#it's another thing to see it and feel its dead weight

[ms-snape]

Snape propose reader right after end of the war. She is like.: You are alive ? But she say yes anyway.

Title: You're Alive

Warning: Kinda depressed reader....

Words Count: 1700+

A/N: Girllll, your requests are literally my favorites to write

Masterlist

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It had been months since the war ended, but for Y/n, peace never truly came. While the rest of the wizarding world began to piece itself back together, she was trapped in a ceaseless cycle of grief and loss. Her days became repetitive, like a cruel loop, each one identical to the last, and every morning, when she forced herself out of bed, felt like another small act of survival. There was nothing left for her but the weight of an unspoken goodbye, a farewell she had never had the chance to utter.

Severus was dead.

The words echoed endlessly in her mind, like the tolling of a death bell. When she had first heard the news, it hadn’t felt real. It had come from Minerva, her voice soft and laden with sympathy, eyes full of sorrow as she delivered the news. Y/n had stood there, numb and silent, as Minerva explained what had happened in the Shrieking Shack. Severus had died alone, his body found hours later among the debris and bodies scattered across the battlefield.

He was gone.

For days after, Y/n had simply wandered through life like a ghost, unsure of where to place her grief. She barely remembered the days following his death—the endless condolences, the quiet murmurs of pity. The world continued to move around her, but it had lost its meaning. There were times she thought the grief might swallow her whole, that the crushing weight of it would pull her down into a pit she would never be able to climb out of.

She stopped seeing friends. Stopped talking to the people who reached out. What was the point? They couldn’t give her back what she had lost. She spent most of her time alone, secluded in her small cottage, where the silence was only broken by the occasional rustle of wind through the trees. The space she had once loved now felt like a tomb—its quietness amplifying the hollow ache inside her.

Her only solace came in the routine. Each morning, she rose before dawn, despite the ever-present exhaustion that clung to her bones. She would make herself a cup of tea that she rarely drank, then head out to the greenhouses. The plants there didn’t judge her, didn’t expect anything from her. They simply grew, day by day, providing her with something to nurture, something to keep her hands busy.

Tending to the plants had become a way to distract herself from the constant ache. In the quiet of the greenhouses, she would lose herself in the familiar rituals—watering, pruning, checking for pests. She would kneel in the dirt, feeling the earth between her fingers, grounding herself in the life that persisted around her. It was the only thing that seemed real anymore.

She remembered how Severus had once stood at the edge of the greenhouses, his dark eyes watching her as she worked. His expression had been unreadable, but she had known, even then, that he found some strange comfort in seeing her amidst the greenery, her hands busy with life. He never said as much, but she could always sense the unspoken bond between them, the way he softened just slightly in her presence.

But now… there was nothing. Just the emptiness where he used to be.

As the weeks passed, the numbness gave way to something darker—anger. How could he have left her? How could he have gone off to fight in the war and not come back? It wasn’t fair. She hated him for it, hated him for being so brave and selfless, for choosing to sacrifice himself when she had needed him most.

And yet, even in her anger, she missed him with a ferocity that bordered on madness. The memories of him consumed her—his quiet, sarcastic remarks, the way his lips twitched ever so slightly when he found something amusing. She would catch herself sometimes, expecting him to walk through the door, to hear the familiar creak of the floorboards under his boots, only to be met with silence.

The nights were the worst. Alone in her cold bed, she would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment they had spent together. She longed for the warmth of his body beside her, for the steady rhythm of his breathing in the dark. But those moments were gone now, like a dream she could never return to.

As time wore on, the others began to accept Severus’ death as an unfortunate but necessary casualty of war. They moved on. They rebuilt their lives. But Y/n couldn’t move forward. She was stuck in the past, trapped by the memory of what had been and the unbearable weight of what never would be.

It was a stormy evening when the impossible happened.

The rain had started in the late afternoon, a slow drizzle that steadily grew into a downpour. Y/n had finished her work in the greenhouses early, her head pounding from a persistent headache. She trudged through the rain, not bothering to cast a spell to shield herself from the wet. What did it matter? Nothing really mattered anymore.

As she approached her cottage, something caught her eye—a figure standing near the front door, half-hidden in the shadows.

For a moment, she froze, her heart stuttering painfully in her chest. She squinted through the rain, trying to make out who it could be. Her mind immediately leapt to the worst possibility—had something else happened? Was someone here to deliver more bad news?

But as she stepped closer, she saw the unmistakable silhouette of a tall man, his dark robes billowing slightly in the wind.

Her breath hitched.

No. It couldn’t be.

“Severus?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of the rain pounding against the ground.

The figure turned, and in that moment, her world shattered and reassembled itself all at once.

It was him.

Severus Snape stood before her, alive and whole, his dark eyes staring at her with an unreadable expression.

She felt as if the ground had been pulled out from beneath her, her knees nearly buckling under the weight of the shock. She had spent months mourning him, months believing that he was gone forever. And yet here he was, standing in the rain like some ghost returned from the dead.

“You’re alive,” she breathed, her voice trembling with disbelief.

He nodded, his face pale and gaunt, but unmistakably real. “I am.”

For a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her hands shaking violently. This was real. He was real. But how? Why hadn’t he come to her sooner?

“I—I thought you were dead,” she managed to choke out, her voice breaking. “I… I thought you were gone.”

Severus’ expression softened slightly, a rare crack in his usual stoic demeanor. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “I didn’t mean for you to think that.”

Y/n shook her head, her emotions a chaotic storm inside her. She didn’t know whether to scream at him or collapse into his arms. Anger and relief warred within her, and she wasn’t sure which one would win.

“I waited for you,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I waited… for so long.”

Severus stepped closer, his dark eyes never leaving hers. He reached out, hesitant at first, then cupped her face in his hands. His touch was warm, solid, and the reality of it sent a shiver down her spine.

“I’m here now,” he said softly.

Tears welled up in her eyes, the dam breaking after months of holding everything inside. She had been so strong, so determined not to let the grief consume her, but now, with him standing before her, the weight of it all was too much to bear.

“I thought I lost you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Severus’ thumb brushed away the tears that slipped down her cheeks. “You didn’t.”

They stood like that for a long moment, the rain pouring down around them, soaking them both to the bone. But neither of them seemed to notice. The world had shrunk to just the two of them, the space between them charged with the weight of all that had been lost and found again.

And then, as if spurred by some unseen force, Severus reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, simple ring. Y/n’s breath caught in her throat as he held it up, his dark eyes flickering with something she hadn’t seen in him for a long time—hope.

“I should have asked you this a long time ago,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But… will you marry me?”

For a moment, Y/n couldn’t breathe. The question hung in the air between them, heavy and full of meaning. She stared at him, her mind racing, trying to process everything that had just happened. He was alive. He was asking her to marry him. It felt surreal, like a dream she was afraid she might wake up from at any moment.

She didn’t answer right away.

Severus’ expression shifted, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. He lowered the ring slightly, his grip tightening around it. “You don’t have to say yes,” he said quickly, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I understand if—”

“No,” Y/n interrupted, her voice firm despite the tremor in her hands. “No, I just… I need a moment.”

He watched her, his dark eyes searching hers for any sign of rejection. But Y/n wasn’t rejecting him—far from it. She was just trying to wrap her mind around the fact that the man she had mourned for months was standing here, asking her to spend the rest of her life with him.

And finally, after what felt like an eternity, she nodded, a small, teary smile breaking through her grief.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Severus’ face softened, and without another word, he slipped the ring onto her finger. It was simple, elegant—just like him. And as he pulled her into his arms, Y/n let herself collapse into him, her tears mixing with the rain as they clung to each other like lifelines.

For the first time in months, Y/n felt something other than grief.

She felt hope.

[3amfanfiction]

Bath Time with Simon

Hurt/no comfort, MDNI, dead dove do not eat (seriously check trigger warnings)

You’ve been held captive by Simon for weeks when you get to take your first bath.

