#the world would be a better place without him

[shotmrmiller]

(Unnamed for now, 4.8k words of nothing but self indulgence because ex bf simon is king. just porn without plot, the usual filth. also i wrote myself into a hole with the smut but whatever.)

If your friends knew that you'd gone to great lengths to look presentable— less cave-dweller, more human— hoping to get lucky tonight only to end up waving off anyone of interest because you're too busy sulking about a relationship you willingly broke off, they'd kick you from the group chat.

(Or never let you live it down.)

But here you are, perched on a barstool, its cracked leather slightly sticky beneath your legs, the cocktail you'd ordered a while ago sitting mostly untouched on an even stickier bar top. Lamenting. Moping all over a guy who hasn't bothered to return a single phone call since you left him the voicemail. And it hadn't been his fault, really. He'd been upfront with you from the get-go; he's a busy man with a job you don't want to know about and are safer not knowing about.

You'd noticed the specific wording he'd used. Not better off but safer off, its implications perilous. The hardened look he'd given you when you'd pressed him on it, hoping for a slip of the truth, had been the first and only warning you'd needed.

Get off his case, understood.

You clench your teeth, irritation nipping at your nerves. You'd like to think that you've mourned this ex-relationship plenty and feeling an acute, smoldering ache again over a whisper of a memory (and not even a fond one at that)—

Time to douse these flames.

Waving the bartender down, you push away the watered-down drink and gesture for a shot. She eyes you warily, hesitating for a moment before sliding an empty glass over and reaching for some top-shelf bottle your bank account already feels the bite of. The fiery burn that courses down your throat resembles the one in your chest.

The alcohol swiftly does its job, offering a sense of relief, and you're grateful for it, even if fleeting. The room starts to blur a bit, the strobing lights overhead bleeding together like a watercolor painting left out in the rain, and you let yourself sink into the moment, the gentle ebb of intoxication pooling heat in your cheeks, warmth seeping into your limbs.

Things don't look so bad now; the world has taken a dreamlike quality to it, with softened edges and vibrant colors. With the liquid courage dulling the sharpness of your previous thoughts and easing the tension in your shoulders, you reckon that now you can start looking for your prey of the evening. It's why you even bothered to slink out of your comfort zone in the first place.

Mission directive: Get laid. Or plan B: go home with a new number saved in your contacts.

You rest your chin on your palm, eyes lazily scanning around the room, taking in the hazy but lively atmosphere. The dance floor is a whirl of energy, couples moving to the rhythm of the music, a group of friends huddling in a corner, hands gesturing animatedly as they chat each other up, and at the front—

If you swiveled away in your chair any faster, the courage you'd knocked back 10 minutes ago would come back up, spilling onto the bar top the barkeep gave up trying to keep clean. There have been numerous instances where your mind plays tricks on you, teasing you with glimpses of big and blonde in your peripheral while out running errands, the miserable lump in your throat only dislodging once you've made your grand escape.

(It's not running away; It's a tactical retreat. You'll face the music when it's less deafening.)

And in keeping with tradition, you settle your tab and scurry off to the bathroom, clutching your bag like a lifeline. A familiar shadow just walked in through the front door, once again haunting you. No matter how many times you whisper reassurances under your breath, dismissing it as a cruel joke your mind loves to play, the semblance of him never fails to arouse a bit of panic in you.

The trip to the bathroom feels like you're trekking across the country, weaving in and out and around crowds of people, dodging flailing limbs like an extreme sport. The inside is relatively small and cramped; three stalls for the entire bar. It's blessedly empty, so you beeline to the sink, hoping for a splash of cold water to settle your nerves.

The water is startlingly cold, or maybe it feels colder because you're flustered, and you're mid air-drying your hands when you hear it: that unforgettable gait, heavy and solid, like a tank rolling over rugged terrain. It's something that you can still hear echo in the small confines of your flat when the world is quiet. The mirror in front reflects your tense face, its edges cloudy with time and poor-quality cleaning solutions.

Get a grip, you're losing it.

Until the door swings wide, hinges screeching as it gives way with no resistance, and you realize that you're not losing it. But you just might.

"'Ello, poppet."

Incredulity forces a chuckle out of you because it's either you laugh or you cry.

"Nice," he eyes the cracked tile beneath your feet, "choice for a night out. Beer's more piss than ale, though." The door closes behind him.

The mockery in his voice is wildly unwarranted, especially for a man you haven't heard from for a better part of the year, and you finally gather your wits to bite back indignantly.

"What? It's not your cuppa? I always assumed you ratted out in seedy holes like this." The bruise-tight grip you've got around your bag makes your fingers ache. "I'll be sure to pick a more refined place for you next time."

He wastes no time closing the gap between you two, your three steps back negated by his single one with laughable ease, and the space around you seems to shrink, his presence swallowing it whole. You'd forgotten just how large a man he was— is.

A different beast altogether.

"No need. We won't be comin' back 'ere again." Your brows quirked at that. He's gone and learned French, apparently. Oui. You try to keep your personal bubble intact by taking another step back only to come in contact with a stall door, its chilly surface forcing your spine rigid. Cornered, caught in the crosshairs of the hunter's gaze, and the intensity of it makes you feel vulnerable, bare, as if you're staring up the barrel of a loaded gun.

"Easy, lovie, no need to look at me like tha', 'm jus' 'ere to talk," he says with a tone that's tinged with condescension, and his giant mitts are up and palms facing you like he's dealing with a skittish animal. There's a thought there, buried deep, that you refuse to acknowledge.

"Talk?" The question bursts out before you can stop it, followed by a sardonic laugh that feels unexpectedly cathartic as it leaves your mouth. Talk now, when you not only kept your line of communication open but also actively tried reaching out for weeks? Weeks spent waiting for a response, foolishly hoping he'd give a damn enough to at least put up a fight for you and what you had?

He tilts his head slightly, eyes unreadable. "Better late than never," he remarks, but that's the problem, isn't it? You were forced to come to terms with never, whether you liked it or not. And you had not liked it, but it had been necessary. To know there was a part of his life you weren't welcome to, regardless of reason, was something that shadowed your interactions. The realization that you were kept at arm's length due to the duality of his life was too bitter a pill to swallow.

It'd been a painful process making peace with the fact that maybe things just hadn't been meant to be. C'est la vie and all that tripe. But now, here he stands before you, having materialized out of thin air, a bloody intrusion upon the fragile peace you've built for yourself— it feels like a mockery of the emotional distress you've had to endure.

"Better late than—? You honestly fucking think you can just," you stumble over yourself in disbelief, "just corner me in a tiny bathroom of a dingy bar to talk?"

Simon raises one bulky shoulder, unconcerned. "You chose the place."

His piss poor attempt at a joke is like a slap in the face. "Right. Goodbye, Simon." You step around him briskly, your arm brushing against his. Just as your fingers graze the cold metal of the door handle, his encircle your wrist and gently pull you away. The span of his palm could easily engulf the entirety of your hand, and you can't help but wonder if you're as delicate and fragile as you feel in his grasp.

"Let me try that again," he murmurs tentatively, and you curse your good nature— the one that's always been too quick to soften even when you know better. You know just how clumsy he is with words, how his tongue ties itself in knots when emotions creep into the conversation. Simon gives your wrist a tender squeeze. "Ya can leave whenever you want."

Damn it. Damn it. Fine. This confrontation has been a long time coming anyway. "Then try again and make it fast," you snap, words short and clipped. "How we haven't been kicked out of here yet is a bloody wonder."

He steps away from you and leans his hips against the sink, arms crossed over his chest. Here Simon stands, no longer a hazy apparition in the corner of your eye but fully here. Real. Uncomfortable so. You shift your weight from one foot to the other.

"Didn't mean to disappear on ya," his tone carries a note of something resembling regret. "Work took me across the world, couldn't reach out t'you even if I wanted to." And there it is, the crux of the problem. His job. Always his job. The one part of his life you've never been allowed to see, what had been the ever-constant shadow hanging over your relationship. What tore him away from you for weeks at a time only for those same gaps to start getting longer and longer while his stays grew shorter.

That's not good enough.

"So that's it?" Simon cannot honestly expect you to take his paltry excuse and run with it. As if it's enough to stitch together the wound his silence left behind. "Work? That's what you're going with?" It's the audacity that stings the most, the hope that you'd simply accept it and move past all of this heartache.

For all you know, he could be lying through his teeth, spinning enough truth to make it seem believable. You must have your suspicions plastered on your forehead because Simon peels himself off the sink with a sharp breath and narrowed eyes.

"'M many things, love, but a liar ain't one of 'em." His hand disappears into the front pocket of his worn denims, and when he pulls it free, you instantly recognize the tattered, frayed edges of his wallet. Still clinging to life, it seems. As stubborn as the man holding it. He opens it and extends it to you because it's imperative you see...?

"Work." And right there is an ID, not your plain old driver's license, which you're unsurprised to see absent. The man has no business being behind the wheel of any vehicle; he's a threat to all life and limb while on the road— but a military ID, the insignia emblazoned on the card unmistakable. You'd pieced together as much but never fully assumed, never formed a picture, just a blurred outline that left more questions than answers.

Name: Simon Riley. Rank: Lieutenant. Special Forces is right above the square where a photo is supposed to be. "There's no picture." You flash your eyes up at his in question.

"Never," he states.

You swallow thickly. An admission, this is. A roughly hewn olive branch tucked away in the ratty wallet you'd told him to toss ages ago. He snaps it shut with a practiced flick and then rucks up the right sleeve of his jacket up to the crook of his elbows, exposing his forearm, stark and freckled, the skin pale but then closer to his wrist, his flesh taking on a more golden hue— honeyed, sun-kissed.

Simon Riley does not tan.

"Sat on my arse out in a barren stretch o' land f'r months on end, cookin' under the blazin' sun while waitin' for orders tha' never came," he grumbles, voice weary. He doesn't flinch when your wandering fingers feather across the darkened strip of skin. "The only form o' communication was local." You flip his hand, the underside of his wrist startlingly pale like the underbelly of a fish. "Couldn't 'ave reached out even if I wanted to. No signal."

It hangs heavy, what he was willing to share, and you're wondering if he's only asking for understanding or something else. Your treacherous heart flutters in your chest, breath squeezing from your lungs. A tiny part of you hopes for he's asking for that something else.

There's a new scar on his palm, close to the hardened calluses on his knuckles, the deep, puckered groove still red and raw— fresh enough to make you wince— and you can't help the frown that pulls at your lips. You can bet he took care of this himself, the oaf. Probably spit it clean and wrapped it up with whatever he had on hand. He's lucky it didn't infect.

"Only when I came back did I receive the missed calls, the texts, the bloody voicemail," he gnarls, and while the sharpness of his tone isn't aimed at you, you feel the biting sting of it anyway. Simon cradles your hand in his much larger one, and he doesn't squeeze, doesn't hold too tight; he simply holds it, the choice to refuse him if you wanted.

You don't.

"And this isn't something you could've told me before? I know I pressed when I shouldn't have," chagrin pools in your cheeks, "but I worried for you. You were sometimes so unreachable, standing between two worlds at once. I couldn't help ease the weight of your responsibilities because I didn't know what I was dealing with." As you thread your fingers with his, they feel impossibly small, brittle— like the bones of a bird swallowed in the expanse of his hand. How unsettling.

(Yet you wouldn't have it any other way.)

Simon shakes his head, slow and deliberate, but his grip on your hand tightens. "I've more enemies than friends," he mutters, raising your hand to his masked lips, the gesture oddly tender as he presses a kiss on it even though it forces you to rise onto your tiptoes. You blow a puff of air, mildly exasperated. Big geezer.

"Every time I rid myself o' one, two take their place. I only did it t' keep ya safe. There's nothin' they'd love more than to exploit any o' my weaknesses." He says it as though the admission itself is dangerous, and maybe it is, but the risk, you believe, is one worth taking even if he won't.

Where he sees danger, you see trust. And that's all you ever wanted. Trust, because either you'll have all of him or none of him, so you tell him that.

His grip tightens imperceptibly. "Only wha' I feel is safe f'r you to know. Nothin' more." You know he means it. You've seen how far he's willing to go, how much he's willing to sacrifice, to keep you out of harm's reach.

Simon will shoulder just about anything alone if it means you'll be kept safe.

How lovely. He's taken it upon himself to play Batman when no one cast him into the role. Ah, well. A win is a win, and you've long learned some battles aren't worth the effort today, so you tuck this conversation into the back of your mind, a note to revisit at a later date. As for now, though...

"Alright, Si," the old nickname slips from you so easily, as if it never left, "We can continue this tomorrow, if you're able, but as for me," your gaze flickers to the faint ring of grime around the drain and the scribbles covering the peeling walls, "I've just about had it with this place."

But he's got no interest in letting you go now, not when you've given him the second chance he'd been desperate for. Instead, he jerks you to him, your shoulder colliding into his chest, his arms cinching tight around you. There is no grace, no soft pretense to it— just a raw, unfiltered need of a man clinging to what he's been too afraid to lose; your arsecheeks apparently because that's what he's currently pawing at.

Pervert. Honestly, you'd applaud him for holding back from groping you for this long. No shame in giving credit where it's due. You thought about letting him have his fill, indulging his starved-dog behavior until his hands started to wander beneath your clothes. You ought to make him stop this before it spirals into something completely out of your control.

Ah, but then he latches onto the sensitive spot on your neck, right below the ear, so close to your drumming pulse and your words snag in your throat like fishhooks when he suckles.

It's tragic how quickly you cave.

Simon's breath fans hot over your spit-slick throat, slow and composed while yours is sharp and shallow as if you can't quite catch it. He jerks his head toward the stall, and you freeze, disbelief rooting you in place.

"You're joking." He's gone and lost whatever scraps of sanity he had left back wherever he was because there's no way you're getting down and dirty in— your lip curls in distaste as you look at the industry-grade bottle of disinfectant that sits in the corner— here. But then he's dragging you toward the nearest stall anyway, your bag tumbling to the ground, not my bag, Simon, shit, you owe me another. The door is a pitiful excuse for privacy, barely clinging to the hinges and sporting a gap wide enough to make you grimace. You've hardly any time to register anything else before Simon is already at your feet, smoothly dropping to one knee, the crown of his head dipping slightly below your navel.

Simon's hands cup the back of your thighs, palms spread wide as they trail upward, the tips of his fingers finding lace and not your everyday cotton. With a deliberate slowness, he lifts the hem of your skirt, his neck craning just enough to bring his line of sight under the drape of fabric, and his gaze lingers.

Oh right. You've got on that set— the one he'd carefully chosen for your birthday, that one that fits you so perfectly it almost feels unfair. A little indulgence that'd been meant for his eyes only. Even as you'd slipped it on earlier tonight, it'd felt like you'd been breaking the rules.

It makes you wonder...

You hook a leg over his shoulder, the heel of your shoe digging into the straight plane of his back. "Well?" Your question is wrapped in feigned nonchalance. "Does it make you upset?" Simon shrugs, dismissive, his eyes steady as they lock onto yours. The dim light above buzzes faintly, its unkind glow spilling over his rugged face. It does nothing to soften the sharpness of his features.

And you notice a new scar, tiny, close to his hare's lip.

"Doesn't threaten me, sweet'eart."

A sharp laugh escapes you. How infuriatingly arrogant. Simon leans in, his nose brushing against your sex roughly before he takes a crude sniff, unrestrained, unapologetic. Nasty as always.

The faintest smirk curls the corners of his lips. "Can't blame me, my girl and I 'ave been apart f'r too long." Humming, you place a hand on his head, palming over the short bristles of his hair before curling around the back of his neck, and you grind down on him.

"If you're hungry, then eat." The smile you give him after your gracious offer is nothing short of salacious.

Simon thumbs your gusset to the side and slips his tongue through your folds, and it's electric, raw. Frissons ripple through you, starting from your nape, and it cascades down your arm and your legs, and the sensation is sharp, almost overwhelming, and you bow forward, nails digging into the dense muscle of his traps.

It's been so fucking long.

Hot, wet pressure circles around your swollen clit, purposefully shy of what you covet, enough to stir something within you but not enough to satisfy— nowhere near enough. It makes you testy. Impatient. It pushes you to lose control, feeling it slip from his grasp, only to land squarely in his.

It's the exact reaction Simon craves. You can grind down on the tip of his nose all you want, push and pull at his head every which way, but you don't come without his say so, and to earn that, there's something you have to do.

By the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip, bite-swollen and glossy with spit, peering down at him with bleary eyes after having rutted against his face without restraint, frantically seeking the friction you yearn for, you also know what to do.

Good.

Now he waits. Your pussy is dripping slick, dewy honey trailing down his chin and joining the sticky mess pooling near his knee, but he doesn't care— his focus is entirely on you. Simon knows exactly how this will end. You're as mulish as ever, he muses, but you'll break. You always do. It's not a question of if but when, and he's content to wait as long as it takes for the inevitable. After all, he's a patient man when he chooses to be.

Your chest heaves with every ragged draw of air to your lungs, your pretty lips quivering with need, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. If he had the skill, he'd pencil this very moment onto paper, immortalizing it. The desperation that clings to your features, the frustrated grunts you give when he laps at your— his— cunt, tongue skimming just shy of your pearl.

It's intoxicating. A heady visceral rush that courses through his veins and pools white-hot in his groin, stiffening his cock almost painfully.

And then, when a finger dips into your sopping entrance, the composure you'd been desperately clinging to begins to come apart. Simon watches it unfold through heavy-lidded eyes, the gentle part of your lips, the tremor in your breath— he drinks up every single second.

"Please," your voice is barely more than a breadth of a whisper. Your surrender is almost as sweet as you.

The kiss he plants on the inside of your thigh is searing as he hums. "What's it?" The prickly stubble of his jaw scratches against your skin. "Don't lose ya courage now," he murmurs, "you've already fought 'alf the battle.

Heat licks up the sides of your jaw, but you truck on, dignity long lost, in tatters next to your bag on the floor. "Please let me come." Your words come out in a half whine, half plea, and Simon's response is immediate; he cants your hips as two thick fingers enter you fully, and at this angle, it's more than he knows you can take, but you asked for it. Begged for it.

Simon takes it slow, not easy, the suction on your clit maddening; strong, fluttering pulses that seemingly beat in tandem with your heart and the world begins to tilt on its axis, his strong hands keeping you anchored lest your knees give way beneath you.

The world narrows down to the sound of your hiccups, the tension coiled spring tight below your navel, the feel of his shirt knotting in your fist— if he had hair long enough to tug, you would've ripped it out.

You knock your head back against the door almost violently, the dull throb stamped out by the livewire crackling beneath your skin when you finally do come, a scorching heat radiating from within your core out, leaving a raw, tingling sensation in its wake. It stings, you dazedly muse. The orgasm that was wrenched from you was so thunderous your pussy stings. It's short-lived but potent, and you can't help but wince, your lips curling, teeth slightly bared in discomfort.

Ouch.

Simon, on the other hand, is just peachy, unbothered as ever, leaned back on his haunches, chin glistening with slick, his thumb sweeping what's about to drip off his nose.

"Don't think for a second I'm returning the favor here. I've standards, Simon." He huffs in response but says nothing, expecting nothing less of you, instead opting to shrug his jacket off and place it over your drooping shoulders. Your limbs feel leaden as you exit the stall, Simon nimbly reaching for your health hazard of a bag before leading you toward the door.

Your fingers curl around the knob, and twist and pull—

and nothing. Confusion knots your brows together as you retrace your steps. Had you pushed or pulled it open? You can't quite recall, so you give it a firm push it instead—

and nothing. Again. The door stays closed.

"Need help there?" Irritation sparks within you, wishing your glare would eviscerate the obstinate door. Does Simon think himself funny? All you want is to go home, scrub yourself sparkling clean, and sleep until the late afternoon, but the door is conspiring against you. Good. Great, even.

"Bloody door," you grumble, "It won't open." Simon steps forward, unhurried, and twists the handle once, twice—

"Open sesame," he says, tone utterly flat and casual, and you snap your slackened jaw shut. "Oh for fuck's sake, Simon, keep your shit jokes," but the door opens with a click.

You're joking.

You're fucking joking.

It swings wide with a creak, and you glance around instinctively. Nothing out of place— just the usual drunken bodies flowing in and out, their laughter and slurred conversations blending into the background.

Simon drapes a heavy arm around your shoulders, large hand squeezing firm as he walks you out, and you trudge alongside, your gait sluggish, until a massive bulk stumbles into your path, and Simon quickly places himself between you and the drunken mass, both a protector and a threat.

The bloke is a guy with a row of thick hair that runs from his forehead to the nape of his neck, the sides clean shaven. "Sorry, bonnie, didnae mean ta-" limpid blue flashes to Simon, his thin-lipped smile stretches wide— too wide— flashing too many teeth for comfort, "bump into ye." He doesn't linger though, clodhopping his way back to the bar. There's a bold-lined tattoo on his nape, of a... revolver? A choice.

"Walk. I'll take ya home. Won't come in for a nightcap," the lines by his eyes becoming more pronounced. "Scouts 'onor." Simon pulls you along, and you're fighting off the sleep in your eyes when a man in a cap, his profile partially hidden by the brim, bumps his knuckles against Simon's shoulder, and curiosity outweighs your fatigue.

"Who's that?"

Simon grunts. "Security."

You don't remember having been frisked by security when you came in.

The crisp air outside bites your cheeks when you step out, and you're grateful for Simon's forethought as you tug the sides of his jacket closer to you, burying your nose into the collar— it smells of cigarette smoke and him, musky and woodsy— a quiet comfort. Sleep tugs at your eyelids, each step feeling heavier than the last as you make your way towards his vehicle.

The metal door groans as it opens, and he extends a hand, aiding you up when you squeeze it as you slur out a confession.

I missed you.

He doesn't falter in his movements as he guides both your feet inside, and his hands are steady as he adjusts the belt, buckle quietly clicking into place until he straightens, gaze dark and fluid as it lingers on you.

He runs the rough pad of his thumb along your bottom lip tenderly.

"I know, sweet'heart. Get some sleep."

The door closes with a firm but gentle push.

I know, he says. Exhaustion pulls at you, dragging you further away from consciousness. Bastard.

Simon doesn't wake you when he pulls up to your driveway, hooking an arm under your knees and the other around your waist to take you inside, your head lolling on his shoulder. Tomorrow, you'll ask him how he knows where you live, considering you moved for a new job months ago.

[satoruness]

golden — s . gojo x reader

synopsis — satoru gojo is your bestfriend and you are his. but sometimes, lines between friendship and something more seem to blur.

pairing — bestfriend! satoru x reader

word count — 10.6 k

warnings — making out, somewhat heavy petting, they take off each other's shirts but that's about it LOL, angst (not a sad ending though), reader feels unwanted at times.

Satoru Gojo.

How long have you known him? Your whole life, probably.

Scratch that. Not your whole life, but definitely the majority of it.

It started in preschool.

You were the quiet kid—the one who clung to the edges of the classroom, never quite fitting into the messy, chaotic whirlwind of children who seemed to make friends like it was the easiest thing in the world. You didn’t know how they did it—how they found each other in the noise, how they paired up so effortlessly, how they just knew where they belonged.

You, on the other hand, spent most of your time alone, stacking blocks in the corner, drawing quietly, or waiting for the teacher to tell you what to do next.

And then there was him.

Satoru Gojo, the loudest, brightest, most obnoxiously happy kid you’d ever met. He was the kind of child who ran instead of walked, who laughed at things no one else found funny, who always had a scrape on his knee but never seemed to care. He was larger than life, in a way that made your stomach twist—not quite jealousy, not quite admiration, just… confusion.

So when he plopped down next to you one day, completely uninvited, you weren’t sure what to do.

“Whatcha doin’?” he asked, peering at the tiny house you were building out of wooden blocks.

You shrugged. “Building.”

“Cool,” he said, grinning. “Can I help?”

You hesitated. You didn’t want help. But before you could answer, he was already reaching for the blocks, stacking them in ways that made no sense.

“You’re ruining it,” you mumbled, frowning.

He blinked at you, then back at the house. “Oh.” And then, without missing a beat, he knocked it over entirely.

You gasped, horrified.

He just laughed. “Now we can build it again!”

You decided, in that exact moment, that you hated him.

But Satoru Gojo was persistent.

He started following you around—not in a creepy way, just in an annoying way. Every time you thought you’d shaken him off, he’d pop up again like a bad penny, grinning that ridiculous grin of his.

Eventually, you just… let him.

It was easier than trying to get rid of him.

And somewhere along the way, he became your first real friend.

Your moms met not long after.

It happened at pickup time, when Satoru ran straight past his usual waiting spot to grab your hand instead. “Can I go to their house?” he asked his mom, all wide eyes and uncontainable energy. “Please, please, please?”

Your mom looked vaguely alarmed, having not expected to suddenly be responsible for another child, but Satoru’s mom just laughed.

And that was that.

Your friendship expanded beyond the preschool walls, spilling into weekends and playdates. Satoru’s house became as familiar as your own, with its too-big windows and fancy furniture that he absolutely wasn’t supposed to jump on (but did anyway). In return, he practically lived at your place, showing up unannounced, eating snacks straight from your pantry, making himself at home in a way that should have been irritating but never really was.

By the time middle school rolled around, he was less of a friend and more of a permanent fixture in your life.

“Okay, but listen,” Satoru said one afternoon, sprawled across your bedroom floor, Switch in hand. “If you had to pick one Digimon partner, like one to be stuck with for the rest of your life, who would it be?”

You barely looked up from your homework. “I don’t know. Agumon?”

“Agumon?” he repeated, scandalized. “That’s so basic. It’s like saying your favorite Pokémon is Pikachu.”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s literally the main character’s Digimon.”

“Exactly!” He threw his hands up. “No originality. None. Zero. I expected better from you.”

“You asked me,” you pointed out, rolling your eyes.

“Yeah, but I thought you’d at least think about it.” He sighed, dramatically flopping onto his back. “I should’ve known. I’m best friends with a casual fan.”

“You should be grateful you have a best friend at all,” you shot back.

Satoru grinned, tilting his head toward you. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

At some point, he started wearing glasses. Not for fashion, not because he wanted to, but because years of staring at screens in the dark, playing Digimon and Pokémon and whatever else he was obsessed with at the time, had officially caught up to him.

“I’m blind,” he announced the day he got them, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely, totally blind.”

You snorted. “You’re, like, mildly nearsighted.”

“Same thing,” he said, already taking them off to examine them. “Do I look smarter with them?”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it. “Not really.”

“Rude.” He huffed, sliding them back on. “What about cooler?”

You threw a pillow at his face.

He laughed, catching it easily. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

—

Then came high school.

At first, nothing changed.

Satoru was still Satoru—loud, annoying, always in your space. He still showed up at your house unannounced, still texted you at odd hours about random nonsense, still sat next to you at lunch like it was a law of the universe. He was your best friend. Your person.

And for the first two years, you were inseparable.

There wasn’t a single moment where people saw one of you without the other. Satoru Gojo and you. You and Satoru Gojo. Always a pair. Whether it was cramming for exams together, getting kicked out of the arcade because he got too competitive, or spending Friday nights playing whatever old game he got obsessed with that month, he was your constant.

Until junior year.

It started small.

A casual comment in gym class about how fast he was. A joke from a teacher about how he should try out for the football team. A half-dare from some of the guys he barely knew.

And somehow, against all odds, Satoru Gojo became an athlete.

You didn’t think much of it at first. It was just another one of his phases, right? Like that time he swore he’d master speedrunning or decided he was going to learn five languages at once. But he was good—annoyingly good. Tall, fast, with ridiculous reflexes that made him impossible to catch on the field.

And people noticed.

By mid-season, he wasn’t just some new player—he was the star. The guy everyone knew, the guy who had a crowd around him in the hallways, the guy who got called out over the school speakers for game-winning plays.

The guy who no longer just belonged to you.

The first time you really felt it was when he showed up at your house one evening. That part was normal. He still did that, still made himself at home on your couch, still stole whatever snacks he wanted.

But something was different.

You were sprawled out on your bed, flipping through a book, when you glanced up and noticed.

“Where are your glasses?” you asked.

Satoru blinked, as if he had to think about it. “Oh. Right.” He shrugged, plopping down next to you. “They’re kind of a hazard in football, so I switched to contacts. Figured I’d just stick with them.”

You sat up, frowning. “But you hate contacts.”

He grinned, stretching lazily. “Not anymore.”

And just like that, something in your chest twisted.

It wasn’t just the glasses.

It was the way he stopped rambling about Digimon, the way he never asked if you wanted to rewatch old anime together anymore. It was the way his schedule started filling up with team hangouts and parties you weren’t invited to. It was the way people started looking at you differently when you were with him.

Because Satoru Gojo wasn’t just Satoru Gojo anymore.

He was Gojo.

Senior year was when it really started to hurt.

He still sat with you at lunch, still texted you silly memes at night, still acted like nothing had changed. But everything had.

He would often cancel on your invitations, his responses still typed in that absurd, unmistakable way of his—yet his excuses always seemed to follow a familiar pattern. It was always something urgent, something unavoidable: he had to rush off to practice, or there was a party he couldn’t miss, or someone needed his help and he simply couldn’t bring himself to say no. Each time, it felt like a rehearsed script, as though his priorities were perpetually elsewhere, leaving you to wonder if you’d ever truly make the cut.

Every time he plopped down next to you, people stared. Whispered.

“Why’s he sitting with her?”

“Shouldn't he sit with the rest of the team?”

“Is she, like, his childhood obligation or something?”

You weren’t an idiot. You heard it. You felt it.

And it made you snap.

“You don’t have to sit here, you know,” you muttered one day, keeping your eyes on your tray.

Satoru frowned. “What?”

“I said, you don’t have to sit here,” you repeated, sharper this time. “If you’d rather be with your actual friends—”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

You clenched your jaw, hating how defensive he sounded. “Nothing. Forget it.”

He didn’t forget it.

You fought about it. About how he didn’t get it, about how easy everything was for him, about how he could walk into any room and belong while you felt like you had to justify existing.

“You act like I abandoned you,” he snapped, voice low and frustrated. “But I’m right here. I’ve always been here.”

And you hated that he was somewhat right. 

So you patched things up. Not because you fully understood each other, but because you both wanted to. And by the time graduation rolled around, you could almost pretend things had gone back to the way they were.

But then came college.

And somehow, Satoru Gojo managed to be even more himself than ever.

Bigger. Louder. More impossible to ignore.

If high school had turned him into a star, then college made him a supernova.

He was everywhere—at parties, in clubs, on the field. Everyone knew him. Everyone wanted to be around him.

And somehow, despite it all, he still tried to keep you close.

“Come with me tonight,” he’d say, sending you an invite to some massive party. “It’ll be fun.”

You always said no.

At first, he laughed it off. But after a while, he started looking at you differently—like he noticed the way you avoided him now, the way you barely answered his texts, the way you pulled away whenever he tried to meet your eyes.

And one night, when he showed up outside your dorm after another party, half-drunk and grinning, you saw the exact moment that grin faltered.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “Why would I be mad at you?” you replied, your tone lighter than you felt, as if you could brush the question aside with a casual shrug.

Satoru studied you intently, his glasses nowhere to be found, his hair disheveled from running his hands through it one too many times. His gaze was sharp, unrelenting. “Because you’re avoiding me,” he said, his voice steady but laced with something you couldn’t quite place—frustration, maybe, or hurt.

You forced a laugh, the sound brittle and unconvincing. “I’m not—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he interrupted, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “Not you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, and your throat tightened. You looked away, unable to hold his gaze. “It’s just—” you began, your voice faltering as you struggled to piece together the thoughts that had been swirling in your mind for weeks. “You don’t need me anymore, Satoru. You have them. All your cool—I don’t know, jock and cheerleader friends, everyone else who likes you. You don’t have time for me now.”

He blinked, his expression shifting from confusion to disbelief. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice rising slightly, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. His hands gestured vaguely, as though trying to grasp the words you’d just thrown at him. “You think I’d just—replace you? Like it’s that easy? No, like seriously fucking explain to me what the absolute hell you mean?” He mutters out angrily, words slightly slurred.

The air between you felt heavy, charged with emotions neither of you had fully acknowledged until now. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat, leaving only silence hanging in the space between you.

You let out a bitter laugh. “It means I’m tired, Satoru. Tired of feeling like a ghost when I’m with you. Tired of pretending I’m okay with being the weird friend you keep around out of habit.”

Satoru opened his mouth, then closed it.

And for the first time in your life, you saw it—hurt. Real, genuine hurt in his stupidly bright eyes.

“You think that’s what this is?” he said, voice quieter now. “Habit?”

You didn’t answer.

Because if you did, you might have to admit that you missed him. That you missed the late-night anime marathons, the dumb inside jokes, the way he used to act like you were the only person in the world that mattered.

But you weren’t sure if that version of him still existed.

And you definitely weren’t sure if you had the courage to find out.

Satoru stared at you for a long time, the weight of your words settling between you like a stone. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, couldn’t decipher the way his lips pressed into a thin line, the way his fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach for something—but wasn’t sure if he should.

Then, after what felt like forever, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

“I don’t get it,” he admitted, voice lower now, quieter, like he was afraid too many words would push you further away. “You’re acting like I left you behind, but I’m right here.”

You bit your lip. “You don’t see it.”

“Then make me see it,” he shot back, suddenly frustrated. “Because all I know is that one day we were fine, and the next, you started treating me like a stranger.”

That stung.

Because wasn’t that what he did first?

He wasn’t the one being looked at differently in high school when he sat next to you at lunch. He wasn’t the one feeling like a burden when you tagged along with him to something you thought was just going to be the two of you. He wasn’t the one realizing, little by little, that your best friend was outgrowing you.

But how could you even say that? How could you explain it in a way he’d understand?

“It’s not just one thing, Satoru,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s… everything.”

Satoru exhaled sharply, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “That’s real specific.”

You rolled your eyes, the exhaustion settling deep into your bones. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Try me.”

You hesitated. He looked serious, standing there under the dim glow of the dorm hallway lights, arms crossed, gaze steady. But what would it change? Telling him wouldn’t undo the years of growing distance, wouldn’t erase the fact that you felt like you didn’t fit in his world anymore.

Maybe it was better to let it go.

So you shook your head, stepping back toward your door. “It’s late. You should go.”

Satoru let out a quiet, frustrated laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Fine,” he said, jaw tightening. “Run away, then. You’re good at that.”

That hurt more than it should have.

But you didn’t argue. You just stepped inside, closed the door, and pretended the ache in your chest wasn’t real.

It got worse after that.

You thought maybe that argument would clear the air—that he’d finally see why you had been keeping your distance. But if anything, it only made things weirder.

Satoru still texted you, but not as much. He still invited you to things, but there was something almost hesitant in the way he asked, like he was bracing for rejection. And when you turned him down (because of course you did), his replies became shorter, more clipped.

Then, one night, he stopped asking altogether.

You didn’t realize how much you had come to expect it—his name popping up on your phone, his easy confidence that somehow, eventually, you’d say yes. But when Friday night came and went without a text, something inside you twisted.

Maybe this was what you wanted. Maybe it was easier this way.

So why did it feel so awful?

A week later, you ran into him by accident.

Literally.

You were coming out of the campus library, arms full of books, when someone rounded the corner too fast and nearly tackled you.

“Oh, shit—sorry—”

You looked up, heart dropping to your stomach.

Satoru.

Your hands clenched around the books, pulse stuttering. It had only been a week, but he already looked different—like he’d fully settled into his role as that guy. Loose hoodie, messy hair, the faint scent of cologne and something vaguely alcoholic clinging to him.

You swallowed hard. “Hey.”

His expression flickered—just for a second. “Hey.”

It was awkward. Awkward. When had things ever been awkward between you?

You shifted your grip on your books. “Uh—sorry. Didn’t mean to—”

“Yeah, no, my bad,” he cut in quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

Silence stretched between you. Too long, too tense.

Then, suddenly, his eyes dropped to the stack in your arms. “Of course you’re carrying, like, ten books at once.”

It was such a Satoru thing to say that, for a second, you almost smiled.

Then his gaze flicked up to yours, something softer in his expression, and your breath hitched.

And then—

A voice called his name from across the quad. Some guy you didn’t know, waving him over. Satoru hesitated. Then, with a small exhale, he gave you a lopsided grin. “Guess I’ll see you around.”

