets up and goes to make himself a fresh cup of valerian root tea.

Half-way there, however, something stops him in his tracks.

It's your the door to your bedroom, half-ajar, warm light pooling out.

And Levi sees you.

You're on the floor, crouched over something. Next to you, it seems that your bribing paid off; Scout is by your side, staring at you with keen interest, tilting her head as she looks at your every movement. 

That's when Levi notices what you're doing, what you're twirling around one by one, as if to show the cat.

Your drawing materials, his gift to you. You've taken them out of the desk he built, laying them all on the floor to inspect them.

Pencils, an eraser, a notebook.

Huh.

-

Thanks for reading! This is a slow build into feelings and healing, but I hope the journey will be worth the read. If you have a minute, I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments/tags. Take care <3

[spotsandsocks]

Hiii Spotty 💕💕💕

🎅+Aurora

-❤️🪐

Hi! I’m sorry this one’s jumped the queue a bit cos I got inspired… hopefully in a surprising and fun way? It’s 900 words and will turn up on ao3 at some point. 🩷💙🩷💙🩷💙 it’s been written quick and messy so apologies for any errors (would love to know when you worked out what was happening, it’s probably very obvious)

Three days and he hasn’t let it go. Eddie had been sure he would but the man’s stubborn. More stubborn than he anticipated. Too late he sees Buck coming towards him, there’s no subtle way to avoid him so he squares his shoulder and faces his fate. There’s always the option that Buck won’t ask again.

“Eddie.”

“Buck.”

He returns the greeting smoothly. Buck stares him straight in the eye and jumps right in.

“You gonna tell me yet?

“I’ve already told you I don’t have an opinion on the subject.”

The look on Buck’s face is skeptical at best.

“Don’t believe you.”

The stand off continues, blue staring down brown.

“I’ll find out eventually.”

Eddie doesn’t see how to be honest but the determined way Buck pokes his chest with his middle finger puts doubt in his heart.

“Everyone has a favourite and I need to know yours.”

Buck narrows his eyes before he spins on his heel and walks away.

“Not everyone has a favourite.” Buck holds up a dismissive hand as he disappears. “Bet Bobby doesn’t.” Eddie yells after him.

Buck spins, starts walking backwards. “He does and at least he wasn’t too embarrassed to tell me.

He’s taken three steps closer before he realises what he’s done and stops.

“I’m not embarrassed! I just don’t have a favourite.”

Buck shakes his head sadly.

“Sure Eddie. Gonna find out in the end. I have ways. Ways Eddie!”

Then he’s turning away again and marching off leaving Eddie standing alone and feeling oddly guilty.

*

He lasts another day. Well one shift with Buck being polite and slightly cool, sitting at the other end of the couch not next to him, staring at him but not asking the question anymore. One lunch with Chim, Hen and even Bobby asking him to just tell him.

He doesn’t get why Buck needs to know anyway. Hen says it doesn’t matter why, he wants to know so tell him, Chim says to tell him before Buck phones his abelua to find out (which is a possibility that hadn’t occurred to him)l and Bobby says tell him before I have to order you to.

Eddie keeps telling the lie that he can’t tell Buck anything because he doesn’t have a favourite. He does, but he’s not supposed to so saying it out loud makes him feel weird. The others all told him their answer to Buck’s seemingly random and to Eddie deeply personal question.

He lasts one shift and a final look into sad blue eyes that look his way once before Buck says a general goodbye to the room and leaves.

Shit. Eddie rests his head on the locker with a deep sigh.

“It doesn’t make you any less of a man Eddie. It’s ok.”

Chimney’s voice is kind but has an undercurrent of amusement. It’s ok for him he wasn’t brought up in a toxic comp het environment.

“I know that, it’s just…. silly, isn’t it? I don’t see the point.”

“Do you have a favourite?”

Eddie sighs again and confesses.

“Yes.”

“Then just tell him. Who knows why he wants to know, he just does so make him happy and tell him.”

*

He knocks and waits. He hasn’t texted to say he’s coming over. He’s just turned up, that’s ok, they do that sometimes.

The door opens and Buck’s smile slides off his face when he realises who’s at his door.

“Eddie.” It’s a flat disappointed tone, Eddie can’t take it anymore. He blurts out the answer.

“The pink one,”

Buck frowns. “What?”

“The pink one is my favourite.”

“The pink one?”

“Yes.”

“The pink ones your favourite and you don’t even know her name?” Buck’s eyebrow cross examines him.

“Fine… Aurora. Sleeping Beauty. Briar Rose. She’s my favourite Disney Princess.”

Now he’s confessed Buck’s face has split into a giant grin. Maybe telling Buck something he’s never told anyone before is worth the embarrassment for a smile like that. Buck opens the door wider, clearly inviting him in.

“Thank you Eddie, was that so hard?”

As he walks past Buck adds.

“Mine is Ariel.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I know, very rude of you, but I have no problem sharing important information with friends, unlike some people.”

And with that pointed comment, they’ve made it to the kitchen island which is apparently covered by various princess related decorations stickers, ribbons and sparkly things.

“Anyway, now you’re here you can help me. I’m making Jee’s birthday present.”

Eddie’s heart melts a little at how soft Buck is for his niece.

“Kinda got caught up in a Disney Princess research spiral, quizzes and stuff, what Disney Princess are you, what your favourite princess says about you…you know.”

Not really, but it sounds very Buck to him.

“So you wanted to know our favourites…” Eddie nods understanding now, and when he’d had refused to say, Buck had been upset and suddenly needed to know desperately. Also very Buck.

“Sorry I was being stubborn about it but when I was a kid boys didn’t like Disney Princess.”

“It’s ok, still love ya.”

The words make Eddie’s cheeks flush but he ignores that and joins his best friend; the kindest man he knows and starts to help with his mission to make and it’s a direct quote from the man himself, “the best, most princessy princess castle that ever princessed for a princess.”

Buck grins happily at him from the other side of the island and Eddie wonders if the day will come when he’s ready to tell Buck another secret about himself. He hopes so. He really does.

[multi-fandom-imagines8]

A Song of Ice & Shadow

Part 15

You can read previous chapters here.

Summary: Y/n slowly begins to recover, gradually warming up to Azriel and Cassian again. She agrees to train with Cassian but only under a few conditions.

A/N: As promised, here’s the next chapter with more Az interaction. Enjoy!

WC: 4.8K.

As days went by, Y/n’s nightmares became less frequent. Cassian only spoke a few words to her whenever they crossed paths, mostly greetings, casual questions about her day, how she’s doing, and nothing more. No snarky comments, no mention of training.

She hadn’t seen Azriel for a while either. He was mostly on missions, ones she knew nothing about, and when he was back, he either stayed locked in his room or left just before she arrived.

Somehow, whenever she’d enter the dining room, she’d catch the lingering trail of shadows and find a half-empty plate or cup. He always seemed to know when she’d come and left before she could ignore him or say something to hurt him. It was almost like he was avoiding her just as much as she was avoiding him.

She began to miss him, and that was dangerous.

But at least her life had improved. She was eating again, going to the library, chatting with Gwyn occasionally, and knitting. Being left alone had softened her, just a little, though she wouldn't admit it to herself.

On one of those nights, she had finished a book that left her feeling content for once. The idea of sleep didn’t appeal to her yet, so she headed to the roof for some peace, fresh air, and a view of the slumbering city below.

She did not notice Azriel training in the corner of the roof at first. As usual he was as slick and silent as the shadows, his form blending into the dark. This time, his shadows did not inform him of her arrival. When he saw her, he moved slightly, making an accidental noise that earned her attention.

“I didn’t know you were back,” she remarked, her voice softer than usual, though her brows rose in faint surprise.

Azriel paused, lowering his weapon. “Only for the night.” His body remained tense, debating whether to leave to stay.

“Don’t you ever take a break?” she asked, stepping further into the open air.

“I do when I need one,” he answered simply.

“You’re going to work yourself to death.” Her gaze flicked over him, taking in the weariness etched into his features. “You look like hell. You should get some rest.”

It was her way of not being cold to him, and they both knew it.

Azriel tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Didn’t know you cared.” Though low, his tone carried a faint chill, guarded as ever.

“I- it was just a suggestion,” she clarified quickly, glancing away. “If whatever you’re doing is important, you need to take a step back and rest. If your head isn’t in the game, it’ll cost you a lot. And I know you don’t like to disappoint your High Lord.”

“I’ll rest when I feel the need to,” he insisted, his gaze lingering on her for a beat longer. Then he added, almost too softly. “Thank you for your advice.”

She didn’t know if he was being sincere or mocking her; his face betrayed nothing.

Y/n shifted on her feet, suddenly uncomfortable. Just as she turned to leave, she noticed his shadows sneaking toward her.

Her gaze followed them instinctively, and her lips quirked slightly. She had missed them too. Noticing his shadows and her focus, Azriel sighed before speaking again. “This had nothing to do with me. Sometimes they act on their own.”

“Relax, Shadowsinger. It’s fine,” she said quietly, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

At that, his shoulders eased a fraction. He studied her for a moment, his hazel eyes searching her face. Something about her was different, her voice, her behavior towards him, the way she seemed healthier. “You look better than the last time I saw you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she replied lightly, brushing an invisible speck of dust from her sleeve.

“How are things?” he asked, careful and hesitant, as though afraid she might retreat behind her usual defenses.

“Not bad,” she said simply, her gaze drifting out over the city.

“But not good?”

“I’m still a prisoner,” she quipped, a faint edge to her tone.

“Be glad you’re not one of my prisoners,” he countered, softening a bit with a faint smirk, attempting to joke.

“Right. I almost forgot. You’re supposed to be ruthless with all the torturing you do.” Her lips curved upward, though she bit her lower lip to suppress the full smile.

“I’m glad you remembered,” he replied, his tone mock-serious. His eyes glinted faintly in the dim light. “But even if you were the most wicked High Fae alive, I promise you’re safe from me.”

“Hmm, even if I became a witch?” she questioned, her voice playful.

“Are you planning on becoming one?” he asked, raising a brow.

“I am,” she teased, shrugging. “But I still need someone to teach me how to channel that much power.”

He didn’t know if she was being serious or joking. “Just give me a heads-up when you do.”

“Why? So you could lock me up?” She couldn’t hide her amused smile anymore.

“I told you, you’re safe from me,” he repeated firmly. “But Spymaster, remember? It wouldn’t be a good look for me if I were the last to know.”

“Fine,” she relented, amused. “If I become a witch, you’ll be the first one to know, I promise. Happy now?”

“Very,” he said, an actual smile, soft and rare pulling at his lips.

Her own faded, her chest tightening unexpectedly. She missed that smile. She missed him, their little talks. For a moment, her expression faltered.

“What is it?” Azriel asked, noticing the shift.

“Nothing,” she murmured. “I should go. I have a long day tomorrow, and so do you. Good night, Shadowsinger.”

Of course, she’d pull away, run away from him the minute she started feeling something. The minute she felt her walls cracking.

“Good night, Troublemaker,” he whispered, though she was already gone.

The next morning, Azriel was gone again. But Y/n found herself in a rare good mood. She’d finally decided to train with Cassian.

This time, she arrived at the training ring dressed in Illyrian leathers, though not the ones she’d worn during the war. She’d burned those custom-made leathers after the war, unable to even look at them without being reminded of all she’d lost. If they hadn’t been custom, she wasn’t sure she could handle seeing others wearing the standard ones.

Cassian, shirtless and already wielding a sword, stood in his usual spot. When he noticed her approach, his brows shot up in surprise. He didn’t want to get his hopes up yet, so he asked, “Here to watch, or to join?”

“I’ve come to play,” she replied, heading for the weapon rack.

His surprise turned into an amused chuckle. “We should practice your movements before you go anywhere near a sword.”

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid,” she quipped, ignoring his comment as her fingers skimmed over the handles of various blades before selecting the lightest one. If she was going to wield one in front of him for the first time, she wasn’t about to embarrass herself. She knew she needed to work on her arm strength, but she could manage for now.

Cassian grinned, his wings shifting slightly behind him. “It’s for your own safety, but go ahead.”

Sword in hand, Y/n dragged the blade slightly along the ground as she stepped up to him. “Ready?”

“Whenever you are,” he said with a confident smirk, lowering into a defensive stance.

She did not give him a chance to prepare. In one swift motion, she disarmed him, the tip of her blade hovering just below his throat.

Cassian blinked, then broke into a wide grin. “Impressive. Let’s go again. I wasn’t prepared.”

“I thought you said you were ‘whenever I was’,” she replied, feigning innocence as she shrugged.

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have to admit, I was taken by surprise.”

“In battle, your opponent won’t wait for you to get ready. I might not be the strongest or the fastest, but if and when it comes down to a fight, I can hold my own,” she said, lowering the blade.

