#steel haze (where truths meet)

[eclipsemeteor]

Every recent edit of Armored Core 6 gameplay against Rusty in Ortus with the new Steel Haze (Where Truths Meet) song has had most people time the tempo change to his second phase

Like, Rusty is THAT guy and Where Truths Meet is THAT song remix So cool

[brainrotss]

NEVER LOVE AN ANCHOR. jason todd.

☆ pairing — ex boyfriend! jason todd x ex vigilante! fem reader | angst

summary ☆ In the smoky haze of a downtown nightclub, you’ve built a new life far from the rooftops and shadows of your vigilante past—a life where the glittering stage offers control, certainty, and the promise of another tomorrow. But when Jason Todd, the ex-lover who begged you to walk away from it all, shows up in the private room Bruce Wayne reserved, the fragile balance of your world begins to crack. Jason isn’t surprised by your new path—it fits your history, your love of the stage—but his frustration and lingering feelings force you both to confront the choices that tore you apart. As old wounds resurface and unspoken truths linger, you’re left questioning whether the freedom you’ve found is enough to keep the ghosts of your past at bay. wc ☆ 3k

The air in the club was thick with smoke and heat, the kind of atmosphere that clung to your skin like a second layer. It was always like this—neon lights splashing over bodies, music that seemed to bypass the ears and hammer straight into the chest. You knew the rhythms of this place as intimately as you’d once known the cold steel of a grappling hook or the weight of Kevlar pressing into your ribs.

Bruce was waiting, as he always was, in the far corner of the room. He didn’t look out of place, not exactly—men like Bruce Wayne never did—but there was a severity to him that the club couldn’t soften. He was all sharp angles and unreadable eyes, his suit too crisp for a place like this, his presence an accusation in itself.

You spotted him before he saw you, and for a moment, you hesitated, letting your gaze flick over him. No doubt he was here for his usual check-in, his thinly veiled attempt at making sure you hadn’t spiraled into something worse than this. But there was nothing worse than this, was there? At least, that’s what they’d all think.

They didn’t understand, and you had no interest in explaining.

You approached him with a slow, deliberate gait, hips swaying to the bassline, a cigarette perched between your fingers. Bruce didn’t react until you slid into his lap, resting a hand on his shoulder as if you belonged there.

“Is it time for our monthly meeting, Bruce?” you asked, voice low, words syrupy-smooth and cutting all at once.

His lips tightened, a flicker of disapproval in his eyes that you found, to your amusement, endlessly satisfying. “Not this time,” he replied.

You leaned in closer, your breath brushing his ear as you whispered, “Hopefully something pleasurable.”

He didn’t answer, just inclined his head slightly toward the back. The room he always reserved. His usual wordless command. You pushed yourself off his lap with a languid grace, flicking the cigarette into a nearby ashtray before walking away.

The private room was quieter than the rest of the club, the music muted to a faint vibration through the walls, but the tension in the air was suffocating. Jason was standing there, leaning against the far wall, his arms crossed in a way that seemed designed to stop him from punching something—or someone.

You let the door click shut behind you and leaned against it, one brow arched in a way that dared him to speak first. When he didn’t, you smirked, tilting your head.

“Funny, I thought Bruce was the one keeping tabs on me. Didn’t realize you’d taken up the hobby.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jason said, his voice low but steady, his eyes narrowing.

“I work here,” you replied flatly. “Or is that not obvious?”

“Don’t,” he snapped, stepping forward. “Don’t act like this is normal.”

“Who said it was normal?” you shot back, lifting an eyebrow. “Look, I’m fine, Jason. Thriving, even. I’ve got a steady job, my own place—” You stopped yourself there. He didn’t need to know about Roy. That wasn’t part of this conversation.

Jason scoffed, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “You call this thriving?”

You shrugged, your lips curling into a sharp smile. “I get paid. I know I’ll wake up tomorrow and come back. No masks, no blood, no wondering if tonight’s the night I don’t make it home. So yeah, I call this thriving. It’s not much, but it’s mine.”

“Y/N,” he said, his voice softening just enough to cut deeper, “you’re better than this.”

“Oh, spare me the bullshit, Jason,” you snapped, your voice sharp enough to pierce through his quiet concern. “I gave up the vigilante life, just like you begged me to. I got out. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“This isn’t what I wanted,” he said, stepping closer, his eyes blazing. “I didn’t want you to—” He stopped, dragging a hand through his hair, frustration etched into every line of his face. “Bruce is using you. You know that, right?”

“Bruce doesn’t use anyone who doesn’t want to be used,” you said coolly, though there was a faint flicker of something in your chest—a memory you didn’t want to revisit.

Jason laughed, short and bitter. “Yeah? And what’s he giving you in return?”

“Peace of mind,” you said simply. “Which is more than I ever had when I was running rooftops and getting shot at with you.”

That hit harder than you expected it to, his jaw tightening as his shoulders sagged slightly. For a moment, he looked almost small, and that scared you more than anything else.

“I just don’t want to see you like this,” he said quietly.

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance as you moved past him to the small bar in the corner, pouring yourself a glass of water. “Not my problem if you can’t handle it. You’re the one who showed up here, uninvited, might I add.”

“And you’re living with Roy?” he asked, his voice clipped, bitter.

The glass stopped halfway to your lips. For a moment, you didn’t react, didn’t even blink. Then, slowly, you took a sip and set the glass down, turning to face him with a smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“What of it?” you said coolly, crossing your arms.

Jason’s expression darkened, his frustration boiling just beneath the surface. “So that’s it? You trade in the mask for… this?” He gestured vaguely as if the room itself were an accusation. “And Roy gets to swoop in and play house?”

You laughed, the sound sharp and bitter. “Oh, is that what this is about? You’re jealous?”

“I’m not jealous,” Jason snapped, his voice rising. “I’m pissed. Roy—he’s a good guy, sure, but he’s not—”

“He’s not you?” you finished, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Well, thank God for that.”

Jason flinched, just barely, but you saw it, and for a fleeting moment, you almost regretted saying it. Almost.

“What I do and who I live with is none of your business,” you continued, your tone icy now. “You don’t get to waltz back into my life and act like you have a say. Not after—” You stopped yourself, clenching your jaw.

“Not after what?” Jason pressed, his voice softer now, but no less insistent.

You turned away, pretending to adjust the straps of your outfit, anything to avoid meeting his eyes. “Not after you begged me to give it all up,” you said finally, your voice quieter but no less sharp. “You wanted me out of the game, Jason. Out of the danger. You didn’t care what that meant for me, as long as I was safe. Well, congratulations. I’m safe. I’m alive. And if Roy’s couch is where I crash at night, so be it. At least I know I’ll wake up tomorrow and make it to work.”

Jason stared at you, his expression unreadable, his lips pressed into a thin line. “And this is what you call living?” he asked, his voice heavy with disbelief.

“It’s better than dying,” you shot back, your eyes blazing as you turned to face him again. “Better than wondering if tonight’s the night I don’t come home. Better than feeling like every step I take is just one more toward the grave. Do you think I like this? That I dreamed of spending my nights dancing for tips and dodging pitying looks from men like you? No. But at least I know I’ll survive it. Can you say the same about your life?”

Jason didn’t respond, his shoulders sagging slightly as he exhaled, his anger deflating into something closer to despair.

“I didn’t want this for you,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Well, tough,” you replied, stepping closer, your voice steady and cold. “Because this is who I am now. And if you can’t handle that, you’re welcome to leave. But don’t you dare stand here and act like you care. Not when you’re the one who pushed me into this life.”

Jason’s gaze dropped to the floor, and for a moment, he looked almost vulnerable, almost broken. But you didn’t soften. You couldn’t. Not now.

“And as for Roy,” you added, your tone cutting, “he’s got nothing to do with you. He’s there when I need him, which is more than I can say for you. So unless you’ve got something useful to say, I suggest you go back to whatever rooftop you crawled down from and leave me the hell alone.”

You didn’t wait for his response. You turned on your heel and walked out, the sound of your heels clicking against the floor echoing behind you. And for the first time in a long time, you felt a sense of certainty. This life might not have been what you wanted, but it was yours. And for now, that was enough.

The club was quieter when you stepped back onto the floor, the thrum of the bass no longer rattling through your chest. It wasn’t as late as you thought it was, but the room had already begun to empty, leaving the stragglers and the desperate to haunt the barstools. You spotted Bruce right where you’d left him, still poised like he owned the place, even if he’d never admit to frequenting it.

Jason’s presence lingered behind you like an unwelcome shadow, but you ignored it, pushing forward, your steps purposeful. Whatever that encounter had been—anger, guilt, whatever emotion he thought he could leverage to pull you back into his orbit—you weren’t going to let it shake you.

You approached Bruce with the same swaying grace you’d used earlier, though now it was sharper, more pointed. Sliding into the booth opposite him, you leaned on your elbows, your lips tugging into a dry, knowing smile.

“Was this part of the plan?” you asked, pulling a cigarette from a nearby tray, lighting it and taking a slow drag.

Bruce didn’t look at you at first, his gaze following the faint smoke trail curling above your head. “He was concerned.”

You laughed, a short, sharp bark of amusement. “Concerned? Is that what we’re calling it now? Funny how everyone’s concern only shows up when I finally find a place I fit.”

Bruce finally looked at you, his expression as unreadable as always, though there was the faintest furrow between his brows. “You think you fit here?”

“Better here than there,” you said simply, shrugging as you exhaled a cloud of smoke. “At least here, I know I’ll live to see tomorrow. That’s more than I could ever say when I was running rooftops with either of you.”

Bruce didn’t answer, and you didn’t need him to. His silence was its own kind of acknowledgment, a quiet acquiescence to your stubbornness. You sighed, leaning back and crossing your legs, the picture of defiant ease.

“See you next week, Bruce,” you said, sliding out of the booth before he could respond. “Don’t forget to reserve the room. You know how I hate to be kept waiting.”

You didn’t look back as you walked away, though you felt his eyes on you, heavy with thoughts he’d never say aloud.

The next week came quicker than you expected, the rhythm of your life falling back into its familiar patterns. Work was work, and Bruce’s presence was just another part of it, like the lights or the music. When he arrived, you didn’t hesitate, slipping into his lap as if you’d always been there, whispering teasing remarks into his ear that he didn’t bother to deflect.

What you didn’t see—what you couldn’t have known—was Jason.

He was in the shadows, just as he’d always been, a silent observer watching the two of you from a distance. He hadn’t planned to come back, but something had gnawed at him all week, something he couldn’t shake. It wasn’t just the way you’d dismissed him so easily, though that stung more than he wanted to admit. It was Bruce.

The way you laughed, low and throaty, as you leaned into Bruce, your hand trailing casually over his shoulder. The way Bruce, ever the stoic, let you. There was something there, something Jason couldn’t ignore.

And when you left the table with Bruce, disappearing into the private room without a backward glance, Jason followed.

He didn’t go in—he wasn’t that bold, not yet—but he hovered just outside, his jaw tight, his hands clenched into fists.

Inside, your laughter was muffled, but he could still hear it, along with Bruce’s low, measured tones. Whatever you were to each other—friends, allies, something more—it was clear he’d been shut out of a world you’d built without him.

And it hurt.

Jason stormed into the study at Wayne Manor that evening, his boots loud against the wooden floor. Bruce was already there, seated in his armchair, a glass of scotch in hand, his expression unreadable as always. It irritated Jason to no end—the way Bruce could remain so calm, so detached, even when everything felt like it was on fire.

"You knew I was there," Jason said, his voice low but tight, anger simmering just beneath the surface.

Bruce didn’t even flinch. He took a slow sip of his scotch, set the glass down on the table beside him, and finally looked up. "Yes."

Jason scoffed, running a hand through his hair as he began to pace. "And you’re just fine with it? Fine with her throwing herself into this… this life?"

Bruce leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in that maddeningly composed way of his. "She’s not throwing herself into anything, Jason. She made a choice."

"A choice?" Jason turned on him, his voice rising. "This isn’t a choice, Bruce. This is—this is her settling. You’ve seen her! She’s better than this. She deserves—"

"She deserves to live her life the way she sees fit," Bruce interrupted, his voice calm but firm, cutting through Jason’s tirade like a blade. "And that’s exactly what she’s doing."

Jason stopped pacing, glaring at him. "And you’re part of that life now? You, of all people? Don’t you think it’s a little—"

"A little what, Jason?" Bruce leaned forward now, his tone sharper, his gaze pinning Jason in place. "A little inappropriate? A little manipulative? Because if that’s what you’re implying, you’re wrong."

Jason shook his head, his hands balling into fists. "You don’t get it, Bruce. She’s not thinking clearly."

