#ok ok i will be brave enough to use the tag--- | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

reilemon · 2 months ago

Text

Powdered Gold

⚠ MINORS DNI (18+ ONLY) ⚠

♡︎ synopsis: When you invited Caleb to stay at your place in hopes of rekindling your friendship, you didn’t realize you’d be inviting the feelings you shunned years ago. You both changed, but what you feel for each other hasn’t—and maybe, this time, you’ll be brave enough to reach for it.

♡︎ pairing: Caleb x fem!reader

♡︎ tags: fluff, angst, smut, Caleb calls you pipsqueak (and always will in my fics), Caleb is a virgin, but reader isn't, oral (both of them giving and receiving), creampie as always

♡︎ word count: 10.3k

♡︎ a/n: this is my first time writing Caleb, so pls be nice to me ok??

♡︎ this is not beta read but i'm still giving a shout-out to my bestie ♡︎@its-de♡︎

divider by @/anitalenia

Caleb’s voice echoes from the bathroom, breaking you out of your thoughts. “How many body lotions does one person need?”

You roll your eyes but don’t respond immediately. Instead, you smooth the fabric of his shirt between your fingers before placing it on a hanger in your closet. Then you go to the bathroom.

You lean on the doorway, crossing your arms, “You’re not being a very pleasant house guest with comments like that.”

He’s standing in the shower, placing his travel size toiletries in one corner, his back turned to you. “And you’re not bein’ a very nice host for making your guest sleep on the sofa.”

You roll your eyes again.

This was your idea. That’s what you remind yourself as you watch Caleb settle into your space like he’s always belonged there. You were the one who matched your vacation days with his, and invited him to stay here instead of a hotel.

It made sense. You hadn’t seen much of each other since he came back, just a few meetups here and there, a handful of nights at his place. But now, for the first time in what felt like years, neither of you had somewhere else to be.

The sight of him here, snooping around your bathroom after setting down the toiletries you know he’ll use up in a day before inevitably stealing half of yours, warms your heart. When you’re like this - so close to him, grabbing his wrist to drag him out of the bathroom because ‘why are you inspecting every corner, you’re so weird!’ - and when he lets out that impish chuckle as he says ‘but I need to get acquainted with my vacation place.’ - it feels like nothing has changed.

Like there are no threats in the shadows. Like both of you haven’t lost a little light in your eyes.

But you have.

And now, watching him here, so effortlessly at home in your space, you’re not sure if it’s comforting or bittersweet.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

Time quickly passed while helping him unpack and putting away his stuff, and now it’s already dinnertime and you’ve worked up an appetite. You glance, from where you’re sitting on the sofa, at Caleb who’s rolling up his sleeves before opening your fridge. Before he can ask you anything, you stand up and start walking towards the coat rack.

“Since I am such a gracious host,” you begin, earning Caleb’s attention and he turns to you, “I’ve decided to spare you of your cooking duties on your first day – “

“It’s dinnertime.” Caleb intercepts, with a mock offence in his voice.

You ignore him. “We’re going to one of my favorite places to eat.”

He closes the fridge and turns to you, crossing his arms. “That is too vague. Do I need to change and wear something fancy? Is it your treat?”

“Do you want to come or not?”

“Sure!”

You toss him his jacket and when you reach for your purse you remember something. “Oh, wait – I got you something.”

You dig into your purse and pull out a brand-new lip balm, holding it up with a triumphant look. Caleb eyes it, then sighs.

“You’re so thoughtful. Thanks.” His flat tone as he accepts it makes you grin.

“It’s extra moisturizing so I don’t have to keep looking at your dry lips.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh? Why do you want to keep staring at my lips?”

Heat spreads across your face instantly. You immediately look away, mumbling, “I’m not staring.”

He hums, unscrewing the cap as he tilts his head. “What was that, pipsqueak?”

You exhale sharply, ignoring him. But the moment he swipes the balm across his lips, with orange glow of sunset spilling over his face, you can’t help but steal a glance. And you just know he catches it. But, for once, he doesn’t tease. He just smirks knowingly.

You grab your jacket a little too quickly. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t say anything, just follows, still smirking as he tucks the lip balm into his pocket.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

By the time the two of you return to your apartment, you feel sleep already overtaking you. The dinner turned into wandering around some shops, then you had smoothies, then Caleb insisted walking around more to burn off calories. Usually, an evening like that wouldn’t be so tiring if you didn’t spend the whole day cleaning and tidying up, and then picking him up at the train station. And there were these waves of butterflies in your stomach, that would appear whenever you thought of him. It was draining, and frustrating.

But not confusing.

You thought those feelings had disappeared. You really did. But as the years passed and you started a new life here—new city, new people, new experiences—you told yourself you’d moved on. You had to.

A heavy sigh leaves your lips as you fluff up his pillow after slipping it inside a fresh and clean pillowcase. You already took a shower, stole one of his baggy shirts and paired them with pajama shorts and fuzzy socks. While he’s in the bathroom, you decided to set up the bedding on the sofa, since you’re sure he must be tired as well, even if he’s not showing it. As always.

Though your body feels like velvet, heavy with exhaustion, you still accept Caleb’s suggestion to watch a movie before bed.

"We don’t have to watch it tonight." Caleb lingers in the doorway, eyes flicking over your sleep-heavy expression.

"I’m fine!" You try to sound convincing, but you’re already tugging the duvet over yourself. "I just need to lie down."

Caleb huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he watches you nestle deeper into the cushions, head resting on the pillow meant for him.

"It’s so nice and cozy in here," you murmur, voice already thick with drowsiness. The crisp, freshly washed bedding cocoons you, pulling you under.

He chuckles, stepping closer and tapping your legs, silently telling you to move. "You’re just trying to convince me that this is comfortable for me."

Before you can protest, he takes your legs and settles them over his lap.

Your body stiffens at the contact. This is normal. It should be normal. It’s not the first time he’s had your legs in his lap. You inhale deeply, telling yourself to relax, to stop overthinking. You’re just getting used to his presence again.

Though, suddenly, you don’t feel so sleepy anymore.

The movie plays on the TV, filling the space with voices and background noise. Comfortable silence settles between you both, broken only by occasional remarks—mostly Caleb critiquing the acting. Of course he can’t keep quiet even during a movie. You fight the urge to roll your eyes, but the annoyance fades the moment his hands slide under the covers, grazing over your shins.

He glances at you, voice low. "You seem a little tense. Was the walk too exhausting?"

Your breath catches for a second before you close your eyes, exhaling slowly. His fingers press against the tight muscles in your calves, kneading gently.

"Maybe a little." you murmur, your voice softer than intended.

He murmurs a small apology, letting his hands make it up to you. He presses and kneads with just the right amount of pressure, his thumbs digging into spots that unravel you far too easily.

Heat blooms deep inside you, catching you off guard.

He works his way down, his palms smoothing over your ankles, rolling slow circles there before moving to your feet. The added texture of your socks only makes it worse—the friction, the warmth of his skin through the fabric, the way his thumbs press into the soles of your feet, it makes it so much harder to focus on the movie.

You bite your lip, pulse thrumming. A small sound threatens to escape your throat, and you swallow it back before lifting your legs off his lap. You murmur a small “thank you” and curl up on your side, your gaze now glued to the screen.

Caleb teases you, saying you look like you’re about to pass out. And even though you mumble a half-hearted protest, swearing you’re still awake, your eyes flutter closed before the movie is over.

His presence might be the source of your simmering frustration, of all the feelings you’re trying to ignore—but it’s also the most comforting one you’ve ever known.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

When your eyes open, it’s already morning. Sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a soft glow over your room. You’re warm, nestled beneath the comforter, a plushie tucked securely in your arms. A sleepy smile tugs at your lips as you nuzzle against it. You don’t remember how you got to bed, but you don’t need to think too hard about it. Caleb must have carried you here last night, just like he always used to, slipping back into old habits as if no time had passed at all.

The scent of something familiar drifts in from the kitchen, rich and savory. He’s up, moving around the kitchen, already making breakfast.

You stretch lazily before dragging yourself out of bed, moving through your morning routine. After freshening up and changing into more presentable loungewear, you step into the living room.

"Look who’s awake!" Caleb’s voice greets you the moment you enter. His back is turned as he works at the counter, only glancing over his shoulder briefly before returning to whatever he’s preparing.

You groan, voice still laced with sleep. “I don’t want to hear the usual ‘by the time you got up I already jogged’ and blah blah blah!” Caleb laughs at your mocking tone, shaking his head as he grabs a pair of plates from the cabinet. He starts setting the table, saying something in response, but his words blur in the background when your eyes catch on something unexpected.

A pillowcase. His pillowcase.

It’s hanging on the drying rack by the window, the fabric swaying slightly from the morning breeze. Your brows knit together.

"When did—why did you wash this?" You gesture toward it, confusion clear in your voice. "It was completely clean."

Caleb barely falters. "It was, but I drooled on it last night," he says easily, still arranging the table. "Didn’t want to make too much noise, so I hand-washed it."

You huff a small laugh, tempted to tease him for drooling, but for some reason, you don’t. Maybe he was exhausted. Or maybe your scent bothered him. Your stomach tugs uncomfortably at the thought, but you brush it off before it can settle. Don’t be ridiculous.

Instead, you take a seat across from him, scanning the breakfast spread. He made everything you like in the morning—even bought coffee from one of your favorite coffee shops. The warmth in your chest is immediate, dangerously soft, dangerously familiar.

“You should quit the colonel position,” you look up from the bowls and plates, meeting his gaze properly since you walked in – he’s already watching you, a hint of amusement in his eyes, “A – and be my personal chef.”

Damn it.

Heat creeps up your neck at the stumble in your voice.

He shakes his head with a small chuckle, setting a glass of water in front of you. "I wouldn’t mind that."

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

The room is bathed in the dim, flickering light of the television, casting soft shadows across the coffee table cluttered with half-eaten snacks. The scent of buttered popcorn lingers in the air, warm and familiar, mixing with the faint traces of Caleb’s cologne. He sits comfortably beside you, one arm draped along the back of the sofa, his posture relaxed, his focus on the screen in front of him.

You should be watching too. After all, you’re the one who recommended it, but Caleb wanted to wait, saying he’d rather watch it for the first time with you instead of on his own. And now, here you are, barely paying attention at all.

Your eyes are glued to the phone screen, and every so often, a quiet giggle escapes you, fingers tapping swiftly against the glass as you reply to messages. You don’t notice the way Caleb’s gaze flickers to you from the corner of his eye. You don’t register the barely-there tightening of his jaw as you keep getting distracted, your smile aimed at a screen instead of him.

At first, he says nothing. He lets the minutes pass, lets you have your moment, but with every small laugh, every glance downward, his patience begins to fray at the edges.

Who the hell is so funny?

He shifts beside you, stretching slightly, making himself known, a silent reminder that he’s still here. But you don’t even glance up.

Fine.

The movement is swift—before you can react, Caleb reaches over and snatches your phone out of your hands.

“Caleb!” You protest in disbelief.

He leans back against the sofa, holding your phone just out of reach, with a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

"I thought we were watchin’ this together?"

You blink at him, momentarily stunned by the sheer audacity, before a scoff escapes you. "Did you seriously just take my phone?"

He shrugs, turning it over in his hands, inspecting it, like he has every right to.

Your eyes narrow. "That is a violation of privacy."

His smirk widens slightly, thumb hovering just over the screen. "So what were you laughin’ at?"

You sigh in defeat. Time to change the tactic.

You lunge for your phone without hesitation, but he’s faster—his arm lifts easily, keeping it just out of reach, and he leans away, making you chase after it.

"Caleb—!"

The next few seconds is a blur of limbs, the glowing screen of your phone, and breathless laughter.

You scramble onto your knees, grappling at his wrist, stretching upward, trying to reach the device, but he moves effortlessly, dodging you like this is nothing. You nearly lose your balance in the process, your hands bracing against his chest—

Fuck, those muscles are strong.

Caleb chuckles at your failed attempt, his grip on your phone still firm, completely unbothered by your struggling.

You’re not giving up that easily.

With renewed determination, you grab at his wrist again, pushing against him with your full weight, throwing him slightly off balance. Your bodies end up in a tangled mess of limbs as both of you topple on your side onto the cushions. His body is so close, his warmth suddenly everywhere. Your breath catches, but you don’t have time to dwell on it, because you notice a slight flinch when your fingers brush against his ribs.

You blink up at him as realization dawns, slow and sweet and far too tempting.

Caleb’s expression shifts instantly. "Don’t."

A slow, dangerous smile spreads across your lips.

You dig your fingers into his side, and he twists in protest, his muscles flexing as he tries to escape you. His laugher is light and carefree - and it is the most unfairly attractive sound you’ve always loved.

You falter for a second too long.

Caleb doesn’t waste the opportunity. Before you can react, he grips your wrist, and with ridiculous ease, he flips you onto your back. By the time you catch your breath, he’s already caging you in, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand.

Everything stills for a moment. His breathing is heavier now. Yours is too. The TV hums softly in the background, but neither of you are listening. Your phone has slipped onto the carpet, forgotten. His grip isn’t tight, isn’t restricting, but it keeps you in place. Caleb’s gaze lingers on you, no trace of teasing left in his expression. And something about that - the way he’s looking at you, about the weight of his body pressing against yours, how his chest rises and falls above you—sends a slow, unbearable warmth curling through you.

But then, just as easily as he pinned you down, he lets go. You sit up quickly, forcing a small laugh, brushing off the moment like it was nothing. Caleb leans back against the sofa, running a hand through his hair before reaching down and lazily tossing your phone back to you.

“Alright, alright. I’ll stop stealin’ your stuff. For now.”

You roll your eyes, unlocking the screen, but you hesitate for a second before speaking. “I know it was rude to text during the movie,” you admit, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “I was just talking to my friends about tomorrow.”

Caleb doesn’t react at first. He’s stretching out his legs, seemingly unfazed, “Yeah?” his voice is too neutral. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

“I already made plans to go out with them.”

There’s a flicker of something in his expression, something quickly buried, masked with indifference. He exhales through his nose, nodding, like he’s completely unbothered.

“Cool.”

"I won’t be out late," you say quickly, feeling a pang of guilt. “Just a couple of drinks, maybe some dancing. I’ll be back before you know it.”

He makes a noncommittal sound, eyes flicking back to the screen, but his jaw is tighter now.

You hesitate, studying him for a moment, before offering a small smile. "If it makes you feel better, you can come pick me up.”

That makes him glance at you, his eyes softer now. “Yeah. Alright.” Then he takes the TV remote to pause the movie, and now his full focus is on you. “So, what are you gonna to wear?”

The question makes you flustered, warmth spreading across your cheeks. “I don’t know.” You admit quietly. It is the truth, which is why you’ve been texting your friends during the movie. But he hasn’t seen you in anything revealing before—not really. Not outside of tiny glimpses in summers past, when you’d lounge around in shorts and tank tops, never once thinking about how his eyes followed you.

And it shouldn’t be a big deal. It wouldn’t matter if you weren’t so unbearably attracted to him.

You spent too much time getting ready this morning. From the cozy loungewear you’d picked out before breakfast, to the outfit you chose for your day out with him, to the subtle refresh of your makeup before settling down for the movie—it had all been intentional. Every choice, every small detail, designed to make you look effortlessly good.

“Why don’t you show me the outfits you had in mind?” He asks, leaning back against the sofa, “Maybe I can help you.”

You force yourself to exhale, keep your tone light. "Fine. But don’t be annoying about it."

Caleb smirks, tilting his head slightly. “No promises.”

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

You disappear into your room, trying to shake off the ridiculous way your body reacted to that simple suggestion. You shouldn’t care. It’s Caleb. He’s seen you barefaced and half-asleep, wrapped in blankets, wearing mismatched pajamas. He’s been around you long enough to know every version of you.

You exhale slowly, smoothing your hands over the fabric of your dress. It’s soft beneath your fingertips, sleek and form-fitting, hugging the shape of you in a way that suddenly feels too revealing. You refuse to dwell on it.

You smooth your hands over the fabric before stepping out, ignoring the way your pulse picks up the moment you re-enter the living room.

And the moment you do, Caleb stills.

He doesn’t shift, doesn’t smirk, doesn’t offer some offhanded remark the way you expect him to. He just watches, his gaze moving over you. Then, his brows pull together slightly, his head tilting as if he’s weighing something in his mind.

"Hm. I don’t know."

You gasp, almost appalled at the comment. “What do you mean you don’t know?” You’re trying your best to sound normal, and not like your cheeks are burning under his gaze. He looks effortlessly handsome, sprawled across the sofa with his arms draped over the backrest, legs spread in a way that makes him seem both completely at ease and utterly in control of the space around him.

His eyes lift to yours. "Turn around for me."

The request is effortless, spoken with the same ease as everything else he says. But something about it—the quiet authority in his voice, the way his gaze stays locked onto yours, unblinking—makes your skin prickle.

You try to shake off the thought, rolling your eyes dramatically. “Turn around? What, am I on a runway?”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “Exactly. Indulge me.”

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

You try on another dress, stepping out with a little more confidence this time, expecting at least some approval. But Caleb only exhales, tilting his head slightly, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

"Not my favorite."

You huff, retreating into your room once again, determined to find something he can’t find an issue with. But it becomes a pattern. No matter what you put on, Caleb always has something to say.

"That one’s not very practical."

"You’ll be freezing in that."

"It’s fine, I guess."

But you’re not stupid. The pattern is glaringly obvious—the more revealing the dress, the less he seems to like it.

After one final unimpressed hum from him, you let out an exasperated breath. There’s a pile of clothes on your bed and your muscles are aching from the endless zip-twirl-sigh routine. “Okay,” you snap, sharper than intended, “you’re officially no help.”

Caleb smirks, stretching his arms overhead until his shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of toned stomach. “Just bein’ honest.”

You roll your eyes, reaching for your phone on the coffee table. "Whatever. I’ll just ask my friends."

You barely hear whatever excuse he’s offering now, his voice a low murmur in the background as you tap out a message. Then, an idea pops up in your head. You glance up from your screen, cutting him off mid-sentence. “You should go out as well.”

Caleb stops, his gaze flicking to yours, just for a second. Then, he shakes his head, exhaling lightly. “Clubs aren’t really my scene.”

You nod, finishing your message and sending it off before locking your phone. You lean your shoulder against the wall, the cool surface pressing against your heated skin.

"Well, who knows—" your tone is casual, "you might meet a cute girl."

His laugh is hollow. “Doubt that’s happening.”

“Oh?” You tilt your head slightly, feigning innocence. “You have someone back home?”

The room stills.

You notice Caleb’s jaw shifting just slightly before his frown deepens. It’s not irritation—not exactly.

"I don’t." His voice is steady. Then, his gaze sharpens, latching onto yours, his expression more serious than before. "I would’ve told you, like I promised."

A breath catches in your throat.

"Like we promised."

Caleb’s words linger. I would’ve told you. Like we promised. You stare at him, throat tightening as his gaze sharpens—he’s studying you, dissecting the guilt spreading across your face.

“You never told me,” he says, voice deceptively casual, “if you ever liked someone.”

Your phone buzzes in your hand, but you barely register it. You don’t want to answer this question. You swallow, but your throat feels dry. "We weren’t talking as much." The words come out quieter than you intend, "It didn’t seem relevant."

“Relevant.” He repeats.

You inhale sharply, forcing yourself to meet his gaze even as something in your chest tightens. "You can’t deny we grew apart, Caleb." The words claw their way up, bitter and ugly, “And you're the one to talk - as someone who decided to go no-contact for months.” and the second they leave your mouth, you regret them.

You watch his face shift from stunned to something that looks an awful lot like hurt.

Before he can speak, you sink onto the sofa beside him, your scarred knee bumping his. “I’m sorry.” you curl your fingers into the fabric of your dress to keep from reaching for him. “I didn’t mean that.”

His eyes soften and a sigh leaves his lips. Then, the faint pressure of his palm settles on your head, the familiar gesture offering comfort. “You don’t have to apologize,” he says, voice low.

You lean into his touch, eyes burning. “But I am sorry.”

“I know.” His hand stills, heavy and warm. “So am I.”

The admission is so quiet you almost miss it. You glance up, but he’s already looking away, jaw clenched against whatever else wants to spill out. So am I for leaving. So am I for coming back broken. So am I for loving you like a man who was never meant to fly—reaching for the only light that ever felt like home, even knowing that if I get too close, you’ll be the one who burns.

You don’t press. Instead, you let your shoulder bump his. He exhales, tension seeping out of him as his hand slips down to cradle the nape of your neck. "Come on, pips." His voice is quieter now, lighter. "We should get some sleep."

The argument dissolves, but the ache remains—a bruise you’ll both keep pressing, to remind yourselves it’s real.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

Even though it was late, you had insisted on finishing the rest of the movie, clinging to the familiar comfort. You slipped back into the playful banter – you had whined about the pile of clothes still sitting on your bed, blaming him for it. Caleb, ever unbothered, had only smirked and offered to neatly put them away tomorrow.

While he was in the shower, you took the time to make up the sofa, tucking the sheets with more care than necessary. When he stepped out of the bathroom, hair damp, skin warm from the heat of the water, you didn’t comment on the familiar citrus scent clinging to him—the scent of your body lotion.

You’d exchanged a quiet goodnight before retreating to your bedroom, closing the door behind you.

