#light in a nocturnal world

[robertmatejcek]

Tableaux Automatique: LPs  - 1″:1′-0″ diorama (still) - mixed media - robert matejcek - 2023

Mark: “Empire Records, open 'till midnight. This is Mark.” Caller: *Inaudible Dialogue* Mark: “MIDNIGHT!"

- Ethan Embry - Empire Records

tags:

[howdoesone]

How does one teach an Aye-aye to play the guitar with that long middle finger?

  Introduction to the Aye-Aye: The Rock Star of the Lemur World The Aye-Aye, a nocturnal lemur native to Madagascar, is one of the quirkiest creatures in the animal kingdom. With its large eyes, bat-like ears, and most notably, its elongated middle finger, the Aye-Aye is as fascinating as it is peculiar. This middle finger is primarily used to tap on trees to find insects, but what if we could…

[planariaareneat]

How The Nocturnal Bottleneck and Nipples Make Us Human

Almost every post here considers what humans do have, really. It’s a little tiring; realistically every world has its harsh environments and vicious species and a sophont to match. We probably wouldn’t be unique for our adaptability or our persistence or even adrenaline

But our evolution is fucked up as hell, to put it lightly.

Mammals went through what’s been dubbed the nocturnal bottleneck essentially since the start of the mesozoic right up until the Cretaceous ended the archosaur’s exclusive hold over the daylight. We lost a lot of things from every mammal spending most of its time in either a cramped, suffocating burrow or scrounging around in the faint hours of nighttime. Our blood cells lost their nuclei to hold more oxygen while we spent time deep underground, we lost protections against ultraviolet rays in our skin and eyes, we can’t even repair our own DNA using the light of the sun. Most aliens probably wouldn’t have such traits unless their evolution followed a very similar path to ours. They’d be able to see ultraviolet and wouldn’t have to worry about sunburn and all the wonderful privileges essentially all fish, birds, amphibians, and reptiles enjoy as we speak. 

There’s also what we gained from spending so much time in the dark.

Brown fat is only found in mammals, it’s a special type of fat which bear cells with several oil droplets and are utterly jammed with mitochondria. This lets it make heat, a lot of it, fast. We don’t even need to shiver to induce this heat generation from brown adipose tissue - factor in our downright hyperactive mitochondria, and we can warm up quickly. Sure, it doesn’t have too much use in adult humans, but it keeps our infants warm and still provides a little boost the whole run we have in this universe.

Unless aliens also went through a time where their small ancestors had to face cold nights, they’d have to produce heat the old fashioned way when chilled. Aliens might have to shiver the whole time they’re in a cold room while the human watches in confusion, quite literally unshaken, and wonders if the room is a lot colder than the thermostat set to 60 says. The aliens stare at their companion in confusion, it’s just a normal temperature to shiver at after all, how is the human sitting so still?

Our small ancestors spending all their time out foraging at night is also why we have such a good sense of touch, smell, and hearing. They were more important senses than vision (we’re lucky to have even redeveloped basic color vision, frankly) at the time and place and simply ended up continuing to serve us well. Birds and reptiles rarely have acute senses of smell and the latter especially are lucky to have acute hearing, and birds rarely have impeccable hearing themselves either. Our skin is free of scales and honed to sensitivity, and our external ears and complicated ear bones provide an immense range of hearing (from 20 all the way to 17,000 hertz!).

Aliens might not be able to pin down the chirp of a cricket or the light click of a lock being picked. The human might be the only one on board a ship that can pick out the finer sounds of the engine’s constant thrum and know the critical difference between when everything is fine and when something is wrong. The human could probably pick out the sounds of an approaching enemy’s careless footsteps - they’re only as light enough for *them* to stop hearing them, after all - and be the one to see the horrified expression (well, more on that later) on their face when we get the drop on them in spite of their perceived stealth. 

But perhaps the most versatile, convoluted, amazing, and utterly unique trait we have is right on your face this instant. Lips.

Lips in most animals are a simple seal to hold in the mouth’s moisture and protect the teeth, even if they’re supple they’re NEVER muscular except in mammals, and we have only one thing to thank for it; milk and nipples. Lips evolved exclusively to allow babies to suckle, it required a vacuum to be created in the mouth, and with no other animal having anything like a nipple it never happened in other animals. Many animals make milk, to be frank, but no other animal has nipples.

Your cheeks and lips are a marvel among tetrapods, no other animal can suck like mammals can. Aliens wouldn’t have straws or even be able to sip from the edge of a glass, they’d have to have a proboscis or simply tilt the whole thing back. Aliens likely won’t have woodwind instruments or balloons you can blow into. We take so much about our lips for granted. Hell, our muscular faces are vital for expressions, we’re probably absolute facial contortionists among a cast of creatures with mandibles and beaks and expressionless scaly maws. Aliens might find us ridiculously easy to read, if anything, compared to their own kind (all the better to deceive them) - or perhaps they’d find us hard to decipher anyways, with our lack of color-changing skin or erectable crests of bright feathers. Baring teeth might not be seen as a sign of aggression in most of the universe, smiling would be all too distinctly human. 

Perhaps with how infectious we are sometimes, that’s what we’d contribute to the universe; others might have to make do with opening their mouths just enough to show their teeth or splaying their innumerable mouthparts with just the right curve, but perhaps we’d teach the galaxy to smile, one ally at a time. 

Wouldn’t that be amazing?

[obeymeluv]

Being Clever with the Fae (Malleus x Reader, Lilia x Reader, Sebek x Reader)

Pre-established relationship implied. You tell the Diasomnia boys that your world planned for ways to outsmart faes. You pull your trick but you're not sure who won.

Warning: Pepaw Bat's gets a little spicy so be careful.

I'm taking liberties with Sebek's part because he's a neutral for me and I don't know that much about him.

You and Malleus had talked about fae folklore more than once. He was delighted to know fae had something of a presence in your world but was wildly horrified at the misinformation. Out of everything you told him, only a handful were correct:

Don't give your name unless you trust that fae because names have power

Iron will hurt some fae but not all. Iron is more harmful to nocturnal fae than day fae.

Being rude to fae may be the end of you altogether

Partaking in fae food means you open yourself up for a wager

Yes, fae like to play tricks. Expect them and be wary.

Stepping into a fairy circle will summon the fairy who made it.

Just about everything else was wrong. That's why he and Lilia were teaching you what not to do if you came upon the various fae in Twisted Wonderland. Thus far you'd only managed to memorize what herbs kept smaller creatures at bay and how to curry the favor of the various faeries that helped out at NRC. Your current assignment from Lilia was filling out a map of different fae territories and classifying them as 'safe' for humans or 'unsafe'. Each territory had a tree they would love to craft from or loathed to be near and you were expected to know that, too.

Strange stuff but apparently it was important.

They liked to break up the bigger chunks of information with smaller, digestible things like etiquette so it felt more manageable. Malleus was currently instructing you on how to part from a fae in a formal setting as to not incur their wrath.

"Again, Child of Man," he's bowed down until eye level with you, one hand holding yours.

"Light shake, eye contact, nod, slide foot back, squeeze the hand, turn." he's parroting your motions until you turn away. He, instead, draws himself to his full height and observes as you pretend to walk away.

"Excellent," he nods. "But ensure you don't slouch while leaving. It will make some feel as if you don't hold them in high regard."

"That's so--" you roll your eyes. He simply lifts his brow as if to question your mild frustration. You puff your cheeks out and he laughs.

"We can be a bit particular." he agrees.

"To a fault." you smirk.

"Oh?" he's intrigued, eyes twinkling.

"Yeah," you smile. "In my world the fae were known for being literal with their word so you always had to keep something clever in reserve."

"Do tell," Malleus' grin goes from practiced and polite to genuine. A hint of fang shows.

"It's kind of specific though. Depends on that old joke about fae wanting to come for the first born."

"That's not really a joke," Malleus crossed his arms. You can't tell if he's offended or not. "We like the younglings. We're always looking to bring more around to the fae ways. In fact, fae make fantastic guardians because--"

He had a lot to say and you felt the beginnings of a lecture creep up. In some way you felt like you were in trouble. To save yourself, you said, "Just pretend. Then I can show you what we do."

Malleus pretended to make a deal with you. It looked a bit intimidating and official with the magic pulsing in the rickety floorboards of Ramshackle. They were groaning. Shadows danced along his face as pieces of his signature thorned briar wove around your joined hands. "In exchange for the repairs around Ramshackle, you will give your firstborn to me."

You pull him in, his green eyes searching curiously for any hint of what's to come. "Sure! How soon do you want to start working on that? Or do you want to wait a little while?"

All at once the floorboards fell quite. The hum of magic died with a rattle that broke the briar into tiny pieces. A few fell at your feet, the others shooting off into various directions.

Oh. Did he not understand? You thought it was clever! Maybe he was too sheltered to--

His laugh is kind of a snort at first but then you hear it honest and lilting. The hand holding yours slides up your arm and snakes around your waist. You're lifted until your hands find purchase on his shoulders and your legs wrap around whatever they reach. Your heart goes from your chest to your throat when his gloved hands slide down to your thighs as he walks you to your sad couch.

"Now is fine," he's careful to hold his weight above you, silky hair spilling around you and tickling your cheeks. His eyes are bright and boyish, a deadly compliment to his kissable lips.

Well, that technically backfired but if this were a real situation you'd make out just fine because he'd chosen to make out with you instead of curse you.

------ ----- ----- ----

Lilia wanted to focus on physical protection as much as written knowledge when it came to handling fae. You still couldn't wrap your head around the idea of him being a general but he had old photos, a weird mask, and a massive magearm to prove it. You'd picked up quite a few self-defense moves and practiced them regularly. He wanted them to be second nature to you. So here you are, in a designated training room within Diasomnia.

"You just want to cuddle me," you teased, in the familiar position of him being behind you with an arm around your neck. One elbow was planted in your shoulder, the other clasping it at the forearm to make a little prison for you. He gave a reprimanding squeeze, ever mindful of the pressure since you were fully human. Lilia gave a huffy laugh, trying to relax his smile into something more stern as he wove his fingers into your hair. You flinched at the tug and slapped his arm lightly.

"Focus," he couldn't deny himself the simple pleasure of whispering into your ear. If you asked him, it was to throw you off balance and distract you. "What could you do now?"

You thought about just leaning back into him, pressing against him, but you knew that wasn't what he meant. Capitalizing on this moment of closeness, the stillness, to huck him over your shoulder and into the floor crossed your mind but then you'd have to give him a back rub later.

Not that you minded that, either.

"We could make a deal," you leaned back to whisper in his ear even though it hurt your neck a little. You could tell by the way his bangs fluttered that he'd jerked in surprise. Was that a little pink on his cheeks? Before you could nip his pointed ear, Lilia leaned you forward and took his elbow off your shoulder, opting to hold you in a bearhug instead.

"Acceptable in this situation," he managed, clearing his throat when his voice cracked a little. "Although this exercise is supposed to be combat related."

"So make the terms. I can't negotiate a deal that doesn't exist." you try to break his hold, shimmying your shoulders and sliding your feet to see if you could slip away. He lifts you off the ground with an ease that doesn't seem possible with his short, lithe body. You hang there against him as he thinks.

"Your life for that of your firstborn."

A bit dark, wasn't it? Kind of rude, really, you thought. But, your train of thought continued to ramble, he did find Silver somewhere so it didn't seem too unusual that he'd want a kid. Either that, or he was messing with you because you told him that whisking away kids was something fae were known for in your world.

"You can't have a firstborn with your clothes on." you joke.

"That's not true because I found Silver with my--" Lilia drops you when he realizes what you've said. You weren't expecting him to drop you and didn't catch yourself, hissing as you land on your knees. Before you can start complaining or poke fun at him for being an old man he's locked the door. You're bowled over as he rushes over to you, pinning you on your back as he peppers kisses along your throat and collarbone.

He's several bites in and you’re halfway undressed when you think you hear a knock at the door. Lilia begrudgingly peels himself off of you, licking blood from the corner of his lips.

"Father? Are we not going to train today?"

"M'fraid not, my boy," Lilia turns his attention back to you, opening your legs to slip between them. "But you'll be getting a new sparring partner in about nine months."

His red eyes are glowing. They're absolutely beguiling.

"Do they come with therapy?” he hears Silver mumble as you look up at him through your lashes.

He pounces on you again. It was a brilliant, filthy tactic. He's not exactly mad about it. You've earned favor with one fae, at least, and he will protect you from the others.

----- ----- --- ---

Sebek is a hard worker. He's a product of his environment; he has Baur's straightforwardness, Lilia's dedicated regimens, and his mother's impressive teeth and jaw strength. Lilia thought the best way for you to learn some of the self-defense tactics was to fight someone your size.

Sort of. Sebek seemed to be the better choice since Silver was too sleepy to be a constant threat. And, in Lilia's mind, you should have an easier time fighting a half-fae versus a full fae.