Cw: Hurt/no comfort dark fic, drowning, noncon, unrealistic sex, abuse, implied kidnapping, implied torture, bodily fluids, Simon is mean in this one folks—I’m not joking

~~~~~

Simon pulled you into the grimy bathroom just as the sun was setting.

You watched him fiddle with the taps as the tub began to fill, doing your best to avoid looking at the mold growing where it met the wall.

The whole room was nasty—soap scum stains along the bottom of the bath, rust spotting all the metal fixtures and a sour smell filling the air.

You had only had showers in the weeks you'd been here. Often times perfunctory, sometimes not, and the thought of soaking—even if only for a few minutes in a disgusting tub—sounded too good to be true.

Seemingly satisfied with the temperature Simon finally turned around.

“Strip,” is the gruff command, the look in his eyes bored.

It's just you and him in this house; you haven't seen another person in weeks. The isolation doing as much damage to you as the physical things Simon seemed to enjoy.

It had been . . . rough when you first woke up here after a night out drinking with your friends. The cuff around your foot leaving no doubt as to your forced confinement.

When he had initially stepped into the room you had woken up in you'd nearly passed out in fear. He was large, thick all around, and had a mean look on his face from the start. His cold eyes watched you cry emotionlessly, only truly lighting up when you stepped out of line.

What followed was days of 'training'. Like you were some pet that couldn't learn not to piss on the carpet, one who was always chewing on things. Simon had a heavy hand and he made it known he didn't put up with attitude and as much as you wanted to snark in those early days, you knew what lay at the end of that road.

And you hadn't resigned yourself to that fate yet.

You shiver as you pull your sweater off, just as much in fear as due to chilled air dragging its fingertips over your skin.

Was it still November or was it December now? Surely it wasn't January already. Please don't let it be January.

Are people still looking for you?

Why did he take you? What did he see in you that made you a good candidate for this fucked up situation? Share with the class so that it can be excised.

You quickly remove your pants when you notice his eyes narrowing, not wanting to piss him off any more than normal, and fold them neatly—making a pile with your sweater next to the yellow tinged sink.

Shuffling slightly on the cold laminate, your feet ached, chilled and tender where the bruises along the bottoms press into the floor with your weight.

You wait for the tub to fill, trying your hardest not to look up at him. You know he's staring at you, he's always staring at you. His gaze feels like a physical weight, brushing over your skin, peering into every crevice, seeing every weakness.

At the sound of a zipper being lowered your shoulders hunched. So it would be one of those baths then.

Your eyes flick up, taking in his figure where he’s leaned against the wall—feet kicked apart with his jeans pulled open, his cock and balls cradled in the v of his pants.

You watch him spit into his hand, a thick foamy dollop landing in his palm before he reached down, giving himself a slow stroke.

He rarely bothers with things like lube. He's made it knows that spit, blood, or spend are all the slick you're going to get and you should be grateful for it.

In the quiet you notice his gaze is focused on your chest, where your nipples have pebbled with the chill. You slouched even further in avoidance while still staying semi-upright. He didn't like when you hid from him and you weren't about to mess up this bath.

His gaze moved down to the curls hiding your mound, his hand maintaining the steady shlick shlick rhythm of strokes, using your body as nothing more than a visual aid.

After an eternity of being leered at, playing with himself all the while, he reached over and closed the taps—the squeaks bouncing off the tiled walls until only dripping water remained. A snapped finger and gesture towards the tub is all the direction you’re given before he crosses his arms over his chest, cock still standing proudly between his legs.

Edging closer cautiously, limping slightly with each press of your foot, you lean down to dip your fingers into the gently steaming water before committing to the step in.

As soon as your hand submerges you yank it back sharply. Turning to Simon, you open your mouth and you know it’s the wrong thing to say, even as the words form on your tongue but you're incapable of pulling them back. It's as if you'd been set into motion, on a runaway rail car with no way to brake.

It's too hot.

You don’t register his movement as it happens. One second he’s leaning against the wall, pants unbuttoned and unzipped with arms crossed—the next you’ve been slammed painfully onto your knees, the cold tile and grout pressing harshly into your skin which stings from the fall, a throbbing in your kneecaps following along momentarily.

Before your brain makes sense of its new position you feel Simon press up against you from behind, wide chest keeping you pinned between him and the tub, straddling your calves. Your breathing quickens in impending panic.

He's big. That was one of your first thoughts when you initially saw him. This hulking mass of a figure was a giant and he was very comfortable throwing his weight around.

These last few weeks have been a testament to your resolve to stay alive, walking the fine line between keeping what agency you could and not making Simon so mad that he played so rough he broke you. He'd come close at times and it took you a while to find the line. You would carry the scars from those first few weeks for the rest of your life.

“Can’t even be properly grateful, can you, slag?” He grumbles disdainfully, ankles hooking around yours to spread your legs as you tensed further, a softly babbled sorrysorryimsorry falling from your mouth as you tried to brace your hands against the side of the tub pushing sharply into your abdomen.

“Such a fucking princess, complaining about all the nice things I do,” he gets enough room between your legs to slam his semi-damp cock home, sinking to the base in one rough stroke.

You yelp at the painful drag of him pressing into your cunt, your hole still tender and puffy from lunchtime.

“I’m sorry Simon,” you gasp, sobs starting to creep up your throat. You knew he'd been hoping to get to punish you, that was his favorite part of the day. And he wasn't opposed to creating infractions if you didn't misstep naturally. “I didn’t mean it! Thank you, thank you, it’s perfect.”

Please please please

“Nah, too late for all that now,” is the response as his hand threads through the hair at the back of your scalp, palming the back of your head.

“Simon, ple—,” is all you're able to say, heart racing, breaths coming in gasps, before water covers your face, sound going dim—muted—as you're fully submerged.

Simon groans above you as you tighten and thrash in panic and pain, hands slapping at the water, attempting to push away from the bottom only to lose traction and slide out from under you.

Your cunt squeezed vice-like as your whole body spasmed. Riding your bucking hips, he keeps you pinned between him and the tub a pleased groan rumbling through his chest at the sensations.

The water was too hot when you dipped your fingers into it. The heat making them sting and prickle. Now that the sensitive skin of your face is immersed, it feels like you’ve been pressed against a hot stove. The water rushes into your nose, burning the sensitive lining and filling your ears as you’re fully submerged, almost bent in half over the rim of the tub.

You open your mouth in a subconscious effort to get air which allows the hot water to fill the cavity as you jerk back and forth, still trying to buck Simon’s weight off of you in a panic. His forearm pressed between your shoulder blades keeps you in place as he palms the back of your head, his front to your back and his legs pin yours against porcelain and tile, his cock barreling into your cunt, slamming painfully against your cervix with every thrust and deep grind.

Just when your vision begins to haze out around the outside edges—panic muting, heartbeat slowing—he pulls you back up to breathe. As the chilled air slams into your sensitive face you attempt to gasp and cough at the same time. The resulting hacking makes you convulse, squeezing his cock tightly with each spasm.

You had no breath to sob despite your face feeling like it was on fire—your body was triaging what was needed.

The heat from the water inflamed the nerve endings, the delicate tissue around your eyes and ears feeling like a someone had scraped you raw and then doused you in lemon juice.

Your body was concerned with getting as much air as possible during the reprieve, your vision coming back into focus as your ears picked up Simon groaning behind you in fervor, your body jostling while he maintained a punishing rhythm of thrusts. His cock harshly pressing into your cervix with each stoke.

Simon pulls you back by your hair, your eyes finally catching up and starting to stream tears to mingle with the water left on your cheeks.

"Fuck me, but there's a good slut," he breathes into your ear, coming around to trail his tongue up your cheek, tasting salt.

You flinch away in hurt as his teeth catch your skin, pain magnified to the nth degree.

Your coughing is only barely coming under control when you feel the pressure on the back of your skull again.

"Nonono Sim—" heat, almost worse than before now that your skin was already throbbing. Your mind blacked out as you thrashed like an animal, bucking at your captivity to try and reach freedom.

Elbows slammed painfully into the porcelain, body rocking back and forth as if to gain leverage that wasn't there, feet kicking and flailing where they were pinned to the floor. Your writhing was instinct, no higher thought engaged.

Simon rides your bucking hips with skill, keeping you pressed close to him, unable to move forward or back no matter how much you squirm. His cock throbbing with every spasm and clench of your channel where he was slotted as deeply as possible, head pushing painfully against the opening to your womb, causing it to bow inward with every press.

He pulled you back up sooner this time, not that you could tell.

"Thaaass it sweetheart, let it all out," he croons to you, holding you upright against his chest as you cough and heave, attempting to expel the water.

The cold air burns on your face as his fingers tighten in your hair once more.

"Poor little thing just can't catch her breath, can she?" he mocks from where he's pressed to your ear, rumbling his words directly into your brain, "Good toys need to learn how to take what their owners give them and be thankful for it," his tone changes to a growl as he pressed upwards into you punishingly.

The yelp you let out seemed to amuse him because he set out to pry the sound from your mouth again, pistoning his hips into the fat of your ass, his hipbones leaving bruises to develop where they were making violent contact with you.

When you don't say anything he gives you a hard shake with the hand fisted in your hair, frowning down at you, "where's my fucking thank you?" he grits, muscles tensing where they have you caged to the floor.

"Th'nk—" you cough, throat feeling like sandpaper, "—thank you sir," accommodating, hoping to soothe.

It's not nearly enough for him and he reintroduces you to the water.

You're not sure how long this goes on for. Some parts standing out in stark relief and some fading to the background. You couldn't tell how many times you were submerged in the tub, Simon fucking into you with abandon, enjoying your body's involuntary reactions—but it felt like years.

Simon didn't appreciate the way you were beginning to go away, hiding deep in your mind. So he course corrected to bring you back into alignment with him.

SMACK

Pulling you to the side, he delivered a strong slap to your cheek. The pain echoed through your whole body as if you'd been electrocuted, a shocked scream bursting out of you.

Your face which had been in and out of the hot water was on fire, sensation magnified beyond reason and Simon wasn't one to pull punches. Or in this case, slaps.

The pain reverberating around your brain echoed, bouncing off the inside of your skull, magnifying with each distortion. It felt like shards of glass, slicing every corner they could reach, shattering further, grinding in deeper.

"You back with me, pet? About lost ya for a second there," he asks, derision dripping from ever vowel.

Reaching down to pinch and pull at your clit, he laughs when you squeal and continue to buck, this new pain added to the symphony already playing in your body.

You know you'll be hearing his cruel laugh in your dreams for the rest of your life, however long that is.

When he moves to dunk you again the tub jabs harshly into your tender torso, causing you to expel a large portion of the breath you'd just caught.

Before you get a chance to pull it back in you're underwater again. Your thrashing was cataclysmic in nature, violent upheavals and furious rocking, searching—constantly—for a way out as your lungs burned, tightening with each heartbeat, oxygen depleting.

There had to be a way out of this, right?

Were you truly going to die here? Pinned under the body of this man while he used you for his pleasure? No more warm breakfasts, no more books on rainy days, no more shopping with friends. No more. Was this going to be your last moments? Pinned under a man while he held your head underwater?

You don't mean to but you pee yourself in fear.

You can't hear it at the times, but as the warm liquid shot out of you, coating Simon's balls and both of your thighs, he just laughed, continuing his punishing pace while bringing you back up to breathe to prolong your torture.

Swallowing great gulps of air as your heart pounds, your lungs ache. It feels similar to when you get the wind knocked out of you, chest constricting and spasming, not allowing any air to inflate them, adrenaline pumping with no outlet as you desperately try to breathe to no avail.

This time, there's hope. When his thrusts begin to lose cohesion you have a sharp spark of relief. Its almost over, it's almost done.

You're gasping in as much air as you can, lungs finally no longer seizing, as Simon gives you a brief respite before he utters damning words.

"Take a big breath baby, you’re not coming back up until I’m finished," barely allowing you a chance to follow directions before pushing you back into the hot water.

You're so tired. No matter how much you try and catch your breath when you're above water, it always seems to run out far too quickly once you're immersed. This time is no exception. Your lungs are on fire, chest tensing and muscles locking tight. This is it, you're not going to make it through this. It's almost a relief to feel that, as Simon thrusts behind you, body slamming into the side of the tub, knees being raised off the floor slightly with the strength of his thrusts.

You distantly note the bruises that are likely forming where the edge of the tub is being pressed violently into your torso with each thrust. Fragile skin pressed between bone and porcelain.

His arm was still a bar across your shoulders, fingers tangled in the soggy, knotted mess of hair at the back of your scalp. The size of his palm giving him complete control of your movements.

As you thrashed in the hot water, all your muscles tensed, attempting to lift you from the water, kicking your feet where they were pinned. Simon groaned as he rode out your spasming. You were milking his cock, the way you fluttered around him.

Things were going dark again. He was going to drown you, water filling your lungs, weighing you down to press wetly into the earth where he'd bury you. He was going to do it this time, you were sure of it.

Would anyone ever know what happened to you?

When you're positive there's no surviving, Simon slams home with a low groan, flooding your channel with come, throbbing as he continues to pump into you, slowly losing momentum.

The moment his grip on your head loosens you're yanking your head up—water, saliva, and vomit trailing from your mouth as you heaved, trying to clear your airways.

Simon moaned at the added stimulation, grinding deeply to press against the back of your cunt painfully, his tip kissing your cervix, the press of him spreading it apart ever so slightly.

Once he was finished he pulled away completely, using your shoulder to help himself stand up with a satisfied groan as his spend dripped down the inside of your thighs, chest still heaving with each gasping breath, the air feeling like razor blades dragged down your throat.

Stepping to the front of the tub he reaches in to remove the plug, allowing the water to begin draining while he picks up a stiff, rough looking towel crumpled in the corner.

He uses it to vigorously wipe himself off, from his cock to his balls, between his ass cheeks and down his thighs. Walking over to you once he's done, he huffs a sardonic laugh as you flinch back.

He grabs the top of your head, holding you still as he drags the towel harshly over your sensitive skin, rubbing firmly in long strokes, maximizing your discomfort, smiling as new tears began pouring down your face.

You were right, it was a rough towel.

He takes great joy in rubbing his wetness across your face under the guise of cleaning you up, eventually pulling back to stand straight.

Wadding up the towel, he throws it against your chest where it drops onto your legs, splayed open from where sprawled.

“Clean up your mess. I can’t believe you pissed on the floor like a dog.”

You didn’t want a bath anymore.

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[masteraqua]

speaking of replicas, can you imagine if xion's death had ended with her blank body being left behind in roxas's arms

[yelloworangesoda]

genuinely like passively suicidal at this point bc i literally dont know why i bother. im not gonna kill myself but like someone deal with me im just dead weight

[postmortemnivis]

no grave can hold my body down, i'll crawl home to her.

simon really meant it, every bit of it, he’d come back to you somehow. he would find his way back to you. wether it was walking through the front door quietly not to wake you up in the middle of the night or cold in a coffin. he’d rather have you hold his dead body than not to have you touch his skin ever again.

that’s what simon was thinking about as his ear ringed so loud he couldn’t focus on his surroundings. he looked up at the sky, so blue it almost didn’t feel right. why so blue when so much blood was being shed?

he occasionally would feel the ground he was laying on tremble, maybe a hand grenade, maybe a body falling next to his. the smell of gunpowder filled his covered nostrils and he could feel his lungs collapsing on themselves from the thickness of the air he was breathing. his eyes weren’t doing good either, filled with dust and sand from the dry earth.

it took him a few more seconds to focus his eyes on something, something that possibly wasn’t moving, his head spinning each time he tried to sit up. something was weighting on his legs, holding him down. he struggled to raise his torso and groaned at the sight of a large body blocking him. he let himself fall back down.

he was ready to go, a sharp pain to his side telling him he wouldn’t last long alone. he’d been through worse, way worse, the scar provided by the meat hook was proof of that, but something was telling him this was as bad. he was ready to go.

the only thing he could think about in his last moments was you. he thought he could see glimpses of you, maybe your hair in the corner of his eyes or he’d hear your laugh as another fire shooting started. his eyes searched for you frantically. he wanted to tell you to leave immediately, scream it at the top of his lungs, but his voice was caught in his throat and you weren’t really there. his mind just playing cruel tricks on him.

your name was repeated like a mantra in his head, repeating it so many times it almost lost a meaning. almost. a prayer, a chant. he sure needed to pray, for you.

he had been shelving the thought that tormented him for months. he wanted to go and confess his sins, he almost felt the need, his palms itching with haste anytime he thought about it. years had passed since the last time he had set foot in a church, so many that he had almost forgotten the reason for the visit. the ghosts of the past never abandon you, especially if they are people you love, especially if they are family, the innocent. its always the innocent who pay the highest price.

‘i wonder what she’s doing now, who’s gonna knock on her door and tell her im gone.’ he thought. ‘hopefully price. he’s the one with tact and the most considerate. he’ll help her when i’m gone, keep an eye on her.’

the sweet smell of your hair replaced for a moment the one of blood and gunpowder, your laughter still echoing in his ears. he pictured your sweet face and big innocent eyes looking up at him.

“promise me something?”

“mhm?” he hummed, surprised you were still up. his hand hadn’t stopped caressing your hair since you laid down on his chest, your hand resting on his collarbone as your ear listened to his calm heartbeat. “yeah, anything.”

“promise me you’ll always come back.” you whispered in the dark room. “promise me, simon.”

he nodded, taken aback by your request. you weren’t the fondest of his job, he knew it, he hated to concern you like he did.

“yes.”

“promise.” you urged. “please.”

he bent his head down and kissed the top of yours, his arm sliding down your back and drawing you closer by your waist. “i will, love. i’ll always come back to you.”

you sighed, the knot of thoughts in your worried head began to untie. “mh.”

“better now?” he softly asked. his voice was hoarse from his constant shouting orders at the obstreperous recruits. you gave a short nod. “i mean it.”

he groaned as he managed to get the body off of himself, struggling to get on his knees.

fucks sake, he couldn’t let you live with him gone like this. it was selfish of him to leave you in such an abrupt way, really. he tried to push away the image of you opening the door to find price with a carton box filled with simons stuff from the barracks with the balaclava and skull mask on top and your knees hitting the floor before he could even say anything.

his legs didn’t feel like they could hold his weight up, he immediately fell to his knees as he heard another rapid fire too near him for his liking. his gun was long gone, he had to manage to survive alone, again.

“crawlin’ it is.” he breathed as he started to drag his tired body with the strength of his arms alone. you had always praised his strength: he could lift you with one arm alone, you loved to be held and hold on to his arm anywhere and at anytime. that was the main reason he always pushed for more while training, and the motivation your sweet compliments always gave him now were gonna save his life. he made a mental note to kiss and hold you a little longer and tighter if he ever made it home alive.

he could see the building his team was supposed to meet up in case things got bad. it looked so far away that it was alarmingly close. maybe it was just his messed up vision, a mirage, but he could swear he saw you from a window looking at him, urgently motioning him to come.

he brought the thick balaclava above his nose so he could breathe better and as enemy gunfire continued to flow, he kept his head low as he moved dead bodies from his way.

he could hear your voice calling for him and he wanted to call you for you back, but the noises of the battlefield were hurrying him to get to the safe zone first.

he stumbled by the door as he brought himself up, one hand stabilizing him as he held on to the doorframe as the other went to press on his wound.

“lt!” johnnys voice called before he rushed to help him. “ye cheeky bastard, i told them not to leave yet, to wait for ye.”

“gaz saw you get shot.” price swung simon’s arm over his shoulder in order to help him to the nearest table, where he laid down.

“he saw that right.” simon bit the inside of his cheek as price inspected his wound, pressing on it. “is he a‘ight?”

“he’s fine, hit his head but had his helmet on, he’s getting checked out by the medics.” price informed him as simon winced at the sharp pain. “there’s at least two bullets in here, didn’t pass through, stuck.”

“just take ‘em the fuck out.” simon groaned. “how’s it lookin’?”

“you’ll live.” price patted his shoulder in comfort before he went to call a medic.

“we really thought we’d lost ye there, lt.” johnny’s face was glowing with sweat and blood, the black war paint smudged messily all around his face and his mohawk dusted.

“helicopter’s leaving in thirty, boys!” price’s baritone voice called from the other room.

simon scoffed, sighing and closing his eyes, finally letting himself relax as your figure started to fade from the corner of the room where it’d been standing, silently looking at him. “won’t lose me, can’t wait to go home, johnny.”

[tryingtofindava]

── 𝐂𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐁𝐆 𝐆𝐚𝐧𝐠*ೃ༄

: ̗̀➛Back to Source

THESE CAN BE READ AS PLATONIC OR ROMANTICALLY!!

╰┈➤𝐀𝐬𝐡𝐥𝐲𝐧

She can handle being all cuddly to a certain extent, before she rolls away to have her own space. Though, she’ll always have some sort of touch with you. That being a hand on your waist or thigh, or even her foot touching yours. (Red confirmed Ashlyn to have autism)

You better hope she doesn’t have any nightmares in her sleep time before transporting to the Phantom world, because if she does she jolts so fast her hair is gonna literally whip you.

This girl is skin and bones, so she’s probably not the warmest to snuggle up to. But she makes that up with wearing nice and soft things, like hoodies, PJ bottoms, and fuzzy socks.

When she’s in a comfortable position with you, she probs drools.

╰┈➤ 𝐀𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧

Sleeping/cuddling with Aiden is a very humbling experience.

He watches tiktoks with you because he thinks it’s a bonding experience while you guys snuggle. (just ignore his fyp it’s cursed…)

Before you guys cuddle, you have to force him to take his contacts out because every cuddle sesh ends up with the two of you falling asleep.

But when he sleeps with them in his eyes become all dried when he wakes up.

(Red also confirmed Aiden to have contacts, because he’s blinder than a bat, and it’s also why his eyes are red because his contacts are coloured.)

