#there are still a few vestiges of it here and there

[aspenmissing]

hope you are doing well!!! i’ve missed your writing so much i love reading your stuff before going to sleep 😭🫶. would you maybe mind writing silcoxreader where they meet when they are younger (like freedom fighter silco) and reader is like a musician, a singer to be precise (a lucy gray type of person). they have this complicated relationship bc they love each other but bc they are young, but most importantly have bigger things going on (fighting for a free zaun through fight and music respectively) they kind of forget to emotionally mature and communicate their feelings properly. then maybe it cuts to them in the future as chem baron silco and reader as a very successful singer crossing paths again, now that they have both matured

ꜱᴏɴɢꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ ᴄɪᴛʏ

ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ-ɪꜱʜ || 3846 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴᴏɴᴇ?

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏᴏᴏᴏᴏᴏ ᴍʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ! ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ, ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴛᴏᴏ! ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ, ɢʟᴀᴅ ɪᴛ ʜᴇʟᴘꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴀʟʟ ᴀꜱʟᴇᴇᴘ (ʜᴏᴘᴇꜰᴜʟʟʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ!). ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ, ɪ ᴀᴍ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ꜰᴀɴ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴘᴛ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴘʟɪᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴀᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴜɴꜱᴀɪᴅ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ ʙʀᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ʙᴀᴄᴋ

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ

The sounds of Zaun were alive in a way few could understand—an eternal cacophony of clashing gears, groaning pipes, and the hum of restless energy that filled the air like smoke. Beneath that constant buzz, the city’s heart beat not in rhythm but in survival, in survival at any cost. Yet amidst the ceaseless grind of machinery, there was a quieter pulse—a heartbeat, steady and resilient—that belonged to the few who still believed in something beyond the steel and smoke. For Y/N, that pulse was music. Her voice rose above the noise, cutting through the grime and despair, a melody woven with dreams of freedom and hope.

She would sing in the shadowed corners of Zaun’s hidden taverns and underground gatherings, where the only light was the flicker of candles and lanterns struggling to stay alight. Her songs were both a tribute and a weapon. A tribute to the resilience of the downtrodden, a weapon aimed at those who sought to silence them. She sang for the broken, the forgotten, and the dreamers. Her voice echoed down the alleyways, weaving through the air like the last vestiges of sunlight breaking through the smog.

=

One evening, when the dim light from the lanterns cast long shadows across the floor, Silco first found her. He had heard whispers of her—a singer whose voice could stir the soul, whose presence could quiet even the most hardened hearts. But nothing could prepare him for the raw power in her music. He had never been one to care for sentimentality, for dreams or idealism, yet as he stood at the edge of the crowd, watching her with an intensity that seemed to cut through the haze of his own thoughts, he felt something stirring inside him. Something he could not name.

He had been fighting for Zaun’s freedom for so long that he no longer remembered a time when he had a purpose beyond it. It consumed him—every strategy, every attack, every sacrifice. But here, in the presence of her music, he remembered something else: hope. Not the naive, ungrounded kind, but the kind that had long since been buried under layers of bloodshed and broken promises.

When their eyes met, there was no instant understanding, no sudden connection. She was too absorbed in her music, in the passion of her performance, and he was too wrapped up in the endless cycle of his revolution. But something about her presence unsettled him. She was a distraction, he knew that. Yet every night he returned to listen, drawn to the music that seemed to call to a part of him he had long since abandoned.

It became a routine for him. The secret underground tavern, dimly lit and filled with smoke, was where he found her every week, every time he could steal a moment away from the fight. She would be there, standing in the center of the room, her voice raw and beautiful, her eyes closed in passion, as if she was pouring out everything she had into each note.

=

One night, after a particularly fiery performance, he found himself closer to the stage than usual, his eyes fixed on her. Her music made his chest tighten, a feeling that had no place in his hardened existence. The crowd thinned as her song ended, but she lingered in the silence, her gaze catching his from across the room.

"You're always here," she said, her voice low, but it carried a softness to it that caught him off guard. There was no accusation, just curiosity.

“I find your music... stirring,” Silco replied, his voice measured, as if he was speaking to a potential ally, though he wasn’t sure why he added the latter.

“You don’t seem like the kind of person who enjoys something as... fleeting as music,” she said, tilting her head with a soft smile, though her eyes were full of an understanding that made him pause.

“It’s more than that,” he answered, and then, sensing his words falling short, he looked away. "Sometimes, it's the only thing that makes sense."

She hummed a soft tune under her breath. "I understand," she said quietly. "Zaun is... many things. But it doesn’t have to be all noise." She set her guitar down, leaning on it as though it were the only thing that kept her grounded. "What’s your name?"

"Silco," he said, no hesitation in his voice. Names didn't mean much these days, but something about her made it feel like she deserved to know.

"Silco," she repeated thoughtfully. "Why are you really here, Silco?" Her voice, though gentle, carried an edge to it—a challenge.

He shifted, feeling the weight of her question press down on him. "Fighting for a future. A better Zaun," he said, his words clipped, careful. The city he fought for was a world away from the music that filled this room, and yet it all seemed to hang together in a strange kind of harmony.

"That’s all?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. “I think you’re here for something more.”

His gaze snapped back to hers. There it was again—the sense that she could see past the surface, deeper than anyone ever could. It unsettled him, but it also intrigued him. “Maybe,” he muttered, unsure of himself for the first time in a long while.

The tension between them was palpable, the air thick with unspoken words. He wasn’t sure if it was the quiet understanding between them or the sharp intensity in her eyes, but there was something drawing him closer.

But just as he took a step forward, a shout broke the moment. The tavern door flew open, a man barging in, calling for Silco. Without missing a beat, Silco turned away, his duties pulling him back into the harsh reality of Zaun’s underworld.

The days continued to blur together, their meetings growing more frequent but no less complicated. Silco would walk into the tavern, his footsteps quiet yet purposeful, and find her there—always singing, always in control of the space. Each time he arrived, he found himself drawn to her, to the way she made the chaos around them seem less overwhelming. He never fully understood why he couldn’t stay away, but he couldn’t fight the pull either.

Y/N, for her part, had grown used to his presence. She’d begun to expect it, and yet, the uncertainty between them never quite faded. They never spoke of the growing tension, the attraction that seemed to hover just out of reach. Instead, they spent their time in quiet conversation, sharing moments of silence that spoke louder than words.

=

One evening, as Silco entered the tavern, he noticed a different energy in the air. The usual din of conversations and laughter seemed distant, muted. Y/N was sitting at the bar, a glass of water in hand, but her eyes were distant, as though she were lost in thought. He approached cautiously, his gaze drawn to her.

She looked up when he reached her, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them felt heavier than usual, more palpable.

Finally, Y/N broke the stillness. “I have something to tell you,” she said, her voice soft but firm.

Silco regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. “What is it?”

She hesitated, but then let out a breath, as though she were gathering the courage to share something important. “I’ve been offered a deal,” she said quietly, eyes meeting his. “Piltover wants me to sing at one of their high-profile events. They want me to perform for their elite, for a price that... well, let’s just say it’s more than I’ve ever imagined.”

Silco’s brow furrowed, his gaze hardening. “Piltover?” He couldn’t mask the scepticism in his voice. He knew what Piltover represented to Zaun—oppression, control. He didn’t trust them, not one bit.

Y/N nodded slowly, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her glass. “I know it sounds like a dream, a way out, but it’s not just about the money. It’s a chance to make a name for myself, to reach a wider audience. Something bigger than this... than all of this.” She paused, her voice growing softer. “But the thing is, I don’t want to go alone.”

Silco’s gaze softened, and for a fleeting moment, she could see something unguarded in his eyes. “You want me to go with you?” he asked, his voice low, the weight of his question hanging between them.

Y/N took a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest. “Yes,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I want you to come with me, Silco. Not just to Piltover, but to something more. I don’t want to keep doing this... pretending like everything is just business, like we don’t feel what’s between us.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Silco couldn’t speak. His mind raced, thoughts swirling with the weight of the decision she was asking him to make. Piltover, the city that had never given Zaun a second thought. How could he, the leader of Zaun’s revolution, abandon his people for a life of luxury and fame? He’d always told himself that he couldn’t afford to care about anything beyond the revolution, but now, faced with her words, he wondered if he’d been lying to himself all along.

Y/N’s eyes were searching his, hopeful but uncertain. She could see the conflict in his expression, the way his mind was torn between two worlds.

Finally, Silco spoke, his voice rough, as though the words were difficult to shape. “I can’t. I can’t leave Zaun, not like that. Not for a life of... comfort, no matter how much it might offer.”

She swallowed, a wave of disappointment crashing over her. She had known, somewhere deep down, that this was always going to be the answer. But hearing him say it, hearing the finality in his tone, still stung.

“You have your revolution,” she said softly, her gaze dropping to the table. “And I have my music. I guess that’s just how it’s meant to be, huh?”

Silco didn’t know what to say to that. He couldn’t deny the truth in her words, but it didn’t make the pain any easier to bear. He couldn’t explain the emptiness that filled him as she spoke—empty, yet full of longing, like a part of him was already slipping away.

“You don’t have to make a choice between those things, Y/N,” he said quietly. “But I’ve made mine. This city... it’s everything to me. I can’t just walk away, not now.”

There was a long pause before she spoke again, her voice tinged with sadness but resolute. “I understand. I knew, deep down, you’d choose Zaun over everything else.”

He didn’t reply right away. He couldn’t. The words felt like they’d get stuck in his throat. Instead, he reached for her hand across the table, a rare gesture of tenderness. “But I’ll always be here,” he said softly, his gaze fixed on her. “In my own way.”

Y/N met his gaze, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause, as if the weight of everything they had shared was hanging between them, suspended in time.

“I’ll be here too,” she whispered, though there was a sense of finality in her tone. She would leave for Piltover, pursue her dreams, but she would never forget this—never forget the connection they had. It would always be a part of her.

And so, they sat there for a long while, the space between them both tender and painful, as the world outside continued to move on.

The years had carved their mark on Zaun, and even deeper on its people. The streets, once full of hope, were now a patchwork of broken dreams, dark alleys, and the bitter scent of lost possibilities. Silco, the man who had once fought for the freedom of his people, had become something darker—a king in the shadows. The fire that had once burned in him for a better Zaun was now a cold, calculating flame, fueling his hunger for control. The ideals of revolution had become a distant memory, replaced by the harsh reality of power. His vision for Zaun had transformed into a kingdom built on fear, a system in which loyalty was purchased and trust was a currency few could afford.

Y/N, too, had changed. The girl who had once dreamed of music as a means to heal the broken city had grown into something far more complicated. She had become a celebrated voice, not just in Zaun, but in Piltover as well. Her songs, filled with the cries of the oppressed, had spread like wildfire through the streets, reaching ears in both the gilded halls of Piltover’s elite and the crumbling tenements of Zaun. But as her fame had grown, so had the distance between her and the world she once fought for. The songs that had once been her lifeline, her way of connecting to the people of Zaun, now felt like an echo. The fire in her heart that had once burned with passion had long since dimmed, leaving behind only embers of a love she could never fully shake.

Despite her rise to fame, the city she had once sung for felt increasingly distant, as if it belonged to someone else. She was a symbol, a figurehead of resistance, but she no longer felt that spark of hope she had once had. Her lyrics, filled with the same yearnings for freedom, seemed hollow now. She had become a voice for the voiceless, but even her own voice felt like it was starting to fade into the background of a world she no longer understood.

It was at one of the grandest galas Piltover had ever thrown—a celebration of the wealth and opulence that kept the divide between the cities wider than ever—that Y/N would once again cross paths with the man who had been the fire in her life. The room was glittering with jewels and expensive perfumes, filled with the laughter and chatter of Piltover’s finest, while the streets below pulsed with the ache of injustice. Y/N stood at the side of the stage, her heart heavy as she prepared to perform. The music was her escape, her way to reach across the divide between herself and a world she no longer recognized. But tonight, it was different. The weight of the city, the weight of her past, was pulling her down.

She had known she would be performing at this gala, but she hadn’t expected to feel this pulled, this disconnected. The spotlight was on her, but her mind kept drifting elsewhere—back to Zaun, back to the past she had tried so hard to leave behind. And then, as her voice began to fill the room, her eyes landed on him. Across the hall, standing near the back, was Silco.

He was impossible to miss. Even in the opulence of Piltover, his presence cut through the room like a knife. He stood apart from the crowd, his posture rigid and his eyes cold and calculating. He hadn’t changed much. The sharpness of his features was still the same, though they had grown more weathered over the years, his face harder, as if time had sculpted him into something more unforgiving. The fire that had once driven him to fight for Zaun’s freedom had been replaced by a cold, unyielding resolve. He was no longer the passionate leader of a revolution, but a ruler of something far darker.

For a moment, Y/N faltered, her voice catching in her throat. The lyrics to the song felt heavier, more poignant, as if they carried the weight of everything that had passed between them. She tried to focus on the crowd, to lose herself in the music, but Silco’s gaze burned into her. It was the same gaze he had given her all those years ago—the same look that had once ignited a fire within her. But now, it felt like a distant memory, a ghost of something long lost. The song spilled from her lips, but the words felt different now. They carried the ache of her own yearning, the heaviness of a past she could never escape.

When her set was over, Y/N quickly retreated backstage, her breath shaky. The song had been harder to sing than she’d expected, and the moment she had locked eyes with Silco had only intensified the weight on her chest. She tried to steady her hands, to shake off the remnants of the emotions that still clung to her, but it was impossible. Her heart was still racing, her mind still reeling from the brief moment of connection. She had hoped—no, she had convinced herself—that she could move on. That she could forget him, forget Zaun, forget the dreams they had shared. But seeing him again, standing there as if nothing had changed, shattered that illusion.

She couldn’t ignore it any longer. She had to see him.

=

Later that evening, as the gala continued in full swing, Y/N slipped away from the festivities, her movements quiet and deliberate. She had always been good at disappearing, at slipping into the shadows when she needed to. She made her way through the corridors, away from the prying eyes of Piltover’s elite, and found herself in a quiet, dimly lit alcove. And there, in the half-light, stood Silco.

He hadn’t moved from his spot, and he didn’t seem surprised to see her. He stood as if he owned the shadows, his dark eyes scanning her with that same unreadable expression. He didn’t move, didn’t say a word, but she could feel the years of distance between them in the silence. It wasn’t the reunion she had imagined. She had thought there would be words, maybe anger, maybe even reconciliation. But it was only the weight of what had been—and what could never be again.

“You’re still here,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them. There was a touch of surprise in her voice, but more than that, there was a tinge of something old, something that never quite left. A reminder of the woman she had been before she had let the world break her.

“I never left,” Silco replied smoothly, his voice still as cold as she remembered. “I just changed the way I play the game.”

Y/N’s heart tightened at his words. She had expected bitterness, maybe even anger, but his calmness felt like something else—a finality, a resignation. He had moved on. He had become something else entirely, something she no longer recognized. She had expected to find a version of Silco who still fought for Zaun’s freedom, a man who still cared for the city they had once dreamed of saving together. But instead, she saw a man who had become lost to it all. The revolution was over. The dream had died, and Silco had buried it along with everything else.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” she said, her voice carrying the weight of all those years she had spent trying to forget him. She had left Zaun, left him, and in her mind, she had thought that would be the end of it. But here he was, standing before her like some ghost of her past, and the truth was—she hadn’t ever really left him behind.

Silco’s lips curled into a half-smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “You left Zaun behind. But Zaun never really leaves anyone, does it?”

Her chest tightened. He was right. No matter how far she had gone, no matter how much she had changed, Zaun was still there. It was in her music. In the air she breathed. In the choices she had made. She had tried to outrun it, to escape the city and the people who still haunted her, but Zaun was never far behind. She had tried to outrun the woman she had been, but the past always had a way of catching up.

“You’re still the same,” she said softly, the bitterness creeping into her words. “You still think you can change the world by controlling it.”

“And you still think you can change it with songs,” Silco retorted, his tone sharp but not unkind. “But what good are songs when they’re only heard by those who already agree with you?”

Y/N flinched, the words stinging more than she cared to admit. But the truth of them struck deep. What had she been singing for? Who had she really been singing for? She had tried to fight for a better Zaun, but now, after everything, she wasn’t sure what she was fighting for anymore. What had once felt like a cause worth dying for had become a hollow echo of itself.

“You’ve changed, Silco,” she whispered, her voice softer now. “You’ve become something else. Something I don’t know if I can still reach.”

Silco stepped closer, his eyes darkening. “I’ve always been something else, Y/N. I just didn’t know it until I had to.”

Y/N shook her head, the memories of what they had been—what they had meant to each other—flashing through her mind. “I wanted to believe in you,” she admitted quietly. “I wanted to believe in us. But we were never what I thought we were.”

Silco’s gaze softened for the briefest moment, but it was gone just as quickly. “What does it matter now?” he asked, his voice low. “We’ve both sacrificed. We’ve both made choices. There’s no going back.”

A silence fell between them, heavy with the years of distance, the unspoken words, the pain of everything left unresolved. Y/N felt the weight of it press down on her chest, the realization that they were both no longer the people they had been. There was no turning back. There was no way to recapture the dreams they had shared, no way to fix the broken pieces of what they had lost.

But then, as if the years of silence between them had suddenly shifted, Y/N took a step forward, her voice trembling but steady. “I don’t know if I can let go of what we were. What we could have been. I don’t know if I can forget you.”

Silco’s expression faltered for the briefest of moments, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. “I never wanted you to forget me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I never wanted to lose you.”

For a long moment, they stood there in the quiet, two people caught between past and present, torn between what they had once been and what they had become. There were no more words left to say, no more promises to be made. The past was gone, and with it, the hope they had once shared.

In the end, all that remained was the weight of their choices—and the silence that had grown between them.

[atomsforthewin]

Couldn't leave that alone.

(This is a first draft. I will polish it properly and post it to ao3 later, but I thought I would honour the request here first.)

@guy-gardners-shapely-ass there you go

—

It starts on the Qlipoth. Or rather, at the bottom of it. Or maybe in that disgusting throne room half way up. Who is to say, really.

It starts because Dante can't do it. He can't. Not again.

The thing left of his brother, a cruel visage sneering about weakness and the might of unending power, sneers down on him and the hollow pit in his belly lames his arms. Locks the muscles of his legs and freezes the breath in his lungs. There is barely any humanity left in that gaze, only the faintest glimmer of sanity flickering in its depts. Still, Dante finds himself desperately searching, hoping for any tiny hint of what once was.