You never noticed how muscular Sebek was until you were under him. He's got corded arms and you can see the muscles of his shoulders flexing under the Diasomnia shirt he chose for the exercise.

You've never seen him in casual clothes! He actually looks very nice. Not as buff as Jack but sturdy in his own way; his chest is broader than you imagined. A solid man.

More than capable of being Malleus' body guard.

You groan as he knocks the air out of you a little. He's on top of you, pressed into your back. He's got one foot braced against the floor, leaning his weight into you. Your arms are pinned at your side courtesy of the one he's snaked underneath you.

When did he flip you over? Asshole, you scrunch your nose in frustration as your cheeks begin to burn. He's an asshole that means well and won't go easy on you, though. He makes sure you learn. You try to inch out from beneath him but he angles his shoulder down and grabs his own wrist, dragging you back to him.

"You're supposed to do something in this situation!" he grumps, "You know how to break this hold!"

You do, but he's heavy and it probably wouldn't work. And he's had a literal lifetime of training versus your handful of months. You've tangled your legs together and used his half-lean to put him on his back. Your kicking like a tipped-over bug and almost free when you remember that his fae half is crocodilian and you might have triggered his death roll tendency.

Out of the corner of your eye you see Sebek's pupils change, the dark of his eye slitting and boring into you. His throat strains like he's growling but you don't hear anything. It trembles against the back of your neck and you're reminded in that moment of just how much bigger he is than you.

How he folds around you and encompasses you.

He opens his mouth, teeth glinting and sharp. "You've bested me," you admit, swallowing thickly as his teeth hover near your shoulder. "Make your deal."

You somehow turn yourself around in his unrelenting squeeze.

Sebek huffs as if he's insulted and you swear you see his teeth dull. His pupils begin to fill out. He's usually loathe to acknowledge his human side, as he'd much rather be full fae, but it serves him in this instance. "I'm not a true fae. Such a thing wouldn't work on me!"

"You have to pretend! Lilia's teaching me how to deal with the fae! You just won't hurt me as much. Maybe." you dare to flash that teasing grin at him and Sebek nearly tears into his own lip because he doesn't know what to do with that wiggly feeling you give him.

Him? Hurt you? Not on purpose. It would go against the core values his grandfather AND Lilia taught him! Any fae caught abusing their spouse would be drawn and quartered, made a public display of. Any human man who chose to do so was no man at all!

Sebek's face feels almost painfully warm. He can feel the heat spreading from his cheeks to his ears. "In an act of benevolence inspired by the great Prince Malleus, I shall spare your delicate human self in exchange for a child. Is that the cliche rubbish you desire?"

Some of his once slicked-back hair has fallen down on his forehead, between his eyes, as if it's disappointed in you too.

"You think our child would be cliche rubbish? Cliche Rubbish Zigvolt? That does NOT sound good! I'm naming the firstborn, you're just helping make it."

"Wha--but I--that's not!" Sebek doesn't know what to say and he hasn't been trained for this. He's careful not to shove you away but untangles himself like a thrown ragdoll. He rolls over sharply, totally fine with hiding his face in the floor. His green hair is in disarray and his arms are limp, stretched out to either side of him.

You laugh, climbing onto his back and raking your nails down it gently. He makes the noise. You're not sure what it is but you've heard it before. It's deep and somehow soothing. He relaxes underneath you as you continue to scratch his back, throwing in a squeeze to his muscles every now and then.

It's not until you're in what would be the small of his back (if he wasn't build so solid and thick) that he raises his head, folds his arms up, and rests his chin on his hands. "You're safe." he can't bear to turn his head and look at you right now. If he did, you'd see how...how...weak and mushy he looked. Sebek snorts through his nose, arching his back in surprise as your hands slide all the way up until you flop on his back and your arms hang off his shoulders.

"Thank you, o' kind Zigvolt!" you hug his neck. "This delicate human appreciates it!"

"And I...appreciate...you." he mumbled slowly, the words a little foreign to him. More scary than foreign, honestly. That heartwarming shyness evaporated in an instant when he pinned you and began a stern lecture about how you should NOT offer to conceive a child with ANY OTHER FAE and what YOU SHOULD HAVE DONE INSTEAD.

You weren't surprised by this. Sebek lectured Silver all the time and Lilia said he was a very informed pupil. You, too, would be informed as it didn't seem like he was letting you go anytime soon.

[hope-for-the-planet]

From the article:

Above the whirring of 300,000 cars each day on Los Angeles’s 101 freeway, an ambitious project is taking shape. The Wallis Annenberg wildlife crossing is the largest wildlife bridge in the world at 210ft long and 174ft wide, and this week it’s had help taking shape: soil. “This is the soul of the project,” says Beth Pratt, the regional executive director, California, at the National Wildlife Federation, who has worked on making the crossing become a reality over the last 13 years. She says she’s seen many milestones, like the 26m pounds of concrete poured to create the structure, but this one is special. “To be able to put my hand in that soil and toss it on and know that we’ll be putting milkweed plants that will flourish for monarch butterflies, or picturing the first mountain lion paw print on that soil,” she says, fills her with hope. “It is wonderful to watch this habitat take shape.” The plot is a native wildlife habitat that connects two parts of the Santa Monica mountain range, with the hopes of saving creatures – from the famous local mountain lions, down to frogs and insects – from being crushed by cars on one of the nation’s busiest roadways. With nearly an acre of local plants on either side and thick vegetated sound walls 12ft high to dampen light and noise for nocturnal animals as they slip across, it’s an unprecedented feat of engineering. Imagination, too. The project began in 2022 through a public-private partnership that brought together many organizations to cover the $92m in costs, according to Caltrans, the state transportation department. Research shows that wildlife crossings save money because it limits animal interactions with vehicles.

[novelistwriter]

The Island above Gotham

DP x DC Prompt

During one night in Gotham, the Bats and the Rogues of Gotham were going about their business with each other. When a bright green light had flashed above the city. And then a big floating piece of land was above Gotham. It showed no signs of falling down, and yet the Rogues were already heading for the island before the Bats once they learned that it wasn't going to crush them.

The island was the size of Gotham itself, with many strange plant life on it, including animals that Damian had wanted to take home (but couldn't as the animals had tolerated him, but wouldn't follow him home). The most prominent thing on the island was the massive castle in the center of it, with the Rogues of Gotham already entering the structure while the Bats are still on their tail.

The castle would fit in Gotham, with its gloomy appearance and feeling to it, and while it is empty of anyone and anything, it looks like it's been maintained quite well.

The Rogues of Gotham had found a treasure Vault and were grabbing anything that they like or could use, but when they try to leave, a green force field prevents them from leaving the Vault.

Of course, all of the Batfam had an intense fight with the Rogues, and when they sent them all to Arkham, they began to explore the castle on the island some more. They came across a grand chamber, with a sleeping boy in the big bed, who had a familiar face. The boy has the same face as Bruce. Sure, he may have white hair and a skin color the same as Damian, but the features are still the same. And then the Boy wakes up from his slumber and looks at them after he stretched out his back and arms.

Danny was enjoying the peace and quiet he had made for himself. He sent Jazz out on a "me day" out in the Infinite Realms for her to relax a little, same can be said for all the staff that's been in his Keep he inherited from Pariah after he bested the Tyrant.

He just wanted to sleep after getting a little more work done on the piles of paperwork he had to do. He had asked Nocturne to prevent him from dreaming, as they are always bad memories from before he permanently moved to the Infinite Realms (His parents cutting him open. His BEST FRIENDS leaving him in Amity to pursue their own things in life while cutting all ties with him. But Jazz wouldn't leave him alone, not like them. Dani had destabilized in his arms after what Vlad did to her. That was Danny's first and only kill, the Fruitloop deserved it after ending his daughter). He may be the Ghost King, but his human half still has basic needs that need to be met, so after his nap, he'll head to a random world to live in it for awhile then return to his Ghost King duties.

But when he woke up, he had seen unknown people in his room, looking at him like they've seen a ghost (Ha!).

"What are you doing in my bedroom? It's rude to sneak into someone's royal bed chambers"

He deadpanned to the group of costume wearing people.

(A massive natural portal took Danny's keep to the DC verse, and it will stay there for quite a long while.)

[marcusspace]

Brotherly swap - part 1

In the quiet solitude of his dimly lit bedroom, Timothy McAllister sat cross-legged on his twin bed, surrounded by the silent guardians of his imagination—shelves crammed with comic books, action figures, and forgotten school textbooks. The digital clock on his nightstand blinked 3:42 AM, a silent sentinel to his nocturnal habits. Tim, a self-proclaimed nerd with glasses perched on the tip of his nose and a penchant for graphic t-shirts, was lost in the realm of his favorite anime series. His eyes darted across the screen of his laptop, his heart racing with every clash of swords and whisper of a forbidden romance.

A sudden noise jolted him out of his fantasy world—the unmistakable sound of flesh on flesh, muffled by a closed door. Curiosity piqued, he tiptoed out of his room, his socks making faint squeaks against the cold, hardwood floor. The noise grew louder as he approached the staircase, each step bringing him closer to the source of the mysterious sounds. The thirst that had plagued him earlier was forgotten, replaced by a burning curiosity that compelled him downstairs.

The kitchen light spilled out into the hallway, creating a stark contrast with the shadows. Tim peered sneakily, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. There, at the kitchen island, stood Brad—his stepbrother, the epitome of jock perfection with a body sculpted from football and a swagger that made heads turn. Brad must’ve just stumbled home after a night of partying and heavy drinking. Brad is standing naked in the kitchen, clearly thinking everyone is asleep, his hand was moving rhythmically, fisting his impressive uncut 9-inch cock. The sight of Brad's muscles flexing, his abs rippling with each stroke, sent a jolt of arousal through Tim. He felt a pang of envy for the power Brad's body held, the ease with which it drew attention and desire.

Tim's mouth went dry as he watched Brad's hand work over his shaft, the precum glistening under the soft glow of the pendant lights. He couldn't help but think about the fantasies he'd had—fantasies where he could experience Brad's body for himself, where he could feel the strength and virility that seemed so far out of reach. But this was real, and Tim knew he should look away. Yet, he remained frozen, his own hand inching down to his crotch, his cock hardening at the sight of Brad's unabashed pleasure.

With a jolt of reality, Tim realized he could be caught staring. He bolted back upstairs, his cheeks flaming with a mix of embarrassment and arousal. His tiny cock strained against his pajama bottoms, demanding attention. He rushed into his room and slammed the door, his thoughts racing. He felt so ashamed—how could he be turned on by his own stepbrother? It wasn't just the taboo; it was the stark contrast between Brad's jock body and his own lanky, unathletic frame.

Tim flopped onto his bed, his hand trembling as it found its way into his pants. He couldn't stop thinking about Brad's cock, the way it had filled his hand so completely. He began to stroke himself, imagining what it would be like to have that kind of power, that kind of presence. He thought of Brad, sweaty and spent after a grueling football practice, his muscles begging for relief. The fantasy grew more vivid—Brad, helpless and needy, turning to Tim for comfort.

Tim's hand moved faster, his breath hitching in his throat as he pictured Brad's face contorted in pleasure. In his mind's eye, Brad's handsome features were a mix of surprise and gratitude as Tim took him into his mouth, his tiny cock forgotten in the face of his stepbrother's overwhelming manhood. The fantasy was intoxicating, a heady blend of the forbidden and the desired. His hand was a blur, his strokes becoming more erratic as the image of Brad's cock grew larger and larger in his mind.

With a strangled moan, Tim came, the sensation of release flooding through him like a tidal wave. He didn't bother to clean up the mess, too lost in the aftermath of his climax to care about the sticky residue on his hand and stomach. He lay there, panting, the room spinning slightly from the rush of adrenaline and embarrassment. Eventually, his eyes grew heavy and he succumbed to sleep, his last thoughts a jumble of Brad's body and his own secret longings.

The next morning, Tim woke with a start, his body feeling... different. He sat up, and the world tilted alarmingly. He reached out to steady himself, and his hand encountered something unfamiliar—his own hand, but it was larger, more muscular. His eyes shot to his reflection in the mirror opposite his bed, and what he saw took his breath away. He was in Brad's body.

Tim couldn't believe it—his fantasy had come to life. He rolled out of bed, his new muscles protesting the movement with a delightful stretch. He stumbled over to the mirror, his legs unaccustomed to the bulk of Brad's muscular frame. His eyes widened with wonder as he took in the sight of Brad's reflection. The broad chest, the rock-hard abs, the powerful arms, and the proud erection that jerked in response to his touch. He tentatively reached down to grasp Brad's cock, his heart racing as he felt its heavy warmth in his hand.

Tim couldn't resist exploring further. He flexed the bicep, watching the muscle bulge and dance in the early morning light. He ran his hand over the flat expanse of Brad's stomach, feeling the ridges of his abs, the trail of hair that led to his groin. He stepped closer to the mirror, his gaze lingering on the reflection of Brad's face, now his own. He touched his cheek, the stubble rough against his fingertips. His hand trailed down to Brad's chest, feeling the thump of a heart that was now his, the thrill of power surging through veins that had never felt so strong.