Like Ashlyn, he drools… but not just a small bit like the ginger. He’s drooling fucking RIVERS.

He moves about in his sleep, like a lot. And when he settles, it’s only for like a maximum of 4 mins before he’s squirming around like a worm again.

BLANKET HOG ALERT!! WEE WOO WEE WOO. If you ever wake up cold, you’re gonna turn to see Aiden with YOUR OWN blanket cuddling up with the whole damn blanket cuz he srsly subconsciously wrapped himself a cocoon.

When you guys are cozying up together, he’s literally in top of you like the human version of a weighted comforter.

And if you feel suffocated with him on top of you, he’s pressed up to your like a leech looking for affection. I’m talking limbs tangled together and every thing.

╰┈➤ 𝐁𝐞𝐧

He’s such a teddy bear!! ^_^

AND HE’S SO WARM OMFG, ITS CRIMINALLY INSANE HOW COZY THIS GUY IS. A literal damn furnace.

For being such a big guy, you’d automatically think he liked being big spoon. BUT THAT IS FALSE INFORMATION HE LIKES BEING LITTLE SPOON!!

If you knew him before the accident, he used to hum you to sleep as you guys snuggled!!

And when he eventually does fall asleep while cuddling he goes so still like he turned into a rock.

It feels like sleeping next to a dead body…

Except the dead body is incredibly warm instead of being all cold. And if the deceased body had a vice grip on you like I’d be let go you’d disappear.

╰┈➤ 𝐓𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐨𝐫

THIS CUTIE IS SUCH A SNUGGLE BUG!!

This girl is full of sm love and affection, she loves to show her appreciation for someone through physical touch!

She makes sure that not only she’s comfy, but you are too! Like you guys could be snuggling on a Rocky Mountain and she’d still make it comfortable.

Like Ashlyn she’ll always make sure to have a hand on you, even if you guys are firmly pressed aging eachother like sardines in a can.

╰┈➤ 𝐓𝐲𝐥𝐞𝐫

Whines that he hates cuddling, saying it’s sappy and cringy… But then whines again when you aren’t cuddling up…

He likes to keep his ‘I’m a tough guy’ act on, so he’ll not initiate a cuddle sesh. It’s either gonna have to be you start it, or he’s sick and doesn’t give af.

Unlike Ben, he prefers being big spoon, since he just likes holding you closely to his chest while you guys spoon. Thinks it’s very intimate.

If you tease him about how he comes like putty when you guys cuddle, he’ll get all pouty and push you away. (Only to be back in your arms in 3 minutes time…)

╰┈➤ 𝐋𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐧

ANOTHER ONE WHOS A TOTAL CUTIE PATOOTIE ‘BOUT IT!!

But so, so, so painfully awkward…

BUT!! He’s cozy, and has the COMFIEST pillows and blankets lying around it’s insane.

He deffo had one of them cool star projectors that make the room look like space. It’s the coolest.

When you guys start cuddling his glasses stay on, but if it turns into a small snooze they get lost and you guys have to dig through the blankets to find them to he can see, cause without them this bitch turns into Velma from Scooby Doo.

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part ten —other parts

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 2.3k tags: death. blood. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: this chapter kicked my butt. thanks for the patience~

An ear-splitting gunshot bites the ground near your boot, close enough to feel the heat simmer through the worn leather. It takes everything in you not to freeze in terror. You grab Blue and run. 

Adrenaline kicks into high gear once again, but with her dead weight and your lack of strength, you know you can't get far. You manage to tumble behind a stack of rusted bins just as another round fires. 

Blue clings to you. "He's following us!"

Your heart sinks as your fingers reach for your bow— you left it.

"Give me your gun," you sputter quickly.

She shoves the unfamiliar weapon in your hands. A tremble consumes your body as you peek over the barrel to find your target. For a second, you see your attacker as he passes by one of the jeeps. A young man no older than yourself. 

Without hesitation, you close an eye and go for his heart, but the bullet grazes the top of his shoulder with a spray of blood. Used to a bow, you aimed too high.

He barks out a swear and then lifts his rifle in retaliation. Before he can shoot, a Grey bursts through the window of the jeep, clamping down on his neck. His throat turns to gore. The gun falls from his grip as screams of pain quickly turn to muffled groans.

Relief and horror pound through your veins. That was close. Too close. You have to get Blue out of here. But how—

There is no chance to decide. Suddenly, she screams again. You whip around to meet the slash of a long knife and the flush of cold air as your coat is torn. Someone has snuck up behind you. You fumble with the gun but the attacker knocks it out of your hand, then fists your hair hard enough to make your scalp burn. It happens so fast. You can't even get a good look at him— only the wild stare of his eyes and the strength of his stature. Whoever these people are, they are certainly better fed than that man in the woods.

You thrash against him, hurling saliva at his face. Apparently, he didn't expect that because he hisses, "Fuck."

You use the distraction to grab your own knife, the only weapon on you, and blindly drive it into the taut muscle of his thigh. He howls, letting go of your hair, and you slip away just enough to dodge the next swipe of his blade.

The fight is short-lived. You've grown stronger, but not enough to fight a man. He is skilled and bulky. Your attempts to hit him are futile. His knife catches you in the forehead, sending a curtain of blood down your face, and he grabs hold of your hair once again.

"Gonna cut your throat first," he murmurs, low and gravelly. "Then your little lamb's."

He will kill you. Then her. You can't let him. You won't. Something animalistic takes hold of you. You do the only thing left you can think of— bite. Hard. The sickening taste of human flesh and hot blood fills your mouth as you rip out a chunk of his nose.

"You bitch!" 

He clutches his oozing face. Blue shouts at you, her finger jutting toward something— the Grey. Done with its first meal, it draws toward the scent of fresh blood. Before your attacker can recover, you throw all your weight at him, which isn't much, but it is enough to make him lose his footing and veer into the Grey's path. It grabs hold and sinks another bite into his face.

Suddenly, two more gunshots ring out. One to the Grey's head, and the other through the man's eye. Both bodies flop dead to the ground. Before you can panic, a wild-eyed Ghost returns in long strides. 

"Blue!" he bellows. 

"Dad!" she yells back.

He heads straight for her, quickly dipping down to check her bandaged leg and search for any other wounds. Fear has forced her eyes to stay open, her body stiff and alert. There is a wet stain at the crotch of her jeans. 

"They tried to kill us," she cries.

“I'm here, baby. I won't leave you again.”

You wipe the blood off your face and glance around, panting so hard your lungs hurt. The air reeks of carnage and gunpowder, but the firing has ceased. 

"They attacked us," you speak in a raw shout. “Two of them. Did you— Are the rest gone?"

He nods. "Could be more nearby. Let's get out of here before we find out."

He slings the rifle over his shoulder and scoops up Blue without an ounce of the effort it took for you to do so. 

He moves fast. Retrieving your bow, you push hard to keep up with him. 

Twilight tints the sky purple. You make it past the fence and zig-zag through the medical tents when movement catches your eye again.

"Ghost, to the right!" you scream.

You knock an arrow onto the string, aiming for the distant figure. But the movement multiplies, more shadows lurking towards you with uneven gaits. Not people. Greys. The realization forms a pit in your stomach.

"They can fucking smell us," you choke out. 

"Hit the faster ones!"

Arrow after arrow, you aim for the ones that move with the stamina of a more recently infected. To your right. To your left. Ghost carries Blue with one arm and shoots with his handgun. More and more crawl out like cockroaches, no doubt catching a whiff of the blood that stains all three of you. 

Two built like linebackers run wildly up to Ghost from either direction. He shoots one, while the other grabs him by the shoulder. You launch an arrow at its skull, your aim more precise now that you're not shooting bullets, and it lets go of him with a squeal. 

When the trees grow thicker, it becomes harder to see them. Despair pushes a cry up your throat when you slap a hand back to your quiver and feel two arrows left. 

A slippery mix of mud and leaves suddenly takes you down to the ground, your knees landing on a hard tree root. You swear under your breath, fumbling to get back up, when a Grey you hadn't noticed behind you lunges on top, slamming you back down. Pain shoots through your ribs as you frantically roll around, thrusting a forearm against its throat to avoid its opened mouth and kicking your knees into its chest. Then, a fiery bullet lodges into its forehead, the Grey going limp on top of you with a splatter of brains and coagulated fluid. 

"Get up, Twix!" Ghost barks. 

You shove the body off and scramble to your feet, legs feeling like jelly, but you force them to keep running. 

You whip a brief look behind you. 

"There's too many— I'm almost out of arrows!" 

"The river," Ghost throws over his shoulder. "Those fucks can't swim."

You realize his idea when the roar of water greets your ears. Ghost doesn't hesitate to sprint onto the rusty rebar, slipping his gun away to hold Blue with both arms. 

You follow behind, forcing your eyes on the bank ahead as you slow down to keep balance. All you have to do is get across and the river will take care of the rest. Heartbeats pound in your skull, each step requiring an unfathomable amount of focus that you struggle to muster. You're about halfway there when you hear the splash of Greys falling in, and a brief glance below causes your footing to falter. 

This time you fail to grab the beam.

Cold water envelops you like a million needles.

A mouthful of water burns down your throat, and for a moment, you can't move. Can't breathe. Everything spins around you. It's not until your feet collide with something hard - the bottom of the riverbed - that your brain registers what's happening and you kick out to propel yourself up. 

You break the surface for a gulp of air before the current pulls your head back under. Your arms flail around in search of something to grab. Just when you latch onto what feels like a log, a hand seizes your ankle with a hungered screech. You slam your foot back, over and over, more water filling your mouth as you struggle to kick the Grey and hold on at the same time.

Finally, the rotten skull caves in and the current sucks it away. With your leg freed, you haul yourself up the log toward the edge of the river. You begin climbing up the cliffside, using the twisted roots as footholds, your hands digging into caked soil. You're almost to the top, but you feel numb and weak. So weak. You can't find anything else to grab. The wet sole of your boot begins to slip.

"Grab on!"

A gloved hand stretches down. Ghost is crouched above, Blue now on his back so can he lean over. You grip his hand and he pulls you up, until you collapse on the ground, wet and shivering. 

You cough up water and bile. 

"Bloody fucking hell.” 

It's been a while since you've thought about dying. You've made it this far, instinct always taking the reins and pushing you onward. But now, as the reality of the cold, wet clothes clinging to you sets in, you consider asking Ghost to just shoot you. It would be quicker than freezing to death, and a much better fate than drowning or turning Grey. At least you know Blue will be safe now.

Before you can form the words, you hear the shuffling of fabric. A jacket, a beanie. Set on the ground beside you.

"Take off your clothes. Put these on."

The rest turns into a dream. You don't remember putting the clothes on, or standing up and moving your heavy limbs. You don't remember getting to the hunter's cabin, but the next thing you know, you are curled up on the floorboards beside a small fire, inhaling the musky smell of Ghost's oversized jacket, with the blanket you brought tucked around your bare legs. You don't feel cold anymore. Your head pounds. You can hear the steady rhythm of your heart, slow but present. Behind you somewhere, Ghost tends to Blue. You know this because you hear him whisper to her as her sobs are muffled by biting onto a shirt. Amelia, Amelia, he says to her. A name you've never heard before. He must be cleaning the wound, the pain of it causing her to thrash and kick. Then, the sounds fade, and you know she is asleep. 

When your eyes finally tear away from the flames, you spot Ghost hunched over, lifting up his shirt. Dark blood and ink stain pale skin. 

"You were shot?" 

His eyes snap up. He regards you for a moment, and it is now you notice that most of the white of his mask has been stained with red from his kills. 

"Knife," he says.

You don't know why you offer, or why he silently accepts. Somehow you end up knelt beside him, your cracked fingertips cleaning the puncture wound in his torso without a single word exchanged. It's not deep enough to need stitches. You clear the blood and dab on antiseptic. The only sign he feels any pain is the flex of corded muscles beneath your touch and the occasional sharp inhale through the mask. His skin is oddly warm, a temperature that does some to ease the tension in your muscles.

When you're done, you roll the shirt back down. He doesn't say thank you, not that you expected him to. 

You break the silence with a voice that barely hovers above a whisper. "You could've let me freeze."

His brows lower. "You could've let them kill her."

"I would never do that." When he doesn't respond, you glance at her sleeping form. "She's okay?"

"Just a graze," he confirms.

"She lost quite a bit of blood. She might need a few days to rest."

Your gaze shifts back to his. You quietly add, "Did you recognize them? Were they a part of the military?" 

"Maybe. Their gear was. Didn't know them, though."

"Why did they try to kill us?"

He gives you a look. Of course. He tried to kill you for the same reason once.

"They have a camp nearby," you murmur the answer, more to yourself than to him. "Something to protect."

He gives a slow nod, then moves to grab his rifle and a hoodie to slip on in place of the thick SAS jacket he lent you. As he moves to the door, you realize what he plans to do. Keep watch.

You slip the beanie off and run your fingers over the cut on your brow when he says something just before leaving.

"For someone who once asked me to kill them, you fight hard to survive, Twix."

You don't know what to say. Just hours ago, you almost asked him to kill you again.

There's a beat of silence and then, "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Do you fight so hard."

A breath sticks in your throat, and you stare at the floor. You're not sure why he is asking this, or why the answer is so hard to give.

"I... I don't know."

With that, he leaves. You watch the fire turn to dark embers. The faded adrenaline has left you with a fatigue you have grown familiar with. If you weren't so tired, maybe you would still be scared, your mind filled with fresh memories of gore and death and screaming. But you fall asleep quickly, scooting beside Blue and sinking into the warmth of his jacket. 

[therealmrsgojo]

Bigger Than The Whole Sky

pairing: gojo satoru x reader content: "Mommy? How much did Daddy love us?" warnings: NSFW, MDNI. established relationship, wife reader, pregnant reader, angst, comfort, canon-divergence. wordcount: 5k

As the soft, caressing night breeze murmurs through the air, two figures lie entwined, seeking solace in each other's arms. They cherish the steady ebb and flow of one another's breath, relishing the warmth and intimacy it bestows.

The weight of the day's challenges had been almost too much for you to bear. The endless routine, the constant demands, the unrelenting pressure to succeed—it had all taken its toll on your mind and body.

But as you felt the familiar scent of your husband, Gojo Satoru, envelop you, it was as if all the weariness and tension melted away, leaving you nothing but comfort.

His touch was like a balm to your soul, easing the ache in your heart and filling you with a deep sense of love and belonging.

The world could spin on its axis, and the stars could twinkle in the sky, but as long as you were in his arms, you knew everything would be alright.

Safe.

He had always made you feel safe.

His phone's ringing broke the peaceful silence, alerting him to a message. You watched as he reached for it on the nightstand, his fingers deftly navigating the screen.

When he leaned in closer, you felt the warmth of his breath and the soft touch of his lips as he placed a tender, affectionate kiss on the side of your head.

His hand then gently moved down, his fingertips tracing a delicate path to caress your small, yet prominent, stomach bump.

You lay perfectly still, willing your eyes to remain shut. Seeing a message flashing on his phone could only mean one thing.

Jujutsu Society.

"Sweetheart?" Satoru's gentle voice whispered to you, concern evident in his tone. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I am," you replied, slowly opening your eyes to the dimly lit room. You locked eyes with him, seeing the worry etched on his face, which elicited your chuckle. "You have worn that concerned expression ever since I became pregnant, Satoru."

He let out a soft chuckle as he gently brushed your hair away from your face, a boyish grin lighting up his features. His deep blue eyes seemed to be committing every detail of you to memory as he spoke, "Naturally, I don't want my precious wife to endure any discomfort, and the well-being of our little one is just as important to me."

He rested his head gently on your belly and showered your bare skin with tender kisses. His touch was so gentle, so loving, that it felt like he was worshipping you in that moment. 

You could feel his lips continue to pepper your skin with delicate kisses, each one sending shivers down your spine. The sensation was so intimate, so raw, that it made your heart swell with joy.

The soft strands of his hair felt like silk against your fingertips, and you relished the feeling of being so close to him. It was as if the rest of the world had faded away, leaving just the two of you in your little bubble of happiness.

Loved.

He had always made you feel loved.

"What was that?" You asked, intrigued by the sudden message he had received in the dead of night.

"It's Shibuya," he finally said, his voice low and urgent. "I'm needed."

"What's happening in Shibuya?" you asked, your voice filled with worry.

"I don't know yet," he admitted. "But I have to go. I'll let you know as soon as I can."

You felt your heart rate quicken as you sat in silence with him, unsure of what to say or do. You unconsciously began picking at your nailbeds, a nervous habit you couldn't shake off in moments of discomfort.

"Hey, Y/N," he said softly, reaching for your hands and gently placing them on his cheeks. "I promise this won't take long. Let me quickly go and wake someone up so they can keep you company."

Worry.

His work always made you worried.

"It's okay. There's no need to wake anyone up. I'm just barely five months pregnant, so there's no need to worry about me giving birth or anything like that." You quickly interjected, "Just make sure to return quickly, okay?"

Although you were now the head wife of the Gojo clan, you couldn't help but feel sorry for the servants. They were always at your beck and call, attending to your every need. You knew they had other duties, but they never complained.

Gojo Satoru flashed you a warm smile and replied, "Of course!"

"Good morning, Y/N-sama," Hana, one of the personal maids appointed to attend to your needs, greeted you with a warm smile as she entered the room, carefully holding your freshly laundered robe. "Your bath is ready, with the water at the perfect temperature, and breakfast is being prepared."

The room was bathed in a gentle morning light that filtered through the curtains as you stirred.

With a tender understanding of your struggle with your growing bump, Hana gracefully approached and extended a helping hand to assist you in rising from the bed.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yes, everything's fine. I think they're kicking more these days, though." You said as you stood up. "Is Satoru home yet?"

"He's not, Y/N-sama; we'll let you know if he is." 

As a frown etched itself onto your face in response to her words, you turned away and made your way towards the bathroom, dismissing her without a word. 

The sound of the door shutting behind you filled the room as you slowly stripped off your clothes and stepped into the warm embrace of the bathtub.

As the water cascaded over you, your mind was filled with thoughts. Guilt gnawed at you for being able to sleep soundly while he was still not home. The weight of worry and concern settled heavily upon your shoulders.

However, as you gazed down at your hand, the sight of your wedding ring momentarily eased your troubled mind. The diamond sparkled and glistened as it caught the light, offering a glimmer of comfort in the midst of your turmoil.

-

"Alright, but can you give me a second? I'll dress first. I need to go to the bathroom." he removes himself from the bed you two share.

"Okay," you replied, admiring the flexed back muscles in his bare back as he picked up his new clothes and approached the bathroom.

You slowly lifted yourself from the bed, and the cozy sheets clung to your skin. You grabbed your phone from the nightstand, hoping to pass some time. As you scrolled through your notifications, you heard the sound of the bathroom door opening. 

You were surprised at how quickly Toru had finished in there. You turn your head in their direction, "That was fast, Toru-"

He approached you with a small box in his hand. Suddenly, he dropped down on one knee, and with trembling hands, he opened the box, revealing a magnificent diamond ring brighter than any jewelry he had ever given you as a present. 

The sparkle of the diamond was so intense that it caught your eye and made you gasp in amazement.

You were so taken aback that you dropped your phone, and it clattered to the ground. Your eyes widened with shock, and your hands instinctively flew to your mouth as you gazed into his eyes, trying to make sense of what was happening.

"Some people might choose to do this with a fancy dinner, or on a yacht under the fireworks, or even on the highest building in the world with all the people they know," he began, his voice quivering with nervousness. "And I can do that too. I'll do that for you, too," he laughed softly,

"But, doll, (Y/N)," he paused, taking a deep breath. " I've chosen this place, right here, because waking up with you every morning is the best thing I have ever experienced in my entire life. The way you smile at me every morning and make me feel loved and wanted is a feeling unlike any other." His voice trailed off as he looked deeply into your eyes.

"And I want to do that every day with you," he continued, his voice gaining strength. "I want to be a constant in your life, partner, friend, and your lover. I want to wake up next to you every morning, until my last breath, as your husband." Tears welled up in his eyes as he uttered the following words.

"Will you marry me?" the words left his lips, and a grin appeared your face.

-

You chuckled softly as you thought back to when Gojo Satoru proposed, feeling warmth wash over you and completely dispelling the earlier worries weighing on your mind.

You had just finished your bath and took the time to carefully select your outfit for the day, feeling refreshed and ready to start your morning. As you reached out to grab your phone and make your way out of your room, the sound of a gentle knock at the door caught your attention.

"Y/N-sama, there is a guest named Shoko waiting for you in the living room," Hana said, bowing respectfully. The unexpected news took you aback. 

"Thank you, Hana." You left the room, accidentally leaving your phone behind.

As you strolled through the grand hallway of your sprawling estate, you marveled at the beauty of your surroundings. The walls were adorned with intricate paintings, and the floors were gleaming marble.

You had always known you were lucky to live in such a magnificent place, and it still took your breath away every time you walked through it.

You caught sight of the familiar figure of the brown-haired woman who works alongside your husband. 

"Good morning," you greeted warmly as you reached her.

Your smile quickly faded as you saw Shoko's eyes filled with sadness and concern.

Unbeknownst to you, the words she spoke next would shatter your day into a million pieces.

Your husband, Gojo Satoru - was sealed.

In the wake of your husband's sealing and the news of his banishment, you were engulfed by a profound sense of sorrow, leading to an almost three-week seclusion within the confines of your room.

The community he had always protected concluded that he was an accomplice.

The disbelief is overwhelming. It's impossible to fathom. Witnessing firsthand the deep affection he held for those children—his students—it was a sight to behold.

As you slowly unfurled from your curled-up position, every muscle protested against the movement, making it feel like a strenuous effort. Exhaustion bore heavily on your shoulders as you mustered the strength to sit upright.

Weary and bleary-eyed, you rubbed your eyes futilely to dispel the heavy shroud of drowsiness that had enveloped you.

You suddenly became aware of the passing of time. The days had melded into one another, and you were completely lost.

The servants still ensured your well-being, paying extra attention to your nutritional needs. They would bring you warm soups, fresh fruits, and vegetables and encourage you to eat even when you didn't feel like it. They were always there to offer a kind word or a gentle touch, reminding you that you were not alone. 

In Satoru's absence, you were the head of the clan, the next one your unborn child. You had never felt more responsible or scared in your life.

Has he carried this responsibility since he was a child?

In his everyday life?

Rising from your seat, you made your way to the full-length mirror in your room, yearning for a glimpse of your own reflection. However, the sight that met your eyes only deepened your sorrow.