Cassian retrieved his sword, his expression shifting into something more thoughtful as he studied her. “I see you know some moves. Let’s go again.”

“I’m not a fool. I know I can’t defeat you,” she admitted. “I’ve seen the way you fight. I just took advantage of the situation.”

“Never underestimate your opponent,” Cassian said, his tone carrying a hint of respect. “I failed at that, I admit. Where did you learn to do that?”

She ran her fingers along the blade’s edge, inspecting it. “I took self-defense classes a long time ago. And a few sword-fighting lessons too. I practiced from time to time.”

His brows furrowed as he considered her answer. “Why did you let me mock you all this time? Let me believe you couldn’t fight?”

She gave him a cool look. “You never asked. You presumed, just like everyone else.”

His gaze softened, a note of guilt creeping into his voice. “I apologize for that.” His voice was surprisingly serious. “Does anyone else know you can fight?”

“A few Illyrians,” she replied,her tone casual as she inspected the hilt of the sword. “And I believe your Shadowsinger does.”

Cassian’s expression darkened slightly. “Is that why Devlon warned me to keep you away from his warriors? You beat them up?”

“I didn’t beat them up,” Y/n corrected, rolling her eyes. “Let’s just say they tried to show me some moves, and I showed them a few of my own.”

Cassian let out a hearty laugh, though his curiosity wasn’t fully satisfied. “Wait- your sisters don’t know?”

She shook her head.

“Why not?”

“That is none of your business.”

He sighed but didn’t press. “So, why do you refuse to train then? If you know how to fight?” If he wasn’t intrigued before, he was now.

“That’s also none of your business.”

Cassian snorted, clearly exasperated. “If you hate me and can’t stand to train with me, you could always train with Az or Mor.”

“No.” Her reply was quick, sharp, leaving no room for debate. “Listen, I don’t hate you, but I just don’t like training.”

Cassian crossed his arms, his grin returning. “Is that you complimenting me?”

“You didn’t let me finish,” she shot back, rolling her eyes again. “Although I don’t necessarily hate you, training with you would be unbearable.”

“Is it because you wouldn’t be able to focus on training and rather be too distracted by my handsome face and impressive physique?” Cassian teased, flexing his arms playfully.

“In your dreams,” she retorted, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Engaging in conversation with you is frustrating enough. You’re just insufferable. You emanate this… bright aura around you. Your view on life is just-“

“Positive?” Cassian supplied, amused.

“Exactly.”

Cassian let out a bark of laughter. “How do you manage to turn every positive trait into a negative one?” He couldn’t fathom how her mind worked.

“The same way you turn negative ones into positives.”

“Why, though?” he pressed, shaking his head in disbelief.

“None of your business.”

“Is that your answer to everything, anyone asking you a personal question?”

“None- possibly..”

“I can already bet on the answer to this one, but why? Why don’t you want people to know you?”

“And that conversation has already been too much for my brain to handle in one day. I’m leaving.” She turned toward the door but halted, glancing back over her shoulder. “Because I’m in a good mood today, I’ll say something nice to you. Even though training with you would be unbearable, having your body on full display would make it slightly less unpleasant.” She shrugged.

Cassian froze, his expression caught somewhere between shock and delight. Then he grinned like a fool. “I’ll take that as a win.”

The next day, when Y/n arrived at the training ring again, Cassian was already there waiting for her, his arms crossed and a curious glint in his eyes. As she approached, he tilted his head, studying her. “So,” he began as she stopped a few paces away, “How do you want to do this?”

“First,” she said, holding up a finger, “I’ll only do basic muscle training. No sparring, no fighting exercises.”

“Why not?” he asked, feigning disappointment.

“I don’t like having an audience when I’m showing my moves.”

Cassian frowned, his brows drawing together. “Afraid someone will learn your fighting style and use it against you?”

“No,” she shot back, giving him an exasperated look. “I just don’t take well to certain kinds of criticism when it comes to this.”

He nodded slowly. “Fair enough. I won’t judge. If anything, I might offer some advice, but that’s it.”

“Still,” she said firmly, “I don’t feel ready for that yet.”

“Alright, basic exercises it is,” he agreed, though the curiosity in his eyes didn’t fade.

“Second,” she added, “I’d prefer it if we trained in silence.”

He groaned dramatically, throwing his head back. “Way to kill the mood, Y/n.”

“Want me to train with you or not?” she countered, crossing her arms.

“Alright, alright,” he relented, raising his hands in surrender. “We’ll do as you say.”

With that her training journey officially began.

The nights were different. While Cassian trained with her during the day, Y/n would sneak to the rooftop under the cover of darkness. There, with no eyes watching, she practiced her stances, her movements, and her sword work.

It was after a few nights of this routine that Azriel landed silently on the roof after a mission, only to be met with a sight he never expected to see. Azriel wasn’t surprised by many things, but when it came to Y/n, this female never ceased to catch him off guard. He came to find her focused, her attention wholly on the invisible target she struck with her sword.

Not wanting to disturb her or break her concentration, he remained quiet in the shadows.

After a few minutes, she stilled, her instincts sharpening. She could sense something lurking nearby. She reached for a dagger and, without hesitation, flung it towards the shadows. Azriel dodged by mere inches, stepping out into the faint light with his hands raised in surrender.

“It’s just me,” he said calmly, his tone steady as his golden eyes met hers.

Her shoulders relaxed, though her tone remained sharp. “I thought I made it clear I don’t like being watched.”

“I remember,” he replied. “It wasn’t intentional. I just arrived and didn’t want to interrupt. You seemed… focused.”

Y/n eyed him suspiciously but let it slide. “I’ll let it go this time.”

Azriel’s lips twitched faintly, almost teasing. “I didn’t know you could wield a sword.”

“I’m not a professional, if that’s what you think,” she admitted, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “But I thought you already knew. You made it seem that way when you asked me about the Illyrians.”

“I thought you used your fists,” Azriel replied smoothly. “And your legs.”

“You’re not wrong,” she replied with a small smirk. “Do your shadows really know all that?”

“And more,” he said, a subtle smile playing at his lips.

Y/n tilted her head. “Then, with all your knowledge, I assume a lot of people want you dead?”

“You assume correctly,” Azriel said in his naturally quiet tone, a hint of amusement threading through it.

Silence lingered between them before he gestured to her sword. “Can I give you a suggestion?”

“About what exactly?”

He stepped closer, his movements deliberate. “May I?” he asked, nodding toward the weapon in her hand.

After a brief hesitation, she nodded, handing him the sword. His fingers grazed hers as he took it, the fleeting contact sending an odd jolt up her arms. The shadows around him seemed to still, as if observing.

“You’re holding it like this,” he said softly, his hands steady as they demonstrated her current grip along the hilt. “It’s not wrong, but there’s an easier way to balance the weight without tiring your arms.” His movements were fluid, sure, as he adjusted his hold, showcasing a more efficient grip with ease.

When he handed the sword back to her, his scarred fingers brushed hers once more, the touch lingering just a moment too long. The shadows curled subtly between them, as though curious about the interaction.

“Do you want to give it a try?” he asked, stepping back.

“With you watching?” she muttered, hesitating.

Azriel’ tilted his head, his gaze narrowing slightly. “Yes. Is that a problem? I can leave if you’d prefer.”

“Yes, no-” Y/n stammered, quickly shaking her head. “I just… I never train in front of anyone.”

“Why not?”

“Your brother asked me the same question a few days ago,” she replied, her tone guarded.

“And what did you tell him?”

“That I don’t like being criticized when it comes down to this.”

Azriel studied her for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. “But that’s not all, is it?”

She didn’t reply, her grip tightening on the sword as she started at the ground. After a moment, she shook her head.

“I won’t ask again,” he said gently. “Not unless you want to talk about it.”

She looked down at the sword, grateful he didn’t push.

“So,” Azriel continued, breaking the silence. “Do you want to try that move, or would you like me to leave?”

“You can stay, Shadowsinger,” she replied, the words slipping out before she could reconsider.

“Thank you for your generosity.” He gave a playful bow, a hint of a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth.

She shook her head, rolling her eyes as a small smile softened her expression.

Adjusting her grip on the sword, she tried the move he’d demonstrated, surprised to find the technique was indeed easier and more natural than before.

Azriel stepped back and unsheathed his own sword, taking a fluid fighting stance.

“What are you doing?” she asked, brows furrowing.

“You forget, I usually train at night,” he said, his smile widening ever so slightly as the faint glow of starlight danced along his blade. “Don’t worry, I won’t spar with you…unless you want to?”

“No.” The answer came too quickly, her voice a little too sharp. Her heart stuttered as heat crept up her neck. “I wouldn’t be able to concentrate,” she added, cursing herself for the words as soon as they left her mouth.

A crease formed between his brows as confusion flickered across his face. “Why is that?”

Because my focus would be elsewhere, she thought to herself and was glad he couldn’t read minds. “I haven’t sparred with anyone in a long time,” she said instead, dodging his question. “The last time I did was during my lessons.”

Azriel regarded her for a moment but didn’t push. “The offer still stands. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

She scoffed. “I don’t think so. You’re a hard male to find.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “If you tell Cass or Rhys, I’ll come meet you.”

“For you to leave your all-important work just to come spar with me? I’m honored,” she said, mock-gasping as she placed her free hand over her chest.

“For you, I’d leave anything,” he replied quietly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Azriel froze, his heart almost stopping as his eyes widened slightly. He couldn’t believe what he’d just said.

Y/n blinked, her breath catching. She wasn’t sure if she'd heard him correctly, or if she wanted to. Ignoring the comment, she focused on the conversation at hand instead. “I’ll think about your offer.”

Azriel exhaled quietly, relief briefly crossing his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt that kind of fear before. What’s going on with me? he thought to himself.

With a nod, he turned back to his training. Y/n did not run away from him like she always did. This time she stayed and they trained in silence.

The sun was already rising by the time they stopped, its first rays spilling across the roof. Y/n groaned softly, lowering her sword and stretching her sore arms.

“I probably won’t be able to train with your brother today. I can’t feel my arms.”

Azriel sheathed his sword, his lips twitching. “I can vouch for you if you want.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “That’d be weird.”

“How so?”

“Because the General is the General,” she replied, as if it were obvious. “If I go up to him and say I can’t practice today because I’m sore, he’ll ask why. And then you’d show up and say, ‘because we were practicing all night long.’” She arched a brow. “How do you think that would sound to him?”

Azriel’s cheeks reddened ever so slightly and for a moment, he actually looked flustered. “I see how that might sound…” he muttered. “So what are you going to tell him?” he asked, regaining his composure.

“I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “But I’ll probably just tell him I was practicing all night. He doesn’t need to know all the details.”

“Right,” Azriel nodded. “That’s for the best.”

“Besides,” she added, starting to ramble, “I think he’d be a little jealous. Seeing as I told him I wasn’t ready to train with him yet, and then we went and did exactly that.”

“Yeah, probably not a good idea,” he agreed, his lips twitching as if suppressing a smile.

“Alright, then. I’ll see you when I see you.” She turned to leave.

“Good night, Troublemaker,” he murmured, watching her go.

She paused at the doorway, glancing back at him. “Is that your new nickname for me now?”

Azriel smiled faintly, his shadows curling lazily around him. “I’ve had it for a while.”

She shook her head, smiling. “Sweet dreams, Shadowsinger,” she replied softly before slipping out of sight.

Azriel stood there for a moment longer, staring at where she’d disappeared. His hand grazed the hilt of his sword as her parting words echoed in his mind. He let out a slow breath, then finally turned to resume his training.

—

“I don’t mean to overstep my boundaries, but I have to ask, do you still have your powers?” Cassian asked during one of their sessions.

Y/n’s movements faltered, her brows knitting together. “Why does it matter?”

“Because if you do, it’s dangerous to keep them unchecked.”

She huffed, resuming her stance. “Even if I did still have my powers, which I’m not saying I do, nothing’s happened so far.”

“As you said, so far,” he pressed, his voice firm but not unkind. “But we all know what happens when you’re overwhelmed.”

“Let’s just get back to training,” she snapped, her tone leaving little room for argument.

“Y/n, it’s dangerous. Someone could get hurt.”

“I didn’t say I have powers,” she retorted sharply. “Just drop it.”

Cassian’s jaw tightened, his worry clear. “Just promise me, if you feel them coming back, you’ll tell me.”

“I’ll do no such thing.” She halted mid-movement, fixing him with a glare. “What has gotten into you?”

“Nothing, I’m just worried.”

“Well, don’t be,” she said, her voice colder now. “I’m not a ticking time bomb.”

“That you know of,” he replied, his tone edging toward frustration.

Y/n’s patience snapped. “Seriously, what is your problem?”

“Nesta still has her power,” he admitted quietly.

Her expression darkened, and her voice dropped to a dangerous calm. “Of course. Fucking Nesta! Why do you keep thinking that whatever she might do or have, I might as well?”