With one hand, he began to stroke the cock that was now his own. It felt alien, yet incredibly arousing. The sensation was magnified, as if his own desires had been amplified by the sheer size of his new member. His other hand roamed over the landscape of Brad's body, tracing the contours of his broad shoulders, the firmness of his ass. He couldn't believe the sensation—his fantasy was playing out in real life. He was the jock now, the one with the power to turn heads and command attention.

Tim's eyes remained glued to the mirror as he jerked off Brad's cock, watching the way it moved in his hand, the way his new body responded to his touch. He felt a thrill of power as he manipulated it, watching the shadows play across the muscles he had once envied from afar. The hand that was once so inexperienced now moved with surprising confidence, guided by Brad's own body's instinctive knowledge. He felt the beginnings of another orgasm build, a warmth spreading through him that was more intense than anything he had ever felt before.

Suddenly, he heard a noise from downstairs—Brad's voice, but it was high-pitched and panicked. Tim froze, his hand still wrapped around Brad's cock. What was going on? He had to find out. He stumbled to the door, his legs unsteady in this new form. His heart thudded in his chest as he descended the stairs, trying to process what was happening.

As he approached the kitchen, he could make out Brad's frantic cries. "What the fuck?! What did you do to me?!" Tim peeked around the corner, his eyes widening in horror and fascination. There was Brad, his body now in Tim's place, flailing around the kitchen in a pair of Tim's oversized glasses, looking utterly lost. Tim had to stifle a laugh—his stepbrother was now the one out of his element.

"I... I don't know what's happening!" Brad's voice, coming from Tim's smaller body, was a high-pitched squeak that seemed to echo off the walls. He stumbled around the kitchen, bumping into chairs and knocking over a vase. Tim felt a twinge of pity, watching Brad struggle with his new reality.

But the pity quickly turned into a giddy excitement as he realized that he was no longer the nerd. He was the jock, the one who could bend the world to his will. The one who could get whatever he wanted. And what he wanted, more than anything, was to live out his wildest fantasies in Brad's body.

Tim took a deep breath and stepped into the kitchen, his new body moving with a grace that was both alien and thrilling. Brad's eyes went wide with shock as he took in Tim's new form. "What the fuck, Tim?" he squeaked.

"Well, well, well," Tim said, a smirk playing on Brad's full lips. "Looks like we've swapped places." He couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction at the sight of Brad in his own skin—so small and fragile. "I guess the universe has a sense of humor after all."

Brad looked up at him with a mix of fear and anger. "Make it stop," he demanded, his voice still not his own. "This isn't funny!"

Tim just chuckled, the sound deep and resonant in Brad's body. "Oh, but it is," he said, his eyes glinting with mischief. "It's more than funny, it's a dream come true." He strode over to Brad, towering over him. "Imagine all the things I can do with this body." He flexed his bicep, watching Brad's eyes follow the movement with a mix of awe and dread.

"You can call me Brad now," Tim said, his voice a commanding rumble. "And I'll call you Tim. It's only fair, right?"

Brad's eyes darted around the kitchen, his mind racing. He had to get out of this situation, had to get back into his own body. But how? He had seen enough sci-fi movies to know that the geeky protagonist usually had some kind of ace up their sleeve, but all he had was Tim's scrawny body and a head full of football stats.

Tim, now Brad, took a step closer, his new body exuding confidence with every movement. "Come on, little bro," he said, his voice a mockery of Brad's usual cocky drawl. "Let's not make a scene." He reached out to pat Brad's shoulder, his hand swallowing Tim's delicate frame. "You'll get used to it."

Brad shrank away, his eyes darting to the floor. "What do you want?" he whispered, his voice barely recognizable as Tim's.

Tim, reveling in his newfound power, leaned in closer, his breath hot against Brad's ear. "Oh, you know what I want," he murmured, his hand drifting down to Brad's crotch. "But first, let's go get you cleaned up. You can't face the day like this."

With surprising gentleness, Tim guided Brad to the bathroom, watching as his stepbrother's body moved clumsily in the unfamiliar confines of Tim's smaller frame. He couldn't resist the urge to run his hand along Brad's ass, feeling the firm muscles that he had so often envied. Brad flinched, his eyes flashing with a mix of fear and anger. "Cut it out!" he snapped.

Tim just smirked, his hand lingering. "Don't worry, I know you're straight," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "But I'm not, and now I've got your body. So let's make the most of it, shall we?"

Brad's cheeks flushed, his heart hammering in his chest. He couldn't believe what was happening. "This isn't right," he protested weakly. "We can't just... swap lives like this."

Tim, now in Brad's body, grinned. "Why not?" He leaned closer, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "You've had your fun with the cheerleaders and the football games. It's my turn now." He stepped back, admiring his reflection in the mirror. "And don't worry, I'll take good care of your body." His hand drifted down to cup Brad's crotch, his eyes never leaving Brad's face. "In fact, I've got a whole new set of rules for it."

Brad felt a surge of anger, his fists clenching at his sides. "You can't just—"

Tim cut him off with a wave of Brad's hand. "Oh, but I can. And I will. Now, let's talk about your old life." He leaned against the sink, Brad's body looking eerily relaxed in Tim's usual slump. "What was her name? Your, um, my girlfriend, I mean."

"Her name is none of your business," Brad spat back, his voice unsteady.

Tim chuckled, the sound deep and resonant in Brad's body. "Well, now it is," he said, stroking Brad's cheek with the back of his hand. "I mean, I'm going to be living your life now. It's only fair that I know all your little secrets."

Brad's eyes narrowed, his hands balled into fists. "What are you saying?"

Tim, now Brad, leaned in closer, his grin wicked. "I'm saying," he began, his hand tracing the line of Brad's jaw, "that from now on, Brad here is going to be exploring his... let's call it his 'alternative' side." He watched Brad's face contort with disgust, his new body flushing with excitement at the thought. "You're going to be the one going to prom with the hottest guy instead of the prom queen."

Brad's eyes widened with horror. "You can't do this to me!"

Tim, now in Brad's body, chuckled darkly. "Why not? You've had your fun with the ladies. Now it's time for me to have some fun with the... boys." He winked, his hand sliding down to Brad's waist, the touch electric and unwelcome. "Don't worry, I'll be sure to give you plenty of stories to tell."

Brad's mind raced, trying to think of a way out of this nightmare. He had to find a way to reverse the swap, to get back into his own body before things went too far. "We need to find out how this happened," he said, his voice shaking with fear. "There has to be a way to fix it."

Tim, now in Brad's body, just shrugged. "Why bother?" he said, his tone laced with nonchalance. "This is the best thing that's ever happened to me." He flexed his new biceps, watching them bulge in the mirror. "I've got everything I've ever wanted."

[kaira-diaries]

Nocturne:

warning: smut-implied age gap || wound cleaning || violence || implied death ||

pairing: fem!xfrontman/In-ho

wc: 4k

a/n: Okay, I feel like while writing this I blindly turned it into an enemies to lovers. Kind of? Sorta? Maybe?

summary: The sheltered daughter of a VIP grows bored of the games, and finds herself exploring the quarters of the front man, only she's blindly unaware. This mistake, while nearly costs her her life, also opens up an intense and longing romance.

->Masterlist <-

You stifled a yawn, staring down at the game room where players carefully carved honeycombs under the watchful eyes of masked guards. Dalgona—a game you knew well but found painfully dull. Your father, sprawled beside you on the velvet loveseat, reeked of expensive liquor and slurred, "Where are you going?"

As you stood, you tucked a pillow beneath his head, smoothing your burgundy dress. "For a drink. Rest now."

Another VIP leaned over, gesturing to your snoring father. "Had too much?"

"Always," you replied with a tight smile. "Keep an eye on him, will you?"

Glass in hand, you ascended the grand staircase to the bar. The itch of your golden mask only added to your frustration. The sound of a gunshot from the game room below barely held your attention. Forty lost—disappointing. You popped the cork on a fresh bottle of wine, pouring a glass and savoring the first sip.

Then, through the double doors ahead, you noticed something. A space you'd never seen before, dark and enticing.

You hesitated, glancing back at the games. Nothing exciting there, and your father was well guarded. With a sly smile, you patted the blade strapped to your thigh, pushed the doors open, and stepped into the unknown.

With the wine bottle in hand, you take a generous swig, the rich flavor a momentary comfort. The foyer feels stark, oppressive—its black walls and cool gray floors exuding a chill that seeps into your skin. Gold accents glint faintly in the dim light, the only warmth in this austere domain. You grimace at the decor but press on, curiosity pulling you deeper.

The elongated hallway looms ahead, flanked by heavy, closed doors. Each one seems to hum with secrets, daring you to turn the handle. You hesitate, a voice in the back of your mind warning you to turn around. Yet, as your fingers graze the cool brass of a doorknob, you pull back. Another sip of wine quiets the voice, and you continue to the open space at the hall's end.

This room feels different—softer, more inviting. You run your fingers along the sleek fabric of a gray loveseat, its plush texture a strange comfort against the stark surroundings. Your gaze lands on a collection of vibrant figurines—a rare splash of color in the muted space. One stands out: a woman in a flowing red gown, microphone in hand, her face alight with passion. Around her, a miniature band, instruments gleaming, seems poised to play.

Your heart races as you spot a remote beside the figures. The urge to press it outweighs any lingering caution. You place the bottle down next to your mask as you remove it, press the button, and watch as the figures come to life, their voices harmonizing in a hauntingly beautiful rendition of "Fly Me to the Moon."

The melody fills the room, wrapping around you like a warm embrace. Eyes closed, you let the music wash over you, unsure if it's the alcohol or the song that's softening the edges of the world. 

You were halfway through the bottle of wine when the music stopped abruptly, and a cold dread prickled your spine. The figures had ceased their dance mid-note, leaving the room in a suffocating silence.

You spun around, the blade on your thigh now in your grip, sharp and ready.

Standing in the doorway was a figure shrouded in shadow, his presence dominating the room. He stepped forward, the dim light catching the edges of a cold, metallic mask. His posture was rigid, and his gloved hand gripped a pistol aimed directly at you.

"Who are you?" His voice was like crushed gravel, low and commanding.

Your pulse quickened, but you kept your expression sharp, masking the fear threatening to surface. "You first," you bit back, your fingers tightening around the hilt of your blade.

His head tilted slightly, the gesture almost mocking. "You're in my quarters, and yet you demand answers."

You shifted your stance; every muscle in your body coiled like a spring. "I didn't see your name on the door," you snapped, each word laced with defiance.

In a flash, he was upon you, closing the distance with startling speed. His hand caught your wrist, twisting it just enough to force the knife from your grip without breaking the skin. You gritted your teeth as he pinned your arm behind your back, pressing you against the cold edge of the table.

His gun found its way under your chin, tilting your head back to meet his masked gaze. The mask's lifeless eyes stared down at you, void of humanity, and yet you swore you could feel the heat of his scrutiny.

"Answer me," he growled, his voice a hairsbreadth from your ear.

You smirked, though your pulse hammered against your ribs. "Kill me, then. I dare you. Let's see how you'd like explaining to everyone why a VIP's daughter ended up dead in your quarters."

His grip faltered for a fraction of a second, a hesitation so slight that most wouldn't notice. But you did. He released you with an almost annoyed shove, holstering his gun as he took a deliberate step back.

Rubbing your wrist, you straightened and smirked at him, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. "Yeah didn't think so," you muttered.

Before he could respond, the room was flooded with pink-clad guards, their rifles raised and aimed squarely at you. Your eyes darted between the barrels of the guns and the masked man.

"Stand down," he barked at the guards, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

They hesitated but obeyed, lowering their weapons.

You scoffed, brushing past the guards as you retrieved your blade from the floor. "All of this for little ol' me?" you quipped, slipping your knife back into its sheath.

The masked man didn't respond, his head tilting slightly as if studying you. His silence unnerved you more than the gun had.

With a flick of your hair, you grabbed your golden mask from the table and placed it over your face, the metallic surface catching the dim light. As you walked past him, your eyes never left his, and neither did his leave yours.

"Try not to miss me," you said with a smirk, your voice dripping with mockery as you exited the room.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

You lay on your back, rubbing your eyes as exhaustion clung to you, but sleep refused to come. You didn't know what time it was, but when a dull headache crept in, you sighed and slipped out of bed to find a glass of water. Throwing on a black robe, you padded into the quiet halls, unconcerned. At this hour, only the guards would be awake, and none would dare glance at the daughter of a VIP—not if they valued their lives.

You crossed your arms against the chill and shut the door behind you. The once-bright hallway was now shaded, the only light spilling faintly from the main room ahead. Your knees ached as you trudged down the cold corridor.

The earlier Dalgona game had thinned the herd. Many players were gone, and your father's friends were divided—some bitter over their financial losses, others laughing as they poured another drink. For them, the money was trivial.