He didn’t wait for a response before turning away.

And you stood there, watching him go, feeling like something important had just slipped through your fingers.

Days passed. Then a week. Then two.

And for the first time in years, Satoru Gojo wasn’t part of your life anymore.

No more texts. No more unannounced visits. No more standing at your dorm door at 2 AM, grinning like he belonged there.

You had wanted this, hadn’t you? You had wanted the space, the distance, the freedom to not be caught in his orbit.

But now, without him, everything just felt… quiet. You hated it.

You missed him.

—

It was months before you and Satoru spoke again.

At first, you kept waiting for him to text you, to pop up at your door with some stupid excuse, to send you a meme like nothing had happened. But days passed. Then weeks. Then months. And Satoru Gojo—your best friend since childhood—became just another person you saw in passing.

Sometimes, you spotted him across the quad, surrounded by his usual crowd. Sometimes, you caught glimpses of him at the library, laughing too loudly with friends who barely even acknowledged your existence.

And it hurt.

More than you wanted to admit, it hurt.

But you told yourself this was how things were meant to be. That he had moved on, and you needed to do the same. That whatever had existed between you belonged to another lifetime, one where you weren’t the quiet girl who spent her nights buried in books, and he wasn’t the golden boy who belonged to the whole damn world.

You thought you were doing fine. You thought you were getting used to it.

Until the professor announced lab partners.

The moment your name was called, a small, high-pitched voice cut through the classroom.

“Uh… who?”

Laughter rippled through the room. You felt your face go hot, every muscle in your body locking up as the girl—some blonde from Satoru’s usual group—looked around in exaggerated confusion.

It was humiliating.

Because she wasn’t just some random classmate. She was someone who had spent actual time with Satoru. Who had probably been to his dorm, who had probably sat next to him at parties, who had probably heard him talk about people in his life.

And she had no idea who you were.

You didn’t even dare look at Satoru. Didn’t want to see his reaction. Didn’t want to see whether he’d step in, whether he’d say anything—

But he didn’t.

He didn’t laugh, but he didn’t correct her either.

Didn’t turn to acknowledge you. Didn’t make some joke to brush past it. Didn’t do anything at all.

Just stared at the table like he was somewhere else entirely.

And that, somehow, was worse than anything.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral as you scribbled down the details of the assignment. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t a big deal. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

—

Working with Satoru again was… weird.

Not just because of everything that had happened between you, but because neither of you seemed to know how to be around each other anymore.

Gone were the days of effortless conversation, of teasing remarks and stolen fries and arguments about Digimon evolutions. Now, everything felt stilted, careful, like you were two strangers trying to relearn the language of each other.

Sometimes, it almost felt normal.

Like when you sat across from each other in the library, bent over research notes, and he’d randomly hum the Sailor Moon theme song under his breath. Or when he muttered something stupid under his breath about the professor’s handwriting, and you nearly choked on your water holding back a laugh.

But then, inevitably, the moment would pass.

Because girls from his usual group would come over, acting like you weren’t even there, their voices too sweet as they draped themselves over the back of his chair.

“Satoru, are you coming to the party on Friday?”

“Satoru, when are you free? We should all hang out.”

And he’d always answer them. Always give some noncommittal shrug or a lazy smirk. But you could tell—even if no one else seemed to notice—that he wasn’t really there. That when he looked at them, he wasn’t listening.

And yet, he never told them to leave. Never told them that you were working. Never acknowledged you at all when they were around. So, after a while, you just stopped expecting him to.

And then, one day, you got sick.

Not just a little sick. Not just a sore throat or a cough you could push through. No, you were the kind of sick that made your whole body ache, that sent shivers down your spine no matter how many blankets you curled under.

But it was a project day. And despite everything, you still had responsibilities. So, begrudgingly, you shot Satoru a text.

Come to my dorm. I can’t go out today.

He didn’t reply right away. But twenty minutes later, there was a knock at your door. You barely managed to drag yourself over, your vision swimming slightly as you opened it.

And there he was.

Looking the same as always—messy white hair, sharp blue eyes, hoodie slung over his frame like he’d just rolled out of bed.

The only difference? The way his expression immediately dropped the second he saw you.

“Shit,” he muttered. “You look awful.”

You groaned, stepping aside to let him in. “Thanks for the confidence boost.” He kicked off his shoes, setting his bag down before eyeing you carefully. “Have you been drinking water? Eating enough? D’you eat somethin’ you weren’t meant to eat?”

You rolled your eyes. “How am I supposed to know, I just woke up sick as hell.”

Instead of a snarky remark, Satoru just sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Then, before you could protest, he was guiding you toward the bed, nudging you to sit.

“You’re not working like this,” he said firmly. “Lie down.”

“I’m fine—”

“Lie down.”

You hesitated.

This wasn’t him. This wasn’t the version of Satoru you had gotten used to in the past year. The one who was always a little distant, a little out of reach. This was… him.

The Satoru you had known since childhood. The one who always knew when you were exhausted, even when you swore you weren’t. The one who used to push his fries onto your plate when you were too stressed to eat.

The one who, for the first time in months, was looking at you like you were still his best friend. So, slowly, you lay back down.

Satoru exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll get you some tea or something. You have any?” You nodded weakly. He moved toward your desk, rummaging through your stash of instant tea packets like he had done it a million times before.

And for the first time in a long time, the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was familiar.

Safe.

And even though you felt like death warmed over, for the first time in months, you didn’t feel so alone.

—

From that day on, something shifted.

It wasn’t immediate, and it wasn’t dramatic, but it was there—a quiet, almost imperceptible change in the way things were between you and Satoru. The library, once the default meeting spot for your project sessions, was suddenly off the table. He stopped suggesting it altogether, and at first, you didn’t think much of it. But then, one afternoon, he showed up at your dorm unannounced, arms loaded with snacks and a careless shrug when you stared at him, bewildered.

“Library’s too loud,” he said, brushing past you and stepping inside like he owned the place. “Figured we’d get more done here.”

You didn’t question it. Not then, and not a week later when you found yourself in his dorm instead, sitting cross-legged on his bed while he scrolled through research notes on his laptop. 

“Library’s too crowded,” he explained that time, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

After that, it just became… routine. Your project meetings moved from the library to your dorms, back and forth, as if by some unspoken agreement. The shift was gradual, almost imperceptible, but it was there. You still weren’t quite friends again—not the way you used to be, back when everything was easy and uncomplicated. There was still a careful distance between you, an unspoken awareness of all the time that had been lost, all the moments that had slipped through your fingers. But things weren’t cold anymore. They weren’t distant.

Satoru filled the quiet moments with mindless chatter, the way he always had. He teased you about your typos, stole your pens when you weren’t looking, and groaned dramatically whenever you made him do too much reading. Slowly, bit by bit, the pieces of your friendship started falling back into place. Not completely. Not yet. But enough that sometimes, when the two of you were laughing over something stupid, it almost felt like the past year had never happened.

Then, one day, everything cracked open.

It was late—much later than usual—and the two of you were sitting in his dorm, textbooks and notebooks sprawled across his desk. You were both exhausted, the kind of tired that made your eyes burn and your thoughts sluggish. Satoru was absentmindedly flipping through one of your old notebooks when he suddenly snorted.

“Oh my God.”

You blinked up at him, too tired to muster more than a mumbled, “What?”

He turned the notebook toward you, pointing at a messy doodle in the margin. It was a Digimon—a rough, scribbled outline that barely resembled anything recognizable. But something about it made him grin, leaning back in his chair like he’d just uncovered a hidden treasure.

“Damn,” he said, shaking his head. “Feels like a whole different lifetime ago.”

And then, in a voice so casual, so familiar, he added—

“Remember when we made a whole ass PowerPoint ranking every Digimon evolution?”

That was it.

That was what broke you.

It was so stupid—just a random memory, an offhand remark. But the second he said it, something in your chest twisted violently. You clenched your jaw, swallowing hard, telling yourself not to be dramatic. But then your vision blurred, and suddenly, you were crying.

“Oh—oh shit.”

Satoru’s chair scraped against the floor as he shot up, eyes wide with panic. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

You barely managed to shake your head, your hands gripping your knees as you tried to steady yourself. But the tears kept coming, and then—through the hiccups, through the pathetic, trembling gasps—you broke.

You clenched your jaw, trying to hold it together, but the tears spilled over anyway. Your chest heaved as you choked out the words, “I miss you. I—God, Satoru, I miss you.”

His face went slack, his usual confidence faltering as he stared at you, stunned. For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak, like he was trying to process what you’d just said. Then his voice came out quiet, almost fragile. “What are you talking about? I’m right here.”

You shook your head, your hands gripping your knees so tightly your knuckles turned white. “No, you’re not. Not really. You’ve been… gone. For so long. And I—” Your voice broke, and you hated how weak you sounded, how raw and exposed you felt. “I don’t want to be without you anymore. I don’t—I don’t want you to hate me.”

Satoru’s breath hitched, and for the first time, you saw his composure crack. His eyes glistened, and he blinked rapidly, like he was trying to fight it, but a single tear slipped down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly, his voice trembling as he muttered, “You’re so fucking stupid. How could I ever hate you?”

You let out a shaky laugh, but it came out more like a sob. “I don’t know. You just—you stopped talking to me. You stopped needing me. And I thought… I thought you didn’t care anymore.”

He shook his head, his hands reaching out like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure if he should. “I care. I care so much it’s stupid. I just—” He paused, his voice cracking. “I didn’t know how to fix it. I didn’t know how to come back after everything. It felt like you were pushing me away.”

“You could’ve just— I don’t even know what to say,” you hiccuped, your voice barely audible. “You could’ve just… stayed. I don’t know— like yell at me, tell me that you care for me or something. I wish I wasn’t so stubborn about not speaking to you either, but god, maybe I just wanted you to like— tell me how much you needed me. Because it never felt like you did anymore.”

Satoru’s face crumpled, and he let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping like the weight of everything had finally caught up to him. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice raw. “I’m so sorry for leaving you behind. I didn’t mean to. I just… I didn’t know how to be around you without feeling like I’d already ruined everything.”

You looked up at him, your vision blurred by tears. “You didn’t ruin anything. I just… I needed you. And you weren’t there. And really, it was my fault too, for not communicating—”

He cuts you off, his own tears falling freely now, though he didn’t seem to care. “I know. But I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you. I just… I didn’t know how to fix it. I— I should’ve been there for you more often because God, life without you is just so horrible, and I’ve been so horrible— ”

“You’re fixing it now,” you said, your voice trembling. “Just… don’t leave me again. Please.”

He let out a choked laugh, his hands finally reaching for you, pulling you into his chest. His arms wrapped around you tightly, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. “I won’t,” he murmured into your hair. “I won’t. I promise.”

You buried your face in his shirt, your hands clutching the fabric as you cried. His body shook against yours, and you realized he was crying too—quietly, almost like he was trying to hide it, but you could feel the way his breath hitched, the way his hands trembled as they held you.

“I missed you too,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Every fucking day. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

You didn’t respond, couldn’t respond, because the weight of everything—the months of silence, the distance, the ache of missing him—was finally crashing down on you. But for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn’t a bad kind of crash. It was relief. It was the feeling of something broken finally starting to heal.

Satoru’s hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he held you closer. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, his voice firm despite the tears. “Not again. Not ever.”

You nodded against his chest, your tears soaking into his shirt. “Okay,” you whispered. “Okay.”

It took a long time for the tears to stop, for the sobs to quiet into shaky breaths. But even when they did, neither of you moved. Satoru kept holding you, his arms tight around you, his chin resting on the top of your head. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt safe. You felt like you were home.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were red and puffy, but he was smiling—a small, tentative smile that made your chest ache in the best way. “You’re stuck with me now, like y’know, the annoying kid who’d follow you around as kids,” he said, his voice soft. “Just so you know.”

You laughed, the sound watery but genuine. “Good. Because I miss that Satoru, and I’m not letting you go again either.”

He grinned, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Deal.”

And just like that, something shifted. The distance between you closed, the cracks in your friendship slowly mending. It wasn’t perfect—not yet—but it was a start. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like everything was going to be okay.

—

After that night, Satoru made it a point to talk to you during class.

It was weird at first—uncomfortable, even. Because now, whenever he sat beside you, people stared. People whispered. But Satoru didn’t care. And after a while, neither did you.

Then, one day, it happened.

You were in the middle of a conversation when one of the girls from his usual group strolled up, her friends lingering just behind her.

“Dude,” she drawled, arms crossed. “We’re waiting for you.”

Satoru didn’t acknowledge her.

She huffed, looking at you for the first time.

“Who even are you?” she said, wrinkling her nose.

Silence.

Then—calmly, lazily—Satoru turned to her.

“Fuck off.”

Her expression twisted. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, resting his chin in his hand. “We’re talking.”

You swore you saw steam coming out of her ears.

She spun on her heel, storming off in a flurry of designer fabric, and Satoru just turned back to you like nothing had happened.

You blinked at him, stunned. “That was… aggressive.”

He shrugged. “Don’t like her.”

You snorted. “You used to hang out with her all the time.”

“Yeah, well.” He gave you a pointed look. “I was an idiot.”

And maybe it was the way he said it. Maybe it was the certainty in his voice, the way he leaned in just a little closer like this—this—was what mattered.

But for the first time in a long time, you felt something settle inside you. Something warm. Something steady. Something that told you, without a doubt—

Satoru Gojo wasn’t leaving you behind again.

—

It happened slowly.

At first, it was just the way things had been before. You and Satoru were best friends again—finally, properly—and you were making up for lost time.

You sat together in lectures. You ate together between classes. You spent hours holed up in each other’s dorms, either working in silence or complaining about whatever god-awful assignment was due next.

And it was good. It was easy.

But then—then—things started to shift.

It was subtle at first.

A hand brushing against yours for just a little too long. The warmth of his body pressed against yours in a too-crowded study session, his breath fanning over your ear as he leaned in, muttering something you could barely focus on.

The way his eyes lingered when he thought you weren’t looking.

The way yours lingered, too.

—

It was a Friday night, and you were at Satoru’s dorm, lying on his bed while he sat at his desk, spinning lazily in his chair.

“I don’t wanna study,” he whined, stretching his arms over his head. “Let’s do something fun.”

You turned a page in your book, unimpressed. “And what exactly do you define as ‘fun’?”

“Dunno,” he mused. “Wanna go for a drive?”

You sighed. “Satoru, it’s almost midnight.”

“And?” He grinned, kicking his feet up onto his desk. “C’mon, live a little.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose. “You just don’t want to do your readings.”

“Obviously.” He snorted. “But also, I feel like getting snacks.”

You hesitated, torn.

Then, finally—

“Fine.”

His eyes lit up. “Knew you’d cave.”

You rolled your eyes, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go before I change my mind.”

—

It was raining by the time you got to the convenience store.

Not heavily—just a light drizzle, enough to make the streets shimmer under the streetlights.

Satoru grabbed half the store’s supply of junk food while you rolled your eyes, paying for your single bottle of tea. Outside, the air was cool, the pavement slick beneath your feet.

“I’m driving,” you said as he dug through his bag of snacks.

“Nah.” He grinned, tossing a chip into his mouth. “I got this.”

You gave him a look. “You almost crashed last time.”

He scoffed. “That was a red light, not a crash.”

“You ran the red light.”

“Meow.”

You cringe, snatching the keys from his pocket. “Oh my god. Absolutely not.”

Satoru laughed but let you.

And for some reason, that made your stomach flip.

—

Back at your dorm, Satoru made himself at home—because of course he did.

He sprawled across your bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other mindlessly tossing a snack in the air and catching it with his mouth.

“You should be paying me rent at this point,” you muttered, shutting the door behind you.

“I would,” he said, grinning, “but I’m broke.”

You huffed, settling onto the bed beside him. “What, your trust fund isn’t enough?”

He smirked. “Nah, gotta save that for important things.”

You rolled your eyes. “Right. Like overpriced sunglasses.”

“Exactly.”

You shook your head, reaching for the remote.

And then—a shift.

Satoru turned his head to look at you, and when you met his gaze, something in his expression softened.

“Hey,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “Hey.”

He reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

Your breath hitched.

His fingers lingered at your temple, just for a moment. His touch was warm, featherlight.

You exhaled, heartbeat stuttering.

And then—just as quickly—he pulled back, flopping onto his back with a dramatic groan.

“What should we watch?” he asked, stretching like nothing had happened.

You exhaled.

Your chest felt tight.

“Uh.” You cleared your throat. “Dunno.”

And just like that, the moment passed.

—

But the tension didn’t. If anything, it only got worse.

It was in the way his hand brushed your waist when he reached past you.

The way he sat just a little too close, his knee knocking against yours under the desk.

The way his fingers trailed across your wrist when he grabbed something from you, his touch slow, deliberate.

And—God—it was in the way he looked at you.

Like you were something he couldn’t quite figure out.

Like he was waiting for something.

Like he wanted something.

And maybe—just maybe—so did you.

—

By the time second year rolled around, you weren’t sure what you and Satoru were anymore. Still best friends, technically. Still Satoru and you. But there was something else, too.

Something unspoken.

Something fragile and complicated and new. And neither of you dared to acknowledge it.

 —

The weather had started to change, the air cooler as autumn crept in. You could feel it in your bones—when the days shortened, and the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows. It made everything seem a little softer, like the world had gone quiet just to give you and Satoru a chance to breathe, to figure things out.

You were both sitting in the small, somewhat neglected corner of the university park, surrounded by towering trees with golden leaves fluttering to the ground. You were both on the grass, sitting close enough that your shoulders brushed whenever you shifted. It was the kind of quiet afternoon you could’ve stayed in forever, and maybe that was why you weren’t quite ready to let it end.

Satoru stretched, his arms reaching high above his head. “Ugh, my back’s killing me. Who knew studying could be so physically demanding?” He rolled his shoulders, groaning dramatically.

You shot him a sidelong glance, your lips curling into a smile despite yourself. “I think that’s just you, Satoru. You’re a professional at making everything harder than it is.”

He shot you a grin, a smug little thing, like he knew you couldn’t resist teasing him back. “Oh, please, I make things look easy. It's a gift.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, the great Satoru Gojo.”

He raised an eyebrow at that, catching the teasing tone in your voice. “That’s right. You should be honored to sit next to greatness.” He nudged your shoulder with his, the warmth of his body spilling into yours. The touch was light but undeniable. Familiar.

You chuckled, nudging him back. “I don’t know if I’d call you ‘great’ when you still lose to me in Mario Kart every time.”

Satoru gasped dramatically, clutching his chest like you’d just struck a mortal wound. “You—I’m just going easy on you because I don’t want you to feel bad. I’m a gentleman like that.”

You could hear the playful teasing in his voice, but the way he looked at you—his eyes crinkling at the corners with that boyish grin—felt like something deeper.

“I don’t need you to go easy on me,” you teased, leaning in just a bit too much, your voice soft. “I’m pretty good on my own, thanks.”

That was when you noticed it—the way his eyes flickered for a second, his lips curving down ever so slightly before he caught himself. His gaze held yours for a second longer than normal, and for the first time in a while, you both just stayed there. Not a word. No jokes or banter. Just the space between you thick with unspoken things.

Satoru was the first to look away, clearing his throat. “Anyway, want me to go grab us something from that little café over there? You could use some food if you’re gonna keep up with me.”

You hesitated. He’s back to that again. The Satoru who was always making sure you were fed, always thinking ahead for both of you, even when he had to act like nothing was different.

But you didn’t want to ruin the moment, not now. Not when everything felt right.

“No, I’m good,” you said softly, shaking your head. “But... thanks.”

Satoru studied you for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly, before he dropped his shoulders with a sigh. “I swear, you’re impossible.” But even as he said it, his hand reached out—just a quick pat of his large hand atop yours. The briefest of contact, and for a moment, the world paused around you.

The warmth of his hand lingered even after it was gone, and you could feel your chest tightening, your pulse picking up. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

And for the rest of the afternoon, you stayed like that. Silent. Comfortable in the space between you, letting the quiet be enough. But you both knew it wasn’t just the park that made the air heavy—it was everything unsaid that clung to it.

Eventually, the sun began to dip low on the horizon, casting long shadows that stretched across the grass. You sighed, looking up at Satoru. “We should probably get back soon. It’s getting late.”

He glanced at his phone, then at you, and nodded. “Yeah. You’re right.” He paused. “Hey, you want to walk with me to my dorm? I’m not ready to head back alone yet.”

It wasn’t even a question, not really. But you could feel his eyes on you, like he was waiting for your answer to matter just as much as the offer itself.

You nodded, and the tension between you both lifted just a little as you both stood, stretching out the stiffness in your legs. “Sure, let’s go.”

As you and Satoru walked side by side, the night air crisp and cool against your skin, the silence between you felt heavier than before. It wasn’t uncomfortable—quite the opposite. It was charged, like something waiting to tip over the edge. Every step you took together seemed to draw you closer, and you could feel the warmth of his body beside you, even in the chill of the evening.

You weren’t sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, his hand brushed against yours again. This time, neither of you pulled away. The tips of his fingers grazed your knuckles—light, tentative. Like he was testing the waters. Like he was waiting for you to stop him.

But you didn’t.

You swallowed, trying to focus on the rhythmic crunch of leaves beneath your feet rather than the way your skin tingled where he touched you. It was such a small thing, barely even a touch, but it sent your heart skittering against your ribs. And when you finally dared to glance up at him, Satoru was already looking at you, his lips curled into something between amusement and something softer, something unreadable.

“What?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

Satoru tilted his head, his silver-white hair catching in the glow of the streetlights. “Nothing.”

A lie.

Because there was something—so much something—wrapped up in the way his eyes flickered over you, lingering for just a second too long on your lips before he looked ahead again.

The air between you felt tight, humming with something unsaid.

You were nearing his dorm now, the pathway growing quieter, fewer students passing by. It was just the two of you, footsteps slowing, the night pressing in close.

Satoru exhaled a slow breath, and then—without thinking, or maybe because he had been thinking about it too much—he reached out again. This time, his fingers laced through yours, not just a brush, not just an accident. A deliberate touch, a quiet declaration.

Your breath caught, and you felt him squeeze—just slightly, just enough.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice low, like he wasn’t sure he should be asking.

You nodded, your mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah. You?”

His lips twitched, like he wanted to smirk, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Dunno,” he said, squeezing your fingers again. “You’re kind of distracting.”

Your stomach flipped, heat crawling up your neck. “Oh, I’m distracting? That’s rich, coming from you.”

He huffed a laugh, the sound warm, teasing. “No, I mean it.” He stopped walking, tugging you gently by the hand so you turned to face him. “You ever notice how quiet things get when it’s just us?”

You blinked, your throat tightening. “Satoru—”

His free hand lifted, his fingertips barely skimming your jaw. He wasn’t quite touching, just there, like he was still giving you room to pull away. Like he wasn’t sure if he should close the space between you.

And God, you wanted him to.

Your pulse pounded in your ears. It would be so easy. Just one step closer. Just one little push, and—

Satoru exhaled sharply through his nose, his hand falling away, his fingers untangling from yours. He took a step back, running a hand through his hair. “Never mind,” he muttered, laughing under his breath like he was scolding himself. “Forget I said anything.”

Your fingers twitched at your sides, the absence of his touch making your skin feel cold.

“No,” you said, firmer than you expected. “I don’t want to.”

His head snapped up, eyes wide, startled. “You don’t?”

You took a breath, steeling yourself. “No.”

Satoru stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a low chuckle, he shook his head. “You really are impossible.”

And then, before you could overthink it, before you could talk yourself out of it—you stepped forward, pressing your palm against his chest, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his hoodie. His breath hitched, his body going still under your touch.

The silence stretched again, thick and unyielding.

“Say it,” you whispered.

His hands hovered at your sides, not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. “Say what?”

You looked up at him, unflinching. “Whatever it is you’re holding back.”

Satoru exhaled, a sharp, unsteady thing. His hands finally settled on your waist, hesitant at first—then firmer, more certain. His fingers pressed into your hips, grounding himself in the feel of you.

And then, his voice—low, raw, real.

“I don’t want to be just your best friend anymore.”

Your breath caught.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The words hung between you, heavy and dangerous and everything.

Then, Satoru leaned in, his nose just barely brushing yours, his lips hovering so close. His breath was warm, and when he spoke again, it was barely a whisper.

“I want more.”

And then, finally—finally—you closed the space between you.

The kiss wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t shy. It was hungry, desperate, like the both of you had been waiting too long to do this, like neither of you wanted to waste another second. His lips crashed against yours, and you gasped against his mouth as he backed you up against the door of his dorm, hands gripping your waist tighter like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

Your fingers curled into his hoodie, tugging him closer, feeling the heat of him seep into you. His body pressed against yours, and the air between you turned thick with something intoxicating, something impossible to stop now that it had started. The small, breathless noises you made against his mouth only seemed to push him further, his fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt, thumbs brushing over your bare skin, warm and firm and so much.

The door behind you dug into your back, and for a fleeting moment, a thought broke through the haze—what if someone sees us?

As if he could read your mind, Satoru groaned against your lips, impatient, and without breaking the kiss, he reached behind you, fumbling for the handle. The second the door swung open, he practically pulled you inside with him, kicking it shut before his lips were on yours again, urgent, demanding.

You barely had a second to catch your breath before he was guiding you backwards, hands never leaving your body, mouth never straying too far from yours. You stumbled together, his grip firm, his kisses growing deeper, hotter, more insistent as you moved through the dark room.

By the time you reached the bedroom, your pulse was a wild, unsteady thing, your skin burning under his touch.

His mouth was warm and soft against yours, kissing your lips like he was afraid you were gonna disappear. Using his strength to his advantage, he manhandled you into his lap on the bed, while he sat up against the headboard. His tongue prodded into your mouth experimentally, and when you obliged him entry, he swirled it around with yours before licking into the cavern of your mouth, tasting you as if you were one of those sickeningly sweet delicacies he enjoyed.

His hands roamed from your waist to your hips, to your thighs before stopping hesitantly over your ass, to which you dragged them down until he was squeezing and kneading the supple flesh with his hands, mouth slotted against yours.

You pulled back slightly, gasping for air, your chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. But Satoru didn’t let you go far. His hands were firm on your ass, keeping you anchored to him as his lips trailed wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine, and you tilted your head to give him better access, your fingers tangling in his hair.

His mouth moved lower, pressing hot, lingering kisses along the column of your neck. Each touch of his lips against your skin felt like fire, and you couldn’t suppress the soft moan that escaped your throat. His hands slid up your sides, his touch firm but gentle, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. One hand came to rest on the small of your back, pulling you closer, while the other cupped the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

“Satoru,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper, but he didn’t respond—not with words, anyway. Instead, he captured your lips again in a desperate, hungry kiss that left you dizzy. His tongue slid against yours, and you melted into him, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance as the world around you seemed to fade away.

His hands roamed your body with a kind of urgency, as if he couldn’t get enough of you. One moment they were in your hair, the next sliding down your back, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you. You could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of his shirt, and you tugged at it impatiently, wanting—needing—to feel his skin against yours.

He broke the kiss long enough to yank his shirt over his head, tossing it aside before his lips were on yours again, more insistent this time. His hands found the hem of your top, and you lifted your arms without hesitation, letting him pull it off and discard it somewhere on the floor. The cool air of the room hit your skin, but it did nothing to quell the heat building inside you.

Satoru’s hands were everywhere—tracing the curve of your waist, skimming over your ribs, brushing the underside of your breast under your bra. You arched into him, chasing the friction, desperate for more.

His mouth found yours again, urgent and unrelenting, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, deliberate stroke that left you breathless. He kissed you like he wanted to consume you, like he didn’t care about anything else but this—you.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, your breaths mingling, heavy and uneven. Every kiss, every touch, every press of his hands left you dizzy, lost in the haze of heat and want.

And when he pulled back, just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide and his lips swollen from kissing, you swore you’d never seen him look at anything the way he was looking at you now.

Like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

Both of your chests were heaving, your own shirt flung on the bed somewhere and Satoru’s completely off and forgotten somewhere on the floor. His hands were still settled on your waist, thumbs tracing slow circles over your heated skin. His head lolled back against the couch, a lazy, satisfied grin stretching across his lips.

“Damn,” he exhaled, voice slightly hoarse. “I think I saw the pearly gates for a second there.”

You scoffed, giving his shoulder a weak shove, while reaching for your shirt. “Dramatic.”

He only laughed, the sound bright and breathless. “I mean it, nerd. Who knew you had it in you?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, fingers curling against his shoulders. “Satoru.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

His grin widened, but he obeyed—for all of two seconds. Then, with a teasing glint in his eyes, he waggled his brows. “You know, we should really make this a regular thing. Like, for health purposes. I feel like I just did an entire cardio session.”

You smacked his arm. “Oh my god.”

He gasped in mock offense, pressing a hand to his bare chest. “See? That was uncalled for. Here I am, trying to improve my well-being, and you’re—”

“Satoru.” You fixed him with a look, but the corners of your lips twitched. He was impossible.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating under your fingertips. “Okay, okay, I’ll be good.” His grip on your waist tightened slightly, as if to ground himself—or maybe to keep you exactly where you were. “But… just so we’re clear, this isn’t, like, a one-time thing, right?”

You blinked, his sudden shift in tone catching you off guard. His usual playfulness was still there, but there was something else beneath it—something genuine, something careful.

You swallowed. “What do you mean?”

His gaze flickered over your face, searching. “I mean…” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck before looking at you again. “I was serious, you know. About liking you. More than a friend.”

Your breath hitched. “You were?”

Satoru scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Obviously. You think I just let anyone straddle me and—”

You smacked his chest. “Can you not ruin the moment?”

He caught your wrist before you could pull away, lacing his fingers through yours. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, quieter. “I was serious,” he repeated. “I am serious.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I like you, and I want to do this properly.”

Your heart thudded against your ribs. “Properly?”

He nodded, suddenly looking almost shy. “Like… an actual date. Multiple dates. Boyfriend privileges. All that cute shit.” His lips curled into a lopsided grin. “So, what do you say?”

Your stomach flipped, warmth spreading through your chest. “You’re actually asking me out?”

Satoru huffed a laugh. “Well, yeah. What, you thought I’d just kiss you senseless and leave you hanging?”

You bit your lip, pretending to think. “I dunno. You are kind of a menace.”

His brows shot up. “A menace?”

You giggled, and he groaned, tightening his grip on your waist. “Okay, that’s it, you’re legally required to say yes now.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile stretching across your lips. “Yes, Satoru. I’ll go out with you.”

His face lit up, and before you could say anything else, he was kissing you again, arms wrapping fully around your waist. He shifted, rolling you onto the bed so he was hovering over you, his weight pressed deliciously against yours.

“Guess that makes you my girlfriend now,” he murmured against your lips. “Which means—” His fingers trailed down your side, teasing. “—I get unlimited make-out privileges.”

You huffed a laugh. “You’re so weird.”

“Would you like it if I said sex privileges too?”

“I’m gonna seriously hurt you—“

Satoru only smirked before cutting you off with another kiss.

—

A few months into dating Satoru, you realised three things.

One, he had absolutely no concept of personal space. If he was near you, he was touching you—whether it was throwing an arm over your shoulder, draping himself across your lap, or trapping you against a wall just to say hi like a complete menace.

Two, he was shamelessly, overwhelmingly, ridiculously obsessed with you. If he wasn’t texting you, he was calling. If he wasn’t calling, he was physically finding you. And if he couldn’t find you, he’d send a stupidly dramatic voice memo about how he was “perishing” without you.

And three, he was always teasing. Always testing his limits, pushing your buttons, flashing that damn smug grin whenever you got flustered.

Like right now.

“I think you should stay over.”

You blinked up at him from where you were curled up on his bed, wearing one of his hoodies that was way too big for you. “I am staying over.”

Satoru huffed, rolling onto his side and propping himself up on his elbow. “No, I mean, like, actually stay over. Move in.”

You snorted. “Satoru.”

“What? I’m serious.” He nudged your knee with his own. “Just think about it. That trust fund has enough money— actually maybe more— for an apartment near college. We basically live together anyway.”

“Not even close.”

He scoffed. “Oh, please. You leave clothes here, you steal my hoodies—”

“They’re practically dresses on me.”

“—and you’re here more than you’re at your own place.”

“That’s a lie.”

Satoru gasped dramatically. “Oh, so I’m imagining you in my bed every night?”

Your face warmed, but you shot him a glare. “You’re exaggerating.”

He only grinned, scooting closer until your noses nearly brushed. “You love sleeping here,” he drawled. “You love my bed, you love my cuddles, you love this d—”

You smacked a hand over his mouth, but it barely muffled his muffled laughter.

“I swear to God, Satoru—”

Before you could finish, he grabbed your wrist and flipped you onto your back, caging you beneath him in one smooth motion. His weight was just enough to make your breath hitch, his silver lashes casting shadows over sharp blue eyes.

“You love me,” he finished, his voice dipping lower, teasing, smug.

Your stomach flipped.

“…Debatable,” you muttered.

Satoru barked out a laugh. “Debatable?” He leaned down, nuzzling into your neck as his hands slid under his hoodie, warm palms settling against your waist. “You’re literally in my bed wearing my clothes right now.”

Your breath stuttered as he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss just below your ear.

“Admit it,” he murmured. “You’re obsessed with me.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, your fingers gripping his bare shoulders. “Satoru—”

“I mean, I don’t blame you.” He grinned against your skin, pressing another kiss, this one lower. “I am insanely hot.”

You groaned. “You ruin everything.”

Satoru laughed, bright and breathless, before rolling over, pulling you fully on top of him with ease. His hands never left your waist, fingertips dancing over your skin in slow, lazy patterns.

Then he suddenly reached behind him, grabbed something off the nightstand, and slid his glasses onto his face.

You blinked. “I thought you preferred contacts now?”

Satoru hummed, adjusting them slightly as he gazed up at you. “Yeah, but I dunno…” His lips curled into a small, lopsided smile. “You always liked me better in these, didn’t you?”

Your breath hitched slightly. He wasn’t wrong—there was something about the way his glasses framed his face, how they softened him just a little, made him look more like the Satoru you’d known before he became everyone else’s.

“…You’re so full of yourself,” you muttered.

His grin widened. “And yet, you’re still staring.”

You scoffed, reaching up to pluck them off his face, but he caught your wrist, tugging you down until your noses brushed.

“Admit it,” he murmured. “You like me better like this.”

Your heart pounded against your ribs.

“I like you anyway,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

Something flickered in his eyes—something soft, something warm—before his grin turned teasing again. “Good,” he said, rolling you onto your back in one smooth motion. “Because I was gonna keep you here all night either way.”

You barely managed to mutter, “You’re so weird,” before he cut you off with another kiss.

i don't like this work at ALL lol but tbh i wrote this because i want to be wanted UGH hdhjsdh

[seasidefallenangel]

she's got those evil eyes

bllk boys and their mean girlfriends ft isagi yoichi, itoshi sae, reo mikage, alexis ness, bachira meguru

notes: reader is a BITCH! (not to the boys), actual horrible shit being said by reader but our boys are too in love to notice or care, suicide mentions, i'm not condoning what reader does the point is that they're feral

༄ isagi:

✣ you’re his precious angel who can do no wrong, so of course he’s defending you tooth and nail. when you’re at his games flipping off the opposite team he thinks you’re too adorable for words. during practice, kaiser is ragging on him as usual and you’re there before isagi can blink, telling kaiser that no wonder his dad hit him with a shitty personality like that. insanely harsh, but you’re so cute to have his back!

⁀➷ “you need to stop getting yourself hurt like this, princess,” isagi murmurs as he gently applies an antiseptic to your knuckles. he wasn’t expecting you to punch rin in the face after some off-handed comment during practice (mostly stemming from rin’s own insecurities, but you’re not tolerating any disrespect towards your man.) isagi had stepped in right as rin was about to retaliate and you had gotten kicked off the field anyway, leading to the impromptu patch-up in the locker room. 

with a final piece of medical tape, he kisses your bruised hand and smiles softly at you, cupping your cheek in his palm. “thank you for being my knight in shining armor, baby,” he says gently, all the love in the world filling his voice. maybe you’re not the most ethical about it, but your desire to protect him more than makes up for it in his eyes.