“Because that’s usually what happens,” Cassian said, pressing further. “You both are hotheaded, with tempers to match. You both took something from the Cauldron. You both have a way of pushing people away and saying hurtful things. Not to mention, you both shared similar bad habits after the war.”

“Do not compare her to me,” she snapped, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “She’s a much better person than I am, and we’re far more different than you think us to be.”

Before Cassian could reply, Y/n stormed off, leaving their session unfinished.

Y/n went straight to the library to unwind, her heart still pounding from the argument. Gwyn greeted her with a warm smile and recommended another book.

It wasn’t long before Y/n seelted into her usual spot, tucked away in the quiet depth of the library— the same place she had first discovered its solace. Bryaxis was no longer there, so that level should be safe, or so she thought.

She was aware Nesta was somewhere nearby, but thankfully, they didn’t cross paths.

She opened the book, letting its pages pull her into another world. But as she read, the quiet began to shift. A voice, faint at first, began to call her name. Again and again, the sound reverberated through the space.

Y/n stilled, shivers crawling up her spine. She tried to ignore it, focus on the words in front of her, but it was as if her body had other plans. Slowly, unwillingly, she stood.

The voice pulled her closer, an invisible string drawing her toward the darkness of the lower levels. Her steps were slow, hesitant, but she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t resist it. It wasn’t Bryaxis’ voice; she knew that much. This was darker, colder.

She halted just before the staircase. The voice whispered to her still, tempting her forward.

Then, suddenly, a hand grabbed her arm, spinning her around. Her breath caught as she found herself face- to-face with Azriel. Too close. He was too close, his face mere inches from hers. When she took in his features, she realized his breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling as though he’d run all the way to reach her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, startled.

Azriel didn’t answer right away, his shadows swarming protectively around them. His grip on her arm was firm, his other hand resting on the hilt of the dagger strapped to his side.

“Why were you going down there?” he demanded in his usual subdued voice.

Y/n blinked, the haze that had gripped her moments earlier beginning to fade. “How did you even find- never mind. I already know the answer to that question,” she muttered. “Something was calling to me. Something dark.”

Azriel’s expression turned more serious. “You shouldn’t stay in this part of the library again.”

“Why not?” she asked, her tone curious.

“The darkness is drawn to you like you are to it. Bryaxis might be gone, but there’s still darkness down there.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Did you have your shadows follow me?”

“No,” he replied. “It was a mere coincidence.” He glanced around warily. “They’re everywhere, though. And when they felt that darkness, they informed me.”

Y/n’s brows rose in mild disbelief. “You ran here?”

He nodded, reminding her. “We can’t winnow into the library.”

Y/n’s gaze flickered to his hand still wrapped around her arm. “You can let go now.”

Azriel blinked as though realizing it for the first time. He released her quickly, stepping back slightly, though his gaze didn’t waver. “Do you still have your powers?”

Her eyes sharpened at the question, a defensive edge creeping into her posture as she created a distance between them. “Did you talk to the General?”

“No, why?”

She let out a frustrated sigh, crossing her arms. “He asked me the same thing less than an hour ago.”

“I have reasons to believe the darkness was drawn to you because of your powers,” he explained, his eyes scanning her face for answers.“You should be careful.”

“You’re not going to tell me I should learn how to control it or keep it in check or whatever?” she asked, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

“No,” he replied simply. “I learned not to tell you what to do.”

She blinked again, caught off guard by his honesty. “At least one of you finally got the message.”

“Cassian means well,” Azriel said softly, though his tone held a hint of exasperation.

She scoffed. “He has a way of showing the opposite.”

Azriel tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady. “The same way you do when you care about someone?”

Y/n froze, the words landing with more weight than she wanted to admit. She said nothing, just stared at him, the silence between them thick and charged.

Azriel didn’t push further. He simply watched her for a moment longer before his shadows receded slightly, their tension easing. “Stay away from the lower levels,” he said at last. “Promise me that.”

She didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. Azriel took her silence as agreement.

“Goodnight, Y/n,” he spoke softly before stepping back and turning on his heel.

Y/n remained rooted to the spot, staring at the place where he’d disappeared. Somehow, buried deep beneath her defenses, was the unsettling warmth of Azriel’s concern. Not that she’d ever acknowledge it, or admit how much it lingered.

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[starrysturnz]

somebody waits for you…

pairing. prince!chris sturniolo x reader

summary. to maintain the secrecy of their relationship, chris and y/n don’t mingle much at the annual christmas ball. but his self control is only so powerful, and when he finds a secluded hallway lined with mistletoe, he can’t help but to give in to temptation.

warnings. angst if you cover your eyes with your hands and peek through the cracks.

word count. 1.3k

author’s note. posting the day after i was meant to��� your honor i plead poor time management skills. (i’m currently on a trip, we got to the hotel later than expected LMAO i’m sorry.) but at least it’s only like 2:30am and i didn’t make you wait until the afternoon or smth! hoping this quality content makes up for the lateness. kisses!!

masterlist | taglist | starrysturnz’s christmas countdown

© starrysturnz. all rights reserved. dividers by @cafekitsune.

it was as though chris’s eyes were permanently glued to y/n’s figure across the ballroom, which was unfortunate for the girl currently vying for his attention. she was pretty, he could admit that, and truthfully she seemed genuinely sweet. goodness knows his brothers would scold him for ignoring her the way he was, but he couldn’t help it… he was a taken man.

not that anybody knew that. his parents would probably drop dead on their thrones if they found out one of their sons was dating a commoner. even if it was y/n, who’d grown up practically joint at his hip— her mother was the queen’s favorite florist, and her father the royal shoemaker (for many months after he’d stopped growing, chris continued to request new boots because his old ones “no longer fit”). they adored her, but she was expected to know her place, and chris his.

so they shared lingering glances across the busy banquet hall. sometimes, she sent a wink his way, maybe a flutter of her lashes. he’d respond with a quirk of his lips, and a look that she knew meant “later.” but later felt like forever away. he wanted to hold her now, in that dress that hugged her in all the right places, and kiss her painted lips. he wanted to drown in her perfume, the expensive one that he bought her for her birthday last year. she only wore it on special occasions, even though he repeatedly told her he would just buy her another one when it ran out. she was stubborn.

matt noticed his brother’s distracted stare, apologizing to the duchess on his arm as he pulled him away from her.

“hey,” he said, clapping his brother on the shoulder when they reached a secluded corner, “go take a walk, man.”

“what are you talkin‘ about, dude?”

the older prince sighed, rubbing his eye as he hesitated a bit (a habit his mother has given up on getting him to stop). “i know you want her… but you gotta be realistic. starin‘ at her like a stray puppy isn’t gonna help, so just go clear your head or somethin‘ and go back to talkin‘ to the duchess. and act like she’s actually there this time, okay?”

chris didn’t even have the chance to process matt’s words before he was walking back to his date. matt knew he liked y/n? maybe he’d been less slick than he thought. at any rate, he was right— chris could use a break from this ball. he definitely didn’t want to go back to talking to the duchess.

⁺⁎˚

it wasn’t long before the prince found himself in a long hallway, many doors down from any prying eyes. what was meant to be a relaxing moment of peace and quiet backfired due to his usual overthinking. he paced up and down the hall as his thoughts barreled through his mind at warp speed.

god! all he wanted was y/n. publicly. shamelessly. he wanted everyone to see her for who she was, not for her blood status. so what if she wasn’t royal? does that make a person unworthy of love? would he really have to do more of this— attending these ridiculous parties, meeting eligible noblewomen who bore him halfway into his grave, pretending to listen as they ramble on about their latest trip into the countryside? start dating one? propose? commit to a lifetime in an unhappy marriage, longing for somebody else?

lacing his fingers behind his neck, he leaned back into his palms. deep inhale through the nose. exhale through the mouth. repeat. repeat. repeat.

when chris opened his eyes again, his gaze fell upon a small plant hung at the base of the high sconce in front of him. white berries, round green leaves… mistletoe? he glanced down the hallway and noticed one strung upon each light fixture, smiling to himself at the mental image of their head maid, tiny woman that she was, securing them in place on her toetips.

and then the idea struck him.

⁺⁎˚

“chris!” y/n laughed, a warmth blooming in his chest at the sound, “where are we going?”

his fingers squeezed hers tighter as he shot her a mischievous grin over his shoulder, not letting up on his pace. anyone passing by would think they were in some kind of emergency, the way he was pulling her through the castle.

“jus‘ trust me, kid,” he assured her. “you’re gonna like it.”

y/n knew better than to pry. but when they arrived at their destination, it’s safe to say she was a bit confused. she turned to look at him quizzically, leaning back against the wall on her palms.

“it’s… a hallway.”

chris smiled, a playful glint in his eye. he took a step forward. “mhm.”

“don’t get me wrong, it’s a lovely hallway. i like the wallpaper.”

“that’s nice, baby,” he mused as he stalked closer to her, his hands landing on her hips, sliding up to her waist and squeezing the flesh there through the fabric of her dress. she couldn’t help but notice his gaze fixated on her lips.

“it’s just that i was about to grab a slice of the yule log, and—”

the girl’s sentence stopped short in a gasp as chris pushed her suddenly flush against the wall. he inched closer and closer to her face, until their lips were just barely brushing, teasing her. too anxious to move, she felt her eyes slip shut, anticipating the moment he’d bridge the gap between them.

but it never came. instead, she was startled to feel his thumb and forefinger trap her jaw gently in their grasp, ever so carefully tilting her head up at the dim light above them.

“open your eyes f’me, y/n,” chris whispered lowly in her ear. “what d’you see?”

it only took a second to adjust to the light before she realized. “chris…,” her palms found purchase on the prince’s chest, his heartbeat faint and his breathing even beneath his suit jacket. she was comforted by the feeling. “someone might see.”

a flicker of something unrecognizable flashed across his features before he spoke again, “i don’t care. please, let me.”

“you could get in so much trouble. you’re already pushing your luck, inviting a peasant to a ball. what would your parents think?”

chris’s brow furrowed as he traced his fingertips along her exposed collarbone. “you’re not a peasant. everyone gets a plus one, there’s no rule about who you can or can’t invite. my parents know you, and they love you. they know you’re my best friend, ’s not suspicious, i promise.”

y/n wasn’t quite convinced. they’d been so careful… was it really worth the risk?

“no one ever comes down here,” he tried again. “please. let me kiss you. let me kiss you, baby.”

her shy smile was all the confirmation he needed before his lips were on hers, soft but hungry, as though he physically couldn’t hold back any longer. his left arm wrapped around her waist as his right snaked up to hold the back of her head, flexing his muscles to pull her in as close as possible.

“angel,” he sighed against her, out of breath but going in for more, “god, you’re an angel.”

a stifled while fell from her lips involuntarily, and she had to pull away before things escalated. chris wouldn’t let her get far, though, resting his forehead against hers as they caught their breath together.

“thank you,” he whispered, savoring the moment he knew had to end soon. “dunno what i would’ve done if i had to wait any longer. i might’ve kidnapped you.”

she giggled, a melody to chris’s ears. “you kinda did, your highness.”

chris pinched her arm at the title, earning a small yelp in return.

“oh, by the way… i think matt might be onto us.”

[ghostgirl-22]

a mistletoe artrick story? 👀

Thanks so much for the prompt my lovely 💜 This ended up being completely SFW so I’m either very sorry or you’re welcome. Either way I hope you like it <3

—-

It happened once last year at the winter formal. Patrick won prince or king or something like that so he already had a lot of attention on him which meant people were watching when he pulled Art to the side to ask about something… Art barely remembers what it was. What he remembers is that they ended up under the mistletoe.

“Guess what? Now you have to kiss.” Someone shouts followed by a lot of laughter and chatting.

Art isn’t used to being the center of attention and as embarrassed as he is there is a small, small distant part of him that likes it. Still he doesn’t want this kind of attention. He wasn’t even going to do it but someone said it’d be bad luck not to. Come to think of it that someone was probably Patrick.

Art doesn’t need anymore bad luck. So he lets Patrick pull him closer, wearing one of his goofy grins.

“It’s the kiss you’ve all been waiting for,” Patrick announces to their classmates. Most people are laughing but some are actually cheering. Patrick’s girlfriend Madison rolls her eyes but she’s smiling.

It’s theatrical, Art knows that. And Patrick knows how to put on a show. Still, Art shivers a little as their lips touch. It’s probably nothing. Patrick has soft lips. But it’s nothing. Everyone laughs it off makes the obligatory vaguely homophobic jokes and they continue to dance all night.

None of that’s the weird part actually. What’s weird is what happens the next month. Patrick does well on an exam he was dreading. “I got a B+” he exclaims and he kisses Art straight on the lips.

Art rubs his mouth idly but Patrick looks like he’s already forgotten about it and he runs to call his mom. So Art forgets about it too.