Grabbing the pile of discarded clothes, you stacked them onto the armchair in the corner, ignoring the mess for now. You had planned on wearing your usual pajama tank top, but Caleb had insisted you wear one of his shirts again, claiming it was more comfortable.

You’re here now - lying beneath the comforter, pajama shorts brushing against soft sheets, the soft fabric of his shirt enveloping you, and yet still— you’re completely awake. Your eyes remain wide open, staring into the darkness, as if sleep might find you if you just keep pretending you’re not thinking about him.

You shift beneath the comforter, rolling onto your side, then onto your back, only to flip your pillow to the cooler side and press your cheek against it. The softness offers no relief.

A deep sigh slips past your lips, but the weight in your chest remains.

I should have told him.

You should’ve told him about the men you’ve dated. You should’ve kept your promise. That’s what he did. But you tell yourself, keep comforting yourself, that at some point your lives drifted apart. When time and distance made him feel more like a memory, you thought it didn’t matter anymore.

Except it did. It mattered to Caleb.

He’d said it plainly —I would’ve told you—as if keeping that promise was as simple as breathing. No loopholes. No expiration dates.

Your breath hitches slightly, something twisting in your chest. You roll onto your side again, eyes drifting toward the empty space beside you.

The dull ache in your lower back pulls at your attention, a stiffness lingering in your shoulder. You shift slightly, frowning at the discomfort— a souvenir from last night when you’d fallen asleep on the sofa. He had carried you to bed, made sure you were comfortable. And now, he’s the one out there, sleeping on the same sofa, crammed into a space too small for him.

The guilt creeps back in.

Finally, with a sigh of surrender, you throw off the covers and rise from your bed. You move carefully through the dark, the wooden floor cool beneath your bare feet as you make your way toward the living room.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

The apartment is silent, save for the faint hum of the city beyond the windows, and as you reach the doorway, you pause, peering inside. Your eyes take a moment to adjust, but you can already make out the shape of him—Caleb, stretched out on the sofa, one arm draped over his stomach, his breathing steady. For a second, you think he’s asleep -

"Can’t sleep?" His voice is quiet, but in the stillness of the apartment, it still makes you flinch.

You step closer, your gaze meeting his, even in the dark. “You should sleep in my bed tonight.”

There’s silence for a moment. You can’t make out his expression, but you can feel the hesitation in the way he exhales slowly.

Then you hear a soft chuckle. “I’m perfectly fine here.”

You narrow your eyes, irritation mixing with your exhaustion. Of course, he’s being stubborn. Any other night, you might have tried to coax him with teasing, maybe thrown in a snarky remark or the fact that he’d be doing the same thing for you if the roles were reversed.

But it’s late, and you don’t have the patience for an argument you know you’re going to win anyway.

So instead, you move without warning.

With one swift motion, you snatch the duvet right off his body, yanking the pillow from beneath his head before he can even react. A startled breath escapes him, but you don’t wait for a protest.

You’re already retreating toward your bedroom, grumbling under your breath, "I’m trying to be nice here."

Behind you, Caleb exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. He doesn’t argue this time, just watches for a moment before finally pushing himself up from the sofa and following.

By the time he steps inside, you’re already back beneath your comforter, curled on your side. The mattress shifts slightly as he settles in beside you, his presence familiar yet suddenly overwhelming.

“Goodnight,” you say, too stiffly.

“Night.” His reply is softer.

You close your eyes, and the fact that he is sleeping in a comfortable bed eases your mind long enough to let you drift off to sleep.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

When your eyes blink open, the darkness feels denser, heavier. The digital glow of your nightstand clock blinks 3:07 AM. You're not sure if you ever truly slept or if your mind simply hovered somewhere between dream and wakefulness.

The room is silent, save for the distant murmur of the city and the steady rhythm of Caleb’s breathing behind you—deep, even, grounding. You listen for a moment, letting the sound soothe you, lulling your nerves the same way it always used to. From the sound of it, he managed to fall asleep.

Slowly, carefully, you shift onto your other side, moving as if the smallest rustle might wake him. Your body rolls toward him, your eyes adjusting to the dark until his silhouette takes shape in front of you. He’s asleep, facing you. The moonlight spills in through the slit in the curtains, illuminating his face with delicate silver light. His brows are relaxed, mouth slightly parted, and one cheek is gently squished against the pillow.

Seeing him like this makes you smile, faint and bitter-sweet. He looks like a memory. Like all those nights you used to crawl into his bed after a nightmare, when he’d shift just enough to let you under the covers, barely awake but always aware of you, always there.

But the warmth of that memory fades almost as quickly as it came. Guilt rises like bile, acrid and insistent.

I don’t blame you.

You should have said that. You wish you had. When you apologized earlier, when you sat beside him trying to make up for your comment, you should’ve said that too. Because it’s true. You don’t.

You understand why he disappeared. You understand why he didn’t call, why he let you think he was gone—you know that he did it to protect you.

But the girl who slept with his necklace clutched in her fist for months, who scrubbed explosion residue from her hair until her scalp bled—she blames him. A splinter of her still does, lodged too deep to dig out.

Your eyes sting, but you blink quickly, swallowing down the lump in your throat.

You focus on the rhythm of his breathing, his lashes that cast delicate shadows on his cheeks, the slight sheen on his lips. He is right here.

So close you could reach out and touch him. So close you can feel the warmth coming off his body.

And yet, so impossibly far.

But wasn’t he always?

Hadn’t he always felt just beyond reach, even when you shared the same space, the same roof, the same memories?

You had spent so many years convincing yourself he didn’t see you that way—that his devotion was born out of duty, not desire. That he was bound to you by shared history, not longing. You told yourself that he saw you as something fragile, something to protect—not something to love.

But there were glances. Touches that lingered longer than they should have. But he never crossed the line. Never let himself want aloud.

So you told yourself he didn’t want to. That he couldn’t. That you weren’t something he was allowed to reach for.

And that’s why you found distractions. That’s why you chased comfort in other people. Because if you couldn’t have him, you had to have something.

But now, lying here beside him, in the quiet of your own bed, there are no distractions. No excuses. No distance left to hide behind. And suddenly, you wonder—

What if he wanted more?

What if he was always waiting for me?

You could wake him now. Could trace your fingertips over his eyelids, could say the words that have lived in the marrow of your bones since before you knew their name. I loved you then. I love you now.

But your lips won’t move. Your hand won’t reach out. Instead, all that comes is the memory of the aching regret that followed you around when you grieved him, whispering your sins in the dark - You should have told him. You should have been brave.

But now—he’s alive. He’s here. He’s right beside you.

But nothing is the same.

And even if you let yourself reach for him, even if you handed over every buried feeling and begged him to take it—the world around you hasn’t changed.

The people who tried to destroy you once are still out there, still watching, still hunting. There are still shadows at your back, and Caleb has always been the one who walks toward them first.

And if you lost him again—really lost him—

You don’t know if you’d survive it.

Because if regret was unbearable before, the devastation of another goodbye—this time after knowing what it’s like to have him— would split you open, would leave you hollow as the day you buried an empty casket.

You don’t realize the tears have started to fall until your vision blurs, until a soft sniffle betrays you. Caleb stirs - he takes a slow inhale, then a deeper one. You still, but it’s too late. His eyes open—drowsy with sleep—but the moment they land on you, on the shimmer on your lashes, they sharpen with clarity.

"What’s wrong?" He whispers softly, concern clear in his voice.

You swipe hastily at your cheeks, the salt sting lingering on your skin. “Nothing,” you lie, offering a trembling smile. “Just a nightmare.”

He doesn’t question it. Doesn’t search your face for more or press for the truth he knows you’re not giving. He just reaches out. His hand finds yours first, then the warmth of his palm presses against your side, gentle as it invites you closer.

You hesitate, just for a moment. But then your body moves on instinct, pulled to him like it always is, like it always has been. He shifts onto his back, making room for you, letting you tuck yourself against his chest, his arms wrapping around you.

You let yourself melt into him. Let yourself take comfort in the solid warmth of his body, in the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing against your cheek. Your tears dry slowly, absorbed by the fabric of his shirt. Your fingers trace the chain around his neck, finding the pendants, the metal warm from his skin.

And you listen to the heartbeat beneath your ear.

Strong. Steady. Real.

He’s alive.

He’s here.

He’s yours, if you want him.

The fear is still there. The shadows haven’t disappeared. The world is still dangerous, still cruel, still capable of breaking him again.

But here, in the cradle of his arms, with his heartbeat syncing to yours, you finally understand: bravery isn’t the absence of fear.

So, maybe…

If that’s what sits at the end of this—if tears and heartache is what awaits you—then let it be. Let the hurt come. Let it hollow you. At least the emptiness will echo how fiercely you loved him.

You lift your head from the steady rhythm of his chest, propping yourself on your elbow, your face hovering just above his. Your eyes find his in the moonlight—half-lidded, warm, still laced with sleep, but softened by the sight of you. A small, barely-there smile touches his lips, a quiet relief. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, calloused and warm, and you lean into his touch, your lashes fluttering shut. Then you feel the press of his lips against your forehead, featherlight and lingering.

When your eyes open again, he’s still watching you. Your faces are close now, close enough that your breaths mingle, close enough that the brush of your nose against his sends a soft shiver down your spine. You glance down at his lips, drawn to the place you’ve denied yourself for too long.

His fingers still on your cheek.

And when your gaze returns to his, you see it - the look you’ve spent years misreading. The one you chalked up to pity or duty, something you’ve caught glimpses of over the years and turned away from. Something you didn’t recognize at first. Then later, refused to acknowledge out of fear.

But now, there’s no more running.

You shift closer slowly, cautiously, as if giving him time to stop you if this isn’t what he wants. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. His eyes dart to your lips, just once, but it’s enough.

In that stillness, you close the distance.

The kiss is soft. His lips are warmer than you imagined, but still a little chapped. He goes utterly still, as if fearing the slightest movement might dissolve this moment. But when you press closer, his hand slides to the back of your head, his other arm wrapping around your waist to pull you flush against him.

And when you finally pull back, his forehead rests against yours, his eyes still closed.

“Tell me I’m not dreaming.” he murmurs.

You smile softly, and press a delicate kiss to his eyelid.

“You’re not dreaming, Caleb.” you whisper.

His lashes flutter open. His gaze searches your face like he’s still trying to understand how this happened. His hand rises to your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth with aching gentleness. And then he moves. This time, he closes the distance. His mouth moves over yours, his breaths shaky against your skin. There’s no practiced skill, no calculated seduction—just raw, aching want, tempered by the fear of wanting too much.

Your hands slide from his chest to the nape of his neck, fingers threading into the silken, messy hair. He groans, low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you as his tongue brushes hesitantly against yours. It’s clumsy, earnest, his nose bumping yours, his teeth catching your lip by accident.

“Sorry,” he mumbles against your lips, but you laugh—a soft, breathless sound—and pull him closer.

“Don’t be.”

You lean into it, guiding him with soft sighs and quiet hums.

His hands hold you tighter now—one on your back, the other slipping down, splayed at your waist like he doesn’t know how to stop touching you now that he’s started.

And when your lips break apart for breath, you don’t pull away. You rest your forehead against his, and you whisper, barely audible, "I don’t want to stop."

He exhales, "Me neither."

Your fingers tremble slightly as they wander from his hair, along the line of his jaw, your thumb brushing the corner of his mouth before trailing lower. Over the column of his throat, skimming the pulse beneath his skin, before drifting lower—over the planes of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen. You feel the way he shivers beneath your hand, how his muscles tense slightly.

His breath hitches when you tug at the hem of his shirt, fingers curling there, his gaze locking onto yours.

He doesn’t need you to say it.

Without a word, he sits up, the sheets pooling at his waist as he yanks the shirt over his head. The fabric falls to the floor, and for a moment, you just stare—you’ve seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never yours.

You gently press against his shoulder, coaxing him to lie back down, and he does so, collapsing against the pillows. You swing one leg over, your thighs bracketing his hips, but you hover just above him—close enough to feel his heat, yet far enough to let him breathe. You lean down to reclaim his mouth, your hands framing his face. The kiss deepens, and you tilt your head to better taste him, to feel more of him. He gasps into your mouth, one hand slipping to your lower back, the other lowering—slow, unsure—to brush against your bare thigh, the contact making you shiver.

And still, his hand doesn’t wander, doesn’t explore. It lingers like he’s afraid of being told to stop.

You pull back just enough to see his face, your breaths mingling between kisses. Your hand covers his where it rests against your leg, and you guide it higher, to your hip, where your skin is warmer.

You hold his gaze. “You can touch me, Caleb.” Your voice is soft, “Wherever you want.”

His eyes widen slightly, color blooming high on his cheeks. His fingers flex against your skin, then he speaks, “I don’t… I’ve never—” He swallows hard, and you see the flicker of frustration in his eyes, not at you, but at himself, at his own nerves.

“I know,” you whisper, your hand slipping up to cradle his jaw, your lips brushing just beneath his ear. “It’s okay.”

Then, slowly, you lower yourself until your hips meet his, the hard ridge of his arousal pressing against you. His head falls back with a groan, eyes squeezing shut. Heat blooms through your belly at the contact, and your hips rock forward just enough to make him shudder.

His hands clamp down on your hips, holding you still. “Wait—wait.”

You freeze, pulse thrumming in your ears. “Do you want to stop?”

“No,” he says, eyes snapping open. “Just… let me—” He swallows, his voice dropping to a plea. “Let me do this right.”

You smile, and brush his hair away from his eyes. “There’s no right, Caleb. Just us.”

He exhales, nodding, and then his hips roll upward tentatively, the friction drawing a gasp from both of you. His thumbs press into the soft curve of your hips as they continue to move against him in a slow, rolling rhythm. The thin barrier of fabric between you—his sweatpants, your pajama shorts—only amplifies the heat, the friction of every roll of your hips against his. His breath hitches, his eyes fluttering closed, as you grind down again, your own shorts riding up, the seam catching just right. He curses under his breath, hips jerking up to meet yours, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs.

You want to feel all of him, nothing between. And the way his hands start to roam, still cautious, still learning, tells you he’s thinking the same thing.

You shift slowly, rising from his lap with a final roll of your hips that leaves him gasping, lips parted, brows knit. His hands fall away reluctantly, his eyes flickering with confusion and curiosity. Your hands trail down his chest, over the taut planes of his stomach. His muscles jump beneath your touch, his breath hitching when your fingers graze the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Wait.” His hand covers yours, trembling. “You don’t have to—”

You lift his palm to your lips, “I want to.” Your gaze holds his. “Let me show you how much.”

He swallows hard, but nods.

You hook your fingers into the fabric, tugging gently. He lifts his hips, letting you peel the layers away, his eyes never leaving your face. When you finally see him, all of him – hard, heavy, straining for you, you feel a fresh heat rise in your chest, in your belly, deeper.

When your eyes meet his again, you find him watching you just as intently—like he’s searching your face for any flicker of doubt. But there’s none. At first, his body tenses—thighs taut beneath your touch, hands clenching the sheets under him. He tries to hold still, tries to be polite, tries to hide the way his hips twitch when your lips press to the sensitive skin just below his navel.

“Breathe.” you whisper against his skin, and you feel it when he does - shoulders softening, jaw loosening, a low groan slipping past his lips as you finally take him into your mouth. You take your time, learning what makes his body melt under your touch. You relish the way his hips stutter when you swirl your tongue, the broken whimper he tries to smother with his fist, the devotion in his voice when he rasps your name.

Gradually, his iron grip on the sheets loosens, one hand resting on the back of your head, and his hips finally start to move to the rhythm you set.

His breath starts to come faster. You feel the change in his body—the way his thighs tense, how his fingers flex and twist in the sheets. “Wait—” His voice is rough. “If you keep going, I’m gonna—”

You don’t stop. You slow, just for a moment, lifting your eyes to his flushed face. You reach for him, one hand sliding up his stomach, calming. “It’s okay,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to the sharp cut of his hipbone. “Let me take care of you.”

He groans at that, head turning into the pillow. He doesn’t speak again, but his muscles start to twitch, his legs falling wider, hips stuttering as your mouth picks up the pace. His moans become deeper, more raw, and then your name spills from his lips again.

“I’m—fuck—I’m close—”

You hum in acknowledgment, not letting up, your hands gripping his hips as he shudders beneath you, and then—he falls apart. You taste him on your tongue, feel every desperate pulse of release as his thighs tremble beneath your hands, coming undone in your mouth—helpless and wholly yours.

You don’t pull away. You stay with him through it, coaxing him through the final tremors. You only ease off when he makes the faintest sound of overstimulation, brushing your lips one last time to the hollow of his hip before sitting up.

Caleb is panting, eyes closed, arm thrown over his face.

But when you crawl back up his body, he opens his arms instinctively, pulling you into his chest, where you hear his heart is thundering under your ear. And after a long pause, his hand cups your cheek and kisses you softly, tasting himself on your lips.

His breath is still uneven, and there’s a slight sheen of sweat glistening on his skin. But he sits up, and for a second his eyes search yours again—asking permission without words. You nod once, and his fingers curl around the hem of his shirt you’re wearing.

He pulls it up slowly, his eyes tracking the reveal of your stomach, the curve of your breast, watching the way your chest rises and falls a little faster under his gaze. His hands tremble, just slightly, and you can see it - that mixture of reverence and disbelief in his eyes. He bends to kiss you again, before his mouth trails down your jaw, your neck, the flutter of your pulse.

He guides you onto your back, and shifts to follow, half-hovering over you. His lips trail kisses along your neck, your breasts. You arch into him, a gasp escaping as his tongue flicks over your nipple, and he hums in response, the vibration rippling through you.

His hands move lower, fingers hooking under the waistband of your pajama shorts. He pauses, “Is this okay?”

You nod, your voice failing you, and lift your hips. He slides the shorts down, his knuckles grazing your thighs, his breath hitching when you’re finally bare. For a moment, he just stares. Fading moonlight spills across your body, catching the sheen of arousal between your thighs. A shaky exhale escapes him as he drags a single finger across the wetness, his touch featherlight.

But before he goes further, before his mouth finds its way to where you’re already pulsing for him, something else catches his eye. The faint scar across your knee. Fading now, but still there. His thumb brushes gently along the uneven line, before he leans forward and presses a kiss to it, the silent apology making your heart flutter.

Then his mouth drifts lower, lips brushing against the soft skin of your inner thighs. The first flick of his tongue on your folds is so startlingly gentle you flinch. A soft laugh escapes you, breathless and giddy, goosebumps blooming on your skin.

Caleb stills, lifting his head, brows creased in confusion.

“You’re tickling me,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair in reassurance.

He huffs a laugh against your skin. “Got it,” he murmurs. His mouth presses more firmly, his hands holding your hips as his tongue parts your folds and he groans at the first taste. Your back arches off the bed, a moan slipping out, and it spurs him on. One hand stays braced on your thigh, the other moves to gently trace one fingertip around your entrance, testing. You whisper yes, please, and that’s all it takes. He sinks a finger in, his eyes flicking up to watch the way your face shifts—lips parted, brows gently pulled, the rise and fall of your chest now uneven.

His mouth finds your clit, more confident now. The heat of his tongue, the wet pressure of his lips - it’s clumsy but it’s honest, driven by need and the desire to learn what makes you tremble. Then his finger finds that spot inside you, the one that makes you fist your hand in his hair, the one that makes your toes curl. You whisper yes, yes, yes, and you swear you feel him smile.

His free hand finds yours, interlacing your fingers against your belly.

“Look at me,” he rasps, and you force your eyes open, “Want to see you.”

Your body is starting to unravel beneath him, soft moans spilling from your lips, your thighs trembling.

“Another,” you pant, and he obeys instantly, adding a second finger. His rhythm stutters at first, but you guide him with whispered pleas, your hips rolling against his hand. His tongue flicks faster, his fingers pumping in a deep, steady curl, and you’re suddenly so close to the edge. His name spills from your lips like a prayer, and he growls against you, as if your climax is his own.

And when you fall apart with his name on your lips and your hands tangled with his, Caleb doesn’t stop. He holds you through it, lets you ride it out, his fingers easing only when your thighs start to shake, when your hips twitch with overstimulation. He pulls back, resting his forehead against your inner thigh, his breaths ragged. His erection strains against the sheets, but his focus still on you, always on you, even as his hand trembles where it grips yours.

You pull him up, his body collapsing over yours, and kiss him slow and deep, tasting yourself on his tongue. His hips grind reflexively against your thigh, a broken noise escaping him, but he doesn’t push. Just holds you, his head dipping into the crook of your neck, your hands cradling his damp hair.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. Just breath and skin and the quietness of the morning twilight.

His fingertips trace along the curve of your side, not teasing, just feeling. Like he can’t quite believe you’re here.

Then he murmurs—soft, regretful, honest:

“I should’ve been your first.”

The words make your heart skip a beat. Still, the way he says it isn’t bitter. There’s no accusation in his voice. Only ache.

You draw back just enough to meet his eyes, your palm resting flat on his chest, right over his heartbeat. “Then be my last.” You whisper.

His breath hitches, eyes widening for a split second. He presses a kiss to your temple, before he meets your eyes again.

“Do you… have anything?” A pause, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Protection?”

You pause for a moment. Then you nod, brushing your fingers over his jaw.

“Left drawer,” you whisper.

He hesitates, his thumb circling your hipbone. “We don’t have to—”

“I know.” You press a kiss to his furrowed brow. “But I want this.”