Mama had always been against gambling, insisting money was meant to be earned, not squandered on fleeting thrills. You missed her fiercely, the ache of her absence tightening your chest. You pressed on, trying to shake the melancholy, though your thoughts drifted elsewhere—to him.

His presence lingered in your mind like a gloom you couldn't shake. He had come terrifyingly close to ending your life, yet there was something in that encounter—a charged energy you couldn't explain, equal parts fear and... something else.

Reaching the kitchen, you stepped inside, greeted by the faint hum of the industrial fridge. The space was massive, gleaming stainless steel counters and cabinets casting faint reflections in the dim light. You found a glass in one of the cabinets, filling it with water from the sleek faucet.

As you raised the glass to your lips, a flicker of movement in the doorway caught your eye. Your heart stopped. He stood there, The masked man, silent and imposing.

A startled yelp escaped your lips as you stumbled back a step, clutching your chest.

"You're gonna give me a heart attack—again," you snapped, scowling at him as you poured 

another generous measure of water into your glass. "Ever heard of announcing yourself?"

His voice came out low and mechanical, but there was something unspoken behind it, something you couldn't quite place. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his eyes behind the mask locked on you, lingering just a little too long. His steps were slow and soft, as if he was trying not to scare you off.

You cleared your throat, shrugging off the weight of his gaze. "Could be better," you said nonchalantly, swirling the liquid in your glass. Then, flashing a sharp smile, you added, "I didn't quite catch your name after you nearly blew my brains out."

"I'm the Front Man," he replied evenly.

Your grin faltered slightly, but you held it together, leaning casually against the counter. "Fitting. So, what's your deal in all this? Why are you here?"

"I oversee and operate the facility," he said, his voice as detached as ever.

You tilted your head, curiosity tugging at you. "So, you're the game maker," you said, taking a sip and adding, "Those were actually your quarters, then."

"Among other things," he admitted, a touch of something—pride, perhaps?—edging into his tone.

Your lips twitched with the hint of a smile as you folded your arms, suddenly acutely aware of your black robe, barely held together at the waist. "Sorry for snooping earlier," you said, your voice softer. "Curiosity and boredom get the better of me sometimes."

He didn't respond immediately, and the silence stretched, charged and heavy. When he finally spoke, his question caught you off guard. "What did you think of today's game?"

You raised a brow, knowing he didn't care about your opinion. Still, you couldn't resist taking the bait. "Honestly? It was a bit of a snooze fest. The Dalgona challenge?" You shook your head. "A complete letdown. I was so bored I ended up raiding your quarters just to find something more entertaining."

You thought you heard a low scoff beneath the mask, but his face was unreadable. "How so?" he asked, almost begrudgingly.

"It lacked drama," you said, setting your glass down. "There was no big moment to keep the audience on edge. No payoff. It felt...lazy." You leaned forward more, catching his stare. "I'm not easily impressed, and for my first visit? Not great, especially after being...manhandled."

His head tilted slightly, his mask catching the low light. "You're a spoiled brat," he said, his tone clipped. "I'm not here to entertain you."

You pushed away from the counter, stepping in front of him closely, your golden necklace catching the light as it swung forward. "That's where you're wrong," you said, your voice low, each word deliberate. "I'm part of the next generation of VIPs—the ones funding your 'little business.' If you can't impress me, why should I invest in you?"

The room felt colder for a moment, his silence more cutting than any retort. "Why wait until now to join your father at the games?" he asked abruptly, sidestepping your challenge.

You blinked, momentarily thrown. "I've been busy," you said.

"Busy with what?" he pressed.

You toyed with a strand of hair, smirking. "Business," you said lightly. "I mostly dabble in the legal kind...and sometimes the not-so-legal, if the payout's worth it."

A gust of cold air swept through the room, making you shiver. You rubbed your arms for warmth, feeling the tension in the air grow thicker. "How did you end up running all of this, anyway?" you asked, meeting his gaze. "Doesn't seem like the kind of job you'd find on a career board."

His answer was clipped. "I'm skilled at what I do. That's all you need to know."

"That's it?" you asked, your frown betraying your disappointment. "No juicy backstory?"

"Does it really matter?" he countered.

"Guess not," you said with a shrug. But his words lingered, their finality leaving a mark.

"If you're mostly about legal businesses, what are you doing here?" he asked, his tone sharp, probing.

"I love my father," you said simply. "He asked me to come, so I came. And this...this is my future, isn't it? Might as well get familiar with it instead of pretending it doesn't exist."

For a moment, he said nothing, his mask a void, his gaze impenetrable. But you felt it—the weight of his attention, the unspoken pull between you.

Finally, you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the spell breaking. "I should get to bed," you said softly, stepping around him toward the hallway with your water. "Goodnight."

He inclined his head, his voice low. "Goodnight."

As you descended, the warmth of the exchange lingered, a quiet echo in the stillness of the night.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

A week had passed in a whirlwind of chaos, each game more brutal and captivating than the last. Yet, what lingered in your mind was the frustrating absence of The Front Man. Beyond fleeting glances, he seemed distant, as though merely going through the motions. It bothered you that you were disappointed.

Seated in your velvet chair, you felt the thrill of a game's dramatic conclusion but soon found yourself craving a refill. With a sudden burst of energy, you left your seat, not bothering to smooth your sage green dress, and ascended the staircase to the bar. The marble counter gleamed under soft light as you reached for the whiskey decanter.

Before the amber liquid could hit the glass, a loud crash from behind the double doors stopped you cold. Another crash followed, then a cry of pain that sent chills down your spine.

Heart pounding, you slipped inside to find The Front Man hunched over, a knife digging into his bloodied shoulder.

"What the fuck?" you blurted, stepping closer.

He shot out his good arm, stopping you. "I'm fine. Go back to the game," he said, his voice calm but distant.

You hesitated, his words tempting you to leave, but the sight of him—wounded and vulnerable—rooted you to the spot. Walking away felt impossible.

"Let me get it out. At that angle, you'll never dislodge it." He continued to poke and prod at his shoulder, his fingers and the blade digging into the tender flesh. Groaning in pain as blood pooled from his shoulder, he ultimately ignored your offer; shocker. 

You rolled your eyes and rushed over to him, hovering until he quit and met your gaze through the grey mask. "You can barely stay upright; let me help," you said, palm outstretched for the blade. "Believe me, you don't want to bleed out. It's a mess to clean up." He stalled for a few heartbeats, and you almost felt awkward until he placed the bloodstained blade in your hand. 

Sitting beside him, the tension in his body eased slightly. 

"You're stubborn," you muttered, wiping away the blood to get a clearer view of the wound. 

"And you're persistent," he shot back, a flicker of amusement flashed in your expression. 

"Call it a survival skill." You took a steadying breath. You hesitated for a moment, then glanced at the mask that concealed his face. "This isn't going to work with that thing in the way. Take it off."

Silence followed for a few moments, "It stays on."

"Look," you said, your tone firm but not unkind. "If I'm going to pull this bullet out without nicking an artery, I need to see what I'm doing. That means the mask—and the jacket—have to go."

A tense silence stretched between you, broken only by the sound of his unsteady breathing. Finally, with a sharp exhale, he reached up and unfastened the mask. As it fell away, you froze.

He was breathtaking—sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline, and piercing eyes that seemed to cut right through you. Despite the blood and sweat streaking his skin, he radiated a rugged intensity that made it hard to look away. You blinked, forcing yourself to focus.

"Jacket and whatever is on underneath too," you managed, your voice quieter now.

He smirked faintly, as if he'd caught the flicker of shock in your expression, but said nothing as he shrugged off his jacket and black shirt with a wince. Beneath it, his body was lean and sculpted, the muscles taut as he shifted to give you better access to the wound. You swallowed hard, mentally cursing yourself for being distracted. "This might hurt a little more." 

"Just do it," he deadpanned, taking a wealthy swig of liquor. 

The blade slipped deep into the wound, and your fingers steadied as you worked with precision. The bullet was lodged in an awkward angle, and you cursed under your breath. "What were you doing to end up like this?" You asked, partly to distract him and partly because your curiosity was gnawing at you. 

"Nothing, it was a disagreement," he said curtly.

"With a bullet?" you teased, but his silence told you it wasn't a joke. "Right. Noted."

Finally, your blade scraped against something hard, and you exhaled in relief. "Got it." You carefully maneuvered the bullet free, holding it up triumphantly before tossing it onto the table with a metallic clink. 

He let out a shaky breath, his body fully relaxing for the first time since you'd entered the room. "You're good at this," he admitted, his voice softer now.

"Thanks. Years of practice." You grabbed another cloth and doused it with the liquor, dabbing it against the wound to clean it. He hissed through his teeth but didn't pull away. 

"So," you said, wrapping a bandage tightly around his shoulder, "are you going to tell me what actually happened, or do I have to piece it together myself?" 

He studied you for a moment, his gaze unreadable. "You ask too many questions."

"Maybe," you admitted with a small smile, tying off the bandage. "But it's part of my charm." He shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching as if suppressing a smile. 

"You're lucky I decided to be a helpful hand today," you commented, admiring your handiwork. "That should hold for now; I'll come back tonight to clean and bandage it once more. Just don't go picking any more fights."

"I'll keep that in mind." You started to gather the bloodied cloths and the blade, but his voice stopped you. "Thank you."

The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard, and you glanced back at him. For a moment, the stoic, commanding figure seemed almost... human. 

"You're welcome," you said softly. "Just try not to die on me. It'd be a shame after all that work." 

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound sending you a strange warmth. "I'll do my best."

With that, you left his quarters to rejoin the game, the faint sound of his laughter following you as you returned to your velvet seat. 

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

The room was dim, bathed in the soft, amber glow of a single lamp on the bedside table. The air was thick with the heady mix of whiskey and expensive cologne, an intoxicating blend that made you pause in the doorway, savoring it for a moment longer than you should have. In your hands, bandages and a damp cloth felt heavier than they were, as if weighted by the tension you carried with you. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, his back straight and shoulders taut, every inch of him radiating restraint. The mask was absent, left somewhere out of sight, and you were mesmerized by the faint outline of his profile in the low light. 

You knocked softly on the open door, the sound cutting through the thick silence. "So." he said without looking up, his voice, edged with dry humor. "That's how you announce yourself to someone." 

A soft laugh escaped your lips, an involuntary reaction to his sharp wit, as you entered the room. The distance between you felt heavier with every step, but you closed it anyway and sat beside him. 

"Any dizziness?" You asked, your voice gentle, almost tentative, as you set the supplies beside you. 

He turned his head toward you, his eyes shadowed yet heavy with something unspoken. His stillness was unnerving like he was waiting for something-waiting for you. "No," he said finally, his tone steady but low. "I feel fine." 

"Good," you murmured, reaching for his shoulder. His body tensed beneath your touch, a subtle reaction, but you felt it all the same. You worked carefully, peeling away the bandage with delicate fingers, wincing at the angry wound beneath. "Your body must be making up for the blood loss," you added, your voice softer now. 

His gaze lingered on you, the intensity of it palpable. You could feel the heat of it, even as he said nothing. The space between you seemed to shrink with each passing second, and though neither of you spoke, the weight of what remained unsaid hung in the air like a fragile thread. 

"You don't have to do this," he said, his voice breaking the quiet. 

You glance up, meeting his weary gaze. "Maybe not," you admitted, your fingers brushing his skin as you cleaned the wound. "But I want to." 

His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening for a moment before he let out a slow measured breath. "You shouldn't care," he murmured, almost to himself, but the words felt directed at you as if he was referring to when he pressed a gun to your head. 

"And yet, here I am," you said, a faint smile playing on your lips. 

His expression was unreadable, and for a moment, you thought he might say something more. Instead, he sat in silence, letting you work.

As you finished securing the new bandage, your fingers lingered for just a moment too long, the touch barely there but electric nonetheless. You pulled back slowly, your heart thundering in your chest, and you pulled your hands into your lap, staring down at them.

You could feel his heavy and unwavering gaze on you. He hadn't said a word, but his silence spoke louder than any declaration. His dark and intense eyes roamed over you, not just your face but every detail—the loose strands of your freshly washed hair, the way your shirt slipped slightly off one shoulder, revealing the soft curve beneath. There was more than curiosity in his gaze; there was hunger, restrained and smoldering like a fire barely contained. 

"Why did you offer to come here tonight?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly. 

"To check on your wound," you said, though your voice cracked under the weight of his stare. 

He leaned forward slightly, his good hand bracing against the bed, and you caught that familiar scent of cologne mingling with a raw scent that was entirely his. "That's not the only reason," he countered, his tone sharp. 

Your breath hitched as he closed the space between you, the proximity dizzying. "Maybe I was worried," you admitted in a whisper as his presence consumed you. 

"Worried," he repeated, almost to himself, his lips curling into a faint smirk. 

"You shouldn't be." 

"I can't help it," you whispered. 