And then in February. Valentine’s Day, actually. Art got a bunch of Hershey’s kisses from his new girlfriend Christina. Patrick sneaks one off his desk and later says, “I guess I owe you.” And he cradles Art’s head and plants a kiss right on his mouth. He grins after as Art stares at him dumbfounded and shrugs. “Kiss for a kiss.” And without another word he leaves to go wash up for his date with Madison.

It gets to be normal after that. Their first doubles win of the tennis season. Patrick kissing him right on the court. Just so quick you wouldn’t think twice about it. But Art can’t stop thinking about it.

He gets a kiss on his birthday. Twelve midnight Patrick crawls into his bed while they’re finishing homework.

When he gets his acceptance letter from Stanford. “I don’t think you should go but good job.”

When Christina breaks up with him for Tim Lyons because “he’s just a better player.” Patrick’s making a face, “Tim? Really?”

On the Fourth of July. Hidden away in the boat house on Patrick’s family’s estate.

And the kisses are changing too. Sometimes it’s short and sweet. Other times it’s slow and intimate. Sometimes Art thinks he might have feelings all tied up in this.

They kiss like that, in front of Tashi Duncan. Just the most beautiful girl Art’s ever seen. She seems to be into it— the kissing. And poor Madison is history after that.

He hates Patrick a little bit after the junior US Open final. But that doesn’t keep him from letting Patrick kiss him something quick before they go out to search for beer.

By September they’re kissing in Arts bed just because it’s Tuesday.

On Halloween Art can’t recall what it was like before the kissing became normal. Patrick visiting Tashi at Stanford but staying in Arts room and before they all go to some dumb Halloween Party. Patrick kisses him. They meet Tashi for drinks and he kisses her.

Art’s in this weird place where he doesn’t really know who he’s more jealous of.

It’s December when they go out to eat at some themed restaurant to celebrate the end of their first semester. Patrick’s ordering drinks with his fake ID. Art leans next to him on the bar. Tashi taps his shoulder and points up at the feature where wineglasses are hanging and she’s smirking at the mistletoe draped just above them. “Guess that means you two have to kiss right?” She says.

Patrick grins at Art and Art feels his skin heating up. It’s some kind of kismet obviously.

“Oh come on,” Tashi teases, gently rubbing Art’s shoulder. “It’s not that big of a deal. Cause I know for a fact you’ve done it before.”

[jpegarchives]

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐎 𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏, 𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐂𝐄 — 𝐑. 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐀

rintarō suna x f!reader

rintarō suna’s guide on how to ruin a friendship, twice

cw ; none for this chapter

𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦.𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁

preface

upon picking up this book, most people would be wondering, why would anyone ruin a friendship, not once, but twice?

while it’s true that friendships are thought to be unbreakable safe havens, bonds that can withstand the test of time, it’s often the people closest to us that hurt us the most. maybe it’s because we just them to stay that their actions cut us the deepest and hurt us the most.

dear reader, this guide isn’t for the faint of heart. it’s for those who have loved fiercely, perhaps too fiercely to the point of destroying what once was thought to be indestructible. this guide is for those who are looking for second chances, a way to amend the broken, a way to rebuild something stronger.

and if you're lucky—or unlucky—enough, you might just discover that ruining what once was can lead to something far more than friendship.

so, welcome to rintaro suna's guide on how to ruin a friendship, twice. let's get started.

THE SUMMER RINTARŌ SUNA TURNED SIX might have been the most memorable summer of his life.

Maybe it was because it was the first summer he can still fully recall down to the smell of the sweet grass of the field near his house where all the neighborhood kids played, or maybe it was because of the little (h/c) haired girl that moved across the street from him, but either way, it was a summer he’s sure he’ll never forget.

Rintarō Suna has never been an expressive person, even in his youth. Despite many attempts, the most anyone (his family included) could coax out of him would be a sigh or a roll of his eyes. He wasn’t much of a ‘talker’ either, preferring to stay silent and let others steer conversations while he would just nod along, sometimes he’d even throw in a word or two.

The summer after he turned six also turned out to be the summer he learned to become a little more expressive and just a smidge more talkative, all thanks to the little (h/c) haired girl who moved in across the street.

Y/N L/N DIDN’T KNOW MANY PEOPLE in the area she moved to in July of 2010, all she knew was that her father had gotten a new job and her family would have to move.

Moving from one side of Aichi prefecture to the other had some minor consequences: moving houses, changing schools, and making new friends. Y/n L/n loved her friends from her old school, and making friends was always a daunting challenge. Especially when you’re six years old, and starting in the third term as opposed to the first like everyone else.

But for Y/n L/n, it seemed as though making friends was akin to breathing for her. It was almost as if she was a people magnet, drawing others towards her like moths to flames.

And Rintarō Suna was the biggest moth to her flame.

a/n ; this is unedited/not revised or proofread teehee

taglist is open! link to be added ; @massacremars @archelangeli @sahrii @noleavemealone777 @kr1nqu @bbybibi @tanuki-tanuki @esunarint @eggyrocks @pookalicious-hq @sunathnker @mybelovedvi @hanadulsetaad @whorefornoodles @bertqut1 @saltypuffin1040 @choizzn @loveyislost @gigiiiiislife @lulumallow @thesleepinglion @kinichval @heartmaddie @sunarots

[greatcometdeservedbetter]

Nothing makes me feel more like the Joker than knowing that Tamora Pierce has an entire novel about Tris at Lightbridge that will just… never be published? Apparently?

Anyway, as a poor substitute, here’s a list of things my brain has decided happens in that book:

Tris attends under a pseudonym, as planned, and no one knows about her connection to Niko or anything about her life at Winding Circle. She is one of many children of middling merchant families in her class.

Due to a mixup, she is assigned a roommate. For the first time in a long time, Tris has no access to power or connections and so she has to put up with it.

Most of her professors find her difficult to work with because she does not limit her study of their subjects to the traditional curriculum. Maybe one or two professors pay her special attention and praise, enough that her classmates are made aware of how talented she is.

Despite having no information about her except her milquetoast background, her classmates still find her strange and difficult. Her unexplained talent and advancement for a freshman leaves her isolated from her peers.

Gradually, Tris finds herself writing to her siblings less and less because she isn’t sure how to keep her unhappiness out of the message.

Making things worse is the roommate, who turns out to have a remarkably similar kind of backstory to Tris. Maybe she’s an orphan or a scholarship kid; her magic was definitely discovered later in life after a lot of hardship. Everyone in the school embraces her and finds her endlessly charming despite her social sort comings.

Poor Tris sits in the corner of their room while her roommate goes on about all the parties and dinners and whatnot their classmates have invited her to.

Only one student really tries to befriend her. He doesn’t have a name but he looks like a young Tom Hopper (Black Sails/Umbrella Academy). A super outgoing young mage from a working class family, he’s very adept at physical magical workings and is always outside doing like pushups and stuff where people can see him. He’s not used to an academic setting, though, and anytime he sees his pull ups catch Tris’ attention, he always calls out to her and sometimes asks for her help with classwork. She finds him annoying but still helps him when be asks because no one else talks to her.

She doesn’t know how he got into the university because he is. Shockingly bad at magic.

At one point, Nico visits. He tries to keep a low profile, but some of her classmates notice them spending time together. It immediately becomes the only thing anyone talks to her about, which is the opposite of what she wants so she starts being extra prickly and avoidant to make them stop.

This goes on for a while. Lonely Tris avoids her classmates and focuses on her studies. Presumably some kind of mystery is afoot and she can throw herself into that instead of wallowing in her misery.

At the midway point, she gets more visitors. Possibly all three of her siblings, but At minimum Briar.

For the sake of moving along, let’s say it’s just Briar. They connect mentally way before he arrives and any annoyance he has at her lack of communication dispels when he feels her frustration and sadness through the bond. He rolls up ready to be her social lubricant.

He introduces himself as her brother, never mind why they don’t look alike, and easily blends into the crowd at school for a few weeks. He makes friends effortlessly, gets invited to all kinds of parties and events, and even shows off a bit of his ambient magic during classes.

This infuriates Tris. They have a fight about it shortly before he leaves. Briar rightly points out that all the work she’s doing to lie about so many big parts of her life is preventing her from seeing the obvious - that many of her classmates have been trying really hard to make friends with her.

Her roommate only told her about things she was invited to in order to gauge if Tris would also be interested and to try and invite her along! And the boy constantly doing pushups in front of her actually has better grades than he lets on because he’s looking for excuses to spend time with her and all she seems to do is study. People only asked about Nico because he was the first concrete bit of information about her that anyone had!

It takes Tris a bit of time to process this, and she will have broken some bridges beyond repair already, but she does eventually see it and slowly starts to reach out.

Her circle (ha) stays small, but her life at Lightsbridge vastly improves once she starts seeing her classmates’ bids for connection for what they are.

As she gets comfortable with people, she gets key gossip and information about the school that she had previously been missing out on. Now the mystery becomes solvable.

It was probably whatever authority figure was nice to her in the beginning. Secret, asshole me too type behavior maybe.

She ends her first year better than she started it, with a good bunch of pals to help her out going forward, and a lot more confidence in her abilities.

Maybe she visits home over the summer or maybe we cut to after her graduation, but we see her return to Emelan at the end of the book

Whoever didn’t get to see her during the plot has a chance to hug and scold her for being standoffish. Then Briar’s like “and anyway, that guy who’s obviously in love with you asked if he could stay with us for a few weeks while he gets settled at his new job, and I told him sure”

And Tris is like “What guy? No one at school was in love with me.”

And then knock knock it’s the beefy-but-smart guy at the door and Tris is like “oh shit”

End book

[itspileofgoodthings]

it’s the way Ryan Gosling plays Ken’s feelings for Barbie for me. because the feelings are unreal and fake in the way of a doll but they’re also intensely real in the way of his actual personality/who he actually is.

[fiapple]

i'm getting towards the end of the skypeia arc, & i'd like to say just how much i adore the way the female strawhats have been treated.

just... every aspect of how the way their characters have been previously contextualized influences the story-line is treated with a masterful amount of consideration. we're given so many layers to both of them that enrich not only their characters specifically, but the arc, and the one piece world as a whole. without nami & robin having their specific skills, and their specific values, without those being built upon, the story would have come to a halt.

you could not have skypeia without nami & robin being who they are as individuals. not just because they never would've gotten there without nami, but also because the way these women think is itself foundational to the machinations of the arc as a whole.

to be totally upfront, if you think any other strawhats were more central to the skypeia arc than nami & robin were you are full-on fucking lying to yourself.

[swordmaid]

having Thoughts about astarion currently and particularly abt him being undead as in I like the idea that he forgets to blink sometimes, and mimic breathing, and his skin is very pallid, his hair is a dull shade of white/grey and his red eyes looks kind of murky and there is no light in them. also like the idea that his face - even tho there’s wrinkles - looks too smooth, almost a mask, like hes very striking in an uncanny way, and if he keeps himself still he looks like a statue of some sort. and he paints colour on himself to look more alive but the pigments sits above his skin, not sinking in, and the only time that his complexion looks flushed and alive is when he’s feeding on something. most esp if he’s full and sated..! like for that brief moment his cheeks are flushed and he looks alive and thriving and panting and his eyes look more vibrant as if there’s life in there but then it disappears gradually. post canon astarion who’s no longer bound by cazador’s orders and who’s more or less free to eat whoever he wants looks more alive than bg3 spawn astarion (I think he is so malnourished in that era) and he has a slight colour on his cheeks bc he’s keeping himself fed but not enough to look fully alive, only just. think ascended astarion looks more alive than spawn though only bc I don’t think he’ll deny his whims and he’ll just eat whoever whenever while spawn has more restraint.

anyway I was also thinking of the possibility that spawn kind of drops that facade of a living creature, and he doesn’t bother putting on his pigments and makeup as much, and he uses less of his perfumes especially when he’s galavanting off to who knows where. maybe in settings if he’s visiting the city or meeting new people he’ll put his perfumes and makeup again - but sometimes he doesn’t, he doesn’t think he needs it. I also think about shri’iia liking his decay corpse smell hehe maybe she’ll find it familiar considering she grew up in the braeryn and there’s probably a corpse dumped in every gutter she’s like oh you smell like home 🥰

[bi-writes]

an eye for an eye | knight!ghost x f!reader

your husband bends to your will. men must learn from difficult lessons how far that bending goes.

type: a continuation of a hand for a hand, but can be read stand-alone (11.6k)

cw: 1600s au, dark!ghost, reader described as curvier/plus-sized, graphic depictions of war + violence, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, simon "i'd do anything for my wife no matter the devasting consequences" riley (18+)

Your husband has an insatiable appetite. Such a big man he is; he towers over you, so much so that you must tip your head back always to look up at him. You had to make many arrangements in your house to accommodate his hunger–a pantry stocked full of eggs and less fabric for your skirts.