But there is nothing to find, isn't there. Vergil has finally succeeded what he has always desired. Finally shed himself of the last vestiges of humanity holding him back.

Only a monster to be vanquished is left behind. Only a little brother to vanquish it.

But, how could he possibly do it again?

He can't. He can't he can't he can't and it costs him far too much.

So weak. Always so weak. Foolish little brother never measuring up, always tossed aside for more important things.

He tries. Tries even more when the fucking kid shows up and Dante looses his breath to terror. He tries so hard, even though there is no space for him to succeed. How can he pick up his sword against Vergil again, when his twin's death lies so heavily on his consciousness already. But still, for Nero he tries. For Nero he has to try, because if nothing else he has to spare him this. If Dante can't do anything else right, then let him do this. Let him at least protect Nero from this cruel fate.

So he gets back up, again and again, as many times as Vergil knocks him down. Fights, for Nero, for Lady and Trish, for Morrison and all the people depending on him to stop the newest monster. And in the middle of it all, between a guard too flimsy and a swing to wide, his heart misses a beat. The shock of the miss is painful, but ultimately negligible. Dante has other things to concentrate on. Like the fact that the kid is only barely out of the room, still in danger. Like the fact that his friends are getting swallowed by ugly disgusting vines and that there is screaming from outside and that it feels like the world is burning to the ground while Urizen laughs a cruel mockery and tosses him around like a toy.

He tries. He fails. And somewhere in there, maybe, there are a few other missed beats. He can't say, too distracted.

—

No wait, that's wrong, it starts much earlier. Far, far earlier, on another towering height with only them at the top. A sharp, icy glide right through his chest, pinning him to the ground like a bug.

But that's not the important bit.

—

It continues as he lies in the crater his body made upon impact, a sea of destruction around him in another city destroyed for power. Try as he might, he cannot muster a single bit of will to get up. Utterly insensate to anything but the burning knowledge that he failed and that there is no way for him to succeed, even if he tries again.

The simply truth is that he can't do it. He can't and it will doom everyone else. The blood of hundreds, thousands stains his hands, Nero's and Lady's and Trish's and everyone falling to the bloodthristy vines that feed his brother's obsession. Drowning him until he chokes on it all. The truth is so stark and brutally devastating that it steals his breath from his lungs, the feelings from his limbs. Here he is, lying in a crator of his own failure, alone and weak and wishing so desperately for everything to end, physically and mentally too exhausted to care.

He failed. Utterly and completely.

And doomed anyone counting on him to stop Vergil once again.

His heart skips a beat. Then another and a third. Each miss is painful, chest spasming in agonising hitches.

He is so exhausted.

Just a moment, the insidious voice in his mind that has been his dearest companion for so long had whispers. Let's just rest for a moment.

Let's be weak for this one moment.

—

"If only you never existed..."

Wouldn't that be nice.

"then I..."

Please.

The Sparda stabs into the ground right beside his cheek, so close Dante can feel the sharp edge of it burning across his skin in a whispered caress. Just a hairs breath to the left and it would have cleaved into his skin. For a moment he is crushingly disappointed that it didn't. That it didn't hit him head on and ended his sorry existence for good. He lays there, looks up into rage filled eyes and wonders why he continues to be alive. It really would be better if he just… stopped. Everyone would be better off.

Then the parrot screeches and the world reasserts itself. He gets up. Grabs the Sparda. Gets a move on, because he has to. No rest for the wicked and Dante is the most wicked of them all. And if his heart aches and trembles the whole way, well. It's been doing that his whole life long, that's really nothing to write home about, isn't it.

A fast pace leaves the man and his cursed pets behind, barely even acknowledging their presence. He does not think about the words. About all the little hints and mannerisms and familiarities. Certainly doesn't follow the trail of breadcrumbs to the inevitable conclusions. Can't. Instead he simply tracks on, up to the house crumbling atop the hill, hands shaking enough to rattle the Sparda on his shoulders until he grits his teeth and forces the tornado in his heart back into its little box to be locked away once again.

There is a pressure in his chest, pain sparking in his limbs and his left hand cramps at his side until he shakes it out.

—

Certainly, stabbing himself straight through the sternum does not help. Not after all the other times.

But he gains the power he needs. The power to protect the little sanity and goodness that is left of Eva's blood. That's gotta be worth it, surely.

—

His heart thumps too fast in his chest, each beat a painful staccato flashing across his senses. He grits his teeth against it, forces down the dizzying exhaustion dragging at his bones and the soul-crushing grief that lames him even more. Dante knows that he won't survive this confrontation with his brother, even as he calls for the end. Of course he won't. He couldn't even fight Urizen properly, how is he supposed to actually do so against Vergil himself?

But he also can't not. Not if the kid is on the line. Really, the kid is the only thing keeping him standing right now. Fucking hilarious, considering how much Dante tried to keep him at arms lengths. And now here he is, the only thought in his head the determination to spare Nero the fate of having to kill his father. And maybe, to spare Vergil the fate of killing his son. Really, it's enough if Dante has the blood of family on his hands. This whole thing needs to die with him.

He charges, at the exact same time as Vergil. Between one beat of the heart and the next they cross the distance between them, blades ready to rend each other apart. Or at leat Vergil's. Dante himself isn't really sure what he intends to do.

The second beat never comes. There is no second beat, even as the Yamato closes in. The absence is like a gong in his head, echoing in his mind as he watches the Katana cut through he air lightning fast, a deadly elegant line straight for him. Intent to once again spear him through.

It's so perversely familiar, but his heart has stopped beating.

By the next missing beat Nero is there, right in the middle of them, and before Dante can react he gets socked and he falls back because his limbs are going numb, trigger shattering around him because he is too busy trying to breath to keep it up and his heart is still not beating.

For a split second he blacks out, vision going white and ears filled with static. Then reality reasserts itself and his heart is beating again, thumping along too fast and irregular but at least it's doing something.

Nero is glowering at Vergil. Shouting at him, at them both, Dante is pretty sure, but he is too preoccupied to pay attention.

What was that?

—

Dante jumps first.

There were a few more skipped beats, most notably when Vergil got too aggressive with Nero or when his twin barely hinted at returning to hell, or when Nero got that look in his eyes when Dante told him they would both go to hell instead of staying up here with him. He feels shame for that, for leaving the kid behind. But he can't let Vergil go alone, is utterly incapable of it. His heart beats far too weakly in his chest and his fingers go numb with terror when he even thinks about it.

So he thinks an apology to him, and jumps before his brother, because he knows he wouldn't survive the sight of Vergil going first.

—

Once, when he was young and bored and trying to swindle the good drugs out of a doctor's pocket, Dante read a pamphlet in a waiting room. He remembers them. All the sign of a heart attack it listed.

Painful, tight chest. Dizziness. Irregular heartbeat. Loss of feeling. Exhaustion and short breath. Excess sweating.

Hah. Check, check, check.

He doesn't think about it.

—

Surprisingly, only a few skipped beats happen while they are down in hell. Probably because he and Vergil never actually talk about their issues while there. Just beat the snot out of each other a few times and kill even more demons and try their hand at some demonic gardening, which they are surprisingly good at.

It's a kind of limbo, neither acknowledging what stands between them. Content to let combat ebb and flow around them and through them until they are both too exhausted to stand straight and decide to go home.

—

It comes back, when they leave hell. Figures.

After what feels like months they drag their sorry carcasses out of hell, by some miracle tumbling out near the shop. Hurrah for the Yamato. And working together to amass enough energy to actually cut a portal out of hell. Dante more or less collapses into the shower, barely able to hold himself up. Exhaustion lines his every limb and he nearly nods off under the spray until Vergil bangs on the door and demands his own turn. He barely sorts out some place for his brother to sleep, someone cleaned and made up all the rooms and he is ethernally thankful not to come home to a mess, and then faceplants into his bed, out like a light.

Hilariously enough, it's Patty that finds them the next morning. Or maybe the morning after that, Dante has no clue how long they have slept, just knows it's not enough and he doesn't appreciate the rude and slightly shrill wake up call. Despite his rest he still feels like shit. Nausea swirls in his belly and his chest burns in a way he can't shake. His jaw feels too tight. When he blearily lifts his head out of the pillow, he grimaces at the way the cotton sticks to his skin, his skin damp with sweat. Ugh, disgusting.

"Dante!" Patty screams, throwing his door open with enough force to have it clash into the wall beside it. Another dent, then.

Dante barely has enough time to sit up before she is on him, arms wrapping around his neck like she is trying to strangle him.

"Hey," he says, and ignores the way his heart skips another beat when she starts crying on him.

Oh shit, no. He is so bad with crying.

—

It somehow gets worse with every new face to greet him. He ignores it as best he can. His demon will take care of it.

Hopefully.

—

Life goes on, even if his heart sometimes dances to an uncomfortable rhythm now.

He and Vergil tiptoe around each other, never quite sure how to reconnect and always missing the right connection when they try.

Nero is rightfully angry at them both.

Dante has more family than he ever had since he was eight, and still feels alone.

His heart burns to the thought.

—

It ends, when they visit Nero. Fitting, in a way.

The feeling doesn't go away, no matter how much he hopes for it. Aches and pains and exhaustion a steady companion to him now. It's vaguely familiar for the way it feels like the dreaded apathy of before that always stole all his energy, but this is completely physical. It's wrong, weird. He shouldn't have physical problems, his demon should take care of them. But here he is, feeling like a deprecit old man. Barely over fourty and his body is a wreck, held together with duck tape, alcohol, and a grim sort of determination to see it through to the end. And isn't it the end? A little bit? Well, not really, but kind of.

The ladies have mostly taken over the shop in his absence, handling it just fine without him. Patty excitedly tells him about college. Morrison has retired, determined not to go through "this shit again". Nero and Kyrie, and Nico, successfully manage the mobile branch and a bunch of foster kids on top.

Vergil has shown no interest in any other excursions of mass murder. Has been surprisingly docile even, seemingly content to map out a life in the human world once again and building a relationship with his son. In the beginning they dragged him along along, to play mediator and buffer until they get to know each other. He doesn't mind, owes it to them both, really. But the longer that goes on, the more he feels like a third wheel intruding in their family. It's not his place to be here, he thinks. Not after what he did.

It leaves Dante feeling stranded, and a little bit in the way of everyone. Too much is changing, has changed, and he can't keep up.

Maybe there is no need for him to keep up. His chest aches with the thought, attention wandering down well trodded dark paths he can't ever really shake. His fingers go numb again. It's stupid. His life has never been better. All the changes are for the better. For once no one is trying to kill anyone, everyone is mostly getting along. He should be happy. But try as he might, he can't.

He doesn't really know what happens, in the end. One second he is standing awkwardly to the side, feeling like an intruder while his brother and nephew try to make some kind of small talk even though they both are so utterly shit at it. The next he is on his back, blinking up at the sky. He can't feel his left arm. Somehow, that's the most disturbing thing about this whole thing. His heart skips and skitters in his chest, like a bird trying to get out, and he can't quite breath anymore, pain radiating through his chest, up to his jaw to lock it shut, sweat trickles at his neck.

Vaguely he sees Kyrie hover over him, a concerned look in her eyes, but he can't seem to focus on her. His vision goes in and out of focus, in rhythm with his heart that goes ever slower.

He thinks he sees Vergil join her, but by that time he is already too far gone to be sure.

—

They actually call a doctor on him. Well, Kyrie does. Putting her foot over them all.

A weak heart, said doctor says. Too much abuse not healed properly, even with a demon's magic.

Hah. Now that's funny as hell. Too soft hearted indeed. Turns out his twin was right all along.

Vergil doesn't appreciate it when Dante points it out to him, just scowls and shoves him back down into the bed.

So turns out getting stabbed in the heart again and again and never taking proper care to heal and recover is not good for the health. Devil Arms doing far more harm than anything else ever could, especially ones of Sparda make. A lifetime of alcohol abuse and punishing use of a body only half made up of demonic resilience doesn't help either. Seems the glaring rip in his chest when he triggers isn't normal, or a good sign of demonic health either.

His heart, always far too human, has given out on him.

Dante would laugh himself silly about it, but when he does his chest goes tight and he ends up with excruciating coughing fits that never seem to end and have everyone panicking around him like headless chickens.

Mmm, let me offer something diabolical. Dante with actual chest or heart problems after being stabbed so many times in chest/heart. You can’t tell me there couldn’t be some kinda actual lasting damages or side effects.

Also take into account the chest of his Sin Devil trigger, could be a more telling sign of the issues. Most don’t know probably but I feel like some days his chest feels like it’s collapsing and he can’t move.

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

SILLY LITTLE BAT

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Platonic! Batfamily x Anti-Hero! Fem!reader.

sinopsis ⸺ In the shadowed halls of Wayne Manor, a girl lost among the darkness seeks the connection she never had. Her mother, a kleptomaniac with a broken heart, vanished, leaving only echoes of empty promises. Surrounded by a family that never sees her, her pain turns into a deafening silence. The void left by her past traps her in a limbo of solitude and sorrow.

One dark night, seeking her own way, she became what she once despised. Now, like the albino bat rejected by its own flock, she flies alone in the twilight. Her pale skin glows in the dark, but her heart still yearns for the warmth of a home she never came to know.

warnings ⸺ Dark Themes, Dead, murdering,Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Discrimination, Violence, Blood, LGBT Content, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Implicit Sexual Content, Mental Illness, Addiction, Suicide, Torture, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Phobias, Paranoia, Manipulation

Chapter Guide! Pt 2. Pt 3. Pt4

A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is—so there might be some grammar or spelling mistakes here and there. This is the first part of a story I’m writing for a friend (Isabel, I love you, you brat), and also an experiment to see what it’s like to write on Tumblr. Please support me! :"((

Nobody is coming to save you

Get up.

Your mother was not a good woman, and that was an undeniable fact, heavy as the shadow that covers Gotham City at nightfall. She was a creature of the underworld, one among the specters that wandered under the yoke of crime, walking among dangerous names like Selina Kyle or Harleen Quinzel, yet always remaining in the background, never reaching their fame or infamy.

She was nothing more than a kleptomaniac and a mythomaniac, doomed to live by cunning and deceit. She took advantage of the men who crossed her path, from the lowest criminals, like The Penguin, to the most powerful man in the city: Bruce Wayne.

You never called him Dad. To you, he was always Bruce, and on the rare occasions you addressed him, you did so with distant formality, "Mr. Wayne." Richard, your adoptive brother, found in him a father figure, while to you, he was just another shadow in the mansion, that huge, cold house you arrived at after your mother’s death.

You remember how, time and again, you tried to warn your mother to stop stealing, to stop lying, that those dark paths would inevitably lead her to Arkham Asylum, surrounded by all the lunatics you feared so much, or even worse: to death. But she always responded with a playful smile, stroking your head with her delicate hands, adorned with stolen jewelry and crude tattoos. "Those are just fantasies of an eight-year-old girl," she would say sweetly, while her ring-laden fingers assured you that you needn’t worry, "I will always come back for you," she promised, "because you are the only thing more valuable than any diamond I’ve ever held."

But the cruel truth was that was the last time you saw her. That night she left, and she never returned. It was then that the last vestiges of innocence faded with her absence. From that moment on, you ceased to be a child.

And that was one of the few things you understood with absolute clarity. There were no more empty promises, no more caresses tinged with lies. All that remained was the silence of a life fading away, like a stolen jewel that never returns to its rightful owner.

The only thing you knew after calling the police when your mother didn’t show up after two days was that they found her corpse in a back alley far from Gotham, showing signs of having been beaten and bruised by some underground gang.

Commissioner Gordon searched the entire house for illicit substances and signs of debts to mobsters, but he only ended up finding documents, stolen jewelry, and letters from your mother that were never sent, and most importantly, DNA evidence implicating that the city’s millionaire was your biological father.

From then on, your life was stained with eternal gray, that muted shade that erased all traces of light or shadow. There was no more white or black, only a silent fog that, day by day, enveloped you and dragged you into a madness that seemed inevitable. Gotham itself seemed more alive than the place you called home, although "home" was never the right word.

You didn’t love any of the Wayne family members. Bruce, your biological father, never listened to you. To him, you were always just another shadow, a ghost in the vast mansion that he prioritized over his other children, his "true" heirs. There was always something more important, something more urgent, and your presence faded among the cold walls and the echo of his hurried footsteps. With each passing day, you became more invisible to him, as if your very existence were a mistake he preferred to ignore.

Richard, the perfect brother, was kind on some occasions. He spoke to you courteously, but when you needed him, when you asked him to attend one of your performances, there was always an excuse, something that kept him away, as if your passion and accomplishments were insignificant details in his heroic life.

Jason, on the other hand, despised you from the start. He saw you as an intruder, a child of gold—but not of that pure and valuable gold, but of a dirty and false one, which he always mocked with disdain. And although you never cared for him, when he died, silent tears rolled down your face. It wasn’t out of love, but out of respect for what he represented, for the brutal reality of his fall.

Tim, in contrast, was the most indifferent. To him, you were a nobody, so irrelevant that you weren’t even worth a glance. Spending time with his friends or being the Robin of the moment mattered more than you did. You lived on his periphery, in a limbo where neither your name nor your face seemed to exist.

Cassandra, Stephanie, Barbara… at least they treated you with politeness, but you knew they didn’t really remember who you were. They saw you, smiled at you out of obligation, but deep down you knew they had no idea of your name, your story, your struggle to be more than a shadow in that world.

The worst of all was Damian, your younger half-brother. When he arrived at the mansion, Alfred introduced him to you with that serene formality he always had, and you, driven by an almost desperate impulse, tried to reach out to him. You wanted to offer him the support and affection of an older sister, that warmth you would have longed for in his situation. But all you received in return was a cold response: a katana piercing your abdomen. I wish I could say it was just a metaphor, but no, that wound was as real as the blade that cut your skin.

You would have liked to think that the pain was symbolic, that Damian had only rejected your affection with harsh words or his usual arrogance. But no, it was much more than that. The only thing you received in exchange for your attempt at fraternal love was a stab, a scar you still carry not only on your body but also in your soul. Because in that brutal gesture, you understood that the blood that united you also separated you, sharper than any weapon. And that was how you tried to connect.

You strived to stand out, to learn, to shine in your own ambitions, wishing that your success would be enough to earn you a place, a bit of affection. But no matter how hard you tried, it was never enough. Your talent crashed against indifference, your achievements faded into the air, as if they had no weight in the lives of others.