Your complexion appeared pallid, drained of its usual vitality, and dark circles underscored your eyes, accentuating the weariness you felt.

Your hair was in disarray, with strands sticking out in every direction and tangled messily. You seemed to have little concern for your appearance, and your heart felt like it was about to shatter into a million pieces.

Everything had been unremarkably normal, and now there was a possibility of never seeing him again.

With a deep, shaky breath, you gently brushed your hair to get up today. The brush's soft bristles glided through your hair, untangling any knots with ease. 

Just as you were about to finish, the creaking open door interrupted your peaceful moment. It seemed that the servants of your estate had developed the habit of entering your chambers more frequently as if to ensure your safety.

"Hana, I'm about to head out - "

The room was filled with palpable tension as the sound of the brush hitting the floor echoed through the air, causing an abrupt hush to descend. In that fleeting moment, your eyes widened and your breath caught in your throat as you found yourself locking eyes with Gojo Satoru.

"Toru?" Tears filled your eyes, shimmering with unshed emotion as you struggled to maintain your composure.

Your hands trembled as you instinctively sought to shield the swell of your stomach, your grip tightening around the precious source of strength that had sustained you through it all.

As he takes deliberate steps forward, his intense, piercing blue eyes sweep over you, lingering on every detail from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. It's as if he fears that any contact with him could cause you to fade away.

"I came home as soon as I could," he whispered, his voice barely audible. For the first time in your life, you witnessed tears streaming down his cheeks.

His eyes, usually so bright and full of life, were filled with sorrow and regret. "I'm sorry for leaving you two all alone," he said, his voice choked with emotion.

You melted into his embrace, feeling a rush of emotion flood you. Your body trembled with sobs as you buried your face against his chest, finding it difficult to articulate the depth of your feelings.

Holding him tightly, you couldn't help but observe his changes – the maturation of his physique and the palpable strength of his developed muscles as he enveloped you in his arms.

Home. 

Being in his arms is home. 

The obstetrician greeted you warmly and said, "I'm going to apply a little cold gel," as they carefully positioned the small transducer on your 6-month-pregnant belly. "Let's see if we can coax the baby out—it looks like they're being a bit shy and hiding."

The dimly lit room was filled with nervous excitement as the doctor continued maneuvering the wand over your belly. Then, suddenly, the ultrasound screen flickered to life, and the image of your little one came into view. 

"They might be doing some jujutsu moves inside, honey," your husband, Gojo Satoru, whispered into your ear, a sly smirk on his lips. His eyes were fixed on the screen, hands warmly holding your right one, and when the baby moved, you noticed his mouth slightly open in awe. 

You turned your head to the screen and marveled at the sight of your tiny, wiggling miracle. 

The tiny arms, legs, fingers, and toes all move in unison. The doctor continued to point out different features, explaining each detail as you watched in amazement.

"Congratulations, you are having a boy."

It's been a few days since your husband finally returned home after what seemed like an eternity. Despite the chaos, your husband has created a peaceful haven for the two of you.

The nursery is a testament to his dedication and attention to detail. The walls are painted a soft, soothing shade of blue, and the shelves are filled with books and toys that he carefully selected for your little one.

The crib is draped in a delicate canopy, and the bedding is soft and cozy. Everything regarding your soon-to-be-bearing has already been taken care of. 

It's as if he's on a mission to show his love and dedication to you and your soon-to-arrive child with meaningful actions every single day.

Every minute detail had been thought through and prepared with utmost care. Each day, he devoted himself to ensuring your well-being, starting with a gentle morning bath and ending with a soothing back massage that would lull you to sleep in the comfort of his loving embrace.

In the beginning, it caused a sense of unease. It felt like he was preparing to depart in the near future. However, your husband took the time to console you and assure you that his intention was merely to spare you any distress during the final months of your pregnancy in case he were to sustain an injury.

You were informed about his fight on December 24th. Despite your disagreement and your persistent refusal to support him, he assured you that he would win.

You believe. 

You have always believed him. 

The sun dipped below the horizon, the two of you settled in for the evening, seeking rest after a day filled with activity.

Satoru's lips met yours, and you felt a surge of pleasure coursing through your body. His kisses were always so gentle and tender, yet so passionate at the same time. You kissed him back, savoring his lips' taste and his breath's warmth.

His tongue pushed against your lips, asking for entrance, and you eagerly obliged.

Your heart raced as you felt his lips move down to your neck, planting kisses and leaving behind small, purple bruises. "I'm sorry," he slurred, muffled words against your skin. "I need you."

Now wide awake, you watched as he slowly tugged the duvet covers over your naked body, his lips trailing down to your chest. 

He took one of your nipples in his mouth, his delicate licks making it harden. His other hand teased and tweaked the other nipple, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

"Relax, my wife," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "I'm going to take care of you."

He continued to suck on your sensitive nipples, twirling his tongue around them and moaning softly. His cock grew hard as he switched to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment.

"I want to taste you," he mumbled, his lips touching your stomach. His long fingers caressed your womanhood, eliciting a soft gasp from you. He positioned himself between your thighs, using his thumb to part your cunt and expose your clit. "Can I taste you, Y/N?"

"Yy-yes." You moaned as he began to lick and suck on your clit, his tongue moving in circles and causing waves of pleasure to wash over you. Your hands gripped the sheets as he continued to pleasure you, his fingers slipping inside you and making you writhe with pleasure. 

He leaves your clit alone, but his tongue finds its way to the rest of your pussy. His tongue traces your folds, your slit, and the inside of your walls. He was leaving no parts untouched by his warm mouth. He was licking every drop.

You could feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, and then you were tumbling over it, your body convulsing with pleasure as Satoru continued to pleasure you with his mouth and hands.

"Mm, Satoru," as his skilled tongue continued to explore every inch of you, sending shivers down your spine.

Your eyes were wide open, taking in every sensation as he delved deeper. His tongue continued lapping at your most sensitive areas, sending electrifying pulses of pleasure throughout your body.

As if that wasn't enough, his fingers began to apply gentle pressure, adding to the intensity. You felt your legs start to tremble uncontrollably as the pleasure built inside you. "Tastes so sweet."

You could feel yourself getting close to the brink of orgasm. Your breath quickened, and your cries became louder with each passing second. You knew you were on the verge of release, and he seemed to sense it, too.

"I'm close," With one final push, he pressed harder, driving you over and into a world of pure pleasure. As you exploded in ecstasy, your body shook with the force of your orgasm, and you cried out in delight.

Satoru continued to lavish and clean you, his tongue working tirelessly to taste your release. "So fcking sweet,"

Panting and gasping for breath, you feel him move his body on top of yours, his lips pressing against yours as he positions himself at your entrance. 

You can feel your heart racing as your body responds to his touch. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer to you, and feel his body shudder with pleasure. 

He carefully lifts your legs, making sure not to put too much pressure on your bump, and places them around his waist, slowly sinking his length inside you.

"My sweet wife," he whispered into your ear, his voice low and husky. "So warm." He moved in and out of you, his grunts and moans filling the air as he lost himself in the pleasure of your body. 

"You feel so good," he murmured, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he thrust harder and faster.

"Mm-more, Satoru," You arch your back and push your hips up to meet his, feeling his length still sliding in and out of you with increasing speed.

He responded by picking up the pace, repositioning himself deeper inside you, pressing you into the mattress, and giving kisses to your face and neck as he continued to rail you, his movements becoming more urgent but careful.

"I'm going to come, doll." he cursed, his hands gripping your body tightly as he felt his orgasm building.

You could feel his length pulsing inside you, his release painting your walls white as he continued to move, putting back his spilled seed with each thrust, making you gasp as you feel your second orgasm.

Basking in the afterglow of your lovemaking, your husband excused himself to the bathroom. You heard running water and assumed he was cleaning himself up. A few moments later, he returned with a warm, damp cloth.

You watched as he approached you, eyes full of love and tenderness. His touch was gentle as he used the cloth to remove any remnants. 

He took his time, cleaning every inch of your body with utmost care.

He wiped away the last trace of sweat from your skin and looked up at you with a soft smile. "I love you so much," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I love you too," you replied, your voice filled with emotion. You reached out to stroke his cheek, feeling the softness of his skin beneath your fingertips.

"Please remember what I'm about to tell you," Gojo Satoru's voice resonated with unwavering determination as he imparted his instructions. "Don't make yourself watch. It will only burden you needlessly. I'll be back home before you know it."

His slender, ethereal hands tenderly cradled your tear-streaked face, gently brushing away the traces of your distress. You found ease in his embrace, unable to contain your sobs, fully aware that nothing could deter him from his path.

"After this, I promise I will retire," he said with a shaky chuckle, his voice tinged with emotion. The sight of you shaking was overwhelming, and the thought of you crying scared him more than his upcoming battle with Sukuna.

"We can move anywhere you want, and we'll be together every day with our son," he reassured you as he enveloped you in a warm, comforting hug, soothing you with gentle strokes of your hair. He shifted closer, nuzzling into your hair and holding you tightly.

"I'll always be by your side," he whispered softly, his words etching on your mind. "Forever."

If you knew this would be your final conversation with him, you would have desperately grasped at any words or actions to keep him from leaving.

You stride in your well-worn white running shoes, and the rhythmic thud of each footfall echoes through the empty corridors, creating a symphony of sound that fills the space around you.

He never liked your heels. 

He never liked how discomforting it is for your feet. 

Your tears are flowing down your cheeks, and there's a lump in your throat that hasn't left ever since you heard the news. Your breathing is rapid, shallow, and filled with fear.

Your breath. 

You no longer want to take.

The world around you was shrouded in unfamiliarity; the edges of your vision blurred as you moved forward. Despite the disorientation, your body seemed to be operating on autopilot, effortlessly navigating through the haze as if driven by an unseen force.

Every step you took felt heavy, like some instinctual knowledge guided you through this place.

He clings to you. 

As much as he can. 

"Y/N," Shoko Ieiri's voice sounded from the background. Her face was solemn as she gazed back at you with a serious expression.

"I can go with her; please follow me, Y/N-san." Ijichi, the person who had come to fetch you from the confines of your home, whispered beside you. He walked past, and you felt your feet involuntarily follow him, afraid he would disappear.

The woman with brown hair gazed down at your swollen, pregnant belly, and the sight was so overwhelming that she nearly lost her balance.

You brushed past her, paying no mind to her or anyone else - the curious stares of the students as you made your way through the corridors of Jujutsu High.

Your fists were tightly clenched at your sides as you followed the man in the suit, your thoughts consumed by only one person. 

Gojo Satoru. 

Ijichi paused before a shining silver door, the light catching its reflective surface. He turned towards you, a grave expression on his face. "We've arrived," he said, his voice tinged with regret as he bowed deeply. "I apologize."

You could feel the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes as you whispered, "I want to be alone with him, please." You couldn't bear the thought of anyone else witnessing this moment of raw vulnerability.

With trembling hands, you pushed open the door and stepped inside. The room was quiet, except for the machines' soft hum and lightning. 

You could see him lying there, his form still and peaceful beneath the pristine white sheet. The fabric was smooth and unblemished, without a wrinkle to mar its surface.

"My baby," you whispered, your voice breaking as you approached his body. You reached out tentatively, afraid that the slightest touch would disrupt the peaceful tableau before you. But you felt sadness and longing as your fingers brushed against his skin. "My sweet baby," you cried, pulling him close to your chest. "How can I go on without you?"

"Please don't leave me." Tears streamed down your face as you grieved for your husband, desperately yearning to hear his voice or feel his comforting, warm hug when he sensed your sadness once more. "Please come back."

But there was no response, no flicker of movement or sound. Your husband was gone, and all that remained was the shell of his body.

Amid your suffering, you felt a sudden kick from within your stomach.

It seems that your son may have felt your tears, weeping about his father, whom he will never have the chance to meet.

"Mommy?" Rapid footsteps echoed through the hallway as your 5-year-old son dashed across the wooden floor, his little voice filled with urgency.

"Tohru, no running!" You called out, pausing from chopping the carrots as you felt a tinge of concern at the tone of his voice. "Hana, could you please continue chopping these carrots for me?" 

Hana smiled warmly and nodded in agreement, gracefully taking over the task. Her skilled hands moved with precision as she seamlessly continued the work you had started.

While going from the kitchen to the living room, your son's voice fills the air, creating a comforting and familiar ambiance. Your gaze was drawn to a large wedding photograph that halted your steps, capturing your attention with its timeless beauty and significance.

 In the picture, a white-haired man beamed with joy as he gazed at his wife, their expressions capturing a depth of love that seemed to transcend everything else.

The way they looked at each other spoke volumes about their enduring bond and connection, leaving a lasting impression on anyone who beheld the photograph.

It was your favorite picture. 

It still made your heart stop. 

"Mommy," Your son ran up to you and wrapped his little arms around your legs, making you chuckle at his enthusiasm. You knelt down to his height, pinching his chubby cheeks and feeling the warmth of his embrace. His bright blue eyes shone with curiosity and innocence.

"Sakura told me her father loved her so much. Like as big as a tree!" he exclaimed, gesturing widely to emphasize the enormity of his friend's father's love. "How about us? How much did Daddy love us?"

You tenderly swept aside his silky, snow-white hair, cherishing this special moment with your son. A gentle smile lit up your face as you wholeheartedly responded to his question without any hesitation.

"His love for us was bigger than the whole sky."

author's note: I never knew a fictional character would have this impact on my life. gojo satoru, no matter what they say, was my favourite. whatever hopes I had for gege's redemption on his writing is now officially gone; I am dropping jjk. I don't even want to watch the anime anymore. I just got up today to write my own version of his passing, with canon-divergence.

he will forever have a place in my heart. my baby deserves so much better. :(

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

The Witch's Bodyguard

(2) I hide and cower in the corner, conversations getting hard

Actress!Wanda Maximoff x Bodygaurd!Fem!Reader

Summary: Wanda has to do an interview and is a little anxious about it

Word Count: 1.5K

Warnings: None this is just a set up and establish chapter

A/N: I'm so glad you're all looking forward to this series!

Taglist: @dorabledewdroop @rroyale-109 @wandanat01 @scarlizziee @nixxnsworld

@snoozingredpanda @wandamaximoff-simp @mrsromanovaa @sweet--escape17

@natashamaximoff-69

Your fist collided with the sand filled bag, stopping it dead in its tracks. Breathing hot and heavy after a two hour workout. You grabbed for your towel, sitting down to wipe away the sweat from your face as the feeling of a cold water bottle hit the side of your neck.

“I heard you finishing up so I figured I'd bring some water.” You hear Wanda say from behind you. Your tumbler is forgotten beside you as you take the bottle from her. You'd been here only a week, but Wanda quickly learned you're a creature of habit. The early wake up time, workouts that lasted the same amount each day. She was taking notice of the little things.

“Thank you. We have to go out for that interview soon, right?” You ask as you receive a nod. Your eyes flicked down to her hands. Her fingers fidgeting with the rings on her other hand. You could tell she was nervous, but it wasn't your place to say anything so you simply stand up. “I'll be ready in 10. Is Bucky ready?” Your voice is firm, commanding, but devoid of any unnecessary inflection. Bucky's reliability is another aspect of your job that you've come to depend on. Wanda simply nods as the two of you leave the at-home gym.

You head back to your room in the house, taking a quick five minute shower before dressing in your army pants, boots, and a plain white top. You also put on your bulletproof vest and holster your pistol.

As you swiftly gear up, the weight of the bulletproof vest is a familiar comfort against your chest. You've worn it through countless missions, and now it's become a staple of your attire as Wanda Maximoff's bodyguard. The pistol snug in its holster feels like an extension of your body, a tool of protection that you've trained with extensively.

Exiting your room, you find Wanda pacing in the living room, her nervous energy palpable. Bucky stands nearby, his posture relaxed but alert, a testament to his own years of military training.

"Ready to go when you are Ma’am," you state, your voice steady and authoritative. Wanda nods, her eyes briefly meeting yours before she gathers herself. She's still adjusting to having a constant shadow, someone who anticipates her needs before she even realizes them. You can sense her wariness, the uncertainty lingering beneath her composed façade.

As you escort Wanda to the awaiting vehicle you place your hand on the small of her back. A small gesture to reassure her that you’re here. You keep a vigilant watch on your surroundings. Every passerby is a potential threat, every noise scrutinized for signs of danger. It's second nature to you, this constant state of alertness, but you can see how it unnerves Wanda, the way she glances around nervously.

During the drive to the interview location, Wanda remains quiet, lost in her own thoughts. You respect her need for space, allowing her the silence she seeks while remaining vigilant for any potential threats. Bucky engages in small talk, attempting to lighten the mood, but you remain stoic, your focus solely on the task at hand.

Arriving at the interview venue, you scan the area, assessing the security measures in place. Satisfied with your observations, you usher Wanda inside, your presence a silent reassurance amidst the chaos of flashing cameras and eager reporters. Your hand once again finding it’s place on the small of her back.

Throughout the interview, you remain at the perimeter, a silent sentinel watching over Wanda's every move. You catch the subtle shifts in her demeanor, the way she navigates the questions. To most people she probably looked normal, but to you it was obvious she was anxious as she waited for questions to come her way with her other coworkers. She fidgeted with her rings again as she looked over the crowd. When she catches your eye you can fully see the panic and you do something that surprises you both. You make a silly face and she starts smiling with her brows furrowed. So you make another and get a chuckle out of her. It made you happy to be able to ease her tensions.

As the interview draws to a close, you guide Wanda and Bucky back to the vehicle. Once safely inside, you exhale a silent breath of relief, the tension slowly dissipating from your shoulders. You looked over at Wanda you also seemed to be much more relaxed now that it was over.

======

You sit in the dim glow of the fire, the crackling flames casting dancing shadows across the room. The warmth seeps into your bones, a comforting embrace after the long day's work. With a book in hand, you delve into its pages, immersing yourself in a world far removed from the reality of your duties.

The rhythmic tapping of keys fills the room as Wanda works diligently on her laptop, her focus unwavering. You steal a glance at her from time to time, noting the furrow of her brow as she concentrates. There's a sense of determination about her, a drive to excel in everything she does.

The silence between you is companionable, each lost in your own thoughts yet connected by the shared space. It's a rare moment of tranquility amidst the chaos of your lives, a chance to simply be without the weight of the world pressing down upon you.

As the night stretches on, the fire burns lower, casting elongated shadows that dance along the walls. You reach for your cup of tea, the warmth seeping into your hands as you take a sip. The aroma of chamomile fills the air, soothing and calming.

Eventually, Wanda closes her laptop, the soft click of the lid echoing in the quiet room. She stretches, a contented sigh escaping her lips as she settles back into her chair. You close your book, marking your place with a gentle touch before setting it aside.

"Long day," Wanda remarks, her voice breaking the silence. You nod in agreement, the events of the day still fresh in your mind. Despite the challenges, you feel a sense of accomplishment, knowing that you've kept her safe once again.

"But a good day," you reply, your voice low yet filled with assurance. Wanda meets your gaze, a hint of gratitude shining in her eyes. In that moment, you realize that despite the differences between you, there's a mutual respect that binds you together. "Time for bed?" You ask, but Wanda shakes her head, making you raise an eyebrow.

"A little longer." Her voice is soft. "Just want to relax without work for a bit. Let my mind shut off." She looked at you, eyes looking so tired. Like she could fall asleep in her chair as she curled up her legs and rested her chin on her hand to look over at the fire.

You let her be, picking your book back up to read a little more. It was only a few minutes until you heard her breathing even out, looking up from your book to find her asleep. A small smile on your face. This seemed to be a thing. Half of the week Wanda was falling asleep somewhere other than her bed and you'd have to take her to bed.

You lift Wanda effortlessly, her slight frame feeling feather-light in your arms. She stirs slightly as you gather her, her grip tightening instinctively as she nestles closer to you. Her warmth seeps into your skin, a comforting presence amidst the quiet of the night.

As you ascend the stairs to her room, you navigate with ease, your steps sure and steady. Wanda's soft breaths tickle the nape of your neck, a gentle reminder of her vulnerability in this moment of repose.

Reaching her bedroom door, you push it open with a gentle nudge, the soft click echoing in the stillness of the night. The room is bathed in moonlight, casting a silvery glow upon the familiar surroundings.

Carefully, you lower Wanda onto her bed, tucking the covers around her with a tender touch. She sighs contentedly, her features relaxed in sleep. For a moment, you simply watch her, the moonlight casting shadows across her peaceful face.

With a sigh, you turn away, leaving her to her dreams. It's become a routine, this silent vigil over her rest, a duty you've come to embrace with quiet determination.

Exiting her room, you pause in the hallway, your gaze lingering on the closed door. In the stillness of the night, you can't help but feel a sense of protectiveness wash over you, a silent vow to always keep her safe.

With one last glance, you continue down the hallway, the echo of her soft breathing lingering in your mind. As you settle into your own room, you can't help but reflect on the complexities of your role as her protector, the unspoken bond that binds you together even in the darkest of hours.

And as sleep finally claims you, you find solace in the knowledge that for tonight, at least, she rests easy under your watchful gaze.

[aliceinborderlandscrolls]

How To Make A Cheshire Blush

Chishiya Shuntarō x reader

You make it your goal to see Chishiya blush

Fluff - Suggestive

I have known Chishiya Shuntarō for a little over eight months since entering the borderland. In that time I have never seen him flustered… Ever.

How is that even possible? What man could be so calm and collected that nothing makes his cheeks flush the color of strawberries? Not even when facing death does his calmness fade…