Your house isn’t like others. Neither you nor Ghost have ever lived in luxury. When he showed you your home for the first time, you had shaken your head–you didn’t believe that such a large place was supposed to be yours, and even now, sometimes you feel like a stranger, out of place when the maids ask you what you want for supper or where you’d like to take your afternoon tea. You don’t like the fuss, the asking, the women that curtsy when you come near, concentrated over the creases in your skirts or the loose thread of your sleeve or the wispy hairs that fall out of your braids. You are told all the time that you must behave like a duchess, that you must poise yourself with your new title and your new money, and you must do the things that duchesses do–but no one says the same to your husband.

He is still allowed to sleep in the barracks. Lick the blood off his gauntlets. Polish his sword in the dirt. He’s still allowed to be everything that you cannot be anymore, he still lives the life he had before.

He still kills; and he is still very, very good at it.

Your queen told you in a letter that the king is very pleased. Ever since your union, Ghost has been quite the conqueror. Bloodthirsty and very determined, your husband has been taking his men across the water. He is not any less impressive off land. Not even the pirates have tried to negotiate; they bend the knee or taste the salt water. You breathe shakily when you read your queen’s letters—her praise for your husband’s conquests, how blessed your family will be and how valuable you are to the crown, how grateful she is that Ghost is no longer a fiend in court but rather a little more polite and a little quieter.

All for your sake. Ghost’s name is now your own, and he refuses to embarrass you now that you have it.

You won’t lie; the bodies that Ghost has stacked since you’ve been wed do not scare you. He’s doing it for you. He has never said it out loud, never told you so, but you know it. He wants to show you what kind man that he is, what kind of soldier—you know he’s trying to prove himself worthy. If he killed a thousand men to have you, how many will he slaughter to keep you?

He sends you letters of his own. Not many, but he does send letters, and while Ghost seems to be ineloquent and entirely too brutish, he has quite the voice when he writes.

To my wife,

The sun falls quicker here. I’d like to come home. Tell me of your day, and I will tell you of mine. There were a fleet of ships that came to meet us at dawn. When we sank three, they begged for us to spare the rest.

I have you to think about now. So I burned them.

Simon

A poet, your beloved.

He signs his real name in his letters. Your eyes skim over most of it–you don’t even blink when he tells you what he does to them. Sometimes he writes in great detail about the screams of a hundred souls, the way burning flesh smells, the taste of dirt in a new place when you know it is finally yours. He doesn’t like having secrets. He tells you all his thoughts, even if they might scare you, because you are his wife, and he has discovered quite quickly that you have been cut from the same cloth.

Even when he is home, and he tells you these things all over again, he can’t help the way his cock hardens when you merely blink and ask him if he has added any scars to his collection.

Ravenous, naughty little duchess, and you are all his. He knows he picked well–he knows, he knows he wasn’t wrong when he saw you across the throne room hiding behind his queen, he knows now that he was right about what he saw in your eyes.

You do hate when he’s away. You’re not used to the maids helping you dress, and you secretly abhor the help. That is why when you hear the shuffle of your house early in the morning, your heart thuds in your chest knowing he’s home.

The staff get antsy when Simon is around. He is very good at keeping an estate for someone that has never had to or ever been taught to, but he leaves the responsibilities with you and only you every time he goes. He doesn’t trust anyone else to do it, and every time he comes back, he makes you sit on one big thigh as he teaches you something new that you need to remember for when he goes away. He demands much of those he employs, and they are eager to please him. Whether it is because they respect him or are afraid of him, you aren’t sure.

Perhaps it’s both.

You sit up as the bedroom door opens. You smile, big and wide and sleepy as he steps into the room. He shuts the door with his boot, slipping his hood off, and you sigh as he grips the clasp of his mask and unhooks it. He tosses it onto the floor, bare-faced, and as he makes his way towards the bed, he sheds the rest of his clothes until he’s completely naked.

You cannot stop yourself from the shaky breath you take. He is all muscle and fat, strong and entirely too scary, but it’s hard to focus on what he really is when he stands before you like this. He has fat thighs, big shoulders, carved muscle of intense labor around his middle and along his biceps. He has large hands with calloused palms and split knuckles, and your eyes meet his own as he comes closer. He’s so gorgeous, even with a face like that. He has a long scar that stretches from one brow to his lower jaw, another that cuts his nose and splits his lip, but those eyes are dark and lovely, and you can’t help the warmth that comes over you when he catches you staring at him, closer, right to his cock that hangs heavy between his legs.

Just as he begins to lower himself onto the bed, you hold out a hand, giggling.

“Simon, if you think you are getting into this bed without a proper bath, you’re mistaken!” You laugh, and he raises a brow.

“Mmm…” He smacks his lips together. “Tha’ right, my lady?” He clicks his tongue. “This is my bed. ’s oll mine. Every blanket…every pillow…” He grips your ankle from under the covers and yanks you towards him. “And every part of you.”

You giggle again, shaking your head, “Please, Simon!” You push him away with your toes. “They only changed the sheets yesterday. You’ll dirty them…” You flutter your lashes. “Will you bathe if I join you?”

He grins wide, licking over his teeth.

“Can’t refuse an offer like tha’.”

You hold out your hand for him, and he takes it gently. You watch as he brings your knuckles towards his mouth, and you bite back a smile when he decides to kiss each one, slow. He tugs finally, pulling you up, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he hoists you up into his arms. You would worry about your weight normally, but Simon holds you so easily, barely even a grunt as he wraps your legs around his middle. You don’t waste another second, cupping his cheeks in your hands and kissing him softly.

It’s never just a kiss with Simon. He slides one of his hands up your back, into your hair, and you whine as he tips your head back just enough to slip his tongue into your mouth. Simon doesn’t just kiss, he consumes. What he did to get back to you, the things he endured, the places he has seen and the bodies he has buried and burned and scattered across the places he now calls country, it’s always to get back to this place.

To you.

“How’s my boy?” He asks when you pull away. He carries you to another room, to where the tub sits, and he rings a bell by the door to call the maids in. You snatch a robe off a hook and cover him with it as he sits with you, but all he does is put a few fingers under your chin and make you look at him again. “Oi. Asked ya question, luv.”

Your lip wobbles a little, and you look away.

“I…”  You wait until the maids have gone to fetch hot water to tell him. “I bled while you were gone. I…”  You smooth your hands over the robe, distracting yourself. “I’m…I’m sorry, Simon.”

You close your eyes as he leans close, resting his forehead against yours, and you shake a little as he lets out a warm breath against your lips. He moves a warm hand over your soft stomach, cupping you there, and you lean your head back a little at the tender touch.

“It will happen,” he says finally, and your mouth opens to respond, but he sticks his thumb between your lips to shut you up. He doesn’t want to hear you blame yourself. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his, for not being here with you, for not be able to take care of you. You give in, suckling on the salt of him, and he grits his teeth as he watches you. “I know. Seen it in m’dreams.”

Simon has dreams. Lots of dreams, but he tells you that they are not dreams, they are glimpses into something that has already happened. When you asked if he was some kind of seer, the kind that the king used to have at parties, Simon doesn’t laugh.

He says the dreams are why he knows he won’t die. Why he is never afraid, because he knows somewhere behind his eyes what’s to come even if he didn’t see the entire painting of it. It is why he knew he would marry you; it is why he paid you so much attention, why he knew he would win his battles, why he always knows whose blood it is in his mouth because he has tasted their death before and relishes in the knowing of it all, in the certainty.

It’s never I think, it is always I know, and Simon is nothing if he is not the most honest man that you know.

So if he says you will have his babe, it is as good as truth. As green as the grass grows beneath his feet, as blue as his sky, and as red as the blood that is caked underneath his nails.

When the tub is filled with water, you let Simon sink into it first. You kneel beside it, picking up a glass of oil, pouring it into your palms before sinking your hands into his hair. It’s gotten longer since he left, in need of a cut, but you smile when he leans his head back into your shoulder. You can feel his content as he relaxes into you, and you admire his physique as you use the warm water and scrub the mud and grime off of him.

“I missed you, husband,” you whisper, and he only lets you massage his hair for a few more moments before he grips you by the wrist and tugs you forward, right into the bath. “Simon!” you laugh, “my night dress—oh!—it’s ruined!”

“Too far away,” he mutters, practically ripping the silk off of you as he tosses it besides the bath. “Mmm…” He cups your breasts with two big hands, smoothing his thumbs over your nipples, and you whine a little as he pulls at them just enough to make them stiffen. “Y’should be naked when I come home,” he says lowly. “I’ll soil y’r bloody gown next time, m’lady.”

You giggle, and he smiles. A real smile. As real as he’ll ever give anyone, maybe the only one that anyone has ever even seen. He has never shown his face in court, and while it angers the women and irks the men, you revel in the fact that all of this is only for you.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

You kiss him softly. The water sloshes, warm and inviting, and sometimes you forget your life used to be anything but joy. A year ago, you would not believe that you would be here, titled, wealthy, in a stone room lit by candles bathing with a blood hungry ghost.

A year ago, you trembled whenever he looked at you. You cowered when you heard his footsteps. What a stupid little girl you had been. What a fool. She had no idea what she could have, the kinds of things she could hold in her hand.

Real power wasn’t being able to command a room with your words. Real power was being able to say anything and have it be believed as truth. Real power was making someone look in one direction and have them see what you see, even if what you see isn’t real.

He lays you down in your bed afterward and eats. Your wet hair soaks the sheets, but you can’t seem to be really bothered as he fits your legs over his shoulders and bends you at the waist, his mouth suctioned to your clit as he eats you slowly. One of his hands is spread out over your tummy, the other you can hear making a squelch as he fists his own cock. It’s slow and methodical, and he slides his tongue between your folds firm, catching what dribbles from you on the tip of his tongue before he swallows it and leans in for more.

He has eaten you in nearly every room in your house. Frightened the cooks tossing you onto the dining table, given a servant a scare as he ducked under your skirts in the library, had the gardeners fleeing as he dropped you onto the grass near the lake and disappeared with a frenzy to eat your cunt during sunrise. It’s maddening, the kind of need that Simon requires, but it’s hard to refuse when you feel so warm and bubbly and happy after he’s finished. A pampered princess you are, never lifting a finger, only awake long enough when he’s home to eat until you’re full and cum until you fall asleep again.

Maybe that’s why you’re not pregnant yet. Simon likes to be here, between your thighs, mouth fixed on your wet pussy until he’s practically exhausted himself with a sore jaw and lax tongue.

He kisses you sloppy after. Licking into your mouth, practically spitting onto your tongue, wanting you to taste—tastes so good, luvvie, don’t ya see, yeah?—wanting you to know why he’s so eager to be on his knees all the time.

You sniffle, a little dizzy, shaking your head.

“’s not what I really want,” is all you whimper, and he nods, because he knows, he always knows.

“I know, luv. I know wot ya really need.”

“I must be broken,” you sob, cradling his face in your hands, and he shakes his head.

“Not broken,” Simon assures you. He speaks so surely that it’s hard not to believe him. “It wasn’t time.”

“You can’t see the future, Simon! You don’t know!” You cry, and he snarls a little, shaking his head again.

“You listen t’me,” he growls. You shake a little as he grabs your face with one hand, fixing your jaw under his grip as he holds onto you firmly. “Wot I say goes. Y’r my wife, so listen t’me, and listen t’me good. Y’r not broken. Not time. Say it back t’me.”

Your lip trembles, and he rattles your head a little.

“Say it,” he snaps, and you hiccup.

“It’s not time,” you whisper, and he plants a fat kiss onto your tear-soaked lips.

“Just need my cock, luv,” he murmurs. “Tha’s oll. Just need me t’fuck it outta ya.”

You nod, pressing your face to his, and he tuts, reaching down and spreading your legs wide to accommodate him between them as he lays over you.

“’s oll y’need,” he repeats, and you nod again.

You have to take another bath in the same morning; and this time, you weren’t able to walk there.

You like when Simon is home because it’s quiet. The only one that dotes on you here is Simon. The maids do not dress you or do your hair or moisturize your skin. It’s always Simon.

You smile at him in the mirror as you sit at your vanity. He has a brush in one hand, and he’s using it delicately to detangle your hair how you like. His hands are practiced and gentle, and when he finishes, he leans over you as he starts to part your hair to braid it. He did not have sisters, but his mother had him always do her hair after she lost the use of her hands with age. You don’t know where his mother is, but you assume she is not here anymore, because he never invites you to meet her.

He oils your skin. He slips the robe off of you, revealing your damp skin from the bath, and he slathers oil in his hands before using it to soften your skin. He takes his time, smoothing those big hands over your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. You tilt your head back when he warms your breasts, squeezing and fondling your tits. He murmurs in your ear the entire time, and he has to fuck you with his fingers to quiet you when he stops because just his hands on your tits has you wet all over again.