His hand moved before you could think, his fingers brushing against your cheek. The touch was surprisingly gentle, but his eyes burned with something deeper, something primal. His thumb traced a line down your jaw, "You're exquisite," he murmured as his hand slid down, resting on the side of your neck, his thumb now grazing the hollow of your throat. The pulse beneath his touch quickened, betraying you. 

"You should leave," he said, though the words lacked conviction. 

"Do you want me to leave?" you asked, searching his eyes for any truth. 

His grip on your neck tightened ever so slightly, his fingers pressing against your skin as he tilted his head closer. "No," he admitted, the confession slipping out. Your lips parted, a sharp inhale escaping as the tension between you snapped, and he closed the distance. His lips captured yours with a heat that stole your breath. 

The kiss wasn't tentative or hesitant—it was consuming, demanding, and filled with a longing that neither of you could deny anymore. His hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that left you dizzy, his control slipping just enough to let you feel how much he wanted you. 

Your breath hitched as the kiss deepened, his grip on your back tightening, holding you to him. Without breaking the kiss, you shifted even closer, the soft fabric of your shirt brushing against his chest as your hands settled, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your fingertips. Wanting more, needing more, you leaned further in, swinging one leg over his lap. His breath caught as you settled onto him, straddling his thighs with deliberate care, mindful of his injured shoulder. His good hand explored every inch of you now as the kiss quickened with appetite. You gasped as his hand gripped your ass with breathtaking strength. 

The intimacy of the position sent a flush of heat through you, pooling between your thighs as your pulse thrummed wildly. Gazing down at him, he searched your face, lingering on your lips before flicking back up to look at you. Your hands reached up, brushing your fingers against his jaw; the faint stubble was rough beneath your touch.  "I didn't hurt you, did I?" you asked softly. 

"No," he said, the single word rough and weighted. You smiled. 

"Good," you mumbled, your palm pushing his hair from his face.

 "Because I don't want to stop." With that said, you pulled your shirt up, over your head and tossed it to the side, unveiling your breasts. He took every inch in of you, wasting no time attaching his lips to you. The sensation was breathtaking as you threw your head back, moaning. 

You exhaled sharply. There'd be marks, no doubt. However, concern surfaced within you as he suddenly pulled back. You gazed down at him, catching the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. 

"What's wrong?" 

"I can't fuck you how I want." 

Your expression eased as you met his gaze. "Then let me take care of you," you murmured, your voice gentle but determined as you lifted off him and slid down to the floor, settling on your knees. Reaching for his pants, your fingers diligently worked at the leather belt, yanking it free. Unzipping his pants and sliding your hands in, he sprang free before you, and your mouth watered at the view of him. You caught his eye, finding a smirk on his lips as he reached for your hair, wrapping it around his knuckles.

He gave a sharp tug, pulling your head back, and you whined. "You look so pretty on your knees for me," he remarked with desire staining his eyes.

With that, you took his immense size in your mouth, gliding to the pace he had set for you. Your tongue danced on his tip, and you swallowed every time you took the entirety of him; he groaned, "Fuck, just like that." He praised and your eyes watered from the intensity. You weren't outstanding at providing head, and a wave of insecurity washed over you. Nerves twisted in your stomach at the thought of not satisfying him, but the hitches in his breathing, the sharp inhales and exhales, and the praise he offered gave you the assurance you needed as you took him deeper and deeper with intensity and lust. You hadn't been able to see, but his head was thrown back in pleasure, lips parted.

Feeling him twitch in your mouth, you knew he was close as he picked up the speed even more. Saliva began pooling from your lips, dripping onto your knees and covering his length as you fought to breathe. His pull on your hair grew sloppy and you moaned at the appetizing ache in your scalp. "Fuck you're going to make me cum." His voice is rough as he offers one last yank of your hair, slamming you back down onto him and filling your mouth. You swallow the load, pulling off him and meeting his exhausted eyes; he rubs his thumb over your lips, promptly shoving it in your mouth, and you take it with no protest.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

His chest radiated warmth as you melted into his embrace, your heartbeat gradually syncing with his steady rhythm. Your eyes remained closed as you hummed, "you never told me your name." 

A calloused palm rubs your shoulder, "In-ho." 

You smiled, repeating it, "In-ho. I like that much better than FrontMan." 

His fingers gently encircled your wrist, his touch spoke volumes. "Stay with me," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. You pushed yourself onto your elbow, looking down at him. "I am, " you whispered, but he shook his head and caressed your cheek. "Stay here with me. Help me run the whole fucking thing." The request entailed a lot and you weren't able to form a response, stunned by such a proposal, but then you thought it over. There was nothing left for you back home except your emergency medical clinic, which could indeed survive without you. Your father was fine and could take care of himself as long as he had his money. All you contained was a large sum of untouched money. You bit your lip, looking back at him. "Alright." 

->Part Two <-

[boreal-sea]

One of my favorite things about Cardassians is the rare times we see them outside, especially in sunny environments, and get to see how the ridges around their eyes actually function well in shading their eyes from bright sunlight, supporting the world building that they enjoy hot environments. Their skin color would also function very well for camouflaging in desert environs. Now, canonically, they also prefer dimmer light, so perhaps they evolved from nocturnal desert dwellers, but still, their ridges suggest they evolved to hunt in places with bright light and little shade.

Like look at this. Built in sunglasses:

[ekingston]

So it’s 2019, because that’s what it said on the screenshot I used to create the gif, and you’re casually browsing Netflix, grateful to be alive in a world where COVID or an internationally devastating shift in political alliances are but distant echoes of a future that may never come to pass, and you happen upon a movie that’s just been added, called BREACH.

Your Netflix synopsis says: When a man turns up dead on the shore of a remote mountain town and a local girl vanishes without a trace, it’s up to a local detective to put the pieces together. But when she rescues an attractive tourist off the side of the road, the investigation takes an intimate—and dangerous—turn.

And you’re like, ‘eh, nothing I haven’t seen before,’ (though the LGBTQ label is interesting), but then the preview starts autoplaying and IS THAT KATIE MCGRATH?! And it IS. So now you have no choice but to sit through the trailer.

Nocturne by Blanco White is playing, calmly at first, swelling as it goes on. You’re presented with a wide shot of a towering dam, the camera slowly rising up the water-streaked concrete before breaching the top. An enormous lake BOOMS into view, jagged mountains beyond it, forming a serrated edge against the lightening sky. It’s early morning. Mist is rolling down the densely forested mountains and over the water.

(You wonder if this production used the same locations (or rather special effects) as Les Revenants did, and yes, it absolutely did, because I loved the atmosphere of that show and I adore mountain towns with enormous lakes and it is, to date, the most Hollywood version of non-Paris France I’ve ever seen.)

The wide shot narrows to a ground-level closeup of the pebbled shoreline, pulling slowly away from the water until we glimpse a piece of discarded police tape, fluttering on the breeze. The camera pans past a pair of sneakers and then a pair of uncomfortable-looking high heels, wobbling on the rocky beach. It’s a news crew, reporting live on the disappearance of a young girl. The camera pushes past them, staying at ground-level as it leads us into the woods, where we find the paws of a canine unit, splashing in a shallow mountain stream. There’s the sound of police radios, and then we see the boots of a police search party. We stop at a much smaller but otherwise identical pair of leather boots. The camera pans up at our detective—it’s Katie McGrath! Finally!

She looks amazing, obviously. For the sake of this miraculously being a supercorp AU, her character is a fair bit more acerbic version of our girl Lena Luthor, except we’re time traveling so she’s now in her early 40s, her dark hair greying slightly at the temples (let a girl dream), her jawline somehow sharper than ever, freckles proudly on display in the natural light. Her hair is hanging loosely over her shoulders, looking like it hasn’t seen a brush since she last laid down. Lena is wearing slacks, a wrinkled dress shirt and a men’s blazer that is slightly too large for her. She stares off into the woods, chin jutting, a muscle jumping in her jaw, her fingers absently playing with a pack of cigarettes.

CUT TO:

Early nighttime. A dark mountain road, lit sparsely, tall pine trees walling it in on both sides. We see over Lena’s shoulder, her hands on the steering wheel, as her cruiser’s headlights sweep over the shape of a woman, bent over the engine of her stalled car. The woman—blonde, mid-thirties, wearing cut-off jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt far too thin for the late hour—turns when the car appears, squinting into the light. It’s Kara.

Lena comes to a stop behind her and rolls her window down. She calls out, “You need a ride?”

CUT TO:

The dimly lit interior of a spartan living room. Lena dumps blankets on the couch.

Kara asks, “You sure this is okay, me sleeping here?”

CUT TO:

Daytime, and we’re at the sheriff’s office. Lena, wearing a clean-but-barely-ironed dress shirt, drinks coffee as if her life depends on it. Mike Matthews, the sheriff’s deputy, makes fun of Lena’s uncharacteristic hospitality.

“What was I supposed to do?” Lena asks him, as we see a flashback shot of Lena watching Kara over the rim of her coffee cup, earlier that morning. “Next town’s hours away.”

We see Kara maintaining eye contact with Lena for a moment, the corners of her eyes crinkling, as we hear Mike telling Lena, back at the office, “You won’t even let me stay at your place.”

“You had bed bugs,” Lena points out. Then she raises an eyebrow, looking away, adding as a casual sidenote, “Plus she’s prettier than you.”

WLWNESS/SAPPHICTROCITY/LESBIANANIGANS CONFIRMED.

CUT TO:

It’s evening, and we’re in Lena’s kitchen. Kara is making dinner when Lena walks in, feeding scraps to—and this is very important! but only to me—Lena’s dog. Did I mention this is actually also a crossover with Person of Interest, and for absolutely no other reason than I need Lena to have Bear the Brilliant Belgian Malinois? “I see you made a friend,” Lena says. It’s unclear whether she’s talking to Bear or Kara.

The news is on, talking about the missing girl. Lena turns it off before settling into a chair near the open doorway, her legs splayed wide at rest. Bear immediately settles at her side, chin resting on Lena’s thigh. We all kind of want to be a Brilliant Belgian Malinois, in that moment. Kara asks, indicating the TV, “You think she’s still alive?”

“Could be.” Lena digs for her pack of cigarettes and pulls a lighter from a kitchen drawer, probably shoving an old walkman she’s had forever out of the way to get to it, scratching the course hair between Bear’s ears before settling back down. “‘Course if you asked me last week, I may have told you something different.”

Kara turns off the stove so you can all stop worrying, and starts plating the food. “What changed?”

Lena pauses while she lights her cigarette and takes a deep drag, the blue smoke drifting through the doorway outside as Lena savors it, slowly breathing out as gays the world over are forced to reconsider the merits of smoking. Like yes, it kills you in terrifying, excruciating ways, but LOOK AT HER. Lena watches Kara intently, but doesn’t answer her question.

CUT TO:

We see Lena in her bedroom, late at night, flipping through case files. Her fingers (which, EXTREME closeup, EXTREME CLOSEUPS OF HER HANDS THROUGHOUT THIS ENTIRE PRODUCTION, hover over a grainy picture of a young white man, wearing a red baseball cap. His back is turned so we can’t see his face, though if you hated hard enough back in the day you may have a hunch. As the camera circles around the room, Lena is replaced by Kara, the bedroom now bathed in golden morning light. She’s looking through the photos too, her fingers shaking. We see her react to the photograph of the ballcapped man, before quickly putting things back exactly as they were.

CUT TO:

An evening shot of the lake, the water wrinkling in the breeze, softly lapping at the shore. We hear the sound of something large hitting the water.

CUT TO:

A pee break, actually, and you’re gonna go ahead and grab a snack while you’re up. There sure is a lot of water in this movie. Wait, weren’t you just watching a trailer? Why does it feel like an hour has passed? Is it the hands? How many times have you hit that pause button? What year is it?

CUT TO:

Lena and Kara are at the Lake Pub. It’s dimly lit and smoky. Lena drinks whiskey. Across from her, Kara stirs a glass of soda with her pinkie finger. They’re regarding each other so openly you genuinely start to feel a bit faint.

“You’re looking at me like I’m one of your suspects,” Kara says.

You disagree. That’s not what suspicion looks like. You’re sure, because you’ve seen Katie McGrath look at approximately 99.9% of her female costars this way.

Lena keeps her gaze level, unflinching and forward. “I look at everyone like that,” she lies.

A beat.

“I don’t think that’s true,” Kara says.

You’re feeling suddenly thirsty, too.

CUT TO:

Red and blue lights illuminate the deep indigo sky over the lake. A body is being dragged from the water as Lena watches, clenching her stupendous jaw. Seriously, how is she growing hotter all the fucking time if storybook-princess-turned-mesmerizing-murderess was her baseline?

CUT TO:

Lena, sitting in her parked car. She slams her fist against the steering wheel. (Don’t worry, no hands were injured in the making of this film.) It’s overlayed with imagery of a burial service, a US flag draped over the coffin, a pair of grieving women—one middle aged, the other a pretty 20-something brunette, surrounded by officers in dress blues. Lena is there too, looking dashing in her uniform, but also like she hasn’t slept in a week.