༄ sae:

✣ always assumes you’re correct in every single situation. he looks to be nonchalant about your dating life, but he is easily your number one shooter. you’re on twitter telling his fans to kill themselves when they talk about how attractive he is or how he should break up with you and he’s in the kitchen smirking at his phone watching you go to war. never once in his life has he ever gave a shit about what people think about him, but the second something about you is viewed in a negative light? all bets are off. he’ll get just as toxic as you are.

⁀➷ the reporters are crowding him the second he’s getting off the plane. he already knows exactly what it’s about yet it still pisses him off. in his opinion, people are at fault for provoking you in the first place. in an irritating attempt to get his attention, one of the interviewers calls out, “sae! what do you have to say about your girlfriend tweeting ‘if i was your mom i would’ve killed myself too’ to one of your fans?!” 

yeah, he saw that one, and he thought it was funny. someone had been trying to rile you up by saying how re ai would be better off without sae on the team. unfortunately for them, they had “rip mom🩵🕊️” in their bio, giving you the perfect ammo to shoot back with. he clears his throat and simply says, “she’s right,” before walking off, leaving the paparazzi stunned.

༄ reo:

✣ you are so awful for the mikage image and reo loves every second of it. having such a stagnant and pre-planned upbringing versus your unhinged nature was just what he needed. barely a week can go by without you trending online for something heinous you said or did. in turn, you have quite a large following for simply how funny your antics and toxicity towards others is. reo must have the most heavily tinted rose colored glasses ever, because he always talks about how sweet and kind you are. the fans are still searching for the person he’s trying to describe, because it sure as hell isn’t you.

⁀➷ you’re lounging in bed, mindlessly scrolling on your phone when reo approaches you. like clockwork, you shift into his arms as he climbs into bed and relaxes next to you. his fingers are running through your hair when he finally asks in the most soft and gentle voice, “my love, why are you being called out on twitter again?” of course, you’re always sure to voice how it isn’t really your fault and that people should stop pissing you off if they don’t want you to come for their necks. 

quite honestly, he’s not really listening ; not because he’s not interested, but because you’re just irresistible when you defend yourself. regardless of whether or not you’re actually at fault (you are), he still sees you as his precious and adorable lover. he simply nods and leaves feather light kisses up and down the side of your neck, mumbling something like, “how dare they?” or “you’re so smart, angel,” every so often. if you ever were to get in any real trouble, the mikage fortune would be there to bail you out - so he sees no real reason to stop your tirades. 

༄ alexis:

✣ “me and my girl don’t argue she tells me to shut up and i do.” ness is honestly thankful for how much of a raging bitch you can be. not only does he never see anything wrong with it, but actively encourages it as well. you’re cussing out the mcdonald’s worker for putting pickles on his burger while he’s behind you with a dopey smile on his face, clinging to you like a lifeline. the only time he had to tug you away is when you were half a second away from clawing kaiser’s eyes out and had his neck bruising beneath your fingers for insinuating ness was more of a dog than a person. the german is still terrified whenever you accompany your boyfriend to practice.

⁀➷ in all the plans alexis had for his future, standing in front of the two people that crushed his childhood fantasies in facts and testing wasn’t one of them. he had left on a bitter note when he joined bastard münchen yet hadn’t found the courage to voice his true feelings on the matter. luckily for him, you had no shortage of guts to lay into his parents without fear.

for the first time in their lives, they’re stunned silent at your vicious words and mockery of their profession, upbringing, parenting, even going so far as to point out his mother’s physical imperfections and saying the only worthwhile thing she did was give birth a child that wasn’t nearly as ugly as she is. they can’t even get a word in before you grab alexis’ hand and drag him out, kicking a dent in his father’s car for good measure. even though your display was nothing short of pure evil, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt closer to god than when you cradle him in your hold, whispering words of love and praise into his ear. being a crybaby was something he was told he should be ashamed of, but the sensation left behind when you wipe his grateful tears is worth it to him.

༄ bachira:

✣ might honestly be the biggest enabler on this entire list along with alexis. he absolutely lives for chaos plus he’s too sickeningly in love with you to ever question a move you might make. he can hear you arguing with ego on the phone about bachira being overworked and while normally nothing phases blue lock’s director, the death threats you sent to his office were incredibly convincing and contained information that should’ve been impossible to obtain. he’d probably hire you if he wasn’t positive you’d pipe bomb the entire structure if anyone even gave a dirty look to your boyfriend. 

⁀➷  “whatcha doiiiinnnn?” bachira asks while plopping on top of the couch - in the exact spot while you were resting, mind you. you let out a light ‘oof!’ as his weight crushes you for a moment before leveling out. the second his head falls to rest on your stomach, you're carding one hand through his hair while the other angrily taps on your phone. he doesn’t really think to ask as he’s on the verge of falling asleep, but the sound he has set for your tweets dings from his phone (because of course he has notifications for you on.)

he lazily unlocks his phone and clicks onto the app only to bust out into laughter. whatever useless no-name had decided to say bachira’s playstyle only hinders his teammates was met with your quote retweet stating to ‘go take a long walk off a short bridge.’ in his overly happy splendor, he blows raspberries onto the soft skin of your tummy while you squeal and try to push him off. stubborn as he is he just refuses to let up until you're curled up in laughter. behind his silliness, he’s eternally grateful to have someone so devoted to him after years of isolation from his peers. he can’t help but think he’d do anything to keep you in his grasp - regardless of the consequences that might follow.

[thevillainswhore]

Deserving

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Summary: Bucky has internal scars too deeply imbedded that cause him to hide away from the world on the dark days. But he always knows, no matter how long he takes, you’ll forever be waiting for him on the other side — the light to bring him home.

Warnings: Established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort, mental health, themes of depression, nudity (non sexual), depreciation/self esteem issues, Bucky is seriously sad, fluff.

Author’s Note: Proofread by @buck-star. Divider by @saradika-graphics. This is a little bit of a heavy one folks ❤️‍🩹 not usually my thing, but after a difficult couple of months I needed to get this out. My inboxes are always open for those who are struggling with their mental health, thank you for reading x

“How long has he been locked in there?” Steve’s concerned voice interrupts the silence of the compound late at night while you sit at the kitchen table, aimlessly stirring your now cold tea. 

You clear your throat and look up, the anxiety visibly courses through your features just as it does your friend. “Just over a week now, I think.” 

Steve sighs. “It’s gotten bad again.” 

You hum, unable to muster up anything else. It had been seven days of constant worry since the moment you had woken up on that first day to find the warm heap of muscle that usually tangled its limbs with yours wasn’t next to you in bed, but rather instead locked away in the bathroom. 

Bucky insists it’s what’s best for him; to shut himself from the world when his thoughts become dark and his nightmares come back from the dead to haunt him. But it was difficult to let him wallow in depression by himself, knowing his self destructive tendencies enjoy the hacking to his self esteem. 

Steve shuffles his weight between his feet, looking unsure of himself. “Shouldn’t we intervene by now?” He steps further into the kitchen and sits on the chair opposite you. “Surely we can’t let him continue like this.” 

You smile ruefully and push your mug to the side. “Steve, honey,” you begin carefully. “I know you’re concerned because he’s your best friend. Trust me, it’s hard for me to sit here and wait it out too. But you can’t force someone out of the recesses of their mind when they get like this.” Sliding your arms across the table, you gather Steve’s hands in yours. “Especially not Bucky.” 

The look on his face breaks your heart. “I know, I know. I just hate seeing him like this”, he sighs sadly. “I hate the feeling of doing nothing while he’s struggling.”

“Me too, sweetie.” You squeeze his hands before leaning back in your chair. “All we can do is give gentle encouragement. Let him know we’re here whenever he’s ready.” 

Although the worry was all the same in these situations, you were well seasoned with how to maintain your distance for Bucky’s well being, while also showing your love from afar by now. For example, the meals you had left him every single day without fail outside of your shared room; his favourite comfort food with a sweet treat baked specifically by you to give him some energy. 

Or the blankets you love so much slipped into the room without breaking the promise of seeing Bucky before he was ready. Without looking, you would open the door and place the fluffy material by the floor. You also took the time to spray it with your daily perfume as a familiar comfort Bucky could relish in without your physical form. 

It broke your heart to be away from him for so long, even if you were in the same vicinity as each other — always only a distance away that you could run to within sixty seconds should he need you. However, you knew this was what he needed. After the first time this happened within your relationship and you had no idea what he needed from you during that time, the two of you had sat down and discussed how you could support him better going forward. 

“Don’t worry,” you reassure gently before moving away from the table and placing your mug into the sink. “He’ll come to, he always does. Just gotta give him some time.” 

“Will you—,” Steve swallows his words harshly before trying again. “Could you let me know if he’s okay when you hear something?” Almost silently, he adds, “Please?”

You realise then that this is Bucky’s best friend, the man who defied every order and rule book to save him — multiple times. There’s a vulnerability in his ocean blue eyes and your heart is happy that the love of your life has other people that adore him just as much as you do. You wish Bucky could see the extent as easily. 

Softening your eyes, you don’t divert your attention for a second as you sincerely swear, “Of course, Stevie. I’ll make sure FRIDAY gets a message to you.” 

Steve blows out a heavy breath, seemingly lighter than he was when he first came in. “Thank you.” 

You share a delicate smile, an understanding between teammates, friends and two people who love Bucky so immensely. You’re about to bid him good night, ready to retreat to your old room just down the hall from your shared one with Bucky when a set of footsteps, timid and apprehensive creep towards you. Steve turns his head at the same time as you to find the very man on both your minds. 

“Bucky.” The relief in your voice is loud and the tension that you hadn’t even realised was so tightly weaved into your limbs instantly relaxes at the sight of him. It takes everything in you to not run into his arms, not wanting to spook him, so you tamper your emotions and stay rooted in your place while your eyes greedily take him in for the first time in a week. “Hi, baby.” 

Your boyfriend, head down with his long, matted hair hiding his face, lifts his head slightly until a peek of storm grey meets your gaze. You clock the dark, heavy bags under his eyes, the paleness of his skin, the chapped lips that have been bitten restlessly. The clothes, stained with sweat marks, lay unusually baggy on his form. Normally, his shirts sit snug on the muscles of his biceps and his toned stomach and his sweatpants fit defined around his thick thighs. However in the week separated from him, Bucky has lost a fair amount of weight you conclude from lack of training and eating. 

Though his stature is hunched and he’s so desperately trying to hide away in plain sight, Bucky is here, visible and alive. He’s in front of you because he wants to be, you know that from past experience. He’s ready to let you in and take care of him even when the nasty voice in his head is telling him he doesn’t deserve it. You try so hard to swallow the lump in your throat and will the tears not to gather in your waterline. 

As Bucky clenches his fingers tightly, the whirring of his vibranium arm filling the silence of the kitchen, you know what he needs right now is for you to take charge. He’s not verbal yet, present but unable to speak and so you step forward slowly until you’re closer to him but not yet crowding his space. 

“How about we run you a bath, hm?” you offer softly, a suggestion rather than an order. While you’re trying to lead, you want him to set the pace — everything on his terms. “The warm water will feel nice on your muscles.” 

With a barely there nod of his head, Bucky accepts and you breathe a little easier knowing he’s still there, just a little lost. But it’s the subtle flex of his fingers, reaching out towards you that threatens to crack you. 

Carefully, you thread your fingers through his. You don’t miss the shudder that violently tracks down his back or the small gasp he lets loose. Your heart is becoming whole once again. 

Before leaving the kitchen, you glance at Steve still standing staring at his best friend. It’s then you stop and tentatively rub your thumb against Bucky’s hand. “Stevie wanted to ask you if you’d be up for a drive sometime soon. Doesn’t that sound good, honey? Taking your bike out for a spin?” 

Steve holds his breath as Bucky lifts his head slightly. “Mhm.” His voice is rough around the edges, the syllables straining against his dry throat. 

It's all he can offer right now. But from the looks of it, Steve’s eyes light up like he’s won the lottery. “Can’t wait, pal. I’m ready whenever you are, just let me know.” 

Your friend then looks to you, mouthing a silent thank you. You smile before ushering Bucky to your room. 

Bucky stands in the corner of the bathroom, looking smaller than you’ve ever seen him. He still hasn’t said anything, instead choosing to remain quiet for now. That was more than okay with you. You would rather slowly pluck away at the wall he’s built around himself and allow him to come forth smoothly. 

Meanwhile, you had rolled your sleeves up, running the water to fill the bathtub. You pick up two options of bubble bath and read them aloud to your boyfriend. “Okay. So we’ve got Lavender or Eucalyptus. Both are great for relaxation. You think you’d prefer one, baby?” 

Bucky doesn’t respond, his owlish eyes blinking at you. Though his actions threaten the well of emotions in your throat, you remain calm and soothing. “That’s alright, honey. We can just put a little of each in. Best of both worlds, huh?” 

Again, there’s no response. But you expect nothing more. You hold no expectations of him, only wanting to gently encourage him out of his shell, just like you’d told Steve earlier. 

You pour each liquid under the running faucet and instantly soapy bubbles begin to form on the surface of the water. Happy with the result, you turn each tap off and smile towards your boyfriend. “All done, Buck.” 

He stands there motionless, eyes darting between you and the bathtub, still making no move towards you. 

“Would you like some help, love?” You move slowly, each step intentionally attentive. “It’s difficult sometimes, to get your body moving, isn’t it?” 

Bucky nods. It's not much, but it's something and you can work with that. 

“Right. We all need help sometimes. No shame in that, Bucky.” You’re in front of him now, a hair's breadth away from each other and you’re thankful to be let into his space. “Would you like me to undress you?” 

The air is stilted as you wait for any kind of indication from Bucky. It’s to your surprise that a gentle whisper slips from his lips. “Please.” 

You hone down the tears bullying their way to the surface. Instead, you smile shakily. “Of course, baby. Anything you need.” 

Raising your hands cautiously, you bring them to Bucky’s eyeline, allowing him to follow each motion you make. You bring them slowly towards the hem of his shirt, lifting the material over his torso and with a small struggle over his shoulders to the top of his head. 

“All okay, Buck? Can I keep going?” You check in, wary of any stipulations to his emotions. Reading his eyes, you know you’re good to reach for his pants. And so you do, taking careful measures to not let your skin connect with his prematurely and without permission. 

With only Bucky’s underwear left, you take one last chance to gain consent. “Am I good to help you take those off? We can keep them on or I can turn around while you do it yourself if you’re not comfortable.” 

But Bucky needs no time before he whispers his fingers against yours. A sign of his authorisation for you to take the reins. 

“Sure thing, honey.” Just like before you send him a reassuring smile before inching the last piece of material down his thighs and finally away from his feet. He stands naked before you and you make sure to look nowhere else other than his eyes. “Thank you for allowing me to do that, Buck. Can I walk you to the bath now?” 

There’s a slight moment of hesitance before Bucky places one foot in front of the other, searching for your hold. Immediately, you place one arm around his back, the other wrapping around his hand. 

You step together in sync, slow for Bucky’s sake. “Great job, baby. You’re doing so good for me.” Once you reach the tub, you give some directions. “Okay, you’re gonna step in now and I’m going to be right here with you.” 

Bucky grasps your hand tighter. You know he’s scared you’re going to leave. Gently, you swipe his tangled hair behind his ear and cup his stubbled cheek. “I promise I’m not leaving. I’ll be right by your side, okay love?” 

You see him swallow the lump in his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing until he slackens his grip. Not before taking a deep breath, Bucky shakily lifts himself into the bathtub with your assistance and lowers himself into the water until his full body is submerged. 

“There we go.” Your pride for him is certain and absolute. You try your best to show him that. “Hard parts over with now, Buck. Now I can take care of you.” 

His pained groan echoes around the tiles of the bathroom. He’s hiding himself away from you but you’re eventually crumbling his defences down. 

“Let’s get this hair sorted out, huh? I’ll even let you use my shampoo you always steal.” The familiarity of your usual banter is a band aid to the wound so raw and open. Bucky was a fiend for thieving your most expensive toiletries — an excuse already lined up that no men’s products, no matter how costly, could match up to yours. 

Normally you would scold him, jumping into a shower after a prolonged mission only to find your shampoo empty with the bottle still placed on the rack. 

However, you would take those moments a thousand times over if it brought him even a slither of the happiness he supplied to you. 

It's then you run through your next steps with trained precision. You manage to run water over Bucky’s hair without getting any over his face, worried it may trigger him. You ignore the water in the bathtub, once transparent now a ruddy brown. And you silently open the bottle of shampoo, squeezing a generous amount onto your hands. 

“I’m about to climb in. Breathe for me, love.” You’re glad you wore shorts as you dip your foot into the water behind Bucky, swinging your leg over to sit on the ledge with your boyfriend between your thighs. A perfect position to stay close to him and provide him with the utmost care. 

Testing a tender touch upon his head and satisfied that Bucky is comfortable, you begin to lather the shampoo into his scalp. You relish in the grunts fighting their way through, the whimpers that climb up his throat, because this is the only way you know Bucky to finally cave in. Allow himself to be free from the shackles his mind clamps around him. Allow him to breach the prison he’s placed himself in. To come home to you. 

“That’s it, baby,” you murmur, purposely softening your voice to a gentle tone. “Let it out, I’ve got you. I’ll catch you.” 

As your nails scratch against his head, the first sob is released. You feel Bucky’s arms wrap around your thigh and his head lays itself upon you as his body begins to shake. You let him. The days worth of degradation and horror he’s allowed himself to relive escaping in this moment. 

“It's okay. Everything’s okay, Bucky.” It's a feat upon itself not to cry with him. A tear tracks down your cheek that you quickly wipe away with your shoulder because it’s your turn to be strong for him. To be the impenetrable wall he can lean on with the knowledge that he won’t fall. 

“I’m so sorry,” he weeps. You’re not sure whether he’s directing his words to you or someone else you’re not privy to. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry.” 

“Shh.” Your desire to make everything okay for him burns bright. “None of that now, okay? You’re here. With me. I’ve got you.” 

There’s a hole in his heart that’s never ending. Deep and wide and burrowed too far for anyone to try and stitch back together. You’ve tried. Though this kind of damage was irreparable. 

The good days always outweighed the bad. Bucky had come so far along in his healing journey for that to be untrue. But when the demons came out to play, there was no room for anyone else to hold a hand for him to grab on to. Bucky was dragged down into the dungeons of hell, locked away until the monsters had gotten their fix. 

Rinsing the soap out of his hair, Bucky’s wails begin to calm, the tidal wave having hit its peak and descending back down. You keep him close to you, no mind in how wet your clothes are, and quietly hum a tune. 

Your lullaby is eventually the only sound in the room, each note having the desired effect of soothing Bucky into a sense of peace. His limbs have loosened, his shoulders no longer stiff. And you wait ever so patiently for him to break the ice. 

That moment comes when you reach for the bottle of conditioner, beginning to apply it to the ends of Bucky’s hair. “Y-You’re so good to me.” While more stable, his voice still trembles. “Why are you so good to—to me?” 

You thin your lips, willing the cracks in your heart not to spread further than they already have. Grabbing the comb, you start to gently tease your way through the knots matting the strands of his chocolate locks. “That’s because you deserve it, baby,” you say confidently. “You deserve to be taken care of.” 

Bucky sighs, a heavy weight behind it. His next declaration falls from him quietly yet deafening. “Sometimes I don’t think I do.” 

“I know.” With a gentle push of your fingers underneath his chin, Bucky looks up at you, eyes sorrowful and still so beautiful. You lean down to kiss his forehead, then his nose and at last his lips. Against them, you seal your truth. “But believe me when I say it’s easy to love you. Like nothing else I’ve ever done before, no matter what goes on up here.” You tap by the side of his temple twice. “I’m in love with you on your bad days just as much as your good days. There’s no running away from that, Bucky. And I’ll prove that to you every single time, for as long as you need me to.”

His voice is hopeful when he strains out a choked, “Yeah?”” 

You hope your eyes display your conviction. “Every damn time, baby. I’ll bring you back to me.” 

Bucky’s eyes close at the sensation of your loving touch and promises. “I’d like that.” 

Kissing his lips one last time, you lean back up, setting aside the comb and grabbing the washcloth. Bucky stays unmoving, nuzzled into your thigh and so you begin to massage the muscle of his shoulders, humming your song once again. 

“Me too, Bucky.” 

You can’t fix him, you know that. Bucky is a man, tortured by memories and a past that stripped him of basic human rights. But you’re devoted to picking up the pieces he leaves behind, handing them over for him to glue back together. And if you found yourself slowly healing the cracks with your care and utter adoration for him for the rest of your life, you wouldn’t be mad about it. 

Because no matter what Bucky thought of himself, there was no doubt in your mind that he deserved your love. 

[tojicide]

chapter one ── pest control. the spider’s sense: a spidercaleb series.

♥︎ spider-man!caleb 𝑥 fem!reader

synopsis. ┆ caleb’s life was perfect—until it wasn’t. a radioactive spider bite turned him into linkon’s friendly neighborhood spider-man, the daily bugle started hunting for the man behind the mask, and to top it all off, he was forced to partner up with you—his smart, competitive, and infuriatingly perfect classmate who threatened his spot as number one in the class rankings.

warnings. ┆ college/modern au, academic rivals to lovers, fluff, angst, eventual smut, gran isn’t evil in this LOL, the canon event, college parties, alcohol consumption, cliches, depictions of serious crime, references to the spider-man comics and movies

chapter summary. ┆ caleb's worst fear comes true when the two of you are assigned as lab partners, especially after your first experiment together goes horribly wrong in more ways than one.

series masterlist. ┆ next: soon!

Most days in Linkon City begin with sirens.

Loud, blaring, unmistakable screeches that cut through the early morning quiet like a blade, carving their way through alleyways and avenues alike. They seep into walls, curl beneath locked doors, and coil around the restless minds of those who have long since stopped flinching at their call.

To them, the inhabitants of this city, it is nothing more than background noise—a city’s heartbeat, rhythmic and ceaseless. But to you, it is a warning. A sign that the world beyond the window of your dorm room is a battlefield, and you, a stranger in its midst, are only beginning to understand the rules of this strange place.

Perhaps, in time, you will grow desensitized as they have. Learn to sleep through the wailing cries, to walk these streets without the ever-present weight of caution pressing against your ribs. In a way, they forbade you from venturing out, instilling a fear within you that if you did, you would be the individual these melodies chased—or worse, the victim they had been called for in the first place. 

The entirety of the first semester has passed, and you haven’t even finished unpacking. Your suitcase remains half-full, a tangible reminder that you do not yet belong here. That you still have a choice—to do something before this place sinks its teeth into you, before you become just another soul who mistakes chaos for comfort.

But that choice is an illusion.

Here, people like you make no difference. You are not a hero, nor anything close to it. You are just a student who knows better, one who recognizes that the sirens will always be there, a requiem for the city’s unrest. And the crime will persist, as will the men in uniform who fail to stop it.

Somewhere beyond the blaring wails, beyond the tangled skyline and shadowed alleys, someone is fighting a battle you will never quite understand.

And for now, all you can do is listen.

Yet, in a way, you know that this was exactly where you wanted to be.

Despite its rapidly deteriorating surroundings, Linkon University remained a place of prestige. Young children dreamed of acceptance into its ranks, babbling to their parents about how they, too, would one day make these halls their stomping grounds. Maybe it was naivety that brought you here. Or maybe it was the last remnants of a dream that hadn’t yet died on your tongue.

Or perhaps, it was the medical journalism program—a rare gem, dwindling into obscurity at every other university.

You were lucky to be accepted. But humbly speaking, luck had very little to do with it. Your stats spoke for themselves: a 1540 SAT, a 4.98 weighted GPA, more extracurriculars than you could count on both hands. A smart cookie, as written in the shining letters of recommendation that paved your way here.

And yet, imposter syndrome festered like a quiet disease, creeping into the spaces between your confidence. You have spent your entire life at the top. Always number one.

Here? You were number two.

Number two to whom? You did not know. Not yet, anyway.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Caleb’s perfect life has unraveled in the span of a week and a half, but he positively swears it’s not his fault.

It’s yours.

Ten days ago, at precisely 12:57 PM, he endured the worst torment known to man: his seat in the lecture hall was stolen. A cruel move, truly. Class had been in session for four days, he’d claimed that seat twice—twice—and by the unspoken law of university students everywhere, that granted him full ownership. So why, then, were you sitting in his allotted property?

Looking back, Caleb sees only two possible explanations. The first: you had unknowingly taken the seat after enrolling just before the census date. The second: you were out to get him from the very start.

And personally? He’s convinced it’s the latter.

But alas, he hadn’t made a fuss about it then. It wasn’t like he’d just lost the single best seat in the entire hall—the one with perfect access to the exit, the projector, and the professor’s desk. But hey, he could be cool about this, right? Yeah… totally cool. So cool. The coolest.

Days passed, and everyone seemed to be settling into the spring semester just fine. The weather was getting warmer, flowers on the great lawn were blooming, and Caleb was thriving.

That was, until the unthinkable happened.

Time? 2:19 PM. Class? CHEM 001 AH. Location? The Grand Hall.

Caleb sat directly behind you, having resigned himself to the second best seat in the room, as the sound of pencils scratching against paper filled the otherwise quiet space.

Taking practice exams felt pointless. A waste of time, really. His efforts could be better spent elsewhere—like taking the real exam or absolutely demolishing his roommate Zayne in Apex Legends yet again. But instead, here he was, surrounded by classmates diligently scribbling away as the session inched closer to its eventual end.

And when it did, Caleb would have simply packed up and gone on his merry way—if not for the single most bone-chilling sentence he had ever heard in his entire academic career.

You were chatting with the girl beside you, talking about things he had zero interest in. Your shared biology class at 3 PM, your dorm building, plans to meet up at the dining hall later… blah blah blah. But then—an acronym. A single, horrific acronym triggered him like a sleeper agent.

“My GPA? Oh, it’s… 4.30. I think. To be honest, it’s been a while since I checked.”

His jaw went slack. His eyes widened. The color drained from his face.

A 4.30 GPA? No. No. That couldn’t be real. That could not be real.

But as his gaze flickered between the back of your head and your friend’s, he came to the most horrifying conclusion of all.

You weren’t lying. And if that were true… then that meant you had the same GPA he did.

Which meant that, depending on your course load and how well you performed, you could take his spot as number one in the class rank.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Caleb burst into his dorm room, slinging his backpack onto his mattress before face-planting into it with a sound somewhere between a groan and a hmph.

Across the room, Zayne didn’t even glance up from his desk, fingers tapping away at his mounted laptop. Click, clack. Click, clack. For a stretch of time, that was the only sound in the room—until he finally exhaled, the kind of quiet sigh that could only mean here we go again.

“Rough day?”

Caleb didn’t even hesitate. “The worst day.”

Zayne closed his eyes for a moment, like he was mentally preparing himself, before pushing away from his desk and turning his chair just enough to look at his roommate. “What happened?”

Still face-down on the bed, Caleb let out a long, exaggerated sigh—nowhere near as silent as Zayne’s. “I think I have to take trig next semester. Honors.”

That made Zayne pause. Brow quirked, he leaned back. “Why? Your counselor quite literally said you’re already on track to graduate with honors and as one of the top-ranked students in our year.”

That was the problem, though. Caleb wasn’t satisfied with being one of the best. He wanted to be the best—and now, that source of pride was under attack.

“Well, that was before I found out I’m sharing a GPA with some girl in my chem lecture,” he said, rolling onto his back to stare blankly at the ceiling. “Which means if I don’t get my shit together and pack on a few more honors courses, I’m cooked.”

Zayne laughed. Actually laughed. Shaking his head, he turned back to his desk, plucked his glasses off the mousepad, and slid them on. “You should hear yourself right now.”

Caleb’s head snapped to the side, eyebrows pinching together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just amusing, is all.” Zayne smirked. “I find it endearing that you, Mr. ‘I can skip the final and still pass with a 94%,’ Mr. ‘I think I might take astronomy honors for fun this semester,’—”

“All riiight, I get it,” Caleb cut in. “What’s your point?”

Zayne snickered, amused. “My point is that if you of all people feel threatened by a classmate you hardly know, maybe there’s a reason for that.”

Caleb hated that there was probably some truth to that. Not that he’d ever admit it. Being threatened by a classmate he barely knew? Please. He knew enough. (And yes, he had meticulously sifted through the entire roster of his chemistry class to stalk your Canvas profile. What? It’s… field research.)

“Y’know, you’re terrible at pep talks,” he muttered, folding his hands behind his head.

“I’m not trying to be,” Zayne replied easily. “But if you want my input—take the trig course next semester. Something tells me you’ll need it.”

Caleb rolled onto his side, fishing his laptop from his backpack as the weight of his evening workload settled in.

And maybe Zayne was right.

Maybe he would need all the help he could get.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

It wasn’t until six days later—today—that Caleb knew for certain fate was no longer on his side.

The professor’s voice cut through the shuffle of students packing up their belongings, all of which were currently praying that their first lab of the semester wouldn’t be a complete and utter disaster. It was a well known fact that Dr. Rappaccini was quite the harsh critic, and an even harsher grader. Her score on Rate My Professors was a whopping 2.8/5 for crying out loud.

“Alright, it’s time for you all to receive your lab partners for the semester. Before heading to the lab next door, please check the list of pairings at the front.”

Luckily, Caleb had committed the syllabus to memory and knew that each person was scored individually no matter how their partner performed, but it was recommended that the pair conduct their experiments together to save time and... okay, maybe he hadn’t memorized it as well as he thought, but at least he knew the core details, right?

Scanning the list, his blood ran cold. He squinted, hoping that the prescription of his glasses had failed him, but of course, it was unmistakable. Your name was printed next to his. Emboldened, unignorable, in a perfectly neutral 12 pt Times New Roman font.

The walk to the laboratory was a quiet one, and you were walking a few feet ahead of him without a care in the world. Reaching for the door handle, he twisted the metallic lever and gestured for you to enter ahead of him with a single nod of his head. It was a force of habit. He may not care for you as an academic peer, but you didn't directly wrong him in any way. Not knowingly, that is.

With a curt nod of your own and a sliver of a smile, you entered the class with a quiet “thank you.”

And before he could follow in step behind you, the neverending line of your fellow classmates began to flood into the room, leaving him to stand idle while offering each of them a thin-lipped smile. It felt like an eternity before he was able to step inside of the laboratory too, and his first instinct was to map out the classroom to find the best possible seating arrangement. 

To his surprise… you’d already claimed the most optimal lab station, and as he approached, you made the first move to speak. 

“I hope you’re okay with sitting here,” you say, fishing out your sleek notebook and a bright blue pencil. “It’s the only lab station with equal access to the exit, the supplies cabinet, and the professor’s desk.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side as bewilderment etches into his features. Were you inside of his brain? He clears his throat, shaking away his confusion as he nods. “Yeah, I’m alright with this spot. Good choice.” 

Smiling, you nod too. “Cool.” 

A beat of silence passes, and you smooth your hands over the black resin material of the table, a movement that his eyes instinctively follow. Then, your hand raises and extends out to him, forcing him to blink himself out of his state of daydreaming. 

You say your name while tilting your head with a smile—this time, a smile with teeth—as you wait for his hand to take yours. “And you’re… Xia?” 

Raising his eyebrows, he shakes his head while a chuckle slips through his carefully crafted exterior. “Caleb,” he corrects, his firm grasp enveloping your hand as he gives it a shake. “Caleb Xia.”

“Ah, got it,” you remark, an epiphany dawning on you as you slip your hand from his hold. “Well, I’m going to go get our safety goggles.” 

But before leaving, you straightened, eyes glued to him—or rather, his head.

Huffing out a laugh through his nose, Caleb’s lip tugs up in the corner. “What are you doing?”

Tapping your chin, you sigh. “I’m trying to see if you have a big head. If you do, I’ll have to go fight tooth and nail for one of the ones with adjustable straps.” 

Rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm, he rests his elbow on the edge of the table before leaning his cheek into his hand. “Well, lay it on me. What’s your diagnosis?”

Humming, you tilt your head back and forth before nodding your head a single time. “Big-head syndrome. I’m positive.”

Caleb’s eyes crinkle as he laughs. “I should take that as a compliment. Big head means big brain, you know.”

“Or a big ego,” you retort with a shrug, giving him a once-over with raised brows before whisking away towards the horde of students currently going to war over the remaining pick of the litter. 

Yeah, that too, he thinks. 

In your absence, he takes the liberty of prepping the lab for the both of you. Beakers? Check. Random substance that the two of you were going to be experimenting on? Check. Hydrochloric acid? Check. Sodium bicarbonate? Check—

“Safety goggles,” you state, plopping down on your stool and handing his pair to him.

Without missing a beat, he speaks. “Check.”

Drawing back slightly, you turn to look at him with an arched eyebrow. “Uh… yeah. Check.”

Faltering, Caleb slides the item onto his face as he stammers through his words. “I was just… never mind, let’s start.”

The class had settled into a low hum—the murmur of newly paired partners, the scribbling of notes, the soft hiss of chemicals reacting. 

As the two of you began the experiment, an incredibly prominent conclusion dawned on him: Disliking you as a person wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped. As a competitor? You were treacherous. As a lab partner? You were… tolerable. Efficient. Annoyingly easy to work with. 

It wasn’t the end result that he was hoping for, if he were to be entirely honest with himself. He wanted you to be difficult to be around, he wanted you to be stuck up, he wanted you to give him a genuine reason to dislike you apart from being the root of his newfound insecurity. But you weren’t, and that was a problem. 

“Pass me the baking soda?” you ask.

“The sodium bicarbonate?”

“Yeah. The baking soda.”

Caleb tilts his head with a smile. “Also known as sodium bicarbonate.”

You glance his way, and your eyes met. “Congrats, big guy. You know big words. Now pass it.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Biting back a smile, he hands it over, only to retract it at the last second. “Wait. What’s it called again?”

Your force smile was all teeth. “Sodium bicarbonate.”

Finally relenting, Caleb places the bowl in your orbit with a triumphant grin. 

He was smart enough to know that this was a bad idea. Despite how easily the two of you worked together, he knew that he couldn’t entertain this any further. You weren’t just his classmate, his peer—you were his competition. And while he’s heard the saying keep your friends close, but your enemies closer just as many times as the next person, he knows that mixing any ounce of developing friendship with his pursuit for greatness would be wrong.

It would work best that way. You can’t be friends, and that’s okay.

And for the first time in what felt like ages, fate seemed to agree with him.

“Hmm,” Caleb soon rumbles, squinting at the beaker. “This isn’t lookin’ too good. You said you added the sodium bicarbonate, yeah?”

You frown, glancing up from your notes. Your stomach twists at the sight of the clock—barely any time left before the lab ends. The professor would be making her rounds any second now.

“What? I didn’t add it. You said you added it.”

Caleb flits his gaze to the side of your face. “No, I added hydrochloric acid.”

Your head snaps toward him so fast he was surprised it didn’t snap right off. “No, I added hydrochloric acid.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You exhale sharply, frustration creeping up your neck. “How are you gonna tell me what I did or didn’t do?”

Your pulse ticks up a bit faster than it naturally should, and your eyes rose up from the glass cylinder. Around the room, students were already wrapping up their conclusions while the two of you hadn’t even finished the experiment. You suck in a breath and push up from your stool.

“Fine. Fine. Can you just pass me the baking soda?”

Caleb nods, handing over the pre-measured bowl of sodium bicarbonate. While you worked to fix the mess, he jotted down a few quick notes. You added just enough of the powder to neutralize the acid—but not smother it completely.

And then? Silence. The two of you sat. Watching. Waiting. Hoping. Praying.

Then, miraculously, the beaker decided to behave and the fizzing subsided.

Like clockwork, you both exhaled, shoulders slumping as small, victorious smiles tugged at your mouths—

Until yours vanished entirely. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Caleb falters, eyes narrowing. “I didn’t say thank you.”

“Well, you should have.”

“Why? If I hadn’t pointed out the weird reaction, we’d have been screwed.”

“Oh? If I hadn’t realized neither of us added the sodium bicarbonate—which was your responsibility, by the way—we would’ve actually been screwed.”