The only light, the only beacon in that storm of gray, was Alfred. The only one who smiled at you with genuine tenderness, the only one you truly loved. To you, he was the real father, the one who was always there, expecting nothing in return, offering you a silent but firm love. You did call him father, and his presence was the only thing that kept your sanity, the only thing preventing the gray from consuming you completely.

But even that love, so genuine and deep, was not enough to fill the void that your own family left you. And in that void, you continue to float, trapped between the girl you were and the woman you are trying to be, searching for a place you can truly call home.

Y/n's small room, though modest, had always been her refuge. The walls were adorned with unfinished sketches, trophies from various activities, and some paintings she had completed with dedication, showcasing her passion for both manual and performing arts.

The dawn light filtered softly through the curtains, bathing the space in golden tones, giving it a warmth that contrasted with the coldness of the rest of Wayne Manor.

On the desk, a small cake rested on a plate, simple yet made with love. Beside it, Alfred, with his usual understated elegance, watched Y/n with a mixture of nostalgia and concern. He, the only one who seemed to remember her birthday, offered her a delicate professional drawing set, wrapped in smooth, elegant paper.

"Happy birthday, Miss," Alfred said with a gentle smile, although his eyes reflected a sadness that was hard to conceal. "I know how much you love art, so I thought this would be helpful for your new projects."

Y/n took the gift in her hands with a genuine smile. It had been so hard for her to find moments of joy lately, but Alfred's gesture filled her with a warmth in her chest that she hadn't experienced in a long time. She placed the gift into one of the many brown boxes she had prepared for her upcoming move.

"Thank you, Alfred. It's perfect," she said, examining the set carefully, as if each detail were a reminder of the affection he held for her. "It will help me a lot... although, well," she sighed, as if searching for the right words. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that." Alfred raised an eyebrow, attentive, as she continued, glancing at the small space that had been her home within the vast mansion.

"Today... today is not just my birthday. It's the day I leave here." Her voice was firm, yet there was a sense of liberation in it, as if this were a long-awaited step. "I am finally no longer a Wayne. I go back to being a L/n."

Silence filled the room for a moment, heavy and dense. Alfred clasped his hands, striving to maintain his composure.

"Miss, I can't help but feel a certain unease hearing this. Are you sure this is what you want? This house, though empty in many ways, has always been your home..."

"Home?" Y/n looked at him with a mix of sadness and determination. "This house has never been my home, Alfred. Not like it was for Dick, nor even for Bruce. I have always been a stranger here, the daughter of a woman who never fit into this world, the bastard child. My mother taught me to find my own path, to not cling to what doesn’t belong to me... and being here, being called Wayne, has never belonged to me." Alfred sighed softly, turning his gaze toward the window. He knew there was truth in her words, but that didn’t lessen the pain of her leaving. "I know it’s hard to understand," Y/n continued, "but for the first time in a long time, I feel happy, Alfred. I’ve graduated, college is just around the corner, and I want to start anew. I want to find what truly makes me, me... not what others expect of me."

The old butler remained silent for a few moments, nodding slowly. He knew he couldn't retain her, that it was not his place to interfere in the young woman's dreams. But still, he couldn’t help but feel a pang in his heart at the thought of the house being even emptier without her. "I just wish you find what you’re looking for, Miss. And if you ever need a place to return to... this door will always be open for you."

Y/n stepped closer to him, gently hugging him, something she had rarely done. "Thank you, Alfred," she whispered against his shoulder. "You will always be my family, but I need this. I need to discover who I am outside of this last name."

The old butler felt the lump in his throat as he tightened the embrace a little longer before letting her go. He knew that deep down, she was doing the right thing. But that didn’t make it hurt any less to see her leave.

"Alfred, can you call the movers? I’ll be leaving tonight," Y/n said as she closed the last box with trembling hands, her gaze lost in the empty corners of the room she once considered her refuge. The butler, ever serene, nodded with his unwavering calmness.

"Don't worry, Miss, I assure you they will be here on time." His voice was soft, almost an echo of the ancient walls of the mansion, as if he himself were part of that structure that had seen so many comings and goings, so many lives broken and healed in silence.

Alfred turned halfway to leave, but Y/n's voice stopped him, broken yet sweet, like a melody at sunset. "Alfred..."

The man turned slowly, his eyes filled with paternal warmth, though always contained behind a formal gesture. "Yes, Miss?" he replied, with that tranquility that had always brought Y/n peace in her worst moments.

She took a breath, feeling how the words she had kept for so long fought to come out, to break the shell she had built since childhood. "I’ve never told you, but... thank you. Thank you for being the father I never had, for being there when no one else was."

For a moment, the silence in the room was heavier than all the accumulated boxes, deeper than any word. Alfred, who had been a witness to so many confessions and secrets in that house, stood still, his eyes shining with an emotion he rarely showed. "Miss," he murmured, his voice slightly choked, "it was an honor and a privilege to take care of you. If I ever gave you anything close to what you deserved, then my life has had true purpose."

Y/n smiled sadly, nodding slowly. "You did, Alfred. You did. And for that, I will always carry you with me, even if I leave here."

The butler slightly bowed his head in respect, swallowing any emotion that might betray his composure. "Wherever you go, you will always have a home here, Miss."

"I know," she said, though in her heart, she knew she wouldn’t return.

And as Alfred left the room to make the call, Y/n let out a long sigh, as if with it, she were leaving behind a part of herself, a part she could no longer carry with her.

Life in Gotham is like constantly walking on the edge of a razor blade. The city never sleeps, always alert, always dangerous, and for someone with the Wayne surname, the risks multiply. It has been a year since you left the mansion, trying to erase any ties that bound you to that life, desperately wishing the name would fade into the echo of the dirty streets and crumbling buildings. But it's not that easy. The name Wayne remains an indelible mark that the media and the people of Gotham refuse to let fade. The forgotten child, the silent accident of billionaire Bruce Wayne. And although you try to live as if you don’t exist under that shadow, the weight of the legacy haunts you.

You left with little, barely enough money to rent a small apartment in one of the worst corners of the city. You share the space with a friend, a plant-loving girl who has filled every nook of the place with leaves and pots, as if trying to make green defy the constant darkness of Gotham. You get along well with her; her love for nature is almost an antithesis to the chaos of the city, and she has taught you that even in the hardest concrete, something can bloom. She always accompanied you on the coldest, loneliest nights, giving you a warmth that, although ethereal, was very welcome. But still, life is not easy. You barely survive, spending the little you have on cheap food and paying the rent. There are days when the cold seeps through the poorly sealed windows, and you wonder if it was really better to be in the mansion instead of this little trench. However, you prefer this rough freedom to the soulless luxury of Wayne Manor.

Freedom, however, comes at a price. It wasn't enough to distance yourself, to change your life, or even to always carry a knife for defense. Gotham does not forget. People recognize you in the shadows, whisper your name, and approach you, sometimes with curiosity and other times with disdain. You have been beaten more than once. Some just for being a Wayne, others because they think they can extort you, even though they have no idea you can barely get by. The scars on your body bear witness to those beatings, but you refuse to give up. You get up every morning, despite the pain, and continue on your way. You don’t need Batman. You don’t need Bruce. You learned long ago that he wouldn't come to save you.

That night, like so many others, you were heading to the subway for your night shift, with the hood of your coat covering your face, trying to go unnoticed. The sound of the tracks echoed in your ears, a constant reminder of the city's hustle. You had gotten used to walking fast, avoiding eye contact, as if each step was a small battle won against the city. But this time, something was different.

"So it was true, the little Wayne girl is roaming the city... how lovely." The raspy, mocking voice rang out beside you, cutting through the heavy air of the train station. The man speaking wore a suit that, at first glance, seemed elegant, but there was something about his extreme thinness, his skin clinging to his bones and his disheveled hair, that made him look more like a specter of Gotham than a distinguished figure. A ghost from the shadows that had stalked you since you set foot on the streets.

If it weren't for his gaunt appearance and unsettling aura, you might have mistaken him for one of your father's employees. "I'm not a Wayne anymore," you said disdainfully, your voice sharp like the edge of a dagger refusing to be touched. "If you want money, I don’t have any. And Mr. Wayne wouldn’t give a cent for me either."

Your gaze drifted to the station clock. 8 minutes until the train that would take you away from this corner of Gotham, far from the shadows and faces that always seemed to recognize you.

The man let out a dry, raspy laugh that sent chills down your spine. "I don’t want your money, pretty girl," he replied, moving closer, invading your space with the same familiarity that Gotham’s filth slipped into every corner. "You’re worth more than that." You felt his calloused, scarred hand rest on your hip, with a pressure that was neither violent nor friendly. The contact filled you with disgust.

7 minutes.

You clenched your fist, your jaw tight as you struggled to maintain your composure. "I don’t want sex either, idiot," you spat, your words loaded with contained fury. Your hand subtly slid toward your bag, where your knife lay, waiting to be used.

6 minutes.

The man didn’t flinch. In fact, he let out a low, mocking laugh. "And I don’t want that either, little girl," he murmured, his cold, deep blue eyes scrutinizing you as if they could read every dark corner of your soul. "I want something more from you."

5 minutes.

"What do you want then?" you asked, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady, even as the ice of fear began to creep down your spine. Your eyes scrutinized him, searching his gaze for any hint of his true intentions, but all you saw was darkness.

4 minutes.

He let out a long, chilling laugh, tightening his grip on your hip. "Do you know what I want, Y/n?"

3 minutes.

His voice dropped, as if his words were a cursed secret the wind refused to carry away. "I want you."

2 minutes.

The world seemed to stop. You knew there was no time to run. There was no time to pull out the knife or to scream. It was as if the clock itself had conspired against you, reducing those last minutes to mere seconds.

1 minute.

The blow was sharp, a flash of excruciating pain at the back of your head. The cold metal of the station, the hum of the city, everything faded abruptly. The last thought that crossed your mind, before the world vanished into darkness, was that this time, you didn’t expect Batman to save you. It wasn’t a mere thief or a street threat that was taking you.

Gotham, with all its cruelty, always had new ways to remind you that there is no escape.

That night, when the Gotham subway stopped at the station, there was no one to pick up.

The mansion felt emptier than ever, like a deserted and cold labyrinth, where each hallway seemed to stretch into an infinite tunnel, devouring the light.

The silence was overwhelming, an oppression that enveloped every corner, as if even the ancient walls had run out of words. It was so heavy that the few who remained in the mansion couldn’t help but move uncomfortably, trying to fill that void with something, anything.

Bruce Wayne walked through those same hallways with a strange feeling, as if something was missing, though he didn’t know what. An unease, a persistent discomfort that he couldn’t shake off.

He had been like this for months, with that absence haunting his mind, a gap he couldn't identify. And then, suddenly, like a gust of icy wind, the truth struck him.

You.

His daughter.

His little daughter.

How long had it been since he last saw you? When was the last time he heard your laughter, the one that always seemed too sarcastic, too filled with resentment? He stopped abruptly, frowning. Why couldn’t he remember you? He couldn’t bring to mind a clear image of your face, not even how you used to look at him... why? How could he have forgotten you like that?

Damn.

It was as if time had stopped. It had been a year, maybe more, since he had really thought about you. He felt a pang of guilt pierce his chest, a heavy, silent guilt that dragged him into the abyss of his own negligence. Not knowing what else to do, he began to check the rooms, one after another.

Each door he opened was another blow to his conscience. Where was your room? The more he searched, the more confused he felt. The mansion was enormous, but how could he have forgotten where you slept? How was it possible that he didn’t know where you lived in the house where both of you grew up? Had you been here all this time?

Each door he opened was identical to the last, as if all the rooms had fused into one.

None showed a trace of you.

None seemed to have a hint of your presence. Didn’t you decorate your room? He thought frantically, didn’t you even mark it as yours? Panic began to take hold of him. Anxiety wrapped around him like a fist tightening on his chest. Were you still living in the mansion? Or had you left without saying a word, like a shadow fading at dawn? But... no, you hadn’t mentioned anything. You hadn’t said you were leaving. Or had you? And if you had, why didn’t he remember? How could he have ignored you for so long that now he didn’t even know if you were still under the same roof?

“Ah!” he exclaimed in a whisper, unable to contain the dread he felt.

Frustration consumed him from within. He stopped in the middle of the hallway, breathing heavily, and the echo of his voice faded into the empty walls. He tried to remember something, anything about you, about the last time they spoke, about how you were... but everything was blurry, as if his mind was betraying him, hiding you behind an impenetrable fog.

How could he have forgotten so much?

He brought his hands to his head, trying to calm himself, but only felt more confusion, more desperation. The mansion, which had once been his home, now felt like a strange and foreign place.

Had you been the one who made it feel like home? The question echoed in his mind, but he had no answer. Just more questions. More uncertainties. Finally, he let his arms fall, exhausted. He had checked almost all the rooms and had found not a trace of you. Not a clue. Not a sign that you had been there. And at that moment, something dark and painful began to settle in his heart.

Had you ever really been there?

Then something caught his attention as he passed by the cleaning room. In a dusty corner, next to a forgotten bag, something was protruding. Something small, old, and faded. He bent down and pulled it from the dirty clothes. It was a stuffed animal, or what was left of one. The faded black of its suit left no doubt. It was a figure of Batman, but worn down by time, battered to the point of looking forgotten.

Bruce's eyes were fixed on the small piece of fabric hanging from the doll's neck. A tag.

Your name.

Your name, handwritten, in ink that was already fading.

Bruce felt a lump in his throat, a mix of guilt and rage. How could he have forgotten something so important?

He clutched the doll tightly, as if doing so would return a piece of you to him, but instead of comfort, he only felt more emptiness. Where were you? He ran to Alfred, who looked at him with a mix of concern and pity.

"Alfred..." Bruce said, his voice breaking. "Where is she? Where is my daughter?"

The butler, with his always serene face, seemed to age suddenly. A long silence settled between them, as if time was fading away. "Mr. Bruce, I didn’t mean to..." Alfred lowered his gaze. "I didn’t want to burden you with that truth, but... it’s time you know."

Bruce felt a chill run down his spine. Truth? What truth?

"She left almost a year ago. She didn’t say where. She just... she took all her belongings, though they weren’t many, and left. She said she didn’t want to be a burden. That you and the other family members had too many things to worry about."

Bruce took a step back, as if the words had physically struck him. Did she have enough age to leave? A burden? Never, not for a second, did he think that of you, of his little daughter who, even though she wasn’t wanted, he embraced under his wing just like Damian.

You were never a burden.

...or were you?

No, he refused to acknowledge it; he just... he hadn’t spent time with you because Gotham needed him!

But when you needed him, where was Batman?

Where was Bruce Wayne when his only biological daughter needed him?

"Alfred, do you know anything about Y/n?" the hero asked, worry clear on his face.

Alfred didn’t look at him; he only stared into nothingness. "...I haven’t heard anything about her for two months...

And honestly... I'm starting to think...

that she might be lost to us forever..."

A/N — This is definitely apart from being my first official Tumblr post, it is also my first DC post and especially the first from the Lord of the Night xD

Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.

Isabel, I dedicate this to you, my love. Eat more to be well, you fucking anorexic, don't suck.

take a bath!

inspiration: @acid-ixx with his Again & Again series, @gotham-daydreams' work, @i-cant-sing's work and @klemen-tine's work, be sure to check them out!

[leighsartworks216]

Sunrise

Sylus x gn!Reader

Been rotting today so this is how I'm coping ✌️

Warnings: fluff, domestic fluff, silly, established relationship, cuddling, kissing, literal sleeping together, swearing, suggestive themes, insecurity, references to depression

Word Count: 1,268

Main Masterlist

First - Second - Third LADS Masterlists

AO3

Tag List Form

The sun is now, officially, above the horizon. And while it doesn't shine very bright here in the N109 Zone and its shroud of eternal darkness, Sylus's internal clock is well attuned to its presence.

He sighs as he plucks his glasses from his face and sets them aside with the book he was reading. It's one he sees you pick up often, though he can't tell if it's for the charming slice-of-life moments, the love interest that sounds very similar to himself, or the toe-curling imagery of their (very, very frequent) copulation. Either way, it's a way to pass the time for those last few hours before bed.

At these hours, when night turns to day, and again when day turns to night, a sort of trade off happens. He slips into bed, holds you, speaks with you softly as you wake up and he drifts off; or you tuck yourself into his side as his barely-awake conscious automatically curls around you, where you tell him about your day to get the last vestiges of energy out of your system while he tunes back into his itinerary for the night. There are times when this doesn't occur. If you want to go out at night, or if he decides to tag along with you during the day; both of you and your not-so-subtle clinginess. That yearning you both share to spend as much time together as possible, even when it seems impossible.

But today, it does happen.

He stretches like a lazy cat as he quietly makes his way from the couch to the bed. He changed into pajamas hours ago, just after his shower to wash away the evidence of the night's exhaustion. Pants that hang loosely around his hips despite having a drawstring to adjust them. The waistband of his underwear peeking out the top. Exposed torso with muscles that shift and flex with his movements. He'd grown quite fond of wearing these more mundane things instead of his usual luxury robe, if only to better take in the way your hands slip over his abs and cling to his back.

He carefully draws back the covers. The bed shifts under his weight as he crawls in, his eyes focused only on you. Your cheek squished against the pillow. The sleeve of your nightshirt slipping off your shoulder. The irrefutable drool slipping from the corner of your open mouth.

You'd probably cringe and hide away if you knew he saw you like this every day. A complete and utter mess. Maybe you'd even refuse to let him wake you the next day, leaving him to curl around you from behind and pepper kisses all over your shoulder, begging to let him see you, his disastrously beautiful partner. As it is, it's a secret, just for himself to keep.

Your body reacts in tune with his as he pulls the blankets back up and gets to work wrapping himself around you. Arms circling your middle, hands against your back pulling you close. His legs tangling with yours. You turn into his chest. In exchange for your pillow, you use his shoulder. Your fingers seek out his waist, feeling up along his ribs as you hug him like it's the last time you ever will.

He brushes a kiss against your forehead. "Good morning, my love," he whispers. His voice is little more than a soft rumble, a gentle purr by your ear to coax you back to the waking world.

You inhale deeply. Your legs stretch out, toes pointing, back arching, until they're shaking, before you relax and melt into him once more. He still has to stifle a chuckle as you do it, watching as the blankets shift with the movement underneath.