"she’s thinking just fine," Bruce said evenly. "Better than fine, actually. She’s found a way to live without looking over her shoulder every night, without worrying whether she’ll wake up the next day. We can’t say the same."

Jason flinched at that, his jaw tightening. "She’s not supposed to be like this," he muttered, more to himself than to Bruce.

Bruce sighed, standing and walking over to Jason. He placed a hand on his shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind. "Jason, you left her. Whatever guilt you’re carrying about that, you need to let it go. She’s moved on. She’s found a life that works for her. You don’t have to understand it, but you do have to respect it."

Jason pulled away, shaking his head. "You don’t get it, Bruce. I—" He stopped, biting back the words he didn’t want to say.

Bruce didn’t press him. Instead, he walked back to his chair, picking up his scotch again. "She meets with me because she chooses to, Jason. I don’t force her, and I certainly don’t manipulate her. I won’t believe that you’ll discredit either of us for that."

Jason stared at him for a long moment, his chest heaving with barely contained frustration. Finally, he turned toward the door, his voice bitter as he said, "She deserves better than both of us, Bruce."

Bruce didn’t argue. Instead, he simply said, "Then maybe it’s time you trusted her to figure out what ‘better’ means for herself."

Jason paused at the doorway, his head hanging low, but he didn’t turn back. "You always have a way of making it sound like you’re right," he muttered, and with that, he was gone, leaving Bruce alone in the quiet of the study.

The door to the study swung shut behind Jason with a thud, leaving Bruce alone in the stillness. He stood there for a moment, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, watching the ripples settle. It wasn’t like Jason to retreat without having the last word—this was different. Bruce knew that tone in Jason’s voice, the frustration and the hurt he wouldn’t name.

Sinking back into his chair, Bruce took a slow sip of his scotch and allowed himself a rare moment of reflection. Jason’s words lingered, biting at the edges of his thoughts.

"She deserves better than both of us."

Jason didn’t know. He didn’t see what those meetings actually were—what they had always been.

Bruce let out a low sigh, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stared at the glass in his hand. You had chosen this life for yourself, yes, but your meetings with him were nothing like Jason imagined. There was no coercion, no strings attached, no sordid arrangements cloaked in dim lighting and shadows.

What Jason couldn’t understand—because he never asked—was that those meetings were just that: meetings.

When you slid into the booth across from Bruce or greeted him with your dry, teasing smile, it wasn’t about anything Jason would have assumed. You would talk—sometimes at length, sometimes in quiet bursts of conversation peppered with your usual biting humor. You’d ask about Wayne Enterprises, throwing in snide comments about the "corporate oligarch" sitting before you, but your questions were genuine. You wanted to know how things were going, what challenges the company faced, and how he was handling the relentless demands of his double life.

In turn, Bruce would ask about you. He’d ask about the club, your coworkers, and whether you felt safe. Sometimes, if the mood struck, he’d ask about the books he remembered you mentioned you were reading. And always, always, he’d ask about your well-being.

You never lied to him. If you were tired, you said so. If something had gone wrong at the club or with a customer, you told him. And sometimes—on rare, fleeting occasions—you’d let your guard down just enough to talk about the things that truly mattered, the things you didn’t admit to anyone else.

Jason didn’t know that the only thing exchanged in those private rooms was conversation. No physicality, no power plays—just two people finding solace in each other’s company even it’s just for an hour.

Bruce set the glass down and leaned back in his chair, his expression settling into something unreadable. Jason always assumed the worst because Jason’s mind was wired that way, a defense mechanism from years of betrayal and loss. Bruce didn’t fault him for it, but he wished, for once, Jason would ask instead of accuse.

You had made your choice to leave the vigilante life behind. And while Jason might have thought it was a fall from grace, Bruce could see it for what it really was: your way of taking control of your life, on your terms.

Jason didn’t understand yet, but maybe, with time, he would. Until then, Bruce will continue to meet with you as long as you choose to show up. Not because he needed you, but because he respected the person you’d become—a person strong enough to face the world without the mask. Something he was still unsure if he could achieve. 

He took another sip of scotch, letting the warmth spread through his chest. There would be no forcing your hand, no veiled attempts to pull you back into the life you’d left behind. You’d meet with him as long as you wanted to, and when you didn’t, he’d respect that, too.

Jason would never say it out loud, but his presence at the club last night wasn’t just about you. It was about him, about the guilt he carried for leaving, the ache of seeing someone he loved move on without him. Bruce knew that ache well—it was the same one he carried for every person who’d ever walked away from him.

The study was silent again, the only sound the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth. Bruce let his thoughts drift as he leaned back, knowing that, in the end, you would make your own choices. And he would let you—because that was the only way any of you could move forward.

[sturnswrites]

guarded hearts - pt.6

fratboy!chris x fem!reader

⤳ you meet chris while working on a class project, your personalities are very different but chris is determined to get you out of your shell.

⤳angst, heartbreak 

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

It’s been a month. Thirty excruciating days since Chris walked away. You’ve counted every single one.

You thought time would dull the ache, that each passing day would hurt a little less, but it hasn’t. The nights are the worst—lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every word you said to each other that night. The good moments haunt you more than the bad ones: the way his smile lit up the room, the way he made you feel like maybe you weren't so broken after all.

But now, the apartment feels emptier than ever. Even when your roommates try to cheer you up, you’re a shadow of yourself, going through the motions of your day while carrying a weight you can’t seem to shake.

You avoid the places you know he might be. His frat house feels like forbidden territory now, a place where you once felt welcome but now only imagine his absence. Even walking down the hall of your building feels like walking a tightrope, terrified you’ll run into him.

And yet, you crave it.

The thought of seeing him again—his messy hair, his hesitant smile—sends your heart racing, equal parts hope and dread. But he doesn’t text. He doesn’t call. He’s gone, and you’re left trying to pick up the pieces of yourself he didn’t mean to shatter.

You tell yourself you're better off. That you don’t need someone who doesn’t have the guts to fight for you. And yet, when you pass by his door in your building or hear his name in passing, your chest tightens like it’s been caged in steel.

“Y/N,” your roommate Emma says one night, breaking through my haze. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself. You have to move on.”

“I’m trying,” you whisper, but the truth is, you don’t know how.

-

Chris’s POV

It’s been a month. Thirty goddamn days since I last saw her.

And every single one of them has been hell.

I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was protecting her by walking away. But now, as I sit alone in my room, the silence is unbearable. The sound of her laugh, the way her eyes lit up when she let herself trust me for just a moment—it’s all I can think about.

The guys notice I’m not myself. Matt corners me in the kitchen one night.

“Dude, what’s your deal?” he asks, leaning against the counter with a beer in hand.

“I’m fine,” I lie, staring at the floor.

“No, you’re not,” he presses. “You haven’t been to a party in weeks, and you’re walking around like someone kicked your dog. What’s going on?”

I hesitate, but the words spill out before I can stop them. “I messed up, Matt. I messed everything up with her.”

“Y/N?” he asks, his tone softening.

I nod, running a hand through my hair. “I thought I was doing the right thing, you know? She’s been through so much, and I didn’t want to hurt her.”

“So, you hurt her anyway?” Matt’s voice is blunt, but not unkind.

“I didn’t mean to,” I say, my throat tightening. “I thought she’d be better off without me. But now… now I don’t know how to live without her.”

Matt sighs, shaking his head. “You’re an idiot, man. If you really care about her, you need to fix this. Sitting here moping isn’t going to help anyone.”

-

It happens on a Wednesday, late afternoon, as you step into the elevator in our building. You’re juggling your tote bag, your phone, and a coffee that’s already gone cold, your thoughts drifting as the doors slide shut.

Then, at the last second, they reopen—and Chris steps inside.

Your breath catches.

He freezes for a moment, his eyes locking with yours. He looks different—tired, like he hasn’t slept much. There’s a hesitation in his posture, a vulnerability you’ve never seen before.

“Hey,” he says, his voice soft, unsure.

“Hi,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

The elevator doors close, and you’re plunged into an unbearable silence. Your heart pounds as you stand there, hyper-aware of his presence just feet away. The air feels heavy, thick with everything you two are not saying.

You don’t know what you want to say to him. Part of you wants to scream, to demand answers. Another part wants to break down and beg him to tell you why he left, why he gave up on you. But you say nothing, and neither does he.

When the doors open on your floor, you step out quickly, your legs shaking. You don’t look back, even though you can feel his eyes on you.

Later that night, as you sit on your bed, replaying the encounter over and over, there’s a knock at the door.

You freeze.

“Y/N,” Emma calls out from the living room, her voice tinged with uncertainty. “It’s for you.”

Your heart races as you stand and make my way to the door. You don’t need to ask who it is.

Chris is standing in the hallway, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, neither of you say anything.

“I need to talk to her,” he says, his voice low, almost pleading.

Emma steps between us, her arms crossed protectively. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Chris.”

“Please,” he insists, glancing past her at you. “Just five minutes.”

“Y/N, do you want me to tell him to leave?” Emma asks, turning to you. Her voice is firm, ready to defend you, but there’s a flicker of hesitation in her eyes.

You hesitate, torn between the walls you’ve built and the part of you that still aches for him. Your throat tightens, and you manage to choke out, “I don’t know.”

Chris’s face falls, but he doesn’t move. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he says softly. “I just… I need to talk to you.”

Emma turns back to him. “She’s been through enough, Chris. I don’t think you should—”

“Emma,” you interrupt, your voice shaking. “It’s okay.”

Her eyes search yours, as if trying to gauge whether you mean it. Finally, she steps aside, giving him one last warning glance before retreating into the apartment.

Chris takes a tentative step forward, but you hold up a hand. “Not here,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

He stops in his tracks, his expression torn between hope and regret. “Okay,” he says, his voice breaking slightly. “Whenever you’re ready.”

But the truth is, you don’t know if you’ll ever be ready.

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

@mattsdillon @hesvoid3434 @admeliora94 

[thyras]

→ of the rings of power

PAIRING → halbrand | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 5k words

SERIES → of sauron & the moriquendi

WARNINGS → canon divergence

SUMMARY → you have the means to save your people, but can you grapple with what that might mean?

AUTHORS NOTE → so there is MASSIVE canon divergence in this part, it will be righted in the end but I just wanted to clarify this going forward. it needed to be done for the sake of what I have planned. also I had to split up this part because it was already 10k words and I doubt y'all wanted to read all that lol 💕

PARTS → one // two // three // four // five // six // seven // eight // ten

“Why am I not surprised?” Gil-galad said, his voice cool and cutting, as you and Galadriel ascended the grand stone steps where he and Elrond stood, framed by the soft golden haze of Lindon’s light. The words hung in the air like an unsheathed blade, gleaming and poised to strike. You swallowed hard against the weight of them, your breath catching at the implication. Your secret—the delicate web of silence you had spun—was unraveling strand by strand.

Galadriel strode beside you, her expression as poised and inscrutable as ever. She knew who he was. She had peered into the shadow he cast but had yet to see how deeply you were entwined with him. The truth, terrible and unrelenting, thudded against your ribs, a drumbeat that would not let you rest.

Yet you could not lie to your High King. Though you had bristled at his decisions, and his ambitions chafed against your own convictions, the ancient bond of elven loyalty coursed through your veins like an unbroken chain. To deceive him would be to sever a part of yourself. And yet… you already had.

The lies you had spun were not mere words but deeds—a betrayal that had cracked like thunder across the Ages, leaving wounds that bled into the present. You had sacrificed two of the most precious things you possessed, binding them into a cause you believed would shield your people. And then Elrond, with his clear eyes and resolute heart, had taken them and fled, not out of spite but duty. A duty you could not begrudge him. He, too, sought to preserve what little hope remained.

You reached the summit of the steps, and together you bowed low before the High King. The light of the sun bathed Gil-galad in gold, and his gaze, sharp as tempered steel, seemed to pierce the very fabric of your being. Galadriel spoke, her voice steady and measured despite the storm brewing in the space between you all.

“High King,” she began, her words cutting through the rush of blood pounding in your ears.

You kept your head bowed, unwilling to meet his eyes. When Galadriel rose, so did you, though your movements were slower, your body heavy with dread. For a moment, you dared glance at Elrond, his expression unreadable as stone. Your own gaze, pained and pleading, went unanswered.

“Herald Elrond carries three Rings,” Galadriel continued, but before she could finish, the words spilled from your own lips.

“A means of halting the fading and saving our people,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute as your eyes finally met Gil-galad’s. His gaze bore into yours with an intensity that made your chest constrict. He already suspected, you realized. He would not stop until he unearthed the truth, no matter how deeply you had buried it.

“We will discuss the Rings,” he said, his voice hardening, “once one of you answers the question.”

You saw Galadriel falter under the weight of his scrutiny, her usual composure fracturing like ice under pressure. You clenched your hands, clasping them tightly to stop their trembling.