Tension thickened between you like a drawn bowstring. You clench your jaw and look away, scribbling down your final observations. Stupid man, you thought to yourself. And here you were, actually believing that this semester wouldn’t be a total shitshow, that maybe, just maybe, you’d gotten lucky.

Unfortunately not.

Then, your attention was caught by something out of the ordinary. Your gaze lands on his neck, and your breath hitched. Staring back at you was a small, multi-legged beady eyed monster. Sticking out your pointer finger, you still find yourself instinctively drawing back, as if it were out to get you next. “There’s a spider on—”

But before you could finish your sentence, Caleb winced, his veins tightening as he instinctively flicked the eight-legged menace off. You sucked your teeth, drumming your fingers on the table. So much for your timely warning.

Glancing his way, your brows elevate as you see the already forming bite mark on his neck. “Yikes. It got you good.”

“Did it?” he asks, raising a hand to rub over the mark with narrowed eyes. “Hm. Guess so, yeah.”

Reluctantly, you ask, “Are you okay?” 

With a nod, he picks up his pencil once more and works on finishing the last of his lab report. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Sighing airily, you can’t help the smile that tugs on your mouth. “Poor spider, being flicked through the air like that.”

Like routine, Caleb shot a glare your way. “Funny.”

“Thanks.”

With that, you left for the washing station. Meanwhile, Dr. Rappaccini stood from her desk, making her rounds. It was in that moment that a shrill of panic shot up his spine—the stimulation foreign, unfamiliar, and… terrifying. 

He could feel his heart rate shooting through the roof, a sweat break on his forehead, and his fingertips flex at his sides—all things that he wasn’t even conscious of. And before he knew it, he was glancing in your direction, noting that you were distracted. Good.

With a quick ease, he snatched up your notepad and erased a few numbers, replacing them with subtle, logicless mistakes. 34? Now a 26. 32 to the power of 5? Not anymore.

It wasn’t his proudest moment. Sabotaging his own lab partner’s work? Definitely not.

Ten seconds. That’s all it took to ruin you just enough. He slid the notepad back into place, brushing away the eraser shavings. Like clockwork, you returned, none the wiser.

Exhaling softly, you turned to him. “Look, I just wanted to say that—”

“Now, you two,” Dr. Rappaccini’s voice cut you off.

You both turned as she scanned and picked up Caleb’s report, making a few marks with her fine-pointed marker before sliding it back into place. You glanced over, making note of his grade. 94.

Then, she picked up yours. A moment later, she handed it back. Your professor held up a roll of stickers, tearing two off before setting them down on the table.

Despite the vibrant designs on the stickers, your stomach dropped. Your grade was big, bold, and unmistakable. 82.

“Wait—Dr. Rappaccini,” you call after her, staring at the page with widened eyes of shock. “I… I don’t understand. What did I do wrong?”

“Well, your experiment was solid—your observations were well-written, and your documentation was precise. But your math?” She sighs. “Completely off.” A beat of silence. Then, a smile. “Don’t feel discouraged. You’re a good student as you are—no need to compare your scores to others.”

The implication was clear. She thought you were smart—just not as smart as Caleb.

Huffing, you toss your notebook onto the table, fingers curling against the edge of it.

“You got cut off earlier,” he says casually, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “What were you sayin’?”

Blinking, you tried to retrace your thoughts. “Oh, yeah… I was just saying that…”

Your voice trails, eyes drifting to your lab report. Caleb caught the flicker of realization dawning on you—and when you turned to him, his not-so-hidden grin said it all.

“I was just saying,” you snap, “that you’re an asshole whose handwriting looks like a drunk chicken clawed at my report.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he says with a shrug, peeling off his sticker to plaster it onto your shoulder. “Good luck on the exam tomorrow morning.”

And with that, he walks out of the lab.

“Yeah, you too,” you murmur, though he was already gone before he could hear the hissed “bitch” that followed.

Irritation pricks at your skin as you stuff—more like shove—your belongings into your backpack. Prick. So much for not knowing the single person you were beneath in the class ranks.

Guilt stirred in his chest as he walked towards his dorm building… but only a little.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

By the time Caleb stumbled back to his dorm, he felt like he’d been hit by a freight train.

He barely managed to push the door open before kicking off his shoes, letting his backpack slump to the floor with a heavy thud. His head swam, his breath uneven as he widened his eyes in a feeble attempt to stay awake. Slapping himself on the cheek, he quickly realized it was no use. His neck stung worse than it had when the spider first bit him, the dull throb pulsing beneath his fingertips as he rubbed over the puncture point.

"Are you drunk?" Zayne’s voice drifts from across the room.

"No," Caleb mutters, face buried in his pillow. "Just… tired. Really tired."

He sank into the thin mattress like dead weight, the springs groaning beneath him. With sluggish hands, he pulled his glasses from his face and tossed them onto the bedside table, missing by an inch. His breathing grew heavier, his skin slick with cold sweat. His pupils—blown wide as saucers—fluttered shut as he barely mustered the strength to tug his shirt over his head and toss it aside.

And within seconds, he was out like a light.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

The morning sun sliced through the blinds, painting golden stripes across Caleb’s bare back as he jolted awake.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, erratic breaths, but despite the abruptness of it all, he felt… alert. Fully awake in a way that didn’t exactly make sense.

Blinking rapidly, he reached for his glasses and slid them onto his face with a groggy groan. And then—he froze.

His vision was still blurry.

Frowning, he pulled his glasses off, breathed onto the lenses, and wiped them against his bedsheet. When he slid them back on—blurry again. He pulled them down. Clear. Glasses up. Blurry. Glasses down. Clear.

He stares at them in his hands. “...Weird.”

Setting the frames down, he threw his legs over the bed and staggered toward his closet—only to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror. His eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

Since when the hell did he have abs?

He flexed instinctively, stomach tensing under his own scrutiny. Then his gaze trailed up—to his arms. His biceps. His shoulders.

Turning, twisting, he inspected every angle of himself like a stranger in his own skin. He’d been in shape before, sure, but this? This was different. He would’ve noticed this.

Knuckles rapped against the door, making him flinch.

“Caleb? Are you awake? I forgot my key.” A pause. Then, “Are you feeling any better? You slept like a log last night—perhaps you’re catching a bug.”

"A bug?" Caleb echoes under his breath, flexing again just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. “Holy shit… Uh, yeah, man, I’m good. Just—gimme a sec.”

Turning back toward his desk, he reached for his chair, only meaning to push it aside—but the moment his palm touched the wood, it stuck.

His brows furrow.

He yanks once. Then again.

Nothing.

His heartbeat quickens as he curls his fingers, attempting to lift his hand—and instead, he lifts the entire chair clean off the ground.

“What the—” His stomach drops. He waved his hand. The chair waved with it. Up. Down. Side to side. Still stuck.

“Caleb?” Zayne calls from the other side of the door.

Caleb whips his head toward the sound, panic tightening in his throat. Shit. He bolted across the room—chair still attached to his palm—and somehow managed to unlock the door just as Zayne strode in.

Zayne, clearly in a rush, barely spared him a glance as he grabbed a stack of papers from his desk, clipped them together, and breezed back out with a nod.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Caleb exhaled sharply—only to realize his hand was still stuck… to the doorknob.

Huffing, he gave it a firm tug, expecting it to pop free. Instead, the entire knob wrenched out of the door, hinges snapping with a loud crack.

"Shit."

He barely had time to process before his body betrayed him once again—this time, with a sharp thwip.

A thick strand of silk shot from his wrist, attaching him to his bedpost.

His pulse stuttered. 

"What. The. Fuck."

Another sharp tug. Another web. More panic. Before he knew it, his dorm room looked like a crime scene from some horror movie—threads of silk stretching from walls to furniture to the ceiling.

His gaze snapped to the clock on his desk. 12:56 PM.

"Alright," he mutters, inhaling deeply. "Exam starts in four minutes. I’m sticking to everything I touch. I’m half-naked. Cool, cool, cool."

But nothing about this was cool.

If anyone in the history of Linkon University could take an exam like this, it was going to be him.

series masterlist. ┆ next: soon!

a/n i could not stop laughing while writing this at 4am bc i was just imagining caleb coming up with an elaborate ass internalized beef with reader and she’s just sitting in her chem lab like:

taglist. (join it by commenting under this post)

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[aspenmissing]

ʀᴜɴᴀᴡᴀʏ ʙʀɪᴅᴇ ᴘᴛ 2

ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴍᴇʟ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ || 12217 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇᴅ ᴍᴀʀʀɪᴀɢᴇ, ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ/ꜱᴘɪᴄᴇ/ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ/ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ (ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ ᴠᴇʀꜱɪᴏɴ

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴍᴇʟ

VANDER

The Last Drop pulsed with life, thick with the scent of sweat, cheap spirits, and something burning in the back that smelled almost edible. The air was warm, heavy with voices—laughing, shouting, singing off-key. It was alive in a way Piltover had never been.

Y/N kept her hood up, letting the dim lighting and thick haze of the bar shield her. Even so, she felt eyes on her. Zaunites weren’t used to someone like her in a place like this. It wasn’t just the fabric of her cloak, stitched with precision by hands that had never known hard labour. It wasn’t even the outfit beneath, fine and delicate, a stark contrast to the grime-streaked floor.

It was the way she carried herself—like someone who had never belonged in the Undercity.

But she didn’t belong there, either.

Her fingers curled around the glass set in front of her, its surface cool against her palm. The amber liquid swirled under the lantern light, rich and deep. She had no intention of drinking it.

She just wanted to touch something real.

“Don’t see your kind ‘round here much.”

The voice was deep, roughened by time and too many cigarettes. She glanced up and found the source—a man leaning against the bar, watching her with an unreadable expression.

Broad shoulders. Thick arms. The kind of presence that made a man stand out in any room, even one as loud as this. He looked like he belonged here, a man shaped by the weight of something heavier than most could carry.

She had never met him before, but she knew of him. Everyone did. Vander—the man who kept Zaun standing, even when the rest of the world wanted to see it fall.

Y/N’s fingers tapped lightly against her glass. “And what kind is that?”

Vander’s gaze flickered over her, assessing. He wasn’t subtle about it. “Piltover girl.”

The words stung more than they should have. She wasn’t wrong to be here. She wanted to be here.

She wasn’t sure where else to go.

“I needed a drink,” she said, voice barely above the hum of the bar.

Vander huffed a quiet chuckle, wiping his hands on the cloth tucked into his belt. “That so?” He gestured to the untouched glass. “Not doin’ a great job of it.”

She exhaled through her nose. “Not sure where to start.”

“Depends what you’re runnin’ from.”

Her grip tightened around the glass.

He saw too much. Even without knowing her name, he had already pulled at the threads of truth beneath the silk and lace.

Vander nodded toward her hands. “You alright, love?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

Instead, she sighed, shifting slightly on the stool. “You get a lot of runaways in here?”

“More than I’d like,” Vander admitted, resting an elbow on the counter. “Though most don’t look as well-fed as you.”

She let out a humourless laugh. “Guess I’m not very good at it.”

“Maybe not.” He considered her for a long moment. “But somethin’ tells me this ain’t your first time sneakin’ out.”

It wasn’t.

She had fled before—twice, to be exact. The first time, she hadn’t made it past the front gates before they caught her. The second, she had reached the docks. This time, she had made it all the way down to Zaun.

Progress.

But she had always known how this would end.

That’s why she didn’t flinch when the doors to the bar slammed open, or when the heavy boots of Piltover enforcers stomped across the floor.

She didn’t even turn around.

“Y/N L/N,” one of them called out sharply. “You’ve been ordered to return home.”

A few heads turned. A few shoulders tensed. But no one stepped in. Zaunites knew better than to get between Piltover and their problems.

She could feel Vander watching her, felt the weight of his presence at her side.

She sighed, rubbing her temples. “Took you longer than usual.”

One of the guards shifted uncomfortably. “Come quietly, and your father will—”

“I know the speech,” she interrupted, pushing back her hood. “I wrote half of it for him.”

Vander didn’t say anything, but she could feel his gaze sharpening. She glanced at him, offering a small, wry smile. “Told you I wasn’t good at this.”

His brows furrowed, jaw tightening.

“You don’t have to go,” he said quietly.

She swallowed hard, a lump forming in her throat. Don’t make this harder.

“If I don’t, they’ll bring more,” she muttered. “And next time, they won’t ask nicely.”

Vander exhaled slowly, looking like he wanted to argue. But he didn’t. Instead, he watched as she reached for the glass in front of her, lifting it to her lips.

The liquor burned as it went down, sharp and punishing. But at least this was a choice she got to make. She set the empty glass down with a quiet clink, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and turned to the waiting guards.

“Alright,” she sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”

They stepped forward, their hands closing around her arms—not rough, not cruel, just final. Vander didn’t stop them. But he didn’t look away, either.

His gaze stayed on her, steady and unreadable, like he was committing this moment to memory. Like he was trying to figure out whether this was the last time he’d see her—or just the beginning of something neither of them could name.

Y/N exhaled slowly, forcing down the lump in her throat. Then, just as they reached the door, she glanced over her shoulder, meeting his eyes one last time.

“See you later, Vander.”

=

The first time she came back, she barely made it through the door before the guards found her. The second time, she got a drink in before they dragged her away. By the third time, Vander already had a glass waiting by the time she sat down.

He didn’t even have to ask what she wanted. Just set the drink in front of her with that knowing look, his arms braced against the bar as he leaned in slightly.

“You’re gettin’ predictable, love.” His voice was warm, teasing.

Y/N huffed, tugging her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she wrapped her fingers around the glass. “I’d call it improving. Last time, I made it a whole hour.”

Vander chuckled, a quiet rumble deep in his chest. “And the time before that, forty-five minutes.” He tipped his chin toward the door, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Not much longer ‘til you make it a whole night.”

She grinned, taking a slow sip of her drink. The burn was sharp, but familiar now. A taste that had come to mean freedom. Even if only for a little while.

“That the gambler in you talkin’?” she asked, raising a brow.

Vander smirked, shifting his weight against the counter. “Just callin’ it how I see it.”

Something about the way he said it made warmth creep up her spine.

The first time they met, there had been caution in his eyes, suspicion. He had been wary, watching her like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. But things had changed. Somewhere in the past few weeks, between the stolen moments and the drinks she never got to finish, something had shifted.

She wasn’t just some Piltover girl anymore.

She was his runaway.

Even the guards had stopped being rough when they came for her. By now, they had accepted their fate as much as she had—tired men chasing after a noble girl who refused to stay put.

“Lady Y/N,” one of them sighed, stepping up to her side. The exhaustion in his voice was almost comical. “Again?”

Y/N groaned, throwing her head back dramatically. “Just let me finish my drink.”

The enforcer glanced at Vander, as if hoping for some kind of help.

Vander just shrugged, casual as ever. “She did just get here.” A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

The guard sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Five minutes.”

Y/N grinned, lifting her glass in a silent toast to Vander before taking another sip.

=

Months passed, and the game never changed. She ran. They found her. She ran again. But it wasn’t just a game anymore—it was a life, a second home carved out in the Undercity, slipping between the cracks of her rebellion.

Every time she made it to The Last Drop, Vander was waiting. Sometimes behind the bar, already setting down a drink before she pulled back her hood. Other times mid-conversation, nodding at her in quiet acknowledgment while others wisely chose not to question her presence.

She wasn’t just some Piltover girl anymore. She was theirs.

Powder saved her a seat, chattering about her inventions. Claggor taught her how to cheat at cards while Vi teased her mercilessly. Even Mylo, ever skeptical, had begrudgingly stopped acting surprised when she walked in. And Vander? Vander just watched. Never asked why she came back. Never pushed for answers she wasn’t ready to give. He just let her be.

Maybe that’s what made this so much harder.

She traced the rim of her glass, staring into the amber liquid. Tonight, the drink tasted different—bitter, heavy, like something had already been lost before she even spoke the words.

Vander was watching her, arms crossed, brow furrowed slightly. He had already picked up on it—of course he had. He always did.

“You’re quiet,” he finally said.

Y/N let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. “I talk too much?”

He smirked, but there was something softer beneath it. “A bit.”

She turned the glass in slow circles against the counter, focusing on the way the light caught the liquid inside. The warmth that settled in her chest had nothing to do with the alcohol. It was just him. Just the way he was there, solid and steady. For months, she had convinced herself she had time. That if she just kept slipping through the cracks, she could keep coming back. But Piltover had finally found a way to cage her.

She swallowed hard. “I can’t come back.”

Vander stilled. Not much, just enough. Just a shift in the way he stood, the way his fingers twitched slightly against his arm. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. Didn’t demand an explanation.

She hated that about him. Hated that he made it easy. Hated that he never forced her to say things out loud, because now, she had no choice but to do it herself.

She tightened her grip around the glass, the words tasting like poison as she finally said them. “My father—he’s arranging a marriage.” She forced herself to meet his gaze. “It’s been decided.”

Vander exhaled slowly, and for a long moment, he just stood there. Not surprised. Not angry. Just steady. Like he had known this was coming, even if she had refused to admit it to herself.

“When?” he asked quietly.

“A few weeks.”

A slow nod. Thoughtful. His eyes darkened slightly, but his voice remained calm. “You gonna go through with it?”

She let out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Not much of a choice, is there?”

“There’s always a choice.”

Y/N looked away, jaw tightening. “Not this time.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick.

She wished he would say something—anything. Tell her she was being foolish. Tell her she was right to go. Tell her not to go. But Vander wasn’t that kind of man. He wouldn’t give her an answer because he knew it wasn’t his to give.

She inhaled sharply, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Guess that’s the end of my little rebellion, huh?”

His lips quirked, but it wasn’t really a smile. “That what this was?”

She swallowed against the ache in her throat. “Maybe.”

Another silence. Longer this time. She could feel it slipping away. This. Them. Whatever it was. Whatever it could have been if she had just—

Her fingers clenched in her lap. “Say something.”

Vander’s jaw tightened. His fingers tapped idly against the counter, a slow, thoughtful rhythm. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.

“You’ll be miserable.”

The words hit her like a punch to the ribs. She forced out a laugh, though it sounded hollow even to her own ears. “You don’t know that.”

Vander just looked at her. Didn’t need to say anything else. She dropped her gaze, swallowing hard. He was right.

Of course he was.

She wanted to tell him—wanted to say the things she had been biting back for months, to admit what she already knew deep down. That no matter how far she was taken, she would always find her way back to him.

But instead, she downed the rest of her drink, set the glass down with a quiet finality, and stood. Just like the first night they met, she turned toward the door. No guards would drag her away this time. She was walking out on her own. At the threshold, she hesitated—just for a second—before glancing over her shoulder, meeting his eyes one last time.

And she smiled.

“See you later, Vander.”

His expression didn’t change. He just nodded, slow and knowing. “Yeah,” he murmured.

The doors opened before she could push them herself. The enforcers were already there, standing just outside, waiting. But something was different this time.

They weren’t pulling her away. They weren’t dragging her from the bar like before. She was already leaving. And that, if anything, made it worse. For the first time, they almost looked sad. Not because they had to bring her back. But because they knew.

Because this time, she wasn’t coming back.

=

The morning of her wedding was quiet. Too quiet. No laughter, no clinking glasses, no whispered conversations drifting through the halls like they should have been. Even the enforcers outside her door weren’t speaking, their usual idle chatter replaced with silence. They knew. Everyone knew.

This wasn’t just a wedding. It was a sentence.

Y/N stood before the mirror, barely recognizing the girl staring back at her. The dress was beautiful—perfect, her mother had said. Delicate lace, soft silk, every pearl and embroidered detail crafted with precision. Yet, all she saw was a cage. She looked like the woman her father had shaped her into—poised, polished, silent. A bride. A bargaining chip. A prisoner.

Her fingers curled into the fabric at her sides, nails pressing into the fine silk as if she could rip through it and break free. Every stolen night in Zaun, every unfinished drink at The Last Drop, every teasing smirk from Vander—it had all been borrowed time, a dream that had to end.

And now, here she was. Standing in a dress she never wanted. Walking a path she never chose.

The fight was over.

She squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing hard, forcing down the ache rising in her throat. This was it. This was—

Tap.

Her breath hitched.

A soft, deliberate tap against the glass.

Her eyes snapped open, heart hammering, pulse roaring in her ears. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she turned toward the window.

And there he was.

Vander.

Standing on the narrow balcony, broad shoulders barely fitting in the small space, his storm-coloured eyes locked onto hers. The morning light caught the silver streaks in his hair, but nothing softened the intensity of his gaze. He was calm, steady—dangerous in the way only certainty could be.

Her breath left her in a sharp exhale, disbelieving. “You—what the hell are you doing here?”

Vander smirked, slow and knowing, fingers still resting against the glass. “Came to steal a bride, what’s it look like?”

Her stomach twisted painfully, breath catching in her throat. She stared at him, at the sheer audacity of him standing there, calm as ever, as if this wasn’t completely insane. As if they weren’t in the heart of Piltover, with enforcers right outside her door, with her entire future hanging in the balance.

“You can’t just—” She shook her head, words failing. “Vander.”

He huffed a quiet chuckle, tilting his head. “What? You gonna tell me you wanna go through with this?”

She swallowed hard, fingers tightening in the fabric of her gown.

He watched her carefully, voice softer when he spoke again. “You say the word, love, and I’ll walk away. But if you don’t wanna do this—if you don’t wanna marry this bastard—then come with me.”

A pause. A choice.

His voice dropped lower, quieter. “Ain’t no one gonna stop you this time.”

Her pulse pounded in her ears. No one was coming to drag her away. No one was forcing her into anything. This time, it was up to her. She inhaled sharply, gripping the skirts of her dress.

And then, without another word

She ran

SILCO

The rain hit the cobblestone streets in rhythmic patters, coating Zaun in a silver sheen. It was late, past the time anyone decent should be out. But then again, you had never belonged to a world of decency.

The first time you ran away, it was not truly by choice. It was by design—by greed, by the hunger of parents who had spent their whole lives clawing for something better. They had seen their opportunity in you.

“He’s your chance,” they had said. A man from Piltover, polished and wealthy, who had looked at you like a prize rather than a person. “A life up there is better than anything you’ll ever get in this gutter.”

And for a while, you had believed them. Because what else was there? Zaun, with its decay and danger, had been your whole world. And Silco—Silco had been a part of it. A boy who had grown into a man alongside you, who had been there in every quiet moment, every stolen night. But he had no gold, no promise of a clean future.

Your parents wanted wealth. Stability. A way to claw their way out of Zaun’s grasp, even if it meant selling you to a man who could afford to take you with him.

And so you had gone.

Now, you were back. A ring on your finger. A ghost of a bruise on your wrist. And nowhere left to go but here.

Tomorrow, you would marry him.

Tonight, you needed to see Silco one last time.

The door to his office creaked as you stepped inside, water dripping from your clothes onto the floor. The familiar scent of whiskey and smoke greeted you, wrapping around you like a warning. He was behind his desk, as he always was, a half-empty glass resting in his hand. His gaze lifted slowly, trailing over you, and you braced for the impact of those sharp, knowing eyes.

“Y/N,” Silco drawled, voice as smooth as ever, but undercut with something unreadable. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

You swallowed, fingers tightening around the soaked fabric of your cloak. “I—I didn’t know where else to go.”

A beat of silence. Then, he leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk. “Strange. I recall you once saying Piltover had everything you needed.”

The sting of his words wasn’t unexpected. You had left him behind once before, choosing another man, another life. One built on bright dreams and whispered vows. And yet, here you stood, back in the depths of the Undercity, a place you had tried so hard to forget.

His gaze flickered downward. His eye, sharp and unforgiving, lingered on your wrist, where the bruise—faint but unmistakable—peeked from beneath your sleeve.

His expression didn’t change. But something in the air did.

“Who?” The single word was quiet, but it carried the weight of a storm.

You exhaled sharply, tugging your sleeve down. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, but it does.” Silco stood, his movements slow, measured. His gaze never left you as he came around the desk, stopping only when he was close enough for you to feel the warmth of him. “I assume he is the reason you’re here?”

Your throat tightened. You wanted to say no, wanted to say you had come back for him, that you had realized too late where your heart had always belonged. But the words refused to come.

Instead, you whispered, “I made a mistake.”

Silco’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly. Then, just as quickly, his mask slipped back into place.

“Did you?” he murmured, reaching out, fingertips just barely grazing your chin, tilting it upward. His eye searched yours, waiting, measuring. “And now you’re here. With a ring that isn’t mine.”

Shame burned through you. “I didn’t come to ask for help.”

“No?” His voice was a blade now. “Then what did you come for?”

You swallowed. “To say goodbye.”

Silco stilled.

You forced yourself to keep speaking. “Tomorrow, I—” The words caught in your throat. “Tomorrow, I marry him.”

His expression didn’t change, but the silence that followed was unbearable.

Silco’s fingers ghosted over your wrist, his thumb brushing against the faint bruises with a gentleness that didn’t match the sharpness in his voice. “And this? Does he treat you well?”

The lie sat heavy on your tongue. But Silco had always seen through you.

“He’s not you,” you admitted.

Silco exhaled slowly, as though steadying himself.

“I thought I had to do it,” you continued, voice barely above a whisper. “My parents—they sold me to him. A means to an end.” You let out a bitter laugh. “They said love would come after wealth. But it never did.”

Silco’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might lash out, might demand that you stay, might try to fight for you the way you had once wished he would.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped closer, so close you could feel his breath against your skin. “You still have a choice, Y/N.”

Tears burned behind your eyes. “No, I don’t.”

His hands came up then, framing your face, tilting your chin so that you had no choice but to look at him. “Then why are you here?”

Your breath hitched.

And then, finally—

“Because I love you.”

The moment your lips met his, the world outside ceased to exist.

It was all Silco—his hands, his touch, the heat of his body pressed against yours. The rough fabric of his vest beneath your fingers, the scent of smoke and whiskey filling your senses as his fingers tangled into your damp hair, pulling you deeper into him.

You had kissed him before—years ago, in secret, before everything had fallen apart. But this was different. There was no uncertainty now, no hesitation. This was desperation. This was finality.

His hands roamed over your body as though trying to memorize every inch of you before you slipped away from him again. And you let him, let yourself drown in the feeling of his touch, the way he held you like you were something precious, something irreplaceable.

His lips ghosted over yours between breaths, whispering against your skin. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, eyes heavy with longing, with pain. “I had to.”

Silco’s hand cupped your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone in a touch so reverent it made your chest ache. “You’re cruel, Y/N.”

You swallowed, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “I know.”

His lips found yours again, deeper this time, more claiming. His other hand slid down to your waist, gripping you firmly, like he was trying to keep you tethered to him. His voice was lower, rougher when he spoke next.

“Tell me you don’t love him.”

You let out a shuddering breath, pressing your forehead against his. “I don’t love him.”

His fingers dug into your waist, possessive. “Say it again.”

You kissed him, pouring everything into it—every regret, every unsaid word, every stolen moment between you. “I don’t love him,” you murmured against his lips, again and again, until the words blurred between kisses, until the truth settled into your bones.

Silco pulled back just enough to study you, his single eye dark and searching. “And yet, you’re still going to marry him.”

Your heart clenched. “I have no choice.”

His grip on you tightened, but his voice was eerily calm. “There’s always a choice.”

You shook your head. “Not for me. Not anymore.”

For a moment, you thought he would fight you on it, that he would demand you stay. But instead, his expression shifted—something raw, something resigned.

“Then I’ll make sure he never touches you again.”

You inhaled sharply, your hands pressing against his chest. “No, Silco.”

His jaw clenched. “Why not?”

“Because I won’t be the reason you start a war,” you whispered. “I won’t let you burn Piltover to the ground for me.”

His gaze flickered with something dangerous. “I’d burn the whole world if it meant keeping you.”

Your breath caught. You knew he meant it. You had always known.

But that wasn’t why you came. You didn’t come for war, or for vengeance. You came for him.

So you reached for him again, pulling him down to kiss you, slow and deep, as if this could be enough, as if it could make up for everything.

His hands slid over your hips, gripping you tight as he guided you backward, until the backs of your knees hit the couch. You let yourself fall, pulling him down with you, letting him press you into the worn fabric as his mouth found your throat, your shoulder, your collarbone.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm, his voice raw with possession. “You’ve always been mine.”

Tears burned behind your eyes as your fingers tangled in his hair. “Then take me. One last time.”

A growl rumbled low in his throat, his lips crashing against yours again as he pressed his body flush against yours. The weight of him, the warmth of him, the way his hands held you like he was terrified you would slip through his fingers—it was everything you had ever wanted.

And for one last night, you let yourself belong to him.

=

You woke before the sun rose, still wrapped in Silco’s arms. His breath was slow and steady against your shoulder, his body warm against yours beneath the thin sheets. A rare moment of peace.

For a fleeting second, you let yourself stay there. Listened to the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, felt the gentle weight of his arm draped over your waist. His grip had loosened in sleep, but not completely—like some part of him still feared you’d disappear the moment he let go.

And maybe he was right to.

A soft chill crept through the air, your bare skin prickling in response. It wasn’t until you shifted that you realized something heavy and warm was draped over both of you—his jacket.

At some point in the night, he must have pulled it over you, shielding you from the cold. The familiar scent of him clung to the fabric, a mixture of smoke, steel, and something undeniably him. You swallowed hard, fingers curling into the worn leather.

Silco wasn’t a man of grand gestures, of whispered affections. But this—this silent, protective act—meant more than any words ever could.

And it made leaving all the more unbearable.

Carefully, you slipped out of bed, trying not to wake him. His fingers twitched in protest as your warmth left his side, but he didn’t stir. You sat at the edge of the couch, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself as you gazed at him.

Even in sleep, he was himself—sharp angles and quiet intensity, the scarred side of his face half-hidden against the pillow. You memorized him, let your eyes trace every detail like it was the last time you’d ever see him.

Because it was.

Your limbs ached, your skin bore the imprint of his touch, and yet, it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

Silco’s jacket was still around your shoulders when you stood, its weight like an anchor, like a promise that had come too late. You wanted to keep it. You wanted to keep a piece of him.

But that would be cruel.

So, with trembling hands, you slipped it from your shoulders and laid it carefully beside him. Your fingers ghosted over the lapel, over the familiar worn seams.

A part of you ached to wake him, to tell him you had changed your mind, to let him pull you back into the warmth of his arms and never let go.

But you had no right.

You made it to the door before his voice stopped you.

“Y/N.”

You turned, your breath catching in your throat at the sight of him—half-illuminated by the faint glow of the lantern, hair tousled from sleep, the sheets pooling at his waist. His single eye locked onto yours, heavy with something you weren’t ready to face.

His voice was quiet, rough with sleep. “Stay.”

Your heart cracked. You wanted to. You wanted to so badly that it physically hurt. But you couldn’t. So instead, you gave him the only truth that mattered.

“I love you.”

Silco inhaled sharply, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he wanted to reach for you. But he didn’t. He only watched as you turned and slipped out the door, disappearing into the fading darkness. His jacket lay abandoned beside him.

And when he finally reached for it, it was cold.

=

The church was suffocating, its silence heavier than the officiant’s words. Air pressed against your chest, thick with expectation, as you stood frozen at the altar, heart thundering beneath layers of silk and lace. Stained-glass windows painted fractured hues of gold and red onto the marble floors, casting you as an illusion on the verge of shattering. Piltover’s elite sat poised, gloved hands folded, their sharp gazes pinning you in place. Trained for this moment, conditioned to be the perfect bride—a symbol of unity, power, and wealth—you felt instead like a prisoner in a gilded cage.

Your fiancé—your husband-to-be—smiled, calm and certain, as if your fate had already been sealed. His fingers curled around yours, firm and unrelenting. But your pulse pounded in your ears, drowning out the murmured vows. You could still feel Silco—his hands, his lips, the ghost of his touch still clinging to your skin. The way he had whispered your name, the way he had told you you still had a choice.

And yet, here you were.

The officiant’s voice barely registered, his words blurring into nothing as your mind swam in an ocean of doubt.

"Do you, Y/N, take this man as your lawful husband?"

The words rang hollow.

Your breath hitched, your fingers curling slightly in your fiancé’s grasp. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your chest ached, a war raging inside you.

Say it. Say yes. Say something.

You couldn’t.

A cold sweat prickled at the back of your neck. The officiant was waiting. Your fiancé’s grip tightened just slightly, his smile unwavering, but his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—were anything but soft.

He knew. He knew you were hesitating. And then—

Boom!

The grand church doors burst open, crashing against the stone walls with a deafening bang. Gasps erupted from the pews, women clutching their pearls, men rising abruptly from their seats. The air turned electric with tension, fear rippling through the pristine congregation as booted footsteps echoed against the marble floor.

Zaunites.

The scent of smoke and gunpowder clung to them, an unmistakable stench of the Undercity—your city, the one you had tried to leave behind. They moved with practiced ease, fanning out through the church like a silent threat. Not reckless, not wild—intentional.

And in the centre of it all, flanked by his men, stood Silco.

The breath left your lungs.

He was still, a commanding force, his long coat billowing as he strode forward with the slow, measured steps of a man who knew he was untouchable. His mismatched eyes cut through the crowd, through the suffocating air of gold and wealth, and landed directly on you.

The church had never felt smaller.

His face was unreadable, but his anger was palpable. Not rage—control. A dangerous kind of fury, a silent promise.

He took you in, his gaze sweeping over your pristine wedding dress, the silk gloves on your hands, the delicate gold chain around your neck. Everything about you was wrapped in Piltover’s claim.

A slow smirk curled at the corner of his lips.

"Well," Silco drawled, voice smooth as ever, but undercut with something sharp. "Apologies for the interruption. But I believe the bride has some unfinished business."

The reaction was instant.

Your fiancé stiffened beside you, stepping forward as though to shield you from the man before him. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he demanded, voice sharp with authority.

Silco barely spared him a glance. His gaze remained locked on you, unwavering. “I should be asking you that, considering you’re trying to wed a woman who doesn’t want you.”

The words sliced through the air like a blade.

Murmurs broke out among the guests. Shocked gasps, whispers of scandal, of impropriety. The officiant took a nervous step back, his hands trembling over his book.

The guards stationed at the doors exchanged uneasy glances, hesitating. Zaunites weren’t common in Piltover’s sacred halls, and none were foolish enough to test the man before them. Silco wasn’t just any Zaunite.

Your fiancé scoffed, turning his glare on you now. “This is ridiculous,” he spat. “Tell them, Y/N. Tell them you chose this. Tell them you want this.”

Silco tilted his head, watching you with unnerving patience. He said nothing. He didn’t need to.

Because this was your choice.

The weight of expectation pressed against you. Your parents, your fiancé, the glittering world of Piltover—everything that had been set out for you.

But then there was Silco. Waiting. Hoping. Loving you in a way no one else ever had. Your lips parted.

“I—”

Your fiancé squeezed your hands tighter. “Say it.”

You flinched. Silco noticed. His patience evaporated in an instant. His men raised their weapons as he took another step forward, his voice dropping into a dangerous growl.

"Let. Her. Go."

Your fiancé hesitated, but only for a moment before he yanked you toward him, an unmistakable warning in his grip. “She’s mine.”

That was the final mistake.

Silco moved in a blur.

A blade flashed in his hand as he grabbed your fiancé by the collar, yanking him forward with terrifying ease. The polished steel kissed his throat, forcing him to still.

The church fell silent once more.

Silco’s lips curled into something sharp, something deadly.

“She was never yours,” he murmured.

Your fiancé swallowed hard, his confidence flickering under the weight of Silco’s unwavering stare. “You wouldn’t,” he spat. “Not here. Not in Piltover.”

Silco’s smirk was razor-sharp. “Wouldn’t I?”

A tense beat passed.

And then—

"Silco."

Your voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, but it sliced through the thick air like a knife.

His grip on your fiancé tightened for a fraction of a second before, with a sharp tch, he released him, shoving the man backward with enough force that he stumbled.

Your breath trembled in your chest.

Silco turned to you then, stepping closer, his presence consuming. “Say the word,” he murmured, his voice rough, almost pleading. “Say the word and I’ll burn all of this to the ground.”

Your fiancé was still sputtering behind you, his voice distant, irrelevant.

But it didn’t matter.

None of it did.

Not the gasping nobles in the pews. Not the shocked officiant, clutching his ceremonial book like a shield. Not the weight of expectation that had been suffocating you for years.