Your face contorts into a sorrowful frown with a soft whine. "Don' wanna get up..." you mutter petulantly. You squish your cheek against him, trying to hide your face against his collarbones, but you just wind up looking insufferably cute. Still, he humors you.

"Hmm, why not?" He tries to pull back to better see your face, but you don't let him. He has to disentangle one of his arms from around you so that he can cup your cheek in his hand and guide you to lean back. Because it's his warm touch leading you, you don't fight it.

You grumble as you crack your eyes open to glare at him. "My body is made of sludge."

He can't fight his smile then. You see his lips curling up into something so amused and mirthful, and you pinch sharply at his side in retaliation.

"'S not funny!" you chide, but your voice is still slurred with sleep and your eyes haven't really focused enough yet to really be able to see him for how squinted they are. You pinch him again just under his ribs when he laughs.

Still chuckling, he brushes back your hair and strokes your cheek. "Okay, okay, it's not funny. I'm sorry." You huff, but your hand relaxes against his skin once more. "Why does your body feel like sludge?"

A minute of contemplation passes, punctuated by an eventual shrug. It could be something you ate. Could be a virus. More likely than not - Sylus recognizes - it's your brain deciding today would be the perfect day to be cruel to you.

"What did you have planned today?" he asks.

"Mm, I wanted to go to that really nice bookstore in-" You yawn, mouth gaping wide and fat gathering under your chin where it presses against your neck. "In Linkon. To get the next book in the series."

He hums. His fingers have started to trace idly along your features. They wipe away the tears from your yawn, then they wander across your brow. Across your cheek, your chin, your nose. Tracing, committing your face to memory. "Is the next book as - how did you phrase it? - 'spicy' as this one?"

Maybe you're too tired to realize the secret he just spilled, of reading your book while you've been asleep. Every time he asked about it before, you'd grow warm in the face and flounder over innocent explanations for the plot.

So you nod, sluggishly. Your eyelids flutter slightly as you fight to stay awake. "Is that all?"

"... Mhm."

"Then you can go back to sleep." He kisses your forehead as he draws you back into him. They linger, dancing against your skin as he speaks low and quiet. "We'll spend all day in bed, hm?"

You sigh. Your warm breath fans across his skin, sending sweet trills of delight through him. It's hard to remember a time when he didn't get to hold you so close, close enough to feel your breath, but there are times his body reminds him, leaving a cruel gap for his mind to fill in that he may not always be able to hold you like this one day. You, already drifting off back to sleep, completely unaware of anything else he could say right now no matter how ridiculous, squish your face up against his heated skin with an incomprehensible agreement to his proposal.

He himself feels his last grasp on consciousness slipping as the sun reaches out toward the midmorning sky. With the final moments he has left, he slips a hand under your shirt to rest against your sleep-warmed skin. The honeyed fingers of dreams caress the thoughts from his mind in time with your even breaths, until the last thing he's aware of is your hand slipping past the loose waistband of his pants to hold onto his ass.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @lalaluch @burningtrashgentleman @nothankyew

[finalgirlmorgue]

do you do headcanons? if so can I get all the batboys (all of age ones of course + Bruce) just getting the BEST head of their lives? like im talking, legs being held up by their partner as they suck the literal SOUL out of them? (Its 3 AM and I am very deranged) if not 100% okay. I just needed to get this idea out lol

𐕣 ⋮ Soul Mind And Body ⸝⸝ >ᴗ<

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Hi Anon! I plopped down at my pc to write this the SECOND it came in. This is less headcannoney then I initially wanted it to be. I love writing smut I hope you enjoy ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ SMUT ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Mentions of calling reader 'Wife" AND 'Good Girl' ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Send In Requests!

JASON TODD Head so good he's gotta marry you

'Oh god…' Jason would do anything for that pretty face. You look so goddamn sweet seated in between his bulky thighs, the warmth of your bare hands, heat pulsing through your body into his like a current. His mouth, which would've been busy licking and devouring those pretty lips, falls open with another moan as you swipe a finger over his tip, teasing him. He grips your hair tighter in a warning gesture. Your head drops forward, a satisfied sigh leaving your lips pressing wetted lips to the head of his shaft, your eyes falling shut. He knows that letting his guard down around you is his vice, his weakness, but right now he wants nothing more than to be swept up in the tide of your soft body and sweet soul. His fingers tighten in your hair, not quite holding on enough to hurt you, but firm enough to show authority. The thickness of his cock seems to take up each centimeter of your mouth and throat. "Shit… Birdie…" He mutters under his breath in relief at the sensation of your tongue at the base. Flattened beneath his length almost. He brings your head up letting out a strangled cry of pleasure. "Mmh.. Fuck. Don't look at me with those pretty fucking e-eyes…" He moans, gripping tightly at your hair again, forcing you to look at him. His hand reaches down to grip the edge of his bedding.

"N…nhg.. Shit-- " He grunts out, his whole body tense, every muscle strained, his dick throbbing. The way he's feeling it must be intense. It's a good thing your mouth was too occupied to tease about his sexed-out whines and groans when he spoke. "Fuck you're… fuck." He mumbles, bringing his hand to cover one eye, his other hand grasping your hair harder. His hips buck against you in an attempt to find release, to ease the tension. His voice is a rough rumble, his breath ragged from the exertion of thrusting upwards, the only movement he can manage for the moment, "God I gotta make you my wife.. h-huh? Hahaha.."He laughs, letting out an airy, desperate laugh. You let out a low hum, your throat vibrating against his dick.'Your husband.' You think, looking up into his eyes with lustful admiration and love, your tongue swirling around the head once before sliding back over it, sucking gently. You hear a shaky inhale come from him as he shudders. A loud gasp leaves him when he starts to climax. “Shit…” He pants. Gritting his teeth, letting out desperate little whimpers of frustration, his head falls back as he feels your nails dig deep into the flesh of his thigh as he spills out his seed, his cum hitting your tongue like a hot storm. He continues shuddering against you, panting, his hands dropping from your hair as his eyes flutter closed. He holds his breath for long moments until finally, his breathing slows to normal, the last vestiges of sexual energy seeping from him, his chest still rising and falling heavily against your lips.

DICK GRAYSON Hair puller

This was Dick's idea. The two of you pulled over on the side of the road on the outskirts of Gotham. The night is quiet. It's 2 or 3 am. The sky is clear and moonless, like a silver mirror. You can see all the stars clearly from here. You don't know what to do with yourself for a few minutes.

"Hey. Wanna try something?" He asks, grinning at you in the dim light of his car.

You smile back, unsure. "Okay."

He gently guides his hand to the back of your head, lowering yourself until you're semi-crouched above his groin. His fingers run down the sides of your neck to your shoulders before settling there, lightly pressing against your skin as he unzips his pants.

Then it starts. Your whole body relaxes instantly in response. This is not the first time this has happened between you two, but tonight seems different somehow. Your thoughts are a little fuzzy—your body tingles. You feel… safe with Dick.

"Come on pretty…" He cooes, pulling you closer into him as you pull his cock free from his pants. He moans quietly as your fingers brush his length, teasingly. He leans in so his lips touch the top of your had. "So sweet," he breathes, smiling at you through half lidded eyes as he pushes your head down to take him into your mouth. His hand runs up and down your back.

"God-! Yes.. Fuck me-- well.. y-you already got that c…covered.. huh? mng.. fuck." He moans as he jerks back harshly. He gasps loudly as his hips jolt up, black pubes tickling your nose and upper lip. His hands fist in your hair as he continues thrusting himself into your mouth. He lets out an involuntary cry as he feels your tongue swipe against his tip. A shiver runs down his spine as his orgasm builds. His entire body is rigid. "ah… good…… s' good….'" He pats at your head, awarding your actions with praise.

You let out a muffled noise, pleased. You continue to suck greedily at the base of his dick for several seconds. "Oh God…" he groans again, tugging gently on your hair, his hand tightening. "Don't stop…. I'm so close… ah…." He cries out as his hips jerk forward once more. The sound he makes is one of ecstasy as he comes, spilling into your mouth with a warm trickle. You release a small noise of satisfaction too before he pulls away. He smiles at you tiredly as his chest heaves. Your ears are ringing from the lack of sufficient air. "Good job, beautiful." He sighs.

BRUCE WAYNE Rough man mhmhm

Bruce has you, tonight. Sitting on a plushy pink velvet stool infront of his queen sized bed. A robe draped over your body like a goddess a silk sash tied loosely around your hips and secured in the back with a golden pin.

“Come here.” He drawls out your name like a promise that he means to keep. You don’t need to be told twice. Your legs feel wobbly as you walk closer to him, but they still hold firm as his hands cup your hips. “Look at me. Look at me properly,” he commands quietly. His hands slide down your sides to grip your waist. “Be a good girl and release all this stress for me hm?”

You bite your bottom lip and lean into his touch, pressing yourself against his chest. It's not hard to do. The gown is restrictive enough to make it difficult for you to move to touch yourself, but you manage. You are so focused on his every word that you don't even notice how he moves you inbetween his muscular legs, discarding his boxers.

“open your mouth.” It isn't until he speaks again that you understand what he wants you to do. “Now.” His fingers push into your mouth to force your lips apart. “Mmm, just like that.” He pulls your head down onto his cock. Your eyes sting from the sheer length and girth. He pushes you down further, using you like a toy. He’s lost in the pleasure himself.

“Mmh,, fuck—“ He groans through clenched teeth. His legs pinning you down, keeping you there while he rages in pleasure. “Fuckkk. You belong here with me- baby, keep going.. so good..” Bruce's hips thrust up, pumping into your mouth. The pain doesn’t register yet because all you can focus on is the way he’s pistoning. Hes whining, groaning, sobbing in pleasure. You’re doing this to him. He’s yours. His whole body shudders as he comes. His semen drips off of your chin, tears streaking down your cheeks.

“good… girl-..”

psst.. reblog and request for more...

[woso-story]

Morning

Alexia Putellas x Reader

The morning was quiet, the golden sunlight streaming through the window curtains and casting a warm glow across the room. The bed beneath you felt too big, too empty. Reaching out, your fingers met cool sheets where Alexia's warmth should have been. With a groggy sigh, you opened your eyes, blinking at the spot beside you. She was gone—already awake, no doubt, knowing her habits.

You took a moment to stretch, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, and slowly dragged yourself out of bed. The faint hum of music drifted through the apartment, accompanied by the soft rhythmic thud of something heavy being moved. Your curiosity piqued, you padded down the hallway, the sound growing louder as you approached your small home gym.

The sight waiting for you in the doorway made your breath catch.

There she was, Alexia Putellas, your girlfriend, in the middle of a workout. She was a vision, her body clad in nothing but a pair of tight shorts and a simple black sports bra, her golden skin glistening with sweat. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, a few loose strands sticking to her neck. She was lying on the bench with a loaded barbell across her hips, her strong legs pushing upward in a flawless hip thrust. The definition of her muscles, the sheer strength of her movement, it was hypnotic.

Your gaze traced every inch of her: the way her abs tightened with each lift, the flex of her quads, the focused expression on her face. It wasn't the first time you'd seen Alexia like this, she worked out often, but there was something about this moment that stopped you in your tracks. Maybe it was the early morning light catching on her sweat, maybe it was the quiet intimacy of watching her in her element. Or maybe it was just the fact that your girlfriend was ridiculously, breathtakingly hot.

You leaned against the doorframe, your presence unnoticed as you continued to stare, completely mesmerized. Alexia finished her set with a grunt of effort, festing the barbell on the rack and sitting up to wipe her face with a towel. She caught sight of you then, and a knowing smirk spread across her lips.

"You enjoy the show?" she teased, walking toward you with a towel slung around her neck. Her voice was light, playful, but there was a hint of pride in her tone.

You blinked, startled out of your trance "Uh." You struggled to find words, your cheeks heating as she stopped just inches away. Before you could stammer out a response, her finger hooked under your chin, gently tilting your face upward until your eyes met hers.

"My eyes are up here," she teased, her grin widening when you finally managed to meet her gaze.

You let out a sheepish laugh, scratching the back of your neck. "Sorry, I wasn't planning on looking at your eyes right now."

She rolled her eyes, though the amusement on her face remained. "Care to join me? There's a spare mat with your name on it."

"Not a chance," you replied, folding your arms. "I think I'd much rather watch. You're far more interesting to look at than weights."

"Impolite to stare, you know," she quipped, raising an eyebrow.

"Impolite? I'd say it's my right. You' re my girlfriend, and you look incredible," you said matter-of-factly. To punctuate your point, you reached out and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. She smelled like sweat and warmth, and it was intoxicating. You pressed a soft kiss to her lips before pulling away with a playful smack to her backside. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be i in the kitchen making us breakfast."

She laughed as you walked away, her voice trailing after you. "You' re impossible you know that?"

By the time she joined you in the kitchen, freshly showered and still glowing from her workout, you were standing at the stove, flipping pancakes. Her arms snaked around your waist from behind, and she pressed a kiss to your shoulder, her damp hair brushing your neck.

"Smells amazing." she murmured, her voice low and affectionate.

'It's almost ready," you replied, leaning back into her embrace. "Can you set the table?"

She nodded, releasing you to gather plates and silverware, but as she moved around the kitchen, you couldn't help but notice she was back in just shorts and a sports bra. Again.

"Do you not own other clothes?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

She glanced over her shoulder, a cheeky grin spreading across her face. "Of course I do. But I know you like it when I don't wear much." She winked before returning to her task, leaving you shaking your head in exasperated fondness.

Breakfast was simple but delicious, the two of you sitting across from each other at the small kitchen table. The conversation was easy, filled with laughter and teasing, but your eyes kept drifting to her toned arms, her sculpted shoulders, the curve of her waist. Alexia noticed, of course, and her grin only grew wider with each stolen glance.

Finally, she reached across the table and grabbed your wrist, tugging you gently toward her. "Alright, enough staring. Come here," she said, pulling you onto her lap.

You let out a surprised laugh, your arms instinctively wrapping around her shoulders. "Alex-"

Your words were cut off by her lips, warm and soft and utterly consuming. One kiss melted into another, and soon her hands were on your hips, her strength lifting you effortlessly as she stood.

Before you knew it, you were back in the bedroom, her body pressing against yours as the rest of the world faded away. It was mornings like this that reminded you just how lucky you were to have Alexia, not just for her strength and beauty, but for the love and joy she brought into your life every single day.

[pmpmyread]

Forty Winks

Nanami Kento x f!reader, fluff.

It was a rainy mid-autumn afternoon when you first discovered this side of Nanami.

There was an urgent lightness to your steps as you ventured down the corridor lined by the classrooms that separated your office from Nanami’s. Thanks to a convoluted mission whose report took an inordinate amount of time to fill, you were late, or at least later than usual.

Usual.

What had started off as unscheduled, undefined engagements had now found a rather regular cadence; usually on Wednesday afternoons when both of your schedules tended to be less busy, usually towards the end limit of what could still count as being lunchtime, usually coordinated via a quick text on the morning of to confirm availabilities on both of your ends.

Serially impromptu was how you’d cautiously qualified these meetings in your mind, as you’d caught yourself subconsciously putting more effort than normal into applying your makeup on the Wednesday morning of your third meetup of the kind. 

Colleagues sharing good reads, the phrase you repeated to yourself, one that took on the weight of a mantra as you stood before your humble bookshelf a few days ago, absentmindedly flipping through the pages of the next novel you’d meticulously picked out for Nanami from your favorites.

The very same paperback you were clutching at this moment as you brought up your right knuckle to meet the wooden door with three knocks, only realizing that it wasn’t closed shut once your movement caused it to slide ajar.

You took a deep breath, ready to be confronted with the likely scenarios; perhaps you’d find Nanami diligently filling out a report from an earlier mission, with his jacket draped over his desk chair, his sleeves pulled back revealing his sinewy arms and his brows furrowed in concentration, or maybe he would be at his desktop computer reviewing someone else’s training plan, eyes fixed onto his screen with that steady gaze of his, his jaw clenched and his forehead wrinkled in focus.

Neither of which prepared you for what you found instead.

It took you a few seconds to spot him, seeing as he was assuming a rather unusual position in his reclined office chair, but there he was.

Nanami Kento, fast asleep.

In hindsight, not much thought had gone into crossing the threshold into the office, and quietly bringing the door to a close with a soft click. If any vestiges of hesitation remained, they were promptly shed as you got closer to Nanami and the details of his rare form became increasingly clear, like mist fading on a dull day.

His glasses were off, long since discarded on his desk. His hair was lightly tousled out of its place, his tie was slightly loosened at the knot, and the first button of his shirt was unfastened. Long fingers interlocked just over his abdomen where his hands were folded. His chair was angled back and facing his window.

His disposition was the most relaxed you’d ever seen him. A light, rhythmic snore was just barely audible over the sound of drizzle drumming against the glass panes. The lines of tension that normally tightened his face, the ones you’d seen soften only during the rare occasions he’d allowed his filter to momentarily slip, were now notably faded.

As you took in the surreal sight before your eyes, your mesmerization transfigured into wonder.

Did he slip into slumber while waiting for you?

Had he dozed off while gazing out as huge raindrops slipped and fell off the fiery scarlet maples?

He looked so tired lately, was he getting enough sleep?

Suddenly, the sleeping sorcerer lightly rustled in his chair, his eyebrows flexing into a slight frown, his lips twitching into a minute twist and his eyelids fluttering softly, hinting at a mystifying world of dreams behind his closed eyes. Only once he’d settled back into his rhythmic breathing did you slowly exhale the breath you did not realize you’d been holding.

This momentary dread jolted you back to reality; you truly had no business being in here, certainly not for as long as you were. You hesitated for a moment, deliberating the fate of what would be the damning evidence of your breach, the intimation that you had in fact witnessed him in this state.

Ultimately, boldness blotted out enough of the doubt that lingered in your mind and you opted to place the book in prominence between his screen and keyboard, in the exact spot you’d watched him place the previous volume you’d lent him a few weeks prior. As you turned around and retraced your steps back towards the door, you recited every prayer you knew, hoping to avoid the inevitably awkward encounter that would arise should he wake up before you had the chance to slink away. An encounter you’d now only delayed.

Only once you were back out in the safety of the hall and well on your way back to your office, did you allow your mind wander back to your contemplation, fuelled by the curiosity that underpinned your interactions with the 7:3 sorcerer, by the same interest which guided your careful selection of the books you lent him, and from which emerged yet another question.

What does Nanami Kento dream about?