CUT TO:

Lena is standing in the center of her living room, rubbing her brow with her long, spatulate fingers. Kara is hovering in a corner a couple of feet away, cautious. “Just say it,” she whispers. “You think I killed him.”

Lena releases a breath that is half-huff, half-groan. “I’m not sure it even matters anymore,” she says.

“How can you say that?” Kara asks. When Lena doesn’t answer her, Kara steps closer and touches her arm. Lena turns as if she’s going to shrug Kara off, and the instant you begin to wonder what the hell this movie is supposed to be about, you stop caring because Lena abruptly pulls Kara closer and they kiss, urgent and rough.

You’re not sure if your ears are ringing or if the sound you’re hearing is a chorus of lesbians all over the world exploding into cheers & wild applause.

As the music builds to a crescendo, we see a quick series of images:

Lena presses Kara against her bedroom wall, Lena’s lips at her jaw, her fingers undoing the button of Kara’s jeans before they slip inside her pants; your life flashes before your eyes; Lena points her gun at someone, but we don’t see who; Lena’s fingers support Kara’s chin as she gently dabs at her bloodied brow with a piece of gauze; headlights illuminate a figure in the road, mirroring Lena picking up Kara, but this time the smiling man in the red baseball cap (again seen only from the back) is the one pulling over & rolling down his window.

The dam’s floodgates open, a roar of white water pouring through.

The music stops abruptly as we end on a final, long shot. Lena stands on top of the dam, looking down, the sky above her, the dizzying depths below. The camera falls away, down down down, until it breaches the surface of the water and sinks into the dark water beneath.

Kara (voiceover, pleading, breathless): “If I go under, I’ll pull you down with me.”

Lena (voiceover, raw but full of conviction): “I’m a pretty good swimmer. And I have a feeling you are, too.”

CUT TO BLACK.

You blow out a breath and resign yourself to your fate. You hit the mute button, and press play.

Also I was proud of how this one manip turned out so I’m sharing the version that makes it marginally more clear that Kara isn’t randomly & uncomfortably touching her own face:

Like I said: SO MANY CLOSEUPS.

[robertmatejcek]

Tableaux Automatique: Buffet  - 1″:1′-0″ diorama - mixed media - robert matejcek - 2023

“An ounce of sauce covers a multitude of sins.” - Anthony Bourdain

Tags:

[bestanimal]

Round 1 - Phylum Onychophora

(Sources - 1, 2, 3, 4)

Onychophora is a phylum of long, soft-bodied, many-legged animals. They are commonly called Velvet Worms due to their velvety texture, and the human propensity for calling any small animal with a long body a worm. Onychophora is the only animal phylum in which every extant (non-extinct) member is fully terrestrial.

Onychophorans are predators, preying on other invertebrates which they catch by spraying an adhesive, glue-like slime. This slime can also be used to deter predators. They will target slime at the limbs of their prey, and have even been observed targeting the fangs of spiders. The slime is stretchy, with high tensile strength, and forms a net-like structure when sprayed. It takes about 24 days to replenish an exhausted slime repository, so they will eat their dried slime when they can.

Onychophoran legs are called oncopods, lobopods, or “stub feet”. They can have from 13 to as many as 43 pairs of feet, depending on species. Their legs are hollow and have no joints, instead being moved by the hydrostatic pressure of their fluid contents. Each foot has a pair of tiny chitin claws which they use to gain their footing on uneven terrain. They sense the world via a pair of antennae, the numerous papillae covering their bodies, and a pair of simple eyes, though there are some blind species. Their mouth is surrounded by sensitive lips, and their chitin jaws, used for chewing up prey, look similar to their claws. On either side of their mouth are the oral papillae, openings containing their slime glands. Unlike their relatives, the tardigrades and arthropods, they do not have a rigid exoskeleton, restricting them to habitats with high humidity. They are also nocturnal hunters, and shy away from light, leading them to be most active on rainy nights. Onychophorans have two sexes. Females are usually larger than males, and sometimes have more legs. In most species the males will secrete a pheromone from their many “armpits” to attract females. Mating procedures differ between species. Some species are live-bearing, and some are egg-laying. The oldest known fossil Onychophoran, Antennipatus, is known from the Late Carboniferous.

Propaganda under the cut:

The little orange guy in my avatar is a velvet worm!

Some species can spray their slime up to a foot away, though their accuracy gets worse with distance.

Apparently, velvet worm slime tastes "slightly bitter and at the same time somewhat astringent.” Don’t ask how biologists know that.

It is hard to evaluate all velvet worms due to their nocturnal nature and low population densities, but of the few species that have been evaluated, all are near threatened to critically endangered. Main threats come from habitat loss due to industrialisation, draining of wetlands, and slash-and-burn agriculture. Many species naturally have low population densities and small geographic ranges, so a small disturbance of ecosystem can lead to the extinction of entire species. Populations are also threatened by collection for universities or research institutes.

While most countries offer little to no protection for their velvet worms, Tasmania is unique for having its own velvet worm conservation plan and one region of forest dedicated to preserving the endangered Blind Velvet Worm, Leucopatus anophthalmus (seen in the 3rd image).

Onychophoran’s stub feet allow them to be sneaky ambush predators which hunt only at night. They move slowly and quietly, with their body raised off the ground. They only use their claws when needed for climbing, otherwise they walk softly on the pads of their feet. They are often able to get so close to their prey that they can gently touch them with their antennae to assess their size and nutritional value before the prey is alerted.

Onychophorans have small but complex brains, and are thus capable of sophisticated social interaction. Some species live and hunt in packs, acting in aggression and territoriality towards velvet worms not in their own group. After a kill, the dominant female always feeds first, followed in turn by the other females, then males, then the young. High-ranking individuals will chase and bite subordinates who climb on them, but will allow juveniles to climb on their backs without aggression.

Somft

[howdoesone]

How does one invite a Saola to a unicorn-themed party?

Introduction to the Saola: The Real-Life Unicorn The Saola, often referred to as the “Asian unicorn,” is one of the most elusive and mystical creatures in the animal kingdom. Discovered only in 1992 in the Annamite Range of Vietnam and Laos, the Saola has captivated the imaginations of scientists and animal lovers alike. With its long, slender horns and gentle demeanor, it’s easy to see why it…

[bunnyluvx]

hii could you write castlevania nocturne alucard x fem!reader💗maybe the reader is a vampire or speaker/witch

enchant me, lover. ♡

featuring: adrian fahrenheit ţepeş / alucard x f! vampire, speaker & witch! reader.

summary: you're stargazing with your husband, and he doesn't get the chance to wish on a shooting star. you know just what will cheer him up.

warnings: minors and ageless blog dni regardless of content. i made the line dividers, so please don't use them. | support divider: @cafekitsune | wc: 2.3k | ao3

tags: fluff | hurt/comfort | domestic fluff | one-shot | stargazing | established marriage

a/n: i'll do you one better, friend, and combine ALL OF THEM!! >:D i'm trying to make my way through my requests, so there will be lots of castlevania stuff for awhile! this is set a couple of years before adrian left to track sekhmet. i hope that i did you justice, anon, and please enjoy, dear friends!!

date started: 7:08PM, february 16th, 2025. date finished: 8:45PM, february 25th, 2025.

The moon cloaks itself amidst the twilight to leave room for the stars to illuminate the sky. Thousands gather closely together to observe the night's events, and whisper gossip that the breeze tells them. A castle, tall enough to hold the heavens and older than most museums, resides within the forest. Its worn stone enjoys the scenery's tranquility, and the surrounding wildlife serves as a reminder of its reason for standing.

There are two occupants in this castle; The legendary Alucard, A.K.A Adrian Țepeș, and you, his lovely wife. You have been married for almost two-hundred years, and there is nothing that you would change about the life that you have built together. You both enjoy travel, so the adventures that you go on together are eternally endless. Adrian has solidified himself into your soul, and he is part of you that you never wish to do without. In moments where you felt like you couldn't go on, his face came to mind and you remembered just how strong you are.

Adrian knows that the connection that you share will last far beyond the relevance of your immortal lives. Not even at the chance of death will your love's resilience waver, for it is a force stronger than any enemy that you have vanquished together. If you were not in his life, then he would not laugh, smile, ponder or explore as much as he has in your company. Adrian Țepeș is not a man who fears much, but the idea that plagues his mind into restlessness is how much darker his world would be without you in it. Imagining a reality where he lives without your rants about all of the things that he wouldn't think twice about, paired with its angelic echo chanting off of the walls of your home would send him into madness, if not for the comfort of your body lying asleep by his side in your shared bed.

Every day that you spend together is a day that you both cherish, and today has felt particularly special. From dawn 'til dusk, you walked through the forest and discovered things that you hadn't noticed before; The different flowers blooming within the grass or unfamiliar streams, for instance. You have lived in this area for some time now, yet when journeying with Adrian, all sorts of new encounters appeared. It was very fulfilling to wander out with him to see what awaited you.

Now, your exciting day has come to a close, and both of you agreed that the best way to wind down before bed was to stargaze together. You stand on one of many bridges of the palace, your hands resting on the cold stone railing while your eyes sparkle just as brightly as the stars you stare at. Adrian stands not far behind you, a smile gracing his pale lips as he admires the great darkness above. Every once in awhile, he will look back at you and treasure the warmth that pools within his chest. Your joy while looking up at the stars is more beautiful than any twinkling light in the sky, and if he spent his night watching you like this instead, then he would be just as content.

Occasionally, you'll point out an exceptionally bright star, or a constellation, and Adrian's eyes will follow where you lead them. You'll tell about the story behind how the constellation was named, and anything else that comes to mind in relation. Being born into a group of Speakers has left a lot of room for you to acquire all sorts of knowledge about a variety of different subjects, and at one point in your life, you found yourself very fascinated with everything related to space. As a result, you did a lot of research on the subject so that you could share it with your family, and anyone crossing your path willing to listen.

Both of Adrian's parents were people of science, so he gathered quite the bounty of information himself, but he would always make an effort to listen to you. No matter how many times you repeat the same tales and facts, he will nod along and asks questions as if it's the first time, just to prompt your endless, passionate rambles. Gaining the opportunity to share your wisdom grants you an ethereal, excitable glow that he will gladly blind himself with, if it means that the last thing he ever sees is your smiling face.

A comforting quiet lingers in the air while you both gaze up at the stars, cherishing the night's delightful weather that provides you the freedom to enjoy this moment together. Sky's stillness suddenly dispels when a star swiftly descends from the shadows, and immediately, it catches Adrian's attention. A blissful, child-like smile graces his lips as he takes a step forward, then points above while announcing, "Look, a shooting star!"

Instantly, your head whips into the direction where Adrian's finger follows, and you see it. Fortunately, before it leaves your view, you are able to make a wish. Many would see it as silly for an over three-hundred year-old vampire to believe in wishing on stars, for you have lived long enough to know that not all myths are true. Regardless, you like the hopefulness that the idea brings; That someone, somewhere is listening, with the goal of helping you achieve your dreams.

Wherever this comet is going, it's in a hurry, for it's leaving as quickly as it came. You squeeze your eyes shut and hold your breath, thinking about what you want most in the world. When you open them, you release the wind trapped inside your throat at the realization that the shooting star has disappeared over the horizon. Disappointment dwells in your heart and on your shoulders briefly before you spin around to look at your husband, whose arm has lowered. His face illuminates with a gentle joy as he gazes into the distance, a display that lightens your disheartenment and replaces it with bliss.

Long ago, you swore that you would commit all of Adrian's smiles to memory, so you take this time to do just that. The radiant expression that he wears is one of wonder, faith and longing, as if he wishes to chase that star to the ends of the Earth. You think that he looks so adorable like this, and you would hate for him to stop, but you become curious as to if he made a wish too, so you ask him, "Did you make a wish, Adrian?"

Blinking out of his awestruck state, golden eyes meet yours. You are so glad that during all of this time, the color of Adrian's eyes never changed. You think that it gives him individuality, and they remind you that through every hardship, you will always have someone at your side to endure it with. Sunshine dims into a soft sadness, which rawly clenches at your heart. Adrian's eyes glance to the ground, a frown on his face while he admits, "Oh, no. I didn't get the chance to."

The vessel which keeps you standing feels like it is being brutally mauled through at this response. Now, Adrian gazes out into the sky with furrowed brows, and your own face falls as his does. While he is skeptical about the idea of wishing on stars, he does find it fun to do sometimes. It didn't even come to mind when he saw it passing by, and seeing just how disappointed he is hurts more than any wound you could ever receive.

You use your quick-thinking skills to come up with something to cheer the dhampir up, when it hits you. You have been studying human magics for one-hundred years, and while you are quite skilled, you do not practice enough to fully achieve your true potential. Typically, you only use your magic on occasion when you're bored to make fun shapes, or when you're in combat with no other choice, but this is just as vital- no, even more-so. This is more dire than any foe that you have vanquished, more monstrous than any beast you have slain; Your sweet husband is sad, and as his wife, you want to make him feel better!