I glanced over at Chishiya who was watched the group we teamed up with mild amusement as they betrayed each other one by one. How can they all be so foolish? If only they would put their fears aside and trust one another. Maybe then we could all make it out alive and find out who the Jack of Hearts really is. This entire game was so tiresome. I sighed loudly, earning a glance from Choshiya before he returned his gaze to a man sweating profusely as he told another player their suit.

“We’ve been here for days and it’s so…” I folded my arms on the table, “Boring.” I sighed again as my shoulders slumped.

“Find something to do.” Chishiya had zero interest in my boredom and did nothing to try and entertain me.

It wasn’t his problem nor benefit him, so why should he care?

My attention found its way to the pair, Aba and Kotoko. It seemed that they have been attached to the hip quite literally since the start of the game. Studying them closely, they reminded me of a business looking man and his personal assistant.

I chuckled at the thought of all the drama and scandal they might have caused in the old world, especially if he was high up there. I watched as Kotoko pressed herself even more into Aba’s side while he looked as if he held all the power. For a moment I wondered what it would be like to be just like her. To be someone who didn’t rely solely on herself.

I suppose in a way I have some trust to Chishiya, I considered him my friend. He did treat me as a friend though. I also considered Kuina a friend and I knew she thought the same about me. My mind briefly drifted to her and I hoped that she was doing okay, alive somewhere right now.

My thoughts drifted back to Chishiya. He was cool and highly intelligent, not to mention drop dead gorgeous, but something I wonder if he would sacrifice me for his gain.

“I wonder what that feels like.” I muttered as I placed my chin in the palm of my hand.

“What?” Chishiya took a bite from his own bag of cookies as his attention flicked over to where I was looking, “To be a self righteous prick?”

“No.” I shook my head leaning on my chin, “To rely so heavily on someone to protect you that you don’t learn how to protect yourself.”

“You wouldn’t make it very far with that mentality.” Chishiya muttered, “Luckily, you’re too smart for that.”

I grinned at the small compliment from the Cheshire man. It was rare to hear praise from him even if it was usually mixed with mockery. It was in that moment that my innocent grin turned sly as I thought of the perfect thing that could keep my boredom at bay.

His brows furrowed at my smile, “Quit looking at me like that, it’s weird.”

“What if the only person I knew to keep me safe was you?” My grin turned into a smirk.

“But it isn’t?” His answer came out more of a question as he tried to figure out my plan.

“But what if?” I leaned my weight onto his side, wrapping my arms around one of his, “Would you take advantage of my undying loyalty, Shuntarō?” I could see a blush coat his cheeks and I couldn’t help, but laugh, “Of course you would, you sneaky cat.”

He nudged me off him with a grunt. I leaned closer to make sure I was seeing this right… The Chishiya Shuntarō was in fact, blushing.

“Oh my stars.” I gasped in amusement as I pressed a hand to my heart, “Is that a blush I see, Chishi?”

I did it! I thought as excitement built up inside me. I made him blush!

“No.” He looked away from me.

“I think it is.” I poked his cheek, giggling as I sat back.

My giggling died down as I looked at him. He didn’t say anything, but he seemed flustered. Is it possible that he held some kind of feelings for me?

“Chishi.” I smiled when he looked at me, “You want some?” I held up my strawberry cake roll.

He eyed me and it suspiciously before he gave a simple nod. I opened the package, breaking off a piece for him to try. I shook my head as he reached for it as I brought it up to his lips. He opened his mouth slowly as he took a bite.

“So would that make you a self righteous prick?” I teased quietly as I fed the cake to him.

He rolled his eyes and he leaned back, taking time to chew and see if he liked the cake.

“Way too much strawberry.” He mumbled after he swallowed, but continued to eat the next piece I gave him.

He returned the gesture with his own bag of cookies as we munched on the others snacks.

“I am an asshole.” He spoke without hesitation, “I am not kind. I am manipulative and I do what I must to get ahead. I don’t care about anything so why are you always hanging around me?”

“You are those things, but I think you’re wrong about how you see yourself Chishiya. You are so much more than that. You are kind, to Kuina and to me. You are manipulative, but that just means how intelligent you are in understanding everything. You can solve the hardest puzzle on earth with just a glance. You say you don’t care, but deep down I know that you do. You have just built a wall that is worth climbing because you mean more than anything in the world to me.” I answered softly.

He wasn’t able to respond as the speaker dinged.

“I believe it’s almost time.” I sighed as I looked up at the clock.

My attention turned to Kotoko who grabbed a packet of cookies… The same brand that Matsushita grabbed a few minutes ago.

“Hm…” I hummed watching what would be a meaningless passerby between the two, “Maybe I do have more undying loyalty than Kotoko.”

“Seems so.” Chishiya smirked.

I turned in my seat, brushing my hair away from my collar.

“Heart.” He said and turned so that I could tell him his suit.

“Diamond.” I repeated the symbol I saw.

“Fits us well.” He muttered standing up to begin our journey to our cells.

“Aw does that mean I have your heart Chishi?” I stepped up to him teasingly.

“You have my headache.” He stated before walking into his cell.

I entered the one beside him with a warm feeling creeping in my chest. I think it’s the other way around, I think you have my heart Shuntarō.

“Heart.” I spoke my final answer as I waited to leave the cell.

[saintpavlov]

he doesn't mean to make you sad, you know that. it's just that, when atsumu's upset it becomes everyone's problem—yours especially.

you don't know how it starts. atsumu had been bouncing off the walls just a moment ago, drunk off of booze and the afterglow of victory. you don't know which one of his teammates had invited her to the after-party, just that right now, you can't help but hate them.

it's just for a second, but you catch it. the way his eyes immediately dim, how his hand falters around yours. you don't want to jump to conclusions, but it's obvious—atsumu's in love with her. painfully so.

he drops your hand as if burnt and turns away, letting himself be carried off into another conversation. atsumu laughs loud enough to be heard over the music, a deafening house mix that thuds through your chest like a second heartbeat. anyone else might not spare him a second glance, but you know that when atsumu laughs that loud there's something he's trying to hide. then, as if remembering that you're still there, atsumu turns over his shoulder. you answer before he can ask the question.

"no no, go ahead. go have fun!"

atsumu tilts his head, though you know he's only asking to be polite. "are you sure?"

you smile. "no worries."

it's a bold-faced lie, but atsumu's never been that good at paying attention. he returns your smile with an excited nod, letting himself be led away by the shoulders. "don't go anywhere!" he shouts, though you know later on he'll forget to come find you. that's the way it always is. always has been.

you nurse your drink against your chest—water, you don't have the stomach tonight—and try to look on the bright side, if there is one. atsumu had been the one to invite you, hadn't he? and though you're still "just friends", he'd held your hand earlier, so that has to count for something, right?

it's useless. you down your water in one go, figuring that if you treat it like alcohol it might work like it is. it doesn't, and now you're alone at this party with an empty cup and an even emptier hand.

you sigh and snake your way out of the kitchen, making your way up the stairs to the first door that opens. the upstairs is off-limits, but you hope that whoever owns this room is drunk enough to be forgiving. you don't even bother to turn on the lights, and instead flop backwards onto the bed. you feel the music downstairs rather than hearing it, a steady thump-thump-thump that shakes through you from head to toe.

you close your eyes, trying very hard not to think about atsumu and the girl he's still in love with downstairs. it's not your place to be bothered, that you know, but something in your chest still aches at the thought. you've loved atsumu since before he met her, after all. it's a shame he hasn't noticed. or maybe he's not noticing on purpose, which is considerably worse.

"woe is me," you say to no one, your voice biting with sarcasm. you're not shocked at how things are turning out, moreso that you thought it'd turn out any differently. with a sigh, you close your eyes. atsumu will find you eventually. and if he doesn't, then someone else will. you'd rather be cursed at for trespassing than anywhere downstairs, faking a smile as you wait for atsumu like a well-trained dog. at least here you can lick your wounds in private.

you don't know how much time has passed when you feel something press into your side, warm and solid. arms wrap around you: one slung over your waist, the other snaking its way under your head. you turn in confusion, seeing nothing in the dark.

whoever's holding you down reeks heavily of liquor, and their arm feels like a dead weight around you. when you try to pull it off they hold onto you tighter, mumbling something incoherent under their breath. "um, hey," you say loudly, voice hoarse with sleep. "get off of me."

the person beside you stirs, and the bed dips slightly as they prop themselves up. they mumble your name under their breath, and in the dark you can make out the vague outline of a face.

with a start, you realize you recognize that voice. "...osamu?"

he lies back down, bringing you along with him. "h-hey," you start to protest, but osamu's grip grows stronger in response.

"don't leave," he mumbles, as you try to sit up.

"but—"

"m'head hurts. shhh." osamu shushes you, curling up against your side. his hair tickles the side of your reddening cheek.

"hey, osamu." you try to move out from under his arm again, to no avail. "you're really drunk."

"and?" he counters, pulling you closer, almost possessively. "just pretend for a little while."

that catches you off guard. "pretend?"

"it's dark, so it's easier," osamu refuses to elaborate. "c'mon. it's my birthday."

"osamu, your birthday's in october."

"is it?" there's an uncharacteristic cheekiness to osamu's voice, one that makes you turn your head towards him in surprise. you can't see him, but you can tell from the warmth that his face is only inches away. "well it's somebody's birthday, somewhere."

something touches your cheek—osamu's hand? no, his face. somewhere near his chin, guessing by the stubble that scratches your skin. "just do me a favor and pretend i'm him," osamu says, and in that moment he sounds scarily sober.

"wh-what?" you can't help the way your mouth hangs open at the request, your stomach feeling like it's about to drop out of you.

"you heard me," osamu mumbles, back to being drunk again. "pretend i'm him. you know what i mean."

"you—what—that's not—"

"am i wrong?" osamu presses, raising his voice like he's imitating his brother. it works. osamu's fingers trace across your face, reading the shock on your face like braille. you turn your head and press your nose to his neck—no cologne, only the soft smell of skin. it can't be atsumu, but for a moment, you're fooled.

osamu tilts his head and sighs, slow and sweet. and when his lips brush your forehead, it's like everything you've ever dreamed. "i'm right," he breathes, nestling his head against your shoulder. it's not a question anymore, but a fact. "i'm right," he sing-songs, still painfully drunk.

"osamu—"

a hand covers your mouth, warm and firm. softer than atsumu's, and just a bit bigger. "don't say my name like that," he whispers, his voice hot against the shell of your ear, "say it the way you say his."

you swallow an audible gulp. "osa—osamu?" you try again.

osamu shakes his head. needy hands pull you in by the waist. you feel osamu's lips kiss up the side of your neck. "not like that," he murmurs.

"o-osa...mu..." you're breathless and dizzy. you feel osamu's smile against the underside of your jaw.

"better," he grins, and this time, his lips find yours.

it ends before you can even react. osamu pulls away with a shaky exhale, as if he's slowly waking from a dream. his eyes shine back at you in the dark, wide and unblinking.

he opens his mouth to speak. "i—"

"you're drunk," you say immediately, and push him away by the chest.

osamu doesn't let you. he brings his hands over yours and keeps them there, and under the thin cotton of his shirt you feel his heart beating rabbit-fast. "so? i'll still want you when i'm sober."

his words choke your own out of your throat. "osamu...i can't—"

"so don't. don't do anything. just stay the night." there's a desperation in his words that makes your stomach flip. osamu holds onto you like he's afraid to let go. "please."

it's late, and you're tired. atsumu's in love with someone that isn't you, but osamu's arms are warm enough to make you forget. you think to yourself: is it selfish if he's willing? are you cruel for wanting to pretend?

you wrap your arms around his neck and osamu relaxes, melting into you the same way butter does on toast. he's soft, comforting. familiar, but not the same. osamu's lips brush on your neck again and the impact shudders through your spine like electricity. he takes his hands and rubs them over your arms, thinking that you're cold. you don't want to tell him that in reality you're burning up, feeling hot everywhere he touches.

"thank you," osamu murmurs into your hair.

"for what?"

"stayin'."

and when osamu kisses you a second time, you don't have the heart to push him away.

[girl-in-the-chairs-void]

Hold me, Console me

Pairing; Logan x reader

C/w; hurt/comfort, fluff, Logan having nightmares

A/N; LOGAN HAS BEEN ON MY MINDDDD. Here’s a little mind dump for ya. Listen to “no one noticed” by the Marias because it’s literally the inspo for it!!!!

part 2 heheh

You and Logan were…different. He felt different with you, having all his walls broken down within weeks of meeting you; he never thought he’d feel so open again.

But there was something that always tugged at you. He leaves, during the night when you’ve dozed off into a deep sleep. He dozes off on the couch.

His groans and grunts when he has his nightmares was not unfamiliar to you and you wish you could help him through it but just won’t open up, won’t take down that last wall that you’ve been trying so hard to climb or break or just paw at.

He was having another one of those dreams- no nightmares, his past, dead faces everywhere. Flashes of the people he’s loved and lost; his mind mocking him with the fast forwarded slide show of all the horrible things that he’s endured. He doesn’t hear you at first. Your muffled pleas, calling his name.

Then he hears a desperate “Logan, please, wake up.”

And suddenly everything goes white. He takes deep breath through his mouth, sitting up on the leather couch suddenly. His claws come out in an instant as you jump back to avoid getting impaled, eyes wide.

His breathing is heavy- ragged, you were too close.

“Logan,” you crawl towards him, slow. A prey approaching its predator willingly.

He sheaths his claws in a blink, heels of his palms squeezing his eyes shut. A sharp, “no” is uttered before he’s reaching for his shirt and making a beeline for your door.

You run after him, blocking the door before he can reach the it.

“No, Logan! Not today,” your eyes are puffy, and pleading for him to stay. Just this once. “Please, stay”.

So fucking polite. He thinks. He could melt into you right then and there but he can’t. He can’t because he almost killed you. Almost hurt you.

You hurt her, like you hurt them. You hurt- you almost killed her. You killed them. You killed them. You killed her.

His face hardens at your plea but with one hand on his chest and a push, he can’t help but follow your orders.

“Baby…” He starts, choking back words, thinking in the fear of saying the wrong thing.

“Talk to me, Lo. You’ve been hiding here every night, in pain. I don’t like seeing you that way.” You sit him down on the plush yet worn out leather, sitting next to him. It groans under the weight of him and you as you let him sink further in.

He has half the mind and a full urge to pull you to your rightful seat on his lap, but he knows he can’t. Not right now.

“I can’t” his voice comes out shakier than he wanted it to. He doesn’t know what he can or can’t tell you. The horrors of his past have led him here, to you. Something he feels is permanent.

“You’ve endured a lot, life has given you too many hardships and I know it hasn’t been easy for you.” You say, reaching out your palm to wipe a stray tear away from his cheek, his beard tickling at your skin.

“But I want you to open up, please. Don’t like seeing you in pain, Lo.” You can feel your own tears running down your own cheeks.

He pulls you onto his lap, making you straddle him as he wipes your tears away silently. Pressing his lips to your forehead, he apologises in silent whispers; “I’m sorry” a kiss on your temple, “I’m so” his lips move down to your left cheek, “so sorry” then to your right before landing onto your own lips. It’s tender, filled with a thousand apologies and a million ‘I am here for you’s. He loves you, he really does.

“It’ll take time, bub.” He pulls away, hands still caging your face, calloused thumb brushing against your bottom lip as you up at him.

“It’s okay, take your time,” you cup his palm into your own, bringing it to your lips, peppering sweet kisses in the inside of it. So sweet.

“I’ll wait forever, but not too long, yeah?”

If only. If only that forever was actually as long as the word implied.

Because the next morning, you don’t wake up in the arms of the love of your life. There is no trace of him besides the lingering scent of his cigar.

He left without a trace.

[comfortless]

Everything you write leaves me breathless <333

Sorry in advance for my English

I was thinking about König, (maybe in an ancient rome/Greek settling) being so alone and desperate for connection that he turns to religion: one day he's walking in the woods, deep in thought, when he finds an abandoned temple. The inside is small but lavish, with a life sized statue of what must be its goddess. He sees this lovely sculpture, abandoned and alone and sees himself in her. He becomes a dedicated, fanatic and soso lovestruck worshipper. Unknownly to him his goddess, woken by his prayers, has been watching him and listening to him. One day while he's praying in front of her her statue moves and talks and now his deity is in front of him. Looks like he has an opportunity to worship her like she deserves ;)

granting you ten million kissies for this prompt and your sweet words! your English is perfect, little wisp! <3 also… giving me an excuse to write more loner/loner and mutual worship?! you have spoken to my heart…

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. historical/myth au; vague time period, brief mentions of violence, fluff, pining, not very explicit smut, mutual worship.

The spirit of the temple feels disorienting, though the architecture is a still, white marble, the floor riddled with leaves and dirt, creeping up the sides of the building as if river water had washed the entire thing ashore… Something feels very alive here, feathered out on the air, a pulse of thunder, the breeze beneath dove’s wings, enthused and yawning. Hungry.

It only becomes more apparent the closer he steps to the statue.

She is unlike any he has ever seen before, carved with the same skill, but so much smaller than the other statues in their temples, so much more lifelike that he almost thinks to greet her. She’s been painted unlike most, a perfect vision bathed in color where she stands out amidst the sea of white and green surrounding her. The temple has not been stained with blood, no offering strewn before her bare feet, left for the rot or dragged away by the dainty hands of this very goddess. No maidens sit in prayer, no men lower there swords to her…

There’s nothing to tell him just who she is, either.

Despite his better judgment, his hand does find her side, a swift draw up from the vision of her thigh peeking from her robe upward to curl over her hip. Her beauty is unmatched, impossible to describe and the call seems almost tangible, shrieking at him in whispers to bend a knee and let her in. So, he does. He prays to her in the silence, alternating between whispers and his own thoughts.

He tells her of his struggles: a soldier brought in from a small tribe up north, robbed from his parents as a boy, how all he knew now were the Roman ways yet could rarely comprehend their customs and deities. Maybe she could offer him some counsel or solace…? Make the weight of his blade feel less heavy as he struck down men that could very well be his own brothers? Give him something to return to when old wounds reopened and he bled, hurt with no one but himself to tend to his heart or his injuries.

The goddess only blesses him with silence: the wind does not pick up outside, there is no disembodied laughter, no sudden thought of an offering or new words to speak to her. She is void of an answer just as the very temple she waits inside is empty of all else.

This does not dissuade him from returning.

Returning to the city after another battle some months later, his first thought is to return to her, to leave the things he’s taken from dead men at her feet, to paint the temple with the blood lingering on his weapon. There is honey, wine, meat and jewelry made of stones from the sea. There is brittle, dried flakes of blood polished from his blade and left to settle onto the floor like the leaves of late autumn. He presents these things to her with a grin, thinking that assuredly this goddess would call back to him then, grant him with a love so consuming that all of the evasion and emptiness cursed upon him would be untwined.

He kneels before her statue, presses his cheek to her thigh, sighs content at the feel of cold marble against the ever-burning of his flesh, gazes up at her like an adoring dog.

Assuredly, if this temple were built for a being that did exist at all she would know just how she was all that this lonesome soldier had, would know the way that he loved her and waited with bated breath and heartstrings pulled taut for her to love him in turn. A greedy, begging muzzle that utters his prayers, words he’s never spoken to anyone whether deity or mortal, only to her in the quiet of the forest.

It’s not madness that provokes him, but the gentleness of her face and the tender look in her eyes, an expression that no other had ever offered to him, no one but this little forgotten goddess. Whether pitying or loving, he did not know. It was only enough to keep him returning: for many days, his path from the city led straight to her feet, even some nights were spent lying upon her floor, finding peace finally being able to sleep next to something apart from lonely walls.

The sun rises and sets each day where he sits and speaks to her as though she were a living, breathing woman. Occasionally he reads aloud to her in the stillness, cheekily tells her when another goddess’ name is brought up within the lines of poetry that they could never hope to compare.

It’s ridiculous when he does not even know what purpose she serves, but this silent figure is his only companion, the only thing that sets his heart ablaze and mind focused in battle because above all else, he has to return to her. Though she can not share his words, he knows somehow that she shares in his loneliness.

Finally, he thinks to ask her the question that has been burning at the tip of his tongue for weeks and months. One, that he has tried to hold back, display a patience that he lacks. It’s after a night of sleeping on cold marble, an ache in his neck from its hardness and his own refraining from bringing a cushion from his own home in his desperation to return to her.

“Why won’t you speak?,” he asks, somber as he makes his way to leave the temple, only halting in place to cast her a fragile look from over his shoulder. He has read the epics, heard the stories and seen the blessings of other deities… Yet no matter what he does or how often he tethers himself to her leg and dotes upon her, she still meets his devotion with nothing but her silence in return.

König is left with the thought that his gifts are not enough, that he, himself, is not enough, even as her sole devotee. To keep his mind preoccupied, he keeps to the city for a time. The bed is cold, the people still see him as a barbaric outsider, and the horrible coil wound around his heart only seems to tighten its grip further. He feels as though he has left a part of himself out there in the forest within the four chalked walls of her temple.

This loneliness does not feel like one he is forced to swallow down, it feels like a vicious sort of ache, the twisting of a dagger beneath ribs to sink in and steal away what little of a life he does have.

He returns to her the following night, with a furrowed brow and a grave look upon his face. There’s an intent to demand she free him of her, that this longing finally pass, but as his sandals reach the entrance to the temple, those thoughts fall away from his mind like droplets of rain, a cool drizzle that begins to fall outside the very moment he is sheltered.

The statue— the goddess moves.

She tilts her head and inspects him fondly, the perfect mouth he has envisioned speaking to him so many times prior tilts upward in the gentlest smile as her bare feet move to carry her body forward.

“A test,” she explains as though answering his question from only the past day, almost saddened by her own words as her gaze lowers to the space between them.

König’s heart does not roar then, it only melts with the knowledge that someone like her has been left alone for so, so very long that she felt the need to prove to herself that he would return to her side. He would. Time and time again he would. When she raises her head to look him in the eye, her own clouded and misty, he only silently prays that she could see such a vow upon his face.