Nothing mattered except the man standing before you.

The man who had come for you.

The man who had always been waiting for you.

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, your hands trembling at your sides as your heart pounded against your ribs, caught between fear and something rawer, something inevitable.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered.

Silco didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Only studied you with that unreadable gaze—like he was looking past the silk and jewels, past the gilded chains Piltover had wrapped around you, seeing only the girl he had always known.

The girl who belonged to him.

"And yet," he murmured, voice low, steady, certain, "here I am."

Slowly, deliberately, Silco lifted a hand.

His fingers curled beneath your chin, the calloused tips brushing against your skin with a featherlight touch. It wasn’t forceful. It wasn’t demanding. It was a question.

A challenge.

A choice.

For a moment, time stretched between you, an eternity wrapped in a single breath. The air felt thick, electric, as if the entire world teetered on the precipice of this moment. As if the very foundations of Piltover held still, waiting—watching—to see what you would do.

And then—

You chose.

You surged forward, closing the space between you in an instant. Your silk-gloved hands fisted into the front of his coat as you crashed your lips against his, pouring everything you had into him. Every ache, every regret, every moment of longing you had swallowed down in the name of duty—it was his now.

A scandalized gasp rippled through the pews, but the sound barely registered in your ears.

The world fell away, dissolving into nothing.

Silco caught you with a steady, unshakable grip, as if he had been waiting for this, expecting it, counting on it. His fingers tangled into your hair, pulling you deeper, his other hand finding the small of your back and pressing you flush against him. There was no hesitation, no restraint—he kissed you with a hunger that set your veins on fire, a desperation that spoke of years lost, of a future he was willing to burn the world for.

And you let him.

You melted into him, into the taste of whiskey and smoke, into the warmth of him, into the rightness of it all.

You had spent years convincing yourself this feeling wasn’t real. That you had outgrown the girl who had once stolen away into the depths of Zaun to be by his side. But the truth was clearer now than it had ever been.

This was where you belonged.

When you finally broke apart, your chest was heaving, your pulse thundering in your ears.

Silco didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t so much as breathe as he stared down at you, his single eye flickering with something dark and unreadable, something alive.

And then, with the kind of certainty that made your knees weak, he extended his hand—palm open, waiting.

"Let me take you away from this place." His voice was a whisper between you, a promise wrapped in smoke. "Back to where you always have belonged. Right beside me."

An invitation.

A vow.

You took it without hesitation. The moment your fingers slipped into his, the weight of everything disappeared.

Behind you, the church erupted into chaos. Women shrieked. Noblemen shouted in outrage. Your fiancé was yelling your name, his voice desperate, angry, humiliated all at once. Your mother’s sharp, disbelieving gasp cut through the clamour like a blade, her voice rising in a breathless, horrified whisper.

"What have you done?"

But you didn’t look back.

Not when you stepped down from the altar, silk dress trailing behind—a life never truly yours; not when you passed your parents’ stunned faces, their broken ambitions never meant for you; not when Silco led you through the grand doors, his men shielding you from the world you left behind; not when the cold air hit, Piltover fading into fog while Zaun’s smog called you home; not when Silco pulled you close, draping his coat around you, his lips a silent promise against your temple.

And for the first time in your life—

You knew, with certainty—

You had made the right choice.

MEL

You and Mel grew up together, bound by the expectations of your high-status families but tethered more deeply by the quiet understanding that neither of you quite belonged within those constraints. From the moment you met, she had been a steady presence—sharp-witted, observant, the only person who ever made you feel truly seen.

There had always been something effortless about your bond, an unspoken ease in the way you moved through each other's worlds. In the grand halls of the Medarda estate, where golden sconces bathed the marble floors in soft, flickering light, she was a force of nature—draped in silks, adorned in gold, commanding attention with the mere arch of an eyebrow. And yet, in the quiet of her private quarters, beneath the carved ceiling where the glow of candlelight softened the sharp edges of expectation, she was simply Mel.

You spent endless afternoons there, the scent of ink and aged parchment thick in the air as you played chess across an opulent mahogany table. The game was an excuse, really—an intellectual battleground where the real war was waged in words. Strategy and sacrifice. Power and defiance. She could read you too well, saw past your carefully maintained indifference.

It was inevitable that the conversation would return, time and time again, to the future.

“They’ll expect you to marry one day,” Mel mused one evening, turning a rook between her fingers, its polished surface gleaming in the lantern light. Her voice was light, almost teasing, but her gaze was calculating, golden eyes sweeping over the board, then to you.

You scoffed, flicking a pawn aside with deliberate carelessness. “Marriage is a gilded cage,” you muttered. “They talk about alliances, but really, it’s just another way to control us.”

Mel hummed in consideration, tilting her head slightly. “And you?” she asked, her voice quieter now, more pointed. “What will you do when they demand it of you?”

There was no hesitation. No second-guessing. “I’ll run.”

She laughed at that—a soft, breathy sound, edged with something like amusement but not quite. Her fingers hovered over the rook for a moment longer before placing it down with a decisive click. “You always say that,” she murmured, shaking her head.

“Because I mean it.” You leaned forward, bracing your elbows against the table, eyes locked with hers. “I won’t let them decide my life for me.”

A flicker of something—doubt? Curiosity?—crossed her features. She studied you for a moment, a slow, deliberate assessment. Then, in a voice quieter than before, she asked, “And if you found someone worth staying for?”

The question stole your breath for half a second. Not because you hadn’t considered it before, but because of the way she asked it—soft, careful, as if the answer mattered more than she’d ever admit.

You hesitated, the pieces on the board suddenly feeling insignificant compared to the weight of her words. The candlelight caught the gold in her eyes, turning them molten, unreadable.

“Maybe,” you admitted finally, your voice quieter now. “But only if it’s my choice.”

Something in her expression shifted, but whatever it was, she kept it to herself. Instead, she reached for her queen, dragging it forward across the board with deliberate grace.

“Check,” she murmured, but there was no triumph in her voice—only something softer, something uncertain.

And for the first time, you weren’t sure if you were still talking about chess at all.

=

Years passed, and what began as a quiet companionship deepened into something undeniable. The stolen glances, the lingering touches, the way Mel’s voice softened when she spoke your name—it had all woven into something more. Something unspoken, yet understood.

You had spent years convincing yourself that it didn’t need to be said aloud, that as long as she looked at you that way, as long as her hand lingered on yours for just a moment too long, you could be content. But love had a way of making itself known, carving its mark into every stolen second you spent together.

And then, in a single moment, your world shattered.

The letter came without warning, a summons to the grand hall of your family’s estate. You had barely stepped inside when you saw them—your parents, standing rigidly at the head of the long, polished table, their expressions carved from stone. A sealed letter rested between them, the wax crest unfamiliar, its meaning heavy with expectation.

Your father’s voice was devoid of warmth. "You are to be married."

The words struck like a physical blow.

"To a nobleman from the Southern Territories," he continued. "This union will solidify an alliance that has been years in the making. You leave in a fortnight."

The room seemed to tilt around you. Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out everything but the sound of your own breathing. Married. Sent away. Torn from Mel.

Your lips parted, but no words came. A thousand thoughts, a thousand refusals clawed their way to the surface, but all that escaped was a broken whisper.

"No."

Your mother exhaled sharply, her fingers pressing to her temple as if speaking to you was an exhausting effort. "You will do what is required of you, Y/N. This is not about love—it is about duty."

Love.

Mel.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides. "And what of my own will? My own happiness?"

Your father’s gaze was like steel, unyielding. "You are not a child, and this is not a fairytale. You will do as you are told."

The words slammed into you, suffocating, final. You felt the walls closing in, the weight of expectation pressing against your ribs until you could barely breathe.

But you would not break here.

You turned on your heel and fled before they could say another word, the heavy doors slamming shut behind you. Your feet carried you without thought, without hesitation, down the stone paths and through the winding streets until the towering gates of the Medarda estate loomed before you.

The guards barely had time to react before you pushed through, heart hammering as you rushed through the familiar halls, past the towering marble columns, past the velvet-draped corridors.

You found her in the gardens, where the air smelled of roses and the last golden rays of sunlight turned the sky into a watercolor of amber and violet. She was leaning against the stone railing, her silk robe pooling around her in the evening glow.

She turned the moment she saw you, her golden eyes sharpening with concern.

"What happened?"

The words came out in a rush, like a dam breaking. "They’re sending me away. To be married."

Mel stilled, every trace of ease vanishing from her expression. Her grip tightened around the marble ledge. "No. No, they can’t."

You let out a bitter laugh, though it was anything but humorous. "They can. And they will."

Mel’s hands found yours, her fingers strong but trembling, like she was willing herself to stay composed. "You told me you would run," she whispered, searching your face. "You told me you wouldn’t let them decide your life."

Tears burned at the edges of your vision. "I was a child. I didn’t know how ruthless they could be."

Mel exhaled sharply, her hands rising to cup your face, her thumbs brushing against your cheekbones with a tenderness that nearly undid you. "You were brave then," she said, her voice fierce, steady. "Be brave now. If we fight, if we stand together, we can find a way. You don’t have to do this alone."

Your lip trembled, and you leaned into her touch, your forehead resting against hers. "What if we lose?"

Mel’s breath ghosted against your lips as she whispered, "Then we lose together. But I will not let them take you without a fight."

A single tear slipped down your cheek, and Mel caught it with her thumb, her other hand still gripping yours as if she refused to let go.

And then, as if something inside her had finally shattered, she spoke the words you had longed to hear but never dared hope for.

"I love you," she whispered, the words slipping past her lips like a vow. "I have always loved you. And I will not stand by while they take you away from me."

The breath left your lungs. You had known, in the quiet spaces between moments, in the way she looked at you, in the way her fingers lingered at your wrist when no one was watching. But to hear it, to have it spoken into existence, was something else entirely.

Your hands tightened around hers. "Mel," you whispered, her name a prayer on your lips.

The wind stirred between you, rustling the leaves, carrying the weight of your choice on its back.

This was everything you wanted, everything you had feared you would never have. And yet, duty loomed like a shadow over your happiness, threatening to swallow it whole.

=

The fortnight passed in a blur of whispered plans and stolen moments, of desperate strategies and half-formed hopes.

Mel was relentless—poring over maps, calling in favors, speaking in hushed tones to the few people she trusted. Every night, as the world slept, you met beneath the veil of darkness, your hands intertwined as you planned your escape.

“We’ll leave before dawn,” she had told you just the night before, her voice unwavering, golden eyes blazing with determination. “I have everything arranged—a ship, safe passage. We’ll be gone before they even realize what’s happened.”

You had clung to those words, to the dream she painted, to the idea of a life beyond the cages that had been built for you.

But dreams are fragile things.

Before the sun had even begun to crest the horizon, you were torn from sleep by the rough grip of hands on your arms.

You fought, thrashing, kicking, nails clawing at the hands that held you, but there were too many—guards clad in your family’s colors, their grips unyielding as steel.

“No,” you gasped, struggling as they dragged you from your bed. “No, let me go!”

The silence of the estate swallowed your cries. No servants, no distant echoes of life—only the muffled shuffle of boots against marble and your own ragged breaths.

Panic clawed at your throat.

They had known. Somehow, they had known.

Your father stood at the foot of the grand staircase, his posture rigid, his expression carved from stone. Beside him, your mother lingered in the flickering glow of the lanterns, her face unreadable.

“This is for your own good,” she said simply, as if that made any of it better.

The doors swung open, and the cold morning air struck like a blade against your skin. Outside, a carriage stood waiting, its dark wood gleaming with frost, horses stamping impatiently against the cobblestone.

“No!” Your voice broke as you thrashed harder, as the guards lifted you off the ground and carried you toward the waiting prison on wheels. “Mel—!”

A cry of rage split the morning stillness.

And then she was there.

Mel.

A vision of fury and desperation, her silk robe billowing behind her as she sprinted from the Medarda estate, bare feet against stone, golden eyes alight with wild defiance.

“Let her go!” she shouted, her voice shaking with rage, her breath coming fast.

She ran toward you, hands outstretched, reaching— But then— A hand shot out, catching her by the wrist, wrenching her back.

Ambessa Medarda

She stood unmoving, her grip firm but deceptively gentle, a force of quiet control against her daughter’s frenzied struggle.

“Mel,” you choked, reaching for her even as the guards shoved you inside the carriage, even as the heavy doors slammed shut, sealing you away.

Mel fought. Fought like hell. She wrenched against her mother’s grasp, heels digging into the stone, her entire body twisting as she tried to tear herself free.

“Let me go!” she screamed, raw and broken, eyes locked onto yours through the small window of the carriage.

But her mother did not yield.

“Enough,” Ambessa said, her voice cool, measured, a quiet force of unshakable will. “This is how it must be.”

“No!” Mel’s voice cracked, her struggles frantic. “She belongs with me!”

The carriage lurched forward. You slammed your fists against the window, eyes burning, throat closing with unshed tears.

Outside, Mel twisted in her mother’s grip, a broken sound tearing from her lips as she reached for you—fingers outstretched, just shy of touching—

And then she was gone.

The estate blurred into the distance, the city shrinking behind you, the life you had known disappearing like a cruel mirage.

Your breath came in ragged gasps, your hands trembling in your lap, your skin still burning from where she had touched you last. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

But as you stared at the fading horizon, the ghost of her voice still ringing in your ears, you made a vow. This wasn’t over. Not yet.

Right?

=

The weight of the gown felt suffocating.

Layers of delicate silk and lace cascaded over your form, flowing like water but clinging like chains. Every stitch, every pearl embroidered into the bodice, felt like an extension of the prison you had been thrust into. The corset bit into your ribs, each breath a reminder that this was not yours to escape.

The veil, though sheer, felt more like a shroud, draping over you as you walked down the grand aisle of the cathedral.

The air was thick with incense and expectation. Nobles, dressed in their finest, filled the pews, their whispers barely concealed behind gloved hands and jeweled fans. Their curiosity was a vulture circling above you, feeding off the spectacle of your fate.

Overhead, chandeliers bathed everything in a golden glow, their light flickering against the polished marble floors, reflecting in the cold eyes of the man waiting for you at the altar.

Your fiancé.

He was handsome in the way noblemen were bred to be—sharp features, tall, expression as carefully measured as his perfectly tailored attire. His hands were clasped before him, unreadable. He was everything your parents wanted—noble, powerful, an impeccable chess piece in their grand game.

But he wasn’t Mel.

The thought made your stomach churn.

Each step felt heavier, like your feet were sinking into the marble itself, dragging you toward a life that did not belong to you. Your heart pounded against your ribs, suffocated by the weight of expectation.

And then—

Boom.

The massive doors at the end of the aisle slammed open.

Gasps filled the cathedral as heads snapped toward the entrance, murmurs breaking into full-blown panic as a figure strode inside.

Ambessa Medarda.

She moved like a storm, each step a rumble of distant thunder. Her boots echoed against the marble, broad shoulders squared, adorned in gleaming gold armor that caught the candlelight and made her look like something out of legend.

Her presence was suffocating. Absolute. Ambessa Medarda did not make entrances. She made declarations. And this?

This was a declaration of war.

Your breath caught, hands trembling against the bouquet you barely remembered holding.

“What is the meaning of this?” The groom’s father, a lord of the Southern Territories, stood abruptly, his face flushing with anger. “This is a sacred ceremony—”

Ambessa did not acknowledge him. Her gaze found yours first, heavy and assessing, as if confirming you were still whole. Then, without breaking stride, she pulled a parchment from her belt, unrolling it with deliberate care.

“This union,” she said, voice deep, unwavering, “is no longer valid.”

The room went silent.

Your fiancé’s father scoffed, stepping forward. “This is absurd. Who are you to—”

Ambessa’s gaze turned to him, and he froze mid-sentence.

Then, with the patience of someone who had expected resistance, Ambessa extended the parchment to your father.

His hand twitched before he took it, fingers stiff, almost reluctant, as though touching the document itself would burn him. The parchment unfurled with a soft crinkle, the ink catching the candlelight, and he scanned the words hurriedly, his breath hitching with each line his eyes devoured.

Your stomach tightened, an unseen hand twisting its fingers into your gut, pulling. Your father was not an easy man to shake, yet there it was—the shift in his expression, the flicker of disbelief swallowed by something graver.

His face paled.

“This—” The word barely left him, strangled and raw. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his knuckles whitening as his grip crushed the edges of the parchment. His gaze darted back and forth between the inked decree and Ambessa, desperate, searching— for an error, for an escape, for anything that would unravel this.

He found none.

Slowly, as though the weight of the words had turned him to stone, he lifted his head. His eyes locked onto Ambessa’s, burning with unspoken fury.

“You expect me to agree to this?” His voice wavered—not in uncertainty, but in something else, something sharp and disbelieving, yet edged with a helplessness he had not expected to feel.

Ambessa did not flinch. Did not move. Did not waver beneath the storm brewing in your father’s gaze. “This is not a request.”

The air thickened, pressing in from all sides, suffocating in its silence.

Your father’s fists clenched at his sides, his chest rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths. You had seen him furious before—rage that scorched, that consumed. But now? Now, there was something else flickering beneath it, something heavier.

Resignation.

Your mother, seated in the front row, remained eerily still. A porcelain figure cast in cold detachment. She did not speak. She did not move. But there was something about the way she held herself, her fingers clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had turned ghostly white.

She would not stop this.

Ambessa stepped forward, the click of her boots against the marble floor reverberating through the vast cathedral. Her presence swallowed the space, swallowed the room, left no room for resistance.

“You will sign it,” she said, each word deliberate, measured. Unshakable. “Both of you.”

A cold dread pooled in your stomach, thick and heavy.

Your father turned slightly toward your mother, searching, perhaps, for defiance in her eyes. A shared outrage. A reason to fight. But she did not meet his gaze. The quill in Ambessa’s hand gleamed, its tip poised and waiting.

For the briefest of moments, hesitation cracked the air, stretching the silence into something unbearable. Your father’s fingers twitched at his sides, his breath uneven, shallow.

You wanted to move. To speak. To demand to know what this meant. But you already knew.

Slowly, with movements so precise they almost seemed unnatural, your father reached for the quill. The feather trembled in his grip before he pressed the tip to the parchment.

The ink bled into the page, dark and inescapable. His signature bloomed across the document—permanent. Final. Something inside you twisted.

Your mother followed without a word. The scratch of her quill against the parchment was the only sound in the cavernous cathedral, the weight of its finality heavier than steel. Then she set it down.

It was done.

A murmur rippled through the pews, the weight of realization settling over the gathered nobles like a suffocating fog. The shifting of silks, the hushed voices of those watching history reshape itself before their very eyes.

And then—

“What is the meaning of this?”

The groom’s father surged to his feet, the force of his movement sending the heavy fabric of his robes billowing around him. His voice thundered through the high arches, rattling the air with unrestrained fury. His face had darkened, eyes wild with disbelief, with indignation, with betrayal.

He turned sharply on your father, his rage palpable. “What have you done?” His voice was thick, taut with barely restrained outrage. And then, he turned on her.

Ambessa.

His disbelief twisted into something more dangerous, something venomous. “This arrangement was settled. Our families agreed.” He gestured sharply to the parchment still clutched in your father’s trembling hands. “What gives you the right to change it?”

Ambessa barely spared him a glance. “The fact that I can.” A single sentence, wielded with the weight of an empire behind it. Your breath hitched.

The nobleman’s lips curled, his nostrils flaring as he fought against the tide closing in around him. “This is outrageous—”

“She will not marry your son,” Ambessa interrupted, the words clean, absolute, carving through the tension like a blade. “She will marry my daughter.”

The hush that followed was deafening.

It slammed into you, left you adrift, unmoored. The weight of a thousand eyes pressed in from all sides, heavy, suffocating.

Your father’s grip on the parchment twitched, but he said nothing.

The groom’s father’s gaze swept across the room, searching, desperate, waiting for someone—anyone—to challenge this. Someone to fight.

But no one spoke.

And then, his gaze landed on you.

“You think you can just take her?” His voice was bitter, thick with incredulity, seething with unspent fury.

Ambessa Medarda did not flinch. She did not shrink beneath his anger, nor did she offer any hint of apology. She merely inclined her head slightly, expression unreadable, gaze as sharp as a blade.

“I did not take her,” she said smoothly. “She was given.”

A pause. A beat of silence so sharp it could cut. She flicked her gaze to your father. His silence was damning. You exhaled, the weight in your chest tightening like a vice.

Ambessa turned back to you. “Come.”

The moment stretched, thick with something unspoken. Your chest tightened. Your breath shuddered. Your mind raced, grasping at strings, desperate to catch up.

But fight for what?

A future you never wanted? A man who had never once truly looked at you? A life built on obligation, duty, sacrifice— for everyone but yourself?

Your fingers loosened.

The bouquet slipped from your hands, the delicate petals hitting the marble with a soft whisper, the sound swallowed instantly by the vastness of the cathedral.

A murmur of scandal rippled through the gathered nobles, whispers like a thousand tiny knives scraping against your skin.

But you did not falter. Lifting the heavy skirts of your gown, you stepped away from the altar. Gasps echoed through the cathedral, rippling outward like a tidal wave. But they no longer mattered.

You did not spare your fiancé a glance. You did not look at your parents. You only followed Ambessa—toward the life that had been stolen from you.

Toward the woman who was waiting for you.

=

The ride back was silent for a long time.

The weight of your wedding gown pooled around you, heavy and untouched. You barely felt it now. Your pulse had yet to settle, the echoes of the ceremony lingering in your mind like a dream you had just woken from.

Ambessa Medarda did not speak without purpose. She had made her move, disrupted a marriage that would have cemented political ties, and now sat as if nothing had happened at all.

Finally, she spoke.

“I still see love as weakness.”

You turned your head to look at her. She wasn’t looking at you, her gaze fixed on the window, her expression as unreadable as ever.

“I built everything I have because I was willing to make sacrifices,” she continued, voice steady, resolute. “I have never let emotions cloud my judgment. And I do not believe I ever will.” Then, for the first time, she looked at you. “But I know my daughter.”

The weight of those words settled deep in your chest. Ambessa studied you for a long moment, as if calculating, measuring something unseen. Then she exhaled, the faintest hint of frustration flickering across her face.

“And I know that if I had let this marriage happen, she would never forgive me.”

Your throat tightened. Mel.

This—this wasn’t for you. It was for her.

You swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. “Did she…?” The question felt fragile, hesitant. “Did she ask you to do this?”

Ambessa’s lips twitched in the faintest semblance of amusement. “Mel does not ask for things. She fights for them.”

The ache in your chest grew sharper.

“She loves you,” Ambessa said simply, as if stating a fact rather than something profound. “Enough that she would have burned every bridge, toppled every alliance, if it meant getting you back.”

The breath left your lungs. Mel had fought for you. Even when you had been dragged away, when she had been held back, when all had seemed lost—she hadn’t stopped. Ambessa studied you once more before exhaling sharply, as if exhausted by the very concept of sentimentality.

“I may not agree with her,” she said, “but I will not stand in her way.”

The carriage rolled on, the weight of her words settling over you like a heavy cloak. And for the first time since you had been taken from her, you felt the stirrings of hope. Because if Mel had fought for you this hard—

Then you would fight just as hard to return to her.

=

The carriage ride had been long and silent, filled with words left unspoken, yet their weight hung between you and Ambessa like a sword balanced on a thread.

You had barely breathed as the Medarda estate loomed into view, its towering columns bathed in the soft glow of lanterns. The world outside felt eerily unchanged, as if the past weeks of your suffering, of your loss, of your fight, had left no scar upon it.

But you had changed.

As the carriage rolled to a stop, Ambessa merely nodded toward the doors, her face unreadable beneath the dim light. “Go,” she said simply. “She is waiting.”

You hesitated only a moment before stepping out, the hem of your abandoned wedding gown catching against the stone. You lifted it, letting the torn fabric whisper against your hands as you made your way past the grand entrance, past the lavish halls, past the life you had once walked alongside Mel without knowing just how much it would come to mean to you.

You found her in the gardens.

She was sitting on the edge of the stone fountain, lost in thought, golden eyes tracing the petals of a single flower held delicately between her fingers.

The sight of her made your chest ache.

This was Mel—poised, sharp, a woman of power and grace—yet here, she looked softer, pensive, lost in a quiet world where war and duty did not exist.

You took a breath before stepping forward, the crunch of gravel beneath your heels breaking the silence.

She looked up.

Her golden eyes widened, flickering with something unreadable as she took in the sight of you—the ruined gown, the exhaustion lining your face, the raw emotion barely contained behind your gaze.

For a moment, she simply stared.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she spoke.

“Y/N…?”

You swallowed hard, barely trusting yourself to speak. “It’s me.”

A sharp exhale left her lips, as if she had been holding her breath this entire time.

And then—

She moved first.

Mel closed the space between you in an instant, arms wrapping around you, pulling you into her warmth, holding you so tightly you almost forgot how to breathe. The scent of ink and jasmine enveloped you, grounding you, anchoring you in a way nothing else ever could.

You felt the tremor in her grip, the way her fingers pressed into your back, as if making sure you were real and not just some fragile dream that would slip through her grasp. Her breath was warm against your temple, uneven, like she was battling between disbelief and relief.

"You’re here,” she breathed, her voice barely holding together. “They let you go?”

You shook your head, pressing your face against her shoulder, allowing yourself to sink into her hold, to let the world outside this moment fade away. "Ambessa took me back."

Mel stilled. “My mother?”

You hesitated, then slowly pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. Her golden eyes searched yours, flickering with disbelief, with questions she wasn’t sure how to voice.

“She ended the arrangement,” you told her softly, watching as shock and suspicion warred across her face. “She made sure I would never have to marry him.”

Mel blinked, searching your face for any sign of false hope, of uncertainty.

"But… why?" she whispered, more to herself than to you. "H-How?"

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling into the fabric of her sleeves, holding on as if to steady yourself. "Because she made them sign a new arrangement."

Mel stiffened. Her hands, which had been gripping your arms so tightly, relaxed just slightly, enough for her to pull back and search your face. "A new arrangement?" she echoed, golden eyes flickering with wary disbelief.

You nodded, feeling your pulse hammering in your throat. "She dissolved the marriage to him. And in its place… she created another."

Mel stared at you, her breath hitching. "Y/N… what are you saying?"

Your lips parted, but the words felt too big, too impossible to speak aloud. "She arranged for us to be married, Mel."

The silence that followed was thick and unsteady, like the moment before a storm.

Mel blinked once. Then twice. Her fingers twitched against your skin as though her mind was struggling to catch up with what you had just said.

“She… she arranged for—” She cut herself off, exhaling sharply, taking a step back as if to clear her thoughts. She ran a hand over her face, golden eyes wide with something you had never quite seen before.

Disbelief. Hope. Something dangerously close to relief.

"You don’t have to," you rushed out quickly, because suddenly, doubt coiled inside you. "I don’t expect—this wasn’t my choice, and I know you never wanted—"

"Stop." Her voice was firm, steady despite the storm brewing behind her eyes. You fell silent, throat tight. Then, slowly, her hands found yours again, fingers threading through yours, grounding you, anchoring herself to you as much as you to her. “Say it again,” she said, softer this time, her voice almost fragile.

Your lips parted, a breathless whisper spilling forth. “She arranged for us to be married.”

Mel let out a sharp exhale, something breaking in her composure. "She actually did it," she murmured, almost to herself. "That stubborn, infuriating woman actually did it."

You swallowed, uncertain. "What does this mean for you?"

She studied you, her thumb brushing over the back of your hand. "It means…" She took a slow, careful breath. "It means she knows she could never stop me from choosing you. So instead, she made sure you would never be taken from me again."

A shaky breath escaped you, the weight of it all settling in your chest. "And do you—"

She cut you off before you could finish.

With a fierce, certain pull, she brought you into her arms once more, hands pressing into the small of your back, her face buried in the crook of your neck. "Yes."

The word was whispered against your skin, trembling but certain.

Yes.

Yes, she would take this arrangement. Yes, she would stand by it. Yes, she would have fought for you even if it had never been signed in ink. And then—

She pulled back just enough to look at you, golden eyes searching, dark lashes lowered as her gaze flickered to your lips.

You barely had time to take a breath before she kissed you.

Soft at first. Tentative, lingering—like she was memorizing the shape of you, like she was grounding herself in the reality of this moment. Then, all at once, something snapped.

The grip at your waist tightened, drawing you impossibly close. Her hands cradled your face, fingertips pressing into your skin as if she was afraid you might disappear if she let go.

You melted into her, hands tangling in the fabric of her sleeves, the scent of jasmine and ink filling your senses.

This was what you had fought for. This was what had nearly been stolen from you. And yet, here you were. Here you stayed.

As your lips parted, your foreheads pressed together, your breaths mingling in the quiet night, neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

A soft breeze stirred through the garden, carrying the scent of roses and something else—something warmer, something knowing. And from a distance, standing just beyond the grand windows of the Medarda estate, Ambessa watched.

She did not move, did not interrupt.

Her arms were crossed, her expression unreadable, but for the briefest of moments, something flickered across her face. Something small. Something almost like satisfaction.

Then, with a slow, measured exhale, she turned on her heel and walked away. She had done her part.

The rest was yours.

[nicsnort]

Part of the Family

NSFW 18+ male orc x female reader

Contains: vaginal sex, fingering, size difference, exhibitionism, groping, implied impregnation, implied group sex, poor use of 1920s slang and style by Orcs

Word Count: 4385

Lore/World-building Prompt

Orcs came to defend your town when demons invaded. Now they've settled in, and after years of teasing them, they've finally had enough. It was time to make you part of the family.

~

Your sleepy little town had never expected an Orc tribe to move in a few years ago. Granted, you never expected the world to be invaded by demons, either. You remembered the moment that the Orcs rode into town well. They had been riding massive black horses the size of Clydesdales but with fire around their hooves and sharp meat-eating teeth. The Orcs had worn their traditional war paints and openly carried their weapons. Everyone had been terrified. Would they slaughter you all? Enslave the town?

They had called for the “ruler” of the town to speak with them. You vividly remember watching the town mayor approaching, trying to hide his fear. The tribe leader, Chief Gorim - a battle-scared, dark green, seven-foot-tall beast of a humanoid - slid off his horse, towering over the mayor, staring him down.

“You are afraid, human,” the chieftain commented in a low growl. “No need to be afraid. We have come as protection.”

The chief handed the mayor an official-looking parchment—a work contract. The Orcs were aware that rural regions of the human world lacked protection against the demonic hordes as the governments focused on protecting cities. So many of the Orc tribes, well-practiced in fighting demons and monsters, crossed the rift to provide protection. All the Orcs asked for in return were places to set up camp, provisions they could not gather from the land itself, and access to this world’s weapons and healing knowledge. A reasonable offer for people seeing the logic of their world changing rapidly and no way to fight against the demons otherwise.

True to their word, the Orcs protected your town and several others in the area. Unfortunately, their protection came with many more strings attached than originally stated. It was, for lack of a better phrase - a protection racket. Little did the towns know that Orc tribes were similar in structure and philosophy to the Italian Mafia. A rather ironic twist of fate, given that your little town had been the center of some Mafia activity over a century ago during the Prohibition Era. The small museum in town was a historically preserved speakeasy that told the story about the gambling den, a whiskey smuggling route, and a good old-fashioned shoot-out between the Feds and the gangsters along Main Street.

It was even more ironic that your Orcs - attempting to adapt to this “new human world” - decided to forgo their traditional dress and begin copying the Mafia’s style. The 1920s to 1950s Mafia was their preference. Their bows and arrows were replaced with machine guns. Their leather skirts and vests were replaced with cotton suits and fedoras. They began picking up the slang by watching documentaries and old films. The chief insisted that everyone call him “Godfather” and would tell everyone how the lead actor in that famous film looked like an Orc without the tusks. 

Sometimes, their obsession was more silly than scary. You overheard an Orc contemplating whether to call her future son the short Orc-like Tony or Al’capone after the “great warrior chief.” And seeing a non-warrior Orc in a flapper dress with the warriors wolf-whistling at the “sight of his gams” was certainly something. Who would have ever guessed that Orcs were into cross-dressing? However, given how Orcish genders seemed to be warrior and non-warrior regardless of sex, maybe it wasn’t cross-dressing. The Orcs had decided that warriors wore suits and non-warriors wore flapper or swing dresses.

Even with the Orcs running this protection racket, the town benefited more than it lost. You had all heard the horror stories of the areas first hit by the demons - towns annihilated, mass slaughter, people forced into slavery - compared to that prospect, paying a tribe of Orcs in tomato sauce, pasta, and historically accurate clothing was nothing. Not to mention that just like the Mafia they modeled themselves after, the Orcs started smuggling goods to and from their home dimension. The state and federal governments did not want any trade of materials that could “corrupt” humans (whatever that meant), but if they wouldn’t protect your town from demons, why bother listening to their ban? Magic potions were amazing.

But that all wrapped around to you. The person running the local speakeasy museum that the warrior Orcs claimed as their primary hangout spot. You were a historian and preservationist. While you had always sold alcohol at the museum’s speakeasy bar for those wanting to try moonshine or the local whiskey, it was never supposed to be a real bar. Yet, you had transformed the speakeasy museum into a functional bar at their large, weapon-carrying insistence. Your job had become more bar tender than museum worker, but to be honest, before the demons, your museum hadn’t ever gotten much business. Luckily, the “person in control of the alcohol” was a position that Orcs respected, and as you were the human who ran the “shrine” to the human “warrior tribes,” that respect was doubled.

“Here we go, boys,” you announced, setting five glasses of whiskey in front of the Orc warriors who had just come in from patrol.

“Ah, you're the bee’s knees, doll,” they replied with relief. You had long overcome the bristle you felt at being called “doll.” The Orcs were copying more of the language of the period they idolized. You had asked them once what they thought it meant - a pretty non-warrior - at least they were calling you pretty.

You headed into the backroom to gather more whiskey. Each Orc typically drank half a bottle when they came here after patrol, so you had to grab a few more to satisfy this group. As you were in the back, you could hear the chatter and laughter of the patrol join that of those already a couple of cups deep.

“Shrine maiden,” an Orc called out before swearing in Orcish, “raudt, doll! Bring another round of Oakengleam!”

You couldn’t help but smile to yourself. Some older Orcs struggled with the new slang when drunk and still fell into their old terms. They swore whenever it happened, but the translator spell refused to translate anything inappropriate, meaning you knew lots of Orcish swears. With your arms full of four bottles of whiskey, you returned to the front. The Orc that had called out to you leaned against the bar, putting full weight on the old polished wood.

“I told you, Ozoch, that was the last of it. You’ll have to wait until the runners return from the Rift.”

“Come on, it’s the chief’s - I mean - the don’s favorite. I know you have to have some.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You are suggesting that I use Godfather’s private supply to satiate your already drunk stomach?”

“Don’t try to use the Don to threaten me, weakling.”

Silence began to fall among the Orcs as they listened in. You lifted your head defiantly. The Orcs valued strength. Not just physical but mental. Backing down now would lose much of the respect they held for you. “I’m in charge of the alcohol. Even if I had Oakengleam, I wouldn’t give it to you for that. Get out and dry out.”

Ozoch slammed his fist on the counter, cracking the wood. “Don’t tell me what to do! You ain’t tribe!”

“That don’t mean she ain’t correct,” a low growling voice said behind Ozoch. The older Orc stiffened. Godfather had just walked in the door.

“Chie--Don Gorim,” Ozoch started as he turned around unsteadily. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

Godfather looked to the capo at his side and jerked his head. “Escort Ozoch out, Taugh. Take a walk, old friend, and consider how I said the dame was to be respected. Don’t make me force you to find that respect in concrete shoes.”

Properly cowed, Ozoch let Taugh escort him out. The old Orc likely would have a ground-down tusk the next time you saw him. It was a common mark of shame.

Godfather approached the bar. He silently examined the damage Ozoch did. A scowl crossed his face before he looked at you with a small smile. Reaching across the bar, he put a hand on your shoulder. “I will see this fixed, doll.”

Your heart rate was returning to normal, but you didn’t trust yourself enough to speak, so you nodded. He squeezed your shoulder lightly before releasing you. “Now, a mug of Oakengleam at my table, please.”