He shifts to reach for it, but you catch his wrist. “Wait.”

His eyes snap to yours, brows furrowed.

You trace the skin with your thumb, suddenly too sheepish to meet his gaze. “We don’t need it.”

He stills at your tone. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." You finally meet his gaze, “If it’s you… I don’t want anything between us.”

He exhales, shakily, the tension in his shoulders softening as his arms wrap around you again.

When your legs shift, parting around his hips, you feel the hard length of him press against your entrance, and it pulls a soft gasp from you both.

Caleb stills. One hand rests by your head, the other cradling your jaw, thumb stroking softly across your cheekbone.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, threading your fingers into his hair, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth.

He exhales slowly, trembling slightly as he reaches between you, lining himself up. The head of him nudges your entrance, already wet and aching for him. You feel the pressure first, a stretch that makes your breath catch. He sinks in just a little—then stops immediately when you tense.

“Too much?” he breathes.

You shake your head, running a hand down his back. “No… keep going.”

Inch by inch, his body presses into yours, your warmth pulling him in, taking him deeper. His jaw clenches, a guttural sound caught in his throat as your walls flutter around him, as your hand curls over his bicep for something. His restraint is palpable, sweat beading at his temples as he presses deeper, his hips rolling in shallow strokes until he’s sheathed fully inside you.

For a moment, neither of you moves. His necklace rests warm against your collarbone, the metal shifting slightly as his chest heaves above yours.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers, his lips grazing your temple.

You kiss the corner of his mouth. “I will.”

His thrusts start slow, each one sinking deeper than the last, his eyes locked on yours as if searching for permission with every roll of his hips.

“Fuck,” he grits out suddenly, halting his movements with a trembling inhale. His entire body shudders as he lowers his forehead to your shoulder, nose brushing your throat, lips finding your pulse.

“I need a second…” His voice is breathless. “I don’t want this to end yet.”

You cradle his jaw, lifting his face up so you can look at him. “You don’t have to be perfect,” you whisper, your thumb brushing his cheekbone. “Just be here. With me.”

His gaze falters, then finds yours again. He draws back just enough to move again, slow at first, like he’s trying to find a rhythm that won’t break him.

One of his hands tangles with yours, fingers lacing tightly together as he presses it into the pillow above your head. The other slips between your bodies until his thumb finds you, pressing a gentle, slow circle over your clit—and it draws a gasp from you, your thighs tensing around his hips.

“Like that?” His voice is hoarse.

“Yes,” you breathe, hips chasing the movement of his hand. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips as he leans in to kiss you again—messy now, all teeth and parted mouths. He keeps moving inside you, each thrust dragging along your sweet spots, and the rhythm of his thumb against your clit grows more confident, bolder with every breathless moan you give him. He watches you with blown pupils, flicking between your face and the place where your bodies meet, as if committing every detail of your pleasure to memory.

His forehead drops to yours, the weight of his body pressing deliciously down as his thumb circles faster, more intently, chasing the way your thighs begin to tremble, the way your grip on his hand tightens.

Then his hips shift—just a little, but enough for a sharp discomfort to shoot through you. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a soft, involuntary “ah—” escaping your throat.

He stops immediately. Every muscle in his body locks, his expression flashing from concentration to concern in an instant. “Shit—did I hurt you?” he asks, breath still ragged.

You shake your head quickly, already reaching for his face, your palm cradling his cheek. “No, no,” you whisper. “Just... not like that.”

Your legs tighten around his waist, your heels pressing against the small of his back, gently urging him into a better angle. “Here,” you guide, your voice low and coaxing. “A little lower. Like that.”

He swallows hard, still frozen in place, but the panic softens as he watches you, sees that you still want this. He nods, his throat working with the effort to calm himself.

“You’re doing so good,” you murmur, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “I promise.”

He exhales on the word promise, and then he moves again. His brows draw together, not in worry now, but in focus, lips brushing your cheek as he resumes the rhythm that had your body unraveling.

Your nails dig into his shoulder as he grinds deeper, the angle just there, the friction so exquisite your vision blurs.

“Caleb—” you gasp, voice cracking as the pleasure rises sharp and fast inside you.

“I know, I know.” he rasps. His hips snap harder, deeper, the slap of skin echoing as you spiral closer. “That’s it,” he grits out, his thumb pressing harder. “Let go. Let go for me.”

When your thighs lock around his waist, when your walls clench around him in a sudden, overwhelming spasm, your release rips through you - deep, intense, every nerve alight. Your back arches off the bed, a cry spilling from your lips as you pulse around him, your fingers clawing into the sweat-slick skin of his back.

“Fuck—” His rhythm stutters, his thrusts turning erratic. With a shattered groan, he buries himself to the hilt, his hips jerking as he spills into you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath a ragged pant against your lips.

For a heartbeat, you’re both still, just a tangle of sweat and shared breath, his necklace resting between your breasts, now warm from the heat of your skin. Then he collapses against you, his weight comforting and grounding, his lips brushing your collarbone. His arms curl tightly around you, one hand tracing slow, mindless patterns over your hip, and the other splayed beneath your shoulder. You exhale slowly, your fingers sliding through his damp hair.

You’re not sure how long you lie there like that, tangled and breathless, your hearts gradually slowing from their frantic rhythm. The first sliver of sunlight filters through your curtains, golden and gentle. You tilt your chin to study him, how sunlight looks like powdered gold over his lashes.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, eyes still closed.

“You’re beautiful,” you say, because it’s true, and because you know it’ll fluster him.

His nose scrunches, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Men aren’t beautiful.”

“You are.” You brush the hair from his temple. “Like a pouty Renaissance angel.”

He only chuckles, burying his face against your chest.

You tilt your head to kiss his temple, your voice a soft murmur against his skin. “Come on. Let’s wash up.”

He groans. “Or we could stay like this forever.”

“You’re sweating all over me.” you protest, already nudging at his side.

He lifts his head just enough to squint at you. “You liked it when I was sweating five minutes ago.”

You roll your eyes, pushing him off with a laugh as you both untangle from the bed. The sheets are a mess, still warm with everything that happened, and your thighs ache, making you bite your lip as you stand. You grab a towel and toss one at him too. He catches it, looking far too smug for someone who was blushing just an hour ago.

As you step under the warm spray, Caleb holding your hand for stability, something crosses your mind.

“Hey… did you really drool on the pillow?”

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace caleb #lads caleb #caleb love and deepspace #love and deepspace smut #lads smut #lads x reader #lads x reader smut #lads #caleb x reader smut #caleb x you #caleb x reader #caleb

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buttercupblu · 9 months ago

Text

Satoru's Psyche|Escalating

"Should I really have to suffer for my actions?"

Previous SessionSession 2 of 10|Next Session

🗂️Patient Chart Update: Patient Gojo displayed extremely flirtatious and unruly behavior during the first half of his visit. Mentions of escape and kid-napping were noted as well as enforced close proximity with his nurse. Threatening remarks were also made at the end of his lunch in response to mentions of disciplinary action. Patient is scheduled for a bath but is pending the possibility of negative punishment to instill corrective behaviors. 📋Length of Session (w.c): 8.3k out of "i said we will cross that bridge when we get to it 😊" 💊Intake Chart (tags): mild violence but no in-action descriptors, coercion, manipulation, drug use, angst, unwatched close contact and touch, nudity, mentally unstable Gojo, Nurse!Reader ✏️Doctor's angel’s note: i hope you know what you're doing, Nurse 🎼Waiting room music: Overheated|Billie Eilish

Choose wisely.

Hunger stirs in your tummy, and Gojo's words sit with you through lunch. Your spoon clinks around the bowl, stirring the soup growing colder by the second though the growls from your stomach are too obnoxious to be ignored. But your mind wanders.

You're stuck. Earlier, you were all for serving up justice on a silver platter, but now you're seriously second-guessing your "genius" idea to punish Gojo by making him someone else's problem.

As if anyone will be crazy enough to say yes.

Everyone already avoids his wing like the plague. It's kind of an unspoken fact that you are Gojo's one and only. The only staff he allows near him. Anyone else would be playing with fire.

And if someone is brave enough to willingly throw themselves into the lion's den, they definitely can't be new. New to nursing—new to the ward. High expertise is needed here. Someone seasoned—experience which you lack yourself—otherwise, they won't last a second with Gojo.

It'll be way too easy for him to make them snap, like tossing a bone to a dog.

"Persephone." Yuko brings you out of your coma.

You perk up, instinctively smiling. "Hey, what's up?"

"You tell me," she snorts. "You've been playing with your food like break isn't over in 10 minutes." She touches your arm. "Everything ok?"

It's written all over your face, huh? You could deflate right now.

This is why Yuko is your favorite co-worker. Always reading you like a book without you needing to say a word. Quick to call anything off out.

Leaning back in your chair, you huff, rubbing circles into your temples to relieve the headache you didn't know you had.

"Yeah, yeah," you begin, "It's just—" You stop, her eyes hold so much concern and you've barely opened your mouth. Not sure if you should now because you know what kind of person Yuko is.

And if she knew even half of what you don't tell her during your lunch breaks spent complaining about work, she'd hang Gojo out to dry if she could. She often makes it very clear she hates you have to deal with him at all.

"—I'm just a bit tired. Gojo's scheduled for a bath later, him and two others. Gojo's easy but...I don't know. I feel slower than usual today. Definitely won't get home until late, again, because of all these sponge baths." You cringe at the last part.

Aside from trying to keep Yuko cool, you also don't want to risk the news getting back to the Director who could take you off of Gojo completely. No one else can take your place. And who knows what would happen if you disappeared from his roster for good?

How would his threats manifest?

Yuko scoffs, waving her hand.

"Gojo and easy do not go together," and you both shake your heads and laugh. "But I get it. You did come in super early."

"Thought there'd be less of us," you sigh.

"Sonya's been on our asses lately, right? But hey, she finally got us all here."

"A little too late. The damage is done," you pout, resting your elbows on the table, realizing you've accidentally grown used to chaos and ever-changing schedule.

You routinely plan ahead to make sure you can stand up when people fall short. Constantly putting yourself on the back burner seems to be a thing that always set you back.

"Sooo, you just need rest, ya? Nothing else? Gojo—" there she goes "—been 'okay' with you lately?"

Your heart skips. "Ya. he isn't so bad today," you lie, "I'd just love to be home on time for once. Maybe even a bit early, I'm soo close. Overtime's been wringing my neck for weeks."

Yuko looks at you with puppy dog eyes. And not in a "I feel sorry for you" kind of way, but one that almost makes you feel bad for not telling her the whole truth.

"Here," she pushes your soup towards you, "How about I do Gojo's bath and you get an early start on my last two? That way you can at least binge that show you won't shut up about later." She smiles.

You immediately protest.

There's no way you can do that to her.

Yuko never even crossed your mind and was far from your first pick, not because she can't handle him but because she's your friend. Not just a colleague, but someone you actually care about more than anyone else in this run-down job even if she doesn't feel the same.

She's too good of a person, and you'd be the Devil Incarnate if you let her do something so risky. Especially when you can just suck it up and get it over with.

"Woah, woah, it's just a bath, calm down," she says, taking your hands in hers as you ramble on, trying to convince her that you'll be fine or that you'll find someone else. Burdening her is simply out of the question.

"Who else but me, Seph'?" and she tilts her head, "You don't you think I'm as good as you?" And the way she says it, giving you that look she does when you're being stubborn, dares you to challenge her.

Now you really have to think about what to say.

Goddamn it, you regret saying anything at all, but Yuko's so motherly, how could you resist? Hiding from her is impossible, she would've sniffed you out sooner or later.

Easing your pains when she can is her specialty—helping to calm and settle you down when you blow things out of proportion.

Could this be one of those moments? Or are Gojo's words more than just hot air?

The back and forth is killing you, but the combination of Yuko's reassuring touch and your gurgling stomach puts the final nail in the coffin as she reminds you of the time.

Eyes wide, you look at the clock, ticking away faster than you realized, then back at your lukewarm soup.

Denying that you need help would be silly because technically it's true. You probably should've asked the Director for a little Gojo break forever ago, even if just for a few hours a few times a week. It would be better than nothing because if you can't function, Gojo can't be cared for.

So, who better to help bridge that gap for you than Yuko?

The gutsy woman has been your rock ever since you started at the ward, having your back and sticking with you through tough times when staff constantly dips in and out of the facility like a rotating door, unable to handle the job.

Yuko's a real day one, and next to you, she's the most competent nurse in these walls, fully equipped with a "take-no-shit" attitude that routinely keeps her patients in check.

When you really think about it, it'd be silly, downright irresponsible to trust anyone else.

Her offer is simply too good to dismiss.

"Thank you, Yuko," you cave, grabbing your spoon and finally allowing yourself to enjoy your meal. "You're...amazing. I don't deserve you."

She looks on happily. "Just promise me you'll take some personal time after this," she insists, worry evident in her voice. "We both know how much you care, but even superheroes need rest." She's too kind and right in more ways than one. "Besides, I think Gojo will like me, ya? I'm cool. I'm fun. He'll like a friend of friend?"

You roll your eyes—ya, totally, cool people definitely say they're cool.

Not knowing whether to joke back or wave her off, you softly smile at her concern before nodding, vowing to make good on your promise and feel a bit lighter knowing your wish for early release will actually come true.

Maybe.

The latest threat to your miracle in the making is Mr. Hampton, who is personally making it his business to drag the already long day by its edges, almost bringing time to a standstill with the way he's handling his bath.

Enormous and lumbering, the man Yuko usually deals with took his sweet time gathering his things and even longer trekking down the seemingly endless halls leading to the bathing area. Occupying every inch of the space like those massive trucks that hog the interstate, yet inching along at a pace that makes a snail look like it's in a sprint.

All that was missing were the yellow hazard lights.

Oh no, please, take your time, you think, watching Mr. Hampton clean each limb painstakingly s l o w in a tub that's comically too small for him. You may have been able to rush through Yuko's first patient, but this one wanted all that time back.

His pace resembles a giant's, and his cheery, nonsensical hums echo around the hollow chambers and lull you to sleep, turning your eyes into bricks under the spell of his melody. Perfect timing for the energy drinks from early to crash you out, tag teaming with the chair beneath you that feels a bit too soft as you lean over the tub, willing the colossal man to hurry up.

Warm water flows over your skin as you scrub circles on his neck, deciding to bite the bullet and take over the bath so he can play with the bubbles and get out when you hear a blood-curdling scream.

Your entire body goes rigid, shock reverberating through your spine and forcing you to halt as your mind goes blank. But steamy water brings you back to life, drenching your shirt and upper thighs when Mr. Hampton jumps from the noise.

The rude awakening makes you lock in.

The scream. It sounds like...no, you know it came from the west wing...where Gojo is.

And Yuko.

Hurried steps rush past your door, sounds of multidirectional distress and frantic shouts echoing through the corridor—staff members and patients alike sweep into a whirlwind of panic.

You're number one, dropping the scrubber and scrambling to help Mr. Hampton out of the tub, hands shaking as he grips them.

A security guard bursts into the room, face ashen and jaw tight.

"Nurse! We need everyone in the west wing, immediately!" The command is sharp, laced with an urgency you've never seen before.

And immediately feel responsible for.

"There's been an incident."

Without another thought, you wrap Mr. Hampton in a towel, trying your best to assure him that everything is fine when your obviously trembling body says nothing is. His confused gaze follows you as you lead him back to his room, the commotion in the air moving him a lot faster than earlier before you rush back out and head straight for the west wing—where chaos reigns supreme.

The usually pristine floors, normally squeaky clean due to lack of traffic, are now barely visible. Staff members crowd the familiar hall for the first time since Gojo made it his own, filling the space with more bodies than you're used to and making it difficult to find the source of trouble.

Not like you need to. The truth is painfully clear, and it's disrespectful to even pretend you don't know exactly what went wrong.

You push through the masses, clumsily bumping shoulders, your heart beating into your ears and making the world seem quiet as you inch closer and closer to disaster. Dragging imaginary shackles on your feet until you all but collapse once you spot it.

Gojo—barely restrained by guards, straitjacket nowhere in sight—standing absolutely furious.

And for the first time today, time seems to slow down, your mouth suddenly becoming dry when you look past him.

Yuko.

Halfway out the door to his room. Sprawled out on the ground. Bruised, unconscious, and no signs of breathing.

Your hands fly to your lips, mouth agape. Murmurs from the crowd swirl around you before attendants rush to Yuko's side, knocking into your pathetic frame as you stand too frozen to move.

They gently pick her up, careful to handle her motionless body and place her on a stretcher. Her usually vibrant face is drained of color, twisting the dagger in your chest when you spot the subtle rise and fall of her chest. Fighting for breath.

Fighting.

It hits you like a train.

Someone as kind as her, always greeting you with warmth and empathy and capacity every time she sees you, should never have to lift a finger let alone fight for her life. The sight is too much to bear.

Waves of helplessness crash over you and you can't even look at her. Regretting with every ounce of your being that you sent her in your place. Knowing this could happen. Concerned only with your silly wants and needs.

But you're so confused.

The ward should have weakened Gojo—Yuko should have been fine. The only threat Gojo has up his sleeve is mental torture but Yuko might as well be Freud. Her mind is sound, strong.

And that's where you fucked up, forgetting that Gojo's pure strength, especially when he's lost his fucking mind and triggered, is stronger.

Even with his security system in place, the devil is still powerful enough on his own. And like this was some sick and twisted experiment to help you figure that out, Yuko was the one to pay the price.

"I warned, I WARNED YOU!" Gojo's words pierce the overlapping voices like a sword, breaking your shock and drawing everyone's attention to the strange interaction between the two of you. "I don't like to be touched by strangers, Nurse." Guards struggle to restrain him as he pulls away.

All eyes fall on you and the stares are intense. Confusion and judgment.

Why was Yuko here in the first place?Where was Seph’?How’d he get out?How did this happen?

Whether the murmurs are real or in your head, the effect is all the same, and you wish you could just completely vanish. Standing like a deer in headlights—and they're so fucking bright.

But Gojo is brimming with malice and amusement, chaotic energy pulsing from the hellish man and threatening to send sparks flying. Daring someone to be brave and push the button.

But despite his outward display of dominance, the pure rage on his face that makes you feel sick to your stomach about every decision you've ever made, there's something...uncertain lurking behind those fiery eyes.

Something like...apprehension.

Like he knows he's done something wrong.

Yet, words escape you, as if anything needs to or even could be said. But soon, fear and guilt turn to anger, threatening to consume you. Ready to eat you alive and spit out the bones with disgust because you are not a victim.

You have no right to stand here, spineless, shocked, or feeling even a little sorry for yourself. Holding back tears because you know what you've done.

Your fists clench, unsure how to deal with it, but there's fire in your eyes because someone needs to pay.

But then you exhale, thoughts shifting to Yuko as you take a good look around at what happened the last time you decided to take things into your own hands. All of your actions, even now, are rooted in selfishness. Like you've learned nothing.

Pushing down the knot growing in your stomach, you turn away to follow the medics, deciding your friend needs you more than you need revenge. Gojo doesn't deserve any more of your attention, even if it means risking your job or life to turn your back on him.

And there's nothing Gojo hates more than being ignored.

Struggled and strained noises grow louder. Guards tighten their grip on the fuming man whose raw strength outnumbers thousands of them even without his cursed energy.

You look back, their determination to keep him contained making you nervous. You don't anyone else to get hurt and Gojo is fully exploiting that.

You're painfully aware that your decisions have put you in this position, watching the guards' valiant but increasingly pointless effort to prevent Gojo from causing further harm. But it's obviously a losing fight, and the unease on their faces is unmistakably clear.

You wonder why they don't just run like hell.

"Let's go," a guard barks, but Gojo remains fixed in place. Moving a boulder would be easier.

"No, I'm filthy," Gojo protests, smirking, "And if I don't have my bath soon, there will be hell to pay."

Seeing no one else in the room, his eyes are locked only on you, his expression a menacing promise that would send anyone else running for the hills. A look that says, "Try that shit again, and there will be casualties instead of mercy."

Reinforcements are called but it won't be enough. The goddamn military wouldn't be enough. Gojo is...the strongest, after all.

"Stop."

Your cry freezes the room. Everything goes silent.

You hesitate, fuck, what should you do?

What can you do? No one else can suffer—no one else should suffer. Because of you.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, you silently apologize to Yuko, swallowing a lump instead of looking back.

"I'll do it," you say firmly, "Just stop this and...and I'll give you your bath. Please—" The sharpest pang you've ever felt cuts through you. "—just don't hurt anyone else."

Pathetic. But necessary.

He looks into your pleading eyes with surprise, amazement even, before smiling.

The submission in your voice sounds better than anything he could ever imagine. A sweet tones that feed his already inflated ego.

Unsure of how to proceed, the guards exchange uneasy glances.

Gojo's strength is undeniable, that much is evident, and restraining him forever is simply not possible.

You know offering to give him what he wants is risky as hell...but this is your doing. Your mess to clean up.

So you squeeze your sweaty palms and give a decisive nod, signaling at the guards to let him go. They hesitate a second, then reluctantly agree, stepping back and leaving Gojo standing smugly before you.

Closing your eyes, you breathe, hating to have to look at him, but needing to stay strong. For Yuko. For yourself. And everyone else in the ward.