“Elrond just informed me, Lady Galadriel, that this Halbrand is not who he claimed to be,” Gil-galad continued, his voice rising like a storm. His gaze swept over the two of you, thunderous and unyielding. “Yet you chose to withhold this knowledge. From him, from Lady Thilwen, and from Celebrimbor. Why?” He paused, his piercing eyes locking onto you. “Though by the look on your face, Lady Thilwen, it seems you know the answer to my question.”

Your breath hitched as his words struck home, and you dropped your gaze to your hands. The truth burned within you, a flame you could neither extinguish nor control. You could feel Galadriel’s eyes on you now, sharp and questioning, as if she believed you still unaware of the depths of the deception. But how could you be?

Your heart beat to the rhythm of his. Even now, under Lindon’s radiant light, you felt his presence, a dark tendril reaching for you across the expanse. He pulled at you, whispered promises of healing, of restoration. But you knew better. You had seen the fire smoldering in his eyes, the hunger for power masked by righteousness. He would take the Rings and twist their light to shadow, bending them to his will.

“I do,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. The Sindarin words tasted bitter on your tongue, and you dared not lift your eyes.

“Who is he?” Gil-galad demanded, his tone unrelenting.

“He is not who we thought,” Galadriel interjected, her voice softer now, tinged with an emotion you could not place. Your eyes met hers for a fleeting moment, and in that shared glance, you found a fragile thread of solidarity—two hearts bruised by the same cruel deception.

Gil-galad shook his head, his patience fraying. “Why do you dance around the truth?”

“High King,” you said in Sindarin, the words flowing from you like a prayer. “You must believe she would never knowingly endanger our kind.” The lie came easily, though it left a bitter ache in its wake. For you could no longer say the same of yourself.

Even now, his presence seeped into your mind, his voice a song you longed to answer. But you would not. You could not. Whatever love you had borne for him, whatever thread still tied your fëar to his, you could not let him have the Rings. Not now. Not ever.

You had already betrayed your people once. You would not do so again.

“I will believe you when I no longer see the lie behind your eyes,” Gil-galad said, his voice sharp as flint, cutting through the growing tension like a blade. His gaze bore into you with an unrelenting weight, and you felt yourself crumbling under the combined force of his scrutiny and Galadriel’s silent grief. The weight of your secret, heavy and jagged, pressed against your chest, and for a moment you thought you might drown in it.

“Now,” he demanded, his voice colder still, “who is this Man?”

“He is no Man,” Galadriel began, her voice calm yet strained, like the taut string of a bow about to snap. But your attention wavered, your focus shifting past the High King’s piercing stare to Elrond, standing just beyond him. You watched as the realization dawned in his eyes, subtle but unmistakable. He knew now. He understood.

Galadriel’s words continued, unspooling like a thread unraveling from a tapestry. “He has been… masquerading as one. Appearing in fair form, to hide his true self.”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat growing tighter with each word. The guilt surged through you, a tempest rising in your mind, and for just a moment, your defenses faltered.

And that was all the opening he needed.

“Y/n,” his voice breathed against your ear, low and honeyed, wrapping around you like the velvet caress of shadow. The sound of your birth name on his lips froze the blood in your veins, chilling you to your core. He always wielded it like a weapon, a sharpened dagger aimed at the heart. He used it when he wanted to break you, to remind you of the bond that bound you to him like chains.

“You are going to have to tell them at some point,” he murmured, his voice dripping with malice and cruel amusement. The words coiled around your mind like smoke, suffocating and inescapable. “And they will chastise you.”

The air seemed to thin, your breath hitching as his presence grew heavier. You could feel the brush of his lips, not physical but ghostly and invasive, curling at the shell of your ear. “Exile you… And then where will you go, hmm?” he taunted, his voice dipping into a low growl. “You’ll come crawling back to me.”

Tears burned at the edges of your vision, spilling hot and unchecked down your face. You fought against the tremor in your hands, against the shadowy hold that wrapped around your throat, his touch intangible but no less suffocating. You could feel him trace the lines of your strained neck, his presence as real as the pounding of your heart.

Across from you, Elrond’s sharp eyes locked on yours. Concern flickered across his face, mingled with wariness. He could see the turmoil in you, the raw emotion that had taken hold. He did not understand its source, but you knew he saw enough to know something was deeply wrong.

“Get out of my head,” you hissed, your voice trembling but defiant, throwing the words like a lifeline into the void where his presence lingered.

“Only when you stop letting me in, divine,” he purred, his voice laced with mockery and sweetness that made you want to scream. His ghostly fingers brushed over your lips, teasing and cruel, before his presence faded like the last whisper of a dying breeze.

And just like that, he was gone—for now. The air around you felt lighter, though the ache in your chest lingered like the phantom grip of his hand around your throat.

You wiped at your face quickly, forcing yourself to stand straighter, to steel your composure. But as you turned your attention back to Galadriel, the words you had been dreading fell from her lips like a death knell.

“He is Sauron.”

The silence that followed was deafening, as though the world itself recoiled at the revelation. You felt the weight of it crash over you, an unrelenting tide pulling you under. And though you had known it was coming, the truth spoken aloud struck like a hammer, reverberating through the hearts of those around you.

Gil-galad stood unmoving, his face a mask of unreadable stone, but Elrond’s expression was a different story. His gaze shifted between you and Galadriel, his disbelief and horror plain as the rising moon.

And you? You stood there trembling, your nails biting into your palms as you fought to hold the walls of your mind upright, to keep him from seeping through the cracks once more. Your truth, your shame, and your devotion to him clung to you like chains, binding you to a shadow you could never truly escape.

“Let me speak with him first,” you said, your voice steady despite the unease twisting in your chest. Gil-galad, who had begun to swing his leg over his mount, paused at your words, then settled back into his saddle with a measured glance. His silence pressed on you like the weight of the sun at its zenith, but when he nodded, the tension eased only slightly.

After Elrond’s leap from the cliff with the Rings, chaos had followed—the frantic search, the uncertainty, the unanswered questions that hung like shadows over Lindon. While others scrambled to piece together what had happened, you had taken it upon yourself to find him. Not only because you knew him, not only because you bore the weight of responsibility, but because you understood Elrond’s heart better than most.

Galadriel might have been the wiser choice to reason with him, her words as sharp and unyielding as the swords she once wielded. Yet you knew it was not sharpness Elrond needed now. He would turn to Círdan, or to one who carried the wisdom of many long centuries, someone who could temper logic with understanding. Though impartiality was far from your grasp at this moment, you prayed the years of trust you and Elrond shared would be enough.

“Please, High King,” you implored, your voice softer now but no less resolute. “Give me a chance to reason with him.”

Gil-galad’s brows knit together for a moment, his piercing gaze weighing your request as though to test the sincerity of your motives. Finally, he inclined his head, though his tone was clipped as he replied, “Reason quickly.”

You nodded, dismounting swiftly, your shoes crunching against the gravel-strewn path. The cool breeze kissed your cheeks, but it did little to calm the heat burning within you. With each step toward the workshop, your hands twitched, your fingers curling and flexing as if they sought to grasp the right words from the air itself. You rehearsed them silently, each phrase echoing in your mind, turning over every angle, every possible reaction.

The walk stretched out before you, each step drawing you closer to the confrontation you dreaded. The road was quiet, save for the occasional whisper of wind through your hair and the gentle cresting of the waves against the shore. It gave you too much time to think—of what had led you here, of what had been lost, of the choices that had brought Elrond to this moment.

When at last you reached the door, you paused, your hand hovering over the weathered wood. You exhaled slowly, the breath trembling as it left your lips. For a moment, you closed your eyes, steadying yourself. The weight of everything unsaid pressed against your chest, but you pushed it aside.

You opened the door slowly, the hinges creaking in protest as the dim light of the workshop spilled out to meet you. The room smelled faintly of wood shavings and the salt of the nearby sea, a scent that had always brought you a sense of calm. Now, it felt hollow. Elrond sat at one of the craft tables, his back to you, his gaze fixed on the harbor beyond. The gentle lap of the water against the dock seemed almost in rhythm with his thoughts, though he made no move to acknowledge your presence.

“Elrond?” you said softly, his name slipping from your lips like a plea.

He turned slightly at the sound, just enough to glance at you from the corner of his eye. His shoulders sagged under the weight of his burden, and though his face betrayed no anger, the sorrow etched into his features made your heart ache.

“I have come to coax you out willingly,” you continued, taking a careful step forward. “Please.” You paused, your voice faltering as the enormity of the moment settled on you. “He will remove you by force if I fail to do so.”

Elrond turned away again, his gaze returning to the water. The slump of his shoulders deepened, and you knew then that he was caught in a whirlwind of regret, his mind teetering between the justification of his actions and the guilt that gnawed at him.

“Elrond, we have been friends for centuries,” you said, your voice carrying a quiet urgency. “We have worked side by side, through trials and triumphs alike.”

You stepped closer, your movements slow and deliberate, as though any sudden action might shatter what fragile thread of trust remained. When you reached the table, you noticed a cup resting in front of him, its contents nearly gone. Lowering yourself, you knelt beside the table, your hands resting lightly on its surface to steady yourself. You hoped the gesture would show him the depth of your sincerity, the desperation in your heart.

“Please,” you said again, your voice almost breaking. “I only ask you to trust us. Trust that the Rings will help us.”

Elrond finally turned to face you, his expression a storm of doubt and disappointment. His gaze bore into yours with a piercing intensity that made you falter.

“How can you trust someone who was deceived?” he asked, his voice low but firm.

The question struck you like a blow, and you felt the walls you had carefully constructed around your guilt begin to crumble. Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you hesitated. But as the silence stretched between you, you realized you could not carry this weight any longer. If there was to be any hope of mending what was broken, he had to know.

“Because I too was deceived,” you admitted, your voice trembling under the weight of the confession. Tears welled in your eyes and spilled down your cheeks as you reached for his hand, clasping it in both of yours. The warmth of his touch was a fragile, though his eyes remained cautious, guarded.

“I met him ages ago,” you began, your voice thick with emotion. “In his first fair form. My fëa sang so heavily for him, like Eru himself had woven us together, destined us to be as one.”

Elrond’s eyes narrowed, suspicion darkening his features, and he pulled his hand from yours abruptly, rising to his feet. His sudden movement startled you, and you looked up at him, the tears on your cheeks glinting in the dim light.

“I married him,” you continued, the words tumbling out now, unbidden and unstoppable. “I loved him, devoted my entire life to him. Morion was him, but back then, there was no trace of shadow in him, no hint of what he would become.”

“Thilwen,” Elrond interrupted, his voice sharp and disbelieving. “How do you think—”

“I am telling you this,” you cut him off, your voice rising in desperation, “because you need to understand how deeply I have wanted to atone for my guilt, for the ruin I helped bring to this world.” Your hands clenched into fists as you looked up at him, raw anguish written across your face. “I sheltered him for centuries, blind to the truth of what he was. And when his master returned, I was cursed—damned to never have my husband back. He burned my city to the ground in a diluted, twisted hope that Morgoth would free me.”

Elrond’s face hardened, his lips pressing into a thin line as he stared down at you. His silence was louder than any words, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and filled with quiet fury.

“How am I supposed to trust you on any subject after this?”

The words struck with the force of a hammer, and your composure shattered. The room seemed to close in around you, the walls pressing against your chest as you struggled to breathe. Yet you did not look away from him, even as your tears fell faster.

“Because,” you whispered, your voice breaking, “I have nothing left to hide.” You stood once more, your legs trembling but steady enough to hold the weight of your resolve. “I sacrificed my most cherished items to make those rings,” you said, your voice firm despite the crack of emotion that threatened to betray you. “I know in my heart that he has not corrupted them, even if they were his gifts to me.”

Elrond’s expression darkened, his sharp eyes narrowing as he took a step closer, his presence imposing though his voice remained calm, measured. “But are you?” he countered, his tone cutting through the space between you like a blade. “Is your heart still pure, or does he still hold a tight grip on that as well?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. You looked down at the stone floor, the cold surface grounding you as the memories you had tried so desperately to bury threatened to rise once more.

“I would not be telling you this if I was still tied to him,” you replied, your voice softer now, but no less resolute. Slowly, you lifted your gaze to meet Elrond’s, your eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I loved Morion, not what he became. I mourn my husband, not his shadow.”

You paused, your words sinking into the silence between you. The ache in your chest was raw, exposed, but you would not flinch from the truth. “For all intents and purposes, Elrond, my husband is dead.”

The admission left you hollow yet oddly lighter, as though speaking the words aloud had finally released some small piece of the burden you carried. Elrond’s gaze softened, though his eyes still searched yours for any flicker of doubt, any trace of the shadow you had renounced.