Weaved between the shared moments that transformed serially impromptu into regularly scheduled, shared reads into shared meals and that saw colleagues slip into the fledging permissiveness of close friends, bridges were being built.

One of said bridges came in the form of a TV series, an adaptation of a book you’d both enjoyed. You’d started watching it on one of your not-so-impromptu shared lunch breaks, during which you’d admittedly spent more time squinting at your tablet in an attempt to focus your attention on the scenes playing out on the screen rather than the distracting warm presence of the man who’d innocuously scooted closer to get a better view of the screen.

An effort that proved to be futile; you ended up having to rewatch the entire episode at a later, less distracting time.

If convenience was the guise under which you’d first found yourself catching the next few episodes at Nanami’s apartment after an early shift bookended by a mission you’d cleared in an area within the proximity of his place, then a force of habit is what kept this practice going over the next few weeks, and reciprocity was what finally found you together in your home for the first time, on this snowy Saturday afternoon, primed to binge the remaining three episodes of the season.

A small habit, much like the one he was enacting right now, a few minutes into the next episode you were watching, one that you’d seen him engage in on your several past TV-watching sessions.

It would begin subtly, a slight adjustment of his posture, discernible only to your now-trained eye. He’d shift himself to the perfect angle to maintain both a line of sight with the screen and his face away from you.

You'd called him out for dozing off, once, something he had evasively denied. But the slight upward curve of his lips, when you picked up the show the next time, as he’d rewound back to the closing scenes of the previous episode, citing the “need for a refresher”, told you everything you needed to know.

So you watched him in amusement now, shaking your head as you observed him make his gradual, calculated moves. Unlike the previous occasions, he was now in the foreign territory that was your small living room. You had two sofas at an L-shape right angle facing the TV. Nanami sat slightly reclined lengthwise on the longer one and you sat upright on the two-seater which was positioned slightly behind. In fact, he’d have an easier time setting himself up in this layout.

Good, you thought, it would make it that much easier to catch him.

You would have paused to admire him in this rare, relaxed, and unguarded form if you weren’t so busy attempting to catch him in the act.

Slowly, in a subtle, controlled movement, Nanami repositioned himself just low enough that his face was obscured from your sight. You watched, and you waited. After several minutes spent observing him, the now regularized rise and fall of the remote resting on his abdomen as he breathed gave you the assurance you needed to make your move.

You carefully leaned forward, your weight shifting towards the sofa’s arm, as you reached for the remote, a delicate balance maintained as you slowly descended your hand, poised like a claw machine, ready to grab the prize. Almost there, you thought as your fingers brushed against the familiar raised buttons of the remote.

A surprised yelp escaped your lips before you could mentally register the hand that had darted up and the fingers that clamped around your wrist to halt your movement. Nanami’s gentle but firm grasp was now the only thing keeping you from falling completely as you stumbled awkwardly, half-lunging, half-standing.

“Are we not watching anymore?” he inquired in his characteristic uninflected tone.

“I…weren’t you just asleep?” you answered his question with your own, your words both breathy and strained as you focused on maintaining your balance in your newfound awkward position.

“I wasn’t,” he said simply.

You scoffed. “I somehow doubt that…” You tried to get him to face you, but Nanami’s eyes remained trained on the screen. “Tell me then, what was the very last thing that happened?”

He described a sequence in detail, down to the specific lines of dialogue that were exchanged between the characters. Only then did he finally angle his face upwards to meet your gaze in an unreadable expression as he awaited your feedback.

You averted your eyes for a moment, turning your attention to the screen in an attempt to reorient yourself in the story, squinting at it much like you’d done with your tablet screen all those weeks ago, as the realization slowly dawned on you; that you couldn’t for the life of you confirm nor deny his recounting of the plot, that amidst your mad preoccupation with pinching Nanami in his slumberous endeavors, you had completely missed out on whatever narrative development that had just occurred throughout this episode.

When your gaze tentatively returned to his, you found a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Only now did you realize how close you were to him, your eyes drawn to the subtle imprints of his glasses on his nose, where a few freckles clustered like tiny specks of dust.

The nervousness inflicted by this sudden proximity did you no favors as you faltered in your balance, your extended leg beginning to tire. You moved to shift your balance back to your back leg to pull away, but Nanami acted before you did, picking up the remote and clasping it between the hand that he still held, brushing his fingers lightly against yours as he did, perhaps deliberately, before finally letting go.

“I was restfully attentive,” he casually said, as if to answer an unspoken question.

“Restfully attentive?” You could only repeat his oblique response, as you bewilderedly found your seat again, thrown off by just how swiftly your little plan had gone awry. “Really, Nanami… I—I’m just going to rewind it a bit, for good measure. I’m pretty sure you’re missing a few details,” you quickly added, not wanting to dwell on the details of the question you’d raised, but could not answer yourself.

“Oh am I, now?” He quipped, clearly unconvinced by your act, and you suddenly felt the burden of proof shifting to you in a turn of events you definitely did not see coming, a conundrum that was soon discarded to the back of your mind once you heard the soft sound of a chuckle emanating from him. You watched as his laughter rippled through his frame, rising like a melody and traveling to your warming ears.

And there it was again, a rare glimpse at Nanami’s unmasked side, the kind that triggered this now familiar warmth to course through you, warmer than the miso soup you’d downed after the sushi takeout you’d just shared, warmer than the golden rays of sunshine that pierced through the frosty air and filtered through your living room patio door.

As you rewound your show back a few scenes, your hand trembled ever so slightly at the indelible sensation of your contact. You distracted yourself by sorting through your theories, wondering whether Nanami was a light sleeper, or had truly been awake; pondering the predictability of the series’ story and the probability that he’d simply made some incredibly accurate, educated guesses.

Or maybe this was just something to take as is; another layer uncovered, another quirk you’d grow accustomed to, a funny bonding joke that would settle between you — that your sweet Nanami had a spontaneous napping habit, and that very few things could come between him and his forty winks.

You’d never been much of a napper yourself, convinced it would disrupt your already delicate sleep schedule. Today would mark the exception that highlighted this rule.

Kento and you were on a trip together, a short couple’s weekend getaway in a neighboring city. Unlike the first time you’d randomly found yourselves in this area for a mission, this time you were armed with a thorough plan to visit as many of the local gems as possible; a cafe, a specialized museum, an open-air market, another cafe. To say that you were determined would be an understatement.

So when you began feeling a hint of the fatigue you’d accumulated over the last few weeks of arduous work beginning to rear its ugly head only halfway through day one, you pushed it at bay, staunchly resisting the idea that perhaps your itinerary was more ambitious than what you’d anticipated.

Nanami had accustomed to your habits as much as you did to his, enough to take notice of the increased sluggishness of your movements, of the subtle drop in your energy levels, and of the heaviness in your eyes; enough to know that you were too stubborn and feel too guilty to entertain the idea of slowing down, much less to settle for anything close to resting unless he’d was the one to suggest it.

So it was only once he proposed spending the afternoon in, citing the fancy rooftop pool at the hotel you were staying at to be an adequate alternative location to spend the bulk of the afternoon, that you gave in to the latent need for rest.

The combination of a late spring breeze on a lightly cloudy day and of luxurious chaise lounges at an altitude that saw the city noisiness reduced to a faint city bustle several floors below would have ordinarily made for perfect conditions for Nanami to slip into a comfortable midday slumber. And yet, today, he wouldn’t catch a wink.

Another exception to another rule.

The book he’d brought with him remained open on his lap, on the same page it had been over the past twenty minutes, a testament to the fact that his attention had very much not been on it, but on your sleeping form on the chair next to him instead.

He’d watched you sleep on countless occasions before; in his bed, in yours, on nights when he resisted the pull of his own somnolence as he sought to anchor himself in a moment of wakeful contemplation that bookended a passionate encounter, on placid mornings when he woke a few minutes before his alarm as he often did, on that one occasion when you’d succumbed to slumber in the infirmary in the aftermath of a strenuous mission that left you only a little less than exhausted and Nanami more than perturbed.

But this was different.

It wasn’t the now familiar comfort brought on by the gentle rise and fall of your breath, nor your slightly parted lips, nor the way by which the afternoon sunshine highlighted the golden radiance of your skin, but the juxtaposition of your sleeping face against one particular high-rise building visible in the distance behind you that captured his mind into a contemplation that melded into memory:

Months prior, you were both enjoying some teas together as you sat on a park bench facing, among other things, a building that was still under what was seemingly interminable construction, one of many new developments in the metropolitan area. You’d spent the afternoon engaged in a conversation without fences, one of the many you’d come to have, speaking freely about everything and nothing.

A loud thud emanating from the construction site, drawing both your attentions to its source.

“I feel like this thing has been under construction since forever,” you’d remarked.

“It’s been far too long. Especially for what it looks like,” Nanami replied impassively.

“Not a fan of eccentric-looking buildings, Kento?” you said teasingly, referring to the unorthodox convex facade that formed the structure’s south side.

“I’m a fan of projects that are run efficiently, that don’t block out pedestrian access for six months longer than initially announced, and whose noises don’t scare off all the birds in the area.”

You couldn’t help but snicker at the deadpan acerbity embodied by his tone, one you’d come to adore.

“Hey, on the bright side, it sounds like the municipality won its case. I read that they’re imposing at least half of these units to be residential. So hopefully that should maintain some of the area’s charm, while still being a net positive for the urbanization efforts.”

Your remark was met by a non-committal hum from Nanami, followed by a pause before his response.

“Then I suppose we’ll just have to tolerate this accumulation of small despairs for a while longer.”

A sardonic sigh punctuated what you now recognized to be a refrain of his.

It was your turn to release a contemplative hum.

You had half a mind to let your commentary go. You couldn’t tell whether it was the combined sentiments of openness and closeness that had reigned over you that evening, or the sensation of Nanami’s curious gaze on you as he patiently afforded you the space to complete your thought, or something deeper and unnamed that compelled you to speak from the heart.

“Don’t you think it’s an accumulation of small moments as well?” You cleared your throat before continuing. “In six months, the build will be complete. Or at least, hopefully. After which workers will commute to it and run out countless dreary work days and celebrate wins within it. Others will move into the residential section, in which they will build their homes, and live their lives and express their love…”

You trailed off as your eyes were drawn to the very top of the structure, where a couple of roofers had made a sudden appearance. You felt Nanami’s head tilt upwards to follow your gaze, and you continued.

“And we’ll all have forgotten about those guys up there, about the blocked street, about the construction noises, about every little thing that went into creating this. The messy middle, the inconveniences, the points at which the project doesn’t seem to make much sense. One day, it will just be there, existing, in its ultimate form, this impressive, self-evident thing.”

The words had spilled from you so freely, and it was only in the silence that followed that it occurred to you that just how much you’d spoken, that perhaps you’d rambled too much. Once you finally worked up the courage to turn to face Kento, it was, unbeknownst to you, just in time to miss him tearing his contemplative gaze away from you and returning his attention to the building.

You got another hum from him, one which you couldn’t help but mimic this time, in your own playful tone.

“Hmm. Or am I being too rose-colored for Mr. Nanami Kento?” you asked only half-jokingly, poking at the side of his arm affectionately to bring levity to the moment.

“No, you aren’t,” would come Nanami’s reply after a moment of insight.

It came again now, as the memory of the deep words you’d uttered so lightheartedly echoed through Nanami’s mind, and as his eyes flicked from the now completed high-rise standing in the distance as sure as the snoozing woman in the forefront.

One day, it will just be there…

He was slowly pulled back to reality by the sudden movement of your stirring. Your eyes fluttered open and met his as you both emerged from your own hazy states between dreams and consciousness. Your beatific smile mirrored his, forming the anchor that would bring you both back to reality.

“Well… I see why you enjoy these siestas so much. I really needed that,” you said, breaking the silence.

Nanami watched you intently, captivated by your movements as you stretched and as your head tilted at the perfect angle to catch and hold the sunlight in your left eye, transforming it into a shimmering pool of amber.

… this impressive, self-evident thing.

“I hope you got to rest a bit as well?” you added, verbalizing the hint of curious concern betrayed by your eyes, one that did not go unnoticed by him.

He quietly nodded. A half-truth, one he would stick to as he remembered that yours was a nap you had only allowed yourself to take as long as he would do the same.

It was difficult for Nanami to imagine a time when your union wasn’t a foregone conclusion.

It was difficult for you to do the same, and yet, after all this time, you still couldn’t quite shake the familiar anxious flutter that traversed you whenever his gaze lingered on you with the intensity it carried right now, with tempered vulnerability, as if to telegraph sentiments in words unsaid.

You ripped your eyes from his only for the brief moment it took to glance at your smartwatch.

“I think we still have time to stroll by the port before it gets swarmed by the evening crowd, if you’re up for it?” you ventured, your tone coming through with more timidity than you’d intended.

“Let’s do it,” he replied, speaking for the first time since you woke.

“Okay. I’ll go freshen up and we can get going?”

You rose from the chair, placing your hand on Nanami’s shoulder as you leaned down towards him in a swift movement to give him a quick peck.

He had other intentions.

He brought up his fingers to trace the line of your jaw, holding your chin gently yet firmly in place as he extended the brush of your lips into a slow, reverent kiss. The languid and unhurried caress of his tongue against yours pulled you out of the hastiness you’d almost reverted back to, like a wave breaking its crest, anchoring you to the easy tenderness of the moment.

“You’re so wonderfully affectionate after your naps, Kento,” you murmured as he finally pulled away, “and I think I now see why they put you in such a good mood.”

To this, Nanami smiled but said nothing, choosing to let you relish in the idea that his lifted mood was owed not to the cumulation of the small moments that led to the one you were having, but to the refreshing effect of a single midday nap.

[enchantress-arc]

Look at me, darling.

Look at my eyes.

Listen to my voice.

Feel my hand on your cheek.

I want you to relax. I want you to look at me, listen to me, feel me. That's all you need to do.

All you need to do.

Anything other than that is unnecessary right now.

Look at me. Listen to me. Feel me.

No need to perceive anything else. Only me.

I'm your world. Your everything.

I'm all there is.

Look at me. Listen to me. Feel me.

My eyes staring into yours. So beautiful, so easy to stare into, to sink into.

My voice weaving suggestions into that pretty little head of yours, so soothing, so gentle.

My left hand feeling your cheek, caressing it softly, my right hand on your head, running along your hair.

It feels nice.

Isn't it so calming, darling? So comfortable?

Look at me. Listen to me. Feel me.

Only me.

There's nothing else, darling. Nothing other than you and me. So just look into my eyes. Listen to my voice. And let my hands oh so gently caress you.

Every part of me guiding you, dear.

Guiding you into a nice, comfortable trance.

I'm all there is. All you need.

Listen to me, darling. Just listen, and stare, and feel, and sink for me. Gently. I'm not going to drop you, I'm not going to force you down, I'm just going to guide you. And you're going to follow along.

Because it feels so nice to listen.

It feels so relaxing.

You want to keep listening.

Your mind wants to follow.

And it will follow, dear.

Look at me. Listen to me. Feel me.

You're doing very well, aren't you? Nod for me.

It feels good to listen, to follow, doesn't it?

So calming. You're barely holding yourself upright, darling.

But I'm right here. You'll keep yourself upright, okay?

I know you're barely there anymore, but just hold onto your strength.

Just for a few moments longer.

You like to follow.

It feels comfortable to follow.

To let me guide you.

So that's what you're going to do from here, okay?

You just need to listen to me. To see me. To feel me.

That's all you need.

That's what matters most, dear.

And you can do that without thinking, dear.

It's relaxing to listen. Maybe even a bit too relaxing. It makes it so hard to stay awake. I bet you can barely keep your eyes open anymore, isn't that right, darling?

So in a few moments, we'll just...

Let them close.

Sink for me, darling.

Towards me.

Towards my embrace.

Let those last remaining vestiges of consciousness fade away, my dear.

And let yourself sink for me.

Into my arms.

Don't worry darling, you'll still hear every word of my voice, even if you don't remember it later.

But when you're back, you'll be a very good toy for me, won't you?

Good thrall. I can't wait for you to see what you've become once you're awake, my darling.

[riality-check]

ao3 link

In the odd, floating space between dream and reality, Viktor thinks of a wooden spoon. 

They only had one in their little house near the fissures, and it had been passed down to his mother from her mother, and her father, and so on back as far as a family line could go. At least, that was the story he was told when he was young enough to sit on their moth-eaten sofa and his feet would fail to reach the ground, swinging above it instead, beating infinite dust into the air. More concrete evidence of its age lay in its staining, in the way it smelled like spices Viktor’s mother had never been able to afford.

He does not know what happened to the spoon when she died. She died second, and the house was sold, and the contents of it became a feast for his neighbors, transfigured into vultures by desperation, hunger, want. Amidst the chaos of clawing hands and the coins too heavy-light in Viktor’s small palm, the spoon was lost.

He wonders if its new owner recognizes the marks in the handle as the work of his baby teeth.

Doctors were difficult to come by in the Undercity, and harder still to pay. Most of the time, they were “doctors,” and not doctors. But before it was determined (he always considers this in the passive, for there truly is no one to curse but nature - no, topside - itself) that any further intervention would be ineffective, his parents had paid many “doctors” to intervene.

And anesthetic had cost extra.

Viktor’s baby teeth scarred the entire length of the spoon’s handle. If he remembers correctly, he lost his first one prematurely when it had lodged in the wood more than his gums.

So when he stirs as an adult on his Academy bed and the first thing he perceives is the pain arcing up the side of his right leg and burying itself bone-deep, the last vestige of his dream is a shadowy figure - large, vague, always pitying - hovering above him and instructing him sadly to bite down.

Viktor wakes himself by bloodying his own tongue.

The warm, sticky copper startles him alert and upright, which is a mistake. Upright is… less than ideal. The pain crawls up further, to his spine, eliciting a hiss. It is electric, warm. Pulsing in time with his heart.

It is not a good indication for the remainder of his day.

He attempts to swing his legs over and out of bed, determined to grit his teeth and push through. Today, he only has one class. It is an upper-level physics course, taught by Heimerdinger, who is far more passionate about this subject than that introductory engineering course from a few semesters prior.

He would be willing to… cut Viktor some slack, as the saying goes. If anyone on campus would, it would be Professor Heimerdinger. After all, he knows Viktor the best, knows of his circumstances and story before the Academy beyond stereotypes and rumors, even if it is only the barest shred. He offered Viktor open office hours. Years into his studies and he has not gone once for anything beyond his academics.