But Gojo's satisfied grin says it all. He's won this round.

You're ready to get the next over with.

The squeaking of your shoes has never been this loud, each echo bouncing off the empty halls and reminding you of how alone you are.

Alone—with a psychopath.

A bit more docile, doped-up psychopath but, the man could probably still rip someone's head clean off if he wanted to.

Still, Gojo despises anything that alters his body—mentally, physically, all of the above. Alcohol, medication, coffee, energy drinks—anything that threatens his need for absolute control.

But he also needed to compromise, and you refused to be alone with him again unless he took something stronger. Otherwise, it would be you, all the guards in the ward, and a pay-per-view premiere of his bath time.

He knew he had to agree because his ass is not for free, but only if you took it as well.

You blinked, hard.

You knew he would be skeptical—hell, it could be poison, and he wouldn’t blame you. But to suggest something so ridiculous?

"Half, then," he said, as if that made his suggestion any less idiotic, but, as you waited for your supervisor to dismiss the insane idea, the back and forth with Gojo actually didn't save you. And you didn't need to ask why. The entire ward shoots daggers at you any time someone walks by now.

Your supervisor reassured you that you'd be fine, the mild tranquilizer would be out of your system by the end of the day, then she patted your back as if to say, "Lay in the bed you made."

It felt unreal, holding the familiar pill between your fingers, one you were used to dishing out but now had to take.

With a quick snap, you broke it in half, holding his half out to the leering man. Gaze unwavering as he leaned forward and parted his lips, waiting. Taking a deep breath, you placed them both on your tongues, in disbelief at your reality, but Gojo's focus was elsewhere, not wasting this prime opportunity to rattle you more and taste you, closing his lips around your fingertip with a quick lick before you snatched away.

But it wasn’t quick enough to avoid the tingles shooting up your arm as you swallowed, no longer needing the water you had set aside, and a confusing mix of emotions churned as the tingles spread throughout your body.

Making good on his promise, he swallowed his own, still watching you with a knowing glint in his eyes. Like he knows what he does to you. And despite just witnessing this man's violence firsthand, you'd give anything to deny that he still has an effect on you. Hating yourself for being more concerned with the way he looked at you and the lingering sensation on your skin than the tranquilizer now coursing through your system.

The guards carefully lead you and Gojo to his private bathroom—they're more there for show than for protection, but you'll take what you can get, and they keep a firm grip on his replacement straitjacket.

You trail behind, mind buried with thoughts of what to say once you're really alone with him.

The door shuts behind you, followed by the familiar sound of a series of locks clicking shut. "We'll be right outside," one of the guards mutters, eyes shifting between you and Gojo, a stereotypical warning lacing his voice, but even he probably doesn't believe it.

"Perv," Gojo sneers and laughs, but you don't find a damn thing funny, the keys to his jacket digging into your palms as you spin around and face him, furious. What would be better? Slapping him, kicking him, or knocking his teeth out. Or should you be particularly evil and just let him sit in the shower, fully restrained and drenched in cold water and you let it rain down. None of the above will do you any good, but it'll show him exactly how done you are with his shit.

"That isn't funny. None of this is funny," it fumes out before you know you're speaking, "You've hurt someone—you hurt my friend." Your rage echos through the vast bathroom.

Gojo's laugh fades, his smug expression slipping from his face. Even you're surprised.

...oh shit.

You're actually confronting him.

The intense words burn through his usual arrogance, leaving a heavy, uncomfortable silence between you.

Then, for a fleeting second, his face does something weird.

Something you haven't seen before as his eyebrows draw together. Is that...regret?

"I'm sorry."

The record scratches. You’re fully positive you must be dreaming.

But when he doesn’t make a joke or even crack a smile, you squint at him.

The words are muttered and reluctant, but there they are, hanging in the air between you.

"It...won't happen again."

And he's serious, the same seriousness you see when his heart races as you take his vitals...but why? Because an apology? From him?? Unheard of.

Gojo has said some nasty things to you in the past that you've immediately scolded him for, but he's never apologized. He'd make a note when certain jokes didn't land, but he never took them back, preferring to cut out his own tongue than to waste his breath being sorry.

You know better than to take anything Gojo says at face value, but...what the fuck??? You almost feel offended.

He has to be joking, fucking with you to dig even deeper under your skin.

Or is he?

Fuck, you don't know how to feel.

He's so good at that, stealing the air back and hanging his words in them. Tempting you to pause and even consider if he ever truly means them. If he could mean them. The mind games are endless.

But then, the familiar cockiness returns and overshadows your doubts, twisting your stomach into knots with that familiar smile of his.

"Now," he says, strutting towards the stalls, "let's get this bath started, shall we?" And his easy, but confident steps call you to follow, a stark reminder of who you're dealing with. But he never knows when to quit. "Or should I really have to suffer for my actions?" and the bastard pouts.

Though you know he's being sarcastic and not to feed into his taunts, you can't help but wonder—what would suffering even look like for someone like Gojo?

Violence? Physical pain? A slow and agonizingly painful death?

But the guy is damn near invincible. What on earth could hurt him?

Whatever it is, it would have to be his absolute worst nightmare, but nothing comes to mind at the moment other than frustration because you have to keep making choices.

Return his energy or keep it professional? Tolerance or revenge?

"Apologizing won't cut it," you snap and gesture at his jacket, wondering how the hell he slipped out of the first one without leaving a trace. "And no tricks, or those guards will be back in here faster than you can tell another lame joke."

Smooth.

Gojo sighs sooo dramatically, like he can see straight through your kitty claws. "Fine, fine. Loosen up," he drags, "I won't cause any trouble. Just don't go getting any ideas now, Nurse." and he winks.

He's insufferable—but despite your smoldering anger, tendrils of doubt still creep in.

Your fingers slightly tremble as you begin to unfasten his straps, but each click feels a bit like victory, a fragile illusion of your 'control'—at least for now—because at the end of the day, Gojo had chosen you to listen to. And after today, he's sure you won't forget there isn't room for anyone else.

The jacket falls with a heavy thud, your eyes immediately scanning his upper body in search of any signs of injury or stress. The cascading bruises on his arms surprise you.

They feel so feeble in your hands; the evidence of him not as invincible as he seems is jarring. Pale, weak, and resting between your fingers. Devoid of the power that makes him so feared.

"Never seen bruises before," he tilts his head, "at least not on me"

You hope Yuko was at least partly responsible for the marks on the villain, but they appear self-inflicted, and he's not as mobile.

Fuck, now you'll have to bathe him too. Still, it's strange, seeing him like this. Even weirder knowing that he could still do damage in this state and you can't shake the feeling of this temporary 'truce'. If it isn't obvious by now, you've learned that Gojo always has something up his sleeve.

Warm water soothes you a bit, flowing over your fingers as it fills the large white tub—pristine, imported from somewhere far away, and standing on decorative claw feet. Your eyes wouldn't stop rolling the first time you saw it, completely annoyed with Gojo's over-the-top alterations and sense of style, but you'd be a liar if you said you never thought about sinking your body into it.

The best you could do was cope with the little porcelain tub in your apartment, and you get lost thinking about how you'd love to take a long, hot, and steamy bath when you get home—if you'll even have the energy. There's no way you'll be leaving early now, not like you deserve it, and you feel sick for even thinking about it. You doubt you'll even have a job tomorrow.

You look so defeated Gojo thinks, sauntering forward and lifting the hem of his shirt. You turn away, focusing instead on the temperature of the water, but the rustling sound of his shirt being pulled overhead and pants falling to the ground warms your cheeks.

His physique certainly isn't lacking, even in his current state, but still, you wonder how such a slim but toned frame could be so...powerful.

Could you be more obvious? Your flickering eyes are so telling, shamefully darting between him and the water, but he catches your gaze from the corner of his eye as if he's read your mind. How cute, he thinks, trying to hide away your thoughts.

Clearing your throat, you toss in his loofah. "Well...go on. It's ready." But Gojo only grins, amused by your attempts to look away despite seeing his muscled frame a number of times. Relishing in the fact that he still manages to fluster you.

"Your shirt," he eyes your top, "Your pants. Looks like you've already started without me."

The water stains from earlier sit beautifully across your chest, not yet fully dry, and drawing his eyes to your semi-erect nips.

His teeth tug at his bottom lip, eyes shamelessly raking over your hefty chest. "Always such a tease, aren't you, Nurse?"

You grit your teeth, cursing the conflict swirling in your stuttering heart, fully aware of the thin line between professionalism and this game of intimacy he refuses to stop playing. Everything is always a game no matter the circumstances. And he loves to push your buttons.

"Just get in, Gojo," you order, and after what feels like an eternity, the silence is broken by the sound of splashing water as he steps into the bath.

He slowly sinks in, sighing at the warmth of the water. Ringlets of steam engulf him, almost making his silky white hair disappear with it.

His arms string over the rim of the tub, a look of relaxation resting on his face as if he's had a long, hard day. You resist the urge to slap it off.

Sudsy bubbles form from the solution you pour under the faucet, hoping to shield your eyes from his body. You've seen enough today and expect the mini-rebellious act to piss him off, but as the bubbles grow, so do his eyes. Picking up a handful, he actually starts playing with them.

"Nice touch," he adds, blowing them right into your face, and you watch with a tight lip as he decorates the bathroom with them, knowing you'll be the one to clean it all up.

He sits a crown on his head and gives himself a bubble beard, nipping your nose with some that you're quick to wipe away, and his pale eyes flutter and settle on you in a curious way.

His arms flex as he leans over the edge—steam-slicked sweat dripping down his face that he doesn't bother to wipe away. "I'm ready for my sponge bath," he says, and if it was hard to take him seriously before, it's damn near impossible now—especially with that ridiculous bubble mustache.

Sickening, him still being so playful, so unserious, at a time like this.

You know Gojo's unhinged, yeah, quote, "mentally unwell and a literal danger to society", but to nearly take someone's life and then make jokes afterward?

God, you feel so stupid, walking around him like you were the shit but with the wrong guard up the whole time, playing right into his hands and accidentally rewarding this grown-ass man who likes to play with suds.

The reality of your circumstances replays in your head, the story of how you ended up here, coddling this monster, and you're still confused as hell as to why it had to be you.

Then again, this is what you signed up for...right? To heal. To help those who can't help themselves. To offer redemption some sort of redemption no matter how sick and twisted the person in need is.

With your loofah in hand, you resist the urge to roll your eyes for the 400th time today and keep your morals in mind. "Keep talking like that and I'll stop, Gojo," you say, reluctantly drenching the tool in soap before proceeding to do your job.

Gently washing his back, he sinks into your touch, closing his eyes and letting his body completely rest on the cool cast iron, breathing. Feeling like he's won no matter what you say because your scrubs feel like magic.

Across his arms and over his broad shoulders, you work your way down, bubbles glistening in your trail as you're careful not to miss a single inch of skin but don't linger too long.

Every now and then, you catch glimpses of raised marks between the foam, and because you hate yourself, your brain absolutely refuses to give you a break. You have to give kudos to his dedication to his craft. The muscle definition, the scar tissue telling stories of battles won, the evidence of his past before corruption—everything it takes to be a hero.

It's unsettling, yet fascinating, the polarity between his beauty and his monstrous deeds.

You've never really noticed because this level of care is another first for you. Usually, Gojo just hops into the shower and takes care of himself while you wait outside—easy and thorough but always taking his sweet time, all while loudly singing some annoying song that inevitably ends up stuck in your head.

But after today, it'll be impossible to trust him or you again, and the hushed whispers as the guards walked you both to the restrooms made that abundantly clear.

The pitiful thoughts seep into the way you hesitantly clean him, moving down to his chest and abs while making sure to avoid more sensitive areas, but the malicious glint in his eyes is unmistakable.

"Whatsamatter, Nurse?" Gojo taunts, feeling you slow around his stomach, "Afraid of gettin' too close?" And you can't believe you're praying for a speedy recovery for this monster so he can handle this himself again.

You ignore his comment and try to get this over with as quickly as possible, feeling humiliated enough as it is and he can sense it, mocking you with a laugh.

"You're so uptight. Can't you just relax and enjoy the view?"

God, please make him shut up, begging for relief so you won't scrub his cocky brow right off his face. "Just doing my job," you mutter, twice squeezing the loofah that feels a little funny in your hand as the soapy water rinses his chest.

It feels heavenly on his skin, but the subtle change in your movements makes his brows furrow. Slowing, more deliberate, heavy as if you're wading through molasses. You keep adjusting your grip but the material feels so strange—the texture almost too soft like it could melt into your palm.

Your breath catches when you brush his skin, not realizing how close your fingers drifted to the edge of the sponge, and though it was only a second, it sends an unexpected jolt through his chest.

The muscle relaxers. How could you have already forgotten, you both think.

But Gojo, ever observant, doesn't miss a thing.

His eyes narrow slightly as he watches you. "Feeling a little funny, Nurse?" His velvet voice teases.

"I'm fine," you lie, though you couldn't be less certain as the muscles in your hands start to relax more than you intended, the sponge gliding over his abs, and down his sides, the rhythm almost hypnotic and making his head fall back. You try to push through the haze, to finish quickly and be free of him, but you're losing the battle against numbness and heightened awareness.

And fuck, he has to bite his lip at your touch that suddenly feels so intense, a sensation too good to keep to himself, and one that you obviously need to stop being such a tight-ass.

You need to loosen up in a way that medicine can't help. And Gojo knows just the trick.

He licks his lips, tongue curling over his canine before splashing a wave of water on you in one swoop.

Saying you gasp is an understatement as the steamy wash drenches your face and front once again, setting a new record as you're hit not once, but twice in a day. The loofah slips from your hand as you instinctively reach up to shield yourself, but Gojo is quicker, wrapping his hands around your wrists and holding you in place.

A scream is ready to surge from your body when Gojo maneuvers both of your wrists into one hand, placing a finger to your lips.

"Ssssh ssh ssh ssh ssh," he hushes, his voice a little too calm, "I'm not going to hurt you." A lone droplet hangs from your eyelash and he swipes it. "I just want you to listen."

You freeze, your nerves on fire as you're forced into close proximity with him for the second time today, inches away from his face that gradually softens.

Though you can easily call for help, you know better than to argue—he knows you know better too but he never felt threatened in the first place. Besides, he can feel your breathing slowing, the effects of the pill combined with his firm hold sending a faint buzz from your wrists to your stomach, and his finger remains on your lips as he brings his closer.

His eyes flicker to your bottom lip. "You're so good at your job, Nurse," smoothly pulling it with his thumb. "That's why I like you. You're thorough but real. Just what I need to keep me sane."

Sane?

"Sane," he repeats like he's heard your thoughts. "Believe it or not, you keep me grounded...like a good boy. Be proud, not a single soul here or anywhere else can compare to me, let alone deal with me, and yet...here you are." He looks at you like you're a marvel. "You can handle that...can't you?"

Words fail you. This feels rhetorical. Why does he keep torturing you like this? What is it about you?

You haven't really thought about it since your first few weeks with him but now he's forcing you to think about the little 'power' he's given you that he can easily snatch back.

What happens if he decides to go further than flirting?

You can't handle it, any of this.

Hesitating, you're unsure of what to say but know it could never be the truth.

Gojo must sense it because he leans closer, his breath warm on your cheek.

"If you leave, I just might crack completely, beauty." A breath you didn't realize you were holding slips. "How do you think everyone else will do against me then, hmm?" Gojo knows he's a prodigy, but still manages to surprise himself sometimes, his eyes lingering over the spots on your uniform soaked through just enough to make the fabric cling—perfect aim.

Ice shoots up your spine from the heat of his unadulterated gaze, but you refuse to let him see you falter, and he can almost feel a prick from the daggers in your eyes.

"Oh, don't be like that," he purrs, thumbs grazing your wrists in a mockingly gentle touch. "We all have our boundaries, right? I thought communication was key in a relationship."

"Let go of me," you find your voice, "We're done here."

His head slightly tilts.

Look at you calling the shots, he thinks. So strong, so very serious.

"God, I can't help it," he breathes, "You're so fun to mess with."

He could laugh in your face, have his way with you, and show you that your resistance means nothing, but instead, he slowly releases your wrists and lies back against the tub. "I know you think about it—there's nothing wrong with a little fun...right?" and though the connection is severed, you don't know if it's the drugs or just him that makes his amplified touch linger as you sheepishly rub your wrists.

Gojo watches you blush red—thoughts you didn't know lived within you rushing to the forefront as if he's pushed a button.

Grimy, raw, unwanted thoughts of forbidden fruit, wandering hands, and stolen touches in the dark, wondering what his idea of "fun" is like under the sheets. With a psycho named Gojo.

You feel like you should throw up in disgust but the nausea never comes, burning hot between your legs instead.

Fuck, you have to get out of here.

You draw a breath, forcing away the torturous daydreams and quickly finish his bath.

"You should rest," you firmly say and pull the plug to let the tub drain. "And don't expect any more favors from me."

He sits up slow, his expression stone-cold as he slicks back his wet hair. Then he smiles. "I promise. Now dry me off?" he quips.

You ignore his request, swiftly handing him a towel before he can flash you. With a gruff, you lower to your knees, beginning to dry the floor of his messes and hoping to distract yourself from your questionable sanity.

The sounds of rustling fabric fill the chamber as he dries off, and once you figure it's safe, you look up to find a nude Gojo. Dripping with bubbles, hair plastered to his derpy face, and toned muscles, all the muscles, presenting themselves in all their glory.

The only things dry are his damn hands.

He throws the towel over his shoulder, sauntering towards you with a wicked grin.

"Well, aren't you gonna help me put this thing back on?" He nods at the jacket he knows is more bullshit than security. "Don't want you getting all worked up again."

The first time your brain registered that Gojo was flirting with you was on your third day as his nurse.

"Well, aren't you a breath of fresh air?" Gojo was sitting on his bed, leaning against the wall. It was the second time he'd noticed how sluggish you looked while tending to him, suggesting with a grin that you must be quite the party animal.

Ha. If only.

You tsked, tossing his bedsheets into the hamper, and assured him that your sleepy eyes and dragging feet were the result of long hours and running on fumes. Having time for fun was just a dream.

"I don't get out much myself," he says, alluding to the situation he's in, wearing sarcasm like a necklace. "I love a good night in as much as anyone else but, I don't know. The stuffiness hasn't grown on me yet."

You tugged the collar of your scrubs—the air did feel a bit thick, like the room hadn't been aired out in ages and you couldn't help but wonder how long he'd been sitting in it—how he could. That alone would be enough to drive you up a wall.

Sunlight flickered in your eyes, and you raised your hand to block it, noticing the small window perched above his chair.

"Let's open this then," you said, walking over and wrestling with the ancient wood for a moment before finally pulling the creaky flap up to the ceiling.

A sliver of your midriff peeked out as you stood on your toes to reach it, but what captured Gojo's attention most was the way the sun rays washed over your face. You scrunched your nose, the breeze sending wisps of your hair to tickle it, and he imagined the feel of your strands between his fingers.

The view was beautiful, you thought, hands gripping the warm bars. Trees surrounded the vast area, stretching out as far as you could see, the pathway to civilization completely covered in dense forest from this angle.

You never realized how high up his ward was—or how long the drop was from here.

"Too bad I'm not small enough to slip through those bars." He rubbed his stomach. "But you know me, 'Mr. BigBack.'"

He joked around as he usually did, looking to trigger your defenses, but your reaction was...odd.

Not only was this the first time anyone cared to do something so simple for Gojo, but it was also the closest anyone had gotten to him without their knees buckling.

The first two days of your trial, the Director had guards posted right outside of Gojo's door, their presence a constant reminder to stay alert and maintain a safe distance from the convict. Gojo was positive the mental barrier would keep a wall between you forever.

But then, you laughed. A real laugh. Snickery and cute. Finding his joke funny instead of threatening.

It surprised him, that sound, so natural and pure without hesitation. And he wanted to hear it again and again and again. "Who knew you could bring so much light into this place?" he sighed.

Later at lunch, you sat with Yuko, having your usual midday catch-up. You never start with yours but she, like most people in the ward then, was absolutely dying to hear about how you were dealing with the villain of the century.

"He's actually not so bad...yet. Corny, but," you took a pondering breath, "He kind of thanked me today?"

She immediately scoffed and waved you off, and who could blame her?

You were an anomaly, Gojo already showed that he was capable of mercy and now he was thanking you??

Being polite was too far of a stretch to believe, you must have been mistaken. But when you gave her the deets on why he'd do such a thing, she nearly choked on her apple. "He said that??"

"Ya?" You patted her back with a concerned look.

"Watch out, Casanova," she teased, clearing her throat with a nervous laugh.

Her comment threw you off for the rest of lunch, but when you thought about it later that night while surfing for new shows, a light bulb went off.

He flirted with you.

Thinking it was just another one of those literal dry-humor jokes or simply gratitude for making his stay a little less crappy, it flew right over your head. You always feel warm inside when you help people so you didn't think too much about it.

To you, it was just a kudos. Nothing more.

But the way Gojo stands in front of you now is everything.

As bold and brash as it gets.

Fuck. Me.

And your body betrays you, sending all of the vulnerable sensations you've been fighting to suppress from your soaking chest, tingling wrists, aching thighs, and heavy breath, straight to your throbbing clit.

Air escapes you and you couldn't feel more conflicted, scrambling to grab your supplies and leave.