“I am worthy then?,” he questions, forcing himself to remain rigidly in place despite the call- the urge, to circle her, just once, drop at her feet to then feel her pulse beneath his fingertips. Anything. Even an assurance would be reward enough, but there is always a greed in the hearts of men, one he feels burning a hole through his very being even now.

Her lips press to a line and her gaze seems faraway, lost in her own thoughts that must be as mighty as Olympus itself. After a time, she only answers in a soft whisper, “It is I who am unworthy of you.”

All discordance in his chest pulls to a halt at this, all apprehension and sadness are whisked away when she instead comes to kneel before him. She curls her arms around his leg, presses her cheek to his thigh as he had done so many times before. The goddess gazes up at him with not just affection… but reverence, as though he were the strongest warrior of myth, deserving of even the love of something only as ethereal and sweet as she could provide.

His breath catches for a mere moment before he lowers himself at her side. The stares exchanged from both are full of an unspoken wonderment, all of the things that words alone would fail to speak in truth.

He waits out the rain there, sat beside her with the air surrounding them charged with such a great and unspoken affection that even Venus would taste a bitter envy on her tongue should she pass by to see.

She tells him she can not recall what she was the goddess of… or if she was ever truly any goddess at all. The marble surrounding her was put up for a purpose, but she’s never seen the Elysian Fields or climbed Olympus on her own. Her memories are scattered blurs, and she confesses that she feels tired when she tries to parse things together in a way that he will understand.

He listens while he tends to her by offering the honey and dried meat left in offering for her here, then fetches fresh water from the stream that brooks several yards away and returns to her side with a face both damp and flushed.

König tells her of his life too, how during every battle since stumbling upon this sacred place he has kept her in mind; he has no wife to return to, no other women to bed, that since their meeting his life has become hers. He confesses he had the intention of returning only to force a curse upon this madness that had enveloped him, but… he could never have brought himself to do so, even if she had not appeared to him warm and breathing.

Her laugh then could have prompted waves of flowers to bloom and birds to sing in tune, whimsical and so precious he only begins to feel himself fall, truly. Not out of sheer desperation, but with genuine affection.

When her exhaustion does take her, she does not mind the way his arm curls around her middle to tuck her body closer to his own. The goddess has no fury within her, only mirrors his own feelings with a fluttering of lashes and a soft sigh.

So she sleeps, pulled close to him like a lover rather than a stranger. When dawn breaks, when König knows he’s to be called back to train and fight with the other soldiers, have dull talks about what land to cross and take for their own next, she tells him she will wait there for his return.

He can not concentrate as well on his training this day. The plans for future wars and battles do not send flurries, hot excitement through him. The world is an endless gray, reflected above with darkened clouds threatening further rain. There is only one place he wishes to be, one that yearns for him more than his own home or the women waiting on the street for coins the other men readily supply. When one, a native Roman, does ask him why he does not just venture to the brothel to put himself in better spirits, König only grits his teeth to still his hand from quieting him eternally. These men knew nothing of the love he feels, and certainly they didn’t deserve to.

The temple is no different from how he found it the night prior. The goddess sits with her hands curled in her lap, smiling just as fondly at him as she had before. His heart shatters at the thought that she had sat there waiting for him in such a way all day. He swears to her that he will have a proper bed made for her, bring her the softest of furs and cushions stuffed with downy feathers to lie upon. For now his offering is only fruit and wine, things that she shares with him while she shushes his concerns with quiet words and gratitude that he had returned.

She lowers herself again before him after pulling her robe free and lying it upon the floor. It is no proper bedding at all, but she swears that it is enough, that his own warmth is just enough for her to be sated and comfortable. His head swims when she kisses his thigh, drags her lips up from his knee to rest there with that reverent look in her eye. Mortals coupling with deities was not unheard of, but to think it could happen to him…

She is a goddess. How is he supposed to… How could he ever dirty her with himself? He thinks to refuse her before she tugs away the barrier of fabric between them and takes him into her mouth. Stunned, he only watches her, feels her in a way he has never felt a woman before until he finds his voice again.

“Lie down,” he breathes, shaky and tentative as he rests his hand upon her cheek. She complies, giddy and content when she’s splayed out on the white robe beneath her, legs parting immediately and her arms reaching upward to invite him into her hold.

There’s no tact when he lies atop her, feels the warmth of her thighs around him and her arms curled over his neck. His forehead is pressed to her own when togetherness is found, and when she sighs so soft as she envelops him in full, his mouth descends upon her own.

She doesn’t praise him, doesn’t need to in words, because the muffled sounds and cries that leave her lips are more than enough to spear him onward. König, however… he babbles ceaselessly, overwhelmed and overcome by such a profound joy, he can not keep himself from reciting every word that comes to mind, whether vile or pure.

“My goddess,” he whispers into her hair, eyes half-lidded and dazed with each shallow thrust. “We could have had this for a season… you have made me wait so long, hm?”

The way she feels is unmatched, he thinks, when her breathing shudders and she only seems to constrict him further. To think he could bring a goddess to ruin… the grin that crosses his face when he pushes his head against her neck is bordering on both ecstatic and cruel.

“I will give you a demigod,” he hisses against her throat, not at all subtle about just how far he was willing to go to keep her here. With him. More than Olympus, she belonged beneath him, and the tremor that wracks her form then is all of the confirmation he would need.

She sobs his name when the tension becomes too much to bear, fingernails graze the flesh of his shoulders as she shudders, falls into such bliss that her words of praise come incoherent and weak. He follows her to a saccharine abyss with a guttural groan.

The aftermath is softer than any other moment he has shared with her. There are an abundance of kisses pressed between them, littered across her flesh and his own with whispers that leave his mind cloudy. Her worship is subtle by comparison to his own, coming in honeyed stares and such words he would never dare to repeat, no lowly poet deserved to ever hear them, their voices could never compare to her own.

The goddess holds him close, bumps his nose with her own and makes a promise; she tells him for as long as he shall live that this temple was as much his home as it were his own. That even when this body of his does die, she will seek him out in the Elysian Fields, lie at his feet as he had done her own; that no matter what may come, they will never be apart.

[nahoney22]

Hey bestie! I love your work and as I've gotten to know you better, you've been an amazing friend ❤️

I was wondering if you could do some hurt/comfort/whump with f!reader x Tech! Maybe they have crash landed or been captured together or something. Perhaps they don't necessarily get along with each other but this situation forces them to work together and they discover that maybe the other isn't so bad. ❤️ Thanks!

Crash Landed 🌊

🫧 Pairing: Tech X Female Reader

word count: 5.9k

Prompts: none

Summary: After you and Tech crash land in a remote Jungle, the two of you need to put your heads together and work as a team. Which is sometimes easier said than done.

warnings: Hurt, Angst and Comfort Whump Trope, Mentions of Injury to Reader and Tech, reader has a fear of blood, Kinda Enemies to Lovers, Reconciliation, Talks about Feelings, Huddling for Warmth, Heated First Kiss, Female Reader. Not proofread.

authors note: I love this idea! I hope I did it justice. And by the word count, clearly I enjoyed writing it. Thanks for being and amazing friend @arctrooper69 🩶

You awaken, dazed and confused, your head heavy as your eyes adjust to the dim, smoke-filled surroundings. What's that smell? Is that... smoke? What happened?

Your body aches with every movement as you manage to sit up with a hefty groan, feeling the weight of gravity pull at your limbs. Rubbing your eyes with your hands to focus, you realise that everything is on its side, the walls of the shuttle caved in, sparks flying from broken control panels. What a mess. But, you're sure you were not alone before this happened.

“Tech?” you call out, your voice croaky before you start coughing, as if your lungs had filled up with smoke.

No reply. “Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead,” you mutter to yourself as panic sets in, the memories flooding back. The mission, the Imperial's, crashing. Yes, that’s it. You crash-landed. But where? And where was Tech?

Luckily, your thoughts are answered as a torch shines in the distance, followed by loud clattering as if objects were being moved. You squint through the smoke, trying to ignore the acrid scent of burning metal. “Ah, there you are,” Tech says as he comes into view, his armor scratched, and his goggles a little skewed on his head.

“What happened?” you ask as he approaches you, another spluttering cough escaping your lips.

“If you take a look around, it will become apparent that we have crashed,” he replies. Ah yes, still a pain in the neck even after both of you nearly died.

You and Tech had rarely seen eye to eye. Since you joined the squad months ago, he always seemed to be on top of you, trying to prove you wrong or point out mistakes. It was tiresome. And now, unfortunately, you were stuck with him.

Rolling your eyes, you were in no mood for his tone and began to stand. However, as soon as you did, your leg gave way, your knees slamming to the floor. A cry of pain escaped you, making Tech look up from his cracked datapad, his eyes widening with slight concern. “Are you injured?”

“Obviously,” you grumbled in reply, stretching out your legs to assess the damage, but you didn’t see anything at first. It wasn’t until Tech crouched down in front of you that he spotted it.

“You have a laceration on your calf,” he said, his voice calm but concerned, inspecting the wound closely, and you did a double-take at his words.

“W-What? Is it bad?” You tried to hide the panic in your voice, but if there’s one thing you hated, it was blood.

Tech didn’t reply straight away, his eyes inspecting the wound closely, but your nerves began to eat away at you. “Tech, is it bleeding?” You asked quickly, your chest heaving as the fear started to creep in.

“Yes,” he confirmed, not making eye contact with you before he stood again, “I shall look for a medkit among this rubble. Stay here.” Well, it’s not like you had anywhere to go anytime soon anyway.

You wanted to call out to him, you wanted him to stay with you, but that would be inviting him to babysit you. Just because you were scared didn’t mean you wanted Tech to take care of you, which he probably would not do anyway.

Luckily, he wasn’t gone long and returned with a battered medkit. Some vials were smashed inside, and some tools were of no use, but you were glad that the bandages were untarnished. You had to look away as he started to dress your leg, cutting away the loose fabric to your pants before he skillfully wrapped it up. “That should do for now. Can you stand? We need to get out of here as it wouldn't surprise me if this shuttle imploded at any minute.”

Comfort was not his strong suit, clearly.

“I’ll try,” you began to haul yourself up your feet, but again, you were too weak. “No, no, no, I can’t.” As you were about to fall once again, Tech tucked himself under your arm, a hand steady on your waist as he kept you up.

“I will have to carry you.”

“No!” You squeaked. No way in hell were you going to let him carry you around. No way you wanted to appear more of a burden than you already are.

He raised an eyebrow, unmoved by your objection. “This is not open to debate. You can not put weight on your leg.”

With a frustrated sigh, you relented. “Alright, fine.”

With a wince of pain shooting up your leg, Tech manages to slip his arm around your neck, hoisting you over his shoulder with little effort. Each step he makes sends a jolt of unbearable pain through your leg, but you grit your teeth, holding back any sign of distress, more focused on figuring out how the two of you will get out of this mess.

You escape the shuttle, and the scorching sun immediately washes over you, its heat oppressive and suffocating. The air is humid and sticky. Great.

"So, where are we?" you ask awkwardly, still draped over his shoulder as he trudges onward.

"Uncertain," he replies, which does nothing to ease your nerves.

After a few minutes of walking, he finally sets you down on some dry grass. The sun beats down, forcing you to shield your eyes with your hand as you survey your surroundings. From the looks of it, you’re stranded in a jungle, with a vast expanse of open water stretching out before you. You could be literally anywhere.

“I suggest we find shelter, food, and a water source promptly. Since you are in no state to do anything, this task falls upon me,” he says, not once meeting your gaze as he speaks.

"Are you trying to blame me for hurting my leg? If I'm not mistaken, Tech, you were the one who pushed us into that shuttle," you retort, anger bubbling over.

"I am not blaming you, although if it was not for your mistake on the mission I would not have had to intervene." He trails off, not seeming to care at the dirty looks being sent his way. "I am merely stating facts." He says simply, tucking his datapad into his pouch before glancing down at you.

Deciding to keep your mouth shut for now, you refrain from arguing, knowing it won’t solve anything. Instead, you let Tech take the lead because, as much as you hate to admit it, he's right. You are in no state to do anything at the moment.

Tech leaves you alone for a while, giving you one of his blasters as a precaution before returning around half an hour later, announcing he found a suitable place to set up camp. You simply nod before glancing over at the crashed shuttle. “Is there anything we can salvage from that at least?” you ask aloud, drawing Tech’s attention back to you before casting a glance over at the debris.

“Perhaps. But we will have to be quick-." Before he can finish his thoughts, a sudden explosion rips through the air as the shuttle suddenly erupts into a burst of flames, sending debris flying in all directions. You both watch in shock as the flames engulf the wreckage, leaving nothing salvageable. Never mind.

Once Tech had led you to a secluded spot under the protective canopy of towering trees. With careful movements, you managed to shift your weight onto your knees, the pain radiating from your leg causing you to bite back a wings of pain.

“You are doing it wrong.” As you went ahead and started to make a fire, Tech’s unsolicited advice on fire-building techniques went in one ear and out the other. Survival instincts was one of your specialties after all and so you ignored him as as you gathered dry twigs and leaves, arranging them meticulously into a makeshift pyre.

As Tech continued his lecture on the ‘correct way’ to build a fire, you struck the flint, the spark igniting a blaze that danced and crackled life. A triumphant smirk tugged at the corners of your lips as Tech fell silent, the warmth of the flames casting flickering shadows on the thick backdrop of the jungle.

“As you have accomplished the fire, all we need now is some edible food and water," Tech remarked and you hummed in slight agreement.

Carefully, you leaned back and against a sturdy boulder for support as you turned your attention to Tech, whose fingers deftly navigated his datapad. "Do you think you’ll be able to contact the others?" you inquired softly, wanting to hear good news right now.

Tech's brow furrowed in concentration as he tinkered with the device, the soft glow of the cracked screen illuminating his features in the darkness. "If I can get my device to work properly and salvage the shuttle… then possibly. But…" His voice trailed off, uncertainty lingering in the air.

"You have doubts?" you pressed, concerned lacing your words as you watched him shift uneasily in his spot.

“Yes,” he says as he stands, tucking his datapad away again, “I have my doubts.”

You both fall into silence, something quite rare from Tech as he was always chattering away about something. But for now, he was quiet. Deep in thought. A part of you wished you knew what he was thinking, wondering what was happening in that marvelous mind of his and if he had thought about what would happen if you two were never found which was a reoccurring thought in yours.

“I will be back soon,” he speaks up, breaking the silence after a few minutes.

“Where are you going?” You ask, a little too quickly. But truthfully, you didn’t want to be on your own right now. Yet you didn’t want him to know that.

He watches you almost tentatively before saying, “I need to gather provisions. I will not be long.”

You didn’t protest as you watched him walk away, disappearing through the trees as nightfall approached. Sighing softly to yourself, you sat lost in thought, the flickering flames casting shifting shadows across your face as you think back to all the things you should have done on that mission. Perhaps if you didn’t let your pride get the better of you, you wouldn’t have to sit wondering when Tech will return and if either of you will make it out of here.

You don’t even remember falling asleep last night but you do remember waking up to the chill that had kept you shivering throughout the night despite sleeping by the crackling fire.

As you awaken to the gentle warmth of the morning sun filtering through the dense foliage above, a stark contrast to last night, with a heavy sigh, you sit up. You groan as your body feels more fatigued and worn out than before. Nausea washes over you as you groggily inspect your leg, the sight of the dried and bloodied bandage from the previous day making your stomach churn. Obviously, you'll need to tend to it again.

“Will you need my assistance or are you capable of tending to your own wound today?” Tech's voice cuts through the quiet morning air, his tone as matter-of-fact as ever. It's always hard to discern whether he's being genuinely helpful or simply blunt.

Deciding to handle this task yourself this time, you nod, expressing your intention to manage it alone. And even though you wanted to do it alone, Tech approaches nonetheless, the battered med kit in hand.

With Tech standing by, you cautiously remove the old bandage, your stomach turning at the sight of the open wound. Despite the lack of fresh blood, the dried remnants are enough to make you feel queasy. "You do not like blood," Tech observes, his statement pulling your attention away from the gruesome sight.

"Hm, how could you tell?" you mutter sarcastically, attempting to deflect from the discomfort.

“I have always known,” Tech responds cryptically, his expression giving nothing away as he crouches down beside you.

Curiosity piqued, you inquired further, wondering how he could have possibly known your hatred for blood. After all, you couldn't recall ever mentioning it to him before. “I… have observed your behaviour before and just so happened to pick up on it. I also recall you mentioning it to Hunter when you first joined.”

Hm, that’s… surprising.

You say nothing of it and instead allow him to take care of you. As Tech takes over, gently raising your leg and propping it over his knee, you can't help but notice the care he takes.

Despite his typically relaxed demeanor, there's a hint of concern in his actions as he tells you that you ‘may want to avert your gaze’ as he begins to peel the old bandage away.

Happily, you turn your attention to the leaves above, trying to ignore the stinging sensation spreading through your leg and the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Though, the warm breeze brushes against your exposed skin, offering a slight comfort amidst the discomfort.

“H-How does it look?” you ask, your voice strained, the anxiety evident in your tone as you feel Tech's careful movements.

“It appears that you have an infection. And I do not have the right resources to treat it.” Your heart sinks at his words, a sense of dread settling in the pit of your stomach as you try to suppress the rising panic.

“Great.”

“I will assume that is sarcasm,” he hums before passing you his canteen, “I found a water source last night. This has been purified and suitable to drink. I suggest you do that.”

Taking the canteen from his grasp, your mouth suddenly feels dry at the thought of water. You take a sip and can’t help but grimace at the taste, the bitterness lingering on your tongue. “Are you sure it’s been purified?”

“Yes, I did not say it will taste nice.”

You roll your eyes and take another remorseful sip before passing it back to him, your mind inadvertently drifting to the state of your leg. It looked worse than you anticipated.

“Shit.” You curse under your breath as you blink away the tears, the frustration and fear bubbling to the surface. Of course, your leg would get infected. Why would a crash-landing be a stroll in the park?

“I agree with your sentiments.” Tech's voice is steady as he carefully applies a new bandage, his movements precise and calculated. “I suggest you rest.”

“No,” you shake your head adamantly, meeting his gaze with determination, “I’m not going to sit here and do nothing. I have to do something.”

He blinks at you, frowning behind his goggles. “You are in no state to do anything. You are injured and so-.”

“So I’m a hindrance?” You challenge, the frustration evident in your tone as you refuse to back down.

“In a way, yes.” He says directly, the weight of his words hanging in the air as he stands up straight after carefully placing your leg down. “Any further injury could lead to loss of limb. Or worse. We cannot risk getting that leg infected even more. Do you not think you have caused enough grievance?”

Anger bubbles at his words, yet, a part of you knew he was right. You were both in this mess because of you but sitting on the forest floor doing nothing felt like a last resort. “Can you at least just help me stand up?” you grumble, your voice tinged with frustration. “Please?”

He hesitates, seemingly torn between his concern for your well-being and his reluctance to encourage any further strain on your injured leg. However, the dejected look on your face softens his resolve, knowing that he wouldn’t hear the end of it until he complies. Reluctantly, he extends his hand, offering you the support you need to rise to your feet.

Carefully, you put slight pressure on your leg, testing its strength. Surprisingly, it isn’t as painful as it was yesterday, giving you a glimmer of hope that you might be able to move around by limping or hopping for now—especially when Tech isn’t looking.

“Thanks,” you say stiffly, folding your arms over your chest, a mix of gratitude and stubbornness in your demeanor as you watch him pick something out of his pouch and hand it over to you. “What’s this?”

He presents you with a strange-looking leaf, its unfamiliar shape and texture raising your curiosity. “It is food. Edible. It is all I could find last night but will fill us with enough nutrients for now.”

The rest of the day didn’t unfold as smoothly as you both had hoped. While Tech ventured back to the shuttle in a bid to secure a signal to reach the others, you took it upon yourself to be productive. Somehow.

With the terrain familiar to you from extensive research in your past, thoughts of herbal remedies for injuries like the one on your leg flooded your mind. So, after crafting a makeshift walking stick from a discarded branch sturdy enough to support your weight, you set off from camp, determined to gather the necessary ingredients.

Luck seemed to be on your side as you found the correct herbs and plants without much difficulty. However, your return to camp was met with an annoyed-looking Tech, his frustration evident as he started an argument for your sudden departure and for not telling him where you were since comms were dead too; coupled with his ongoing concerns about your leg.

Insisting that you were fine, you proceeded to apply the herbal remedy to your wound, wrapping it back up and allowing nature to take its course. Though Tech couldn’t help but offer snide remarks whenever you winced at the slightest movement, your remedy proved effective in easing the discomfort for a while.

Meanwhile, Tech’s attempts to establish a signal to the others had proved fruitless, only adding to his growing frustration. He was normally very composed under pressure, but his visible agitation was somewhat unsettling, leaving you feeling both concerned and also quite upset to see him this way.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the camp, the atmosphere between you two remained tense. While you rested against the boulder again, Tech sat with his head in his hands, visibly weighed down by the day's events.

An uncharacteristic urge to ease his burden prompted you to speak up. “Why don’t you sleep? Try again tomorrow,” you suggest, breaking the silence and drawing his gaze across the flickering flames of the fire pit.

“One of us needs to stay awake and take watch,” he insists, decided on his decision straight away.

You frown, realising that you slept through most of the previous night, which meant… “Tech, did you not sleep last night?” you ask, your concern evident in your tone.

“No.” He mutters, “Like I said, one of us needs to stay awake.”

Squinting at him, a hint of annoyance creeps into your voice. “That’s not healthy, especially when we’re stuck like this. You need to sleep or something.”

“I am used to not getting sleep on the Marauder so I do not see why this is any different,” he counters, his stance firm.