But Viktor does not want slack. He must do what is required of him. He must learn. He refuses to give any of them ammunition in the firefight to prove that he does not belong here.

Keep his head up. Quit remaining silent. Jump, irregardless of the pain.

And where did that land him? With an immobile, agonizing leg at quite the inconvenient time.

His left leg moves easily enough with no more pain than the usual soreness. However, his right leg is locked from hip to toe, a result of the agony in his joints and the spasming of his muscles. When he attempts to adjust it, to simply rotate his foot, his nerves scream.

Viktor wants to vomit. But he must go to class.

He closes his eyes and gingerly hefts his leg into position. The movement lights his nerves up like live wires from his toes to his lumbar vertebrae. With a distant sense of pride, he notices that he is able to keep himself from crying out. 

It is a small victory that is easily overshadowed by his subsequent slip on the sheets.

His feet crash onto the floor.

And then he does cry out.

His left leg buckles as it should to brace for impact. His right fails to do so, and his heel takes the brunt of it, and the pain scrambles up the back of his leg and causes him to swear as his vision goes spotty.

Bite down.

When it clears, he only hopes that his neighbors did not hear.

Braced on the bed, breathing through his teeth, he spots the clock outside his window.

He swears again. This time, he does not care if the neighbors hear.

He scrambles to make himself presentable. Other students, those from major houses with fond, excusable reputations of drunken weekends and foolish trysts, can afford to attend class disheveled. They can wear rumpled clothing and sport messy hair and be laughed off.

Most students would be laughed at. Viktor, doubly so. 

He braces himself on the furniture of his dormitory, keeping all the weight he can on his left leg. His cane, resting near the door where he foolishly left it last night, glints mockingly in the morning sun. 

Were it not counterproductive and deeply irrational, Viktor would snap it.

Instead, he tears his bag from his chair and snatches his cane on his way out. There is no time to put on the brace.

The brace. That stupid, ramshackle contraption. It was the root of this. The device, an easily disguised relief, a facsimile of normalcy, had given him far too much confidence. He neglected his cane. He forgot his limits.

Running. What an idiotic notion.

He cannot help his bitterness. Simply walking in this state is… immensely difficult. His right leg has loosened up enough to bend at the hip, but only a fraction. Neither his knee nor his ankle will yield. Even with the support of his cane, each step sears up his right leg, sparking in blacks and whites behind his eyes.

Twice, he must stop in the hallway and swallow back a flare of nausea. For once, he cannot hear the idle chatter of his fellow students. It has been replaced by a high-pitched whine, twining in perfectly discordant harmony with the pain.

Distantly, he supposes that this must be very bad.

But he makes it to class. That is what is important. He collapses into his front-row chair seconds before it begins and blinks away the spots in his vision.

Heimerdinger frowns at him. He says something, but Viktor’s head is not in this classroom. It is inside his own body, in the pain that refuses to abate, that pulses and sears and spasms in his leg that could have been normal.

Later, he will blame his actions on the delirium of pain. He is, after all, reduced to his basest instincts. An animal, operating on conditioned memory.

Bite down.

Though it is anything but, he knows it could seem rational to his classmates. Viktor steps outside of his body. He watches himself open his bag and take out a piece of jerky he swiped yesterday from the school kitchen. He does not taste it as he places it between his teeth. 

He hooks his cane behind his knee. 

A sigh through the nose. A tightening of the jaw. An adjustment of his grip. His hearing has dropped out. The jerky tastes like old leather - and he would know; once, when the spoon was dirty, Viktor was instructed to sink his teeth into his father’s worn tool belt. 

At the board at the front of the room, Heimerdinger scrawls the homework from the previous lecture in his indecipherable script.

But that does not matter. What matters is making the pain stop in the only way accessible to him.

Bite down.

Viktor wrenches.

And finds himself, dazed, in the infirmary.

Read the other installments: 1, 2, 3, 4 6

[xxspringmelodyxx]

Never Doubt How Much I Love You~

Husband!Gojo Satoru x Reader

When he has a nightmare about you

As Satoru lay asleep beside you, his normally calm and confident demeanor dissolved into one of vulnerability. His usually composed expression contorted with anguish, and his gentle snores were replaced by the sounds of distress. As Satoru’s distress escalated, the sound of his groans and mumbled words stirred you from your own slumber. Your eyes fluttered open as you felt his grip around your waist tighten. The sight of him, caught in the throes of his nightmare, pierced through the haze of sleep, igniting a surge of concern within you.

In the dim light filtering through the curtains, you could see the faint glisten of tears on his cheeks, evidence of the turmoil plaguing his dreams. The sight tugged at your heartstrings, compelling you to reach out and comfort him, even if it meant stepping into the realm of his nightmares.

Gently, you reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, your touch feather-light against his skin. "Satoru," you whispered softly, hoping to rouse him from the grips of his unsettling dream. But he remained ensnared, his troubled murmurs growing louder with each passing moment.

As Satoru continued to mumble incoherent words, you strained to make sense of his fragmented utterances. Amidst the jumble of syllables, a few phrases stood out with startling clarity.

“Y/n…Don’t leave me, please,” he whispered, his voice laced with desperation. His voice began to waver as the nightmare went on, each moment feeling painfully real.

“I…I need you.” He continued.

You quickly reached out to him, your hand finding his in the darkness, offering him the reassurance of your presence.

Feeling a sense of urgency, you shifted closer to him, wrapping your arms around his trembling form. "Hey, come on. Wake up, Satoru," you urged, your voice laced with concern.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with sorrow. “I didn’t mean to make you go….”

But in his dream, his pleas fell on deaf ears. No matter how much he begged, you remained resolute, your departure leaving him stranded in a world devoid of light and warmth.

You continued to gently shake him, pressing gentle kisses against his forehead, hoping to anchor him to the present and pull him away from the darkness of his subconscious.

”Come on, Toru. Wake up. I’m right here.” You spoke gently, your voice laced with worry.

After a couple more seconds, his sobs stopped suddenly as he realized it was all a nightmare.

Slowly, his eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes clouded with lingering traces of fear. He blinked owlishly, confusion evident on his features as he struggled to orient himself in the wake of his nightmare.

“Y…Y/n?” He asked with hesitation, not sure if this was all a dream or not. It pained you to see him in such distress, and you vowed to do everything in your power to soothe his troubled mind.

"It’s okay, I’m right here." you murmured reassuringly, your words a comforting balm against his frayed nerves. You continued to hold him close, offering him the solace of your embrace as he gradually emerged from the depths of his troubled sleep.

As the last vestiges of his nightmare faded away, he turned to you, his gaze searching yours for solace. "I... I had a nightmare," he admitted, his voice raw with emotion. His vulnerability pierced through the facade of invincibility he usually wore, laying bare the depths of his inner turmoil.

You pressed a tender kiss against his cheek, a silent gesture of reassurance and support. "Do you want to tell me about it?" you asked gently, your voice a steady anchor in the tumult of his emotions.

Satoru’s breath caught in his throat, his gaze distant as he struggled to find the words to articulate the horrors that had plagued his dreams. “It was…,” he began, his voice faltering as he grappled with the memories that still lingered in the recesses of his mind. “It felt so real.”

His grip around you tightened, as if he was scared you would disappear if he let you go.

“It was… it was about us,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

You listened intently, your heart aching for him as he recounted the nightmarish scenes that had unfolded in his subconscious. “We… we got into a heated argument,” Satoru whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “It was the dumbest argument ever… yet in the moment, it felt like it was all that mattered.”

Satoru brows furrowing as he tried to recall the specifics of the dream that had left him so shaken. “I can’t even remember what it was about,” he admitted, a small chuckle leaving his mouth. “It was like… like everything was amplified, and nothing else existed except for the anger and frustration between us.”

Listening to him, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness at the thought of him going through such a tumultuous moment, even in his dreams. “And then what happened?” you prompted gently, urging him to continue.

“But… after we finished,” he continued, his voice wavering with emotion, “you… you just left.”

The heaviness of his words hung in the air, weighing down on both of you. In his dream, you had become the embodiment of his deepest fears, the person he loved most turning away from him in his moment of need.

“I begged you to stay,” he whispered, his voice cracking with sorrow. “I pleaded with you to rethink, to give us another chance. But no matter how much I begged, you wouldn’t listen.”

“You even threw off your wedding ring and told me it was over.” He finished, grabbing your left hand to play with the golden band around your ring finger.

”I felt so…lost. So hopeless…” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

“It was like… like I had lost the most important person in my life,” he admitted, his voice cracking with sorrow. “And no matter how much I begged and pleaded, I couldn’t change the outcome. I was powerless to stop you from leaving.”

After he finished, he chuckled a bit due to the relief of it all just being a nightmare. Suddenly, you felt a surge of determination welling up within you. “Satoru,” you began, your voice unwavering as you met his gaze. You placed your hand on his cheek, softly caressing it and placing soft kisses on his nose and cheeks, “I want you to know that I will never leave you, no matter what happens. I love you more than you will ever be able to understand.”

His eyes widened a bit in surprise at your declaration, his features softening as he took in your words. “Really? Even when I am super annoying and bug you to no end?” he asked, his voice tinged with a bit of playfulness.

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips at his playful tone, the warmth of his presence filling the room. "Even then," you replied, chuckling softly. "Because even when you're annoying, you're still the person I love more than anything in this world."

Satoru's eyes sparkled with amusement, his playful demeanor melting away any lingering traces of tension. "Well, in that case, I guess I'll just have to work extra hard to be less annoying to make things easier for you," he teased, his voice laced with affection.

You laughed, the sound light and carefree, as you leaned in to press a tender kiss against his forehead. "Just promise me one thing," you said, your voice soft but firm.

"What's that?" he asked, curiosity dancing in his eyes.

"That you'll never doubt how much I love you," you replied, your gaze unwavering as you met his eyes. "Because no matter what happens, my love for you will always remain steadfast and true."

Satoru's smile softened, a look of gratitude shining in his eyes as he pulled you close. "I promise," he whispered, his voice filled with sincerity. "And I love you more than words can ever express."

As the playful banter faded into the background, you and Satoru found yourselves drawn to each other, seeking comfort in the warmth of each other's embrace. With a contented sigh, you nestled closer to him, the familiar feel of his arms around you enveloping you in a sense of security.

Your fingers traced delicate paths through the silken strands of his white hair, a gesture born of tenderness and affection. As you combed through his hair with gentle strokes, you felt his body relax as he quickly felt a sense of tranquility. It was a small gesture, perhaps, but in that moment, it spoke volumes of the depth of your love for him.

Satoru's touch was gentle and full of love as well, his fingers tracing soothing patterns along your back as you melted into his embrace. In the quiet of the room, the only sound that filled the air was the steady rhythm of your breaths, a comforting melody that echoed the depth of your connection.

With a soft smile, you tilted your head up to meet his gaze, the warmth of his eyes reflecting the love and adoration that filled your heart. Without a word, he leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a tender yet passionate kiss that sent shivers down your spine.

Time seemed to stand still as you lost yourselves in each other, the world fading away until there was nothing left but the two of you, bound together by the unbreakable bond of love and devotion.

As you both finally pulled away, breathless and filled with a sense of peace, you two snuggled in together, seeking the comforting embrace of sleep. The world around you faded into obscurity as you surrendered to the tranquility of the moment, letting the wonderful deep slumber take over. Wrapped in each other’s warmth, you found consolation and serenity, drifting into the realm of dreams with contented hearts and intertwined souls.

_____________________

[thegnomelord]

sof and cute hcs of eldritch reader trying to learn how to people (and maybe some raunchy ones about learning how human "mating" works) hhhhnnnngggh

Imagine Learning To Be Human

CW: SFW and NSFW First TF141 with SFW, then NSFW headcannons, sexting, masturbation, sex toys, morning after (no sex), sexual nudity, nonsexual nudity, implied poly141. GN reader, 500-900 words for each blurb, so somewhere around 5.5k words. Imma be quiet for the next week or so as I prepare for an exam so I'm feeding ya'll :Dd

Imagine SOAP— It's safe to say you're not the best with expressing what you think, especially not in this hollowed out corpse a tiny fraction of your consciousness inhabits. The more you try, the less human your attempts come out, only remembering that humans don't bend that way or don't do something after you've done it. You find yourself gravitating to Soap because he is the opposite of you, so open and responsive like an open book.

Imagine; observing Soap as he tries to piece together the fragments of a bomb, muttering curses under his breath as if the object had just called football 'soccer'. He's so concentrated he forgets the rest of the world exists, oblivious to you sitting across from him. But that's not a problem as it gives you a chance to watch and try to mimic what his face does; the slight hint of teeth as he nibbles on his lip, the furrow of his brows, the tenseness of his jaw pulling on his throat muscles…

You try to mimic every emotion he goes through as he tries and fails and succeeds and fails again to fit the pieces together like a jigsaw, but the hardest one to do is that smile of his. For some reason you just can't get it right, lips pulling back too far, teeth too much on display and brows too furrowed so you end up looking like an old savage.

Then as if to spite you, Soap looks up at you and immediately snorts. "What're yea doin' there Bonnie?" He coughingly laughs as your facial features return to your statue like state.

"Trying to look like you." You huff; at least you can do that correctly.

"Oh, look strapping don't I?" He snorts, doing what Ghost calls 'fishing for compliments' (though you're unsure how one can fish for abstract ideas).

"No more than the rest." You shrug and see him roll his eyes, though the corners of his lips are still quirked up, a hint of teeth on display and vestiges of dimples framing his mouth. "How do I do that?" You ask and motion to his face.

"Do what? Smile?" You snorts, already beckoning you over like you're a dog. "It's easy."

You lean across the table, tilting your head to indicate confusion but leaving your face a blank canvas. It takes all of your presence of mind not to give an earth shattering purr when his hands cup your jaw, distant stars quivering as his blunt nails scratch at your throat for a blissful second.

"Here," His thumbs settle at both corners of your lips, putting gentle pressure until he pushes the flesh back and up in a way that's natural to the skin suit but not you. "There yea go." He grins and pulls his thumbs away after a few moments, grinning when you hold the expression.

"Now yea're as dashing as me." He chuckles and you two must look like utter buffoons just grinning at one another; you wouldn't have it any other way.

Imagine GAZ — You're not exactly alive, technically you're the antithesis to life and existence, so to you, simple rules like eating or sleeping are no more than chalk guidelines after a rainstorm. Gaz doesn't subscribe to this idea, he's always trying to get you to indulge in these human comforts and you always allow him, even if it does include eating more things in a week than most of your kin have consumed in a millennia, if that.

Imagine; wandering the halls on a lazy Sunday morning, no drills to run or missions to prep for, and being drawn to the communal kitchen by the sound of boiling water and banding pans. You find Gaz cooking breakfast for the boys; he's the only one who can cook (according to him) seeing as Price seasons his food with hope, Ghost burns everything into coal and Soap's not allowed into the kitchen after he'd tried to make tea in the microwave (which Gaz had later asked you to exorcise).

"Mornin'." Kyle yawns and smiles at you, dressed in shorts and one of your 'lost' shirts. You do your best to replicate his expression. "Help me, yeah?" He asks and nods his head at what he's cooking.

Your expression falls back to neutral. "You'll need to show me how." You admit as you get next to him.

"Not a problem," He chuckles as he shifts behind you, pressing his chest flush with your back with his hands hovering over yours. You feel his warmth when he rests his head on your shoulder, his hands firm and steady as he shows you how to chop tomatoes and sausages, how to hold the knife correctly and pulling your fingers back when the blade draws too close to the flesh, talking you through it until you can do it on your own.

After that he leaves you to your task as he almost dances around the kitchen, stirring a pot here then putting the kettle on there and so many more little things while you remain where you are because you, by nature, are slow; to adapt, to age, to change.

But you do it for him.

"Those look great." He grins when you're done and then herds you in front of the cooking pans, and you're a little apprehensive about the bubbling oil when he dumps what you'd cut up into the pan. But his warmth is at your back again, steady hands guiding you on how to cook the food without burning your skin and leaving you to it when you catch on.

Then you feel a tug on your shirt, his presence once again next to you, but this time he's holding a piece of sausage on the end of a fork, a hand beneath it so it doesn't drop, "Hey, taste this for me."

You contemplate arguing you can't actually taste food the same way he does, but he gives you a look that has you letting him feed you. Though it tastes no different from everything else, from his hand it may as well be sweeter than ambrosia.

"Tastes good." The way he brightens up at your words makes the food only taste sweeter.

Imagine GHOST —You and him are similar in some ways, you both prefer to stick to what you know, who you know. It's harder for you to contain what you are inside your flesh body when there is so much life around you that every additional heartbeat pulls at the edge of your cold existence. So you stick to close to the people who's warmth has grown so familiar it's indistinguishable from the burning starts making up your real body.

Imagine; attending a celebration held by both TF141 and Los Vaqueros after a mission gone well, loud music and lewd lyrics blaring in your ears as men drink like teenagers at their first frat party. You're in a more secluded part of the bar next to Ghost, both of you nursing drinks while you watch the rest act like fools.

You're a little confused when you see Gaz and Soap move in a strange way, grinding against one another and pressed so close you'd think they're trying to mate, their hands roaming the other's body so roughly you're surprised no pieces of clothing come flying your way.

"Got a free show for my drink." Ghost chuckles next to you.

"What are they doing?" You finally ask when you can't contain your curiosity.

"Dancing." He answers and swallows the last inch of booze in his cup, setting it down on the bar. "For fun." He adds, already expecting the line of questioning, as if that's supposed to make you understand.

"They just look like they're trying to mate." You point out, receiving a long sigh in return.

"How 'bout I just show you." Before you can say anything he nicks the cup of untouched alcohol in your hand and swallows it all down in one go, putting the empty cup next to his before grabbing you by the arm and pulling you outside through the back entrance. You go along with him, but you're confused when you catch Soap's eyes and he wolf whistles at the two of you.

The world outside is calmer than the busy bar, the air much colder; closer to what you are. You turn to him once he lets you go, tilting your head and furrowing your brow to convey confusion. "So…what do I do?"

"Just follow my lead." A gravely chuckle escapes Simon as he closes the distance between you two, his rough hands settling on your waist as he begins to slowly rock both of your bodies along with the music, though his movements are more contained than what you'd seen, a steady push and pull compelling you to follow him.