Enough is enough. The guards outside can restrain him and escort him back to his room for all you care. You just have to get out of there.

Away from him.

Away from temptation.

Hot, overwhelming, guilty, mentally and physically unstable temptation.

In the quiet of the hallway a level below Gojo's ward, you lean against a wall, taking deep breaths and completely disgusted with yourself.

How are you supposed to keep dealing with this, with him?

This force that keeps pushing and pushing and pushing you to the edge until there's nowhere else to go. You can only imagine the hell the nurses he didn't like went through.

Taking care of him isn't getting any easier, and now you were fucking up and making mistakes.

But you're the only one who can do this. Who must.

So suck it up. Play along, Stop thinking only of yourself. Pretend.

Pretend.

Pretend?

...

What terrifies you the most is the thought that you may not have to.

You keep your scrambled thoughts to yourself when you're called into your Director's office at the end of the day.

You tell him the same story you told Yuko and take full responsibility for what happened, blaming it on exhaustion and needing a break. Swearing to never let it happen again.

By some miracle, you get to keep your job, though your one wish to leave early ended up costing you an hour and a half of unpaid overtime, and almost a friendship.

When you finally get home, you collapse onto your bed—images of the day, the ward, and Yuko flooding your thoughts, refusing to be pushed aside. You tell yourself that it's just the guilt talking, just anxiety gnawing at your edges.

But then there's Gojo.

The most prominent one of all.

Staring you in the face with lifeless eyes and a ghostly smile. Tugging on your moral strings like a puppet.

When you close your eyes, you can't shake the feeling that he's waiting for you, a lurker in the shadows watching and anticipating your every move. Have you become predictable? Now you're wondering if you could do something he wouldn't expect.

Leave it. Leave it. Le—

You're scrolling through your phone on a deep-diving, scouring the web for any info on your tormentor.

His past, his affiliations, anything to tell you who Gojo was, and who he is now.

But the man is an anomaly.

Not much is known about him outside of mainstream news and internet rumors.

He's just this guy that kind of popped out of nowhere in the worst way possible, conveniently on the tail of what could have been the most devastating incident in the history of Tokyo.

The media says he's a hero gone rogue but not much else. They've damned him to hell and that was that. Even the Director disclosed very little about him during your briefing and you weren't allowed access to his files or records because it's all 'confidential'.

Nothing.

The more you search, you less that comes up. Not even silly conspiracy theories that you definitely thought would be riddling Reddit. The longer you scroll, the more you find yourself beginning to question your own mind. Your interest. Sweet little buds of obsession.

Even though you hated taking it earlier, you actually need the pill now more than ever to relax as sleep eludes you and your mind wanders to imaginary scenarios as you stare at the ceiling.

Tomorrow, you'll have to face Gojo again. And the day after that and the day after that and every day after.

In between your nearly non-existent off days, you'll have to see him and decide what face you want to put on.

Because you simply cannot walk away.

After all, he's right—no one else can handle him like you can.

extended angel's note:

when i originally decided to make this into short story, i had no plans on using a y/n perspective. it was just going to feature an OC name i’ve used in stories before, named Persephone, buuuut i decided to wanted to keep it immersive and include no physical descriptors/personality specifics bc i knew i wanted to upload it to tumblr.

to keep it reader-friendly, yk?

alas, Persephone has had her claws in me the entire time i’ve been editing and said with her whole chest that i couldn't just dismiss her like that chile. so i decided changed the perspective but keep her name in place of y/n.

you won’t see it too often in the story bc it’s not super significant or said a lot in general, bUT it is relevant for a certain moment later in the story. you’ll know when you know 🤭.

anyway, hope it doesn't bother you guys too much. and def feel free to mentally plug your name when you see it to keep yourself grounded into the story.

tag list p.1: @reddiamondjazz @kiwismoother @rune1920 @blkkizzat @suguwife

@xerroe @enthyn @gloomuri671 @ressyshi @startatdawn

@khenanadeche @heijihatsutori @inluvkai @ixqiix @strawnanamilk

@rosso-seta @05-simply-06-simping @sims-4lifers @bratidol @rh-tg1

@hyunsuks-beanie @n1vi @luna-v-roiya @neteyamsluvr111 @supsiii

@natadecoco30 @chiyokoemilia @ririoutspoken @kyoxko @strawberrymilkshakes-posts

@nen-nyy @cinnamorochiroll @kazeniya @maybe7tommorow @sxnkuna

@misoyuh @lupitalove @sebastianlover @gojosatorubrainrot @sleepiebunniee

@mmmidkman @theonecrackhead @thathorsegotpoobrain @iveivory @samistar

@yuuan-66 @gojoslefttoenail @soyalovestoyap @winkwonks-world @thebiggestsimpforyou

#bluuharem #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk imagines #jjk x y/n #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojou satoru x reader #jjk smut #gojo smut #jjk gojo #satoru x reader #satoru x you #satoru x y/n #Satoru Psyche

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wispedvellichor · 11 months ago

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WHAT IF WE AS A SOCIETY HAVE MADE A MUSICAL VERSION OF CROWLEYS FINAL FIFTEEN MONOLOGUE

And what if..... it already exists?

And what if it is

Okay, hear me out. Hear me out.

We know that one of the most important distinctions between Crowley's confession and other confessions is that here, the angst is not

"Do you love me?"

They know they love each other. Have known for AGES.

Instead, the true question was

"Do you love me enough to commit to me? To choose me? Over heaven?"

And uh.... well

Yeah.

"We're no strangers to love. You know the rules and so do I"

Azi is NOT a stranger to love. He knows all about the rules and etiquettes and the Jane Austen balls. Way better than Crowley, may I add.

Crowley wants full commitment. He wants to get away, just.... be an us.

And Azi's never getting this from any other guy. They're a team, a group a group of the two of them. Crowley is the only one who understands, and is immortal enough to fully commit anyways.

That was him, the entire monologue. He realised that he could not keep his feelings secret anymore. He just needed Azi to understand.

"I think I understand a whole lot better than you do."

This part is obvious.

Crowley would never hurt azi.

He'd never desert him. *Cue Crowley going back to Azi the moment Beelzebub threatened him with the Book of Life*

He'd never say goodbye. Not really. He'd try but he never could leave his angel behind, could he?

And hes never hurt Azi. He braved hellfire for him. And he would do it again.

"We've known each other a long time. We've been on this planet for a long time. I mean, you and me."

But you're too shy to say it?

"And we've spent our existence pretending that we aren't."

Inside, we both know what's going on

They do know what's going on. It's obvious. They love each other, there was no question about it.

"I mean, the last few years, not really."

They know the game. They've been playing it for eternity, a hide and seek of sorts. Letting their true emotions slip through, just for a second. Then pulling the armour back up.

"Listen. Do you hear that?"

"I don't hear anything."

"That's the point. No nightingales."

@apollos-dodgeball-target @the-cat-demon @weirdly-specific-but-ok tagging yall cuz you need to see this <3

#im right and you know it #good omens #final fifteen #anthony j crowley #Crowley #ineffable husbands #ineffable divorce #aziraphale #aziracrow #good omens song analysis #Spotify

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stellamarielu · 2 months ago

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ok ok wip wednesday is here

i don’t usually do this but @letsgobarbs tagged me and i thought it would be fun so here we are

your girl is writing sequels this week, i’ve got a part 2 for talk too much AND blurred lines in the works. so without further ado here’s a little smutty dbf!joel snippet for ya

“This is such a bad fuckin’ idea.” He avoided your lips and ducked his head into your neck, his whisper landing right below your ear.

“I don’t care.” The words were a rushed hum as your fingers found the nape of his neck.

“Please.”

That word had Joel spiraling. God hearing you beg for him like that, he needed to hear it again. Wanted to hear it fall from your lips over and over again while he had you sitting on his cock.

“You said you think about me when you touch yourself.” Joel’s voice was a hum against your skin as his lips finally made contact with your neck.

He was placing a long drawn out kiss right beneath your jaw before pulling away just enough for another set of words to make their way from his mouth.

“Tell me what you think about.” His breathless whisper on your body made you dizzy, sending your fingertips clutching into this hair– desperate to find something to tether you back to earth.

“I think about the way it’d feel- when you touch me.” Another pitiful whine.

“Touch you where?” His words were barely audible as he continued placing warm, gentle kisses down the side of your neck.

“Joel…”

“C’mon sweetheart, you were so brave tellin’ me what you wanted last night. Don’t get all shy on me now.” His voice was low and rough– intoxicating.

“I think about your fingers in me. How they’re so much bigger than mine. How good they’d feel filling me up.”

You were reaching for one of his hands as you spoke, holding it in front of you and tracing his palm before pressing your hand flat against his. You were mesmerized by how big and rough his hands were compared to yours, your palms melting into one another.

Then he was intertwining your fingers together and using the hold to pull you into him, your bodies flushed together. A groan left his mouth sending a sweet vibration into your skin.

"There she is." He was murmuring into the crook of your neck, his hands finding your waist and gripping tight.

i’m not tagging anyone specific but if you see this and want to post your own wip PLEASE do and PLEASE tag me. bonus points if it’s about declan o’hara because we need more fics for that man!!

#wip wednesday #dbf!joel oh how i love you #joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader

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thegeminisage · 2 months ago

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VEILGUARD FIC RECLIST

these are mostly (but not all!) lucanis/rookanis centered bc that's what i'm into. i have taken the small liberty of truncating some summaries since this is such a long list (with apologies), and tagging the authors where i can find them on tumblr. if i mistakenly tagged you and it's not your fic, or if i didn't tag you and you'd like to be, please let me know! not everybody has their urls in their ao3 profile so i had to cross my fingers and hope for the best lol. please make sure you read the tags for content and spoiler warnings.

How It Sang in Other Days by @viagothots [M, rook & viago, 26k]

Long before Rook de Riva took the contract on the elven gods, she learned to survive as a compradi of House de Riva. More importantly, she learned to survive Viago.

rec notes: ok, so i'm a little biased bc i helped beta read for this one, but the sheer depth of the characterization here is bananas. rook and viago's relationship is so much more complex than platonic or romantic, love or hate. it's a hard, unflinching look at the dark side of the crows that veilguard skirted around, and its take on the crow characters is both perceptive and honest. my favorite four words in this fic are "not like i was." you'll see what i mean when you get there. mind the warnings, but don't miss it - it's such a ride. and if you love a good torment nexus, i can promise you the rest of this series is just as mind-blowing as this installment. i can't rec this one highly enough.

The Killing Kind by @teddywesworl [E, rookanis, 3.8k]

Lucanis was at Zara Renata’s mercy for a year. That sort of thing will leave a man with scars.

rec notes: absolutely my favorite rook/lucanis fic ever. please definitely mind the warnings on this one too, but it paints such a perfect picture of lucanis's character and the issues he might face after the ossuary, the spite voice is SO good, and the slow burn being somehow even slower is actually a fantastic choice. bonus rec for this author's other fics, particularly and any thing that may not misbecome the mighty sender, which has the best inner demons take i've ever seen, the eagle, which is competency porn, and the baseless fabric of this vision, which is actual porn but with fantastic character work.

When the Floodwaters Come, I Will Help You Swim by @itsrainingpandas [E, rookanis, 5.5k]

They've been taking the relationship slow, as agreed. But after a freak storm isolates Rook and Lucanis in Treviso, and there's a fireplace and a bed, the desire between them becomes harder to ignore.

rec notes: i absolutely LOVE this entire series to pieces. the author has a MASTERFUL command over tone and mood and is able to shift both effortlessly. this rook is funny and brave while still being ruefully self-aware of and in touch with her own emotions, which adds a refreshing balance to a closed-off character like lucanis, and i'm constantly charmed by her. it was almost impossible to narrow this series down to a single fic to link to, but i chose this one because of how good the sex scene is; the dynamic here between rook and lucanis feels really good and natural. honorable mentions to Your Heart is a Haunted House and The Social Habits of Crows, which both feature illario and nearly got put on this list instead.

How You Come Home by @punishandenslavesuckers [M, lucanis & illario, 3.2k]

Lucanis Dellamorte takes his cousin out for a night on the town after Illario returns from a rough contract. He doesn't seem like himself and Lucanis will do literally anything (including bar hop in Treviso) if it will bring Illario back home. Properly. AKA: Being a Crow is a nightmare sometimes and Illario commits the crime of decompressing in a 'frivolous' way. Lucanis has his back though.

rec notes: the way the shape of illario's damage is to clear to us without necessarily being clear to lucanis (whether it's because he can't see it or doesn't want to) is masterful, and when so much of their relationship both in canon and fic involves turmoil it's nice to see them just...love each other, even if it's difficult to show or say. this author is very good with characterization, and i also really enjoy Your Inexorable Company and Unseen Influence in this series, though as always, please be mindful of the warnings.

Phantoms by @thewitchofelpis [T, rookanis, 700]

“It’s a nightmare, Spite. Lucanis is having a nightmare.”

rec notes: short and sweet, but i like how deftly it and evenly it covers all three characters' issues. i love the coziness of this author's style, so if you like this one, definitely check out the others.

In Spite of You by @blazingquill [E, rookanis, 11.4k]

Lucanis lets himself be vulnerable. It takes a while. OR: Spite watches Lucanis’ slow breakdown over Rook. It lasts months.

rec notes: the pov/pronoun work in this one wrt to possession is extremely twisty and fun and refreshing, and the last line hits SO PERFECTLY. everything here feels so earned.

Lucanis's Logbook, 6 by @flowersforthemachines [G, rookanis, 3.3k]

Lucanis’s journal kept throughout the time between Rook’s disappearance at Tearstone Island and the day she’s rescued from the Fade.

rec notes: this feels so well-integrated with canon, and the style perfectly matches the style of lucanis's actual logbooks from the game. having the fic itself use the actual look of the veilguard interface was such a wonderful touch and added immensely to this experience.

Other Plans for the Evening by hollyvipe [M, rookanis, 5k]

Inspired by the Nick Thornborrow concept illustrations showing some very intriguing concepts they didn’t go with, like Rook and Lucanis in a lake in Treviso?! In this reimagining of a world where we got the lake scene, our lovers have already done the ‘commit to a relationship cutscene’ but Rook is still a bit unsure where that leaves them. Sure, he made her a dessert and remembered her drink… but are they actually together? And something I think a bit more exciting happens after his ‘I’ve got other plans for the evening’ tease.

rec notes: this one ties a lot of "missing scenes" together in a way that is satisfying, and it also scratches the itch for a more romantic moment here than was in the game. i really enjoy the mood of this one!

feed me promises, keep my heart well by @alltears [G, rookanis, 3.9k]

a month after thwarting the gods, rook falls back into the fade. sort of.

rec notes: rook walking through the mansion at night is just creepy enough to be that extra little bit unsettling even though we know what's up, and lucanis and spite's solution to the problem is very clever. i also really enjoyed their dialogue with each other: it's tetchy without being openly hostile, and funny without breaking the more serious mood.

Tomorrow We Die by @thecaryatid [E, rookanis, 2.8k]

Rook has a breakdown. The obligatory romance scene rewrite.

rec notes: this fic has the most interest after-affect of the fade prison i've come across. it's really compelling, sad, and also just a little spooky. i really enjoyed the comparison between solas and spite as entities inside rook and lucanis's heads.

Volcanic by kaienne_pepper [E, rookanis, 6.1k]

Caldera de Riva, elder sister to the Fifth Talon currently going by "Rook", is no stranger to using unconventional means of distributing poisons. Unfortunately, on this minor of contracts, her mark doesn't mind distributing substances non-consensually either. One glass of wine later and two little Crows find themselves in a very compromising situation. Or: Lucanis and Rook both end up drugged during a contract and work each other through the effects.

rec notes: this is one of the first rookanis fics i ever read, and though i'm not normally a sex pollen girlie, i really enjoyed the vulnerability in this one and how in-character it was.

Say The Desires That Are Your Deepest by @purplesauris [E, rookanis, 12.4k]

Lucanis finally allows himself to indulge in a late morning now that the world has ceased trying to fall apart around them.

rec notes: pegging fic of all time (even though there is technically no pegging) and one of my favorites. the way lucanis and rook navigate the New Sex Thing is really good, and the smut itself is both hot and incredibly intimate. it's nice to see lucanis still struggling with spite now and then even after the events of the game are over, it paints a more realistic picture, and i love the way they talk with one another when things are more settled, the spite voice is great.

A Mirror to the Void by @wishforhome [E, rookanis, 1.9k]

Lucanis is not inexperienced with sex, but it's been more than a year since anyone has touched him. Since he's touched himself. He's worried about Spite, but Rook is asleep next to him and her presence makes him feel safe enough to try.

rec notes: sexuality is such a fun and complicated thing to navigate when there's a literal demon up inside you, and i thought this was a good portrayal of it.

Just Wanna Hold You by whoframedjessicarabbit [E, rookanis, 400]

Lucanis is too stressed to get it up, and is surprised when he receives love and affection.

rec notes: short and sweet, but the tag #hold dick gentle like a hamburger was too compelling not to click on, and it does not disappoint if you're a fan of broken dick fics.

Of Kindling Expectation by @nelsynoo [G, rookanis, 2.4k]

The Lighthouse is awake again after centuries of lying dormant. With a new host of inhabitants, the Lighthouse tries to figure out what they need and re-shape itself accordingly. Rook and Lucanis might not realise it yet - but they need each other.

rec notes: i've never read anything quite like this - it's from the lighthouse's pov, which is such an interesting and creative idea. the pov makes me feel as cozy as if i were an inhabitant of the lighthouse itself.

thank you for reading the reclist, and hope you enjoy <3

[dragon age masterpost]

#dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #rookanis #lucanis dellamorte #illario dellamorte #viago de riva #liz recs stuff #liz plays dragon age #i owe all these authors comments someday...hopefully this helps fulfill some of my readerly obligation lol #i wish more ao3 authors linked to their tumblr in their ao3 profiles it is so helpful!!!#anyway i probably won't be here when this goes up i have it scheduled i finished it at fuck o clock

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irisintheafterglow · 11 months ago

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lights, camera, bitch, smile!

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ now playing: taylor swift - "i can do it with a broken heart"

summary: it's your first time headlining the biggest music festival in the country, and your guitarist is nowhere to be found. good thing your other headliner-- and billboard chart rival-- can play guitar, right? right? (rockstar!gojo x popstar!reader)

wc: 2.73k

cw/tags: implied fem!reader but gn pronouns used, rivals to lovers, he falls first, mild angst (descriptions of a panic attack)/fluff with happy ending

note: this is another fic as a part of @ficsforgaza and a gift for @um-no-ok for donating and supporting palestinian families! interested in being a part of this initiative? check out my masterpost ! hope you enjoy this, i had a lot of fun writing it :)

likes, reblogs, and replies are appreciated!

“You’re sure the flight is still running late?” You plead, head in your hands as the tech lead, your publicist, and your manager sit apologetically on the other sofa in your trailer. “We can’t send out a car to go grab them from the airport as soon as they land?”

“Getting off festival grounds will be hard enough, not to mention battling the traffic of incoming guests,” the tech guy reminds you with a shake of his head, exhaling deeply as his radio crackles, another warning that you need to be on stage to sound check. In a matter of hours, you would be headlining the biggest music festival in the country, and both your guitarists were stranded hundreds of miles away. They should have known better than to take a gig right before the festival, but you let them do it anyway because it was only a 30 minute flight between the airports. But, after a stray bird flock nearly downed another passenger plane, the tarmac was backed up for the time being. “Can you try asking around to see if someone can fill in for them?”

“And maybe hire them instead,” your publicist mutters under her breath, seething. You shoot her a wry smile, absentmindedly fidgeting with the plug of your in-ear monitors.

“The band is out trying to find guitarists, but it’ll be hard to ask someone to fill in because of scheduling issues and the number of stages there are this year.” Your manager takes a peek at her watch and looks at you with regret. “You need to go soundcheck, guitarists or not.”

“We have a drummer, a bassist, two keyboardists, and a vocalist. You’re gonna make them go out there with a jazz band and expect them to sing the biggest pop songs on the planet?” Your publicist, bless her heart, voices what you’d been dreading since you got the call from your lead guitarist. It was the biggest test to your professionalism since your career took off and you silently wished you’d paid attention to those tour bus guitar lessons. “How bad would it be to push back the set, even thirty minutes?”

“Bad, very bad. There’ve already been more delays than anticipated that aren’t music related,” the tech lead replies with a grimace. Your publicist curses under her breath and gives you a look telling you to get on stage. “And, it’s too late to fly in guitar tracks, even if we had them.” Shit. You’d just have to trust your team to figure something out, you figure, grabbing your sunglasses from the coffee table and exiting the trailer.

The rest of your band is already plugged in by the time the golf cart drives you to the main stage where you’d be performing. The ruthless summer sun competed with barely any clouds, blazing anything in its sight and leaving you breaking a sweat, even in the shade. A stage hand slips a wireless pack onto the waistband of your shorts and the click of the volume knob brings you the dweedling sounds of your band. The audience lot is relatively empty, thankfully, save for a few brave souls who were taking care of sound. Steeling your nerves, you shoot the audio tent a thumbs up, pop in your in-ears, and wait for the click track to run.

CLICK! 2-3-4. CLICK! 2-3-4. Intro, 2-3-4. 1…2…1-2-3 and–

The synth intro of your walkout song rings concerningly quiet in your ears and you tap your in-ears a few times, signaling the sound tent with a thumbs-up until the rest of the keyboards are audible. Not a great start to sound check, but that’s what this time was for, right?