So, you cup your palms together and hold them out in front of you. Adrian notices the shift of your body, and turns to watch as you close your eyes. You focus on your desire, and think about the way that a star feels. You feel a tickling sensation spring its way up your back, as if stardust brushes your skin. Slipping into a deep state of concentration, you reflect on your early studies of magic when a yellow spark erupts into your hands. Adrian watches with fascination while the spark begins to brighten; It begins to take shape, until a thin, golden diamond glows in your grasp.

Adrian is completely blown away by your demonstration, his mouth hung open and eyes gawking widely at what you've just created. You open your eyes and smile at the dumbfounded look on your husband's face, giggling. "Make a wish, Adrian."

Realistically, you both know that this isn't what a star looks like, but that doesn't matter to your man. What matters to him is that it's yours, and it's perfect. For a moment, Adrian is silent, too bewildered by your manifestation to summon his voice. He knows that you are a very talented magician, and he has seen your capabilities at their finest. The fact that you have forged something so precious just to make him happy deeply touches Adrian. A smile adorns the man's face once more, eyes holding a love that is reserved only for you. He reaches a hand over to the side of your face to allow gloved fingers to graze your skin while he leans forward, and presses a gentle kiss to your lips.

You watch as he melts before you, your smile growing wider when seeing that he's happy again. Unexpectedly, he gives you a kiss, and this makes you feel even better. Adrian's lips have a very dastardly power to make you weak; One brush of them, and you feel like you could faint on the spot. His lips are soft, and he tastes of the most captivating spell. You would have dropped the illusion and wrapped your arms around him to properly relay your passion, if you didn't know how meaningful this was to him. Heat crawls its way into your cheeks, and your shoulders have hiked up from surprise, but they slowly lower themselves as you allow your body to relax. You return his kiss and tilt your head slightly to enhance the experience for both of you, and you stand like this for a moment to cherish how perfectly your lips mold together.

Albeit regrettably, Adrian is the one to back away. The sun of his eyes shines brightly with admiration, and the smile on his lips is tender. "I don't need to," He murmurs sweetly.

Seeing this look on the dhampir's face is everything that you could want out of tonight. You have shared a wonderful day together, but this has been the best part of it by far. A crooked grin curls its way your lips, and you give him a knowing look when you decide to tease him, "If you say it's because you have everything you could wish for right here, I'm going to hit you."

Adrian's posture straightens as he throws his head back to laugh. Light blooms within your chest at the sound, one that you would listen to every hour for all of your days if given the chance. Tilting his head upright, he meets your eyes and responds, "Alright, I hear you." Then, he leans over to examine the star in your hands more closely, asking, "Could we save it?" Your husband aligns himself upright again, reuniting your gaze to his while adding, "For my next wish."

You smile at the man, head slightly tilted while fondly gazing at him. Any request of his is one you will gladly satisfy, so you tell him, "I think I can do that."

The look on your face causes Adrian to soften, his shoulders noticeably relaxing a bit more at the sight. "Good." He then turns so that his side faces you, and offers an arm for you to take. "Shall we head to bed now?"

You squeeze your eyes shut and press your lips together harshly, charging all of your energy into the little splendor in your hands before hopping up. With your little bounce, the star shoots up into the sky, stardust hot on its trail, before it lowers down to settle itself floating slightly above you and Adrian. The dhampir turns around to recognize what you've done, that same stupefied expression on his face. You see it and laugh, an arm coming over your stomach as you take a step back and point at him. You gather yourself shortly after, and brush away any lingering dust on your clothes before you turn to face where Adrian is to take his arm. "Let's go."

It's only when you make contact with him that your husband comes out of his shock, his face relaxing when seeing yours and a smile decorating his lips. "As you wish."

With that, you head into the castle to begin your nightly routine. The star you created twirls around you both the entire way, and you laugh at mystical friend's enthusiasm. Love has brought you two a long way, and you guarantee that it will take you even farther. In every life, you know that Adrian would do anything to make you happy, and he knows that you would do the same.

@BUNNYLUVX ,, all rights reserved. do not copy/plagiarize any of my works or submit it into ai. any and all support is appreciated! <3

[the-oblivious-writer]

With Her I Die |1|

Past J.T to Eventual S.S x Female Reader

Chapter One: Cold Plunge

warnings: major character death, grieving, suicidal intentions, physiological trauma, toxic codependency, and horrible horrible coping mechanisms

masterlist | prologue | next chapter

You wake to the sensation of something gritty beneath your fingernails, a metallic taste lingering on your tongue. The world comes into focus slowly – the canopy of trees above, filtered morning light, the hushed quiet of the forest floor. Your hands are crusted with dried blood and soil, dirt packed deep under your fingernails.

For a moment, there's just confusion. Then the weight in your chest returns, that familiar crushing pressure that's been there since... since...

"You're so fucking perfect, aren't you, Jackie?"

"And you're so good at being difficult."

"At least I feel something. At least I'm not pretending."

"I'm so tired of your mood swings. You're either all over me or you're—"

"What? What am I?"

"—impossible. You're impossible."

"I fucking hate you sometimes."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do. I hate you. I hate how good you are at being perfect, and I hate how bad I am at keeping my emotions bubbled."

"That's not fair."

"None of this is fair!"

You can't remember how you got here, how your hands got this way. The last thing you recall is falling asleep in the cabin, Shauna's protective arm draped over you like a shield.

"There you are." Shauna's voice cuts through the haze. She's standing a few feet away, one hand resting on her slightly swollen belly, the other clutching a water canteen. "I've been looking everywhere."

You look down at your hands again, the rust-colored stains embedded in your skin's creases. "I don't remember..."

"You were sleepwalking again." Shauna kneels beside you, her movements careful, deliberate. She uncaps the canteen and takes your hands in hers, pouring water over them. The cold shock of it makes you gasp. "You were digging. By the grave."

Jackie's grave.

You watch as the water runs pink, then clear. Shauna's hands are gentle but firm, her fingertips tracing circles on your palms as she washes away the evidence of your nocturnal wandering.

"Did anyone see?" Your voice sounds foreign, distant.

"No. Just me." Shauna's eyes meet yours, dark and knowing. "I followed you. Like always."

The days bleed together. You move through them like a ghost, performing the motions of survival without truly participating. Hunting. Gathering. Eating just enough to keep Shauna from forcing more food into your mouth. Sleeping only when exhaustion overwhelms the fear of dreams.

"You need to talk to someone," Shauna says one evening as you sit by the fire, staring into the flames. "It doesn't have to be me, but—"

"There's nothing to say." Your voice is a blade, sharp and defensive.

"You're not the only one who lost her." Shauna's hand finds yours, squeezing gently.

But you are. You're the only one who knew what it was like to have Jackie's lips against yours in the dark, to feel her fingers tangled in your hair, to hear her whisper promises neither of you could keep. You're the only one who failed her so completely.

"I hate you for leaving me here alone."

The words echo in your mind, but you can't remember if you said them aloud that night or if they remained trapped inside, another thing left unsaid between you and Jackie.

You find yourself at her grave again, the small mound of earth and stones the only marker of where she lies. You've been coming here more frequently, speaking to her as if she can hear you. Sometimes you rail against her, screaming until your throat is raw. Other times, you whisper apologies like prayers.

Today, you simply sit, tracing patterns in the dirt with your finger.

"I keep thinking about what you said," you murmur. "About me being bad at keeping my emotions bubbled. You were right. I'm still bad at it."

Wind rustles through the trees, and for a moment, you imagine it's her response.

"Everything reminds me of you. The way the sun hits the water in the morning. That stupid fucking sweater Shauna keeps folded under her bed. The way the fire smells at night." Your voice cracks. "My heart bleeds every fucking day, Jackie. It won't stop bleeding."

You dig your fingers into the soil, letting it fill the spaces beneath your nails.

"I hate you for dying," you whisper. "I hate you for leaving me. I hate you for making me love you."

Shauna finds you there, hours later, curled on your side next to the grave. She doesn't say anything at first, just sits beside you, her pregnant belly a reminder of the life continuing despite everything.

"You can't keep doing this," she finally says, her voice soft but firm. "You can't keep punishing yourself."

"I'm not," you lie.

"You are." Shauna's hand finds yours, pulling it from the dirt. "You think I don't know what you're doing? You think I don't see you getting closer to that edge every day?"

You turn to look at her, surprised by the tears in her eyes.

"I'm terrified," she admits, her voice barely audible. "I'm terrified that one day I'll wake up and you'll be gone. That you'll have buried yourself right alongside her."

The truth of her words hits you like a physical blow. You've been fantasizing about it, haven't you? About lying down in the cold earth next to Jackie, about finally escaping the constant ache of her absence.

"I can't do this without you," Shauna continues, one hand on her belly. "I need you here. With me."

You sit up slowly, dirt falling from your clothes. "I don't know how to be here without her."

"Yes, you do." Shauna's grip on your hand tightens. "You just don't want to."

That night, you let Shauna wash your hands again, watch as she carefully cleans beneath your nails. The two of you have developed these rituals, these unspoken agreements. She keeps you tethered to the world of the living; you keep her connected to the memory of Jackie.

"Do you think she knew?" you ask as Shauna combs her fingers through your tangled hair.

"Knew what?"

"How much I loved her. Even when I said I hated her."

Shauna's hands pause briefly before resuming their gentle movements. "Yes," she says with certainty. "She knew. You're both so good at being troubled, but you were never good at hiding how you felt about each other."

You lean back against her, feeling the solid warmth of her body, the subtle movement of the life growing inside her.

"I dream about her," you confess. "But she's always just out of reach. Always walking away."

"She's not walking away," Shauna murmurs, her arms encircling you. "She's just somewhere else now. And we're still here."

We're still here.

The words settle into you like stones, heavy but somehow grounding. You close your eyes and for the first time in weeks, you don't immediately see Jackie's face, blue with cold, frozen in that final expression of hurt and betrayal. Instead, you see Shauna's dark eyes, filled with a determination that borders on desperation.

You're bound together now, you and Shauna, by shared grief and secrets and the memory of a girl you both loved in different ways. It's not healthy, this codependence that's forming between you – you clinging to her as your last connection to Jackie, she holding onto you as if you might disappear at any moment – but it's what you have.

"I'll try," you whisper, not specifying what exactly you're promising. To stop sleepwalking to Jackie's grave? To stop wishing you were buried alongside her? To start living again?

Shauna seems to understand anyway. She presses her lips to your temple, a ghost of a kiss.

"That's all I'm asking," she says, and you both pretend not to notice the way her voice breaks, the way her arms tighten around you like she's afraid you might slip away even now.

Outside, the wind whips through the trees, carrying with it the memory of Jackie's laughter, the echo of her voice saying your name. But inside, in this moment, there's just you and Shauna, heartbeats synchronized, breathing together in the dark.

It's not enough. It might never be enough. But for tonight, it's all you have.

[kvroomi]

a tempest of silk and steel

pairing: regency era lord!gojo x regency era lady!reader

summary: a quiet escape from the state ball leads you to a lake in the late of the night... that, and a love confession to and from lord gojo who you thought you hated.

word count: 3.2k

themes/warnings: i fear this might be super inaccurate PLS BE NICE TO ME, it gets better the more you read i promise!! miscommunication ig, gojo is lowk ooc but that’s just how i like him, argument fic, YEARNINGGG FOR DAAAYYYYSSSS

a/n: back from the dead with a short, little vignette-kinda thing!!!!! been obsessed with period dramas as of recently if you couldn’t tell, whoops! whether or not i continue and add onto this with a prologue or expand with a series, i do not know... only time will tell :-^)

You were afraid. The night lay stretched across the sky like droplets of milk flicked into coffee. The constellations scattered in profusion—their pale light casting a spectral glow upon the world. The lake before her was a great, glistening mirror, fractured only by the occasional ripple of wind-kissed water. It distorted the moon’s reflection until it seemed to wane and wax in the space of a breath. Mist curled at the shore in languid tendrils, weaving itself between the reeds like some ancient specter roused from slumber. The air was thick with petrichor and the damp sweetness of moss, while the hush of the earth was broken only by the faint nocturnal chorus of unseen creatures.

You stood poised at the water’s edge, the hem of your frail, pink gown brushing against dew-jeweled grass. Your arms were still, wrapped in a semblance of warmth against the night’s gentle chill. It was a rare kind of solitude you had sought; it was the kind that did not ask anything of you, that did not demand wit or charm or endurance. Here, you were not a woman of consequence nor a subject of scrutiny. Here, you simply were.

But solitude—it seemed—was a fickle thing.

The weight of the evening was still pressing against your bones. From the crowded ballroom, the wretched dance partners, the empty pleasantries, it had all left you drained. You remained restless in a way you could not name, so you had escaped. Looking for comfort in the cool embrace of night—far from the expectant gazes and cloying perfume of society—you watched the water’s edge in silence.

You had also, not anticipated company.

“You flee,” came Lord Gojo Satoru’s voice, rich with the ever-present lilt of amusement. “How very predictable.”