"Why is this different than what Soap and Gaz were doing?" You ask, clutching his shoulders in return, your forehead almost resting on his chest as you look at your feet so you don't step on his toes.

You feel his chest vibrate as he chuckles, "They set a low bar." He rumbles and his hand moves to your jaw, tilting your head up so you two lock eyes, the intensity in his brown irises drowning out the sounds of the bar. "Eyes on me."

You nod. Your eyes stay firmly on him as you sway together to a tune he hums, finding a common ground in the way your cold and his heat mixes together. Above you millions of your eyes peer down at him, for as vast as you are, for this moment your attention is on him.

Imagine PRICE — He can tell how tired you are, not physically but mentally; having to communicate and understand people without the use of a mental link, when even the most complex ideas can be conveyed easily, was starting to fray the edges of your control over your human body. He decided to do something about it.

Imagine; Price taking you and the boys fishing to a remote cabin next to a lake. Knowing you don't sleep he pulls you out by the lake at the ass crack of dawn, having you watch as he sits down on the dock, his pants pulled up to his knees so he can dip his feet in the water while he sets up the fishing rods.

"What are we doing?" You ask but follow his example and sit next to him, the cool water of the lake similar enough to the cold abyss your true body resides to calm your nerves, though you're unsure of what to do when he gives you the fishing rod.

"Fishing." He says as he shows you how to cast out the line. "You look like you need it."

You don't argue with him and just try focusing on fishing, letting him teach you how to watch the line to see when something takes the bait and when to reel it in. You’re unsuccessful your first few attempts, and you have half the mind to just jump in and wrangle the fish in the lake with liquid abyss, but he stops you.

"Catching isn't the point." He says as he smokes his cigar while he takes an old boot off your hook. "It's about relaxing, the fish are just a bonus."

You let out a low sound that vibrates the water, but you settle next to him and cast out the line again. You don’t know how long you sit there next to him, your sides touching with the fishing rod sitting loosely in your hands. After some time you manage to yank out your first fish, and you certainly don't gloat when you pull a few more fish out of the lake while he only pulls out seaweed, but the look of pride in his eyes makes it even better.

Any prospects of catching any more fish are dashed when Gaz and Soap wake up and take running jumps into the lake, scaring all the fish with their splashing. "Like school boys." Price remarks as Ghost comes up to you both, offering beers as he sits down on your other side.

"Summer vacation, captain." Ghost says and slips into the water, and you realize this is calming; in the way you haven't felt before, doing something familiar like watching Soap and Gaz trying to dunk each other in the water but feeling like you’re right there with them, laughing alongside them when Ghost scares the shit out of them by lunging out of the water.

“See sweetheart? ‘S not hard.” Price hums, adjusting his hat though his shoulders are already reddened from sunburns. He offers you his cigar and you accept it, breathing in the nicotine and smoke despite not having lungs or a circulatory system to be affected by it, before you give it back. “Taking it easy is good for you.”

You nod your head, content to sit next to him until something tugs on the line of your forgotten fishing rod and you scramble to reel it in. You give a small grunt as whatever is on the hook struggles, "Yank on it." Price tells you and you do, nearly toppling on your back when you finally win the tug of war. You blink as you look at what you've caught.

A Speedo.

"Well would you look at that." Price chuckles.

Judging by the way Johnny's suddenly bare assed and throwing obscenities in Gaelic your way, you assume that it's his.

“Caught a big one there.” Ghost notes, not yet laughing but his shoulders shake with silent laughter as he slaps Soap's cheeks (of his rear).

He yelps, confident enough to be naked in front of all of you, but not shameless enough to where his cheeks (on his face) don't redden from the way Gaz cackles and wheezes with laughter so loudly he nearly drowns. You give Johnny back his trunks before he can drown Gaz but, maybe you should fish any more.

NSFW:

Imagine SOAP— If anyone ever asks Soap why he would ever send a dick pick to an ancient god, he'll blame anything and everything; on being stood up, on loving himself a little less, on mixing up the numbers, in being black out drunk…

Imagine; him being stone cold sober when the thought invades his mind and he spends the next hour trying to take a good picture: in front of the mirror, on the bed, no clothes, some clothes, the list of positions goes on. He doesn't want to come across like he's compensating by just holding his dick in his hand like some cunt; as silly as it is, he wants the picture to actually tempt you, to make you feel something, though the question of if you even can doesn't cross his mind. He ends up with a picture of him on the bed, the tip of his hard cock peeking out from beneath the band of his boxers.

He won’t admit he holds his breath when he sends the suggestive picture to you alongside a ;) , watching the text bubble appear and disappear multiple times before you just leave him on seen. He deflates and has half the mind to delete the picture and chuck his phone to the other end of his bed but he’s stopped when he gets a message from Price.

‘My office. Now.’

Turns out you were with Price when you saw that photo and without a second thought had shown him it and asked what it meant. Granted Price had seen more than just his dick, but he was less than happy about Johnny sending you unsolicited dick pics.

You quiz Soap for nearly an hour, stone faced and unbothered while he gets redder with every question (what can you send, what not to send, how much to send, etc.) and he gets the impression that's how his ma' felt when she gave him and his sisters 'the talk'. “So, yeah.” He clears his throat, whole face feeling hot. “Don’t do it ‘lest yea’r asked or yea like ‘em.”

Thankfully Price finally lets you go when you’re satisfied with his answers and Soap can’t scamper fast enough out of his office with his whole face in flames.

He deletes the photo soon after but you've already burned it into your memory where it will outlast the stars, and the idea to reciprocate festers in your ageless mind like rot until you find yourself in front of your mirror after a shower. You play with the phone for a long time, snapping a few blurry close up shots of your face while you attempt to change it from the front to the back facing camera.

It takes even longer to figure out what to send as Soap wasn't that clear with his answers. Your siblings give you pointers, and first you attempt to take a picture of your most private part — bones snap as your rib cage splits open into a maw, vines full of eyes wrapping around your ribs like ivy as tendrils of darkness unwind just enough for the anti-light of your very essence sucks up all the light in the room — but the mirror cracks and your phone just shuts off with a pitiful whimper.

After fixing the mirror you end up doing what you do best; you mimic one of the statues you'd seen the Greeks make, the towel wrapped just along the V where your thighs connect to your pelvis, exposed from the waist up with your skin still wet. Your body isn't as demure as the muses that sculptor had used, but you hope Soap will appreciate it as you snap a few more photos and send them to Johnny with the same ;) he'd sent you.

Soap nearly chokes on his spit when he gets the photo, all the blood in his brain flooding south as his eyes rake over every exposed inch of skin, every curve and every dip in the muscles making him drool and cock harden and he's racing to your room before you even have the time to turn your phone off.

Imagine GAZ — For all of your pitfalls and misunderstandings he likes the little hints of inhumanity in your speech, in your mannerisms, in knowing you could be anywhere and anytime but you choose to be next to him. He couldn't imagine himself being enamored with an ant, yet you hang on his every word like he's revealing secrets you don't know, making him feel special; he feels so bad when his thoughts of you stop being innocent.

Imagine; He tries to keep things respectful, but his imagination runs wild when you do the simplest things. Bend down to tie your shoe? He's checking out your arse from the corner of his eyes. Stand behind him? He's suppressing a shiver just imagining your body draped over his in post-coital bliss. Check his skin for injuries? Gaz has to bite his lip to keep from begging you to touch all of him, to explore his body. Work out? Kyle's lucky if he doesn't start drooling imagining going over and licking the sweat off your skin, of feeling your muscles tense beneath his tongue while you continue to work out with him between your legs.

When he can't think of you without popping a boner he ends up having to compromise before the shame eats him whole. He goes on a random porn site; he usually prefers just using his imagination but when his mind keeps circling back to you he has no other option, and his conscience gnaws on him when he ends up finding a porn star with similar features to yours. It's not wrong if he's wanking off to a different person, right?

Heat's already burning in his stomach when he slouches in his chair, his back to his room and one earbud in his ear. Shame continues to eat at him when he's both delighted and disheartened by the fact the porn star sounds nothing like you, that his bones don't shiver like they do when you talk.

He keeps the volume low and instead focuses on rubbing and squeezing his cock the way the porn star does to a second actor, and he can't help imagining what you'd sound like; high pitched and whiny? Husky and low? Completely silent or animalistic? The idea of pulling sounds of pleasure out of your throat has him leaking. His head lolls back and he moans as he squeezes the base of his cock, his eyes open just enough to blur the fine details on the porn star's face so you two become indistinguishable.

His heart stops when you burst through his door, a random question leaving your lips before your ears pick up the moans and slick sounds coming from his direction. You're next to him in an instant, looming over his chair and caging him in with your eyes stuck to the screen. "What are you watching?"

"Get out!" He yelps and tries to push you away but it's like trying to move a mountain.

"Why does that human look like my vessel?" You persist, "And why are you watching humans mating when you told me it's wrong?" You tilt your head, luckily not seeing his hand on his hard cock, the porn reflecting in the blacks of your eyes.

“It’s on the net it’s different! People upload it for others' pleasure and-” He sputters and cuts himself off when he registers your words, freezing in place and that accidentally gets him to squeeze the head of his cock.

Your pupils widen like a cat’s when you hear the little moan escape his chest, your head automatically dropping down to see where his other hand is. "Oh,” is what comes out of your mouth when you see his hard weeping cock. “Can I?” You ask, making an odd motion with your head.

He thinks you're asking to leave and nods. "Yeah-" Gaz wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole, his cheeks burning red like he's a lobster in a pot. “-can you pl-please leave-”

He wheezes when your cold hand suddenly wraps around his cock, your hold firm and just at the edge of pain but still making him throb. A few more eyes spread across your skin to see him while you watch the video still playing on his computer, giving his cock a small pump and shaking the stars with your purr when he moans.

"What are-" He neck nearly snaps to look at you, a shiver raking his body and another moan escaping him as you squeeze the head of his cock, your skin like ice yet it makes him burn with arousal.

"Watch." You order and turn his head with your free hand so his eyes are back on the screen. You don't know why he's watching a fake 'you' mate when he could just ask you, but you know one thing; the person on the screen is competition, and by the way you roughly stroke his cock until he's whining and leaking like a tap, Gaz can tell— you don't like competition.

Imagine PRICE — He never imagined he'd need to have 'the talk' with a god; sure, you may understand how sex works, but you're hopeless in understanding the nuances of it all. If someone doesn't directly say 'let's fuck' you assume any touches from them, even groping, is just them being friendly. It makes his blood boil, seeing you be taken advantage of like that.

Imagine; You're in the bar with the boys and Price is a couple of drinks in when he sees being felt up by a stranger and you're oblivious to his advances. A green eyed monster nips at Price's heels and he doesn't notice when he puts himself next to you, 'accidentally' shoving the other guy back with just his bulk. His presence, his demeanor, and the few harsh words spoken in a clipped tone has the other guy scampering off.

He doesn't remember much after that, only the way you'd looked at him — with the intensity of a ravenous void, like he was a bright star you wanted to devour.

What wakes him isn't his clock, but the rays of sunlight gently streaming through the curtains. He groans as he registers the awful ache behind his eyes before he even has a chance to open them. He feels his bed shift and his eyes snap open automatically, he nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees you laying on your side as you stare at him.

"Jesus!" He jumps up, nearly topples over from the sudden vertigo but your steady hand on his shoulder keeps him upright, making him realize he's nude.

"He's not here." You shrug and as you sit up his sheets pool around your waist, making him realize you're naked from the waist up, though he doesn't want to think if you're naked naked. His fists clench when his eyes roam over your exposed body against his will, settling on the various hickeys decorating your shoulders and neck.

His heart sinks. "What…what happened last night?" He asks and doesn't want to know the answer, his stomach churns with shame.

"Oh, uh, you got drunk, I got you home, you started kissing and biting me." You say, tracing the numerous hickeys and indents of his teeth across your human form like they're medals. "Then you pulled me into your bed and wouldn't let me go. Then you passed out." You say as if nothing's wrong, and even if no sex happened it's little consolidation to the fact he took advantage of you.

“Why didn’t you stop me?” He asks as he takes a shaky breath, shoulders hunched up around his ears and eyes downcast, bile burning in his stomach.

"Why would I?" You tilt your head and shift positions to face him fully, the sheets falling away to reveal you are naked naked. "I may not understand you fully, but I would have stopped you if you did something I didn't want."

Price hates himself for how he can't tear his eyes away from your body. "But you let me." He insists and tries to get you to see reason, to be as angry and disgusted with him as he is with himself.

“Yes.” You are growing annoyed as well, silently cursing the frailty of the human mind; things would be easier to explain if you could just use mental communication… “You are less than insects to my kin.” You sigh and move to straddle him before he can get away, pinning him under you. “You are a sun to me.”

Even calling him a sun doesn’t do him justice; suns die out like firecrackers when your immeasurable body passes over them, when you devour them, him, you want to keep, to protect, to wrap in your cold abyss until he’s warm and safe.

He sucks in a breath, the gears in his head turning as he tries to understand. “What?-”

“Can I touch you?” You ask, your hands respectfully on your thighs as if you’re not pinning him in place with your weight. There’s a dark intelligence in your eyes, the same ravenous void staring at him behind the black of your eyes. You are not a child, you are a god.

"Why?" He sucks in a sharp breath as he breathes in your smell, the scent of dying stars and burn ozone tickling his lungs. "You don't have to." He says weakly, because what would anyone, god or not, want with him?

"You left marks on me, I want to do the same." The way you say it makes him think of godhood; not the bleak madness you are, but the type humanity romanticizes. Your lips part as if you're thinking of marking him, bits of oblivion staring back at him from the darkness of your throat when he looks too closely at your mouth.

He submits so fast. "C'mere then," He pulls you close by your head, kissing you like he's trying to steal your ichor, his body burning hot when your hands grip him tight enough to leave moon shaped bruises in his skin — the first of many you intend to give him, until you've marked him as yours and yours alone.

Imagine GHOST — Ghost prefers to show you rather than spend hours trying to explain things to you, he's more stricter with you when you try to do things you're told not to, both for your and everyone's safety. You never do quite learn.

Imagine; Ghost recently confiscated your phone when you tried to see what humans thought about you, or what they imagined you and your kin to be, on a website called 'Rule34'. Ghost had snatched the phone out of your hands before you could even click the link. After a week he gave you the go ahead to take it back, but got called to run a drill so just said to go find it.

Now, you've been told not to go rooting around other people's belongings, but while searching for your phone you'd fallen back into your old habit and snooped around until you found a small box in the bottom of his dresser. Thinking nothing of it you opened it and found…something. A lot of somethings; handcuffs, rope, weird egg shaped thing, a weird tube with a hole in it that squished like a stress toy but had a cunt molded at one end, but what drew your attention — was the dismembered black cock in the middle of the box.

You and all of your kin scratched your collective heads over the thing you now held in your hand, you'd been under the impression humans didn't carry around body parts anymore so you were stumped why Ghost had a dismembered dick and balls in his dresser. Besides the pitch black color and flat base it looked so realistic and the way it flopped when you turned it in your hand made you feel the same way humans did when seeing you.

So you got up and wen to ask Ghost about it, the thing held out in your hand when you found him with the rest of the boys. "Ghost, why do you a have body part in your closet?"

Your question made them all turn to look at you, Ghost made a strange sound like a strangled dog while Gaz and Soap fell over laughing and Price shielded his eyes with the rim of his hat.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell.” He snarls and before you know it he’s stomping over to you and dragging you by the front of your clothes, “What I tell you about snooping?”

“I couldn’t find my phone,” You try to argue but don’t struggle and just let him drag you somewhere like you're a kitten until you find yourself in his room with the door firmly locked behind him.

"Right." His tone makes it sound like he doesn't believe you, his rough hand pushes you down on his bed and he yanks the thing from your hold. “You want to know what this is for?” He asks and holds the the cock with the head pointed at you like a knife.

You nod your head and try to rise up but he pushes you back down, you're not even sure where he gets the handcuffs from but there's cold steel around your wrists before you can notice it. It's his order to "Sit and watch." that actually keeps you down, and you see the corners of his eyes shift to denote a smirk. "Do what you're good at."

You don't blink as you watch him disrobe until he's only wearing his mask, and your surprise is obvious when he sticks the thing on the floor and it stays up right. "This," He growls and sinks to his knees on the floor, a towel under him, "Is a fuckin' dildo." He reaches over and takes a small tube, squirting viscous liquid on his fingers. "You don't ever take it out of my room. Got it."

He leaves no room to argue and you rapidly nod your head. You find yourself breathless as you watch him reach behind himself and you don’t even notice how a bit of your oblivion leaks from your pores and spreads across the ground like spiderwebs, eyes blooming in the small pools all around him so you can see the way he roughly pushes a finger into himself, your hands clenching as his rim flutters around his large fingers.

"What is it for?" You find your voice, the sound ringing like the inside of a dead star the longer you watch him roughly stretch himself, pushing two then three fingers into his ass.

"Fun," He chuckles and feels so powerful when your eyes have all but turned black with hunger you've yet to notice. "It's a toy, for adults." He pulls his fingers out and squirts more liquid on the dildo, before sinking down on the toy in one fluid move that leaves him hissing at the stretch, his rim fluttering around the thick base.

Something about the way the toy is of a similar color to your real body has you wriggling beneath your human skin, the air vibrating as you groan and try to reach out to him, wanting to cover him in your body and have all of him feel all of you.

"No." Just one word has you sitting back on the bed like a dog, a pitiful sound rumbling across the void as you can do nothing but watch. "This is what you get for snooping." He's so smug with the way he has such control over you without even touching you, his thick thighs tensing as he slowly bounces on the dildo, "Now watch. Maybe if you're good I'll let you touch me."

You'll do whatever he says so long as you get to feel him.

[aheathen-conceivably]

Val’s car was no where to be seen outside the farmhouse, and hadn’t been for weeks. Jo had returned it to her soon after their first tour ended, and day after day it had felt good not to worry about packing her suitcase or driving again. Restful, if she was being honest. Like finding shelter in a windstorm as you waited for it to pass, appreciating simple comforts all the more because you knew you would be out in the open again soon.

When she had gotten home, no part of her had expected the weeks to pass so quickly. She certainly hadn’t expected them to be so enjoyable, especially not after the freedom she had found on the road. Even from the moment she had parked the car, she could still feel the movement of the wheels beneath her heels and the thought of the next tour on her mind. Stepping inside, she was afraid it would never abate; but every passing day since then had been like the best of the years she had spent on the farm, only without the nagging disquiet she had felt then.