CLICK! 2-3-4. CLICK! 2-3-4. Drums and bass in. 1…2…1-2-3 and–

Nothing.

The click continues its monotonous beat and you vaguely make out bass at the bottom of your mix, but you and your drummer look at each other with the same confused expression. She taps her ears, shaking her head.

“W-Wait, wait, wait. Can we stop, please?” You speak your request into your mic, disheartened to not hear your own voice in your mix. The synths stop abruptly, as does bass, and a dozen tech people rush onstage to fix various audio problems. “This is a nightmare,” you mutter, wiping the beads of sweat accumulated on your forehead.

“It’s always mix issues, isn’t it?” As if your irritation couldn’t increase, your eye twitches on its own when you register the voice of the person standing at the bottom of the stage. All shining white hair and dark, round rimmed sunglasses, Gojo Satoru was the last person you wanted to be interacting with. To say he looked good would be an understatement and your eyes look for any place to focus on other than his chest under his unbuttoned shirt. “For what it’s worth, you sound pretty on the mic.”

“What do you want?” Your voice is tired already, as is your entire body. Figuring out who would replace both your guitarists had sapped your energy and doors weren’t even open yet. “I don’t have the time nor the energy to debate with you today–”

“Heard you were looking for guitarists,” he cuts in and you narrow your eyes. The last thing you needed was your Billboard chart rival mocking you and your current situation. “Oh, c’mon. Don’t look at me like that. You and I both know you’re in a less-than-ideal spot right now.”

“Choose your next words very wisely, Gojo,” you seethe, using every ounce of your willpower to remain civil. “If you’re here to tease me, I don’t wanna fucking hear it.”

“I wanna help you,” he says before you’ve stalked out of earshot. “I can fill in for your lead and Suguru can play rhythm. I’ve already talked to him about it and he’s down. We’ve got the chords alright, but if anything funky happens, we’ll just follow your bassist. We’re pros for a reason, aren’t we?”

“I don’t need your help, Gojo,” you lie, desperately looking around for anything to get you out of this conversation.

“Thought I told you to call me Satoru when we were at that awards show.” His voice was always velvet smooth, disarmingly charming, and you hated the way it drew you in like a moth to a candle.

“I don’t remember that; and, if you did, I still don’t care.” We’re back on, says a voice through your ears. Starting the click on your cue, lead.

“Seems like you don’t remember a lot about what happened that night. I wouldn’t mind recounting it for you since it seemed like you had so much fun,” he baits coolly and you fall for it, storming back to the front of the stage and looking him square in his pretty face. Memory remnants of dancing in colorful strobe lights and running your hands through his hair appear in your mind’s eye before you can stop them, and it must register on your face. “Ah, so maybe you do remember what happened if you’re this angry about it.”

“We’re rivals, Gojo,” you hiss, your vision close to going scarlet. “We’re not supposed to be buddy-buddy, and what happened at that afterparty was a slip of my better judgment.”

“We’re not supposed to be, or you’re scared to be?” His question hangs in the air and you have no choice but to glare at him, waiting for him to back down when you know he never will. After a long pause, he sighs, raking his fingers through his hair. “Look, I know you’re in need of guitarists and I just wanna help. Consider it a favor.”

“Favors need to be paid back,” you counter skeptically, “and you’re the last person I want to owe.”

“Not my kind of favors,” he says, more genuinely than you’re used to him being. “Just…think about it, yeah?” You don’t have time to dwell on why he was being so nice to you, though, as you give the audio tent a thumbs-up again. CLICK! 2-3-4. CLICK! 2-3-4. Intro, 2-3-4. 1…2…1-2-3 and–

By the time you’ve suffered through soundcheck, changed into your stage outfit, and inhaled more setting spray than should be considered healthy, the sun has become a laser. Gojo is nowhere to be found, thankfully, and you spend the rest of the time before your set pacing your trailer like a caged animal. There wasn’t any room in your mind to think about the crowd, the heat, or the extensive team counting on you to make it a worthwhile show. All that you could focus on was your lack of guitarists and the proposition from your #1 enemy in the music industry. Before you could cross from the kitchen tile to the living area carpet for the umpteenth time, the door threw itself open to reveal your breathless manager.

“We found guitarists! Let’s go, before they change their mind,” she commands. You thank the music festival gods for whomever she found, even happier knowing that it couldn’t be Gojo and Geto because their band had just finished on the other largest stage. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” you answer uneasily, still reeling from switching panic-mode into show-mode within minutes. “Let’s just hope they’re good.”

This next artist needs no introduction…

The golf cart parks sidestage.

Dominating the pop charts for twelve straight weeks, taking the industry by storm…

You wink at the handful of screaming fans that spot you before ducking backstage.

And nominated for the most prestigious awards in the music world…

The stagehand slips the pack onto the waistband of your pants and hands you a mic.

Performing live and streaming around the world… [CLICK! 2-3-4. CLICK! 2-3-4. Intro, 2-3-4. 1…2…1-2-3 and–] Make some noise for–

“Yo, Satoru. You got an extra pick?” Your synths come in at the same time you whirl around, heart dropping into your stomach when you see the two guitarists behind you. You recognize Geto with his signature black hair tied up in a bun and catching rays of sunlight reflecting off the turtle shell body of his electric guitar. The limited interactions you had with Geto were pleasant, but the same couldn’t be said about the other musician fishing a pick from his leather pants. “Thanks,” Geto says as he sticks the spare in his pocket, clocking your shocked expression and giving you an apologetic shrug. “Sorry we’re a little late, the set ran a little long because this dumbass wanted to do another encore. I made the golf cart guy race over here, though.” He motions in the direction of your temporary lead guitarist, who unsuccessfully tries to clean his sunglasses with his fishnet shirt. “Oi, hotshot. Get ready, we’re on soon.” CLICK! 2-3-4. CLICK! 2-3-4. Drums and bass in. 1…2…1-2-3 and–

“They’re smudged,” Gojo pouts and you act without thinking, snatching the glasses from his hands, wiping it on your own costume, and handing it back to him without meeting his gaze. “Oh. Thank you,” he mumbles, sticking them on his face and trying to catch your eye. There were too many things happening at once for you to worry about him.

“Mhmm. Thanks for filling in,” you choke out with no trace of malice, the pressure in your forehead and chest becoming suffocating. The gravity of your performance crashes down on you in one disorienting wave and you blink in an attempt to clear the sudden blurry spots in your vision. Hundreds of thousands of eyes, waiting on you, watching you, worshiping you. The biggest performance of your career thus far, and you were going onstage prepared with nothing but a terrible soundcheck and two rock stars that probably didn’t give a shit about pop music. It was too much, it was all too much–

“Hey.” It’s him, breaking through the static as the click fades into the background, any panic replaced by the feeling of your biggest rival lightly touching the side of your face. He wipes a stray bead of sweat from your forehead, and you’re close enough to see every shimmering fleck of turquoise in his eyes. The crowd noise is staggering, but all he sees is you. “You look beautiful.”

“Satoru,” you whisper, barely able to verbalize your panic. He understands anyway, confidence radiating from his body.

“I’m with you. I’ve gotcha,” he reassures you, letting you mirror him as he takes a deep breath. “You trust me?” CLICK! 2-3-4. CLICK! 2-3-4. Guitars in, vocals enter. 1…2…1-2-3 and–

“I-I do.”

“Great.” His grin is dazzling, heart-stopping. All of him, he’s yours. “Let’s have some fun, then.”

—

You sleepily blink open an eye as you register the ringtone for your publicist playing on the nightstand. Outstretching a tired arm, you find it a little hard to move with the other occupant of the bed securing you against his chest. You mutter Satoru’s name, unsure if he’s awake yet; he grunts with his eyes still closed and you figure it’s unconscious, the way his muscles tighten around your waist to pull you closer. You groan as the phone screen blinks off, then on again with another insistent call.

“Satoru, you need to let me go.”

“I already did that once,” he mumbles into the pillowcase, “and I’m not making that mistake again.”

“I need to pick up the phone, baby. It’s my publicist,” you counter gently and it’s his turn to groan, reluctantly peeling away to rub his eyes. “Thank you,” you say sweetly, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before answering the phone.

There you are. Good morning, Sleeping Beauty, says your publicist, her incredulity obvious.

“Mhmm, good morning to you too. Everything okay?” You squint against the morning sun breaking through the windows of Satoru’s loft, the city skyline casting rainbows on the walls.

Everything’s great, just wanted to let you know what’s been happening media-wise.

“They figure out where we are yet?”

Not yet, no. But, you know how these things go. They’ll find you eventually, so savor the time you have with him now. Right now, you have a lot of late-night outlets asking for interviews and a few charity ball performances lined up. It’s all stuff you can handle, don’t worry. Aside from the scheduling talk, her warnings were things you already knew. It was weeks before social media users finally settled down after Satoru and Suguru joined you on stage. Satoru had even convinced you to create a burner account so you could scroll through all the edits and fancams of you two. Now that you’d reconciled your feelings about Satoru and agreed to let you two make up for all the time you lost to your stubbornness, it was relatively peaceful. On another note, I did see a pretty cute reel counting all the times he looked at you during your festival set.

“Yeah? And how many times was it?”

More than you looked at him, which is saying something, she chuckles. I’m still reeling from how chaotic the crowd was when those two walked out with you. You’d think there was a fire breaking out, or something.

“They were pretty loud, weren’t they?” You smile softly at the memory of strutting out in your boots with Satoru and Suguru on either side of you. “I think they went crazier when Satoru started soloing, though.”

“I’m not called the best for nothing, sweetheart,” he murmurs from behind you with a smirk. “These hands are worth millions, and you get them for free–”

“Okay, that’s enough from you,” you cut in before he says anything more. “Please, ignore him.”

What’d he say?

“Nothing important.” Your cheeks heat and you shoot him a look over your shoulder, only to be met by a self-satisfied wink that makes your heart race.

I’ll take your word for it. What’s your plans for today?

“Breakfast, probably, and then maybe head down to the shopping district.”

That’s pretty public, no?

“I don’t mind. I’m ready for whatever they throw at us,” you shrug, honestly feeling like you couldn’t care less about being seen with Satoru. You look over at him again and find boyish, giddy excitement written all over his face. He was yours and you were his, mind, body, and soul. Let the cameras come, let the tabloids rave, let the fake fans criticize, you think to yourself.

As long as you two were together, you were untouchable.

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

#fics for gaza #gojo x you #gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #satoru x you #satoru x reader #satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x y/n #gojo fluff #gojo angst #rockstar!gojo au

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diorsluv · 1 year ago

Text

feather , part 24

“ it feels so good ”

series m. list previous chapter next chapter

( socialmedia!au )

yourusername

liked by calemakar_, trevorzegras, dylanduke25, and 127,985 others

yourusername i found these in my blackmail album but i promised them i wouldn’t use the pics against them so.. photo dump 🫶🫶

like look at little lukey lookin all cute i couldn’t help but post it for the whole world to see

tagged: trevorzegras, lhughes_06, dylanduke25, colecaufield, jackhughes, jamie.drysdale, calemakar_

view all comments

missseraphina puck bunny

username17 i cannot escape that jamie pic

→ username80 why would u ever want to escape 🙄

username24 ok but.. why is the quinn photo lowk cute tho

trevorzegras the first pic of me is ruthless

→ yourusername dogs are out and about

→ trevorzegras SHUT UP

→ yourusername ravaging and rampaging 😘

calemakar_ oh NOW you post me

→ yourusername says the old ass man that never posts me

→ calemakar_ it’s a five year difference. AND ALSO YOU LITERALLY ACTIVELY TALK TO NATE??

→ yourusername actively is a STRONGGG word

→ yourusername we dm like once a week 🙄🙄

→ calemakar_ same thing

→ yourusername but i actually hate you both and i hope you lose against the sharks

username47 cole and cale’s pics 😭😭

colecaufield i’d like to think i look amazing

→ yourusername ofc ofc you ate it up

→ trevorzegras i’d argue differently

jamie.drysdale absolutely foul

→ yourusername you have no one to blame but yourself 🙄

lhughes_06 aw you think i’m cute

→ yourusername lmaooo not anymore

→ lhughes_06 i know you’re lying

→ yourusername oh yes i just think you’re superrr cute and totally irresistible

→ lhughes_06 i’m so glad you were brave enough to admit your true feelings

→ yourusername 😐

→ lhughes_06 😳

jackhughes i knew i shouldn’t have showed you those pics on ft

→ yourusername your fault fr

→ lhughes_06 oh when were u on ft 🤨

→ jackhughes like 4 days a week

→ yourusername jack that’s a gross exaggeration

→ lhughes_06 why not me

→ yourusername didn’t know you were so desperate for my attention moose

→ lhughes_06 well now you know 🙄

→ jackhughes when did i say you could start flirting in my replies

→ yourusername not flirting 😒😒

dylanduke25 THATS ME I MADE IT!!

→ yourusername yes u looked adorable there

→ dylanduke25 😁😁

→ lhughes_06 wb me :( yourusername

→ yourusername no response

markestapa god he’s complaining again what have you done

→ yourusername I BARELY DID ANYTHING

→ mackie.samo clearly you did something

→ yourusername you two are always ganging up on me

username31 jack in the back of that first pic

username97 photo evidence of quinn on the phone w me

username83 quinner’s such a supermodel

_quinnhughes my picture is suprisingly the least embarrassing

→ yourusername oh just you wait 🫢

→ _quinnhughes i take it back

luca.fantilli how adorable, duke and luke dressed like church boys ready to golf

→ lhughes_06 targeted

→ dylanduke25 am i allowed to report this as a hate crime

→ yourusername little cuties 😚😚😚😚

→ luca.fantilli my little baby boys 😝😝😝

→ lhughes_06 stfuuuu

yourusername

liked by _quinnhughes, luca.fantilli, jamie.drysdale, and 77,156 others

yourusername a little appreciation post for the only person in my life i can simultaneously hate and love (would not recommend getting an older brother)

tagged: jamie.drysdale

view all comments

jamie.drysdale would not recommend getting a younger sister

→ yourusername i found out about how you tried to ship me off to australia as soon as i turned 2

→ jamie.drysdale 10/10 would try again

username16 I LOVE THISSSS

_quinnhughes where’s my older brother appreciation post jackhughes lhughes_06

→ jackhughes appreciation posts only happen when the person actually appreciates their older brother

→ lhughes_06 you’ll get it when i get my younger brother appreciation post

→ _quinnhughes ihy jackhughes

trevorzegras is that my favorite drysdale

→ jamie.drysdale yes 😘😘😘😘😘

→ yourusername i’m right here 🙌

username68 okay but this is incredibly sweet

→ username75 yes!! u can see how much they love each other

markestapa i think you should appreciate me n mack too

→ mackie.samo FRRR

→ yourusername well i do appreciate you guys i would just hate my life if either of you were my brother 🤗

→ jamie.drysdale stop trying to steal my sister

→ _alexturcotte and my honorary sister

→ jackhughes and my soon-to-be sister

→ rutgermcgroarty HUHHHH?? jackhughes

luca.fantilli waiting for my older brother appreciation post adamfantilli

→ adamfantilli stay waiting

username25 drysdale siblings 🔛🔝

username11 whatever would we do if they weren’t siblings

→ username83 luke would be lonely for the rest of his life

colecaufield theoretically what would happen if i replaced jamie

→ yourusername you would get married to trevor

→ colecaufield hell no

→ trevorzegras I WOULD BE A GREAT HUSBAND

→ yourusername HIGHLY debatable

_alexturcotte is my appreciation post happening soon

→ yourusername u dont even need a post i appreciate you all the time 🥰🥰

→ jamie.drysdale ok this is starting to get unfair

→ _alexturcotte i’m just better 🤣

lhughes_06 cute

→ markestapa loser

→ trevorzegras weak

→ yourusername ur cute too luke

→ _quinnhughes oh please

→ dylanduke25 embarrassing

→ edwards.73 you can do better

→ jackhughes moosey this is lame

→ mackie.samo oh luke…

→ adamfantilli is this supposed to be flirting

→ colecaufield this is so sad

→ luca.fantilli wtf is this

→ missseraphina thanks for the compliment 🤭

→ jamie.drysdale hey now this is still my baby sis

→ rutgermcgroarty even i could do better than that

→ _alexturcotte lmao

username72 yall i think luke blocked that seraphina girl LMFAOAOAO

→ username5 i think they all blocked her 😭

→ username5 besides drizz bc she thinks it’s funny

lhughes_06 and also now that you’ve had your sibling time with jamie, imy and u need to come back to the lake house rn

→ yourusername yeah yeah i’m already omw back 🙄

next chapter notes ) a filler chap with dryshughes crumbs and seraphina’s delulu antics 🤍🤍 we are inching our way closer to the finish line!!

tags: @aliaology @hockeyboysarehot @absolutelyhugh3s @jackquinnswife @freds-slut @love4ldr @blueeyedbesson @43hughes @v1olentdelights @dancerbailey3 @random-human02 @ho3forfakeguys @loveforaugust

#luke hughes #luke hughes fanfic #luke hughes fic #luke hughes x y/n #luke hughes x reader #quinn hughes #jack hughes #alex turcotte #trevor zegras #cole caufield #jamie drysdale #ethan edwards #dylan duke #mackie samoskevich #mark estapa #rutger mcgroarty #luca fantilli #adam fantilli

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drenched-in-sunlight · 6 months ago

Text

very opionated talk underneath the cut

this is what I get for keeping checking out the fandom tag, but oh well 😭

seeing the reasoning behind the “Marika and Godfrey would have been proud of Godrick for the grafting” take is so wild to me like… are we just going to ignore the fact that Nepheli - who is implied to be Godfrey’s descendants, said Godrick’s deeds “taint the very wind” and helped us beat his ass and it’s her who later becomes the rightful Lord of Stormveil ?

+ Roderika, who is thematically a reflection of the girl Marika was pre-Godhood, losing all her companions and being left alone scared shitless and heartbroken in a shack, blaming herself for not being strong enough, brave enough to go die with her friends, all because Godrick is making a mockery of Godfrey’s name and enacting the same tragedy that befell Marika’s people ?

Like, I can sorta see why people refuse to see the Living Jars in the Lands Between as Marika reclaiming a practice that was tainted by the Hornsent deeds, returning it into something done to honor the dead and let them be returned to the Erdtree to continue the cycle of life - death - rebirth (is scattering ashes of the deceased to the sea not a thing in many irl cultures anymore or am I going crazy), cuz if one has certain…views on her, it can be hard to see anything she does in a positive light (actually even if you don’t see it that way, equating jar innards made of dead warriors in a ritual to honour them with living ppl being cut up and forced to meld together as a form of torture is… a choice), but to completely ignore Nepheli and Roderika’s stories and their role in the narrative? 💀

Plus, where in the game is it even stated or implied that Godfrey being a battlefield maniac means he is ok with *read writing on hands* some guy sending his lackeys out to hunt Tarnished (Godfrey’s own warriors) and making them into unwilling extra limbs?

The guy that gives his all to fight the player by himself and compliments us on a battle well fought… will see honour in gaining strength via kidnapping ppl and stealing their strength, instead of fighting your own battles, honing your own skills and getting stronger on your own? Huh?

And even ignoring all that, Kenneth - a mere nobleman, not even demigod or anything, fr called Godrick a “jumped up country bumpkin” who fleed from Leyndell, holed up in Stormveil to hide from Radahn (why are we forgetting this…bro can’t even pass the Godfrey’s no.1 Stan vibe check) and then got beaten up by Malenia?

To add insult to injury, Godwyn’s body lying beneath Stormveil will literally stab anyone coming close to him (which is sth I have an interesting conversation with ppl on twitter about. there’s one person bringing up an interesting interpretation that Godrick probably took off with a relic of Godwyn’s body hoping to graft a piece of the Golden Prince onto himself, but Godwyn body was like “no” and infested the castle ground like a disapproving ghost 😭 but Godwyn is cool with us because he knows we have Marika’s sanction 😊).

Godrick… has no support whatsoever from Marika and Godfrey’s direct descendants, other than maybeeee Morgot who probably was only there to keep an eye on Stormveil - a place of importance to his dad and maybeeee a bit family pity for Godrick, definitely not because he’s proud of the stuffs Godrick is doing (he astral project there to scare us a bit then leave. We gonna kill Godrick? None of his business.).

And there’s also Godefroy who literally got locked up in a gaol… by a Leyndell Knight who later got the highest honour of Erdtree Burial after he passed away - specifically because of his feat in capturing Godefroy. Why are we forgetting Kristoff???

No one in Leyndell likes the Grafted guys, no one in Limgrave likes the Grafted guys, there are numerous items in-game expressing disappointment and sadness at the decline of the Golden Linage…. it’s a real damn no one likes you situation 😭

Then later on, Godrick got replaced by Nepheli.

So who are the ones being proud here ????

I’m not even a Godrick hater, I think he’s a fucked up, but compelling!, conclusion to the linage that Marika has with Godfrey - who is probably one of few people who actually knows what she used to go through.

I could even see the kind of pressure and struggle he must have gone through, humiliation after humiliation, hiding from and losing to Radagon’s children of all guys, carrying a legacy that is too big for him to handle. But to say that Marika and Godfrey would have been proud of him? Or that grafting is somehow a reclamation of the trauma Marika’s people went through and turning it into strength ????? He doesn’t even know that Marika was once not a God, let alone anything about her people’s suffering to reclaim anything ? That’s not his pain to reclaim ???