Though grateful for his commitment to keeping watch, you can’t help but feel exasperated by his stubbornness. Rolling your eyes, you wrap your arms around yourself as a chill sets in. “To be fair,” you begin, “I kept waking up last night. It was way too cold.”

“Yes, I noticed,” he responds, his tone softened slightly by the acknowledgement.

“Oh,” you say softly before closing your eyes, allowing the weariness of the day to wash over you. However, you’re abruptly jolted from the verge of sleep by the sound of movement nearby. With a start, you almost jump out of your skin as Tech stands in front of you.

“Stars Tech!” You gasp, his sudden proximity shocking you. “What?”

“I want you to go to sleep.”

You blink at him.

“Okay…?”

“So,” you watch him shift, his movements awkward, “I will let you sleep beside me.”

It takes you a moment to comprehend his meaning before you pull a strange face, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion and slight amusement. “Are you asking me to cuddle you?” The thought surprises you, but oddly enough, it doesn’t sound too bad right about now.

“I would not put it so conveniently,” he says, his tone betraying a hint of discomfort, “I am merely stating that I could use my body warmth to help you sleep.”

You’re taken aback by his offer, but exhaustion soon overwhelms any reservations you may have had. “Oh… well, if you’re okay with that?”

“I would not have offered otherwise.” Tech’s smile is small but genuine, and you can’t help but softly smile back as you both sit beside one another, gazing into the flames of the fire pit. Soon, you find your eyes trailing down to his bare hands, frowning as you notice they look quite sweaty; an odd sight considering the cool evening air.

Curiosity gets the better of you, and you gaze up at his face, finding him engrossed in fixing his datapad. But something seems off—his complexion appears clammy, and there’s a flush to his cheeks.

Instinctively, you reach out and place the back of your hand to his forehead, gasping at the unexpected heat radiating from his skin. “Tech!” You squeak, startling him. “You have a fever? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He doesn’t even look at you, giving off a look like a character who had been bitten by something in those horrible horror holomovies and pretends to hide the bite. “Tech,” you say his name again, more sternly. “Are you hurt?”

He sighs, dropping his device into his lap before he lifts his arm to you, showing a bandage of his own that is stained in dry blood. “As I was maneuvering through the shuttle, I just so happened to trip and catch my arm on some jagged metal. It is nothing to fret about.”

“Oh, come off it, you’re burning up.” Tech notices the slight worry in your tone, watching you lean to your other side as you produce the herbal paste you used on yourself earlier. “Let me put this on.”

“Rest and water will do me fine-.”

“That’s funny, seeing as you just told me you’d rather me sleep than yourself.” You say with a roll of your eyes, taking a firm yet gentle hold of his arm before you start to peel the bandage away, holding down your nausea just for him.

Tech watches you with a concerned gaze. “I must insist…” he trails off as his eyes move to the sticky paste, clearly uncertain about your own remedy.

“Don’t you trust me?” You ask, and time seems to freeze as you both lock eyes, speaking silently to one another. His gaze is strong and, albeit, quite hypnotising behind his yellow-tinted goggles. But, you seem to snap out of your gaze as he replies:

“I do.”

“Well,” you say, clearing your throat as you drop your gaze to his arm, “let me help you.”

You’re gentle with your movements, applying the remedy over his arm with precision. You could feel his stare on your face, and so you slowly looked back up at him, his face so near you could almost feel the warmth of his breath dancing on your skin. “See? That should help with the pain,” you find yourself whispering.

For once, the two of you didn’t seem to be at each other's necks, both of you seeming to try and read each other’s thoughts. Tech was not the best at reading feelings, and as you gaze into his eyes, you find yourself not being able to read his too.

Eventually, you look away. An unusual heat started to crawl up your neck, and you didn’t think it was from the flame from the fire or his ‘body warmth’ as he put it. Lack of sleep and lack of food and water. That had to be it.

“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep, Tech?” You ask again as the drowsiness from before seeps back, and Tech turns his head away from you, inspecting his arm quietly before picking up his datapad once more.

“I am sure.”

The next day unfolded much like the one before it.

Tech grumbled about your mobility, his attempts to fix up the shuttle yielding no results, and the air between you both grew heavy with unspoken tension.

Yet, as nightfall descended once again, you found yourself nestled beside Tech, his warmth offering a rare respite, allowing you to drift into a peaceful sleep. And miraculously, your homemade remedy seemed to work wonders on both of you. You could now move with a bit more ease, and the infections on your injuries had cleared up.

But as you stared into the dancing flames that night, a wave of sorrow washed over you.

“You were right, you know?” you whispered into the night, the warmth of the fire casting flickering shadows on your face.

“About what?” Tech responded, his eyes fixed on his datapad, the soft glow illuminating his features.

Tears welled up at the corners of your eyes, and you struggled to keep them at bay, feeling utterly helpless. “That it was my fault… with the mission. If I had just let you do the data transfer instead of insisting I could do it then…” Your voice faltered, choked by a sob that escaped your lips, startling Tech. “Then we would’ve made it out in time! A-and the others… Tech, we don’t even know if they’re alive!”

Tech stared at you wide-eyed, your sudden outburst of emotion catching him off guard. Yet, amidst your tears streaming down your face and your hands clasped over your head, he uttered your name softly, “Mistakes happen.”

“But they don’t with you, Tech!” you cried, turning to face him. “You’re always so good, so perfect at everything you do, and I… I just wanted to prove myself to you! I always feel like I am not good enough for you, and that’s why you don’t like me.”

For a moment, the crackling of the fire was the only sound between you, the flames casting a warm glow on both of your faces. Tech's expression softened as he regarded you with understanding.

“Not liking you, is not something that ever crossed my mind,” he finally said, his voice low. “You were determined, and that is a trait that is to be commended. It is true, I often find it easier to rely on myself but I am programmed that way. But you, you gave it your all, and that is commendable. Do not be so hard on yourself.”

You sniffle, feeling the weight of your emotions pressing down on you like a heavy blanket. The tears keep escaping your eyes, trailing down your cheeks as you struggle to contain your emotions. "But… because of me, you’re stuck here?"

Tech’s gaze softens, his eyes reflecting understanding. His voice carries a comforting warmth as he responds, “I am aware. But think how you would be if I were not here.”

Your mind whirls with the possibilities of what could have been, but you still feel terrible. "But we may not see the others again… we may not ever leave here." Your voice trembles with the weight of uncertainty, your heart heavy with guilt.

Tech’s gaze shifts away, his brows furrowing in contemplation as he adjusts his goggles. "We have to adapt to survive, we always have. And regarding the others, the probability of their survival is 89%. It is likely they are out there looking for us. And if I get the shuttle repaired enough to get a connection, I can send a signal and hope they pick up our coordinates.” His voice carries a note of determination.

You cling to his words like a lifeline, a glimmer of hope flickering in the depths of your despair. How could you have been so stupid? But, his words held promise but you can’t help but ask: "Promise me you’re not lying to me?"

“I have not once ever lied to you and I would not start now.” His response is steady, his words a soothing balm to your battered soul.

As your tears slowly subside, a tentative smile graces your lips. "Thanks Tech,” you murmur, your voice thick with emotion. “I bet I look a mess right now. I’m a pretty ugly cryer.”

Tech’s gaze softens, a hint of warmth in his eyes as he searches for the right words. "No, you look…” He trails off, his gaze lingering on your tear-streaked face. He reaches out, his touch feather-light as he gently brushes away a stray tear that glistens on your lashes.

“What?” you prompt, your breath catching in your throat at his unfamiliar touch as you meet his gaze.

“Like you,” he finishes, a little awkward but his words were imbued with sincerity as he offers you a small smile.

Emotion wells up inside you, a tidal wave of gratitude and affection crashing over you. Without a second thought, you lean forward, wrapping your arms around him in a tight embrace. He freezes for a moment, taken aback by the sudden intimacy, before tentatively returning the hug, his arms encircling you in a protective cocoon.

As you’re wrapped in each other's embrace, you find solace; a fleeting moment of peace.

As sleep beckons, you can’t help but nestle closer to him, finding comfort in his presence as you drift off into the realm of dreams, his steady heartbeat a lullaby.

In the days that followed, a significant improvement became evident. Tech’s progress on the shuttle repair was slow, hampered by the absence of his proper tools. Despite the challenges, both of your injuries had begun to heal, and the atmosphere in camp had lightened considerably.

Although the water still tasted like dirt, you were no longer dehydrated. Discovering some rare fruits that proved not to be poisonous added to the uplifting spirit.

At night, neither of you seemed to mind huddling for warmth. You would lay against him, listening to the plans and stories he had, especially if you begged him to tell you. Although they were very matter-of-fact and not overly entertaining, you found the tales of the squad before you joined enjoyable. You both no longer bickered, clearing the air of past arguments, and genuinely enjoyed each other's company. Although it was not like either of you had any other options.

But that’s not the only thing that had changed. You found yourself getting nervous around Tech. A good kind of nervous. When he was working on the shuttle, you couldn’t help but sit back and admire him at work. He was attractive, sure, but you found him more than that. He listened intently to you, offering advice and tips without seeming to mansplain to you.

So that night by the fire again, sitting by his side, you weren’t so surprised about the next set of events.

“What are you going to do when we leave this place?” You ask, your body twisting to face him as you rest your elbow against the boulder, hand on the side of your head as you lean yourself up to look at him.

He smiles, noticing how you said ‘when’ and not ‘if’, highlighting your trust in him. “I will most likely do what I usually do, get ready for the next mission set for us.”

You roll your eyes. “You don’t want to celebrate?”

“Celebrate what, exactly?”

“Well,” you start with a soft laugh, “us finally putting our differences aside and not killing each other for one.” You suggest, earning a fond chuckle from the clone before continuing. “And surviving.”

He thinks for a moment, looking into the flames and then at you. “I suppose those are adequate reasons to celebrate, yes. Will the others be joining?”

“Sure,” you say with a smile but there’s a small swirl in your stomach as you say, “unless… you don’t want them to join us?”

Tech blinks, and for a second, it was like he was short-circuiting as he thinks about your proposal. Was it flirtation in your tone or had he imagined it? “I do not mind either way,” he explains, his chest slightly puffing out. “It would be nice to perhaps talk like this in a more formal setting elsewhere. Just us.”

You silently suck in a deep breath, a shy glint in your eyes. “I think I’d like that, yeah.” Your tone lowered, and you can’t help but notice that Tech had turned his body more to face you. Then, his eyes flickered to your lips as you inadvertently licked them, chapped but tinged with the sweetness of the fruit before.

You hold his gaze, slightly tilting your head as you take a gamble and look to his lips, then to his eyes. It was an invitation, and you hoped that Tech got the hint.

And he did.

Slowly, he sets his datapad to one side, finally letting it go as he focuses all of his attention on you. There’s a charge in the air, and you see him lean closer... and closer…

Your breath hitches, eyes slowly falling shut as he closes the distance, his nose brushing against yours before his lips meet your own in a soft, shy kiss. Leaning more into it, your hand finds refuge on his leg whilst one of his hands comes up and cups your cheek.

You sigh into him, heart racing as you feel him grow bolder. His lips, warm and inviting, meld with yours, igniting a spark that you both had been unknowingly kindling. His touch sends shivers down your spine as the kiss deepens, becoming more desperate, more intense. The jungle, the planet, the whole star system around you seems to fade away.

Tech utters your name against your lips, your soft moan of a response allowing his tongue into your mouth, exploring, igniting a fiery passion within you.

Gently, he lays you down by the fire, the crackling flames casting dancing shadows across his face. He pulls away for a moment, pulling his goggles off his face as he peers down at you, his eyes a dance of different emotions. “You are enchanting.”

But with a hunger that can no longer be contained, he crashes his lips back to yours, now allowing you to let your tongue meet his in a fervent dance; fingers tangling in his untamed hair meanwhile his hands roam over your body.

The next day brought a breakthrough. Tech managed to gain contact.

Overwhelmed by joy, you ran into Tech’s arms, jumping and letting him spin you around with a chuckle as you knew both of you would soon be saved! And better yet, the others were alive and safe too.

“I can’t believe you did it! You really did it.” You grin at him as he pulls back from the hug but does not let you down, instead cradles you in his arms.

“You seem surprised.”

“Oh Tech,” you say adoringly, leaning forward and giving his lips a soft kiss, smiling as he hums against your lips.

“I will never get tired of you kissing me,” he utters, truly in awe of how this sudden turn of events had happened. It was quick, but neither of you seemed to mind.

Last night was magic. All the bad memories had faded from your mind, solely just focusing on Tech and yourself. When all hope had seemed lost, your mistake led you to one of the best choices you ever could make. And maybe, that promised date would become something more.

Masterlist is pinned😊

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[moonstruckme]

so i read somewhere that sometimes a better response to someone struggling with depression is warmth, rather than positivity and i was thinking if you’d be interested in writing a bau!reader x spencer pre-relationship or established relationship whichever u prefer!! where he comforts a depressed reader having a rougher couple of days & is very gentle and understanding and warm towards her 💘

Thank you for requesting lovely <3

cw: depression

Spencer Reid x bau!reader ♡ 638 words

You’ve been completely useless through this whole case. You’d sat with the team during various briefings, gone along to view crime scenes and question witnesses, but your brain just wasn’t working hard enough to put anything together. Lately, the effort of cranking the gears is too much. 

You’re considering leaving the rest of your paperwork for another day. You want to not be here so badly. You want your bed. You want to stop being a burden to the team that’s been carrying your dead weight for the past couple of days (and giving you increasingly inquisitive looks throughout that time), and to go home and sleep the weekend away. 

It’s a testament to your fatigue that you smell the coffee before you hear Spencer approaching. Morgan would hand you your ass if he knew. 

“Thanks,” you say, making an effort to smile at Spencer as he sets the plain ceramic mug on your desk. The coffee inside is barely brown, letting you know that he’s already loaded it down with cream and sugar the way you like. 

“Seems like you might have a long night.” He leans back against your desk and braces his hands on either side of his hips, nodding towards your paperwork. 

You shrug. “I don’t know, I’m thinking of leaving it for Monday. Strauss doesn’t need my report that badly.” 

Spencer nods again. “Are you doing okay?” 

“Yeah.” You blow gently on your coffee, wishing the aroma brought you the same sense of contentment it usually does. “Why?” 

“You never let your paperwork sit overnight,” he says. “And you’re not eating as much, having trouble concentrating, looking tired all the time…” Spencer pauses, meeting your eyes. It’s an effort not to drop your gaze. He sounds like he’s been adding things up for a while. “Do you need anything?” 

You smile again. It feels better this time, more genuine. “I’m just having a tough couple of days,” you tell him. “It happens to me sometimes, it’ll pass. But thank you.” 

Spencer’s face smooths out and pinches all at once. For a profiler, he’s shockingly horrible at controlling his expressions. Or maybe he just doesn’t feel the need to around your team. You read him plain as text: relief at having an identified problem, distress at the lack of an easy solution. 

You know he means well, but you can’t stick around to bear the weight of any more disappointment.

“I think I’m going to head out,” you do your best to sound calm, reassuring, as you gather your bag from beneath your desk. “See you Monday, Spence.” 

“Wait.” You pause, but then Spencer’s falling into step beside you, grabbing his bag to follow you to the exit. “Do you want to come over?” 

You look at him, surprised. “To your place?” 

He nods. “Yeah, there’s a marathon of the Jurassic Park movies on tonight. We could watch them and order pizza, or whatever you want.” 

A little laugh startles out of you. The sensation feels odd and atavistic, like a bubble popping in your chest. “You like Jurassic Park?” 

“I like talking about how unfeasible it is,” Spencer says, pressing the button on the elevator. “Did you know velociraptors were about the size of a large bird?” 

“...I did not.” 

“Probably because you watched Jurassic Park.” He smiles, and you can’t help but copy him. “Really, I’m not attached to the idea of watching them. We can do whatever you want.” 

The inside of your lip finds its way between your teeth, but Spencer glances down and you release it. “I’m not sure I can pass up the opportunity to witness that much berating,” you say. “How many are there?” 

“Six, not including two short films or the animated series.” 

“Will you hold it against me if I fall asleep?” 

“Not at all.”

[dusterbishop]

i hear you call my name (and it feels like home)

summary. || three timelines, you have watched remy lebeau die. you didn't believe you would earn a fourth chance to save him until you find a variant with no memory of his past, lost in a void of existence.

pairing. || gambit x f!reader (past relationship with current enemies-to-lovers)

count. || 6.4k

notes. || posted on ao3 here. warning for character death and violence. this is the end! thank you all for the lovely words of support, it means so much that you all loved this duo as much as i do. i have ideas of oneshots for the future, but for now, i leave you all with this!

part one. || part two. || part three. || part four.

Your ears are ringing.

Awareness floods you in slow, uneven strokes. You can hear the roar of battle buzzing through the fog in your mind, guttural screams of pain cutting through in sharp starbursts. There’s a staff in your right hand, and you spasm your grip on it, testing its weight.

It is Remy’s.

Once, that staff had been too heavy for you to properly swing around. He had watched you practice with a pained grimace for a week before he surprised you with your own to train with. The two of you were nothing more than colleagues at that point, simply two mismatched X-Men crossing paths by sheer fate. Until he had handed you your own staff, its weight balanced with delicate perfection in the palm of your hand, and showed you how to use it.

You had never told him that you only used the staff because you could see it in every timeline, a slow conversion of your fighting style across lifetimes. Not every life you lived shared Remy, but his influence still lingered at the edges, seeping in like ink. Fighting with a staff, learning to pick locks, using sleight of hand to swap items from timelines with ease. It was all an extension of your life with Remy. Just echoes, over and over, spreading out in rippling waves.

Echoes, which could never replace the thrill that sparks your attention when a blazing playing card whizzes past your ear. There’s a muffled explosion as the card makes contact with the enemy swinging for your head, and you gracefully sidestep the half-dead man that staggers into a collapsed pile at your feet.

“Watch where you goin’, mon coeur,” Gambit calls. Another whistling hum of kinetic energy, another flash of blazing purple as he throws another card and cuts down another blank faced enemy. The base that Nova commands has a strangely illusive layout, and the war-starved bodies seem like an endless, writhing thing to overcome.

Time is a limited resource, after all. You can taste it just as surely as the blood in the back of your mouth.

“Maybe I’m too distracted watching something else,” you call back. You don’t take the time to see the expression on his face, but you hear his delighted laugh before he starts slinging explosives again. It’s easy to fall into battle. Even easier while you’re wearing your old suit, and the fabric is soft and well-worn just as you remember it. The clothes you wore in the Void were fine for travel, but you felt strangely out of place last night watching Remy adjusting his coat for the upcoming battle.

You are one of the X-Men, technically. It’s been more than a lifetime since you felt like one, but you know their colors and their mission. The suit always did feel more like a formality. There is nothing that could prevent you from fighting for people who cannot protect themselves. Everyone else only has one life, and you have an infinity of them. The gold and blue of your suit is meant to inspire hope for the people you are defending, not to boast about your position, and yet Remy had stuttered mid-sentence when he turned to see you suddenly dressed in your original suit, prepared for battle.

Been a’while since Gambit seen you wit’ those colors. Though, Gambit t’inks you look better out of ‘em, too...

“Pot callin’ the kettle black,” Gambit says. He’s closer, now, as if magnetized to the orbit of your battleground. You smash the skull of a man trying to catch a cheapshot to Gambit’s ribs, and Gambit slips an explosive card into the pocket of the man’s coat for good measure. Briefly, his hand catches the curve of your elbow, brushing his fingers over the pulse-point. Even through the sleeve of your suit, you can almost feel the heat of his skin, searing bone-deep.

“Just calling it as I see it, Cajun,” you say. It doesn’t sound as breathless as you feel. Gambit still has that infuriatingly pleased look on his face, though, so you give him a half-hearted shove with a raised brow. “Save the world, remember?”

“Mais la, all bluff no play,” he complains. “S’il vous plait, mon coeur —”

Time slips.

One moment, you take the chance to catch your breath, falling all-too-easy to the lure of sparring with Remy. The next moment, you’re on the ground. There’s blood beneath you, pooling under your head, dripping from your nose and down to the hard-packed soil.

“Remy,” you choke out. Your ears are ringing with echoes of voices, though you assume it’s across timelines based on the range of emotions. You can hear crying as soul-wrenching as fresh grief, and laughing as bright as bells. It’s like picking up a landline and hearing a conversation you’re only privy to as a passing voyeur.

You blink away some of the dirt and sweat stinging your eyes. You’re still on the ground. Something weighty and warm is settled over your back, tucked into the curve of your sides. The scent of smoke and cologne curls around you as familiar as the back of your hand.

Remy draped his coat over you. You spit a wad of bloodied saliva onto the ground, grimacing at the dark thickness. How long have you been out? You don’t remember charging up to leave the timeline.

Even worse, you don’t remember going anywhere. Time may change around you, but your mind keeps itself sharp with a constant awareness. Even when you would travel time in your sleep, you knew you were moving based on the pressure changing in the air. There had been no pressure change, this time. Only standing with Gambit, teasing him in the way that blazed adrenaline through your veins. Then, it is you laying on the ground, curled up underneath his coat, tasting blood.

You blink again. You think you’re shivering, or maybe you’re trembling, because you aren’t cold. That hazy, all-consuming fever pulses across your skin in waves, burning across your every nerve. It takes effort to turn your head just a fraction, searching the scattered battlefield. You’re still in Nova’s compound. You can see Blade and Elektra distracting any enemy seeking the weaker prey, luring them away from where you lay.

It had taken two more days before you and Gambit had met back up with the resistance. Initially, you had been wary of the strange collection of mutants, reflecting their own suspicion of you back like a mirror image. Yet they had seemed relieved that Gambit was back unharmed.

Now, far past the initial skepticism of your arrival, they treat you with the same consideration they give Gambit.

Though Gambit is… the same, and yet he’s more. The way he fights is far different than the way he did during the days when you both worked with the X-Men. He doesn’t linger near the boundaries of the fight anymore. You used to breathe easier knowing he had been prowling the edges of a fight with his cards at the ready, always protecting your back.