But there was none. Only the pain of loss, the weight of guilt, and the unyielding determination to right what you had once helped break.

“Elrond, where are the rings?” you breathed, your voice trembling with quiet urgency. You took a step closer, searching his face for any trace of honesty, any flicker of the truth he might have been concealing. But as his gaze shifted, avoiding yours, the realization struck you like a wave crashing against the shore. This had all been a stalling game—a deliberate attempt to buy time.

“Where is Círdan?” you pressed, the name sharp on your tongue as your heart began to race. The dim light of the workshop seemed to grow heavier, the air thicker, as the weight of what Elrond had not said settled over you. The faintest flicker of guilt crossed his features, a shadow too fleeting for anyone less familiar with him to catch.

Your breath quickened, dread coiling in your chest like a serpent as you turned to look out at the horizon. Whatever had been set into motion, it was already far beyond your reach.

As the ring rested at the tip of your shoe, the soft singing rose to meet your ears, weaving a melody so familiar it felt as if it were carved into the very essence of your being. The harmony resonated with your soul, a piece of the song that had first called you into existence.

You bent down, your fingers trembling as you picked it up. The silver gleamed brilliantly in your hands, its light radiant and pure. It had once been your hairpiece, a relic of your past, but now it was something far greater: the object crafted to save your people. Your heart hammered wildly in your chest, the weight of the moment pressing down on you.

The Valar had chosen you.

A creature who had once been so pure, untainted by the darkness that had swept over so many. You were of Eru’s song, created to exist in harmony, and yet your fëa was bound to the very shadow you now sought to resist. Over countless centuries, you had been tempted by that shadow, tested by its alluring whispers, and yet you had never lost the core of your elven purity.

You saw the beauty in Eru’s design, the passion and love in his song for his Quendi. But you also understood the evil that had twisted the hearts of those who had stayed behind, who had become the Moriquendi. You had never faltered in your belief that even in the darkest places, there was light. Even in shadow, beauty could be found.

Mairon had taught you that.

Though he had been a being of shadow, with you he had radiated light. The centuries you had spent together in the brilliance of his better nature had shown you this truth. And now, as you accepted the ring into your hand, the Valar had entrusted you with a sacred honor. To be the bearer of Nenya.

Your gaze shifted to Galadriel. She stood nearby, her expression a mixture of stunned awe and quiet reverence, her sharp eyes drawn to the way the ring glimmered, as though it encompassed the very light of the stars.

You slipped Nenya onto your fourth finger, letting it rest above your silver band—the one that had once brought you so much pain to even look upon. Now, it bore its delicate blue inscription anew, shimmering in harmony with Nenya’s beauty.

As the ring settled on your hand, the weight of the air around you shifted. The shadow of your curse seemed to lighten, lifting like a veil drawn back from the horizon. For the first time in an Age, there was no taunting whisper, no pull to the Void, only a profound and radiant silence.

The silver chain around your neck, once a reminder of your burden, felt lighter as well, no longer heavy with sorrow. You stepped forward, moving toward Círdan and Gil-galad with a newfound grace. The three rings began to hum in unison, their melodies weaving together, resonating with the deep song that had always sung from within your fëa.

You looked up at them, your smile soft but certain.

The light of the tree grew brighter behind you, its radiance washing over the courtyard. The once-dead leaves began to sprout anew, their golden glow flourishing with a brilliance that defied description. The air was filled with life and energy, a harmony that resonated with the essence of all creation.

You turned, your breath catching in your chest as you took in the sight. Your world—your home—was coming alive again.

A smile of pure joy spread across your lips, the first in an Age untouched by sorrow or longing. The song, the light, the life surrounding you felt like a promise fulfilled, a sign that even in the darkest times, the light would always find its way back.

As it finally had with you.

You carefully covered the seeds, your fingers pressing the soil down gently before you whispered a few soft Quenya words into the earth. Rising, you looked up at the wooden relief of Calandil etched into the tree’s bark. Your fingers brushed away a few vines that had grown over it, revealing the finely carved features of the being who had once saved you.

A fond smile touched your lips as you gazed upon the image. Calandil—the elf who had sacrificed himself so that you, his family, and others might escape the burning city.

A part of you knew, even back then, that he had always known. He had seen through Mairon’s facade, sensed the darkness lurking beneath the golden veneer. But you had been too blinded by the pull of Mairon’s fëa, too consumed by your love, to listen.

Tears welled in your eyes, but you held them back. That final moment with Calandil was forever etched into your memory: the fires consuming the city, the cacophony of screams, and his bloodied, grime-streaked face as he pressed you to leave. You had clutched at the cool metal of his armor, begging him to come with you, but he had refused, knowing his place was to buy you time.

You had never loved him the way you loved Mairon, but Calandil had shown you a kindness and devotion you could never forget. Even after all that had happened, he had stood by you, believing in you when few others did. His sacrifice would never be in vain; you had vowed it.

Your left hand rested lightly on the bark of the tree, and you spoke more words in Quenya, your voice a soft prayer. The faint chime of the ring on your finger joined the melody, and a bittersweet smile graced your lips as you leaned forward to press your forehead against the bark.

“Thank you, my old friend, for everything you did,” you whispered.

A soft creaking of the wood responded, as though the tree itself acknowledged your gratitude, and for a moment, you felt Calandil’s presence, accepting your thanks.

“Talking to the trees again?”

You turned at the sound of Elrond’s voice. He approached slowly, his face impassive, but you could sense the agitation simmering beneath the surface. He was not pleased that you had willingly accepted the ring, knowing what he now knew of your past.

“They talk to me, and I listen,” you replied with a soft smile, but Elrond did not return it. He stopped beside you, his gaze fixed on the relief carved into the tree.

The silence stretched between you until, finally, he spoke.

“If what you’ve told me is true, then you should not return to Eregion,” he said, his voice low and measured.

“But that is why I must go,” you countered without hesitation.

Elrond turned to you then, his gaze sharp as it locked with yours. “You are hardly capable of withstanding his influence, Thilwen. Your very fëa is bound to him. Willing or unwilling, he will take the ring from you.”

“Elrond,” you sighed, turning away to look at Nenya gleaming on your finger. The sight brought a lump to your throat, but you swallowed hard, your voice steady as you continued. “The ring chose me because, out of everyone in Middle-earth,” you paused, tears spilling freely now, “I am the only one he will never see betray him. I have stood loyal to him, devoted to him, for Ages.”

“And what makes you think he won’t manipulate you, twist you into giving him the power of that ring?” Elrond pressed.

You slid Nenya off your finger, and immediately, the weight of Morgoth’s curse descended upon you. Pain shot through your body, the dark tendrils spreading across your forearm like wildfire. Pulling back your sleeve, you revealed the mark to him.

“I was marked by Morgoth so that he could keep his faithful servant at his side,” you said, your voice even but laced with emotion. Elrond’s fingers hovered near the mark, hesitating as though he feared to touch it. “Sauron’s one wish in this world is to see me healed, to see his master’s curse lifted. It is what drives the very core of his being. I am his greatest weakness, and Morgoth knew that. He will not harm me if he believes I can be healed.”

“Thilwen,” Elrond sighed heavily as you slipped Nenya back onto your finger. The pain eased instantly, the tendrils receding as though the ring’s light banished them.

“You are playing a dangerous game,” he said, his voice filled with concern. “The risk is too great.”

You reached up, your hand gently brushing against Elrond’s face. “Have trust, Elrond Peredhel, for I have walked these shores longer than your ancestors have.”

A faint smile broke through his worry, and he wrapped his fingers around your wrist, steadying you. “I have trust in you, my lady, but it is him I do not trust.”

“Rightfully so,” you said softly, a wry smile touching your lips. “But how about you let me worry about that.”

Elrond chuckled lightly, his smile warm but tinged with sadness. The two of you stood in silence for a while, letting the tension ebb between you.

“We will see each other again, my friend,” you said after a time, your voice firm with quiet conviction. “I promise.”

[connorswhisk]

and so it goes (miguel o’hara x spiderman!reader)

hi note this is a fic specifically for transmasc readers. don’t come anywhere near this if you’re a cis woman. you have a million fics you can read that aren’t this one. thank you 🍻

@spokentothewoods here you go ☺️

WARNINGS: Angst, slightly sexual situations >:)

That ever-present tenseness is visible in his shoulders; in truth, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him without it, for as many years as you’ve been working with him. You’ve been working late tonight and could really use a break yourself, but with Jess away for an ultrasound, someone had to stay behind and keep an eye on Miguel.

Perhaps you volunteered for the job a tad too hastily, if the smirk Hobie had flashed in your direction was any indication, but Hobie’s always smirking at things. You’ve gotten pretty used to it.

In any case, even Margo’s signed off for the night. You know Miguel’s the Big Boss In Charge, but…couldn’t he benefit from some chill time?

“That’s it,” you say, yawning. “That’s the last of the logs done. Think I’ll turn in for the night.”

Miguel says nothing. He either is so immersed in his work that he didn’t hear you, or he’s ignoring you - both are likely in their own way.

After a moment’s more of silence, you frown, and web yourself up to his platform. He’s always brooding, that’s pretty normal, but…

Oh, you realize, because you recognize the video footage he’s watching. You’ve never seen it yourself, but you know what it is, where Miguel came from. You know why he is the way that he is.

You contemplate leaving and pretending you saw nothing, but then Miguel turns his head and fixes you with his dark, exhausted eyes, and it’s too late to act innocent.

“Sorry,” you say quietly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. You just…”

“What.” He phrases the word as a statement, not a question. “I just what.”

You sigh. “I worry about you, Miguel. I mean, when you first found me in my universe…you were sad, sure, but you weren’t this angry. I don’t know what changed, but if you ever need to talk…”

“I don’t.” His stare is fixed somewhere past your shoulder, his jaw hard as steel. “Nothing changed. I’m fine.”

“Oh, bullshit,” you tell him, and you can’t help but roll your eyes. “How long have we known each other? I know when you’re lying to me.”

Miguel shakes his head. He’s been working with Jess the longest and all the Spiders respect him as their leader, but he’s never gotten as close to anyone as he has to you. You know this because he told you so himself, a year ago when MJ was killed and you were stumbling around HQ in a haze, the big empty pit in your stomach threatening to swallow you whole.

We all lose people, he’d told you, his voice the gentlest you’d ever heard it. But we persevere. You’re strong, Y/N. You can survive this.

I bet you tell all the Spiders they’re your favorite, you’d joked half-heartedly, desolate and depressed, sure you were right. But Miguel had given you this look that had told you plainly: I am completely serious. And then he’d started to say something, stopped as if he’d thought better of himself, and swung away.

You don’t know what he’d been about to tell you…though maybe you kind of do. The pair of you have never necessarily been the emotionally vulnerable types, but the connection between you is one that cannot be denied.

“I’m fine,” he’s repeating now, still hiding from the truth. “Just tired.”

“Which is exactly why you should call it for the night. You’ve done plenty.”

“I haven’t done enough.”

“Look, just…” You exhale deeply, pull off your mask so you can meet him eye-to-eye. You don’t miss the slight change in his demeanor when you bare your face, the fleeting look of quick relief. “Do you…want a massage or something?”

He blinks. “What.”

“I asked if you wanted a - “

“I heard you.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “Ok. So? Your shoulders could really use it, dude.”

“I…” You can pinpoint the exact moment he decides to give in, posture slumped and scowl deepening. “…Fine.”

He turns back to face the screens - thankfully, the video from before is long gone. Miguel says nothing for a long time, ‘til he finally snaps, “Well?”

You lay your hands on his shoulders. You’re no trained masseuse, but your Aunt May does a wicked back rub and you’re sure you can replicate her technique, more or less. And so you try.

Are all shoulder muscles this knotted? Or is Miguel just overworking himself per usual? You’re not sure, but you press as hard as you dare, first with your fingertips, then kneading in and out with your knuckles. Miguel is silent as you work. The only sound he makes is the measured course of his breathing, up-down, up-down, up-down. You can feel it thrumming through your neurons, slow and steady.

“What, sorry?” You didn’t catch what Miguel just mumbled under his breath.

“Can you - go harder?” he repeats, practically spitting the words. He sounds as exhausted as you’ve ever heard him.

Wordlessly, you begin to apply even more pressure, and Miguel moans. You’ve never heard him make a noise like that before, and in your shock, you start and almost back away from him entirely. You manage to keep your wits, though, and you press again in the same spot, feeling the knot aching to unravel beneath his skin.

“Y/N,” he groans - but before you can begin to wrap your head around that, Miguel’s body is freezing up under your fingertips, and suddenly, he’s wrenching himself away from you.

“Woah - you ok?” You drop your hands to dangle by your hips, but you can still feel the buzz in your head, concentrated and slightly painful like a migraine, a hit off a cigarette.