You breathed out slowly and returned his smile. “Of course, Godfather.”

Disappearing into the back where you kept Godfather’s private stash, you heard the conversation in the main room slowly return to normal. Alone among the alcohol, you took a moment to gather yourself. This wasn’t the first time you had to assert yourself, but it was the first time that an Orc had been violent towards you. Seeing them rip the wings off an imp with their bare hands was one thing, but knowing that fist would have cracked your head open was another. Allowing a couple of tears to escape your eyes, you quickly dried them. The don was waiting for his drink.

With a smile on your face, you brought Godfather his drink. While you were in the back, Taugh had returned, new abrasions on his knuckles. Godfather also had his advisor, Kormor, at his table. She was speaking quietly to him, ignoring your presence. 

The night went on as normal for an hour or so. More and more Orcs came into the speakeasy, nearly all of the warriors. You noticed that Kormor began walking around to the tables, speaking with the Orcs quietly. She would speak, they would take a moment, and then some would put up two fingers. It became apparent they were voting on something. You wondered what was so big of a decision that it required the warriors' input instead of the don's unilateral decision. It was none of your business, though.

 The bar's heat rose as the seats and stools reached capacity. It was not a big building, and the speakeasy area could only hold 60 humans or half as many Orcs. Your body was forced to brush against them as you served drinks. As you cleared mugs and glasses, bending over the table, their thick hands reached to steady you. Occasionally, an unknown hand was brave enough to sneak a grope in. Their earthy musk slowly began to make your head swim.

Godfather called for another drink. You ducked into the back, happy for the reprieve. Leaning against the cold brick wall, you felt your pussy throbbing. It was a secret you kept hidden from all those around you. You found the Orcs super hot. 

Before the invasion of demons, when all monsters were considered fantasy, monsters had been the subject of your fantasies. When it turned out that all sorts of monsters were real, when the Orcs came to your town, it was a terrifying but exciting moment. Unfortunately, the Orcs didn’t seem interested in humans sexually. Sure, they would occasionally grope you, but it seemed more like a game to them as they never did anything more. You had even started wearing the swing dresses they liked and brushing against them on purpose, trying to encourage them.

There were many times that after a long night of working, you had gone upstairs to your apartment above the museum with your panties soaked. You would take out your monster dildos and fuck yourself, yearning for it to be the Orcs you had just seen.

But now wasn’t the time for that. You didn’t have time to touch yourself. The don needed another mug of his favorite ale. As always, you would suffer through the arousal. As you set down a second mug of Oakengleam for Godfather, the underboss, Sehbuv, arrived. Sehbuv winked at you as he sat down. A faint blush came to your cheeks. He had always been one of the nicest to you and slipped you treats from the smuggled goods. It didn’t hurt that he was definitely one of the most handsome Orcs with forest green skin and alluring magenta eyes.

“Double whiskey, doll,” he ordered, “oh and, for you.” 

Sehbuv grabbed your hand and pressed something long, hard, and wet at the bottom into it. Looking down, you saw it was a tusk. An Orc tusk, yellowed with old age and very recently removed. To grind down a tusk of an orc was a mark of shame, to remove one was saying you did not recognize them as an Orc anymore. You looked back up at him, and he gave you another wink. Clenching your hand around the gift, you stuttered a thank you before running off for his drink.

“Stay a moment, have a seat,” Godfather told you when you returned. “We must have words.”

“Of-of course,” you replied, shocked and a bit worried. Your eyes darted around, looking for a chair. Suddenly, Sehbuv pulled you into his lap. You gasped, but along with sounding surprised, there was a clear undertone of sensuality in it. The Orc chuckled but didn’t say anything. You gave Godfather your attention, trying to ignore how your arousal spiked by merely sitting on Sehbuv’s lap. It did not help that one of his hands rested on your lower back to steady you.

“Doll, you’ve been a good associate of ours for a while now. What has it been four years?”

“Nearly, yes.” The Orcs had been here for a little over five years but didn’t discover their obsession until a year after they arrived; the museum became their hang-out a few months later. Come to think of it, Shebuv had been the first Orc to visit the museum.

Godfather nodded. “And even before then, I remember you. You were the only human brave enough to bring the tribute to our camp by yourself. You were the only one interested in learning about us.”

“I am sure I wasn’t the only--”

“You were. The only one to genuinely be interested, at least.” Godfather leaned back in his chair, taking a long sip of ale. As you waited for him to continue, Sehbuv set his drink on the table, his hand going to rest on his lap but finding your thigh instead. You glanced at him, but his attention was on the don.

“Anyway, what I am getting at is that you, doll, have contributed a lot to this family. Big things like this speakeasy and spreading the knowledge of your past warrior families. And little things like adding our favorites to the tap and our images to the shrine of your warriors.” He gestured to the small section where you had put some photos of the Orcs in action and a group photo of the tribe after they had donned their “human” clothing for the first time.

“You have done all of this for us. In some ways, you are already part of the family. But as Ozoch pointed out, you are not family.”

Sehbuv’s fingers found the hem of your skirt and began inching up your thigh. It was becoming increasingly difficult to focus on the don. “Given all that and what happened with Ozoch, I think it is time to give you an Orc.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think I need a guard. Unless you are suggesting someone to help out around here lifting barrels and…” It was hard to speak coherently. Your head was swimming from the Orc musk and Sehbuv’s playful touch. 

Godfather’s eyes connected with Sehbuv’s. Instantly, the younger Orc’s roaming hand was on the table holding his drink. The older Orc’s attention turned back on you. “I don’t think you’re following. I mean uvna Orciani tullu--blasted bluenose witch, censoring the translation spell.”

Kormor touched his shoulder to calm him. “Why don’t you leave that for Sehbuv? Explain how things are changing.”

Godfather sighed and nodded. “Long and short of it. The demons in this area have been pushed back, and the Rift is secured. There is no need for the family to be here to protect your town and the others in this territory. My family is going back to our world.”

Your heart sank. All this time was wasted, and now your chance was lost completely.

“We cannot maintain our territory here and the Old World. The non-warriors, on the other side, need us warriors to return. But we do not want to leave behind the luxuries of your world. My family is leaving, but the Orcs staying behind will form a new family with Sehbuv as the don. We will each work a side of the Rift, streamlining our operation.”

From the depths, your heart soared. There was still a chance. You glanced at Sehbuv; he grinned. “Congratulations. I would have gotten some bubbly for you if I’d known.”

“Thanks, doll, I am sure we can find a way to celebrate.” The hand that had been supporting your back slid down and cupped your ass.

Godfather cleared his throat, forcing your attention back to him. “As I was sayin’, Sehbuv will be the head of the family here. This new family will need to put down roots to grow. Find humans in this world to bring into the family as Orc-kin.”

“And I want the first Orc-kin of my family to be you, doll,” Sehbuv revealed. 

Shocked was a tame term for what you felt. There weren’t any Orc-kin the tribe had brought with them, but you had heard of them. You knew becoming Orc-kin, an official member of an Orc tribe, was a massive honor and something not to be taken lightly. They only allowed those who they saw as worthy into the tribe. “I…I am honored…I--sorry, I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes,” Kormor suggested dryly.

“Yes!” The entire speakeasy, which you just realized had been intensely listening in, cheered.

Godfather let them cheer for a full minute before raising a hand for silence. He was smiling. “Excellent. Usually, we would have a dedicated area for the induction, but I believe this sacred space works…and I don’t think Sehbuv can wait much longer. Let the ceremony begin!”

Another round of cheers. Chairs scrapped on the ground as the Orcs stood. They began moving the furniture to clear space. Sehbuv scooped you up and began carrying you over his shoulder. The Orcs began to separate into two groups: those who would stay with Sehbuv’s new tribe and those who would return to the other world with Godfather.

They spoke in Orcish to each other and began to circle around you. Sehbuv’s hand was solidly on your ass, his thick fingers squeezing your rump. Your arousal was spiking once more. You had to take care of yourself soon, or else you’d be begging an Orc to fuck you, but it wasn’t like you could leave in the middle of something like this.

Suddenly, you were on your back, splayed across a table, with Sehbuv pressing his clothed but very substantial erection between your legs. Through the haze of arousal, it clicked. “Oh, give me an Orc as in--”

“Knock you up, doll,” Sehbuv finished. Not quite what you had thought, but the result was the same. You were finally getting the Orc cock you longed for. Sehbuv slid his hand between your legs. His thick, calloused fingers pushed aside your sodden panties, gliding along your slick pussy. A wanton moan escaped your lips, and your hips tilted up needily.

“Hratz kaara-en olumno,” he said with pleasured surprise. The Orcs around you hooted and stomped their feet in celebration. His fingers began to stroke you slowly as his huge body leaned over yours. “I am going riteh kaar Orciani kaara-en juublern.”

“I have no idea what you just said, but whatever it was - yes! Please!” You rolled your hips, grinding against his fingers. Now that your dreams had become possible, you couldn’t wait any longer. He slipped a thick finger into you. A low moan escaped you; his finger felt as thick as two of yours. 

“How long have you wanted this, doll,” he asked, slowly pumping his finger in and out.

“Ever since you rode into town,” you confessed breathlessly.

“That is a long time.” He slipped another finger into your dripping hole and sped up fucking you with his hand. “Is that why you’ve been teasing us? You’ve been trying to get us to fuk you.”

“Yes! Please! I’m going to…” You gripped Sehbuv’s forearms as a powerful orgasm rocked your body. As you rode out the orgasm, he slowed the pumping of his fingers. Chest heaving, you stared up into his lustful eyes. You wanted more. 

Seeing your determination, a grin came to his face. “Undress, doll, before we tear that dress off you.”

He pulled back, allowing you to sit up. As his hand removed itself from inside of you, he grabbed your panties and, with a smooth tug, tore them from you. You stared at him with surprise. Lifting your sodden panties up, he sniffed deeply, then gave you a wink. Tucking the panties in his suit pocket, he slipped the jacket off and removed his suspenders. 

You kicked off your flats and sat up on the table. Sehbuv’s magenta eyes burned as they stared at you while he unbuttoned his shirt. You stared back, soaking in each inch of dark green skin he revealed. Reaching behind your back, you unzipped your dress. You couldn’t wear a bra with this low cut-off-the-shoulder dress; pulling the dress over your head, you were naked. The Orcs around you grunted and whooped as your body was bared to them.

Sehbuv was only halfway undressed. Your eyes were on him as you ran your hand over your body. Cupping your breasts, you began playing with your nipples. Twisting and tugging at them, releasing little moans as you did. Sehbuv nearly tore his pants in his hurry to remove them. His Orcish member sprang free, causing your pussy to clench at the sight. It was just as you had dreamed. Bright pink glands dripping with precum were proudly framed by the dark green foreskin of his long bulging cock. 

He batted your hands away from your breasts, and his hands took their place. His calloused fingers felt even better against your sensitive skin. Your free hands pulled his head down into a kiss. His tusks pressed against your flesh, his large mouth and tongue quickly overwhelming you.

Pulling back, he was handed a cup. “Drink up, doll.”

Taking the potion, you, without hesitation, drank the vivid green contents. It was a bit sour but had no immediate effect. “What was that?”

Sehbuv grinned. “Mostly an endurance potion.”

You had no time to wonder what he meant by mostly. He grabbed your head this time and gave you another dominating kiss. Pressing you down against the table, you felt his bare erection between your legs. He was about the same size as the largest toy you could fit in you, but the heat of it against your flesh had already surpassed your room-temperature silicone replicas.

“Please fuck me,” you gasped as he pressed kisses down your neck. “I need your cock in me.”

Pulling back slightly, Sehbuv held his cock against your slit, running his glands along it. “Mmm, fuck is same word in Orcish. I learned a little English for this. Doll, I am going to fuck your cunt with my cock now.”

The wide head of his cock pressed against your needy hole. You could feel him stretching you. God, this was so much better than silicone. Your hands clung to his shoulders as he slowly slid himself inside of you. “You feel good. Look at you taking me so well.”

You could feel every inch of his hot, hard cock as it entered you. You needed more, though. You needed all of him. “Move, please,” you begged.

“Whatever you say, doll.” Sehbuv began to thrust. You screamed in pleasure as his shaft hilted and hit every sensitive spot within you. His heavy balls slapped against your ass with each thrust. After a few thrusts, you were already approaching another orgasm.

“Fuck, Sehbuv! I’m already…I’m…”

“Tonight is about you, doll, don’t hold back.”

Another orgasm rocked your body, but Sehbuv didn’t lose pace. He kept thrusting into you, extending your pleasure. As your orgasm ended, he began to thrust faster. Each powerful thrust shook your body. Your legs locked around his waist in an attempt to hold on. Sehbuv began to grunt, and his grip on your flesh tightened. He was getting close.

“Are ya ready for me? I’m gonna fill you up,” he announced with a low growl.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chanted as yet a third orgasm approached. You needed something else to push you over the edge. You need him to cum in you.

Sehbuv’s thrusts became erratic. Then with a roar, you felt his thick cock swell within you. A scream tore from your throat as his hot sticky cum poured into your womb. Your nails dragged across his back as your body writhed from the pleasure. You swore you knew you were pregnant that instant. Fuck, given the magic potion, maybe you were.

“You good, doll,” Sehbuv asked as your straining muscles slowly released him.

“Yes…” You replied. Actually, you were better than fine. As Sehbuv pulled out of you, your body was already buzzing to go again. That was some endurance potion.

“Good. Cause the next part of the ceremony is about to begin.” Sehbuv stepped away from you. You sat up to see where he was gone and saw that all the other Orcs who had joined his side of the family were now naked and aroused as well. They stared at you with lustful eyes.

“Now that the seed of our new family has taken root, it needs fertilizer, doll,” Sehbev explained, “Orcs believe that power from all those who fuck the mother is given to a child. And you’ve been teasing us for years. You’ll make sure we’re satisfied, right?”

Your body buzzed with energy from the endurance potion. You looked around at the variety of Orc cocks and cunts around you. A grin came to your face. “I’ve been waiting five years for this; you all better make sure I am satisfied.”

______________________________________________________

Other Department of Monster Affairs works

After Party - m!Minotaur x f!reader, teratophilia, breeding, overstimulation.

Hello Neighbor - m!werewolf x f!reader, teratophilia, knotting, heat. One-shot.

Sex Therapist - m!Incubus x f!reader, hypnotism, dubious consent, teratophilia, blow jobs. Part 1.

For other works see my masterlist

[eriisaam]

Short answer: Yes. Quite a few, but Kyo in particular did, even with regard to his origin world (as his summoner variant).

Long answer: With the preface this AU has legendaries be common-place and grow up along side other species like more common pokemon...

Kyo would run away from home a lot through a combination of neglect, wanting to get away from his sister (he's the black sheep to his golden child sister, and this dynamic is the source of a lot of the aforementioned neglect), or even some part of him doing it for attention (in a sense a kid in the single digits ran away to places out of town in a way he knew would be dangerous without coming of age to be a proper trainer or at least having a pokemon to properly escort him, but was hoping someone, anyone, would give a damn enough to notice he was gone and go look for him), and as this was in Galar, specifically the general area near Postwick, Wedgehurst, and the Slumbering Wealds, that last part is where he often ran away to.

To also give context, Slumbering Wealds is usually the den of not just wild pokemon in general, but often the place where (in this AU at least) zacians and zamazentas who were still in their puppy and/or adolescent phases will usually make dens in and grow up and train from, before they themselves grow up big, strong, and capable enough to roam off to carve their own adventures out and make their own legends, much like a lot of their inspo-sakes in the zacian and zamazenta pair who became historical figures who shadowed the galarian kings of old.

Kyo running away thankfully led him to run into two examples of either wolves - an adolescent zacian (eventually called Ringel) and a puppy zamazenta (eventually called Grond) - found him and Ringel simply protected and dotted on him alongside her brother, until Kyo was old enough to qualify to go off as an official trainer, and then left Galar outright for a time.

By the time he came back to Galar - now older, full of trauma-imbued power, and debatable how better or worse he's been since - did reunite with Ringel and Grond - themselves having grown far bigger but also riddled with things like scars, chunks of suspicious bald-patch lines, and missing chunks of their ears each in their own journeys - and he reunited with and kept both of them, albeit giving Grond to Eclair while Ringel stayed with him.

did your oc ever run away when they were a kid?

[blushsturns]

₊⊹what we thought was for all time was momentary

title: loml

word count: 1767

warnings: heartbreak, crying, use of Y/N, angst (sorry guys!)

Holy Ghost, you told me I’m

The love of your life

Your heart wrenched. It felt like it was breaking into a million pieces. You couldn’t move, you couldn’t speak. Your body began to tremble, your bottom lip quivering, and your vision blurry from the tears forming. 

“We need to break up.” Those four words hit you like you like a tidal wave. You knew things hadn’t been okay for awhile, but you always had faith that things would work out for the better. You couldn’t imagine your life without him and now here he stood right in front of you, his hands in his pockets, his face so hard to read.

Of course you wanted to beg for him to not leave you, to not give up on the relationship. You weren’t ready to give up on it. You two were together for so long, built so much together, and shared so many amazing memories. How could you just let all of that go? How could you walk away from everything you’ve ever wanted and needed?

You gulped down a choked sob, immediately shaking your head as you blinked back the tears, allowing them to fall against your cheeks. Your knees began to wobble, but you tried to keep your composure. How could he stand there; so comfortably chill, no tears, no remorse. 

“Chris..” You could hardly speak, but managed to let his name fall from your lips. 

He let out a deep sigh, his hands still in his pockets, the distance between you two felt like a stab straight through your fragile heart. Your whole world felt like it was crashing around you and you felt suffocated. “I’m sorry.” He said simply, another sigh emitting from his lips. “I’m really so, sorry.” 

You shook your head again, your hands moving to cover your face as you began to cry into them, your body shaking as you allow yourself to fully cry into your hands. You didn’t care if you looked weak, or felt vulnerable in front of the man who stole your heart and then broke it in half. You knew things weren’t great lately, but you had no idea he was going to end things so abruptly. How could he give up on everything you two built so easily like this? Was he hurting like you were right now? 

You pulled your hands away from your face, your face stained with tears and painted red from the amount of crying you had done in a matter of minutes. He walked over you, trying to grab your hand, but you immediately swatted his hand away, your voice raising with anger and hurt filling your tone, “No. You don’t get to stand here and give up on us, and then try to hold my hand. Are you even hurting?”

He looked offended that you swatted his hand away, but took a step back from you to create distance again. “Of course I’m hurting Y/N! I’m trying to keep it together. You don’t think it’s been hard for me? I may look okay, but I’m not okay. This is hurting me too.”

You didn’t want to believe it. Any of it. Your heart was sinking more and more by the second and you didn’t know what to do. All you knew was that your heart was breaking and it was hard to breathe. 

Mr. Steal Your Girl, then make her cry

You said I'm the love of your life

“How could you just give up? Times are hard, but that’s why we work through it. You’re saying that you’re just giving up on everything that we built? I love you, Chris. You can’t just walk away.” Your voice was shaking, tears pouring down your cheeks as you choke back a sob. You place your arms around yourself for comfort, shaking your head as you look down at your shoes, unable to look at anything, especially not Chris.

“This is for the best, Y/N. I’m sorry. I’m really so sorry.” His voice was weak and you could tell he really was giving up on this, on you. 

After working so hard to steal your heart, here he stood with your heart in his hands, crushing it into a million pieces. You didn’t want to believe it, but you knew that you had to. You couldn’t beg for someone to stay in your life. If they really wanted to stay in your life, they would. You should never beg for someone to stay in your life, even if you so desperately don’t want them to go. Breakups are messy and hard, no matter if it was mutual, or if it was one-sided. Whether you were being cheated on, or just being left altogether, it still hurt nonetheless. 

“I just can’t believe this, Chris. After everything we’ve been through, you won’t even fight for us, for me?”

They do say the stages of grief experienced after a breakup are usually denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance and right now you were in the denial phase, but your heart was also breaking into a million little pieces. You sat onto your couch, unable to stand up anymore, shaking your head as you look down at your hands splayed in your lap, your body trembling as you choke back a sob.

Chris stood there by the doorway, moving one of his hands up to run his fingers through his tousled hair, a deep sigh emitting from his own lips. “I tried, I really did. I tried so hard and it’s only hurting both of us. You know that, I can see it all over your face and it kills me every single day.”

You pull your hands away from your face to look up at him from the couch, shaking your head in disbelief at his words, your blood beginning to boil with anger radiating through your system. “If you tried, you wouldn’t be breaking my heart right now. Fuck you, Chris. I tried too, and you can’t say that I didn’t. I tried to be everything that you wanted and look where it got me. I’m broken.”

Chris looked hurt by your words, like a stab to the chest. He sighed hard again, his fingers tugging onto his hair in slight frustration, moving his gaze to stare down at his own shoes. “I’m sorry. This is how it has to be. I’m broken, too.”

I'm combing through the braids of lies

"I'll never leave"

"Never mind"

You never thought that Chris would be the one to leave you, to give up on you and the relationship that you built together so beautifully. He was your first love, and your first heartbreak all in one and you weren’t sure how you were ever going to move past this. You knew that you shouldn’t have the negative thoughts creep into your brain like “Why wasn’t I good enough”,  “Will anyone ever love me”, “Am I not worth fighting for?”, and “Am I hard to love?”

You had to remind yourself that you did the best you could, that everything happens for a reason. It was easier said than done, but you couldn’t let this damage your soul and ruin your spirit for the rest of your life, even if right now you can’t possibly see a light at the end of the dark, scary tunnel that you were afraid you may never be able to get out of it. 

“This is how it has to be? It doesn’t, but okay.” You tried to take in a deep breath, but your chest was literally aching. It hurt so badly, the distance between the two of you, the tension, the pain. You couldn’t handle it anymore. “I think you should go, Chris.” You looked up at him through teary eyes, your vision blurred as you blink back tears. 

Chris looked heartbroken, his feet glued to the floor, his eyes finding yours, pain and sorrow filling his gaze. “Y/N I’m sorry I still l-”

You shake your head immediately, standing up from the couch to walk up to him, while still creating a distance between the two of you. You open up your front door and stand next to it, your body still shaking from the amount of emotions running through you. “No, don’t you dare say it. Chris, please. Just go.” You looked at him with pure pain in your eyes.

He let out a devastated sigh, feeling defeated and now speechless. He nodded his head and you swore you could see his eyes welling with tears, but it’s Chris. Chris never allows himself to cry, ever. 

You exchange one more glance, both of you hurting, broken into a million pieces. Everything you two built has been shattered around you and is now dust on the ground. 

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, his lips lingering there for a moment. Your eyes closed, tears streaming down your cheeks, taking in a shaky breath as your fingers gripped on your own sleeve to hold onto something, anything. 

A farewell, a goodbye. It’s not see you later, it’s not fight and make up scenario. No more you and Chris. This was it.

He pulled away from you, fluttering your eyes open to look at him with pain and heartbreak all over your face. No more words were shared, there was nothing else needed to be said. 

Chris walked out, didn’t look back and you couldn’t either. You closed your front door, immediately sinking down against it with your knees propped up to your chest and placing your hands against your face and instantly sobbed. 

You cried and cried until you couldn’t anymore. You couldn’t breathe, your body shaking as you tried to take in breaths to calm yourself down. 

Life wasn’t going to be the same. Chris was once your everything, your whole world. Now? You had to learn to live without him, to find yourself and learn to love yourself.

You’re strong, you’re resilient, you’re capable of so many amazing things and even though it’s hard right now, it’s not going to be this way forever. 

There is light at the end of the tunnel, there are brighter days ahead. You’re allowed to cry, to feel, to grieve. It’s okay to feel these things. 

Even if it doesn’t feel like everything is going to be okay, it will. You’re stronger than you think and you’re deserving of love and happiness. 

It’s going to be okay.

And I'll still see it until I die

You're the loss of my life

notes: sorry guys! i know this was heart wrenching. i haven't really wrote angst on here, so i thought i'd give it a try. if you have any requests, or if you just wanna chat, my inbox is always open!

taglist: @strangelife122 @rina3476 @chrissturnioloslvt @sturnslutz @sturns-mermaid @matthewsturnsgf @rinahasspots @222wall876 @chris-hallelujah @izzylovesmatt @strniloslvts @oopsiedaisydeer @sophand4n4 @xclusivedesires @mattsplaything @mattsbunnyxx @pair-of-pantaloons @chrissweetheart @slutformatt17 @sturnl0ve @pasteldreams @h3arts4harry @marrykisskilled @wh0remikasas @sturnzslut @camzeecorner @alesturniolos @emely9274 @2muchofaslvt @sturnslux3 @bowsandsturniolos @moustacherryismyhusband @rafesapprentice @ivysturnss @headzgonewest @il0vey0um0st @violetstxrniolo777 @bigbeefybitch @raesturns @courta13 @sofieeeeex @tylerthecreatorsglazr @kittyyyyykats @sturniszn @estellesdoll @freshsturnzx @ivyyyyyysposts @sturnberries @sturniolochrismatt @lovesturni0l0s

-nessa

[chessboredom]

I literally do not understand why people thought that the new skin for Shadow Milk Cookie was a redeemed version of him. I admit playing League of Legends but I LOVE reading the skin stories as a past time, and of course they have no relation to their base/canon character because they're all concepts for Alternate Universes.

If you want a Redeemed Smilk, then imagine Shadow Milk Cookie happy. Do NOT try to change his outfit or toppings. Do NOT change is personality to create an entirely different character for the sake of "redeeming." Cookies don't get to decide whether or not he deserves to be forgiven. He should work to become a better person and ignore those who say other wise. He is going to learn how to be happy with himself in his dough without the need for anyone's validation.

The very reason why he finally stuck into his jester outfit as his main identity in the first place was because people were finally listening to his lies without the doubt and that's something he has always wanted, but the cookies only wanted the stories they wanted to hear and never cared to know Shadow Milk Cookie himself.

Statue of the Pioneer of Lies

A statue of Cookie who realized the principles of all things and taught them to the world. As the praise for his vast knowledge increased, the boredom that had been building up in his heart grew uncontrollably. The moment he realized that no one would doubt him no matter how absurd his lies were... The Pioneer of Knowledge is nowhere to be found, and only the clown who sang lies mocked the world!

It was already evident that Pure Vanilla Cookie, the only one who understands him, has accepted him for who he is, and not what other people imagine him to be or a person who they want to hear what they want to hear. He never asked to change his outfit to become more friendly or presentable for other cookies. All he wanted is for Shadow Milk Cookie to be his friend, and that's that.

[makeyoumine69]

Delirium

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Bruce Wayne x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: During the wedding night, you suddenly ask Bruce to try for the baby because you've been thinking about it for a long time.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: NSFW, smutty fluff, body worship, unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex (reader receiving), fingering, breeding kink, mild size kink, trying for a baby, true love, established relationships, dirty talk, pet names, hair pulling, marking, possessive behavior, biting, belly bulge, slightly Insecure!Reader, Husband!Bruce Wayne.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 4.3k

𝐀/𝐍: This is my first time writing for Bruce Wayne, I hope you like it!💕

The night was young in Gotham City, a million stars shone in the sky like tiny shards of glass, the white sleek yacht bobbed peacefully on the waves, anchored in the harbor waiting for its owners. Mr. Wayne and the newly married Mrs. Wayne were on their way to the harbor after the fancy wedding at the most prestigious restaurant in town, but the name of the restaurant had already slipped off your mind—you were too nervous about the upcoming wedding night and the little surprise you had prepared for your husband.

As the black limousine pulled up to the gates of the private section of Gotham Harbor, you tensed a bit—the echoes of the wedding party still vivid in your mind—and hugged yourself, sensing the soft material of your white fur coat, and looked out the car window in a feeble attempt to distract yourself. You'd never been this nervous before, and you couldn't really understand why, since you and Bruce were in love, and this marriage was the most genuine thing possible. At least you hoped it was, and so did he.

"Are you ready?" The man asked you briefly, turning to look at you and placing his hand on your knee, carefully running his fingers over the smooth fabric of your fabulous wedding dress. "Believe me, you're going to love it, honey."

You knew he was right—you would like it, of course, you would. But perhaps you were still unable to believe that the world around you was real, including Bruce as your husband.

Smiling a little shyly, you craned your neck to meet his intense gaze, his warm, big palm still caressing your leg, but not really going too far.

"Yes, I'm ready," you finally replied, putting your hand on top of his, and that little touch caused him to take your small hand in his and press a tender kiss against your soft skin. "It's just," your voice fell lower with a hint of uncertainty. "I've imagined all of this so many times…"

"Hey," your husband cut you off and cupped your face, forcing you to look directly into his mesmerizing eyes. "You don't have to imagine anymore. Everything is real and we're living this moment together," his lips curled into the boyish smile that always left you disarmed, his palm stroking your cheek with unadulterated tenderness. "Just let it go and I'll take care of the rest."

How this man always managed to be so charming, always choosing the right words to make you feel better, more relaxed. In those moments, you really believed that soul mates existed and that the two of you were definitely the most real soulmates ever—that unspoken understanding, that invisible line that connected the two of you, that was the strongest emotional bond— you could just reach out and press your hand against his strong chest and feel his heart beating so fast just for you.

And most importantly, it was all real.

Without saying a word, you leaned in to peck his perfectly shaved cheek before the two of you bent your heads to press your foreheads together in a moment of absolute delirium. Bruce held your hand, fingers intertwined like your souls. Entranced, you cuddled up to his massive frame and brushed your fingertips across his tuxedo, which was as dark as the night sky.

A little later, you reluctantly pulled away from each other as everyone on the yacht waited for you, including the captain and crew, who were probably already worried about the delay. Charming as ever, your husband offered you his hand as you stepped out of the limousine, and without hesitation, the man lifted you up to carry you, bridal style, all the way to the yacht. Even when you stepped on the ladder, Bruce never thought of letting go of you, holding you close to his chest like the most precious treasure he had.

Although it was not your first time on the yacht, you were amazed by its size and the luxury that surrounded you like the ocean around the yacht. It even made you feel a little uncomfortable. At one point you wanted to tell Bruce to slow down a bit and give you a second of respite, but one of the crew members, dressed in a perfect white naval uniform, was steering you somewhere deep inside the exquisite interior of the yacht. The long hallway you were walking through was lit by small chandeliers inscribed with diamonds, the finely made carpet underneath muffled the footsteps, making them almost inaudible. As you paused at the dark wooden door, something heavy dropped into your gut.

God, why couldn't you just stop being so nervous already?

"Your suit, sir," the young Marine replied, gesturing to the door in front of you. "If you need anything, let us know on the intercom."

"Thank you," Bruce nodded and the man turned on his heels before leaving. "Are you cold, sweetheart? You're shivering."

"No, it's okay, I just didn't expect everything to be so…"

"Extravagant? Does it bother you?" He asked, pushing the wooden door aside to carry you into the room.

Hugging his neck, you took in the surroundings, immersed in the opulence of the high-tech design and expensive furniture that screamed luxury. "'It doesn't," you murmured after a pause, still astonished by the unnatural atmosphere. "You just didn't tell me we were staying here."

Smirking, he just chuckled in response and strolled across the room to place you on the king-sized bed, which was covered in red rose petals—a clichéd but romantic choice.

"I hope it's not a problem," the man remarked, helping you to take off your fur coat. "I want some privacy," Bruce tossed your clothes onto the nearest armchair before taking off his own coat and then his wedding tuxedo, casually loosening the black bowtie. "A place where no one can bother us."

Leaning back on the bed, you watched him pull up his sleeves after undoing the gold cuffs and placing them on the small nightstand with a slight thud, and you could tell the man was a little nervous, too, though he tried to hide it.

"You never told me you had a yacht," you chirped teasingly, getting up from the bed to approach him standing next to the small portable bar. Bruce was rummaging through its contents, looking for a particular drink. "What other secrets do you have, Mr. Wayne?"

As soon as you reached him, you wrapped your arms around him and snuggled up against his broad back, the white shirt clinging so tightly to his muscular body, outlining his buff physique in the most delicious way.

Bruce's throaty laugh rumbled from his chest as he caught your hands and cocked his head to the side so he could see your playful eyes. "Why are you such a tease?" The man gave you a provocative grin, his smoldering gaze gliding over your beautiful face, paying special attention to your pretty lips. "I have no secrets, you know that. I'm like an open book to you," he slowly spun around to capture you in his embrace, lifting your chin to kiss it gently at first, but as soon as he heard your muffled gasp, his mouth was already busy leaving a wet hickey on the sensitive skin of your neck. "My love for you couldn't be more transparent."

"Bruce," you whispered his name in a slightly hoarse voice as your throat suddenly felt so dry. "Could you please wait for me here? I have a surprise for you."

Confused, he stopped in his tracks and lifted his dark eyes to you, his breathing already erratic and labored. "A surprise?"

You nodded and carefully removed his clinging arms from your supple figure. "But first you have to help me with this," you smiled mischievously and turned around so that he could see the ropes on the top of your voluminous wedding dress. "Uh, I think I forgot how to breathe normally in this dress."

Your husband frowned but didn't ask any questions, his hands tracing the curve of your back with undisguised admiration before he began to carefully undo the tight ribbons that together formed an intricate ornament. Rope after rope, more of your skin was exposed for his touch to feel, for his lips to caress, for his eyes to indulge, but as soon as the last lace was undone and the tight corset squeezing your chest was about to slip down, you caught it with both hands.

"Wait," you giggled at the tickling sensation as he kissed your shoulder blade, cupping your breasts and pressing you closer to him so you could feel how much he wanted you. "Bruce, please, I just need a few minutes."

With a low groan of frustration, the man finally released you and stepped back, leaning against the wall and catching air with his half-parted lips. "I hope you'll be really quick," Bruce declared, taking the bottle of some top-notch whiskey. "I can't make any promises regarding my patience."

Embarrassed and excited at the same time, you still held the wedding dress close to your almost naked body as you quickly rushed to the bed to pick up your purse, which was made of a fine cloth woven with gold threads. Bruce followed your every move with his attentive gaze until you disappeared behind the door in the small adjoining bathroom.

Once you were alone, you rested against the cold marble wall, breathing fast and feeling uneasy. There wasn't much time, as you didn't want to keep your husband waiting, so you quickly opened the faucet and looked at your reflection in the oval mirror framed in white gold, trying to regain some composure. The gurgling sound of the water seemed to drown out all the whispering voices in your head, which was your fear talking—a fear of being rejected and denied in your suggestions of… trying for a baby.

You let out a shaky sigh and closed your eyes for a second. Maybe tonight was not the best time for such offers, but the symbolism and romantic vibes of the wedding night were too appealing to drop the whole idea. But what if Bruce would not be happy? The mere thought of such a scenario sent cold shivers down your spine and made you claw at the porcelain surface of the sink. Sometimes it could be so hard to deal with your inner insecurities, because your mind could be easily manipulated by fear, making the worst outcomes seem like they had already happened.

Anxiously, you grabbed the purse with your shaky hands to open it, and then carefully took out a small package with something weighty inside—the pearls Bruce had given you the day he proposed, the family heirloom. As soon as you placed the elegant jewelry in your open palm, you couldn't take your eyes off it for a while, regretting that you never really allowed yourself to wear it, thinking that you couldn't accept such an expensive gift. After all, you loved this man not for his money, but for his personality and his big heart full of kindness not only for you, but for all mankind.

Somehow, such thoughts helped you to relax a bit and finally focus on the main goal of why you were here. In one smooth motion, you let the wedding dress slide down your petite frame until it was wrinkled at your feet, and as you stepped out of it, you looked into the mirror to see your naked body, and the only thing left was the pair of white lace panties. Without a second thought, you took them off as well, leaving only the white high-heeled shoes on. Then you carefully put the pearl necklace around your neck, taking a little extra time to fasten it, but in the end, the result was worth it. Running a finger along the smooth surface of the pearls, you smiled at your reflection, feeling good and confident about everything you had planned for tonight—your beloved husband would love it.

By the time you left the small bathroom, which looked as if you were the first person to ever use it, Bruce was lying on the bed, leaning against the headboard with one hand folded under his head. The dark-haired man didn't even hear you coming when you appeared in the doorway—completely naked except for the necklace and the pair of shoes. It was a miracle he didn't spill his drink all over himself and the bed, but you could tell he was having such a hard time keeping his composure because his eyes were now as dark as two black holes.