Now, when he fights in the Void, he storms the battlefield as a raging violet-blaze tempest. You find him easily through the crowded clusters of skirmishes, his staff humming with kinetic charge. He wields a handful of cards with careful scarcity, and you know it’s because you have his coat draped over you, holding all of his extra ammo.

He is going to get himself killed.

That thought propels you into motion. Your arms tremble as you push yourself to sit up, the back of your mouth filling with blood and nauseating saliva. It hurts to breathe. It feels like there is a shard of glass lodged in your ribs, cutting up your insides. The only blood you can sense is the slow drip from your lips, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t damage you can’t see yet. Something in your being is dismantling in slow, even strokes, cast adrift from the timelines and stranded in the Void.

One of Nova’s henchmen gets too close to Remy and sideswipes him. The soft-muted grunt of pain from Remy sends a chilling lance of fear through your gut, though before you can move, Remy is already turning and taking down the enemy with a swift twirl of his staff.

They are going to kill him if you don’t get him out. You know it, and it hurts so much to move, but you push yourself to your feet with a strangled whine of frustration. Of all the times for your body to fail you, it has to be now, when Remy is exposed to an entire base of people trying to kill him.

His coat is a familiar weight over your shoulders, but that doesn’t quell the violent shiver that runs through you. Neither does it stop the sudden rush of dizzying pain, or the way you have to hunch over and spit out blood onto the dirt. No time. You don’t have any time.

“Remy,” you call out. You fumble to wipe away the blood dripping down your chin just as he turns at the sound of your voice, his face bright with relief. He doesn’t notice the blood. He moves quickly through the battlefield nonetheless, wrapping an arm over the shuddering arch of your shoulders.

“ Mon coeur,” he says, and he must see something in your face that makes him hesitate. “Enjoy your nap, chér ?”

You suck in a sharp breath. It’s always ‘chér ’ when he doesn’t know which version you are.

“Still with you, LeBeau,” you tell him. Your hand reaches up to cradle the curve of his jaw. He’s buzzing with energy beneath your touch, but it’s the simmering fire in his eyes as he gazes back at you that makes you feel set alight.

“Wanna play?” He says softly. One arm is still slung protectively over your back, but he uses his free hand to fasten his coat tighter over your shoulders, his hand lingering at the vulnerable curve of your throat. “I deal you in, mon coeur.”

You’re reluctant to let him go, so you pull him in and press a chaste kiss to his mouth. You don’t let him go deeper than that so he doesn’t taste the blood, even if there’s a savage wanting in your gut to sink deep into his embrace and never resurface. It’s not fair, you think, that you finally found him only to lose him all over again.

“Deal me in, Cajun,” you whisper to him. His fingers drop from the hollow of your collarbone to the seam of his coat sleeve, drawing a card. He flickers it between his fingers to show you his dealt hand — the ace of hearts — before it disappears into the nothingness of time. You let Remy press another kiss to your mouth, and you have to close your eyes to fight back the burn of tears. Even with your eyes closed, you can hear the hoarseness in his voice when he pulls back.

"You an' me, chér, couple'a aces, non?" 

You have to turn your head to hide a sad smile. "A matched pair."

Like that, the two of you separate. He goes into the fray of battle, the air whirring violently with charged energy, and you step back into the shadow, pulling your ace of hearts from the timeline. You have caught nothing but glimpses of Nova since you arrived, but you can feel her presence at the edges of your mind, probing for weakness. 

So you look weak. It’s easy to slouch against the wall, your breathing coming in labored pants, the sleeve of your X-Men suit streaked red with the blood you keep wiping from your chin. Hurt prey is weaker, after all. You know what she must see when she sees you so far from Remy’s orbit: an injured fawn ripened for the kill.

“Don’ ya leave now, the fun just startin’,” Remy laughs. He sweeps his staff in a wide arc, warding off the enemies crowding closer to his position, but he only has eyes for you. He’s watching you, and you know the moment she arrives by the way his eyes harden with venomous hatred.

“Indeed,” Nova says. Her presence is a sudden, harsh strike to your mind. You have to grit your teeth to muffle your shocked gasp. Her hand is lax around your throat, but you are all too aware of the hand gently caressing the back of your skull. You can hear the smile in her voice when she whispers in your ear, “I’ve never seen something like you.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” you say. The air whirs in quiet contention around you,  but you’re more focused on the card still clutched in your hand. Come on, come on...

“You’re a little wanderer, aren’t you,” she muses. She runs her fingers through the locks of your hair with gentle fingertips, and it takes all of your self control not to spasm and jolt out of her touch. You clench your empty hands tightly, instead, and try not to stare at Remy when he suddenly tucks his hand into a tight fist, purple light buzzing ravenously through the tight clench of his fingers.

“What are you doing running with the swamp rats, hm?” Nova strokes your head again. “You don’t seem like one of their merry band of misfits.”

Remy makes an indignant sound at that, and just as Nova looks to him, the light in his hand dies to nothingness.

“His name is Gambit,” you say. The playing card in your hand whirs with pitched fervor. Almost there. “Make sure you remember that.”

Time condenses to your will, and you’re looking right at Remy when the ace of hearts detonates, rippling a shockwave through you and Nova. Kinetic energy consumes you in a wildfire, burning through the flesh of your body with fervent hunger. You see the ache of distraught cross his face, and then there is only the movement of timelines shifting in place, carrying you through lifetimes, blurring the world around you into a wash of muddled watercolors.

When you blink, the world rights itself.

When you breathe in, settling back into a body escaped unharmed, you see Remy fall.

“No!” You shout. Or perhaps it is a whisper. Or perhaps it is spread across every timeline, every particle of your being spread thin and calling out in pained fury. You aren’t sure of anything except the way Remy twists, losing grip of his staff, and collapsing to the ground.

A wordless scream of rage tears through you. You can hear its echo filling the air as you yank time into a heel, drawing yourself across the expanse of the field in moments. You aren’t sure where the others are, or if Nova truly perished in the kinetic explosion as you intended. All you can see is Remy, lying in motionless rigor, and the man that took the shot that put him down.

Time scrambles in your mind, but you reach your destination faster than the man can draw his weapon at you. Your hands take his head in a vice grip, the tips of your gloved fingers digging harshly into his dirt-streaked skin.

“How dare you,” you snarl. If you had the chance, you would tear him through time until he disintegrated. You break his neck instead, the sickening crack of his bone fading from your attention the moment you feel his body slip from your grasp. You don’t manipulate time to fall to your knees by Remy’s side, but the space between movements is a blur you don’t care to investigate.

“Remy,” you half-sob. You reach out and grasp his shoulder, turning him over onto his back, and nearly sob again in relief when you see him squinting back at you with dazed annoyance.

“Lucky strike,” he mutters. Your hand flutters down to brush against his side, your heart seizing at the grimace on his face. The warmth of blood against your fingers spreads a numbness through your gut. You only press your hand firmly to the wound, gritting your teeth against the roaring fury building in your throat.

“What happened to ‘the house always wins’?” You snap at him instead. The blood is sticky and warm, and it won’t be staunched by the pressure of your hand alone. He’s going to bleed out.

“Raising the bet,” Remy grunts. There’s a sheen of sweat across his brow, but it’s the ashen pallor of his skin that makes your chest tighten with panic. God, you’re going to lose him.

“I hate you,” you whisper. You hate the Void. You hate Nova, and her violent-driven henchmen. You hate yourself, most of all, for doing this to him. For not being able to do more.

“Tha’ sounds more like love than hate, mon coeur.”

“Just playing the odds,” you bite out. He blinks at you, sluggish, and you realize exactly what you have to do. It’s the only thing you can do for him. You draw your hand back from his side and try not to gag on the smell of it permeating the air. There’s a steady puddle beneath him, soaking the knees of your suit, but you hardly feel it. You can’t feel anything at all, in fact.

Just that whirring buzz of time, and the slowly approaching footsteps of Cassandra Nova coming up behind you.

“Go ahead, Remy,” you breathe. The timeline whirs to life beneath your palms, a composed symphony to the crackling buzz of kinetic energy. You cup his face, thumbs smoothing away the dust beneath his blackened eyes, and you will him to live.

He reaches up to try and catch your wrists. There’s that furrow in his brow, again, like he’s preparing to curse you out for this. He’s a pulsing livewire of humming energy in your hands, simmering with an explosive potential. If he stays here, he will be nothing more than a husk. Dying like a goddamn hero, slaughtered like a martyr upon the altar, just to give you the chance to take down Nova.

So you imagine him at your apartment, in your bed, instead. Tucked under the blankets, his hair mussed from sleep. Figaro curled up on his chest, purring his strange rattling hum, the other two boys stretched out beside him. The world is quiet, and safe. Nothing is there to hurt him.

The timeline sings in your hands. You want to kiss him, but you don’t. Kissing him will feel like goodbye, and you don’t think you could bear the thought of it, not right now. Not before you finish taking down Nova.

Your gaze locks with his. You can see the moment he realizes that you aren’t going with him. The annoyance at being forced to take the retreat cracks out of his expression with sharp, desperate panic. His hands nearly catch you at the wrist, his fingertips brushing against the sleeve of your coat, but then he’s gone. You stare down at the dirt where he once was, fighting to keep your breathing steady. He’s safe.

At least, you tell yourself, one of you made it home.

Yet it still feels like a gaping wound in your side. You betrayed him to save him.

“Touching,” Nova remarks. You can’t bring yourself to move. You’re still kneeling in the remains of Remy’s blood when she strikes you.

The world flickers in and out of focus, spinning in rampant circles. Distantly, you’re aware of your legs kicking weakly in the air, your hands scrabbling desperately at your throat to ease the choking grip she has you in. Except she isn’t touching you, not with her hands.

No, she’s standing just out of arm's reach, smiling like a sphynx.

“I have seen so many variants,” she says idly. You’re choking on nothing, fighting the headache rending through your temples. “There’s been some Jean Grays, a few Rogues. More than a few Gambits. Many, many Deadpools.”

“And yet,” she continues. “I have never found more than one of you.”

The release of the grip she has on your throat makes you gasp out a cry, sucking in air with deep, hoarse wheezing. You hardly feel the impact of your body collapsing to the ground, too relieved in the taste of air. You rub at your throat with shaking fingers, trying to erase the feeling of her grip crushing your windpipe.

“That isn’t the strangest part, however.”

You know where this is going. You close your eyes.

“I could feel you,” she shifts closer to you, but you don’t have the energy to flinch and create distance between the two of you. “In your mind, you are nothing but fragments.”

“Wayfarer,” you whisper. It comes out in a croak, but you are far beyond caring. “I am everywhere and everything.”

“Broken,” she agrees. You open your eyes at that. She looks vindicated, as if admitting your ability has only made you weaker. You suppose, hunched over and wheezing, you don’t look as threatening as you used to during your X-Men days. You must look like nothing but bleeding prey.

Good, you think. You smile at her with bloodied teeth. “Broken things are meant to hurt, you know.”

Like shuffling a deck of cards, you let time flutter through your hands, staggering into a timeline version of yourself where you can breathe without choking. Your body follows the commands of your mind with elegant obedience.

Your hands meet their mark, and latch onto Nova tight enough to turn your knuckles pale. The pair of playing cards pressed against each of your palms sizzle with hunger where they make contact with her body.

Pain lances through your skull, exploding into brilliant light behind your eyes. You think your hands are still clutching onto Nova, but you cannot feel them. The world is bright violet, time shuffling with a charged whir. The kinetic energy ripples down your hands in great, staggering waves, a faint prickle of pain among the agony of time rendering itself apart around you.

Nova is screaming. Distantly, you feel her hands pulling at you, yanking at the lapels of Remy’s coat, hitting your face. She must be trying to delve into your mind. She cannot catch you, though. You are plummeting through every timeline, shuffling from one version of yourself to the next, then the next, then the next. Over and over. Over, and over, and over.

Shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

You think you let go of her.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

No, it’s not your hands that have let go. Your arms are shuddering through time, but your hands keep locked onto her, holding her steady, burning violet. You haven’t let her go, but your body is being torn into pieces.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

Nova isn’t screaming anymore.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

You are.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

You can’t hear it over the roaring of time rushing through you, but you can feel your throat blazing, screaming through every timeline, every version of yourself. This must be what dying feels like. It is infinite across all time. There is no other way out.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

Her body dissolves with slow tendrils of violet light creeping beneath the exposed flesh, tracing whirls with the lines of her veins and arteries. It consumes her from the inside, spreading out with a meticulous, parasitic intensity.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

Remy’s power consumes you, too. You see the light creep up your wrists, then your arms, then your shoulders. You can feel its warmth down to your bones. It almost feels, strangely, like it’s him hugging you. It feels like it did last night, tangled in his arms beneath the sheets, your ear pressed to his chest to listen to the rhythm of his heart.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

You wonder, distantly, if his power is trying to keep your body together. The charge of kinetic energy is concentrated in your hands, but you can still feel the heat of it pooling in the pit of your stomach and scorching the back of your mouth. Remy had been dismissive when you asked him what it felt like to charge something, though you figure he had been exasperated by your own explanation of your ability. You doubt he would have known what it felt like to be torn asunder with only the kinetic lightning crackling through him.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

You think about Remy, for a moment. You think about the apartment that you both signed the lease on, furnished with a thief’s eye of luxury, cluttered with the little bits of memorabilia and creature comforts you curated over the years. You think about the cats that Remy dotes on, your own cats by marriage, all curled up in their favorite spots around the two of you. You think about the couch that you had teased Remy about for the price, only for him to turn around and gloat about the amount of naps you took on it. You think about the movie nights with you two intertwined on that couch, the cats pressed into your sides, the room dim-lit and safe.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

You think about how you would like to do that, again. To be able to sit on the couch with your husband and watch a movie. To be with Remy, and not be caught in this web of unraveling agony.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

Like a loose thread, you unravel.

Shuffle.

It starts in your hands, with your fingertips, and it spreads from there.

Draw.

Your eyesight goes last.

Pull.

You see Remy in every lifetime, looking at you, his outline glimmering with that kinetic violet light. His mouth is moving. It almost looks like your name.

Shuffle…

Nothing comes to your mind. Everything comes into pitch black.

Shuffle…

Your hands are empty.

Shuffle…

Time is empty, now absent when it once was vast. You had been infinite, once. Like time, you had been endless.

Shuffle…

You had been lost before you knew what it felt like to be seen. You could never be sure what timeline was originally yours before you switched them. Even the smallest of details could escape your attention if you weren’t looking for it. At a certain point, you realized you had to choose a life to claim as yours and stop wandering. Even a Wayfarer needed an anchor to call home for when it was time to rest.

Draw.

You had wandered for a long time. Years, perhaps, though your physical bodies changed shape and form in ways you couldn’t predict. The face in the mirror had never been home, anyway. There were too many genetic variables to each timeline to preserve the way you looked. Your body was merely a temporary housing for your time-stepping mind. A body was not an anchor. It was simply a tool to be used and discarded.

Pull.

An anchor needs to be constant. It needs to be something that will not retreat when time grows teeth and begins to hurt. It needs to be loyal to the cause. It needs to be kind, deep down, even if the surface is skin-deep careless. It needs to make you feel safe.

It’s… warm. Soft.

You bury your face deeper into the pillow with a long, blissful sigh. You will never regret insisting that you splurge and spend the extra money on a memory foam mattress. It feels like floating in the clouds.

A soft, questioning mmrph rumbles next to your ear. It’s your only warning before a small, wet nose presses to your temple. You know it’s Oliver by the way he starts to knead at the pillow next to your head, purring a roaring chorus. There’s another weight on your legs, pinning them down, and a third is nestled into your side. Remy must be up, already, if they’re all stuck to you for warmth.

“Did your father abandon us again, boys?” You mumble sleepily. Oliver purrs louder at the sound of your voice. You can feel the weight on your legs shift, no doubt being that it’s Lucifer standing up to stretch before he starts to walk up the length of your body. He’s purring, too, though he resettles on the spot between your shoulder blades, the hum of his purr radiating across your back. Figaro doesn’t grace you with an acknowledgement, but neither does he unfurl himself from his spot next to your side.

Warm, soft, and safely nestled amongst your cats. It’s nearly heaven. You end up half-dozing back off, lulled to sleep by the purring next to your ear. You feel like you haven’t slept in a lifetime.

You don’t hear the door open, though you know something is wrong by the way Figaro leaps to attention and Oliver’s purr stutters to a stop.

When you open your eyes, it’s half-lit by the morning sun. It must be closer to noon than the time that you usually wake to train. Any trace of lingering sleep drifts away when the bedroom door creeps open with its usual squall of hinges.

You smile and twist to look over your shoulder, dislodging Lucifer despite his soft sound of discontent, and yawn, “Morning. I think.”

Remy is posed in the doorway. Your next words die in your throat as you see the look on his face, the staff still gripped tightly in his hand. He’s dressed in his usual armor, not his civilian clothing like you expected. His hair is longer, tied back carelessly from his face, flyaway strands curling around his temples. His eyes are near-black, both through his irises and the dark shadows collecting beneath them.

He looks like he has spent years surviving an apocalypse.

“Jesus, Remy,” you breathe. You’re sitting up in an instant, one hand out reaching towards him. His armor is dust-streaked and worn from battle. “Are you hurt?”

“Where’d you go, chér?” He rasps. His face is still utterly, terrifyingly still. You have never seen him at the brink of collapse like this, before. He looks like he wants to step further in the room, his hand twitching with a nervous tic of adrenaline, but he stays stock-still. Waiting for you.

“Nowhere,” you say softly. “I’ve been in bed with the boys, love.”

You have to resist the urge to spring out of bed and run your hands along his body to look for any sign of injury. You aren’t entirely sure what’s gotten into him, but if he’s hallucinating or delirious, you should probably reach out to the other X-Men. Maybe the professor would know why Remy’s in full gear and looking battle-worn at this hour. Why would he go without waking you first?

Remy wavers. He looks heartsick. “Don’ lie t’me, chér.”

“Never,” you agree. You offer the spot next to you in bed with a half-pleading, half-alluring gesture. “Come here. You look like hell, Remy.”

“You…” he starts, then stops. Abruptly, he drops his staff with a rattling thud. Within three strides, he’s in your arms, melting into your embrace. You clutch at him just as fiercely, burying your nose into the crown of his hair. He smells like smoke and dust, but there’s no indication of blood and pain. He simply sags in your grip, his breathing quick and unsteady against your collarbone. His fingers curl weakly into the back of your nightshirt, as if that’s all the strength he can muster.

He’s mumbling, even with his face pressed tightly to the curve of your throat, but you can’t make out much more than your name, over and over.

“Shh, Remy, I’m right here with you,” you whisper against his crown. With a free hand, you reach up to pull out the elastic band holding up his hair, letting it fall in uneven waves. When was the last time he took care of himself? Your Remy loved to indulge in fine-smelling soaps and lavish hair routines, surrounding himself in a luxury he earned himself. His appearance was just as much armor as his coat was. You had never been fooled by his demeanor: his weapon of charm was just as sharply honed as his weapon of playing cards.

Yet it’s the length of his hair that sours the back of your throat with nausea. You run your fingers through it, slowly massaging his scalp in the way that makes him pliant and sleepy. It’s not that you haven’t seen Remy with long hair before; it’s simply the fact that you haven’t seen him with long hair in years. Just last night, his hair had been just long enough to curl at the nape of his neck. You had run your fingers through it and mentioned a haircut, and he had been a deadweight in your lap, humming sleepily in acknowledgement.

You swallow thickly. Either this is not the same Remy you went to sleep next to the night before… or you are missing time.

“You should take a bath, love,” you murmur, gently scratching his scalp. You can feel smudged wetness on the collar of your nightshirt from tears, though he hasn’t made a sound other than a few deep, unsteady breaths. Back when you first got together during missions, the shower was the first place you two could unwind and start to sort through your fading adrenaline rush.

He pulls back from your embrace, just a little, and every word of encouragement dies in your throat at the look on his face. Rage. Betrayal.

Heartbreak.

“You been gon’ awhile, chér,” he says. It’s not an accusation, but there’s a simmering anger beneath that matter-of-fact tone. It’s always ‘chér’ when he doesn’t know which version you are. His eyes burn through you, intent on stripping you raw. You wonder what answers he could possibly expect from you. If it’s answers he wants at all, or rather an apology.

You have to offer him something.

“I —”

“Gambit go lookin’ for you,” he laughs, mirthless. “Got him spending two years lookin’ and you jus’ show up in bed. Like nothin’ happen.”

Two years. There’s a small itch in the back of your mind, like the whisper of a memory raking its claws down your back. There had been an unraveling. Utter destruction. Then it had been you here, you waking up in bed as if nothing had happened.

You blink back at him, struck speechless. You don’t have to offer a word, though, because there’s true anger in his eyes, now.

“I go to de Void,” he says. “I t’ink that’s what it was. Nothin’ left there. Dere’s no life around, hein? Mais, non, not even my wife, only the dead. Ev’rybody dead.”

 His eyes close as if he can ward away the images tormenting his memories. You’re grateful that he can’t see the way your face crumples at that. He went back for you. He had survived the wound, and he found a way back to come for you.

And he had found nothing but death.

“You’re such an idiot,” you choke out. His eyes snap open at that, but you merely cup his face in your hands and draw him in to bump your forehead against his, sucking in a shuddering breath. He is warm and alive under your touch. You didn’t think you could touch him like this again when Nova had been standing above you, prepared to tear you in shreds. “I sent you ahead, but I was coming with you.”

“We stay together,” he tells you. There’s a strain in his voice just as painful as yours, but the way he reaches up to swipe away a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb is careful. As if he’s marveling that he has the chance to touch you at all. “Mais la, don’ tell Gambit he wrote up those vows for nothin’, Mrs. LeBeau.”

“Matched pair,” you whisper back.

“Couple’a aces,” he agrees, and he kisses you just as gently as he wiped away your tears, as if you have all the time in the world.