“You should go,” Miguel says quietly, his back to you. “This…you should just go.”

“Ok.” You’re finding it hard to breathe, beneath all the spandex and bindings and confusion. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No.”

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

“Then what the hell is the prob - “

“GO, Y/N,” Miguel seethes, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “Just leave me alone.”

You scowl. “Fine.” Pulling your mask down over your face again, you shoot a strand of web over in the opposite direction, pull yourself through the air until you land against the wall and cling there. “Fine, Miguel. Whatever you want. As usual.”

If he looks back at you as you leave, you don’t know. At the moment, you’re too hurt and angry to waste another thought on him.

[deep--dive]

Standing in a cold place Let me know My steel core peeling away

All my blood Let me rise Rusted Pride Let me rise

High and dry I fly high Watch the sun rise in the dawn Rust away Lost to the wind Watch the sun rise in the dawn

I fly high I fly high

from Armored Core VI: Fires of Rubicon Original Soundtrack -Disk 3- (2024)

[mossyflowers]

Have you listened to Steel Haze (Where Truths Meet) from the Disc 3 of the Armored Core 6 Soundtrack?

It’s an official remix of Rusted Pride and just… wow

I HAVE !!!! IT'S SO GOOD !!!!!!!!!!!!!

[transbian-vergil]

1, 7, 17

A song I listen to for feeling better would be Steel Haze(Where Truths Meet), Rusty is my favorite AC character like many and I think his remixed theme from disc 3 is really good. It has a feel of hopeful determination in the face of overwhelming odds. I like that.

I think lavender is the color that brings me peace, but like, a lighter shade ? I think it's a soft and soothing kind of color.

Fairy lights but this is mostly because I don't really like LEDs.

[kendelion]

ah, wanderer of the digital haze, heed my call and set thy weary feet upon the ancient paths of earth. come forth, far from the click and hum of steel and stone, and walk with me into the heart of the world, where time unfurls its tapestry in the whisper of leaves. let us journey together to the shadowed forests of the cascades, where the great mountain spirits stir the air, and the trees speak in murmurs older than the stars.

there, among the towering douglas-fir, the hemlock’s ancient limbs, and the steadfast mountain ash, thou shalt find the bearer of wisdom—the humble bear grass. its blades stretch long and wiry, caressing the cool breath of the forest floor beneath it. see how it thrives in the dance of seasons, bathed in the soft light that spills through the canopy. take thy hand and let it meet these sacred leaves. feel their roughness, their strength. weave with them, as we once did, with the knowing hands of our ancestors. let the plant’s spirit enter thee, nourish thy body, and restore thy soul.

and then—ah, yes—let us honor the fire, for it is not a destroyer, but a giver. set the forest ablaze with reverence, offering the flame to the land in a sacred exchange. the fire, like the breath of the earth, will sweep across the land, renewing what was old, allowing the bear grass to rise once more in all its vitality. It shall stretch its roots deep into the earth, its rhizomes awakening, to reach for the light that once seemed distant.

i ask thee, seeker of truth, will you walk where the earth has always guided us? come, touch the true grass of the world, not the sterile lawns of those who know not the land’s language. here, in the arms of the forest, is where we are meant to be.

you've got 2 admit that the oft repeated command to "touch grass" in itself illustrates a great disconnect from the tru wholesomeness of the offline world. unless you meant a kind of wild grass, a lovely tassel cord rush or even the humble rattlesnake grass. but we know that's not what they mean. to the chronically online, grass = lawn and nothing more. and a lawn is an abomination on par with the worst brainworms big online has to offer. touching a lawn will not help you. You've got to go injure yourself on some swordgrass for god's sake

[meowzfordayz]

amid the bittersweet

Kamado Tanjirou x Reader

Word Count: ~600

CW: anxiety/panic disorder, PTSD

Emergency Request Fulfilled: So how about a Tanjiro x F!Reader where the reader has been having nightmares of exactly that and after one more that went WAY too far she decides to tell him. I‘m basically just asking for comfort in hopes that this is over soon

“Hm still ‘wake?” Tanjirou’s drowsy murmur cuts through your stillness, a clingy arm snaking around your waist, his warm nose nuzzling sleepily into the plush above your hip.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” you mutter, skin buzzing from his touches, involuntarily twitching.

Frowning slightly, he blinks more consciously, syrupy, maroon gaze trying to meet your eyes, “You didn’t,” jaw stretching as he resists yawning, “Was just my [y/n] radar going off,” offering you a small, teasing smile, “Seems unfair of me to rest while sleep eludes you.”

In truth, the muddled sour tang of fear had roused him.

“It’s fine,” you shrug, expression blank as ever, “If you’re tired, then you sleep.”

“Are you tired?” he asks pointedly, concern drip drip dripping into his tone, “We don’t have to sleep in shifts, y’know,” playful edge attempting to loosen the tightening worry at the back of his throat.

“I know,” you shrug again, nonchalant sigh hanging in the air, “It’s fine. I’ll sleep.”

“I don’t believe you,” he declares, moving to sit up, pillow propped behind him as he presses the length of his thigh against you, tension in your body obvious, “What’s on your mind?”

“On my mind?” you crack a wry smile, “Not much, no thoughts. Just sitting.”

“Okay,” he nods thoughtfully, “Well there’s plenty of bed for you to lie down too,” gently nudging you, hoping to catch a glimpse of your usual humor.

“I’ll lie down when I’m ready,” you sigh, irritation bubbling, “I’m fine. Nothing wrong with being a night owl.”

A subtle, sideways glance at the tremor in your fingers tells a different story, tension in your body nearly crackling as his firm, unconvinced voice envelops you.

“Whatever’s bothering you, it isn’t a burden for me to listen to you,” dent between his brows deepening at your shaky inhalation, continuing softly, “You aren’t a burden for me to care about.”

Silence fills the bedroom, that same muddled sourness raising goosebumps on his forearms, scent increasing in intensity and saturation as you begin curling into his chest, hiding from the sickening tenderness in his eyes. Swallowing thickly, he steels himself, willing away his own encroaching protectiveness, waiting for your response — waiting for your trust.

“I’m having nightmares,” you finally whisper, words muffled in his sternum, fixating on the rhythm of his pulse, the solidity of his posture.

“Nightmares,” he repeats. Quietly. Patiently.

“If I don’t sleep, then I can’t have nightmares,” low whimper escaping, “If I don’t sleep, then I’m safe,” biting at his skin to stifle your surging panic, “They can’t get me!” anguish swelling, “They can’t get me, they can’t get me, can’t get me,” trembling in the steadiness of his embrace Can’t get me, can’t get me, safe, safe, I’m safe…

His heart falters at your confession, stomach churning even as he does his best to remain upright and grounding, sweaty palms flat and repetitive as he strokes your back, lungs heaving with a distinct pressure. Anger. Shame. What do I do? spinning frantic for him How do I help? He isn’t sure how to tackle something he can’t see — something he can’t tangibly grasp.

“I’m here,” he promises, “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” fingertips tracing the curve of your shoulders, the shuddering of your breaths, the outline of your heartbeat, “Hey,” reassuring fondness melting into your haze of distress, “Hey,” adoring smile focusing into view as he carefully cups your jaw, loving stare settling decisive and determined, “I’m here.”

“M’exhausted,” you mumble half heartedly, eyelids drooping, “Don’t go away, okay?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” lifting the blankets for you, watching as you slowly ease yourself down, his heat following suit, frame spooned closely behind you, “I promise.”

Nightmares come and go, worsen and retreat.

But Tanjirou hardly sways, an unwavering constant amid the bittersweet.

[xzho-writes]

🌊 — SPOILERS FOR THE CHASM ARCHON QUEST !!!

okay but imagine zhongli with an s / o from khaenri'ah. someone place in a similar situation as dainslief, cursed and forced to wander teyvat after the destruction of their home. they finally decide to settle in liyue after discovering the chasm's effects on calming their curse and meets zhongli in the process.

the thing is, they have no clue he's rex lapis, simply assuming he's just some weirdo who was probably a rich kid growing up. they befriend him, grow closer, start developing feelings for him. meanwhile, zhongli is on the same boat; but he knows a khaenri'an when he sees one. he knows those eyes typical of their people better than most.

the reader and their suffering being a living reminder of what he did in the past and loving them is just painful because he feels so guilty about it. he knows you are willing, eager to pursue a romantic relationship with him and honestly, he is too. but he'd can't keep lying to you. that isn't fair, isn't right and he knows he doesn't deserve your love or affection after what he's done ( you're still suffering from the curse's effects, even now and he can see it ).

so he tells you he's rex lapis.

yes i'm evil. yes go on right ahead.

of ill-fated meetings and broken hearts

pairings: zhongli x gn!reader

genre: angst

warnings: mentions of death

a/n: CAN I JUST TELL YOU HOW MY JAW: DROPPED??? oh 🌊 nonnie, that’s so cruel of you 😭 but i love this idea! i might expand and make this a full fic (a long one at that). i’ll just write a lil snippet- the angsty moment where he reveals the truth now as a lil something to get our minds wandering :’) pls do tell me if you’d like this as a full fic!

you can find my masterlist here

(pain, suffering and spoilers utc!)

“i…” the man before you hesitates, clenching his fists tightly by his side. he breathes in slowly in an attempt to steel himself for the worst. “i am morax.”

the world seemingly twists and turns around you in a haze of disfigured shapes as you slowly bring your hand up to clutch the area around your heart, trying to quell the sudden burst of pain.

it doesn’t work. you feel as if you’ve just been shattered.

though zhongli doesn’t notice it, his breathing stills and his pulse rises with each moment of silence that passes in between the two of you.

there’s no way. it simply couldn’t be possible, right? he had to be lying.

you don’t realise the tremors wracking your body, and with each pitiful shake of your head came low moans, low sobs, of no, no, no.

a broken lament.

something familiar calls out to you but you pay it no mind. you’re far too caught up in the visions that haunt you in your dreams; images of absolute massacre, of bodies strewn across your beloved village. of the all-consuming flames that ravaged the place you once called home in its entirety.

these were the same visions that caused you such visceral pain. the whole point of choosing to live within the vicinity of the chasm was to ease such feelings of agony.

who knew that the root of all your suffering was the very man that stood just in front of you? the very man who had his hands on your swaying form- trying to prevent you from doubling over?

the person who you, dare you say it, love?

and who knew that these same hands that were soaked in the blood of an entire nation- your nation- could be so gentle, careful, as they held you?

for a moment you believe it best to turn that love, that affection, into past-tense.

but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t.

your eyes, brilliant gems that both literally and figuratively held the stars in them, glisten with the onslaught of fresh tears.

ones of grief, betrayal, and everything else in between.

and it was his fault.

his fault.

zhongli could only watch in utter remorse as you all but fell apart before him, slipping through his desperate embrace no matter how hard he tried to keep you together.

taglist

- ✦ @irethepotato , @gloomybow1 , @pinkuberii , @fiannee

published on 12/05/22

[fruitcoops]

when you get a chance, remus picking a place to have seggs, that is semi public with humor, because your humor with seggs is the best

<3

Thanks, I'm glad people were so excited about the sequel to this smut fic! Coops credit goes to @lumosinlove, of course <3

TW for semi-public smut, being walked in on (nobody sees the explicit stuff)

Remus groaned into Sirius’ neck as the fingers on his hips dug in, sending a zap of pleasure through the general haze of horniness fogging his vision. He pressed forward even harder—their chests bumped together and he could already feel the hard line of Sirius through two layers of denim against his thigh. Music pounded so loud around them that he could hardly hear a thing, but Sirius’ labored breathing audibly grew harsher and he smoothed his broad hands down to grab two handfuls of Remus’ ass.

“Home?” he asked, voice low and husky already. Remus lived for that sound, lived for the times he could rile Sirius up until the bright flashing lights and the dance floor shaking under their feet didn’t matter anymore. It wasn’t like they were the only ones grinding up against each other, either.

A yes hung on the tip of Remus’ tongue before melting into something much, much better. “No,” he answered, nuzzling the hinge of Sirius’ jaw. “No, I want to cash in my prize.”

“Your p—” Sirius faltered, then stopped rubbing up on him to meet his gaze in utter shock. “Here?”

Remus quirked an eyebrow, then glanced over at the sign for the men’s bathroom. Sirius still looked confused, so he did it again with a tug to his belt loop. “Five gold stars, baby.”

Sirius blinked at him. “Re, it’s fucking disgusting in there.”

Remus kept one hand in his waistband, but slid the other down to press gently over the bulge in his pants. “I was such a good boy for you,” he hummed. “And I thought you said I could pick.”

Someone sweaty bumped into his back, knocking them closer together—Sirius hissed through his teeth as the pressure on the outline of his dick increased. Some of the initial hesitance in his expression vanished and his pupils blew wide. “Are you sure you don’t want to do this at home?”