He dresses you, too. Helps you slip into your undergarments, fastens the cage for your skirts over your hips. He ties them skillfully, and after he layers your skirts over the farthingale, he gets you into your corset. It’s intimate as he does this. Even with your wide skirt, he comes closer, over your shoulder, and he tugs at the laces at your back, pulling it tight with firm grunts. You sigh when he buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hand skimming over your breasts as they sit nice and perky between stiff fabric and whalebone.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, unnerving…the way ya look…”

You close your eyes, “S-Simon, please…I’m already dressed…”

He chuckles, “I know. I know.”

But when he has to leave again, you nearly come with him. You fasten his armor for him, help him slip each piece of leather on and click every piece of metal into place. You tie his cloak and slip his mask on, and you try and duck your head when you flip his hood up, but he catches you, tilting your chin up.

He huffs when he sees your face. Tears sliding down your cheeks, lips wet with them, eyes all glassy and red. He draws you up onto your toes, pressing his mouth to yours through the mask, and you hold onto him tightly, digging your nails into his chest armor and threatening to not let go.

“I want to go.“

“No.”

“Simon, let me go,” You gasp, begging, gripping his hood in firm fists and not caring that his armor is cutting into your front. “Let me go with you, I can’t do this anymore, I want to go, I can do it.”

You aren’t sure if Simon underestimates you. You think it’s more that he does not want you to see him in a place where he is most true. Where he wears the least of a disguise. He does not know he wears it the least with you, and that you have already seen his blood and how it curdles under his skin. You like it that way. You like him angry…and mean…and terrible. You like him when his sword is dirty and his armor needs polishing and his mind thinks of nothing else besides war. He should know this by now. He should know that you see him and see what he is even more than his king, more than his men.

He couldn’t scare you, even if he tried.

“War is not where women go,” Simon snaps. His tone is harsh, even for you, and you stiffen when he grips you by the jaw and rattles your head a little. “Especially not one like you, my love. War would eat ya, eat ya fuckin’ whole. Look at ya…” He huffs, deep, sliding that gloved hand down your throat to slip it beneath the neckline of your dress and fondle your breast with a firm grip. “Beautiful. Meant for my lips…for these dresses…meant to be held in my hands, not bleed from stray arrows, because tha’ is surely the least of wot they would do t’ya if they knew ya were my wife. Now ya will wipe these tears, ‘n see me off, and then ya will come back inside like a good girl, ‘n you will wait for me here until I come back.”

Your bottom lip trembles, and you scowl up at him. Not indifference, but frustration, and Simon doesn’t think it suits you.

“I’m sick of waiting for you, Simon,” you spit. “It’s all I ever do, wait. Wait for you to come back, alive or dead, I never know. And don’t say you do this for country, that is a lie.” You shove him backwards, but he barely budges when your hands touch his chest, a rigid wall that does not give. “You do it because you like it. You’re a bloodthirsty dog, and all you do is bend to our king’s will.”

A lie, but you tell it anyways, because you want something, and he will not give it to you.

“That is my duty.”

“Your duty is to me,” you snap. “Kings come and go, but I will not.” Simon stills. He glares down at you from behind his mask, and perhaps this might terrify his men, but that you are not. You are his wife, and you are protected by that title alone. The only man to ever lay a hand on you would not live to see another second, himself included. “Now you will let me join you, or so help me God, Simon, I will not be here when you return.”

You do not expect the full-bellied laugh that leaves him. His armor shakes with him, and you grind your teeth, narrowing your eyes. He uses his thumb to force his mask up, and then he cups the back of your head and draws you in for a sloppy kiss. You resist at first, but when he feeds you his tongue, you melt. You kiss him back, letting him draw you closer, and you sigh as he tangles his fingers into your hair and cradles you with those big hands.

There is nothing more to say. Simon neither confirms nor denies, but you taste it in his mouth, his devotion. Not wrong, not right, but just so–he has many responsibilities, but you are the only one that will remain the same. One day, his king will die, and he will serve another, but the space you have made beside him will never change. Even when you die, because he knows you will go before him, there will never be someone else to fill it. You and you only, the woman he found and made his, the one he demanded lest he kill his own country for it, it will always be you. Soft and sweet, you are, but the Lord knew Simon could only have one woman, and he made it be you; the one spitfire enough to defy her own king because she trusted his love enough for it.

Would you commit treason to save his life? Would you watch a king die if it meant your beloved lived? 

Would he?

He thinks about what you have said when he takes his fleet across the water. He runs his tongue over his teeth behind his mask, breathing deep when he thinks about your proclamations of duty. Of change. Of what remains when other things move, of the kind of life that waits for him when he comes and goes with a king’s order. He thinks about how easily he is taken away from you, and he knows there is truth in what you feel. It is not really Simon that sacrifices, it is what he leaves behind, and that is you.

It’s never angered him before. He had accepted the fact, as early as your wedding day, that he would leave and come back, then leave again. It has always been the way of his life, come desire or not, so it bothers him that of all the things that surprised him in his life, it would be missing someone that shocked him the most.

Missing his wife. Missing the serene perfection of one woman, and the perfect place between her soft thighs. Every day that he finds himself between them is the best day of his life, he reckons, so now he feels bitter about staring at a freezing ocean amongst his men because he will go weeks without her.

Her. Her. Her.

He is bitter, yes, until he is not.

It comes in a letter from a messenger on horseback. They have been stationed in a foreign land for weeks now, watching slowly as the stone walls of a castle at their front crumples day after day from the stones filled with powder that ignite what is wood and break what is rock. The letter is sealed with wax, with the motif of a snake. It is given directly to Simon, whose name is scribbled in the letter, and when he reads it, he tastes ichor and smoke.

So the great phantom has come to seal my fate. I am not in the business of letting what is mine be taken. Even if you have brought your all, it won’t be taken from me.

I heard you have a beautiful new wife. I heard you paid for her in blood.

I shall do the same. I will hang your sword above our marriage bed.

Ghost is not someone that bends to the threats from foe he cannot look in the eye. Words are so empty. It is nothing like when he stands just a few meters apart from them, eyes fixed against one another, as they decide whether today they want to live or they want to die. The letter means nothing, but he’s surprised by the heat that bubbles under his ribs at the mention of his bride. He meant it when he said you were not meant for war, and that meant in this regard, too–nobody was allowed to talk about you, not like this, not ever.

When his king orders him home, Ghost crumples the note and tosses it into embers. He watches it burn, and then he orders his men to set to flame the ground around the stone walls.

So men like him can be goaded, it seems. His resolve is not as strong as he thought.

The weeks make you anxious. All you do is sit and collect dues and tell the maids which dress you want to wear and which you do not. It is peaceful and boring, and you wish Simon was here to make your days more exciting, but he is not.

His letters are the only things that keep you occupied, truly. He writes to you about war and loneliness, and you write to him about the mundane of domesticity and the ache he leaves behind. Sometimes, his letters come folded with pressed flowers he finds along the way, and you start to collect them, putting them away in small boxes or using them as bookmarks as you go through Simon’s library.

He has many books. His most loved books are those of war, of history, and you smooth your fingers over the pages he has dogeared and find comfort in reading the same words that he once did. You learn, as well. While in your studies as a girl, they made you learn arithmetic and the flowery bits of history and art, here in Simon’s house, you learn of strategy and weaponry and military tactic. Sometimes you disagree, and you write about these disagreements to Simon, and he writes back, pleased with your observations. He told you once that if you were a man, he would want you in that tent with him, beside him, deciding on which formations to take and when to strike. You responded saying that you could be that for him anyway. What did your sex have anything to do with whether you were right or wrong?

Simon agreed.

But I would never invite you here, dear wife. You have to understand that.

When your queen asks for your audience for dinner, you oblige easily; finally, you have something to do rather than add up numbers or sign a document on Simon’s behalf or read another fucking book.

You don’t want to wear all the costume your maids insist on, but you appease them after they repeatedly explain to you what your title means. With a drawn face, you let them tie your corset and layer your skirts, and you watch in the mirror as they braid your hair and drape large, obnoxious jewels over you. You grimace at the tiara they fit into your hair, and your elderly handmaid pinches your cheeks and tells you to put on a fair countenance, Your Grace, lest you make the Duke look ungrateful.

You bite your tongue from snapping at her. She should know that Simon would say nothing about your countenance; all he would do is fix whatever was bothering you until you smiled again.

You arrive early enough to have tea. Your queen is so excited to see you; she gushes when you meet her in the throne room, pulling you up from your curtsy so she can hug you tight, squealing. When you try to address her with a curt “Your Majesty,” she shakes her head, pressing her hands to your cheeks and giggling, “No need for formalities now. Call me Victoria.”

You hide your displeasure with a small smile. Now that you are no longer her lady-in-waiting, she allows you her name. Is it because she sees you more as equals, or because now you’re allowed to be somewhat of friends?

You must be some kind of friend. She sizes you up like you are one. She wears England’s colors this afternoon. A fire red dress adorned with gold accents, a dragon pin holding her shawl. She wears magnificent red and gold jewelry, but she’s looking at your dress, and you can see the slight twitch of her eye. You are wearing French lace, and she doesn’t like it. Or maybe she doesn’t like the color, the accents of navy blue and silver that you wear.

The skull motif that is woven into your tiara and printed on your coat and sewn into your dress. Does it insult her? That all your life, you wore nothing but browns and beiges and grays, were invisible to her, and now you represent your house, visit her as your guest, and bear an honorable name?

You were no one when you served her. Just a girl, no close family, no friends, just a distant uncle who gave you to the crown that hoped you could be of service. That was to be your duty for all your life–to serve the king’s wife until she wanted you no more or until she was gone. To cater to her every need and every wish, no matter the time of day or night.

Now you sit across her, more noble. Refined. Wearing a dress she despises, perhaps because she likes it more than her own.

Over tea, she gossips about the other ladies she has visit. You’ve heard this before, but you’ve never been included in the conversation. She talks to you, and she wants to hear your opinion, and you find yourself uneasy as you try to think of what to say. She is your queen, and you want her to like you. When you worked for her, you earned her favor by always warming up her jewels before she put them on, by making sure she had her tea ready in the morning at her bedside, by always holding the fan she so loved for when she inevitably had a hot flash. Now, as her friend, you weren’t exactly sure what to do. You suck in a soft breath and look at her, and then you purse your lips.

You think it best to agree with her. To be on her side. You might not be her direct servant any longer, but you still must fall under her favor. A queen’s favor can be just as powerful, especially if she occasionally has the ear of her husband.

“Well, that’s not very kind of her,” you say finally, and she laughs.

“No! She’s such a prude. I think her husband doesn’t sleep in her bed enough, if you know what I mean,” she winks at you. You giggle at that. “Speaking of husbands–” She pops another cake in her mouth. “How is yours?”

You reach up and tug at your necklace a bit, smiling nervously.

“Oh, uh…” You clear your throat, “He’s doing very well. I hear his latest campaign is quite the success. His majesty is very smart, heading for the east that way, I’m sure they will be victorious soon enough.”

Victoria smiles at the thought of her husband. His intelligence. She always used to talk to you about how many hours he worked, how she hated when he was away, how she wished he was home more so he could give her a son because she was so, so lonely.

“Wise words from the duchess, aye, my love?”

You jump a bit at the low voice from behind, and when you turn, you gasp, immediately standing and falling into a delicate curtsy. John Price waves his hand, coming further into the room, shaking his head.

“It’s alright,” he tells you. “Please, sit. You’re here as my guest.”

You stand and lift your head, trying to relax. You take a seat, smiling nervously, and Victoria smiles giddily at her husband. When he bends to kiss her cheek, she fawns, reaching for his hand and squeezing it before taking another piece of tart and eating it. John hums before motioning for one of the staff to fill your cup again with tea. He eyes you curiously, taking in your appearance. You sit up at that, performatively brushing off over the skull pattern on your corset. John runs his tongue over his teeth, smoothing a big palm down his wife’s long coils of hair.

“Since you’re here, I’d like a word, if that’s alright,” John says to you. His tone carries a little more authority now, and Victoria sighs, whining a little.

“John, please, she’s my friend. Can’t it wait–”

“That wasn’t a question, Victoria,” John bites. Her face falls a little. She swallows and tucks her hands into her lap. You’re reminded as you look at the slight wobble of her lip that there is no one truly above John Price, not even her. You keep your face neutral, but if you were invisible, you’d pity her.

What a shame her husband sees her as less than. How embarrassing. Your Simon would never. Your Simon waits until you finish speaking before speaking himself. Your husband kneels to take off your shoes, your husband tears your skirts to get a taste of you, your husband used his teeth to sever a man’s throat just to have your hand.

What did John Price do to get his wife? Who did John Price kill to have her hand? How many bruises did he earn around his knees on their wedding night from eating her out? As many as Simon, whose knees were black and blue by morning?