Someone else already did that. Marika herself. Rakshasa herself. You really do not have to give a man all the flowers for something women (who actually suffered and went through that trauma) already did.

#er brainrot #why why #I understand the need to find in-universe glazers to your fav but you need to find those who actually will glaze them….#and not have like 4 or 5 existence in-universe that will disprove of that #this is me not even bringing up the fact that gdrick is the only non-Carian side descendant that guidance of grace points to 💀💀#cuz that depends on whether you see Guidance as a manifestation of Mrika’s wish or not

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streets-in-paradise · 1 year ago

Text

A Man of Honor - Odysseus x Trojan Princess!Reader

Troy 2004 Oneshot

Requested by @alysinwonderland-at-tea

"Ok ok ok, so..... here's the idea.

Odysseus, with the younger sister of Paris and Hector, like she gets captured because she bought Briesis time to run. She fought off some of the men but couldn't get all of them. Anyway, quite like the movie scene, Agammenon "gives" her to the men to "play with" (throws her to the wolves). But instead of Achilles rescuing her, it's Odysseus. He suggests that hurting her would not be in their best interest because she is the princess of Troy, and if they harm her its gonna be really bad for them. Anyway, the reader falls for him because he's so honorable. Idk man, he seems honorable, and men with honor got me"

Sure, dear!! My twist on the concept is a bit fluffier, but hope you will enjoy it anyways.

Warnings: Kidnap, Agamemnon and Menelaus being creeps, threats and an attempt of sexual assault ( stopped by Odysseus), age gap.

Note: For this i'm pretending he is single, simply because i don't picture Odysseus as a cheater.

Tags: @yerevasunclair

The gathering of the kings celebrating the first greek victory of the war finished abruptly because Agamemnon of Mycenae, supreme commander of the forces, wanted to scold his rebel soldier. Used to act as intermediate between them, Odysseus of Ithaca intended to follow the matter closely. He was the last one leaving the tent, trying to prepare Achilles for the meeting hoping he wouldn't loose his temper again. Sensically suspicious of the situation, he waited outside pretending he cared to talk with the guards of the mycenaean king.

A good amount of them were watching over a girl, likely a spoil from the looting of the temple. Two aspects of that scene got the sharp observational skills of the ithacan king on alert. The first one, knowing that the myrmidon leader would never handle a prisoner of war to a man he often adressed as an old pig. Second, that the escort was too great to watch over her. There were way to many men gathered arround her.

" Don't you all have orders to follow?" He mocked them in a friendly tone. " Just two of you would be enough, she is clearly going nowhere. "

The cleverly delivered callout brought a half smile from her, and in a closer look Odysseus noticed that her eyes were more vivacious than normal for a captive.

There was still fire in her glance, a sign of life.

" The myrmidons warned us to watch out, they say she fought bravely for her freedoom. " One of the mycenaeans informed him. " We brought her for the King, she is the treasure he has choosen."

No flicker of fear in her face as she was hearing her fate, what made Odysseus wonder if she was too brave or completely unaware of the dangers coming at her.

" Two were actually left in charge, the rest are just watching." She commented him. " They won't stop talking about how pretty they find me."

He felt as if he was being invited to share an opinion on the matter, probably being tested by her because she wanted to know if he would hurt her.

" A young slave as beautifull as you must worth more than everything I keep in my tent." He joked in return. " Even if Troy would be sacked tomorrow, like Agamemnon hopes, none of this men would afford to have one like you. They know it, so consider their vulgar admiration a reflection of their powerlessness. "

It wasn't enough to work as comfort, but she didn't mind.

" I don't mind, as long as they won't touch me."

Her pridefullness was out of place, as if she tried to prove she was still weilding some sort of authority she may have had in the past.

" Sadly, I think that's the first thing Agamemnon would want to do." Odysseus informed her, trying to do what he considered was waking her up to the new reality. " ... You were lucky of not being exhibited in front of all the other leaders in the celebration, he likes to brag about his prizes."

The latter comment seemed to have offended her, she even dared to give a few temptative steps in his direction to verbally fight back.

" I'm not a prize, I'm a hostage. " She quickly corrected. " And I'm ready to bargain the terms of my liberation."

The mycenaeans laughed, but Odysseus could tell she was being serious because the fire of her eyes could have burned him alive. Unfortunately, he couldn't keep interrogating her because the men in charge were called to bring her inside.

He watched her following them calmly and couldn't help smiling. Partially, because he wished he could ease such horrible moment for her, but also given how impressed he remained of her attitude. As if she already knew that Agamemnon wanted to see her humilliated, she quickly put together what was left of her honor and dignity walking inside with the grace of a royal.

It was in that moment when the clever king of Ithaca discovered that you, new treasure of the mycenaean king, could be hidding something of importance. After Achilles stormed out of the place he was too angry to acceed any questioning, so his curiosity had to wait a little longer.

During that first encounter you couldn't tell exactly who he was, but you knew he had some sort of authority over men due to how they listened to him. However, his way with words was astonishingly pragmatical. To them, he sounded like a friend making healthy advices before a greater power figure could reprimand them and, to you, like a fair ruler. Never taunting your anger like Achilles did, or threatening you like you later discovered was custom of Agamemnon.

Nightfall was the dealbreaker of your fate, signaled time for the accomplishment of the dark promises he made to you. After having dinner, he would make you give him a bath to later have his way with you. Playing wise with your only advantage to save yourself, you waited untill then to start the negociations.

The king's table had guests, more commanders that you didn't know. When his brother heard that you were the only daughter of King Priam, everything seemed lost. A third leader arrived to hear the very stubborn brothers discuss what would be the most efficient way to make you suffer instead of accepting your more wise proposal of a bargain with your family.

Awareness of his coming silenced their wicked planning, like if they suspected he would have a say against that.

" Odysseus! " Agamemnon saluted him. " Welcome, old friend! "

You recognized the kind man and his friendly smile, paying high that short distraction. The King of Sparta tried to grab you from behind and forcefully sit you on his lap. Reflexes reacted fast and you fought him, but in the scape you accidentally stumbled with the newcomer.

He catched you gently, holding your shoulders so you won't fall.

" Forgive me, ... Odysseus." You inmediately responded, your voice turning slightly sweeter with the pronunciation of his name, then moved away after finding balance. " ... Please, take a seat. I'll get you some roasted meat from King Agamemnon's feast."

He smiled in polite agreement, but the calm enviroment didn't last long.

" GET BACK HERE, TROJAN WHORE!" Menelaus complained, angry because you didn't behaved with the docility he expected. " YOU WILL PAY FOR WHAT YOUR BROTHER DID TO ME! "

You refused to move and swallowed hard, then replied.

" Your wife's choices aren't of my concern, but become more understandable to me with the display of your brutal manners."

Your refined insults amused Agamemnon, who thought that your flamboyant manners were hilarious.

" ... A trojan princess. Can you believe our luck? " He commented to the freshly arrived king. " My brother wants to go first, reparations for his honor. "

Odysseus was frankly horrified by the scene, there was no honor in the sort of justice that Menelaus seeked.

" It's a terrible idea. If you hurt her, this girl could become a symbol even more powerfull than Helen. "

" I told them, but they won't listen. " You interrupted him. " King Menelaus doesn't understand the concept of bargain, perhaps you can explain it to him."

You shouldn't have say that, but the presence of the ithacan made you feel safer as the anger of Menelaus keep growing.

" YOU INSOLENT LITTLE .... "

Odysseus gave him a path on the shoulder right before claiming his sit.

" My friend, calm down! She is just a girl, maybe even young enough to be your daughter. " He minimized your insults for you. " And, unfortunately, she is right. Having her is too riskfull and we can't allow more reckless mistakes. "

You realized he was subtly referencing the fight of Agamemnon and Achilles, what made you stiffle a chuckle in reminder.

" Postpone your vengeance for the right targets. " He concluded, deviating the topic. " You are here to kill Paris, not to take advantage of his little sister. "

The excellently delivered speech was enough to calm him, but not to make him desist.

" Odysseus, you are a good friend, but the use I will give to my brother's slave is not your problem. "

" ... Not yet wed, certainly untouched. " Agamemnon provoked him. " Pretty virgin princess will make for a fine revenge. "

You spat on the ground, a wordless curse, but that only increased the hate of the spartan king.

" I can't wait to taste you ... And tomorrow, I will tell your brother exactly how i had broken you. "

Terrified in the inside, you still won't let him knew it.

" Before you would get to finish bragging the sword of Hector would have already pierced you. " You recalled, as serious as if you would be sentencing him to death. " He wont care about your hurted honor if your sense of justice damages his siblings. He tossed our familiar honor to the sea to save Paris' life once, we are fighting this war because of that. "

Your elocuency was the surprise of the night, the King of Ithaca was very attentive to your words.

" It's true, Paris had no honor proceeding the way he did, but if you force me you give up your right to claim you are the victim here because that's not the justice of an honorable man. " You bravely kept exhorting the spartan king to save yourself. " Your mistreated wife, who not all trojans simpatize with, will win credibility. "

Odysseus began to chuckle, a subtle expression of pride.

" Right again, your highness! " He pointed out. " The ruin of your virtue would unify trojans at the precise moment we are on the edge of loosing Achilles. The Kings should respect you, not even because that would be the action of an honorable man. From the most selfish standpoint, it's still the wisest solution. "

Agamemnon evaluated the advice with disdain. The goal of unifying greeks against a common enemy was an essential part of his plan. Previous attempts of presenting Helen as a victim of kidnap had failed, everyone knew she ran away on her own and the moral approach changed. She was a whore who left her husband, but you were an innocent virgin dragged away from a temple.

A perfect victim, everything in that story highlighted your purity and a direct threat to it could cause a response even more violent than than Paris taking Helen did.

" May you care to suggest us what to do with her then, Odysseus? " He sarcastically critiziced. " Giving her to you, perhaps? I won't fall for your trickery if what you want is fooling me into gifting you a prize that was too fine for Achilles. "

You hide your face using your hair so he won't see your excited reaction to hearing he could want to take you out from that tent.

" Offer her hospitality, show her that we are not savages. " Odysseus simply proposed. " Menelaus should also work on his impersonation of an honorable man wanting his wife back. We are all here claiming to be victims because of him and the control of this narrative gives our army a moral advantage. If he turns Paris into the savior of a frightened Helen escaping the brutality of her husband, this motivation falls apart. An insulted king who demmands justice can't brag revenge forcing himself on the virgin princess captured while she was innocently praying for the salvation of her homeland."

You directed a triumphal smirk to the youngest of the despicable kings, but Odysseus warned you against that with an impercepible glance.

" Do you play any table games, little one? " He asked you right away, resolving for everyone else. " My favorite way of getting to know someone is learning how they think."

You couldn't believe your ears because the kind offer seemed so out of place.

" Table games? After this two were deliverating on who should hurt me first and what would be more painfull, you offer me to play games with you? " You repeated, in disbelief. " You are a strange man, King of Ithaca, ... but quite lovely. "

To your even greater surprise, he even helped the greek servants on settling you a spot where you could be comfortable. The disgusting brothers gave him freedoom of action because they believed he was up to something, a scheme of the kind he often used to save them many times before. They respected his opinions allowing him to treat you kindly so they wouldn't have to do it themselves. Agamemnon suspected he wanted to make you talk for them, but nothing you were saying was of any importance for him.

The trickster king was deceiving them, making them suspect a deeper reason for his comfort of the unlucky, but beautifull princess. To some extent, he was even deceiving himself pretending he would only do it because winning your trust could be usefull, yet you had awakened enough curiosity for it to be a bit personal.

After a while, it became obvious that you enjoyed the company of the smartest leader arround. He was a smoother, more interesting talker than the pigs surrounding you. If you would have been in front of your father's table instead, he would have easily enraptured all the attention of your relatives as he had gained yours. Odysseus ruled a kingdom of poor sailors, but he had travelled everywhere, and he gave you a good moment sharing some of his stories. During the hours he spent there that night, you were able to escape from your sadness even at the moments he wasn't paying direct attention to you.

If that dinner would have taken place in Troy, Paris would have teased you for staring at him for too long while Hector would have scolded you both and warned that significally older man to stay away from you. That was fun to imagine, but you had to remind yourself that he was still your enemy. Perhaps the most dangerous, for how well spoken and handsome he appeared to you. Harder to hate, specially because you couldn't take your eyes off him.

Before leaving to get rest in his own tent, his farewell to you was a kiss on your knuckes that showed he still respected you as a princess. It made you blush furiously, mostly because you thought that kind of consideration was lost to you arround greeks.

Menelaus noticed your reaction and, as his brother accompanied the king outside, let you know of that.

" Turns out you do like older men." He commented, in a falsely cassual tone. " Is that how your brother got my wife to spread her legs for him, or only his looks did the work?"

Everything he said was always so repulsive, you seriously couldn't imagine how Helen managed to stay by his side for so long.

" You are not bad looking, for a man of your age. Neither is your brother ... You are just horrible people. " Was your honest reply. " Paris has seduced married women everywhere, but all the others stayed with their husbands because they gave them reasons. Fear of death was all Helen had with you, and when she lost it, she left. "

The answer surprised him, perhaps because your explanation of what happened resembled nothing he had ever heard.

" You have a strange wisdown, hard to explain in such young girl. I'm hearing you speak so lightly of things I never cared to see. " He oddly praised you, then sipped more of his wine. " When I was a child, our mother cheated on our father with our uncle. Agamemnon, being the eldest, had more awareness of what was happening. Ask him about what Atreus did to the cheaters and you will find out we are not so horrible. "

" Being less horrible than your father is not the great, comforting excuse you think it is. " You warned him in return. " A good man would have came here peacefully, presented his complaint in the city's council, and maybe ask for a private talk with his wife offering her actual reasons that could make her want to go back home. You are an evil man posing as a victim, and your thirst for vengeance will bring your doom. "

Dark chucking interrumpted you, Agamemnon was back inside.

" Nobody told us the princess of Troy was a seer! " He mocked you. " I have another prophecy for you: tomorrow, I will take over your city and my brother will kill yours. "

" You don't know Hector, or how far he can go to protect his family." You insisted one last time. " Your brother is a fool, he will get himself killed trying to kill Paris. "

" Hector is a man of honor. " Menelaus pointed out. " He will understand that Paris had to die."

You directed him a cold look, as if life would have started to abandon him.

" His honor won't protect you from his rage of brother. "

It was the last time you spoke to him, and the last moment you saw him alive. Exactly as you warned, the king perished by the hand of Hector, who saved Paris while he was begging for his life. You never imagined it would happen so fast, because you weren't prophetizing. Knowing your family so well made you suspect it would be a matter of time untill the rage of Menelaus would be forever stopped by your protective eldest brother.

Still, they weren't there to save you from the rage of brother displayed by the mycenaean king. You were all he had to damage Hector, since even the result of the battle turned against him. The only pain he could inflict on him that night was hurting you, but he decided he wasn't going to be the man doing it.

Odysseus noticed your absense on the tent during the gathering of the war council, at first thinking it was due to the needed secrecy that the discussion of strategy required.

" Where is she? "

The answer Agamemnon had for him overpassed any expected cruelty coming from him.

" I gave her to the men ... They need some amusement after today. "

Careless for the thoughts of anyone else on that meeting, he stormed out searching for you. It was clear that the King of Kings wanted to unleash over you a vengeance even worse than the one Menelaus considered before.

More humilliating than warming the bed of a king was becoming the whore of his troops.

Odysseus was guided by the sound of the complict mocks of the very same men who one day before observed you as some unattainable luxury item. Temporally forgetting their looses, they were cheerfully bragging on how they were about to feast on you.

Despite you presented a good fight, they were too many. Their hands roaming you with desperation and trying to tear your clothes off in the process.

" STOP, YOU FOOLS! " The strong voice of the King of Ithaca interrupted the horrible scene. " YOUR KING HAS SENT YOU TO DO HIS VENGEANCE FOR HIM BECAUSE HE KNOWS THAT WHOEVER TOUCHES HER WILL BE A DEAD MAN! "

A few of them reacted, but two were still holding you and Odysseus spoke directly to them.

" Do you even know who this woman is? " He warned them. " She is the Princess of Troy! Do you want to be the next ones Hector will slaughter ? LOOK AT WHAT HE DID TO US TODAY JUST TO SAVE HIS COWARD BROTHER! He killed Menelaus, he broke the pact ... Imagine what he would do to you for raping his sister. "

They tossed you to the ground, sudden fear making them act as if they would have just heard a deathly curse had spread among them.

When Odysseus picked you up, you had no more tears left to cry. Or at least you believed so, untill you clinged to him as if your life depended on it.

He took you to his small tent in the little corner of the greek camp he ruled. His own men seemed weirded by the sudden arrival, but followed his orders of not disturbing you.

Your spirits were even more broken than your body, and the safety you temporally found in him made it hard for you to separate. He understood it, and craddled you by the fire while silently hearing your sobbing.

" He is a monster. " You were saying between your crying. " He did this to me in honor of his brother. "

He guessed it, and he cursed himself for not thinking ahead of him.

" Honor? There is no honor in any of this." He commented in a comforting tone, caressing the top of your head. " Don't worry, beautifull. You are safe now."

He inmediately regretted to have adressed you in a way that could be very uncomfortable after what you have gone through, despite he didn't mean it in the same way of your attackers.

" I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have ... "

You raised your face so your eyes would find his for the first time since the arrival.

" It's allright, I know. " You calmed him, tears still flowing. " Crazy, isn't it? When you say it I don't feel the danger. "

Softer by the blow, burning slowly, but the fire in your eyes was still there.

" How does it make you feel? "

Despite the pain, you still had a shy smile for him.

" Good, but strange ... I never felt like that before. "

As if you attempted to thank him with the only thing you judged a man would want from you in that hole of doom, you gave him a rushed peck on the lips.

" Thank you for saving me, you are a man of honor. "

Even hurt as you were, he found you beautiful to the point of cruelty. The brush of your soft lips made him tremble, but he replied with a chaste kiss on the top of your forehead.

" No need for rewards, princess. I did what i had to do. "

Noticing that you were finaly calm, he stood up and peeked out of the tent to command orders from its entrance.

" Eurylochus! Get this woman the means for a proper bath, she will wash herself. Send some men to roam the camp and find her decent clothes. She is our temporary guest now. If Agamemnon has something to say about that, tell him I would rather expose us to an argument with him than face the rage of Hector ... Understood? "

By the time his attention was back at you, he discovered you already self tending your wounds with water from a basin and the nearest cloth you found.

" Resourceful girl ... Mind if I help you out? "

#troy 2004 #troy #odysseus #sean bean #odysseus x reader #sean bean x reader

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devilfic · 8 months ago

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based on the tags i left on this post but ok. bruce befriending the bats in the batcave

I imagine after spending so much time there, they're used to his presence. they see and hear everything he does at all (ungodly) hours of the night. they don't much like his music taste, but they do like the food alfred leaves behind

now, alfred is leaving bowls of fruit behind for bruce because he forgets to eat more often than he'd like to think about (and everybody knows if you want someone with a laser-focused attention span to eat, you've got to put food in their general vicinity and let them graze on their own). but bruce rarely remembers to finish them off and so sometimes they just lie around for hours, untouched until one day bruce is working on his car, turns to grab something he left on his desk, and sees a bat perched on the side of the silver bowl munching away at his grapes

and bruce wayne has worked on this fear of his. he's treated the bats on the ceiling like decoration, and at times distant roommates. he leaves them alone, they leave him alone. this is the first time in a long time where they've felt comfortable enough to get close. he kind of just stands there and watches until the bat notices him and flies away with another grape in its mouth

the next time it happens, bruce is standing at the desk and notices some of the bats flying lower than usual overhead. there's this cheese and fruit plate that alfred left and he's been picking away at it, but bruce wants to test a theory and so he does. he grabs a grape and throws it on the floor several feet away. nothing happens. the bats keep circling and he thinks that maybe they're fighting or something, tries to leave it alone. the grape is gone an hour later, but he doesn't recall seeing any of them steal it

it takes a couple times before one gets close enough to touch, and he stares at it like he stared at the first one. it's on the other side of his desk and sure enough, he's got food nearby. he doesn't wanna make any sudden movements and scare it away, so he doesn't do anything. he thinks it might fly away if it gets bored, or it might come closer if it's really brave

it comes closer, and bruce watches as it steals his fruit and flies away again

at this point, alfred's collecting empty bowls. he thinks, "wow. good job, me. I knew it would start working eventually." and then a few weeks later, he comes down to leave another bowl and there's bruce sitting, legs propped up on a car engine he's working on, files in one hand and a grape in between his fingers and- oh. there's something perched on his shoulder. alfred startles because of course he does, it's moving and eating out of bruce's hand, and it can only be one thing. "is that a... bat?"

bruce glances up, sees alfred holding another bowl (strawberries this time), and then looks at his work, "uh-huh."

"is it yours?"

"it lives here."

"you mean," alfred points at the ceiling, bewildered, as hundreds of the winged things flutter around the endless dark, "one of those bats? and you're just feeding it on your shoulder? like a pet? what if it has rabies?"