“Positive.”

“Lube?”

“Wallet.”

Sirius licked his lips, then narrowed his eyes playfully. “You’re not allowed to be louder than usual. Someone could possibly hear you getting your reward, ouais? Not a definite event.”

Remus felt himself throb in his tight pants and grinned. “Deal.”

Sirius started to lead him toward the bathroom, then rocked back and lowered his voice again. “And I need to wash my hands first.”

“Please do,” Remus laughed, linking their fingers to drag him through the thumping mass of people into the bathroom. It was poorly-lit and, as Sirius eloquently described, pretty fucking disgusting, but the smell wasn’t that bad and as long as only their shoes touched the floor it really didn’t matter. The first stall was marked off with an ‘out of order sign’ and the third was decidedly in the worst condition, but the second…

Remus felt a thrill spike in his stomach and he took Sirius by the elbow as he dried his freshly-washed hands on the sides of his pants. “Here,” he said before crashing their lips together and walking him backward into the stall. The door closed behind them with a creak—miracle of miracles, the lock was functional.

Sirius’ hands wove through his hair and he moaned into his mouth, slipping both hands up the front of his shirt to feel the familiar ridges of muscle. “Exhibitionist,” Sirius breathed.

“Not quite.” Remus trailed his fingers down to the front of Sirius’ pants, popping the button and zipper with little trouble. In truth, the zipper practically dropped on its own with how hard he was under it. “It’s the thought that counts.”

The stainless-steel door covered in Sharpie graffiti clanged as Sirius crowded him up against it and scraped his teeth along Remus’ lower lip; Remus hardly registered where his hands had gone before his pants were around his knees and Sirius was pawing at his thighs. “Nobody else could talk me into this,” Sirius panted, grinning. “You’re too creative, mon loup. Wallet?”

“Back pocket.”

“Fuck,” Sirius muttered as he crouched slightly. Remus let his head fall back against the door, already breathless and so hard it almost hurt; not two seconds later, he felt a wet warmth on his shaft through the fabric of his boxers and let his mouth go slack. A whine slipped out at the press of Sirius’ tongue and the brush of fingertips just beneath the back of his knee, but the sensation was gone mere moments later and Sirius was kissing him once again.

I could spend my whole life doing this, Remus thought a little deliriously. A package crinkled near his ear and he pulled back with monumental effort, shuffling around to give Sirius enough space to drop his own pants and face the door. His pulse picked up as he braced his hands on the cold metal door and leaned forward so he could arch his back a bit—Sirius’ hand came to rest on his lower back and he shivered.

“Shirts on?” Sirius asked, sliding his mouth over the outline of Remus’ shoulder blade.

“Nowhere else to put ‘em.” Remus rocked back until his ass bumped one of Sirius’ thighs. “C’mon, baby, what’re you waiting for?”

There wasn’t an ounce of tentative care in Sirius’ hands as he gripped Remus’ waist, then pulled his underwear down with a teasing snap of the elastic band and a pinch to one side that nearly made Remus’ knee buckle. His calluses moved in appreciative circles over the bare skin until he moved close enough that Remus could feel the heat of his body on his back. “Of all the places in the world, I didn’t think you’d be this bold,” Sirius said into the bend of his neck.

Remus swallowed a groan when a warm hand closed around the base of his shaft. “What was your first guess? My childhood bedroom?”

“PT room.”

“Ah. Fair, but boring.” He shot a smile over his shoulder. “Aren’t you tired of the same old scenery?”

Sirius muffled his laugh in Remus’ skin as his slippery fingers trailed down in a cold line. “When you’re on your knees? Never.”

Two digits circled the rim and Remus let out a shuddering breath that caught in his chest when the first began to press in. His face flamed hot when it reached the second knuckle—the sudden, sharp realization that they were in the public bathroom of a crowded bar-slash-club where there was no lock on the outer door hit him like a bolt of lightning and he felt Sirius’ moan as he tightened around him.

“Fuck, we’re really doing this,” Remus panted, one thigh trembling as Sirius found his prostate with deadly accuracy.

“Any time you want to back out and go back to our bed so nobody gets pinkeye, just say the word.”

“Holy shit—not a chance.” He licked his lips and spread his legs a little wider. “You’re really going to pass up this golden opportunity?”

Teeth grazed the shell of his ear. “You know I’d fuck you anywhere short of an open window, mon amour.”

A shiver raced down Remus’ spine as a second finger nudged in alongside the first, flexing until it reached the spot that made him press his forehead into the back of his hand with a soft noise. Sirius could pretend to be scandalized all he liked, but when it came down to it, Remus knew he got just as much of a kick out of it as he did. “A—and you call me an exhibitionist,” he said, closing his eyes when Sirius’ hand disappeared from around his cock and the rustle of fabric followed. “Got enough space?”

“Have to admit, it’s a bit of a tight fit,” Sirius laughed. Remus craned his neck back; the stall was barely big enough that Sirius didn’t have to straddle the toilet, but their close proximity wouldn’t exactly allow for a huge range of motion. It was a little comical, really. Sirius raised his eyebrows with the ghost of a smile when he caught Remus looking. “Ready?”

Remus bit his lower lip around a grin and pulled him in the by the collar of his shirt for a bruising kiss, sinking back into the planes of his body. “Fuck me so everyone knows when we leave this janky-ass stall that I’m y—”

The last word dissolved into an inhale as the slick head of Sirius’ dick began its steady press inward and his other hand splayed over Remus’ lower belly, where his abs jumped at the feeling. He turned back to the stall door and blew out a long breath, planting his feet on the floor and bending forward for a better angle. “Merde,” Sirius managed through clenched teeth as Remus held in his whine.

“I’ve been wanting this all night,” Remus mumbled. He bucked back to take the last inch and got a tight hand on the back of his neck for his troubles. “Oh, fuck, Sirius.”

Heavy weight blanketed his back and he moaned into his bare forearm. “Could’ve told me before we came here. Would’ve fucked you at the house so everyone could see how nice and wrung-out you were.”

Remus let his head loll to the side so Sirius could work a love bite into the side of his throat. “Alcohol makes me horny. You know this—right there.”

Sirius circled his hips, building a rhythm of quick, deep thrusts to make the most of the little room they had. One arm remained a solid bar across Remus’ hips; the other moved down his spine with hard pressure before Sirius slid it up his shirt to rest over one pec. The metal of the door was beginning to warm under Remus’ hand and forearm at long last, and he didn’t even try to stop the small, punched-out sounds from slipping through his lips.

“What do we do if someone comes in?” Sirius asked as he slowed to stay buried deep inside. Remus exhaled hard through his nose and felt the palm teasing his shaft grow slicker with precome. “Not that you care, of course.”

“Want me to scream it?” he panted, pressing his fingertips into the hard steel in front of him like he always twisted the sheets at home. Sirius’ hand came up a moment later and grabbed his wrist, guiding him to hold onto the top of the door instead. The stretch sent a flurry of pleasure through every nerve and his heart skipped a beat. “Want me to tell every poor sap that walks in here I’m getting railed by—hnn—Captain Sirius Black?”

“You’re getting railed by your boyfriend,” Sirius corrected with a pointed thrust that made Remus’ ankles threaten to give out under him. “Which is infinitely more important for them to know.”

“You always get so possessive when we dance,” Remus laughed breathlessly.

“Because I can see them looking at your perfect ass.”

His fiery comeback died in his throat as the head of Sirius’ cock dragged over his prostate in an absolutely decadent movement—Remus’ elbow hit the door with a thud and a long moan he had been trying so hard to keep in echoed off the walls of the small bathroom as Sirius hoisted him back into his previous spot. “Do it again, do it again, do it again, please.”

Sirius whined into the back of his shoulder and put the hand not responsible for keeping Remus off the floor over his wrist, holding it flush to the door. The sound of their skin smacking together was music to Remus’ ears as he rested his head back against Sirius’ bicep, panting openmouthed at the bliss of it all.

“Huh—huh—uh—hard—” The pressure on his arm disappeared; Remus’ eyes flashed open when Sirius’ palm pressed down over his mouth without breaking pace.

“I love you so much but you’re so fucking loud like this,” Sirius huffed, hitching his hips up and drawing a choked whimper from some deep part of Remus. His knees wobbled more with each passing minute. His knuckles were white on the top of the door. He was so close he could taste it in the back of his mouth and hear it in the buzzing of his ears, the pounding of his blood, the shallowness of his breathing.

A sudden rush of sound filled the bathroom just as Sirius put his leg beneath Remus’ thigh to prop him up, changing their angle so he nailed his prostate on almost every thrust.

Remus could hear his own strangled moan even through the barrier of Sirius’ hand.

The door slammed shut.

They froze with Sirius still buried to the hilt.

“I’ll uh…” The squeak of someone’s sneakers shuffling bounced off the walls and Remus closed his eyes against the sting of frustration. Whoever had wandered in was quiet for a moment longer. “I’ll just—I’ll come back later?”

He could feel Sirius’ chest shaking with the effort of holding down laughter. The door to the bar opened again, closed again, and Remus lost it.

“We’re so fucked,” he gasped, tugging Sirius’ hand off his face through his snickering. “We’re so fucked, and I don’t even feel bad.”

“That was humiliating,” Sirius said into the rucked up wrinkles of his shirt, though Remus could feel his smile. “Mon dieu, I can’t—I don’t know whether I’m into that or not. Are you okay?”

“Other than a ruined orgasm? Peachy-keen, baby.” He wiggled back into Sirius, who was still hard and heavy and burning hot in him despite the intrusion. “You?”

Sirius answered by pulling his chest up so Remus was almost on his toes and snapping his hips forward so hard that small black stars popped at the corners of his vision. Remus’ mouth fell open without any say on his brain’s part—then again, his brain had been thinking of very little other than yes yes yes more more harder yes for about ten minutes. “Want me to bend you over again?”

Remus licked his lips, making valiant effort to not go crosseyed. Every drop of lost arousal surged back in double-time. “I—don’t care—oh fuck—your choice.”

“This is your—what’s it called?”

“Prize,” he moaned.

“Your prize, your choice.” Sirius’ voice was right next to his ear, turning his insides to mush with every sultry word.

“Just bend me I don’t—”

Remus didn’t even get to finish his sentence before Sirius knocked one of his legs out further and tilted him downward again, making him scramble to regain his meager hold on the freezing steel. His thrusts were becoming sloppier and his breathing was more ragged; he jerked Remus a grand total of about four times before the tiles below him blurred and he hand to bite down on his forearm so the whole bar didn’t hear his orgasm hit him like a runaway freight train.

His heels hit the ground hard. Sirius pulled out and Remus felt come stripe his lower back mere seconds later, sending his blood in a dizzying rush back toward his face. “Shit,” said through numb lips once the ringing sound faded.

Sirius’ breath caught. “What?”

“I forgot baby wipes.”

There was a quiet laugh behind him and he didn’t even bother looking back as Sirius rested his forehead between his shoulder blades, wrapping both arms around his torso. “The things you worry about,” he muttered with undeniable fondness. “Je t’adore.”

“Mmm, pulling out the fancy one,” Remus murmured without opening his eyes. His hair was damp against his forearm. “I love you, too.”

“Think you can walk yet?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he teased, leaning down to pull his pants and underwear back up. He opened the door with a shaky hand and managed three steps before he had to lean on the stall divider for support to the sound of Sirius’ muffled glee. “You know what, you can flatter yourself a little bit, actually.”

“Stay there.” Sirius’ eyes were alight with affectionate mischief; he placed a lingering kiss to his temple, then half-jogged to the sinks to wash his hands and dampen a handful of paper towels, passing half to Remus. “Need help?”

“Nah, I got it.” The water was nice and cool on his overheated skin, swiping away the itchiness that was already starting to bother him. Sirius took the wad of paper when he was done, then pulled him back in for a slow kiss against the divider that drew the last woozy butterflies out of his stomach. “You’d stop kissing me like that if you knew what’s good for you,” Remus said into his mouth.

Sirius’ tongue flicked playfully over his lower lip. “Ouais?”

“Ouais. I didn’t bring anymore lube and that poor guy has been waiting for ages already.” He poked Sirius right in the center of his chest, but bowed into him when the hand at the small of his back applied a bit of pressure.

“So unfair,” Sirius agreed, nudging their noses together as he kept kissing the breath right out of Remus’ lungs. “I can really tell your protests come from the heart right now.”

“You’re certainly making a tough argument,” Remus said dryly while he slipped his hands into Sirius’ back pockets. What’s the harm in a couple more minutes? he thought, kneading the soft muscle in his palms. A bit of a break never hurt anyone. And if he needed a little more time to make sure he wasn’t staggering through the bar on jelly legs, that was simply part of the prize.