No, you suppose not. How unfortunate. How pathetic.

Victoria picks up her skirt and stands, pasting a big smile on her face. It doesn’t reach her eyes, and you can see the way her hands shake a little as she scurries off. She scowls as soon as she turns away from John, clearly annoyed.

“I’ll go check on dinner,” she says, but it is soft and unenthusiastic.

When she goes, the room falls quiet. At the nod of John’s head, the staff leave, and you keep still in your seat as John sits across from you, picking up one of the cakes in front of him and breaking off a piece to busy himself. He keeps his eyes on his task of cutting up the cake in small pieces, focused on his hands and how they work. You watch him carefully, steeling yourself.

You anticipate a conversation between man and woman, not a king and his lesser.

“Simon’s been away for some time. I bet that’s difficult for you.”

You straighten your posture, realizing what this conversation will be. By his tone, John seems to think you a bored, stupid housewife, perhaps. Uneducated. A woman, no thoughts in her head. You let your face relax, and you fold your hands in your lap. Maybe now is the time John should learn who you are and who you are not.

What you have become and what you no longer are.

“I do just fine, Your Majesty,” you say finally. You pick up a spoon and drop a cube of sugar into your tea, and you stir, picking it up to take a long sip. John is curious by your content. You have a quick tongue. “I could say the same to you, couldn’t I?”

John laughs. He narrows his eyes a bit at your clever response, taking a large bite of the cake and running a cloth over his beard. His eyes sparkle a little.

“So you know.”

“Know what, Your Majesty?”

“You know I gave Simon orders. And you know he didn’t listen to me.”

You purse your lips, but he sees the shine in your eyes. The lack of surprise. His face twitches a bit, and you shake your head. You blink slow, and it irks him to see you so calm. He is your king, and Simon answers to him, and you are his wife, so you must answer, too.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“I could have your husband’s head cut off for treason for that, you’re aware, aren’t you?”

You tilt your head to the side. What an odd thing for John to say. What an odd thing for John to contemplate, since it would never come to pass. “Don’t be daft, my king. You wouldn’t want to do that.”

John slams his fist on the table, making the plates and cups rattle with his frustration, but you do not even flinch. You blink, stone-faced, and it makes his nostrils flare. He recognizes that glare, he knows it well. He has seen it before, stared it down many times in rooms just like this. Only now, he is not fighting for land, he fights for control of the one man that he has always been able to rely on. Simon has followed him into battles outnumbered by a thousand men, and only now he ignores an order? Only now he chooses something different?

“Now, let’s be civil, Your Majesty,” you say softly. You smile at him, leaning your head in your hand. “Is there something that you need from me? I have a feeling you might have encouraged this dinner just so you could see me in passing, so why don’t you just ask me what you wanted to ask me?”

John lets out a deep breath, leaning his elbows on the table, lowering his voice. He leans towards you, and you admire how blue his eyes are. John is quite a handsome king, but he does not captivate you. It has been a long time since John has tasted blood, and he lacks the edge that you crave dearly.

“I need him back here, is what I need,” John murmurs.

“My king, I couldn’t get him back here any more than you could, even if I wanted to.”

“Now who’s being daft?”

You scoff, leaning back in your chair. John is not a stupid man. He created a beast of a man, and he is trying not to poke it too hard. You shift, brushing down your skirts, and you let out a low breath.

“Why did he refuse?” You ask finally.

“What?”

“Why does he ignore your order to come back?” You ask again. “I can’t think of a lot of reasons why he would stay. So why did he ignore you?”

John clicks his tongue, smoothing a few of his fingers over his beard. He averts his eyes, looking out the tall windows, frowning a little at the grim weather. The weather is always grim here, but it irks him at the moment, makes him scowl a little harder.

“I was…informed that there was some sort of letter,” John explains. “Some threat.”

“I don’t follow. He gets lots of threats. And terrible letters.”

“Was about you this time, Your Grace.”

You close your eyes at that, shaking your head. Simon would never be so foolish as to be baited by baseless threats. He barely bats an eye when someone even in front of him draws his sword. He is so comforted by his ability to win, by his dreams and his visions that have not yet happened.

“That’s absurd,” you breathe. “Simon wouldn’t…”

John chuckles, but there is no humor there. “Wouldn’t he?”

“I still don’t understand what you expect me to do,” you roll your eyes, looking away. “Simon is…he’s not…he doesn’t listen. It’s why he’s good at this, isn’t it? He doesn’t really take orders, he’s…I…”

John has never complained before about the way Simon chooses to lead. Oftentimes, it is an order ignored that has made it so that he delivered another crown at John’s feet. Simon asks for forgiveness, not permission, and John has barely batted at eye at it. He sees Simon as some kind of distant son, but this refusal bothers him so?

John leans forward. “You need to understand something here, Simon is a rabid dog,” he spits. “And sometimes I let him off his lead, but this isn’t like anything I’ve had to deal with. I need you to call him back here.” He scoots closer. “England needs you to call him back here. To me.”

You narrow your eyes a little. England needs you to call him back? What kind of sick sense of patriotism is he trying to instill in you? John is stupider than he looks, to think a woman like you would show loyalty to country. You are loyal to your husband, and nothing else, because what has king and country ever really done for a woman like you except for dispose of you?

You wear Simon’s colors, not John’s, and you will wear them to your deathbed.

“If I do this for you, my king, then you owe me,” you whisper. He laughs again, no humor, and he picks up a goblet and fills it to the brim with wine. He drinks half before slamming it down onto the table, spilling it over his hand.

“Kings do not owe their subjects.”

“Quite right, Your Majesty,” you agree, picking up your napkin and dropping it onto the table. You stand, giving him a polite curtsy. “But I am not doing this as your subject.”

“Everything you do is as my subject.”

“You put your entire right to the throne on the back of one man,” you say softly. You are not accusing him, you’re reminding him of a truth. “Simon is why…he’s why your counsel still listens to you. He’s why your people are free from famine, why…why your taxes get paid on time, why your kingdom is still standing, no thanks to your father who wasted this place’s fortune on women and liquor.” You shake your head. “You have an eye for conquest, Your Majesty, but you lack the execution of any plan you conjure.”

You are not wrong, and John knows this, and it’s why he hasn’t spoken up yet or interrupted you. The man before, his own father, was a drunkard who spent all their money. He drank himself into the grave, and the only reason John stands before you now is because of Simon. A man who he fought beside, who he commanded, who once John’s duty became reality took up the mantle and finished what his father never could.

John would be in the next history book you read because of Simon, and it’s Simon’s name that will never be written. They do not bestow legacy to men who serve other men.

“Where…Where did you learn to speak to men this way?” John scoffs. “I am your king.”

You must have hit a soft spot. John is defensive now, and men only deflect and insult when they are cornered with the truth. They don’t like being held in front of a mirror.

“You are king because my husband made it so,” you correct him gently. “And Simon is a loyal dog, and that is good for your sake, because if he had any desire for your seat, it would be his.” You come closer, your heels sounding, and John glares down at you; but you glare right back because you are protected by your name and what you can do with it. John knows this, and it angers him, but he seems to have difficulty facing the truths of his own making. “But he is not your dog anymore. He’s mine.”

Your pen on paper is aggressive. You can tell because the splotches of ink are deep, bleeding black sinking into white as you put angry word to parchment. Not even a fortnight later, you are playing cards with Victoria, and you see Simon’s silhouette standing in the doorway, hood shadowing his masked face as he observes. When you look over your shoulder where John sits, and you meet his eyes, he looks away from you with a grim understanding.

Simon answers your call. Always.

At dinner, John is in better spirits. He drinks with a big smile, eats more than one plate, and he picks Victoria up by the waist to make her dance with him when he asks for the music to be played louder. Simon sits, fidgety, gloved hands moving in and out of fists as he watches you cut into your food and eat it with a blank face. He huffs beside you, his armor stiffening as he sits up straight, and you let your fork clatter onto your plate as you turn to glare at him.

“You were thinking with your cock, Simon,” you spit. “That is how men like you get killed.”

“You ‘ave no idea how men like me get killed because there are no men like me,” Simon growls. You roll your eyes, standing, and he grips your wrist angrily, tugging you close until you fall into his lap. You sigh, shaking your head, putting your hands on his broad shoulders and making him look at you.

“Maybe,” you whisper. “But I’m not wrong. It is how you’ll lose. You know better than that, Simon. To fight someone because they taunted you in a letter, it’s playing the fool.” You cup his cheeks, keeping his eyes on yours. “You don’t need me to tell you that, and yet here we are.”

He breathes slow, closing his eyes for just a moment. He thinks he came for this, just a little. For clarity. Reason. It comes from you in waves, and it’s comforting to hear. It is something he knew, and yet it only makes sense now that you have said it.

“I know,” Simon mutters. “I know. Y’r right. I’m sorry, luv.”

You ask him to apologize when he undresses you. You ask him to apologize again when he sinks into a hot bath with you. You ask him a third time when he is in your bed, a heavy weight between your thighs as he licks and sucks at the soft skin of your tummy. He begs, lowly, let me ‘ave it, and you will, but he has to say he’s sorry again.

“‘m sorry,” he breathes, sucking on your inner thigh, and you close your thighs around his head, forcing his mouth against your cunt.

“Again, Simon,” you whisper. “I wanna hear it again.”

“‘m sorry,” he slides a rough tongue between your folds, breathing shakily when he tastes the oil that he smoothed over your skin only moments ago. You taste so good, you smell so lovely, coming off of you like fumes blinding his senses so that nothing else but you makes any sense at all. When you open your eyes, you think about where you are, and you nearly come thinking about what you have wrapped around your finger.

Not even your king tells your husband what to do. Not even your king commands his men, they won’t listen, he’s not who they turn to when things go belly-up, it’s your husband, and your husband answers to you.

You weren’t sure about it until today. Seeing him when you asked him to come, it flooded you with something that hurt. You could tell from even so far away that Simon was salivating under that mask. You knew the only thing separating his mouth from your cunt were the other people around him (and they were not privy to seeing you naked).

It is such a thing to observe. John needed a lead on Simon when he was his dog. You need no such mechanism. Simon never strays, not with you. He sits proper when you ask, and he speaks when spoken to. He tears at unwanted flesh, and he comes when you call.

John cannot give him all that he desires. Perhaps he thought what Simon truly wanted was fame and fortune. Legacy. But like most things men do, John does not observe. He takes in only what is right in front of him, and he makes assumptions. Simon is not like other men. Fame and fortune do not matter. He does not care about legacy. What matters to Simon is what he can hold in his hands. The ground under his feet. The steel in his hand. The woman underneath him, spreading her legs, inviting him in.

You love Simon. You love Simon more than anything in the entire world, but it would be a lie to say that you are not at some advantage here. Simon is all-consuming. He is the pinnacle of duty and honor and everything that a man is supposed to be, but Simon is also weak. There is something that he wanted more than anything in the world, and now that he has it, he will do anything to keep it, and that makes him vulnerable. Subject to all kinds of new things. Revenge. Retaliation. Pain.

Manipulation.

Maybe you should feel bad about it. Maybe you should feel guilty, but it’s hard to feel anything like it when there’s a big bear of a man between your thighs slobbering on your pussy like dessert. It’s hard to feel anything but bliss when he’s tracing the letters of his name into your cunt and making you see stars and fucking you into the silk sheets like it’s the last time he’ll ever have you.

It is men who govern your world, and if this is how you must move in it, then so be it. You will not feel bad. You will not be sorry for doing what anyone else would do. John thought he could keep his hand there, muzzle his mutt, but you like him this way, and you’re certain John doesn’t fuck the way you do.

He’s mine.

It isn’t John that commands an army, it’s you; or maybe your cunt, but that belongs to you, too, so it is you, isn’t it? You’re the one that lets him inside, that whispers in his ear, that tells him things you know he wants to hear to make things move in your favor, so it’s you, right?

Not John. Not Victoria. Not their counsel. You. They have stepped on you your entire life. They have made you small and inferior and sad for all of your existence, and they gave you something feral knowing it could eat you alive, and now you are the hand that feeds, and they are forgetting that if they bite too hard, you have something that will surely bite harder.

A collar would suit him, you think. He would look so pretty. He already is, the terrible beast, prettiest thing you’ve ever seen (the necklace your drape over him does just fine, a pendant with his motif that you hope reminds him of you). You don’t care if people would say his face is quite ugly. It is, very much so, but you never see him this way. Whenever that mask falls, your stomach flips. He takes your breath away. His intensity, his raw form of love, the look on his face–there is nothing else in the entire world that will love you the way he loves you.

“You came back for me?” You ask. You have a leg tangled between his, and his fingers are between your thighs, a shadow of a smirk on his face as he feels the mixture of your cum and his. He grunts a little, and you tilt your head to look up at him, your chin on his chest.