"this one doesn't. she's got her shots."

even better if the bats come and go from the cave often. just imagine bruce out on patrol and the bats recognize him. he's staking out an alley, waiting for a target to show his face, and one of the bats flies up to him and almost scares him off his perch, but he recognizes it. it flies over to him and he holds his arm out, watching it grasp at the bits that poke out from his arm gauntlet and hang upside down off him

criminals start seeing him hanging out with these bats (which bruce has begun to tentatively train, because of course that's the first thing he looked up how to do when he realized the bats liked him), even whispering things to them and watching them fly off into the night. there's a rumor going around that batman can control all the bats in the city. bruce doesn't see any point in denying it

#thought of this on the drive home from work and had to get it out IMMEDIATELY #if we don't get robin in the reevesverse trilogy i want battinson and a horde of bats #bruce wayne #batman #mjwrites #fandom; dc

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sunsetsover · 4 months ago

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made a new post bc the original was long enough as it was but i've been chewing on these tags @ropebunnykant left on it for a while now because they've really been bothering me and i've been tryna figure out why. like i know i talked about kant always being splintered into different versions of himself or existing w an asterisk next to his name but like.... does it run deeper than that? does kant actually know who is outside of his relationships to others? does kant know who he is beyond the superficial stuff? would kant know how to be alone?

i think the answer is no

i don't think kant has a real sense of identity. i don't think he's ever been afforded the opportunity to develop one. it's why he doesn't think he's interesting. it's why, when he does something objectively nice for james, it doesn't even occur to him to mention it. it's why he doesn't really know how to talk about himself. like ok he likes art. ok he's a tattooist. but what else do we know about kant? kant as a person, not in relation to others. what about his personality? what does he like? what does he want to do in the future? who is he when he's alone in bed at night?

what does he want?

the only thing we're actually explicitly told about kant by kant himself that doesn't somehow tie back to someone else is that he loved sports, especially basketball. but the most interesting part of that to me is that those were things he did in high school. over 10 years ago. probably right around the time his parents died. and its like wow..... is that the last time he liked something just for the sake of liking it? was the last time he had hobbies? the man is 29, and yet the only thing he could think to bring up about himself was something he liked and did when he was 18? is that all there is?

ofc we know at some point around that time that his parents died and he had to take over custody of babe. that lead to bills and the car thieving and captain christ and kant probably didn't leave any time for kant himself. completely understandable. but when you're that young your personality is still forming. you're figuring out who you are, what you want, what you like and what you don't. and when you don't have time to experiment and engage with the world in any meaningful way and you're constantly operating from a place of fear and lack and desperation, what then? what are you left with then?

kant does have a personality. he's definitely not a blank slate. he's cheeky and clever, a (relatively) smooth talker. he has a sense of style and he has friends and he has a job he's passionate about and clearly good at. but that's kind of where it ends if you look at him in isolation. he's brave, but bc he's had to be. he's adaptable, but out of necessity. he's lots of things but most of them are born out of the life he's led as opposed to who he is as a person. he's thoughful, and he's romantic. caring, loyal. willing to do anything for the ones he loves - but all of that ultimately that all goes back to others. it goes back to giving, bc that's what kant does. i don't think he knows who he is if he's not pouring his cup into someone else's. i don't think he knows how to love without putting his life on the line for it.

so then who actually is kant? does he even know? among the many versions of himself that he's had to be over the years, does kant even know which parts were real and which ones were fake? which ones were born out of desperation and which ones acted out of necessity? did he bet on football matches bc he liked it or bc he needed a lot of money quickly? did he hang around with those people because he liked them or bc he'd got so used to being around questionable people working under christ's thumb that he doesn't know how to be around 'normal' people? did he have a lot of one night stands bc he liked it and that's all he wanted, or was it bc he didn't really know how to be in a real relationship with someone? did he help james out of the kindness of his heart or because he doesn't know how to be someone's friend without offering them something, even when it's something you can't really afford to offer?

i don't know exactly. i don't know where kant ends and trauma begins. but i do know that there's something fucked up about kant's sense of identity. and i do know that i want to dissect him like a lab frog to figure out exactly what the fuck is going on in there.

#the heart killers #kant pattanawat #thk meta #deffo adding this to the 'kant has bpd' evidence pile thank u liz #number 4 of the dsm 5 diagnostic criteria for borderline personality disorder btw.#'identity disturbance with markedly or persistently unstable self-image or sense of self'#also it's believed there is a genetic predisposition to bpd but there's usually some kind of trauma that 'activates' the bpd . just btw #yeah...... yeah

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nwarrior777 · 2 months ago

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people tried to defend severance, on my take about it being offensive to Systems.

by saying it is not, and show treat this theme good

these people weren't haters. some of - my mutuals even. i am not saying they are bad or i hate them for defending the show - chill, severance fans, between hate and love whole spectrum of infinity of feelings, ok.

but i am getting more and more sure that i am right about severance *not* being good on topic of Systems. Harmfull actually. And i got very good example of this show negative influence on the theme

cause i saw video right now. about dating. with, i am quoting "severance"

it's vid from usually - very good creator, nice vibes, kind, progressive.

and it was a humour skit about date, there character switched personalities. humor was not targeting ""severance"" character, target of jokes was not-""severance"" character on the date being rude cringe person. but, not the point

point is, term which was used for describing a character with multiple personalities was "severance".

and it was line in the vid saying "oh i didn't know it is a real life thing"

also vid ends with not-"severance" character saying "what the f-" about situation. the situation in sketch basically was about the fact of "severance" people exist in real life

and no, there wasn't any twist about "whoah, it was easier to just tell this rude guy that it is a show thing than giving lecture about systems". No. The "is it real life thing?" and term "severance" to describe Systems - it was used with no "no, actually it doesn't work like this" after.

Systems were called "severance" and fact of Systems existing was shown as something which is not happening irl and *it's the show thing*

do you see now, what i am talking about

"it's not the show it's vid of some youtuber!!!" - yes. based on the show.

do you see now, that i mean then i say "we need media where Systems are Just A Character in slice of life thing, not the core of surreal setting based story"

I looked on fans of the show speak on prev post, even i didn't tag it for show tag especcially for reason i knew they will defend it, and expected to hear System voices.

And, not many, very not many was brave enought to speak against show which looks like everyone loves to 10/10. Even on my blog, even on my critique post on that.

So Systems - THIS is post for you.

If anything wants to be said about topic on this post - permission given to Systems only.

If you not system commenting this post - your comment on this post will be deleted. If you will reblog the post and add smth, being Not System - rule of this post is, it will not be count and seen as valid opinion. Make your post if you want to say something about it, being not System. I wouldn't understand why you would wanted to do it, but i can't tell you rules of your post. But these are rules of mine

If you are system but you afraid to speak up against the show which seems like everyone around is fan of - you can send me anon ask, i will post it

It's is not fucking okay, what i described in post. And i don't hear any critique of severance for causing things like this.

I am not mad on the creator of vid - i think the person probably literally didn't know Systems *is* real life thing or didn't know theme well enough, and made mistake, which sometimes can happen. other content of the person is very good and very nice and lovely

I am mad on media which keep narratives of Systems being something *not* real, but surreal and for plot with strange things happening only. Never showing Systems as just a human character just in. Real life.

And i am mad at severance which keeps and spreads this stigma narrative, spreading misinformation and leading to vids like this, and i mad that it is beloved and not given reflexia on this by everyone around so much, that i have a feeling that people are just afraid to say something against it

Here you can not be afraid to speak.

I am not a System, but i don't like then media narratives spread missinformation about something or someone, leading to takes about some people being "not real life thing"

This post is only for Systems comments, others will be deleted. Only System opinion on severance counts on this post, and from now - only Systems opinions about severance counts on this blog. My ask, with anon option, open for that too.

This blog is safe place for Systems to speak up about this show with critique, and if you System and you want to - use it

#system stuff #how should i tag this to spread to systems

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bullet-prooflove · 5 months ago

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The Hardest Part: Cyrus Lupo x Reader

Tagging: @darqchilddaydreamz @words-and-seeds @infinity-mars @tkappi @greenies-green @trublu2u @kmc1989

Warnings: Mentions of abortion

You don’t want an abortion. Cyrus doesn’t want an abortion. However the two of you are sitting in the clinic waiting to be called through for that exact procedure. He swallows hard, trying to choke back the agony that claws at the inside of his chest as his gaze remains fixated on the wall. He’s too terrified to look at you. He knows the moment he does, he’ll completely shatter and you need him to be strong right now, for the both of you.

He reaches for your hand, his fingers entwined with yours before he squeezes it lightly. You’re shaking, he can feel the tremor underneath your skin as his lips brush over your temple.

“It’ll be ok.” He whispers in an attempt to sooth you. “We’re going to be ok.”

You nod silently and he can tell you’re trying not to cry.

It destroys the both of you being here today. You’d been trying for almost a year before it happened, you’d been ecstatic when you’d shown him the little blue cross and Cyrus, he doesn’t remember ever being so happy because finally the two of you were starting a family. He remembers being curled up in bed with you that night, his palm resting on your abdomen as he caressed the place where his baby resided.

It’s at the second ultrasound appointment that everything starts to fall apart. He hears the intake of the doctor’s breath as she looks at the screen and he knows that’s something wrong. It’s a couple of hours later that they reveal the diagnosis of the tests they’ve been conducting.

Meckel Gruber Syndrome.

The child you’re carrying, his daughter. She won’t last more than a couple of hours after birth.

It devastates the both of you.

“I can’t do it.” You tell him later that night. You’re tucked under a blanket on the couch, your knees drawn up to you chest. You’ve been there all night, while he walks around the apartment like a ghost, going through the motions. “I can’t carry her all that way and then let her go Cy, I’m sorry I can’t, I just can’t.”

You break down then. It’s the first sign of emotion you’ve shown since the diagnosis, until now you’ve been stoic, numb and now it feels like your heart is being wrenched right out of your chest. He’s relieved in a way because you’re only saying what he’s been thinking, you were just the first one brave enough to say it. He isn’t strong enough to hold his child in his arms, to watch her take her last breath, to feel her slip away.

Choosing to terminate the pregnancy is the hardest decision either of have ever had to make but it’s the right one. He doesn’t want his daughter’s first and last hours in the world to be filled with pain.

It’s the sound of the nurse calling your name that draws his attention back to the present. He raises to his feet alongside of you, his palm smoothing over your back in a show of solidarity. It’s only then that the nurse shakes her head.

“Please…” He whispers, his eyes stinging. “She’s my wife, our baby…”

“I’m sorry.” The nurse tells him and he can tell she means it. When she looks at you, it’s with kindness, compassion. “I promise we’ll take good care of her.”

This, he thinks, this is the hardest part.

Letting you endure the procedure alone, not being able to say goodbye his daughter.

He can tell you feel the same way so he cradles your face between his hands, his thumbs ghosting over your cheeks as he looks into your eyes.

“I’ll be right here ok?” He says gruffly as his forehead comes to rest on yours. “The two of us, we’re gonna get through this.”

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canirove · 6 days ago

Text

Pedri x Ferran Torres Imagine

Author's note: This is my first time writing something like this, so I don't know if pepople will like it or not or if I will write more in the future 😅 But I saw that first pic of Pedri and Eric I'm using in the header, and instantly thought about them looking at Ferran and couldn't help myself 😁 I don't know either if I'm using the right tags or if I'm missing some so it reaches more people, so if you can think of some please let me know! Hope you like it, and thank you for reading! 💜

Little summary: Pedri and Ferran have had a crush on each other for a while, but neither of them have been brave enough to ask the other out until…

Masterlist

“Look at him, bro. Isn't he simply gorgeous?”

“I guess.”

“You guess? C'mon, Pedri. Look at him. Look at that smile. At the dimple on his chin. At those muscles.”

“Eric, did you just sigh?” Pedri chuckles.

“How not to” he sighs again, his eyes fixed on Ferran.

He had signed for Barcelona and been part of the team just for a few months, but basically everyone in the team already had a crush on him. Pedri included. Though unlike everyone else, who had already tried to make a move on him, he had done nothing because he was too shy even if he felt there was some kind of connection between them.

For example, every time Ferran has caught him looking at him, instead of rolling his eyes and telling him to mind his business or focus on training like he does with the others, he smiles at him, making him feel funny things in his stomach. One time he even winked at him, catching Pedri so by surprise that he tripped with the ball he was playing with and ended up on the floor, his teammates teasing him about his fall for a week. And while with them he gets all serious when they try to joke with him during training, usually telling them that he is there to work and play football, with him it is completely different. Pretty often it is Ferran the one joking with him or teasing him about something, both of them laughing together and having what Pedri would call, a moment.

So there definitely is something between, but what? He doesn't know.

“Do you think he would say yes to going out with me?”

“What?” Pedri says, trying to stop looking at the way Ferran is biting his lip while Flick shows him some papers and explains something to him. He has noticed he does it when he is focused on something, and he can’t help but find it extremely sexy. More than once he's imagined how it would be to bite Ferran's lip while kissing him, which is something he should not be thinking about a teammate, but…

“If I ask him to go out on a date with me, do you think he will say yes?”

“He's made it very clear he isn't interested in any player, Eric. That he's here to play football, nothing else.”

“I know. But just because he's said no to the others doesn't mean he will say it to me too, you know? Besides, what if he's just playing hard to catch?”

“Doesn't look like something Ferran would do, to be honest.”

“And how do you know, uh? Are you bffs with him now?” Eric says with a teasing smile.

“No” Pedri replies, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Are you sure? Because I've seen you talking and laughing together, and you seem to get along quite well. Are you hiding something from us, Pedri?”

“Something like what?” he says, trying to act normal while praying for his cheeks to not turn bright red.

“I don't know. Maybe Ferran ignores us all because he's interested in you. Because you two are seeing each other in secret.”

“Don't be stupid, Eric” Pedri laughs. “I don't like him and he doesn't like me unless it is to tease me. The relationship I have with him is the same I have with any other teammate.”

“If you say so…”

“Yes, I do. So stop imagining things.”

“Ok, ok…” he says. “But if there isn't anything going on between you two, then you won't mind if I go and ask him out, will you?”

“No, I won't” Pedri says. Though he does mind. Because if for some reason Ferran says yes, they go out and things work out between them, seeing one of his best friends dating the guy he likes won't be easy. At all.

“Then I'm gonna go shoot my shot. Wish me luck, bro” Eric says, getting up from the cooler where they both were sitting.

“Good luck” Pedri mutters while hating himself. Why can't he be as brave as Eric and be the one asking Ferran out? Why does he have to be such a coward? Why… “Urgh” he groans, picking a ball to have something to focus on that isn't Eric and what he is about to do.

━━━━━━❃━━━━━━

“Is Flick's handwriting that bad?”

“Uh?” Ferran says, looking up from the papers on his hands.

“That” Eric says, pointing at them. “I saw you reading that with the gaffer. Did he write it?”

“Oh, no. I did.”

“What?”

“It is a gym plan I made for myself to help me improve on some things.”

“Wait a minute… You can't understand your own writing?” he says, trying his best to not laugh.

“I can't, no” Ferran sighs.

“Wow” Eric chuckles.

“Yeah, well. Can I help you with anything?”

“You definitely can” he smiles. “Are you free tomorrow?”

“I… yes. Why?”

“Well, a friend of mine just opened a new restaurant and he has been asking me to go pay him a visit, so I was wondering if you would like to come check it with me.”

“Eric, are you asking me to go on a date with you?” Ferran says, arching an eyebrow.

“I am, yes.”

“Oh, wow” he laughs. “That was a very confident answer, you know? I've liked it. The others usually start mumbling when I ask them.”

“The others aren't me” he shrugs. “So, would you like to accompany me to my friend’s restaurant? We can first have a drink and then have dinner.”

“I…” Ferran says, looking past him at where Pedri is. If only he was the one asking him out…

Since he had signed for Barcelona, basically everyone in the team had tried to make a move with him. Everyone but Pedri, the one Ferran he had a connection with. The one he liked and that sometimes made him feel and especially behave like a teenager around his crush. Like when he teases him just to have his attention and make him laugh or smile.

Because he's cute and hot all at the same time, nice, funny, hearing him talk with that Canarian accent of his makes him swoon, they get along quite well, are comfortable with and around each other… Though maybe not as comfortable as Ferran thinks since Pedri doesn't seem to care about Eric asking him out, something he definitely knows is happening because he saw them talking together and looking his way before he came. So maybe he should stop wasting his time waiting for him and just say yes to one of the other boys since he doesn't seem to care. Or maybe he should be the one asking him out, the one making the first move. Maybe…

“You…” Eric says, bringing Ferran back to the real world.

“Ok.”

“What?”

“I'll go on a date with you” Ferran says, not quite believing the words that are leaving his mouth.

“Wait, really?”

“Yes, really. We can meet tomorrow after training, first go have that drink and then dinner. Though you are driving, your car is nicer than mine.”

“Yes, of course! Great” he smiles. “Great! Tomorrow after training, then?”

“Tomorrow after training” Ferran repeats more to himself than to Eric.

“Cool. Ok” he says, his smile even wider as he walks back to join the others. To join Pedri, who quickly looks away when he notices Ferran is looking at him.

━━━━━━❃━━━━━━

“God, Eric. Do you really need to wear so much perfume?”

“Of course I do. I must look my best for my date” he smiles.

“Smelling as if you’ve showered in perfume isn't looking your best.”

“If you are jealous just say it, Pedro” he smirks.

“I'm not jealous” Pedri replies, focusing on tying up his shoes. But he is. Of course he is jealous.

To his surprise and everyone's in the changing room, Ferran had said yes to going out with Eric. And judging by what he had been implying while telling the others about his date, he was planning on also ending the night with him. So if he had already said yes to going out with him, who says he would not also say yes to… to…

“Enjoy your night” Pedri says, picking up his things to stop thinking about Ferran and Eric together. “And don't be a dick. He doesn't deserve it.”

“I will behave, bro. I promise you” he says while putting on even more perfume, making Pedri roll his eyes before leaving the changing room.

━━━━━━❃━━━━━━

“Oh, shit!” Ferran says after bumping into someone. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, don't worry. I… Hi.”

“Hi.”

“You look great” Pedri says, looking at Ferran from head to toe.

“Thank you” he replies, focusing on adjusting his shirt to ignore the way Pedri checking him out was making him feel. Why did he have to cross paths with him on his way to meet with Eric? Why couldn't it be someone else?

“Does wearing perfume give you a headache?”

“What?” Ferran says, the oddity of Pedri's question making him look at him. Since it is Friday and they don't play until Sunday, he hasn't shaved yet and… God. He looks so good. Someone should keep all the razors away from him.

“I just left Eric back in the changing room showering himself in perfume. I'm pretty sure I can smell it on myself” he chuckles. “So if it is something that bothers you…”

“I think I'll survive.”

“Oh. Ok. Then I… Umm…” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Enjoy your date. He's a great guy.”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah… umm… Bye” he says, walking past Ferran.

“Pedri, wait.”

“Yes?” he says behind him.

“Eric… Eric is a great guy even if he showers himself in perfume, you are right. But he… he isn't you.”

“He… what?”

“I wish it was you the one taking me on a date tonight” Ferran blurts out, still giving his back to Pedri.

“What?”

“That I…” he says, taking a deep breath before turning around to look at him. “I wish it was you, Pedri. I wish I was going out on a date with you, not Eric. Because I…” like you. Those are the words he would have said if Pedri hadn't suddenly closed the space between them and was kissing him, his hands cupping his face. Because he is kissing him. Pedri is kissing Ferran and… “Did you just bite my lip?”

“I… sorry” he says, his cheeks turning bright red while Ferran tried his best to not smile. Blushed Pedri, either during games or because of his shyness, is one of his favourite things in the world. “I just… I got carried away, I… I'm very sorry.”

“No, no, it's ok. But now I'm gonna have to bite you back” he smirks. “I've been thinking about doing it since the day I met you.”

“What?”

“You have very kissable and biteable lips, Pedri.”

“Oh, well, umm… Glad to know we have something in common” he says, the tiniest of smirks showing up on his face. “Your lips also are very kissable and biteable, you know?”

“Kind of guessed it since you just kissed me and bite me” Ferran chuckles. “But I think we have more things than that in common, you know?”

“We do?”

“Yep” he nods. “Fancy finding out about them all while having dinner?”

“Having dinner… as in a date?”

“Yes. A date. Another thing I have been wanting to do with you for a long time.”

“And another thing we have in common” Pedri chuckles. “Though I haven't been as brave as you.”

“It doesn't matter who asked who. What matters is that it is happening. Shall we?” Ferran says, putting some space between them. They were in the middle of a corridor, and anyone could see them.

“Let's go” Pedri smiles. “Though wait. What about Eric and your date with him?”

“I'll text him telling him that I'm not feeling well and that I have to cancel, don't worry.”

“Ok... I just hope he doesn't get mad at me when he finds out the truth. He's one of my best friends.”

“I’m sure he won’t” Ferran says. “Because don't ask me why… but I have the feeling everything is going to be alright.”

And the thing is… that he wasn't wrong. Because as they would find out months later when they make it official that they are dating, there had been someone watching everything that had happened between him and Pedri on that corridor. Someone who had only asked Ferran out hoping that it would make him and Pedri stop being two cowards and finally make a move. Someone who was smiling from ear to ear as he watched them walk together and leave to go on their first date.

Someone, who wasn't other than Eric.

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