"Darling," Bruce only managed to say one word under his breath, obviously confused because he definitely hadn't expected anything like this. "I'm at a loss for words," he pushed himself off the headboard and stood up to put the glass on the bedside table without even looking at it, his eyes glued to your naked form. "'Cause there are no words to describe your beauty."

You walked towards him with a mischievous grin and he did the same. Bruce's face became more and more agitated, he even had to tug on his collar as he was literally suffocating, and the second there was no distance left between the two of you, the man knelt before you to hug your hips and bury his face in the warmth of your body.

"Mhmm," you closed your eyes and traced your fingers through his tangled hair, gently massaging his scalp. "Sorry to keep you waiting."

His hot breath scorched your bare skin, making you shiver and if he didn't hold you, you could easily fall. Intoxicated by your sweet scent, Bruce rubbed against your mound, peppering the area around it with little pecks as he began his ascent to your belly, then higher to the hollow between your breasts, and when he finally cupped them, you couldn't hold back your moans.

"A-ahh…Bruce," you leaned on his shoulders, clutching them almost desperately, wrinkling his shirt, smelling his cologne as it wafted around you like a hazy mist; your legs were about to give way from the intoxicating sensation of his tongue toying with one of your hard nipples. "Please…touch me…there…again."

Nuzzling your perfectly shaped breasts, the brown-haired man looked up at your slightly embarrassed face, the way you fluttered your big eyelashes so innocently sent tingles down his lower body and coaxed his dick to throb in his tailor-made pants. But all of that was nothing compared to your sweet little plea to be touched.

Without any hesitation, Bruce crouched down again and planted a lingering kiss on your pubic bone before he spread your legs a bit wider so he could get a taste of your already dripping pussy, and the second his hot tongue ran along your folds, you threw your head back, barely able to balance yourself on your feet with the last strength you had left.

"Like this?" He managed to ask between kisses, licks, little bites along your swollen lower lips. "You taste so good, Princess."

Tipsy from your taste, Bruce easily draped your leg over his shoulder to get better access to your blushing slit as he lapped at it like a starved man, giving everything he had for your pleasure. Whimpering and trembling in his hands, you looked down to see his blissful face bathed in red, his fingers digging into the soft mounds of your hips, holding you open for him.

"Ugh… Aaah…Bruce," you had to bite your lower lip from the tight knot that was swelling in your core, and with every flick of his tongue you were getting closer and closer to exploding like a pack of fireworks. "So good…please…keep going…mmmfffp!"

Your loud scream echoed off the walls of the opulent bedroom suit as Bruce stuffed your oozing cleft with two fingers at once, skyrocketing your pleasure at making you feel so full, stretched and overstimulated as he continued to slurp between your legs, sucking your throbbing clit from time to time in the most tantalizing way possible.

"Shit…oh shit," your voice cracked every time Bruce curled his long digits inside you to rub his finger pads against the spongy spot that was like a moth to the flame. "I'm almost there…ahh…please…"

You were about to gnaw at your hand when a million invisible tingles pierced through your nerve endings, setting them ablaze, and just when you thought you were going to faint and your heart was going to jump out of your chest, Bruce suddenly picked you up and threw you on the bed. In an instant, he was back between your legs, holding them apart and using everything he had on you: his teeth, his lips, his fingers, his tongue. Anything that would help him complete his mission to turn you into nothing but a wet, whimpering mess.

"Let it go, darling," the man husked, hoisting your legs over his shoulders, his digits buried knuckle deep in your soaped pussy once more. "Show me how much you love it."

And how could you refuse this man when he was so determined in every move he made?

Your orgasm washed over you in an awesome wave that forced every little part of your body to contract, your soft inner walls clenching mercilessly around his fingers as the man kept pumping you until the very last aftershock hit your body. As you wrinkled the white sheets, you saw stars dancing in front of your eyes as you looked up at the ceiling above you, your chest rising and falling so quickly that you even found it difficult to breathe—the level of pleasure was so immense that you had to put a hand to your head as a clear sign of how overwhelmed you were. And so was Bruce, but unlike you, he was still locked and loaded, his dick so hard it hurt, but he didn't want to rush things by fucking you right away. Instead, the man reveled in the sight of your post-climax body, your pussy covered in your flavor just like his face and his fingers, and he didn't forbid himself to take a moment and clean every last ounce of your cum.

Breathing heavily, Bruce straightened up to take a proper look at you—still shaking and unable to speak. "If you could see what I see right now," he murmured, hovering over you, taking both of your wrists in one hand to pin them above your head. "So vulnerable," he nipped at your neck, using his other hand to practically sever his bowtie and several of the top buttons on his shirt. "So wet and hot…and completely at my mercy."

"Yes," you almost screamed the word, writhing beneath his heavy muscles, but not really trying to free yourself from his trap. " All of this... is for you."

"Say it again." Bruce demanded, and the next moment you heard him unzip his pants, your wrists still locked together and nailed to the mattress. "Tell me you're mine. Only mine."

Unable to maintain the intense visual contact, you closed your eyes and instinctively bent your legs, spreading them wider as you felt his hot length pressed against your dripping slit while he smeared your wetness around it, teasing your clit with barely perceptible rubs of his swollen tip against it.

Panting, you arched your back into his touch, wanting to feel more of him. "I'm all yours… only yours!"

Hesitant, Bruce wanted to say something more, but then he noticed the shining necklace around your neck—the realization hit him like a freight train. How could he have noticed it only now? The man must have been blinded by your beauty, unable to notice anything else. He outlined the roundness of one of the pearls and took a moment to contemplate, memories of your relationships flashing before his eyes as if he watched a documentary based on your lives.

"You finally wore them," he whispered against your mouth, loosening his grip on your wrists to stroke your warm cheek, the weight of his sturdy body still pressing against you like a heavy blanket. "They fit you more than you can imagine."

You smiled, barely holding back the itching tears that suddenly formed in the corners of your eyes. "Bruce," you hugged his shoulders faster than you could actually think, holding them as if they were the only anchor to reality. “I love you,” you watched him closing his eyes and leaning closer to brush his nose against yours and his hips were moving in their own momentum to keep you reeled up. "I love you so much, please, I want you, I need you!"

Those words, laced with such desperation and longing, were the last straw and Bruce couldn't resist the urge to own you here and now. Not anymore. Briefly licking his lips, the man leaned down to capture your mouth in a sloppy, almost brutal kiss, then placed a hand next to your head to lean on it, shifting his weight as he unceremoniously pulled down his pants, groaning as his dick grinded against your folds, your pelvis, the underside of your delicious hips.

"Fuck, you're literally perfection," he suddenly blurted out, giving himself several quick strokes before aligning his thick cock with your worn-out opening. "My perfection," Bruce thrust into you in one smooth motion, keeping one of your legs stretched to the side for the really deep penetration. "My wife…arghh…my love."

The bed began to crack beneath your bodies, your moans, his grunts, and the sounds of flesh meeting flesh mingled in a bawdy cacophony of pure lust. There were no barriers, just raw passion that you both experienced, you looped your legs around his lower back, sinking your nails into his skin as you sought some semblance of support in his shoulders from how hard he was fucking you. And that could only mean that Bruce had really lost control, that you had managed to push him beyond his limits, but as if that was not enough you rested both of your hands on his firm ass just to grope it with all your might.

Inflamed to the point of no return, he placed himself straight on his knees, lifting you up a bit to change the angle to hit all the hidden spots inside you as he wanted to feel you squeeze his dick in unbridled pleasure; the sight of your bouncing breasts only added to the depravity of the current situation, forcing him to grit his teeth as he felt himself on the brink of falling apart.

"Mmmh-Bruce ," you gripped his toned hips, unable to open your tear-filled eyes. "Put a baby inside me…please!"

Knitting his prominent eyebrows and slightly shocked by your sudden offer, the man did not stop pounding into you, literally impaling your body onto his beefy cock with pure abandon, as if you were going to die tomorrow. But the idea of breeding you, holy shit, could be something even hotter than that? The image of you carrying his child almost pushed him over the edge and he had to slow down a bit, leaning on the fist he was pressing against the bed.

"Do you… do you really want this?" Your husband asked in a gruff voice, wiping the sweat from his tense forehead.

Gulping, you looked up at him through your heavy lidded eyes before you took his large hand into your smaller one to press it against your abdomen. "I want you to fill me with your seed… until I am s-so full of it," you stammered as you felt the outline of his cock poking into your lower body, Bruce pressing his palm harder against your skin, feeling the same. "Until you get me pregnant with your kids."

"How can I say no to my dear wife… when she asks me so nicely?" Bruce replied through clenched teeth, literally doing his best not to cum right here and now. "Uh, pregnancy will suit you so beautifully, my darling."

Having said that, the man quickly pulled out of your pliable body to change positions, so that you were now standing on your knees and elbows, hugging the big pillow to muffle your screams as he began to fuck you from behind, grabbing your hair as he rammed himself into you without restraint. A white veil covered his vision as he was about to lose himself in this debauchery, in the way your ass jiggled, in the way you arched your back, in the way you moaned his name. Not to mention your pussy clinging to him like a vice, ready to milk him to the last drop. For a moment, Bruce didn't even realize that he was also moaning from the overwhelming pleasure, his hips snapping against yours as hard as he could, longing to bury himself as deep as he could. As soon as he felt the burning tension at the base of his spine, he leaned over you to literally bite into the wet mark he had left on your neck moments before, sneaking his hand between your legs to rub your feverish clit, and as your second orgasm crashed over your system, he was finally able to let himself go, shooting thick spurts of his fertile seed into you until it began to flow down your inner thighs, dripping onto the sheets.

Bruce was only able to find some peace after he had claimed you in the most primal way. It was such a strange feeling of tranquility, but somehow it turned out to be what he had been looking for all this time—the knowledge that the woman he loved more than anyone in the world would now carry his legacy. One day the world would be saved and he could spend the rest of his life with his family by his side, and that was something he was truly willing to fight for until his last breath.

[arciam]

Underrated JayVik moments/lines (4/∞)

"Come, visit me. See what I've accomplished. I have helped so many."

...and other heartbreaking fun ways to admit that achieving everything you ever wanted was still never complete without him.

("I was clouded by emotions" my ass - like you aren't still.)

The unguarded honesty in his voice gets me every time. And frankly, I don't know if I can come up with a better way to describe this moment than the way I - albeit facetiously - did above:

At this point, Viktor sincerely believes he has everything he ever wanted: an immaculate physique, community, the ability to help people and "make the world a better place" - a perfect legacy.

And yet.

I do also want to draw some attention to the fact that Viktor was probably very serious about it when he said he had feared he might not get to speak to Jayce again.

After all, Jayce had been gone as long as Mel was, of whom Salo had said "The writing's on the wall. If you're gone for that long, you're not coming back." It stands to reason he would have thought - and said - the same thing about Jayce.

And you can't tell me Viktor wouldn't have asked.

Part 1/2/3/4/5/6

[sanni276]

fic idea (batfam + timkon):

Bruce Wayne is not Batman. In fact, "Batman" doesn't even exist. There are plenty universes that have a Batman, but not this one (or does it?). Of course Bruce considered becoming a vigilante but in the end he scratched that idea and instead decided to help Gotham through other means like for example lots of charity.

Since Bruce never became Batman, the Batfam never formed. Bruce didn't took litte Dick Grayson that just saw his parents fall in as a ward. Bruce didn't adopt Jason Todd because he never tried to steal the tires of the Batmobile. How would he after all, if the the Batmobile never existed in the first place? Similarly to that he never had a reason to meet what in another life perhaps could have been his children. There is a very important thing this brings with it: if Batman isn't a vigilante, so neither are his (should have been) children.

Except one of them.

When Tim Drake was about 9 years old he found an old camera in his attic. After a while he gets bored of photographing his backyard and decides he wants to see something more exciting, which is why he sneaks out at night. In another life he accidentily saw a certain duo of superheroes and became obsessed with them but this is not this life and there are no superheroes in Gotham. Tim witnesses the horrors and cruelty Gotham offers that night and since he is one of the rare people in Gotham that actually have enough money and available ressources, he decides that he has the responsibility to do something against them.

At first he only plans to support Gotham with charity like his neighbour and maybe occasionally send the police tips for cases through his photos but he keeps having this weird dreams that feel weirdly like memories that push him into wanting to do more.

When Tim is almost 11 years old he decides that he needs to become a vigilante.

The first thing he does is look for a martial arts teacher. This somehow leads to him meeting Lady Shiva which later takes him with her to the League of assassins where he trains for a few years.

During his training period he meets Cass and Damian (do not ask me how he exists, he just does). All three of them sometimes have this odd feeling of deja vu when their together but none of them mentions it out loud and so it remains a mystery.

Eventually Tim has to leave the Loa and return to Gotham but not without taking Damian and Cass with him. Cassandra decides that she wants to explore the world to find out who she wants to be and leaves with a promise of returning in a few years. Tim finds out that Bruce is Damian's biological father and drops him of at his doorstep (he obviously gives Damian the means to contact him in emergencies).

Tim, now 13 or 14, finally has everything he needs and starts building his on mainly information (that he gets through a truly impressive spy-system and hacking) based empire and tries to use it to help as many people as possible.

Somewhere during that building process he meets Jason (a small time criminal that is mainly concentrated on theft, which Tim eventually hires as his personal chef and becomes a good friend of Tim (Tim will never admit to himself that the first time he looked at Jason's profile for a case his first thought was "brother?")). Tim also gets to know Dick (maybe he's an Olympi athlete or a police officer or maybe just a very broke gymnastics instructor), Barbara (a local librarian that actually taught him a lot of his hacking skills) and Duke (their friends? maybe there was a competition between their schools where they met?).

Now that we understand this world they all live in abit better let's get to the actual main plot of the fic:

One day, 17-year-old Tim is walking down the street during his lunch break (Tim's parents died when he was 15 so he had to become the CEO of Drake Industries), when he sees a guy about his age do something extremely stupid and Tim thinks "What an idiot". Suddenly the guy looks up and their eyes meet and Tim realises "Wait! That's my idiot!". All off these memories suddenly appear in his head of another life where he was a huge Batman fan and he was Robin and his best friend was the guy he was still staring at. Conner Kent, Superboy, Kon.

Kon also regains all of his memories in that moment which causes them to reconnect / reunite.

Tim, with the sudden knowledge of his past life, obviously wants his family back and the first step to accomplish that is finding out if they can remember their past life too.

All in all imagine this:

A fic where Tim is doing his best to have all the people he loves close to him again while simultaneously keeping a company alive and handling all the struggles being a teenage vigilante brings. There is of course also the little problem that is seeing what used to be his adoptive father at galas and wanting to do nothing more than throwing himself into his arms and getting his Dad back but Bruce doesn't even know who he is at this point. All of this interrupted by sweet Timkon fluff since at first they are the only ones that remember that their reality used to be very different and at some point of all of this they fall in love (or maybe they where from the start?).

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Written In Skin

Main Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, love confessions, smut (p in v, oral both receiving, fingering), light angst, fluff, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: Bucky's been gone on a mission for about a week, and you love him, so you wait. And when he returns, he has a question that might finally let you say those three words aloud.

Author's Note: If this man was real I'd let that metal arm do unspeakable things to me. Enjoy!

Word Count: 6.9k

Nights are, always, too long.

Empty. Hollow. Lonely. Just you and the world, but it turns too slow as every shadow grows long, because you keep watching them like they might shift into Bucky, and he’ll be home.

You know why he’s not home. You’re the one who told him you’d be fine if he took this mission, who’d reminded him that—even though it may not seem or feel like it when it’s just the two of you in the whole world—everything keeps moving all the time, and the world needs him more than you do. That it’s healthy to be able to separate for a few days, and absence makes the heart grow fonder, and it’s not like you wouldn’t be here when he got back. You’d always be here when he got back. The world could crumble to ash and the earth could shake and the sky could cave and crush you to only guts and skin, but your heart would keep itself beating until Bucky got home.

That last part had been the only thing you’d said that wasn’t a lie. Nobody needs him more than you do, and it wasn’t like there weren’t other superheroes who could handle things. Bucky shouldn’t have to do this, just because it was a Hydra related mission. Steve and Wanda didn’t do all the Hydra missions. Tony didn’t do every single one of the Stark Industry weapons related missions. Nat did most of the Red Room missions, but she asked to. Everyone had ghosts over their shoulders and monsters under their beds, but Bucky had you—curled on the mattress and staring at the ceiling and waiting for him, always waiting—and you might not be an agent, but you could fight off those skeletons better than any blood on his hands ever could. 

And he could do the same for you. Every single part of you that always ached and cracked and wounded could be cured by him. The pieces would hum and peel until they was raw and soft and easy, just as long as Bucky was there. Here. At your side and never walking away. 

It was Bruce who’d suggested that wasn’t healthy. That maybe two traumatized, semi-unstable individuals developing an unbreakable co-dependency might prove to be worrying in the long run.

And he had struck a nerve. Not that you might be developing a codependency—everyone had been throwing that word around without thought since Steve had made everyone attend the seminar, and you weren’t sure any of them understood what it actually meant—but that, when it came down to it, you might not be good for Bucky.

Maybe that’s why you’d told him you’d be okay without him. Because you would be. You’d survive—because it was only a week, and you weren’t a child—but you’d still miss him like he’d taken your lungs out of your chest every single moment. You’d pace your room and wander the compound until the sun rose then set, and absence would not make the heart grow fonder, it would only make it squirm and look everywhere for something it needed, but you couldn’t offer, until Bucky returned. 

Absence made your heart try to grow out branches, pushing through your whole body until it felt like you could just feel Bucky’s warmth behind you, until everything you looked at was another thing to grab and replace the missing place where he was supposed to be. You cleaned his mug, because it had still had coffee stains, and he hates that. You did his laundry and folded his clothing and beat the shit out of a punching bag because there’s a wired feeling over your bones that you barely managed to loosen. You’d finished all the paperwork early, walked to town to buy some plums, and yelled at Sam a little louder than you’d needed to, but he’d asked when the team would be back and you didn’t know. 

It wasn’t your job to know. And every time you asked FRIDAY, you’d get the same pre-recorded message from Steve that they were offline due to the remote location and hazardous conditions, but an SOS signal would still make it through if needed. 

There was always a little part at the end for you. It only played when you asked. 

Steve would say your name over the speakers, and his voice would grow gentle, and you’d want to break something. “Bucky won’t say it to me, but he misses you. We haven’t even left yet, but I know he misses you, because I know him, and he gets grumpy when you drive to the city for a meeting and he can’t go with you. Just know I’m writing a list of all the sappy stuff he says, and when we get back, I’ll give it to you. He’s fine. Please don’t punch Sam.”

Maybe Bruce had been onto something, with the co-dependency thing.

Maybe he’s just never been in love before.

Because that’s what this is. It’s love. You know it, deep down in the very fibers and nerves of your existence, that this is love. That whatever you’d thought love had been before, you’d been wrong, because this is it and it’s bigger than the universe could ever hope to stretch. 

You’d felt it start to bloom when you’d met him, exchanging only small nods and casual words, and he’d looked you in the eyes. He’d had really pretty eyes. 

It had taken root when he’d let you hold his hand during an attack on the base, and you hadn’t felt anything as grounding and simple as his touch in your whole life. 

And then it had hit you all, at once without warning, only a few months later. You’d already been sleeping together. You’d already been something, but it was something where you’d find him at night and creep out by morning. But then Bucky had folded himself on top of you and fallen asleep, and you’d had no way to escape—not that you’d wanted one—and it had been a tidal wave and hurricane and wildfire, consuming and bright and immovable, world-ending but cleansing.

You loved Bucky Barnes. You know how to do it like it’s breathing. You know him like he’s been with you your whole life, just a little covered by something like time or knowledge. Like there’s been a part of you flailing in your mind, that’s just been waiting to find him and tangle into his body.

And there was never a good time to say that. 

So you just kept waiting. You let him guide this. Let him officially ask you out with a nervous, almost battle-ready stance, and let him slowly and silently move all of his things into your apartment until he was all but officially living there, and watched him every waking second with the same song of I love you spinning around in your head and making the world so, so colorful. 

It’s easy to wait, if you still get to have him. It’s not corrosive, to love Bucky in silence, because you’re still loving him. You can whisper it when you know he can’t hear—just to say it, and feel the addictive high of how even if he’s far too asleep to understand what you mean, he always shifts a little closer to your body and holds you a little tighter—and show him in ways you hope he can see. 

Most of the time it’s just that. Just this. Just wanting him and nothing else, and proving it by waiting. The light of your phone is starting to strain your eyes, and head feels a little light from exhaustion, but you’ll wait until you pass out or Bucky comes home.

For the last few weeks, it’s been the former, and you’d wake up with your phone near your neck and your face in Bucky’s pillow, which smells less and less like him with every single passing night. 

And tonight is a miracle.

Because the door creaks open, and you know who it is before you even fully register the noise. 

You’re already sitting up on your knees before he’s even in view. You’re so tired the word is blurry and time is moving through syrup—slow, but not in a way that’s painful—but Bucky walks into view and he’s clear. It’s dark and he’s barely through the shadowed doorway, but by some external force of nature you’d morphed those same shadows back into Bucky, and he’s here, and nothing has ever been brighter.

“Bucky.” You whisper, and you don’t know why you’re saying it. You both know who he is. But it still feels important to say. It’s less of a word and more of a prayer, because he’s still in the door and you need him here. Next to you.

His eyes flash slightly in the dark, and when he says your name it becomes a call to something deeper in your body than instinct. You crawl forwards until you’re on the mattress, smiling up at him because he’s beautiful and it’s easy. 

“Hi, baby.” You watch him move from the door to stand before you, and it’s like the moon has fallen right into your hands. Bigger and more important than you could ever dream to be, but still falling for you. Into you. Eclipsing and shielding you from the rest of the dark sky, catching every bit of light the world has to offer and turning into a beacon, always telling you where you are. Reminding you that you’re right where you need to be.

Here. 

With Bucky.

“You didn’t need to stay up for me.” He mutters, hold your face between his hands, scanning over your likely openly exhausted features with a small furrow in his brow. “I’ve told you, sweetheart, you need sleep-“

“That’s rich from you, Barnes.” Your smile doesn’t waver, and you move your hands to keep his where they fit so well. “And I’ve told you, don’t tell me what to do.”

His lips twitch slightly, but he still shakes his head. “You’re human. You need rest.”

“You’re human too”

“I’ve got the serum.”

“And?” You raise your brows, leaning into his thumb as it strokes over your cheekbone. “I think it’s more like a rectangle-square situation.”

He gives you a flat look. “You’re just saying shit again-”

“No,” You hum, your smile widening. “All super-soldiers are human. Not all humans are super soldiers. You need sleep too, Buck-“

“That’s not what we’re arguing about, doll-“

“Are we arguing?”

His lips curve into a small smirk, and you think you won. If Bucky’s smiling, you won. 

“My Ma raised me better than to argue with such a pretty girl,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your brow. “But she also told me to never let my girl do stupid things like waiting until 3am for me to get home.”

“It’s 2:45.” You hum, tangling one hand in his hair and pulling him fully down towards your lips.

The kiss is long, and slow, and deep. There’s more longing behind it than passion, because you care more about imprinting him back onto your body where time had started to soothe over his marks, and you know Bucky cares more about trying to drug you with the taste of him so that you’ll go to sleep easy.

And there’s the song again. I love you. I’d wait until I was vines and ruins because I love you, and I don’t really need sleep because you’re home and you’re better and more vital than sleep ever could be.

You know Bucky would disagree with that sentiment. And you can almost see the weight on his shoulder that tells you the mission wasn’t easy, because if it was he’d be grumbling to you about how annoying the rest of the team had been. But he’s mostly silent, and only kissing you in that deep, hypnotic way, so when he starts to crawl over you and corner you back to the headboard—his mouth barely leaving yours, his metal arm holding you to his chest as you wrap our legs around his waist and hang off his body like a koala—you let him. 

You need him. You’ve missed everything about him, but you’ve really missed him being as close as the world would allow, and you’re already warm and dizzy and pliable just from his half-innocent touch and smell and warmth, but Bucky looks so heavy. He’s burying his face in your neck and splaying out over your body without trying to take it further, and he’s more important than anything, so you can hold it. You can wait until morning to jump his bones, and for now you’ll just be a lighthouse, steering him full back home and keeping him safe from jagged nightmares and crashing, unforgiving thoughts.

You let your fingers comb and drift through his hair, humming a soft tune as his measured, slow breaths fan over your skin, and you’ll yell at Steve in the morning about pushing him this far. When he’s like this it’s hard to see—he’s always brooding and silent and grumpy, but there are small shifts and tells you’ve memorized, that feel like drops in air pressure before a storm—and you may not blame Steve for missing them, but you still need to be angry at something for bruising your Heart like this. And Steve, who won’t take it personally and knows how deeply Bucky is grooved into your ribs and vital organs, is better than anyone else.

The only other options would be the Hydra soldiers.

And you have a very strong feeling they’re all quite dead.

“You believe in soulmates?” Bucky mutters your name, and you blink down at him. 

“Soulmates?”

“Yeah.” His words are muffled by your body, his hold on you tightening slightly. “The stuff about destiny and fate and two strings together. Steve called it, uh, fateism.”

“Fatalism?”

He hums in agreement, and you can almost hear his frown. “I’m tired.”

“I know, Buck.” You drag your fingers over his scalp. smiling at the air. “Why?”

He shakes his head. “I asked you the first question, doll. You answer first.”

You sigh, studying the back of his head as if you could read it as well as his face. “Will my answer matter?”

Bucky just shrugs. If he was so adorable and sleepy, and if you weren’t so wrathfully and immovably in love with him, you would’ve kicked his stoic, silent ass.

“I don’t. I never really have.” You mumble, and the muscles in his back tense. 

“Yeah, it’s stupid-“

“But,” you push on, pulling gently on his hair until he angles his chin to rest on your chest, and he meets your gaze. “I don’t believe in souls.”

Bucky raises his brows at you. “Your co-workers are a god, a raccoon, and a sentient computer-”

“Artificial Intelligence,” you correct with a small smile. “He doesn’t like being called a computer.”

He gives you a flat look. “You know what I’m saying-“

“Yeah, but I still don’t believe in souls. I think it’s- It’s more complicated than that.”

Bucky opens his mouth like he’s going to protest, but you push on.

“I like that it’s more chaotic. It’s like- it’s-“ You let out a slow breath, scanning over his face. “Buck, you’re a hundred years old. I’m not an assassin or superhero or agent, but I still found you. And we’ve both fought for our lives to get through everything, and it���s only sheer luck and force is what got us here, and now I get to love you against all the odds.” You swallow as you hear yourself, and Bucky’s eyes widen. But you press on. If you’re saying it, you need to say it. All in. 

He whispers your name, but you press on.

“I don’t believe in souls, Buck, but I believe what I can know.” You trace your hand over his cheek, offering him a soft smile as he watches you with wide eyes. “And I know that when you’re here, I love you, and when you’re not, my body knows it better than my mind does. I- It’s physical. It can feel it, right here.” You tug his left arms out from around body, and press it to your chest. “It’s like you’re a part of me. Not a missing piece or other half. Just… more. Of the same.”

You fall silent, and Bucky’s just staring at you. He stares a lot, though, and you can’t tell if this is a good I love you too stare, or a frightened how could you love me stare, and maybe he doesn’t love you and you’re just going have to keep living with that-

Bucky’s hand drifts up from your chest to frame your face, and when he shifts the light catches on his face, and you can see it in his eyes.

Awe.

He always kisses you like he’d been gone a thousand years, and Hydra might burst through the door and rip him away. It doesn’t matter if it’s a gentle, lazy kiss or a rough, desperate one. He’s always kissed you like he means it.

And this time, it’s somehow more. It’s everything. It bigger than any star you’ve seen burning in the dark, and taller than trees that are older than he is, stronger than the cracked pavement you’ve bruised your knees on so many times, crawling across the tar and gravel just to get to Bucky.

This time, Bucky kisses you the same way you missed him.

Like it’s oxygen and water and sunlight and opioids, all shot into your blood and making you into something new.

He kisses you like he loves you, and it’s bursting out of him like an animal from a cage.

And once it’s free, it only seems to grow. Demand more, with his arms caging you against the mattress as he rises up over your, and his tongue presses into your mouth and down your throat, and one hand is dropping to trail up your thighs and play with the hem of your shorts, and God, nothing has ever mattered more that this-

Bucky pulls your lower lip between his teeth before starting to kiss a sloppy line down your neck, and a brief moment of lucidity creeps its way into you head.

“Why’d you-“ You gasp as he starts to suck on your neck, stubble scrapping your skin, and your words becoming soft and airy. “Bucky- I- You didn’t say why you asked-“

“Had to stop and refuel the Quinjet, and Steve made us all go to a lecture a town over-“

You blink at the ceiling. “Lecture-“

“Little college. Punk is Captain America, he can walk in wherever he wants.”

“Oh.” You swallow, tangling your hands into his hair as he squeezes at your waist. “But why-“

“It’s Steve. Not the point, doll.” Bucky nips at your skin, and you can hear the low amusement in his voice. “The guy was talking about philosophy and souls and destiny, got me thinking ‘bout you-“

“What about- Fuck-“ You gasp as he sucks another mark onto your neck, your hips starting to grind up into his body. “What about me-“

“You’d know if you let me talk, pretty girl.” He drawls, and you nod a little stupidly, but his lips have brushed over the very base of your throat, and his hand has started to trail under your shirt to play with your tits, and it’s the metal one and it’s cold but it sends shivers of pleasure through your whole body-

“Bucky-“ 

“I was thinking about you because I don’t believe in that shit either, but I believe in you.” Bucky’s voice is rough and deep against your skin, rolling through your whole body and turning you into something molten and soft as he rolls your nipple mindlessly between his fingers. “Believe in how gorgeous you are, how good you are, how you’re somehow still here, still mine-“ He makes a low, grunting sound as you yank at his hair again, trying to tug him back up to you. “Shit-“

You cut his groan of your name off with your mouth crashing down, pulling him into a long, bruising kiss that ends in a high whine when he pulls away. You’d feel pathetic if you couldn’t feel his own arousal, thick and long and poking against your inner thigh-

“Please-“

“I know,” he mutters, kissing the corner of your mouth as your hips buck shamelessly up into his erection. “I’ll take care of you, doll, but I gotta-“

You shake your head. You get what he’s trying to say, you can hear every word through your bloodstream without him needs to say it, and you need his breathing to be ragged and spent on feeling you rather than talking-

“Want you,” you whisper, trying to roll him onto his back with palms flat against his chest. “Want to taste you, make you feel good, please-“

Bucky’s eyes widen, and the look of pure awe is back. “You’re- You wanna put your mouth on me-“

Your nod is desperate, and his nostrils flare as his metal hand glides back down your stomach, pinning your hips to the bed as he scans over your open, desperate face.

“Don’t know how I manage to swing you, doll.” He mutters, and you can’t do anything but watch him with parted lips and heavy breaths. He’s looking at you like you’re holy. Like he could- maybe- by some miracle-

“Bucky, I-“

He pulls you up into a longer, slower kiss that just as deep and fervorish as the last one, and you know it before he says it. And you really don’t care about the whole lecture—Steve will probably tell you in great detail about it later anyway—you just care about this, about Bucky, right here and home and touching you, and he tastes like coffee and dried fruit-

“Love you,” he murmurs against your lips, and you’re right one the edge just from the words. How he says them like they’re an immovable fact, the same way he’d say the sky is blue or my name is James Buchanan Barnes. Something he knows, maybe in the same, deeply ingrained way you know it. “Been trying to tell you I love you, but you’re not really letting me talk-“

“Sorry.” Your whisper is breathless and soft, and Bucky just chuckles, running his thumb over your lower lip with a low hum.

“No, you’re not.” He pushes his thumb slightly into your mouth, and lets out a low groan when you start to suck on him without a second thought. “You really wanna suck my cock, don’t you.“

You hum, flicking your tongue against him a silent response, and his throat bobs. 

“Can’t say no to you, sweet girl,” he grunts, and when he pulls his thumb away with a pop and brushes the hair from your face, you can almost hear his brain turning.

“But?” You ask, raising your brows as he continues to just stare at you. “I can hear you thinking, baby-“

A small smile tugs at his lips. “Course you can,” he mutters, cupping your face in one hand. “You look real tired, not gonna push you-“

“James Barnes.” You tug at his hair again, your tone dry and flat. “If you tell me you love me, and then stop me from giving you the best head of your life, I’m gonna leave you.”

He swallows, his cock twitching against your thigh, and when he speaks his voice is hoarse.

“You stay lying down.” He grunts. “And I fuck you after.”

You giggle, your smile wide and easy. “I think I can live with that.”

He nods, presses one quick, slightly softer kiss to your lips, and pushes off of your body for only a second to fully shed his clothing. 

He really is beautiful. Broad and strong, all muscle that’s soft in the best places, the metal of his arm shining in the dark like something that’s more godly than mortal, and his hair frames his face so well as his eyes grows almost animalistic on yours, so barely controlled as he pulls off his boxer and-

You might be drooling. He’s perfect. You never get over it, how he looks like he was sculpted and crafted, how he’s like some fallen angel in the dark of your bedroom, and how you feel full just from looking at his dick, fully erect and wrapped in his hand. He’s stroking it slowly, watching you squirm and rub your thighs together on the bed and reach up for him to just join you-

You’re just about to beg when Bucky crawls back onto the mattress, moving fully over your body until his metal arm is braced on the headboard and the red tip of his cock is pressed carefully against your lips, refusing to just push through them-

You drop your jaw open without a thought, digging your nails into his thighs for proper grip and half-batting your eyelashes in a silent plea for him to just take. He always gets too little, and he asks for less, and you’re his to just fucking take-

“Fuck,” Bucky mutters, slowly easing himself into your mouth, throbbing against your tongue when you hollow your cheeks and moan around him. “Gotta take it easy, doll, won’t last-‘

You run your tongue over every part of him you can reach, and he cuts himself off with a deep moan, his hips bucking so he hits the very back of your throat.

“Shit- You’re gonna kill me-“ He half-growls as he tries to pull further out, and you flick your tongue over the tip of his cock, already weeping with pre-cum. “You- I’m tryin’ not to hurt you, sweetheart-“

He won’t hurt you. You’re grinding against the sheets as you watch Bucky above you, his metal arm leaving a dent on the bed frame and his eyes fully blown with raw want, and nothing he could do would ever hurt you. So you squeeze your hands against him, crane your neck slightly to pull him further back into your mouth, and you know he gets the message because his hand tangles in your hair and yanks it back slightly, forcing your eyes onto his.

“Told you to stay down,” he grunts. “I’ll take such good care of you if you listen, sweet girl. Look so fucking pretty takin’ my cock, but you want me to fuck your mouth-“

Your moan is loud and unashamed around him, and his hips jerk once more.

“Shit- That’s-“ Bucky squeezes his eyes shuts—he’s fucking thinking again—and then nods to himself. “You want me like this, doll?”

You hum around him, and his grip on your hair tightens.

“Hold onto me. Tight.” He grunts, and it’s the only warning you get before he finally gives you what you want, and moves.

He’s still restrained. Carefully controlled. You know he’s holding himself back, because even though Bucky’s bumping the back of your throat and groaning about you, he always just stops before you’re choking on him and his every thrust into your mouth is perfectly calculated and measured. No matter how you moan and drool and suck, running your tongue over the tip of his cock when he pulls almost fully out and swallowing when he pushes back inside, he’s keeping himself in check.

But all it takes is moving one hand to squeeze his balls, and you get the first rough slam of his hips and a beautiful, loud moan from deep in his chest.  

Bucky glares down at you, his voice gravely and low. “What’re you doin’.”

You give him your best innocent expression, repeating the movement and hollowing your cheek around his cock. 

“I-“ He hisses through his teeth as he slams deep enough for your nose to bump his abdomen, and you whine. “You’re- Fuck-“

It’s an offering. You’re still playing with his balls, and not trying to squirm away when his thrusts start to become uneven and sloppy, and he knows what you want so he doesn’t have to hold back, you don’t want him to hold back-

And when you swirl your tongue around the base of his cock, gagging around him when he pushes down your throat and squeezing his thigh in silent reassurance, he snaps. 