“‘f course,” Simon mutters, and you kiss his chest gently, keeping your eyes on his.

“But not for John.”

He turns his head, looking down at you more intently, and he scoffs. You know it’s true, but you want to hear it, anyways. You want to hear Simon admit, unknowingly, that you are the tether.

“John is afraid, and I don’t listen to ‘im when he’s afraid. Makes bad choices.”

It’s almost adorable that this is what Simon tells himself. That he comes back for his own sake, and not for yours, even though they are one and the same, intertwined and inseparable.

“Simon,” you say softly, and he sighs, his eyes closing briefly when you kiss him gently. “You have to listen to your king when he asks you to come back. Making a…rash decision about war strategy is one thing, but…” You cup his cheek gently. “Make things easier for me, husband. If he asks you to come back, you come back.”

This time, at least. Just this time.

Simon snarls a bit, but you swallow it when you kiss him. You maneuver yourself over him, straddling his hips, and he grunts as you sink down on him. He swells hard again very quickly, releasing a deep breath as you give a slow roll of your hips.

“Make things easy for me, my love,” you whisper, and he leans his head back, putting two big hands on your ass and moving you with ease. “Appease your king, yes? For me?”

“Can’t say no when y’r pussy squeezes me like tha’, sweet’eart,” Simon groans, and you giggle, planting your hands on his chest and starting to move a little faster. You lean your head back, your mouth falling open, and you gasp when you sink down completely, your ass touching his thick thighs as you tighten around him. “Fuckin’ Christ–”

“I hate when you go,” you whine, digging your nails into his chest. He hisses, planting his feet on the bed, and he fucks up into you with a renewed fervor. “Hate when you’re not here, Simon, I-I miss you, miss this–”

“Nghh…fuck, I know,” Simon pants. “Can feel it. Feel you.” You squeal when he grips you by the waist and turns you over. He makes it seem so easy, tossing your weight underneath him, and your arms circle around his neck as you draw him closer, hanging onto him. “Y’r so fuckin’ pretty…”

“Simon–”

He kisses to devour. His jaw hinges wide to kiss you sloppy, breathing in the moans that you can’t contain. Simon always fucks so well, stretching your thighs as wide as they will accommodate so he can make room for the goliath of himself that he is. He suffocates, in a good way, and his cock never fails to stretch you for all that you are worth. Simon holds your jaw in place as he grinds into you, relishing in the wet smack of his hips against yours. The fat of you satisfies him. It makes him growl with delight when he grabs onto wide hips, your fat arse, the body that you hold that tells him you are fed and warm and content. It draws his grin wider, and it makes him drool thinking about having you again and again and again, until you beg him for reprieve and his heir sits in your womb.

Simon fucks for sport. He wants to see how stupid he can make you. He wants to know how long you’ll cry for, how fat he can make your tears. He wants to know how loud you will cry, how many times he can make you cum before you’re incoherent, he wants to know the extent to which he can use you that you will still be awake enough to say his name just one more time. Simon is not satisfied until he pushes your limits.

It is what a Riley does. They endure, and they eat, and they consume, and they take pleasure in the all-encompassing indulgement of things they have never been allowed to have. You are a woman, so he knows this will come easy for you. So often, he knows, women are not allowed to indulge at all, so he wants you to. He wants you to cry and moan and eat, and he wants you to do it bearing his name so that no one will ever tell you no.

Simon says no to kings, and they placate, or they die. His wife will be offered the same respect, and he’ll stand behind her with a sword to make it law. When you bear his children, he will expect the same of them–to give their mother utter devotion, lest they answer to his hand. There is no one above you, not God, not country, and certainly not blood. They will know what their father did to have you, and they will spill the same amount of blood to keep it that way. They will do it for you, and then they will do it for their own lovers, and if they don’t have the same sentiments, that love is not true, and Simon will not give his blessing.

Everything else is trivial. He knows this, understands it, because history repeats itself. It is cyclical, and you are right. Kings come and go. Sons die to other sons, fathers make bad decisions, and crowns are passed to bastards and back again, until lineage is merely spectacle and power changes hands often enough to lose generational merit. There is one thing that remains, and it is what you do while you are on earth, while you are standing on the ground you were born on. Even faiths change; when men find it suitable, they change the rules, and then you worship a different God, so Simon sees no point in staying loyal to any of it.

Instead, he is true to what he knows. To what he can see and what he can feel. With John, he remembers being a young man, fighting alongside him. He follows John, to an extent, because he knows what it is like to share blood with him on a muddy hill and take an arrow for him.

With you, time stands still. He saw you in a room, and he had to have you, and he brought nations to ruin to make certain no one would bat an eye when he asked for your hand. He saw you in a dream, too–he saw you laying in his bed of furs, wearing nothing but a tiara of his making, wet between the thighs because that is how it’s meant to be. He recognized you when he saw you that first time, and he doesn’t know how, but saying no to you, really saying no, will change that vision, and he couldn’t bear that.

Your voice echoes. You’re moaning, overstimulated, but he doesn’t stop. The hair around his cock rubs your clit too many times, and when you come around him, you’re a shaking, withering thing, back bowed and nipples pebbled. Your toes curl as you cry from the starry-eyed, hot pleasure, but he keeps moving, chasing something in the distance that he can taste, so close.

Yes, Simon ignored his king. Yes, Simon did not ignore you. Yes, Simon admits, he came when you called, and he doesn’t feel bad about it, he doesn’t care how it seems. He would do it again if he had the chance. John could give him the same answer as you in every timeline, but he will only move if the command comes from you, and yes, Simon knows it makes him a liability, but crowns come with costs, and this is the one John must pay.

Simon will fight any of John’s enemies, but he won’t fight fate. He won’t fight what has already been seen, and he won’t fight what he already knows will happen.

With Simon’s cock in your mouth, you can make him deliver on promises. Sucking on the girth of him, you can make him an honest man. Taking inside of your mouth what you can swallow, you can make Simon do your bidding, and it is a hard lesson that John learns.

“Do this for me,” you slobber against the underside of his cock, and Simon relents.

“Make me happy,” you say, swirling your fingers against your puffy pussy, and Simon kneels with an open mouth.

“Just this once,” you whisper with his cum on your tongue, and Simon seals his choice with his hands on your tits and the taste of himself in his mouth.

When you make eyes with John across the low lights of the throne room, he can’t help the way he admires you. You stand beside Simon, looking the essence of nobility and reverence in another intricate silver and blue dress. The train of your skirt glitters with delicate jewels hand sewn into the fabric, and the headpiece you wear adorns a skull insignia. Your corset has been tied just right, thanks to Simon’s hand, and your own fingers are clasped between his. Your corset and jewels are of exquisite detail–one of the newest designs from Paris, structured and elegant and accentuating every curve of soft skin.

You glow in the room. His wife must be wearing a dress just as expensive, probably more, and yet his eyes (and everyone else’s) cannot help but follow you. Your own eyes won’t leave Simon; you flutter your lashes whenever he looks down at you, big smile on your face, and even when there are people curtsying and bowing to you and giving Simon their gratitude between bites of cake and glugs of wine, your attention never really strays. 

John feels inadequate in his own fortress; suddenly, red and gold sicken him, and England tastes sour in his mouth.

In a few generations, John’s house will likely fall. He will make heirs that will fail him, he knows this. In a few centuries, his family will not sit in the same place, but a Riley will remain right where they are supposed to be. Banners of blue and silver will always fly. If Simon does not make sure of that, then you will.

It’s what happens when you force women like you to their knees. When they grow up invisible, always in the shadows, forgotten and sold to the next man who will pay a higher price, it’s what you learned to do. It’s all you’ve ever known, to make the best out of something terrible.

Simon is the same, in that sense. You understand him in a way his king will never be able to. Simon has nothing, and neither do you, and Simon was stepped on and berated and tortured to the point of no return. It is why blood does not scare him and why death doesn’t come knocking. Time will be the only thing capable of killing him, and everyone that stands up to him learns that when they eat his blade.

In the quiet of the evening, Simon undresses you. He sits behind you on the bed, fingers pinching the bows at your back and unraveling them. He traces your corset, thumb circling over the skull pattern of the belt around the small of your waist, and he tastes something warm in his mouth at the sight of it. You look so beautiful–more beautiful than he’s ever seen you maybe, decorated in his colors and wearing his motif and sitting so pretty.

“You wanna know something…funny?” You ask quietly. Simon finds the ties of your skirts and starts to undo them. He grunts in reply; he might sound standoffish, but you know he’s listening. “John…John made it…he makes it seem like you don’t really listen to him. He implied that…in the face of adversity, you might only listen to me.” You put your hands on the front of your corset to keep it from falling. “Isn’t that funny?”

“Wot’s so funny?”

You swallow, looking down. Your hands fidget, and you take a closer look at the ring you wear, the delicate gold band he gave you not so long ago.

“I…”

“Mmm…might be right, innit?” Simon snickers after a moment. You feel him stand, and you look over your shoulder as he peels his mask off and grins down at you. He tilts his head to the side, and you smile back at him a little. “Do anythin’ for ya. Disobeying a king…” Simon cackles, tearing your corset off, tossing it onto the floor as he walks you backwards. “Ignoring one…” He shrugs, “Oll in a day, love.”

“He can hang you for it,” you whisper. “Cut off your head. Cut off mine.”

Simon lays you back on the bed, spreading you out, climbing over you. You blink up at him, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I would ‘ave seen it. I would know.”

He would have seen it in a dream. It would have come to him in a reflection in a pool of blood on the battlefield. It would have come to him, the voices in his head, he would have heard them amongst screaming, or perhaps in the void that he finds his mind in when he’s between your plush thighs.

You can’t help the smile that graces your face when Simon kisses the curve where your jaw meets your neck. It is fun, you suppose. Fun to control the tides that set the courses of history. It is fun and almost unbelievable that a king bends to the will of one man’s wife just because it solidifies his name.

You wrap your hand around the twine that dangles from Simon’s neck. It twirls around your fingers, easy, solid. Simon’s eyes are dark, and they are yours, and when you smile, so does he, because this is where you are meant to be, forever and always.

“What if I want more?” You ask. Simon hums, low from within his chest, and you run your tongue over your teeth. “Did you see that in your dreams, Simon? Hmm? Do you know what I’m asking for? What it is that I really want?”

Simon smiles. A dark one, with teeth, and you know he hears it. What more means for a duke and his duchess. What more means when you have all the money you could ever want, all the land you could ever need.

What more means when you have climbed your way to the top and still desire more. More, more, more. There are not many steps left to climb. There are not many places left to take, not much more of the world that can really be yours, but Simon looks ravenous, and Simon looks hungry, and if you fuck him now, you’ll have him right where you want him.

When you tug on what hangs around his neck, Simon bends. Simon follows.

[machveil]

Roommate!Simon Riley that looks at you and his heart squeezes, beats against his chest until it nearly hurts. something about seeing you in the morning makes something click in his brain - your hair messy and a little matted, soft pillow lines on your cheek, eyes half lidded and groggy. it makes him feel off, a sensation that makes his jaw clench. he wants to nip and bite at you, squeeze you, hold you tight and never let go. he’s not familiar with cuteness aggression, hasn’t heard of it and is unfortunately unaware

Roommate!Simon Riley that thinks something is wrong. he likes you so damn much, why does he want to nearly maul you every time he sees you? it gets him worked up when he sees you lounging on the couch in ratty clothes, an old pair of shorts and a stained hoodie. cute. his teeth are itching to just bite at you, fingers twitchy with the need to paw at you. that’s not normal, right? isn’t he supposed to see you and want to hold you gently? act soft and mushy like a normal coupl—? well, you aren’t a couple. he doesn’t know where this is coming from, but he only has one way to work it off

Roommate!Simon Riley that’s been nailing the same punching bag for over an hour. his knuckles are numb at this point, sore and starting to get bruised, but, damnit, he’s still thinking about you. the other gym members are silently avoiding him, eyeing him as he takes another swing at the bag. you looked so adorable eating breakfast, dropping your fork and grumbling— another punch. you looked so charming when you realized you put your left shoe on your right foot— another swing. another connection of his fist to the bag sends it flying, and Simon still wants to smother you lovingly

Roommate!Simon Riley that comes home sweaty and out of breath. he took a shower at the gym, but he decided to run home - took the long way. he hears you laughing, delighted little giggles spilling from your lips. he walks up behind you, looks down at your phone and hums, “What’s tha’?”, he asks. “Aah— it’s a baby hippo! Isn’t she cute? I just want to squeeze her so hard.”, you coo, swiping to another video. squeeze her? “Really? Why’s that?”, he asked, attention drifting towards you. “I dunno, sometimes you just see something cute and want to crush it a little, you know?

Roommate!Simon Riley that does know, and suddenly he feels a little less weird about wanting to squeeze you until you pop, “Yeah, I get it.”