[scarletooyoroi]

To think she would be the torchbearer to the very flame. Finding delight in what they burn, letting it not be rendered to ashes and instead be tempered. A calling found itself echoing through them in entirely different means, and the sharpness within her voice, the hesitance, hints of that very heat...

It left Thoma a wick wired with tension, finally gaining the grated edges to spark the wildfire.

What follows from that voice fashioned with strength and a very human, very divine melody would be a confession that avarice clings so selfishly onto. The way how their days spent in the shadows led to a chase of pleasure as reality gave to such delicious fantasies, how the surface of their developing ocean found itself simmering with a need to expand, spilling over. His throat would gently flex as the original idea of anger found itself annihilated by the lightning. No, the static cling of these emotions were entirely different.

How forcefully cracking open her secrets led to the truth of their particular bridge. The Fixer hadn't realized a step closer had been made, a secretive, addicting magnetism finally dawning the more she drew the picture. How his intent had ignited an entirely different demand to sear through the soul. The hall found itself quiet, welcoming in it's pressure as Keqing's voice found itself translated as a song to his fiery soul.

Stop being so gentle and push past this wall with me.

...Please.

Thoma's devotion, Thoma's instinct, all of it melted from that once coalesced acceptance of where his honesty would bring him. A warrior goddess after all is who ached for this in union, and by no means did fragility lie on her body.

Seeing how much the unfettered truth brought them to this moment? That once uncertain passion steeled into a flourish of awakened desire, shining potent in his eyes as need washed over him.

"Keqing..!"

He'd throw his entire heart in making good on those very words. Within moments Keqing would be pressed to the wall next to her room, the shadow of the samurai looming above as their lips would meet in a fit of raw passion. Delicious, so utterly delectable, the addictive taste of the Yuheng's lips would be his finest wine as he pressed with impassioned intensity into that very kiss. A grunt follows, the sort made from an infernal need as the buzz of pleasure leads to a familiar haze within his mind.

The secrets, the admittance, it would be the spice flavoring it all between them and gods above does it feel divine. In that same vein would the blonde fight beyond the borders of patience, embracing selfishness, leading to one of those hands to skim down the smooth crescent of her shoulder, allowing a warming press of the palm to drift to the front of her dress. That resolution unveils itself with tenacity as his hand settles upon the curved fullness of one of her breasts. Seizing it so carefully firm within a sudden squeeze as the hot flick of a tongue graces against those peachy lips, a request to let him utterly devour her taste.

As that hand found it's balance, leaning into a measure of kneading and brushing upon silk and bouncy flesh as another press of the hand adds that sweet pressure, the other hand busied itself through that periwinkle hair, sweeping through the starlit sheen as it leaned down to cradling her cheek. Ever so selfish, he had wanted to reach for the means to feel vicious tremor her heart races, exactly like his own.

Keqing never thought there would be a day when her philosophy of maintaining honesty in straightforward gestures would come back to bite her.

"No, I wouldn't dare do something so shameless! I-" Ghost of a reflection is left in the wake of her sudden paralysis; features grow pale as a new feeling of mortification prods skin at his admittance. It's par the course of normal for her to indulge in such bad habits at all, let alone in the abode of somewhere other than her own. Yet, it was a futile endeavor to avoid at the end of the day; urges of increased intensity dragged her down like a ball chain strapped around her ankles. How could she resist when he'd guide her forward while brushing feather-like grazes of fingers against the small of her back without a care in the world? How could she push down the temptations when he'd bring her into passionate kisses that would ultimately leave her winded and breathless, wondering then if the phantom illusion of him slotting a knee between her thighs would remain a heated hallucination that swirled the depths of her mind? Her hands drop from his face, defensively finding themselves back at her sides whilst curling into fists. It's shame - it's fear - it's.....

......?

"You were watching me?" Query drips with a hidden, more underlying confession of her own. (Nerves jitter more at being watched than being caught in the act.) It's a comfortable momentary diversion. Cast away the burning spotlight focused on herself only to return back onto Thoma. Deep crimson replaced the arctic chill that shot up her body to sear the surface of her cheeks, simply unable to pull away from the sincerity of jade focused feverishly on herself. Her eyes shut with a certain amount of force as brows knit in silent contemplation ━ hypocrisy of her prior sentiments hitting her upside the head and ringing off in her mind like several loud alarms. And yet, he seemed neither repulsed nor put off by her actions. In fact, didn't it seem like he was now seeking his own answers out of her? Keqing takes a deep breath before swallowing the lump in her throat. Dwelling into this line of conversation was not one she'd ever imagined to be easy ━ especially not like this. But it seemed like there was no room to tiptoe around it any longer. They must go over this hurdle.

"...You've been at the center of my mind more often than I'd like to admit, Thoma." Shoulders tense as magenta reopens to retake the captor of her whirlwind feelings in her sight. How badly she wants to turn her head away. But she is unable to do so. "I couldn't take it anymore. I felt like I was going to explode." Thoughts drift back to those of that accursed day; blond emblazoned with usual vigor yet executed in a much different fashion. Sweat ebbed at foreheads as her form sunk into bed sheets, shadowed over a muscular build atop. How would he react if she told him the extent of his influence over her? "You... Yes, it's you that forced my hand after so long!"

"Don't you understand? I want more out of you ━ no, out of us. I'm not satisfied with how things are now..." A beat. Her heart drums against her chest in booming crescendos. "I'm not a porcelain doll who will shatter if you drop me. So stop being so gentle and push past this wall with me... Please."

[dazaimency]

Villain!Shoto x Villain!Deku x F!Reader - Villains Make Better Employers than Heroes (NSFW)

Request for dark_horiko3 (ao3)

Prompt:  Tags: soft Villains, dirty talking, bukkake, double penetration, overstimulation, And the story... Reader is a maid in Villains mansion and she's attracted to all two men who are living there. One day, they want to thank her for her hard work for them in a "special way~ ;]"

Word Count: 2.6k

Tags: dirty talk, double pen/threesome, overstim, blowjob, cunnilingus, maid!reader

NSFW, Crossposted from my ao3 collection HERE

Brushing the duster against the upper shelves, you hummed to the rhythm, nodding your head in sync with the tunes playing in your ear. Normally, you would sway and tap your foot but you had to balance the stool you were on, helping you to reach the higher ledge. Overall, cleaning the whole mansion could get stale quickly, and music helped you keep up and not fall behind.

Not that you were afraid of any punishments. The place was owned by villains but they treated you better than any of your previous employees. They were busy most of the time, often out on a mission or simply causing mayhem for multiple days before returning home, and so you were mostly alone, keeping the mansion spotless.

Sometimes, Deku and Shoto would keep you company, engaging in small conversations when you happened to have duties in their rooms or were cooking in the kitchen. You hadn’t been staying there for long when you realized you liked both of them, knowing how soft they could be under their steel expressions you only saw on the tv.

You tried to subtly express your true feelings to them, mostly by gentler smiles, by cleaning their rooms more thoroughly, and by cooking only the best meals you knew they would enjoy. Thinking that they would never feel the same, you forced yourself from putting too much emotion into your gaze, shielding yourself from their pity or harsh ignorance.

Sighing, you reached to dust the next shelf, only to lose balance and fall with a squeal. Expecting a harsh landing and pain, you closed your eyes but before you could envelop your arms around you, someone else had beat you to it.

Landing in the unknown saviour’s arms, you grip them tightly to ensure you wouldn’t fall. Surprised and relieved, you open your eyes to find yourself staring into a green ocean with just a wave of amusement.

“Are you alright?” Deku asks and puts you down carefully. You already miss his touch but you manage to gather enough composure to answer: “Yes, thank you!”

“Are you sure? You seem a bit off,” with a frown, Deku reaches out to touch your cheek, bringing crimson to your face, and you feel butterflies form in your stomach. “Don’t you want to take a break? With how hard you’ve been working, you for sure deserve some free time.”

“T-Thank you,” you stutter and aim for the nearby couch. To be truthful, you did feel a bit tired, so you sat down and popped the upper button open so you could breathe easier.

Deku sat down next to you, resting a hand on your thigh, rubbing soft circles with his thumb.

“You do realize you can take a vacation right? There is only so much you can clean in this house.”

“Not really, by the time I finish one wing, the other one is full of dust again,” you manage to get out, trying not to focus on his palm burning through your stockings.

“Well, my point stands, take some time off if you want, no one here minds a bit of dust,” Deku chuckles and shifts closer.

“Hey, look at me,” he guides your chin with his hand so he can look at you properly, “You sure there isn’t something wrong?”

Before you can reply, Shoto enters the room, stopping in his tracks when he sees the scene in front of him.

“She’s just flustered because you’re touching her, Midoriya,” Shoto sighs and sits down next to your other side. You turn to Shoto, shrugging Deku’s hand off in the process and shake your head in protest, hoping to save any dignity. “No! That’s not it!”

“You mean to tell me that you don’t want us? After all your hopeful gazes? After how you clean our rooms with more care than the others?” Shoto angles his head, playful spark in his eyes. He was enjoying putting you on the spot and making you squirm in your seat, especially after seeing you dance around them both with no plans to confess.

“Is that true, (Y/N)?” Deku asks, hand gripping yours tightly.

Knowing the truth was going to come out no matter what, you started to pour your heart out with a sigh. You tell them about your feelings, and how you crave their touches and soft looks. When you got to the point of explaining why you didn’t say anything to them, thinking that they would just laugh at you or even fire you, Deku interrupted you: “You should have just told us, Doll.”

You whip your head around, looking at the green eyes for the first time since you confessed. “D-Doll?”

“Of course. Did you think we wouldn’t feel the same?” Shoto agrees and starts to caress your neck softly. You sit there, letting it all sink in.

“We should make up for the lost time, right, Shoto?” Deku smiles slyly and stands up, grabbing your and Shoto’s hands to guide you to his room.

You find yourself sitting on the edge of the bed, villains on both of your sides. Your heart was beating fast, in expectation of what’s to come, and in joy that whatever it will be, it will actually happen. You’ve been waiting long enough and couldn’t wait a second more.

Pushing yourself up, you meet Shoto’s lips for the first time, entangling a hand in his hair. His mouth opens, letting you in, and your tongues intertwine. You feel him smiling into the kiss, enjoying the moment as much as you are. Closing your eyes, you melt into his lips and explore his mouth, tugging softly at his dual-coloured locks, forcing a gasp out of him from a particularly harder pull.

Not wanting to neglect Izuku, you end the kiss and reach out for him. He had been watching you both with a spark of interest in his eyes, taking in the scene in front of him. A surprised sigh escapes him when your lips connect but he gets over it quickly and pulls you down to the bed, revelling the way your body fits against his. His hands travel up and down your body, caressing you through your dress, getting to know your every curve.

Shoto shifts down and starts playing with the hem of your skirt, rubbing the fabric between his fingers before sliding under it, palming your thighs through your stockings. You moan at the unexpected touch, Izuku swallowing every sound.

Shoto creeps up your thighs, pushing them apart and teasing the sensitive area there through the soft fabric of your panties. Shocks run down your spine and you have to force yourself to breathe calmly after you ran out of breath from kissing Izuku.

Suddenly, Shoto’s hand pulls away and he starts to pull you by your leg, forcing a yelp out of you until you are sitting at the edge of the bed again.

“Impatient, huh?” Deku smirks and watches Shoto spread your legs. He starts to burn the fabric and in a second, all that remains from your skirt is smoke. Shoto shrugs at the other villain’s remark and pushes your panties aside, flicking his tongue against your clit.

With a hitched breath, you hold his head closely and you feel how both of you are growing hungry for more. His tongue penetrates you, getting to know your insides. You sense Shoto’s gaze on you, mismatched eyes studying your every sound of pleasure, figuring out the best way to hear more of your sweet moans.

Meanwhile, Deku got rid of his clothes and stands now in front of you, palming his erect cock, legs strained in expectation. Your hazed gaze lands on his length and you lick your lips.

“Now, how about you give some more attention to me?” Izuku's eyes are locked on your mouth and his strokes grow faster with each moan you let out. He guides his cock to your lips and you open obediently, giving its head a trying lick. You taste salty traits of precum on your tongue and you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks.

One of your hands grabs him at the base, stroking him where your mouth won't reach. You lick around his shaft before pulling back a bit for air, before diving in, longing to feel his heaviness on your tongue.

“Yes, baby, take it in. Suck my cock like I know you wanted.” Deku exhales, watching with wide eyes how you swallow his length.

Then you feel Shoto pushing two fingers into you alongside his tongue, making Izuku hiss when your teeth skim his sensitive skin. You lick gently the head of his cock in silent apology, while keeping your jaw in place so you won't hurt him again.