You closed your eyes briefly, exhaling sharply. Even just his voice alone was enough to cause pulses of frustration through your insides. “Must you persist in haunting me?”

“Haunting?” He let out a low chuckle, feeling humoured.

“Hardly. I should think it a kindness, seeking out a lady left unchaperoned in the dead of night.”

You turned to face him at last, lifting a single brow in questioning. A part of you held back from spitting in his face out of pure mockery. “Ah yes, a paragon of gallantry—no doubt.”

“Lady, unmoored from the gilded entrapments of polite society and seeking solace beneath the stars. Tell me, should I be concerned?”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your gown. The fabric tense beneath your fingers. The palms of your hands sweat, forcing you to release your fists almost as quickly as they formed. Satoru watches as your hands lay flat and he takes notice of the way you do not grant him the satisfaction of looking at him. “Should I be surprised that even in the vastness of this night, your ego demands to be acknowledged?”

He breathes a sharp breath out through his nose in place of a laugh. “You wound me… Though you’ve yet to send me away.”

The wind stirred, carrying with it the faintest trace of cedar: his scent. It was a smell you had unwillingly come to associate with his presence. With the glint of mischief in strikingly blue eyes across a room, it had become nearly impossible for the scent to not haunt you in places you dared not to acknowledge.

You turned your gaze to the water, willing yourself unaffected. “The night is too lovely for quarrels.”

“A rare concession.” He moved to stand beside you, not close enough to touch, but close enough that you could feel him there; he remained a quiet, steady weight upon the periphery of your senses. For a moment he did not speak, and neither did you. They stood as silent witnesses to the world’s majesty, the lake before them reflecting the heavens in a trembling imitation.

Moonlight cut silver along the sharp lines of his face, softened only by the unruly lightness of his hair and the faint glint of playfulness present in his blue eyes. He looked infuriatingly at ease, his expression poised between amusement and something more tender and unreadable.

Satoru looked closer, his gaze flickering over your face, searching. For what specifically, he was entirely unsure. “You are troubled.”

You couldn’t help but scoff whilst turning your attention to him. “How astute.”

There’s a beat of silence. It stretches, and now from the awkwardness, you feel obligated to continue.

“I am exhausted, if that is what you mean.”

“So you choose to stand here, rather than resting in the comfort of your home?”

You hesitated. The wind stirred once more, ruffling the loose tendrils of hair at your temples. You listen as they whisper to you. You knows it’s just the sound of the strands brushing up against your ears, but you let yourself believe that they’re telling you to leave before he speaks and irritates you further.

“Y/N,” His voice was softer now, the teasing edge gone.

It was not the first time he had spoken your name, but never like this. Never with such deliberate tenderness as though the syllables themselves had been carved from something sacred.

Something within you wavered. You clenched your hands tighter. “Do not presume familiarity where none is welcome.”

Damn him. Damn his insufferable arrogance, his incisive eyes, the way he seemed to peel back the layers of your defiance with nothing but certainty.

Damn. Him.

You swallowed, the weight of the evening settling heavier in your chest. Before you know it, your mouth is speaking again. “Does it not tire you?” You begins. “All of it: the posturing, the empty words, the endless waltz of expectation.”

Satoru is silent.

“I have danced with men who could not tell me the colour of my gown. I have danced with men who do not see me beyond my dowry. I have danced with men who only see me for the connections I might offer.” Your voice was measured but there was a tightness to it, a carefully restrained rage. “And I am expected to be grateful, to smile, and to accept that I am fortunate.”

You did not know why you were saying this. Why you were offering such a truth to him of all people. You tell yourself it was the lateness of the hour combined with the odd stillness of the world around them… that and you know it was because he was the only one who had ever seen you as something more than what society dictated you to be—even if it had always been at the cost of it being in opposition.

His eyebrows furrow, a movement that’s slow and measured. “You think I do not understand?”

You let out a quiet laugh, obviously devoid of any humour. “Oh forgive me, of course.” You plead forgiveness but your face shows no remorse. “Lord Gojo: the golden heir, the ever-charming darling of every drawing room from here to London—how very arduous your existence must be.”

He smiled but there was no real mirth in it. “For all my so-called charm, there is not a single person in that ballroom who looks at me and sees me.”

You stilled.

He was watching you with even more intent now, the mask of arrogance momentarily set aside.

“It is all a game,” he whispers, frustrations bubbling. “A well-rehearsed performance with rules written long before either of us had a say in them. I play my part well—perhaps too well. But tell me, Lady… Do you know how it feels to be entirely surrounded and yet completely alone?”

Your breath caught.

Because you did.

You looked at him then, truly looked at him, and saw not the insufferable Lord Gojo you had spent years sparring with, but something raw and weary. The realisation unsettled you.

“You asked me why I fled,” your fingers move to clasp together. “It is because I am tired of pretending.”

A silence stretched between them, fragile as gossamer.

“I love you.”

The words fell from his lips like something inevitable—like something that had always existed—waiting to be spoken.

Your breath wavered.

Satoru let out a small, almost incredulous laugh, raking a hand through his hair. “God help me, I do. It is a wretched thing—this affliction. I have fought it, resented it, cursed it. But it remains. It will always remain.”

You could not move.

“You are insufferable,” his teeth grit though the words fall from his lips in a tone that is almost fond. “You needle at every flaw I possess, you contradict me at every turn, and still—” His voice cracks and wavers at the edges. “And still, I find myself seeking you out. I’m drawn to you in every room, waiting and waiting for the next battle—the next exchange—because it is the only time I feel.”

You swallowed, your throat tight.

He sighs, gaze lifting to the stars and voice gentler now, stripped of all pretense. “It is a futile thing to resist gravity, especially when it comes in the form of you—you who pulls me inescapably toward you again and again, until I no longer remember what it is to exist without this terrible ache of wanting you. Tell me I am a fool. Tell me you feel nothing of what I do and I will never speak of this again.”

You parted your lips, the words poised on your tongue.

You could not say them.

Because you did feel it. You felt it in the way he had unsettled your very existence without ever asking permission.

The lake shivered. The night sighed. And you had no clever words left to give.

“I—” The word stumbled, unweaving before you could even grasp it. You let out a shaky sigh, your heels simultaneously twisting into the dirt of the ground as if they could anchor you to the earth. “I do not understand this. I do not understand you.”

You ought to have walked away. Any sensible woman would have. You could end it. You could laugh, dismiss him, turn on her feet and walk away. It would be easier—safer.

But you had never been a coward.

“I despised you.” Your voice was stabbing and helpless. “I spent years convincing myself of it. Every time you needled me, every time you smirked as though the very act of irritating me was your life’s great pleasure, every time you met my wit with your own and refused to yield, I told myself I hated you.” You spoke unforgivingly, careless of the significance your words harboured. “I repeated it so often and so fervently that I began to believe it.”

“Do you know what it is to loathe someone?” Your voice was barely more than a whisper, hands fisted at your sides. “To meet them blow for blow, only to realise—” you let out a disbelieving laugh, but it was hollow and fragile. “Only to realise that your hatred is not hatred at all, but something else entirely?”

Satoru let out a slow and measured sound. “Yes, yes I do—”

“No,” you cut in, shaking your head to ridicule him—because that was all you had ever known. “No, you do not understand. You have never been burdened with the expectation of being agreeable, furthermore, of being pleasing. I am not like them. I do not simper, I do not shrink myself to be more tolerable, I do not pretend. And so I have spent my life being told I am too much. Too sharp, too proud, too unwilling to bend.” Your scorn collapsed for just a second—had he blinked he would’ve missed the way you caught your bottom lip between your teeth in resentment. “But you—”

You spluttered.

Satoru did not dare move or speak.

Your gaze was lowered, whether out of shame, or because you were overwhelmed—the man would never know. “You have never once asked me to be anything but this.”

The atmosphere between them was as taut as a wire.

You should have stopped there.

But you didn’t.

“I have spent every waking hour of my life trying to best you, only to realise that I feel most myself when I am standing toe to toe with you. I wait for your inevitable remark, your infuriating laughter, the way you glance at me when you think I do not see you in every room and in every crowd.” If the words weren’t escaping you earlier, they were now, timeless lifetimes of self-restraint splintering into tiny fragments all at once.

“You have made a sport of provoking me and I am the fool for thinking I could remain untouched by it. Do you have any notion of what it is like to know someone so thoroughly that they begin to live beneath your very skin? To feel their presence even when they are not there? To hear their voice before they speak? I have spent so long fighting you that I never stopped to think what might happen if I ever put down my sword.” There is a faint tremor in the air that escapes your lungs. “And now I find that I cannot.”

The air is dense, everything you had just uncloaked floats in the infinity between you.

Satoru drew a slow, unsteady breath at the same moment you swallowed, your throat tight. “I do not know when it began.” Voice quieter now, your words are now delicate and unstable. “I think it was always there, waiting. Maybe it crept in unnoticed, until one day I woke up and knew that it was only you—you—who could only unnerve me entirely.”

When the confession hits Satoru’s ears, he lets out a breath that's half a gasp and half a sigh, as though the divulgence was too much.

You were unraveling piece by piece, and there was nothing you or he, could do to stop it.

You could feel your frustration rapidly bleeding into desperation. “You infuriate me. You challenge me at every turn and you see me too well and I hate you for it.” Your voice broke on the last word, voice pitching higher than intended, accompanied by something hot prickling at the edges of your vision. “I hate you for it.”

Satoru was utterly still, his gaze locked on yours as if you were the only thing that existed in the world. Your throat continued to constrict, the truth burning its way out of you.

“But let the heavens judge me,” you sigh out breathlessly, your hands quivering at your sides, “I think if you asked, I would let you ruin me.”

Knowing Satoru is messy and complicated. He doesn't know how to be loved, or that it’s okay to need someone and not fear it. The irony is, you're still learning the same thing about yourself--and more than anything, that's okay.

The words hung between them, a confession made raw and desperate.

His entire body tensed, as if every ounce of restraint in him had just been stretched to its limit. So when he reached for you, it was not gently, it was not carefully. He reached for you like a drowning man breaking the surface of the ocean. His hands came to cradle your face as though you might disappear if he loosened his grip. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm and his voice was hoarse, cracked with something broken.

Lifting your chin, you muttered, “you are a fool.”

All he could do was let out a laugh. It was laced with relief, though not quite devoid of weariness yet. “So I have been told.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his coat as if steadying yourself for the fall you could no longer prevent.

“I—“ you forced yourself to continue, though your pulse thundered in your ears. Every word felt heavy on your tongue. Every breath pushed against your limbs. “I cannot seem to imagine a world in which you do not exist at all.”

His breath hitched. He felt the way he struggled to keep his composure, and how impossible it was to hold onto some semblance of the world he had known before this. Your words--your unadulterated sheer vulnerability--unraveled him in a way he hadn't anticipated. It was a bridge built on a foundation of things he had never thought to admit, and now he stood at the edge of it, terrified to cross but terrified not to. He hadn’t realized how desperate he was for this acknowledgment of the unspoken things that had festered beneath the surface. Satoru swallowed, his throat bobbing. “Y/N.”

Your name in his mouth was something reverent, something aching. You could see it: the war behind his eyes, the unspoken question, the hope. Your eyes fluttered shut.

“Do not look at me like that,” you spoke in a hush, unable to bear it.

Maybe it was the way he saw you, as if every guarded corner of your heart was naked and vulnerable before him. And for better or for worse, maybe it was also the terrifying feeling that he knew it all and had always known.

Satoru’s lips quirked, the ghost of a smile. “Like what?”

“Like I am the answer to a question you have spent your life asking.”

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

“And if you are?”

The words shattered something inside you. Years of fortification shattered within an instant. His eyes did not waver. His eyes did not grant you mercy. You did not seek it.

You kept your eyes closed for the briefest moment, before opening them again—before meeting his gaze with everything you had never allowed yourself to say.

With a sudden breath, Satoru seemed to collapse inward; the sound was emptying and painful.

His voice was low, his usual air of insufferable ease nowhere to be found. Gone was the smirk always half formed at the corner of his mouth--the insufferable ease and the practiced detachment of a man who had never once betrayed his own heart... until now, at least. “I have spent years watching you move through this world, unwilling to let anyone shape you into something smaller than you are. I have fought you at every turn not because I sought to tame you, but because I could not resist the pull of standing in your fire. I have been a damned fool, yes, but not so much a fool as to mistake what this has been all along.”

The war between them had never been one of hatred, but rather one of yearning. The words he spoke struck like flint against steel. It ignited every carefully buried ember you had spent years learning to refute. To resist was to deceive yourself, and to yield was to unravel entirely—you knew your choice.

“You are right,” he mused. “This was never hatred.” It’s three things all at once: a pause, a breath, and a fraction of hesitation. “I think I loved you even when I did not know how to name it.”

His hand lifted before hesitating at your cheek as though uncertain he had the right.

You did not stop him.

And when his fingers finally met your skin—timid and careful—you found that you were not afraid at all.

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