This is what you wanted. Bucky really, properly fucking your face until you’re a whining, needy mess below him, your hips rolling against the sheets for any relief because you need one hand to cling to him and the other to keep touching him, to keep urging him on as he drives his dick in and out of your mouth with an abandoned, the best, most sinful noises you’ve ever heard escaping him in a mix of swears and praise and growls of your name-

“God- so fucking good, you’re-“ He cuts himself off with a groan, and you know he’s close. You can see it in the tension across his muscles, and hear it in the deep noises that are rolling through your body. “Shit-“

You let your eyes roll back in your head as you keep your grip on him tight, and Bucky’s climax shakes his whole body and his cum shoots down your throat. Heavy and salty and God, he’s so good-

He’s still dripping down your chin when he pulls out, and you barely have time to try and wipe off with shaking fingers before Bucky’s right back over you, kissing you deep into the mattress and running a soothing, cool touch down your burning skin. 

“Such a good girl,” he mutters, his metal hand moving into your short grazing right over your slit through your ruined underwear. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, can’t believe you get this wet just from getting your face fucked-“

You shake your head, grinding desperately into his taunting hand and throwing your head back as his fingers graze over your clothed clit. “Just for you, Bucky, only this- Fuck,” he’s stared to kiss a wet, open line over your collarbone, and you don’t know when he ripped off your shirt, but you don’t really care. “It’s you-“

“Me?” He smirks against your skin, his voice a little too soft and devout to be mocking. “Am I the only one who’s ever gotten you this needy, sweet girl? Is all this,” he tears off your panties, shoving two broad, metal finger right into your cunt and drawing a high gasp from your throat. “Just for me?”

“Yes,” your hands dig back into his hair as his tongue flicks right over your nipple and his fingers start to pump, and you’re going to ascend or burst into flame or scatter across the universe like a million stars or something- “Bucky, please-“

“I’ve got you,” he mutters, his fingers scissoring and crooking inside of you under you’re a puddle of needy sounds below him. “Always got you, doll.”

He really does. Bucky knows just how to play you like an instrument, how to finger fuck you so that you stay right on the edge but never go over. Neglecting your swollen clit in favor of pressing right against that deep, sensitive spot inside of you that he can rub his fingers against, all while kissing and marking you over your chest. Then suddenly returning to steady thrusts of his fingers and sucking and biting at your nipples until you’re yanking at his hair and he growls around you, and repeating the pattern over and over in cycle until you’re out of your mind-

More than out of your mind. You’re going to die. This is too much, and not enough, and you need to cum so bad but Bucky’s being mean and keeping you from falling, crashing up into the sky and coming fully unraveled below him-

“Bucky,” you swallow another loud, hopeless whimper as he hums against your skin. “Wanna cum, need it, you’re- Fuck-“

He rises back up over you, but doesn’t stop moving his fingers in and out of your dripping pussy. “That feel good, sweet gi-“

“Yes.” You cut him off with another half-screaming moan, and he chuckles.

“Think you can cum like this? Just with my fingers, fucking your pretty pussy until you’re screaming my-“

“Bucky,” you scratch at his shoulders and try to push off the mattress, desperate to get his mouth back anywhere on your skin. “Please, Bucky, please-“

He smirks again, shaking his head as he drops down to give you a tauntingly soft kiss, his voice rough and deep as he speaks against your lips. “You never let me finish talking, you know that?”

“I- sorry.” You mumble, but you don’t really mean it. Not when his fingers hit a new, rough and world-shattering pace, and you’re so close-

“Don’t be sorry. Love you too much to really care. Love that you get mouthy and needy and so fucking loud for me.” Bucky’s kiss deepens like he’s trying to fuse his mouth to yours, right as his fingers yank out of you without warning, leaving you squeaking in protest and clenching around the air. 

“Why-“

He laughs, pushing back up to watch you as he drags your arms up, pinning them over your head with a grin. A real, wide grin of adoration and wonder, scanning over your body like he has all the time in universe to just watch you, flushed and panting and squirming on the mattress, pouting and glaring at him because he doesn’t have all the time, you feel like you’re going to explode and he needs to save you-

“Want you to cum on my cock,” he hums, trailing soft fingers down your body, watching you shiver and lean into his touch with a dark, reverent expression. “That sounds good to you, doll?”

You nod, spreading your legs as wide as you can manage. You’ll take anything, as long as Bucky’s the one giving it.

“Yes.” You whisper, your eyes trailing down his body to where he’s started to stoke his cock, lining it up with your weeping cunt. “Bucky, please-“

Your plea is cut off with a scream that’s a half curse, half prayer of his name, because Bucky slams into you and you break apart in a second. Then he hits that deep spot, his thumb pressing down and rubbing furious circles on your clit, and it’s euphoria. Wracking your whole body with sobs of his name as the pleasure crests higher and higher, and Bucky just keeps fucking you.

It’s not clear when he starts and you end, but you’re too far gone to really care. The first orgasm wanes for only a second before a second, smaller one rushes through you in an aftershock, and by the time Bucky falls down to kiss you—harsh and starved with his dick filling you up and hitting you so deep you know you’ll feel it for a week—you’re so fucked out you can only moan and whine against him. His tongue pushes down to trace over your teeth and press against the back of your throat as he growls praise of good girl and taking me so well and so fuckin’ beautiful, and all mine, feel so good, cum for me again, doll, c’mon-

You squirm beneath him as your third orgasm washes through your body and your back arches off the bed, your pussy squeezing and fluttering around his cock as he keeps fucking into you, harder and harder until you’re sure the bed is going break, until you’re gasping his name and begging him to cum with you, you’re going to fall apart for him one more time so please fall with you-

Bucky hauls you up his chest as he sits up, his mouth never once parting from you as he moves you to sit in his lap. Your arms wrap around his neck on instinct as his hands moves to grab at your hips, guiding you up and down his cock, meeting your with a thrust that hits so deep in your body you think you’re going to lose your voice screaming his name-

“Last one, doll,” he grunts in your ear, drawing rough circles on your hips as you gasp against his shoulder. “You got one more for me, and I’ll fill you up like you want-“

You nod like a bobble-head, because God, you do want it, want all of Bucky in whatever way he’ll offer it, but you do also think he could tell you to fly and—in this moment, where he’s hammering into you and you’re nothing but a blissful, cockdrunk mess against him—you’d find a way to pull it off.

Bucky pulls you into one last, heavy and deep and smooth kiss—set in a stark contrast to how he’s bruising your cervix and dragging you into the fire of one last, mind-numbing and head-spinning orgasm—and when you breath his name into his mouth, he cums with a roar that seems to shake the whole earth.

The world becomes all color and good and Bucky as you fall right over the edge with him, his release hot and warm in your body and his breathing ragged against your skin as you both float down from your highs, and stay a tangle of heartbeats and limbs in the center of the mattress. He holds you so carefully against his chest, like you might shatter or dissipate if he makes the wrong move, and you play with his hair, letting your brain return to your body.

Bucky clears his throat, his hands pausing their untraceable patterns on your skin as you bury your face in his neck.

“I love you. A lot. Just so you know.” His voice is almost sheepish in your ear, and you giggle. 

“I think I’ve got that, Buck.” You hum, your nails digging into his back and he starts to shift beneath you. “What’re you-“

“Gotta take care of my girl.” Bucky’s muttered words in your ear are more of a command, angled at himself as he tries to pull his half-hard cock out of where he’s still sheathed in your body. “Made a mess of you, doll, need to clean it up-“

You shake your head, tightening your grip around his neck. “Stay.”

He leans back to frown at you. “I am staying, but you’ve got my cum dripping down your thighs-“

“Romantic-“

“Shut it.” He flicks your nose, his eyes softening slightly at your still-dazed smile. “You need to be cleaned up-“

“I need you.” You squirm to press impossibly closer to his body, dropping your brow against his chest. “We can just stay like this,” you roll your hips, and Bucky lets out a low hiss as his cock twitches inside of you. “And I think you like that I’m a mess-“

“I like you, pretty girl. Could even say I love you-” 

You smile at him. “You have said it-“

He rolls his eyes with a grunt, tugging you fully forwards and pinning you to his chest. Your yelp turns into a loud, happy sound when he catches your chin and tips it back, giving you a long, easy kiss that doesn’t ever seem to be waning of that new, fully unleashed love quality. “And you are a mess, I’m not just gonna-“

“Don’t want you to clean me up,” you hum, scratching slightly at his back in one last plea to stay like this. Maybe turn to stone and be crawled over with ivy and flowers, your body still wound with Bucky’s and the whole world this bright, happy feeling forever. “Please.”

He pauses, leans back to scan over your face, and you let it paint all over your features. You do love him, and that’s not revolutionary but it’s Bucky so it’s stronger and can withstand more than anything else in the world. You know he can see it, how if you were shot down into the core of the earth or vaulted up into the cold of space, you’d still love him as ash or frosted, broken and scattered particles. Because it’s all you. Every single bit of you that’s tangible and capable of being anything at all loves Bucky, and it right here. 

For him to see, and have, and take. 

And you know he’s worked it out, because his face splits into a painfully rare, wide grin that makes him barely look past twenty-five. That’s all boyish charm and glee and pride, and that Steve’s told you used to be common, but has become something reserved for only moments like these.

Moments where Bucky gives in to your plea, and shifts you both so he’s against the headboard and you’re still curled on his chest. He never once unsheathes himself, never once breaks his gaze from yours, and when your both settled, he presses a gentle kiss to your brow and lets it linger until you’re almost stained by his touch. Where you can feel how much he loves you in every breath and pound of his heart, against his skin and almost taste it in his throat when he kisses you once more. 

And the sun is starting to break through the window in a million, iridescent colors as Bucky stays right here. 

Right where he belongs. 

With you. 

End Note: I could write dissertations and movies and plays and speeches about love being something that rewrites your whole body chemistry, and how that's honestly more romantic than predetermination or soulmates to me. This is me doing that but where's it's not going to annoy my friends.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[butterflydm]

Scattered WoT rewatch thoughts (1x01-1x04)

This includes spoilers for s3, because my rewatch is adding some context to my thoughts for season three and the spoilers we know so far and book spoilers through Lord of Chaos:

1x01

I do think it's likely that Egwene's Accepted Test is going to mirror the scene with Liandrin gentling the man from the cold open, but Rand being in a river ties it more to Egwene and the Two Rivers. Egwene has been very associated with water so far, from needing to trust the river in s1 to undergo the rite to officially become a woman, to a jug of water being the symbol of the battle of wills that she has with Renna in 2x06.

We have been watching Egwene's and Rand's paths diverge from each other from their very first scene together - the first time we see them kiss (and have implied fade-to-black sex) basically is a play from Rand to buy himself a little more time with Egwene before she breaks things off with him. Afterwards, she tells him that their futures aren't going to be aligned with each other. We even see her reject his symbolic romantic gesture of giving her a berry, which he used to give her when they were younger.

Rand will later say that Selene is the first woman to see him as a man and it does feel like his relationship with Egwene is very tied up to his boyhood.

So, s1 has an ep1 post-coital scene where Egwene's abilities separate her from the possibility of a future with Rand, so we may see this mirrored (if you'll pardon my choice of words) in 3x01.

First Finn foreshadowing for Mat: the tiny noose-like bits of thread on Fain's wagon.

The Rand & Egwene on a cliffside rock scene is another one that we know gets echoed in s3, with Lanfear taking Egwene's place and changing the narrative.

I really like that Nynaeve's feelings about the Two Rivers are grounded in her personal relationships (Rand has also been hearing a lot of things about the AS to make him wary, going by what Tam says about them).

Mat provides gambling, alcohol, and fostering emotional sharing in the relationship between the three boys. And we see them showing care and concern back to him.

I really do love how the show took the concept of Bel Tine and tied it into the world mythology of the Wheel and reincarnation. Very good philosophical setup for the future. Wheel keeps turning and we keep trying to do better than the last time.

We also see Nynaeve's loneliness in the Bel Tine scene, which is what Rand talked about when he was talking about what Egwene choosing to be a Wisdom would mean - no family of her own.

Overall, the show does such good job of showing how this mountain village has held onto the old ways without even realizing the depth of what those ways mean.

The battle is so well done. The fear and panic of the villagers at first, and how Moiraine helps them. I am also going to stand up and say that i think that having (and killing) Laila was a good choice! It shows us the cost of the Trolloc attack, it sets up Perrin's fear over his own battlerage, it sets up Perrin's overprotectiveness over his love interest without making wild overprotectiveness just a Two Rivers trait. And it really made all the show-only reactors that I watched sympathize with Perrin instantly. It was a solid change.

Rand undergoes the first of many "my parents weren't what I thought" when he sees how well Tam fights with a sword.

I love that we see our EF5's courage so strongly but in different ways.

Our first glimpse of weaves and of Aes Sedai working together with their Warders! And we see how effective they can be together. We're going to see the limitations of Warders in s3, I think, because they don't help much in a Power vs Power battle, but for most trouble that an Aes Sedai has been able to get into before now, they were very useful!

Also: Egwene is wearing a bracer on her left wrist here that is very much like the one she wears in s3 (and that does kinda echo the sul'dam bracer).

Rand mentions earlier that stories say a single Aes Sedai is said to be able to turn the tide of a battle and we get to see that here when Moiraine pulls down the Winespring Inn to hurl the stones at the Trollocs.

Poor in-denial Rand here, who does not want to believe what his dad confessed to him on their journey to the village.

Rand, Egwene, Moiraine, and Laila all in blue here, in the aftermath of the attack. Both Rand & Egwene cover up their blue shirts with brown sheepskin coats for their journey out of the Two Rivers. Mirrors!! Foils! Following parallel but separate paths, which is part of why they can't be together.

Rand knows that this about him but he can't admit it to himself. I love it when stories continue to add depth on a rewatch.

1x02

We saw the danger of the Shadow in the last episode, now we set up the danger of the Whitecloaks. Another scene that gains depth on rewatch, as show-onlys will later realize that the Whitecloaks are murdering a healer here, once they find out more about the Aes Sedai. They are zealots.

"Sometimes brutality is the only path to mercy." Yikes!

This episode also brings in the evil of Shadar Logoth, a more ancient example of purely human evil that is not driven by the Shadow or Darkfriends. The city that ate itself alive out of paranoia and self-isolation from the world. A cautionary tale for what the Two Rivers could have become.

We get first lessons in Aes Sedai Oaths here, both their limitations and the ways to find loopholes around them. We also see that Rand confronts Moiraine publicly while Egwene also confronts her, but privately (because Moiraine is also clearly more comfortable having private confabs with Egwene over any of the boys - she's no Red but still has a wariness about men could channel).

Is this Egwene and Mat's only conversation? (And they are quickly joined by all the others)

We see Mat trying to lighten the mood, while Rand begins to show hints of leadership, wanting them to form a plan in case Moiraine turns on one of them.

I like the change that the show made in the Three Oaths, giving them a solid origin based in history - and tying it to Hawkwing also ties it to the Seanchan. The White Tower chose to leash itself to specific rules, while the women in Seanchan were forcibly leashed by their government.

Moiraine must feel so hopeful when she realizes that Egwene can channel and so the world might get a Dragon who can't go mad from saidin.

Genuinely, it is so baffling to me how some people watching the show were calling Rand clingy and trying to hold onto a dead relationship when it's literally Egwene sending the mixed signals and trying to cuddle up to Rand here, the episode after she broke things off with him.

Rand and Moiraine's first fight! We're going to get more of this in s3 as well, I believe. Moiraine trying to direct and control them, while Rand wants to actually know the endgame and what her plans are.

Poor Mat & Perrin forced to witness the fight afterwards between Rand & Egwene.

Mat is so good at defusing emotional conflict. He is the one who gets Rand to level out after the disagreements with Moiraine & Egwene.

We are shown the division in the Whitecloaks here - the Questioners being the true zealots, with the regular Children being willing to bend on matters of Aes Sedai.

Rand is gonna glare a hole in Moiraine's back.

The ruined bridge! Love all the old ruins in the Two Rivers area.

Mat again shows his emotional intelligence by starting the sing-along to boost spirits among the group. And we get a little history lesson. Fingers crossed for Mat singing again in s3!

Also: this scene made me cry during this rewatch.

We're briefly told here that they've been traveling for days, before the night when they go into Shadar Logoth.

Rand and Egwene work through a bit and come to better terms over the course of this episode but their main conflict of being on fundamentally different paths is not resolved. I'm guessing this will get echoed in s3 but they will actually fully accept and come to terms with their separate paths.

Perrin's first wolf encounter! ❤️

Once again, we see Mat reaching out to one of his friends to help them process - Perrin in this case, offering him a dagger that Laila had made for Mat and returning it to Perrin. I hope we get to see some of that in s3 with his friends in ep1. Mat is so sweet to his friends.

S1 - Rand goes to a dead city with Moiraine & Egwene; s3 - Rand goes to a dead city with Moiraine & Aviendha (based on the trailers).

Mat getting drawn to the dagger. Man, that is gonna fuck him up. My poor sad wet cat.

Our first plot-mandated split up - I do understand why we don't get a second Cauthor road trip since they did get all this time and focus together in s1, but I am definitely hoping that the change means we'll get them together again later on the series, hopefully spending time with each other in s4 (if we get it, etc). And I hope for a couple of good scenes before they part ways in s3.

1x03

We learn more about Nynaeve's grit and cleverness in the opener, as well as revealing that Trollocs will cannibalize their injured companions.

Nynaeve is such a badass here. 💖

I love this credits sequence so much. I understand wanting to spend every moment of the episode runtime but it's just so lovely.

Lan being impressed by Nynaeve tracking them. 💖

The Great Cauthor Roadtrip has begun!

"They say all roads lead there." "That's not how roads work." I love them so much.

Perrin & Egwene's roadtrip also begins. I do quite enjoy their scenes together even if I'm not getting the shippy buzz from them. But Perrin & Egwene both trying to light the same fire and not being certain who did it in the end... I hope we get a continued connection between them in the future (iykyk).

This episode is where we can clearly see Nynaeve's healer yellow under her warrior green. Perfect, no notes. All the scenes between Lan & Nynaeve in this episode are pure gold.

We can also see more clearly how Lan has a fancy pattern on the shoulders of his outfit.

Ishamael trying to suss out which of the ta'veren is the Dragon via dreams. Perrin dreams of Ishy here but Egwene doesn't seem to. The wolves herding them to safety in the scariest way possible lol I love them. They are probably trying to talk to Perrin but he can't see their visions yet.

Our first glimpse of an Aiel (dead in a cage). It really sets the tone for the town as a whole.

Hello, Thom! And Dana has her eye on the boys from the beginning. I do love Thom's song here and, of course, what it implies about Thom's sympathies towards men who can channel. I'm hoping for at least one good convo about Rand between Mat & Thom in s3.

Mat's keen emotional intelligence in display in previous episodes gets turned like a knife against Rand in this one and it hurts a lot.

"Someplace new, you can be anything you want. And no one's gonna know the dirt you were born in." We'll see Mat indulging in this idea a bit at the start of s3, I think.

Our first hints of Perrin's overprotectiveness post-Laila's death, and Egwene pushing back and offering compassion that Perrin doesn't feel like he deserves, and refusing to let him risk himself for her sake - they go together.

I think we got Aram confirmed for s3, so looking forward to his reunion with Perrin and how they might interact.

Egwene getting covered with the shawl of many colors.

Dana is such a good compilation of "every darkfriend on the road" that Mat & Rand encounter on the road.

Lol at Rand being so snippy over Mat when we know he actually thinks extremely highly of Mat. He's just mad at him right now because Mat is being an asshole for what seems to be no reason.

Our first hint that Siuan and Moiraine got a relationship upgrade comes when Moiraine whispers a pained "Siuan" when she's really out of it. Also they did a great job of making Moiraine look on the edge of death.

We get to see more of Thom's compassion when Mat encounters him at the dead Aiel's cage. Love our little lesson about Aiel here - and our first open hint about Rand's heritage, as Thom tells us red hair is rare outside the Aiel Waste.

"If you're going to take from the dead, the least you can do is bury them."

First mention of the Stone of Tear and the Lion Throne of Caemlyn.

Dana going for the kiss - start of a pattern there, the Shadow trying (and succeeding in s2) to deceive their way into Rand's bed. And she genuinely likes Rand too, but is still willing to betray him.

Our first hint of Rand using the Power, when he breaks the reinforced door.

I really like that they used Dana to give us Ishamael's philosophy. Break the Wheel to stop the pain of the world. I like that Mat encounters this again with Ishy at the end of s2 and we see him reject it.

Okay, Thom never openly tells either of the boys that he thinks they're the Dragon but he overhears their conversation with Dana and also assumes right away that it's the madness troubling Mat in the next episode.

Hi, Logain! I like how both Nynaeve and Logain are used to create doubt in Moiraine's mind over the accuracy of the prophecies.

1x04

Logain does a good job showing us all the scary foreshadowing for what the Dragon will be capable of. What Logain does to one country, Rand is supposed to do to the world, essentially. We see both the power and the madness here.

"What does a crown mean to the Dragon Reborn?"

Logain knows and believes in the prophecies and believes that he is truly the Dragon, with the voices in his head urging him on.

We do see Logain fighting and winning against the corruption here, healing the king instead of killing him.

I love what they've done with Logain so far in the story. I don't think we've seen any spoilers about him in s3 yet but I would not be surprised to see him.

We get to learn a lot about Aes Sedai in this episode, with Nynaeve as our main vehicle for learning the lore, which is great because of her prickly relationship with Moiraine.

The war party to capture Logain is comprised of Green & Red sisters and this is an authorized operation that we can directly compare to the unauthorized operation that Liandrin and her fellow Reds carried out in ep1. Logain is captured and shielded, not gentled on the spot. Then he is meant to be taken back to the White Tower for trial - I'm guessing this is actually meant to determine if he's the real Dragon Reborn. False Dragons get gentled and the true Dragon stays shielded until the Last Battle, to keep him from using the Power and going mad from the corruption.

Liandrin is so snippy and petty with Moiraine. I kinda do feel like she tried a flirtation with Moiraine in the past and got shot down.

I really love how the show gave the Warders their own subculture and community. We did not get enough of that in the books at all. A+ improvement.

We find out here how secretive Moiraine & Lan are around other Aes Sedai & Warders. We also learn that Liandrin is pushing against the Amyrlin's decrees and that there are rumors spreading about the unsanctioned gentlings.

Aram is lovely and charming. The show also did a really good job making the Tuatha'an endearing.

Rand and Mat bonding over their mutual paranoia towards the rest of the world: oh dear.

"I always knew women couldn't see men's weaves..." setting out right here that there is a distinction between the two Powers.

I like Alanna & Moiraine's friendship. And Alanna does a good job setting out the Green Ajah mission statement - the Battle Ajah, to prepare for the Last Battle.

Alanna worrying that the current Tower policy about the Dragon is too aggressive and might lead to the Tower gentling the Dragon Reborn and dooming the world.

Liandrin starts her work on trying to get to Nynaeve. Not sure if she already knows anything about the Two Rivers ta'veren or if she's just looking to subverting someone traveling with Moiraine.

Rand taking charge of the situation to de-escalate, while Mat continues to slip.

Lol at Liandrin being the one to tell us the Blues are ~just spies~ and then to give us the official line on the Red Ajah philosophy - the magic cops, basically.

Liandrin also makes it clear here that men are not welcome under the Red Ajah's tent.

Tying the Way of the Leaf into the reincarnation cycle of the Wheel makes so much sense and rally solidifies it and grounds it into the world.

Rand starts to worry that something is really wrong with Mat here. The little girl offering Mat the Birgitte doll is so sweet.

Rand trying to rationalize what's happening with Mat, and Thom tries to gently led him to the idea that Mat can channel. Very good conversation, because Rand is torn between not wanting to believe it of himself but part of him knowing that it's him, and his worries over Mat. Rand hears about the consequences of being gentled here, and then sees both gentling and mental illness up close in s2.

"Nothing is more dangerous than a man who knows the past." Appropriate for both Rand & Mat!

Having Nynaeve hang out with the Warders so that we can learn more about them is so good.

And our first poly relationship hints!

I like that we get to see Moiriane doubting herself and her path, questioning the prophecies. And Lan reassuring her that they're on the correct path, reminding her of the dreams and the Trollocs, that Logain doesn't fit what they know about how old the Dragon should be.

This story that Ila tells is going to echo in s3 as well, as we see the Aiel come up against this choice and the split between them happens as some of them pick up a spear while the others do not, choose to stay true to their original culture instead.

"Have you lost him?" "No. No, I would know if I had." Egwene still thinking about Rand, as Rand was thinking about her last episode.

Rand waking up and making that promise to Mat. Awww. "No matter what happens, I'm here."

The show really has set out such a strong foundation for Mat & Rand's friendship, so while them not being together in s3 isn't my favorite adaptation choices (though I do think I will probably love Mat in Tanchico) they do have a very solid foundation of relationship work already put into them.

We got Perrin's Ishy dream, now we get Rand. Perrin is hammering away (at Laila's body?), Mat is wandering around with a bloody red hand, and Egwene is yoinked away by Ishy. And Rand wakes up from that into a waking nightmare of seeing Mat surrounded by a murdered family and then leaving Thom behind to save Mat & himself. Genuinely, not having a good day.

Thom was already ride-or-die (or believe them to have murdered a family under the influence of the corruption but still be willing to help) for the boys here.

I imagine the pitch Liandrin is giving Kerene here is the same slippery slope that the Reds went down originally - these men are too dangerous for us to risk carting them all the way back to the Tower.

Nynaeve and Lan bonding over lost family. Very sweet moment. Cried a bit here too.

I do think this fight is serving as big foreshadowing for Dumai's Wells. The Dragon captured by the Tower, his forces rallying to free him, him breaking out to join the fight. We'll just be on the other side of the battle that time, as Perrin (and hopefully Mat, in this version, fingers crossed, come on, let him actually be Rand's general for more than ten seconds!) fight to free him from the Tower embassy, while Rand fights to escape.

In addition to Kerene's death, we see a Red sister shot up with arrows too, though maybe she lives.

Nynaeve's AoE heal that probably made Moiraine less inclined to believe that Egwene could be the Dragon, because of how strong Nynaeve is.

[kikyoupdates]

Made to Destroy ⭑˚💎⭑ 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑒𝑥𝑡𝑟𝑎

bnha x op!reader

op!reader, my hero academia x fem!reader, reverse harem, over powered reader, f!reader

You are the product of a series of twisted experiments, an anomaly that shouldn’t have ever existed in the first place. Thankfully, you are taken into the arms of a hero and given a new purpose in life. But as you soon discover, it isn’t easy to deny your true nature, especially when you were made to destroy.

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Aizawa feels bad about bringing you to the hospital again. It goes without saying that it’s not a fun place for a kid, but if the doctors are concerned, then really, what choice does he have?

“Am I sick?” you ask him. “I don’t feel sick, so why am I back here?”

He offers you a sympathetic smile. “It’s just in case. Sometimes, we need to do a lot of tests to make sure that your body’s healthy. It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

As always, you go along without much protest. Aizawa appreciates that you trust him so much, but it actually makes him feel even worse about jerking you along like this. You’re a good kid, and truly, you deserve better than the unfortunate circumstances you’ve found yourself in.

Dr. Iwase examines you, does a few more tests (Aizawa holds your hand again when they take another blood sample), but all in all, it’s clear that nobody has any idea what’s going on.

“She seems perfectly healthy and functional,” Dr. Iwase frowns. “Which is why... it just doesn’t make any sense. The numbers we keep getting don’t add up. Perhaps it has something to do with her Quirk? You mentioned before that she has regenerative abilities. Perhaps that might be affecting her blood cells and overall constitution. But even so, it’s still rather strange...”

If a doctor can’t figure out what’s happening, then Aizawa sure as hell won’t be able to either.

He spares a glance at you. You’re sitting on the exam table and happily swinging your legs out, seemingly without a care in the world. No part of you strikes him as being sick or unhealthy. Scientific data aside, as long as you don’t feel any discomfort, that’s what matters most, right?

“Can I take her home now?” Aizawa asks. “I’d hate to keep her here too long. Especially if you say she looks fine.”

“Yes, I suppose. Sorry for the inconvenience. A child’s wellbeing is at stake, so naturally, I couldn’t afford to be negligent.”

Aizawa nods. “Of course. I’m just glad she’s okay. As you’re probably aware, I don’t have much medical knowledge, but at the very least, I can keep an eye on her health and look out for any concerning signs.”

“That would be much appreciated,” Dr. Iwase smiles. “Thank you, Aizawa. So long as you monitor [Name]’s condition, I feel confident that she’ll be just fine.”

Well, that concludes yet another hospital trip. Aizawa doesn’t much care for the harsh smell of antiseptic and the constant beeping of medical machinery, but he supposes he’ll have to get used to it. If it means keeping you safe, he’ll take you to dozens, no—hundreds of hospitals to make sure you’re in good health.

“So, I’m not sick,” you hum, looking rather pleased with yourself as you hold onto Aizawa’s hand. “I told you, Aizawa. I told you I was feeling just fine.”

“I know,” he chuckles. “Like I said, this is just to be safe. Adults are very meticulous about these kinds of things. We like to test things a bunch of times just to be sure that we’ve gotten it right.”

You smile. “That’s okay. I don’t mind coming back here again if it helps everyone believe I’m not sick. And since I was a good girl and listened... that means I get a burger, right?”

Man. You really, really love burgers.

Not that Aizawa minds. Quite frankly, that smile of yours is so cute that he’s ready to risk everything for it.

“One burger coming right up,” he muses, affectionately ruffling your hair.

Your smile gets even bigger. “Since I was extra good today, can I maybe have two burgers instead?”

“...let’s not push it.”

He’s convinced that if you ever do get sick, it’ll be from a burger-induced food coma.

You’re a kid. Being a kid comes with its fair share of troubles, it seems. Troubles that are only amplified by the fact that you have virtually no lived experience.

While it’s true that kids are generally ignorant about most things, yours is a different case altogether. Certain things you instinctively pick up on, thanks to the knowledge Dr. Garaki imbued your brain with, but others, you can only learn by experiencing them firsthand, and what may seem incredibly obvious to most people often needs to be explained to you in great detail.

Aizawa still hasn’t been able to figure out what the deal with you is. The police have yet to find any leads, and there are absolutely no records of you anywhere they’ve looked. Almost as if you never existed in the first place.

Whatever the case, it’s clear that his guardianship can hardly be called ‘temporary’ anymore.

For the foreseeable future, you’re here to stay, and that means that he needs to make sure all your needs are properly seen to.

This, of course, includes education.

“School?” you blink, visibly confused. “What’s that?”

As always, your response catches him off guard. Based on a rough estimate, you look to be about five or six years old. You claim you don’t know your birthdate, which is plenty horrifying in its own right, but he chalks that up to the obvious gaps in your memory. Still. To have forgotten about something as fundamental as school? It’s messed up, and it makes him tremble just imagining the horrible man who must have tormented you all this time.

You’ve been through a lot, which is all the more reason why you need to start living normally, the way other kids do.

“School is where people go to learn all kinds of things,” Aizawa explains. “I’m sure you’ll really enjoy it. And there will be plenty of kids your age there, so you can make some friends too.”

Friends...

You like the idea of having friends. Hopefully, you can meet more nice people like Izuku. That would be great. Just the thought makes you ridiculously excited.

“I want to go,” you insist. “I want to make tons of friends!”

Present Mic laughs. “You’ll have to learn too, kiddo. That’s kind of the main focus of school. Well, you seem like a smart kid, and you’re good at following instructions, so you've got all the qualities of a model student.”

Your face flushes with pride. School hasn’t even begun yet, and you’re already being praised. It seems like a rather promising start.

And so, while you eagerly await your first day of school, Aizawa and Present Mic attend to all the bureaucratic details. They’re able to find a good public elementary school in the area, and thankfully, after explaining your unique circumstances, your enrolment is approved.

That’s how you find yourself equipped with a cute cat-themed backpack, lips parted in awe as you stand in front of the school gates.

Aizwa pats your head. “How are you feeling? It’s okay to be nervous, but just remember to take a deep breath, and everything will be fine—”

“I’m so excited I can barely stand still!” you exclaim. “I want to go in, I want to go in, I want to go in!”

Well, then. He had a whole speech prepared in case you were getting cold feet, but this certainly saves him the trouble.

“I’m glad you’re looking forward to it so much.” Aizawa crouches next to you and smiles. “Mic is busy with hero work, so he couldn’t be here to drop you off, but he wanted you to know that he’s rooting for you.”

“I know,” you beam. “Even when you guys are busy, I know you’re still thinking of me. Just like how I always think of you.”

Goodness. Aizawa is convinced you must be a tiny little angel that fell out of the sky. Perhaps that’s why most things are so foreign to you.

He chuckles weakly at the thought. No, of course not. Your past is far too grim for that to be the case. Still, it’s nice to dream.

“Have fun,” Aizawa encourages, patting your head one last time. “Make sure to listen to your teacher and you’ll be just fine. And play nice with the other kids. I’m sure they’d love to be friends with you.”

You hesitate before trickling past the gates, where the crowd of other kids is passing through. Aizawa wonders if you’re finally starting to feel nervous, but before he can pose the question, you jump into his arms and give him a big hug.

“Bye-bye, Aizawa,” you say. “I’ll miss you while I’m at school. And you’ll miss me too, right?”

He blinks in surprise, but it doesn’t take long for him to wrap his arms around you.

“I will. I’ll miss you a lot,” he mumbles. He’s not just saying it for show, either. As he holds your tiny body against his, he realizes that he’ll miss you like crazy these next few hours.

It’s strange how he hasn’t even known you for very long, but already, you’ve become so deeply ingrained in his life.

He finally waves goodbye to you, and you scurry off excitedly, following behind the rest of the students. Aizawa could have easily walked with you all the way to your classroom, but you insisted that you wanted to figure it out yourself. You’re a big girl, and you want to prove to him that you’re plenty capable on your own.

Thankfully, the school isn’t terribly big, and you’re able to find your way just by copying where most of the other kids are headed. Your eyes scan the signs above the doors, searching for the classroom that you were assigned to.

Ah. It’s that one!

You grin proudly. Look at that. You figured it out just fine, even without Aizawa’s help. Of course, it’s not like you have any qualms about relying on him, but it’s nice to do something on your own every once in a while.

You step inside the classroom and take a few moments to assess your surroundings. So, this is school, huh? There are desks and chairs all over the place, there’s a blackboard at the front, and the walls are covered with all sorts of educational posters; mainly catchy slogans or words of affirmation. There’s a map of the world too, and a big clock.

But best of all, the classroom is bustling with excitement. There are kids everywhere you look. So many of them! So many potential friends! You’re itching to go up to them and introduce yourself right off the bat, but before you can, someone beats you to it.

“[N-Name]?”

Huh? That sounds like...

You whip your head around, and sure enough, there he is. The nice curly-haired boy you met not long ago, and who you quickly hit it off with.

A grin spreads across your lips.

“Izuku!”

You bound over to him and take his hands in yours, despite the fact that it makes him yelp out of embarrassment. You’re too excited to take note of how violently red his face is. You just can’t believe how lucky you are, to have met him again on such short notice. And best of all, you’re classmates now, which means you’ll get to see each other all the time.

“Yay, Izuku’s here!” you beam. “I’m so happy to see you again! I didn’t realize you went to this school too. It’s my first day, and I was already excited, but now that I get to see you, I’m even more excited!”

The poor boy’s head is spinning. He’s so flustered that he can hardly keep up with what’s happening, and the fact that you’re still holding his hand in yours doesn’t help in the slightest.

You frown a bit, having finally picked up on his embarrassment. “Hm? Izuku, are you okay? Your face looks kind of—”

“No way is this happening right now.”

Ah. There’s yet another familiar voice.

Except this isn’t one you’re all too thrilled about.

Katsuki grits his teeth. “I can’t believe it. You seriously have the nerve to show your face here, after all the crap you said to me? You really must be an idiot. You made a big mistake coming to this school.”

He balls his hands into fists, an act which is clearly meant to intimidate you, but all the while, you just stare at him without uttering a word.

Then, you blink.

“Sorry, what was your name again?”

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