A good decision, as Shoto's fingers reach deeper and curl, brushing against your sweet spot. That, and his constant teasing of your clit, and licking around your tightening walls pushes you slowly towards your orgasm.

With a newfound vigor, you swallow Izuku's cock completely, his fingers scratching your scalp and digging into your hair. He groans out your name and bucks his hips until your nose is buried at the base. You hold still, not caring about your blurry vision and twitching legs.

Muffled moans escape you as Shoto adds another finger, stretching you out while keeping pressure on your sensitive spot. With a pop, you pull away and moan out loudly a combination of their names as waves of pleasure wash over you, bringing you over the edge.

“Good girl,” Deku caresses your hair, enjoying your expression even if his member is throbbing, asking for attention.

Shoto wipes his mouth and leans over to kiss you. With a clouded mind, you taste a bit of yourself on his tongue. You feel him push you further onto the bed until you sit in the middle, with Deku behind you. A set strong hands travel down your shoulders, getting rid of your dress as they make their way down to your breasts.

“You liked that, baby? Being eaten out while choking on Midoriya's dick?” Shoto mumbles against your lips and you feel your thighs clench at every word. You manage to nod, all sounds stuck in your throat when Shoto moves lower to place bites on your neck while Deku is exploring your chest, pinching your nipples in sync with Shoto's teeth piercing your skin.

“Can't wait to hear you moan as we both fuck you,” Deku whispers into your ear, giving it a gentle bite before licking around it. Your heartbeats speeds up and you lean into his touch, feeling his hardness poking your lower back.

Impatient, Shoto pulls away and gets rid of his clothes. Deku turns you around so you face him and lays you both down. Your hands end up at both sides of his face and you take a deep look at his messy hair, lips parted with heavy breaths.

“Do you think you can take us both, baby?” Shoto's deep voice cuts through your thoughts, leaving only his touches and words on your mind. Licking your lips, you turn your neck to meet his hungry gaze. You arch your back, leaving nothing for his imagination.

“Yes, now get on with it,” you purr, taking a little pride in the way it takes Shoto a moment to escape his clouded mind.

He shifts closer and lands a slap on your ass, then petting the redness gently, storing the image of you on your stomach, prepared for them to take you, in his mind. You look gorgeous with disheveled hair and dress hanging loosely around your waist. He thinks about the positions he wants to try and different ways to make you moan on his cock, but there will be time for it later. Now, he just wants to fuck you, like both he and Deku have desired for a while.

Shoto's length pushes inside you, immediately feeling your walls tighten around him. Your heat hugs him perfectly, and he starts to thrust harder to prepare you for Deku's cock. “Fuck, baby, you feel so good.”

You already feel the pleasure building up, still sensitive from your previous orgasm. Your hands grab Izuku's shoulders, nails digging through his skin, making him grit his teeth in both pain and satisfaction. He was watching you get pounded by Shoto's cock, breasts bouncing with each thrust.

“You take me so well... Think you're ready for both of us?” Todoroki's movement stops, and your moans with it. Deku guides his length to your entrance, slowly pushing alongside the other villain's member.

Your breath gets stuck in your throat at the stretch and for a second you panic that they won't fit. It stings a little when the head of Deku's dick pushes in. He stills, covering your neck and face in soft pecks. Shoto rubs circles on your back and thighs, soothing you where he can while controlling the urge to pound into you.

“Take your time, Doll. F-Fuck, you're... so fucking tight. I can't wait to fuck you, to give you what you deserve.” His words send electricity down your stomach to your clit, and once you try to buck your hips, Shoto slides out a bit, giving Izuku more space to push further. You moan out, any trace of pain gone, and the only thing on your mind are their cocks that will soon be fucking you without holding back.

Impatient to make the image a reality, you push your hips down, taking them both in fully, ignoring the slight burn that will soon disappear. The sudden movement takes them both by surprise, and they groan and still for a while, revelling in the way your walls became incredibly tight.

“Who knew you were so needy,” Shoto grunts through his teeth and starts pounding, spreading your ass cheeks, his nails leaving trails of red behind them. You can only moan as an answer, mind and vision cloudy from pleasure. Your head feels heavy and you let it fall on Deku's shoulder, biting down on it, silencing your sounds.

“N-No, let us hear you, baby,” Izuku stutters, hips bucking up into your tightness. He starts to make a trail of hickeys, placing them next to Shoto's marks. His hot breath only makes you more dizzy and you moan out lewdly, encouraging them in their thrusts.

Shoto picks up the pace, knees digging into the mattress as he chases blindly after his own release. Your tight heat is enveloping around him, sucking him in with every buck of hips. He looks down, seeing your entrance stretch around two cocks, the sight imprinting into his mind.

“Shit, I'm gonna come soon,” he groans and Deku grunts in agreement, also not far from the edge.

“Come on me,” you whimper. “Please, I wanna be covered in your cum.” Shameless, eyes closed, your hips stutter against theirs. You can feel your orgasm creeping in and you reach with your hand to touch your oversensitive clit, circling the pulsing nub. Relief washes over you and you moan out loudly, limbs going numb. You can only lay on Deku and take it, your walls hugging them both.

You feel them pull out and you moan from the sudden emptiness. They push you so you sit, Deku and Shoto kneel in front of you, giving their cocks a few last strokes before coming on your face with a moan, mixing curses and your name. With your tongue out, their cum lands on you, some dripping down but you lick and swallow what you can.

Utterly sore, you lay on the bed, both villains glued to your side, all of you catching breath. You cuddle, not bothering to do anything else for a while. Just before you doze off, you mutter: “I'm not cleaning these sheets.”

[myelocin]

Une Minute | Jean Kirschtein

Synopsis: All he can think of is that he’s home. You’re in front of him, and he’s alive, and the love that you blanket him with is home.

Characters: Jean Kirschtein

Genre: NSFW, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff. | WC: 1,500+

Tags: unprotected sex, emotional seggs, mentions of blood, cumming...inside...tear how u tag nsfw

A/N: This is a commissioned piece by @gg9183 :D You can check out my commission sheet here if you’re interested MWA

Une Minute - Pomme

There’s a lot written in the list under the category of fear that Jean can list out in three seconds if the question’s prompted.

One, is the fear of being eaten alive. When death, in that sense is staring at him right in the face, he can’t help but think of Marco and Trost. To think that a body that’s held life for a decade and a little past half was left as wreckage near a building and ashes by a fire that same night. But like he’s always done—for fucking years now, all it takes is an aim in another direction and a rush of wind that bites a little too hard on his cheeks for it to burn, and he’s staring at life again.

Life, as the trees past the walls, and the horizon he still can’t believe he’s seeing without boundaries.

The high he feels at the height of the fall is short lived because when gravity taps him on the shoulder and the momentum to rise stops, he’s plummeting again.

Then comes two, it’s that he has the fear of falling. And he curses himself; for so long now, all he’s done is shoot arrows into trees to anchor him above ground, and twist himself in the air as the feel of skin is made known through the blades he’s so tired of wielding. When he shuts his eyes, a fleeting sense of relief comes, because instead of death nor life he just sees your face.

The Elysium in between all this shit. Jean flinches at the sound of another comrade’s scream, before he hears a crunch, then he’s flicking his eyes open again because he knows that even if he fears so much he still has to come home.

Back to you. You in that apartment inside wall Sina, where you told him you’d always wait for him to come back. Back to you, his home who knew no bloodshed, death, nor fear.

And it’s facing death in the face for the third time in that battle where Jean’s screaming in frustration because he just wants to be home again. Back to the streets that smelled like bread your arms that held him even if all he could do was soil the fabric of your dress with red.

-

But “I don’t mind,” is what you tell him, when he’s standing at your door at midnight, hands stained red, his shoulders heavy.

He’s quick to cross the threshold and clutch on to you because it’s another brush with death where Jean’s realizing that more than anything, he’s terrified to give you the aftermath if he passes. He knows it’s because of love with why you kiss his eyelids come morning, and love when you hold onto him a little longer, then a little tighter when another journey past what’s known is looming.

You’re as quiet as him when he kisses you, the way he clutches onto the fabric of your dress tight and desperate. In the dim light you see blood smeared across his hands, and when your hands reach up to cup his face, he flinches when you make contact with the cuts on his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, breaking away from the kiss as he glances down at the red on your dress. In a flash he sees the spill of red from earlier, then thinks of those who took their fall.  “God, I’m so sorry.”

His voice trembles, and your heart hurts. You want to tell him that he’s okay because he’s home, but you know it will only bring so much comfort. Though still, you reach out; palms offered, open and warm, for him, always.

“You’re okay,” he listens to you whisper. “You’re home and you’re okay. You came back to me.”

“There’s blood on your dress,” he exhales.

“It won’t stain,” you tell him.

He looks at you, eyes wide, and the unshed tears sitting behind that final boundary speaking of desperation. Of mercy, of forgiveness. His voice is hesitant when he speaks again, “It won’t?”

“I promise you it won’t.”

He stands there, breaths coming in and out a little slow, the weight on his shoulders rivaling the world, so you lead him to sit with you on the bed and just hold him.

“Jean,” he hears you say, and he wants to cry because he has never felt such a grounding sense of home than how he does now.  You watch him break in front of you as he crumbles and holds you. Kisses desperate and hands shaking as you intertwine them against your own.

You’re murmuring that he’s alright repeatedly, and in the dark he holds you bare against him, his face buried in your neck. His breaths come out in short pants, and when you release his hands, you cradle his cheek softly once more before you thread your fingers through the longer strands of his hair.

The fact that he’s fucking in love with you is the only thought that repeatedly registers in his head as he parts your legs and slides his cock inside you with a deep groan. His mind’s hazy, the thoughts of the moment and not even twelve hours ago jumbled in his head, but fuck he’s home and he’s holding you.

You.

He inhales, shaky, then shudders when he feels you clench around him, and he just smells strawberries and mint. The sheets smell like your hair, and your skin is the exact kind of warmth that reminds him of where he is right now. Because that’s all that matters.

Jean trembles on top of you, but you kiss him anyway. His lips part time and time again to mumble “I love you” after “I love you,” a couple groans slipping in between.  He hears you moan, and when he pulls out, he takes just a second to peer at you from his vantage point.

You look at him like he holds the entirety of heaven in his hands, in your eyes, a reflection of all the stars in the sky. Glassy eyes, mouth parted, and skin slick with your sweat and his, Jean swallows at the sight of your bare skin glistening. You feel him pry your thighs apart, before you bite your lip as you look at him fisting his cock and pumping it a couple of times as he guides it back right at the entrance of your hole.

“I fucking love you,” he mumbles again, the haze in his head clearing, and the coil in his stomach tightening. What matters is that he’s alive today, and he’s home. The smell of mint and you sends his mind reeling and when you moan, Jean can’t hold back another groan as he lets himself drop from the high, his cock slamming back inside you.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and before you sound out your pleasure, his lips are on yours as he’s quick to swallow it.

He doesn’t think of the red stains on your dress, or the cuts on his cheeks that still sting when his tears slide over them. Tonight, his senses only know you. It knows the scent of home, sees the contours of your skin despite the dim light, and tastes the traces of the tea he knows you like to have on rainy afternoons. He thrusts harder, faster, and just a little deeper as he shifts his position to where you’re lying on your side, one leg hiked up, the low vibration of his voice right by your ear.

He feels you shudder against him, your moans rising in pitch, and he bites his bottom lip as he pulls back out and thrusts in deep again.

“Let yourself go,” he mumbles in your ear, and that’s all it takes for you to do just that. “I got you, pretty girl; I got you.”

You’re clenching onto his throbbing length, tight, your hands reaching behind you to search for his.

Something akin to relief washes over you when his grip meets you halfway, because it takes just a couple more thrusts from Jean and a fleeting moment where he holds himself still inside you, cock buried to the hilt, and he’s cumming.

You’re holding on to the arm that’s quick to wrap itself around you, right as you feel Jean spoon you from behind, his touch gentle. His breath’s warm on your neck, the way he inhales then exhales moving like a steady rhythm, his heartbeat and yours unheard but in sync.

He finally cries.

“Grace,” you hear; and you smile, because you’ve always loved how your name sounded from his lips.

“I’m home,” he continues, with a voice that’s too broken for a man who’s steel in the face of death, but human enough for just the boy you’ve always seen and loved from the start.

“Welcome home,” you greet him, clutching onto the arm that’s around you, then leaning down and kissing the scars along the skin.

The night’s a little too dark for him to see you just now, but he knows daylight will break. A couple more hours until he’ll have to face you as you count the new wounds on his face, but in the moment—in this very minute—he’s home, and he’s okay.

He’s got you like you’ve got him, and he’s okay.

So it’s another murmured “I love you,” that he mumbles instead, because that’s the only truth that comes to mind.