Maybe it was because part of her knew that she didn’t have to be there. She wanted to. In those moments her happiness felt simple, governed by a quiet and warm joy rather than rushes of success or power. For the first time since she had come here from New Orleans, she felt as though she could truly enjoy it, because the tethers tying her down were those of her own choices and not begrudging dependence.

Even the simple chores she had once hated had taken on a pleasant edge. They had once felt like desperation; small vestiges of survival at the cost of life, or a matrix designed to keep her hands forever busy and her feet in place. Now, if her nails chipped or her fingers cracked, she had not only the time to tend to them, but reason to. There was an end to it all, a routine of her own making that gave the drudgery meaning and the domesticity warmth.

Perhaps it was precisely because she had been allowed to sate her restlessness that she felt so content to sit still now. Night after night her mind was calm and free from the compulsion to get in a car and drive. Somewhere, just below the surface, she knew that it was there, but she didn’t have to fight it just to be happy.

She actually found herself feeling sorry that her weeks at home were coming to an end; but the excited butterflies at the thought told her that she wanted those weeks of freedom and success just as much as she wanted this. It was like the best of two lives: the one that Gio wanted for himself and she for herself, suspended precariously like a feather on the surface of the water.

She lifted herself up onto his lap, the knowledge that he would soon be here alone motivating her to stay all the closer. The fire crackled quietly in the background as he held her just far enough to look into her eyes when he spoke. “Wait here, okay? I’ll be gone just a moment. Keep your eyes closed until I’m back.”

Perhaps it was a testament to just how happy she was that she didn’t protest. Instead she lifted herself up onto the worn leather couch, crossing her legs in girlish excitement as she blindly listened to him rustle through their bedroom. As his footsteps reentered the room she ignored the temptation to snap her eyes open, instead letting him slip his hand over her face and acquiescing to his request to hold her hands out for him.

As he moved his hands off her eyes and told her to open them, he placed a small, light box into her hands. Before she even pulled at the carefully tied strings, she could already tell that it was something far too expensive to have come from this town. “I know that your birthday isn’t for a few weeks, but since your next tour is before then I didn’t want it to come too late.”

She left the box unopened, instead turning to look at his excited face. “Gio. I can already tell it’s too expensive. Whatever it is. The farm, the tours…and it’s not like I need a present. I - I’ll be closer to forty than thirty. I don’t think it’s much of a reason to celebrate…”

“Nonsense. We’re in a better place than we’ve been in years thanks to you. Besides. I made sure to get something useful. Go on, open it.”

Her worried eyes stayed trained on his, half-heartedly protesting once again before he quieted her by gently leaning her head back toward him. “I’m sure, Jo. Now try them on before I spoil it and tell you what it is.”

She opened the small box to reveal a pair of delicately embossed leather driving gloves, unworn and in such a distinct color that she had to assume they had been custom made just for her. They were red, just like her nails always were now, so that even when she wore them they wouldn’t obscure the color beneath.

Gio rounded the couch as she held them up to the firelight, admiring how the color shined so brightly on the thin leather. As she ran her hand along them, appreciating just how soft and expensive they felt, he dropped to one knee next to her, taking her hand in his as he carefully fitted each glove around her fingers.

As he turned her gloved hand over in his own, it was hard for her not to see the significance of what he was doing. Bent down on one knee, openly and lovingly admiring what could only be seen as a symbol of her independence from him. How much he may have wished it was a ring instead, it pained her too much to ask.

“Do you like them? The saleswoman seemed to think the color was a foolish choice, but I tried to tell her it wouldn’t be for you.”

She could already see one glove wrapped tightly around the black leather sheering wheel, the other dangling delicately from the side of the car. Instead she brought it to Gio’s cheek. “I love them. I love you.” An overwhelming ache filled her chest and threatened to bring tears to her eyes. She wasn’t sure whether to be joyful or terrified; because in that moment, she knew just how much it would always be true.

Previous / Next

[brainddeadd]

Day One of Training

Jack Hughes x fem!reader, Nico Hischier x fem!reader, Luke Hughes x fem!reader, Dawson Mercer x fem!reader, Trevor Zegras x fem!reader, Matt Rempe x fem!reader, Matthew Kines x fem!reader, Quinn Hughes x fem!reader

masterlist

The first day of Devils' training camp is a whirlwind of excitement and nerves. As you pull the bright red jersey over your head, the weight of it on your shoulders feels equal parts exhilarating and daunting. The fabric clings to you, emblazoned with your name and number, a physical reminder that you belong here now. The locker room buzzes with energy, a symphony of laughter, chatter, and the occasional clang of gear being tossed around. Amidst it all, your gaze drifts to a familiar sight: Luke Hughes, wearing his #43 with a confident swagger, easily commanding the attention of the room.

When your eyes meet, he flashes that signature grin—half mischief, half genuine warmth—and suddenly, you’re transported back to those college days at UMich. You remember the late-night study sessions, the locker-room jokes, and the unspoken understanding that you both shared as athletes navigating a world that didn’t always take you seriously. In a moment, you’re reminded that not everything has changed.

“Look at us,” Luke says, pulling you into a quick side hug that feels like home. “Same team again. Just like we planned.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s impossible not to smile. Luke is one of the few who really gets it—what it was like to be the girl in college hockey, holding your own in a world dominated by men. He knows the challenges you’ve faced, the moments of doubt, and the relentless push to prove yourself. Now, here you are, ready to do it all over again at the highest level, and it feels surreal.

Before you can get lost in your thoughts, Jack Hughes saunters over, his easy grin spreading across his face like sunshine. “Finally! Someone to keep Luke in line,” he teases, throwing an arm around his brother’s shoulders. The playful banter instantly lightens the mood, easing the tension that had been creeping in. You chuckle, realizing just how quickly you’re falling into this dynamic.

Moments later, Nico Hischier and Dawson Mercer join the group, adding their own flavor to the mix. Nico’s warm, steady presence grounds you; he has this way of making everything seem manageable, even when the pressure is mounting. He flashes you a reassuring smile, and it’s like a silent promise that you’re not in this alone. Meanwhile, Dawson’s infectious energy keeps you on your toes. He’s always quick with a laugh, and you find yourself easing into the group, letting go of the last vestiges of nervousness that had clung to you.

In that moment, surrounded by laughter and camaraderie, you realize that you’re still getting used to being one of the guys—being accepted and respected without hesitation—but with Luke, Jack, Nico, and Dawson, it already feels like home. The bond you’re forming with them is palpable, a shared understanding that transcends words.

As the day unfolds, the chatter grows louder, filled with the promise of what’s to come. You take a deep breath, the scent of fresh ice and adrenaline filling your lungs, and for the first time since arriving, you feel a sense of belonging wash over you. This is just the beginning, and you’re ready to embrace every moment of it.

[witchywomanrunningupthathill]

Confessions

Summary: On the final night before he’s set to ride to King’s Landing to join the Greens, Gwayne Hightower and his forbidden lover are forced to face the reality of their relationship and of war.

Pairing: Gwayne Hightower x Velaryon!Reader

Warnings: the tiniest suggestion of smut, familial angst, religious trauma

A/N: God, I haven’t written anything here in ages. Gwayne caught my fancy so i just had to indulge myself a little and this is the result. Just a little blurb. Any and all thoughts and feedback are welcomed and much appreciated!

Word Count: 1.5k

GIF by ohmovie

Oldtown was a far cry from Driftmark. Nevertheless, this was your life now. It had been for the better part of seven years. As the third child of Corlys Velaryon and Rhaenys Targaryen, you’d left behind your noble name for the Holy Faith. It was at the humble age of six-and-ten that you set off from High Tide for the Reach where the Hightower beacon burned day and night. This had in turn made you somewhat of a pariah among your family members. No longer would you be attending the feasts and balls and tourneys. You embraced a life of solitude, of order and devotion.

Now in your final year of training as a novice, you had begun taking confession from small folk and noblemen alike. And though you indulged in the gossip, hearing about the dalliances with servant girls and the many lies spread back and forth across the city, the work was still the work. You often found herself feeling detached from the folk, granted this was the life you had chosen. Though you couldn’t help but feel at times that the massive stone walls surrounding the city were like a cell, locking you inside a prison of faith and the constant quest for knowledge in the Citadel.

You were used to the pompous, almost self-righteous way the few nobles spoke to you of their sins. It was the same way the man across from you spoke, only his ramblings were tainted with too much care. Ser Gwayne Hightower was too well-witted for his station. This you had learned. 

Truthfully, you were surprised at his presence in the dark confessional at all. He had more important matters to attend to, surely, like the City Watch, policing Oldtown’s labyrinthine streets and alleys. But this was the only place Gwayne could go where he would truly be listened to. It wasn’t the same as having his squire follow his orders to ready his horse or help him with his armor, nor was it having the Hightower soldiers and banners follow his commands as they prepared to march to the capital. It was a comfort, really. Talking with her where his every word wouldn’t be judged or he didn’t have to think up pithy witticisms for the politics of the realm, like he’d have to if he were speaking with his father, which he was loathe to do anyway. 

But now he spoke with a solemn lilt in his voice as his hand grazed the curve of your jaw. The room was warm and candlelight flickered across the light toned stone that made up his rooms. Your limbs tangled together in the sheets as you moved closer into him. Your fingers grazed the smooth skin of his chest. His hand ran through your silver locks of hair with a practiced rhythm. 

“I cannot gainsay that I worry for my sister,” he told you.

Being privy to the goings-on at court, she knew that the Dowager Queen had been losing the last vestiges of influence she retained. And with Otto Hightower put out as Hand of the king, that the rule of the realm teetered on the inconstant whims of one silver-haired boy.

“There is still time,” you said, trailing off. 

Gwayne toyed with the ring on your finger before removing it completely. “I will take this piece of you with me,” he said, his eyes moving from the ring to your lips. You closed the gap between you. The kiss was slow and longing, hungry, as the both of you tried in earnest for make each moment last. 

It was then that you could hear her voice echo through your mind. It was silly, really. The long-held paranoia from when you were just a young maiden. 

“No, she’ll notice,” you cautioned. 

No matter how many times Septa Elspith preached about piety and proper deportment, it didn’t stop your thoughts from wandering to the tawny-haired, comely young knight with whom you now shared a bed.

“Then she can answer to my sword,” he said, his serious gaze morphing into a grin. 

You chuckled before settling back into sweet silence and the afterglow. Your indiscretions with the eldest Hightower son had begun quite unceremoniously at the altar to the Mother late one evening. Gwayne had been praying, at least it had looked that way. Really, though, he’d been talking to his own late mother. Inside the sept was the only place you’d known Gwayne to shed the haughty, rational front he sported outside of those seven walls. Here he had someone he could confide in. You had gotten down on your knees beside him to pray yourself. You had felt his eyes on you and you slowly opened your own to look over at him, your violet eyes shining in the candlelight from the altar below. The look he gave you was one of knowing and of desire.

Confession wasn’t the only place in which Gwayne confided in you. It was in the stolen moments alone in the cold, forgotten corners of the sept where your lips met and your hands fondled and searched one another’s bodies. You felt free in those moments as if this were what true salvation felt like. You imagined this was how it must have felt for your siblings to soar through the sky on their dragons, though you would never know in truth. And as your naked bodies moved together in the scant light of his chambers, you felt free as the open sea and the open air. Perhaps this was what it meant to be alive.

But when these moments were over, the guilt and the worry returned with a vengeance. Were another to find the two of you, surely your head would end up on a spike, your soul damned for eternity.

Your hand fiddled with the star around your neck. “And to think confessional would lead to this,” you said. 

He hummed in agreement. “You’re a long way from Driftmark, princess.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“What? Do you think hiding that silver mane of hair behind a habit is all it takes? Besides, you never did say why you left.”

You sighed. Frustration working at your brow at the thought of revisiting your past. “I never took to the seafarer’s life. Even after the brother and sister died.”

“But the blood of the dragon runs through your veins.”

“And yet I never claimed one,” you said looking at him intently. “Queen Alysanne landed Silverwing atop this very tower and here I am practicing the very faith my ancestors rejected.” Gwayne didn’t say anything. He simply took to lazily twirling your ring between his fingers. “I do not wish for you to go.”

“You and I both know we have nobler causes.” He put the rings aside then turned back to you. “I hate the capital.”

“Hm. Too many tyrants in the Small Council for your liking?” you quipped.

“Heh. And a Dornishman to contend with.”

“Careful, that’s your Lord Hand you’re talking about.”

He rolled his eyes and made a dismissive sound. “Please. Cole doesn’t know his arse from his elbow.”

You gazed at him uneasily as he got up from the bed, walking over to the basin of fresh water that had been left for him. Your hand moved to your belly as he splashed his face with water. “Indeed,” you answered as he slid on his breeches.

His eyes followed your hand that now moved along your stomach. He was frozen there.

The look he gave you broke your heart and was enough to make you want to burn down the Starry Sept yourself. Tears welled up in both of your eyes. There were now words spoken, nothing to fill the silence of what was perhaps your final night together. Your final chance to see each other alive. This was your confession. 

Then Gwayne spoke up. “How long have you known?”

“Not two moons,” you said.

Gwayne was again at a loss for words. He was just about to set off for battle. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Sure, he wanted this, but it wasn’t the time. He shook his head, angry at the Seven, at himself. “Seven hells.”

“I’m going to get rid of it.” Concern crossed Gwayne’s features. “I’m a septa,” you said, breaking his gaze. “Plus, this is no world to raise a child. We all know what’s coming. The dragons will dance and all we know will come crashing down in fire and ash. Those are the real gods. The great beasts my family lords over.”

“So this is over?” he asked quietly. 

“I can’t do this, Gwayne.”

“No, no. I can make this right. I could get you safe passage out of the Reach—”

“It’s no use. This war is coming.”

In that moment he was powerless. And he hated it with every fiber of his being. He knew you were right. The war was here and there was nothing he could do about it except face certain death. He moved back to the bed and sat down heavily on the edge, bereft of all other thoughts.

Your moved over to him and wrapped yourself around his back, your arms enveloping his torso. You rested your head in the crook of his neck. He brought a hand up to your arm, settling there. The both of you sat there in silence, gazing out of the window overlooking a glowing Oldtown, knowing what was to come.

[trippingontheescalator]

I've got some headcanons about Vulcan evolution and ancient Vulcan civilizations, and what better way to share them than on here?

So, despite their cat-like tendencies, I think that Vulcans originally lived similar to elephants in segregated, nomadic herds. Like these are cave Vulcans, Australopithecus Vulcans. The women and children lived in one herd, and the adult men were either solitary or in two pairs. The two groups typically only met up during Pon Farr, which coincided with the rainy season. They did not originally form bonds with each other, but women were more receptive to breeding with men who were mentally compatible. Vulcan men evolved to be highly, highly aggressive during this time because like this is their only shot to pass on their genetics in seven years. Because of how harsh the planet is, they might die before the next Pon Farr comes, so they've got to learn how to knock the competition the fuck out. The Vulcans with the highest level of hormones were the most aggressive, and therefore the most likely to pass on their genes, but this was a double-edged sword: it made them more likely to die if the Pon Farr was not fulfilled. The majority of women do not experience Pon Farr, but it isn't necessarily uncommon -- about 10-15% of the female population -- to undergo Pon Farr on some level as well due to naturally elevated hormones.

A thousand years later, women discover agriculture. The women became more settled and create villages, culture, writing, government, etc. The different herds become clans, each headed by a matriarch, and come together under one village. This is when they start bonding children at a young age. Adult males are still not allowed to integrate within the all-female clans. Bonding and the kahs-wan used to be intricately linked. Once a matriarch bonded a boy to a girl, he underwent the kahs-wan: a ritual banishment. He was now considered an adult and was banished from the village. The bond he now had ensured that at the next Pon Farr, he would be naturally drawn to his bondmate, seeking her out from wherever he was in the desert like a homing signal. Now the kahs-wan is like a hardcore camping trip that all genders undergo to prove their maturity.

Of course, not all Vulcan males would return to the village to seek out their mate. Some, instead of remaining solitary, paired up with another man. Vulcan men began creating their own culture and writing, parallel to that of the women, placing particular emphasis on the t'hy'la bond they shared with their chosen other. Women had a similar bond with other women; they had a wife and then a mate who would show up once every seven years.

Well, eventually the men were like "this is bullshit, I'm tired of living in the desert, let me into your village dammit." Now men and women start having real marriages with each other, though men -- who are entering a world that women created and are beholden to women by virtue of needing to mate or they'll die -- occupy a lesser social position. Because they are now settled and have access to steady food and water, Pon Farr is no longer tied to the cyclical rainy season. It's still seven years, but when it starts is now dependent on the Vulcan's biology. Some civilizations have women retaining their wives as their primary spouse and keeping a harem of men. Other civilizations start adopting a one woman-one man system of marriage to ensure that everyone has a mate, though still giving women a powerful loophole in the koon-ut-kal-if-fee. A few civilizations retain vestiges of the old way of life; men remain part of their mother's household and likewise their bonded wife stays with her mother's household, and they only meet during Pon Farr, with the father never meeting his biological children and instead helping his sisters raise his nieces and nephews. Eventually the one woman-one man system of marriage became the most dominant.

Eventually men get equal rights and Surak comes along and is like "logic is better than violence" etc etc etc. There are still matriarchs and the koon-ut-kal-if-fee and the vestiges of the kahs-wan, but sexism is illogical. Though Vulcans are not perfect logic machines, and there are some women who are still a little bit sexist towards men. A man arguing with a man or a woman arguing with a woman might say something like "Your logic is not sound" but if a woman wanted to put down a man during an argument, she might say "Is it your Time?" which is the height of rudeness. Like asking a human if she's on her period.

[peachdues]

Woke up at 2 last night, wrote more of my Duke!Gojo Bridgerton AU, and fell back asleep and dropped my phone on my face.

You blinked. “You’re — are you jealous?”

The Duke’s — Satoru’s — words died in his throat though his mouth continued to open and close like a fish’s as he fumbled to regain some semblance of coherence. Instead, the heir to the Six Eyes clan was left looking remarkably stupid.

“No,” he managed after another moment of awkward sputtering. “I have never in my life been jealous of anyone —“

But he was; it was so glaringly obvious that you would have laughed squarely in his face had you not been utterly stupified by the revelation that the Duke had indeed, been envious of the way you’d waltzed with the young monarch.

“So you did not stomp out here, into the gardens alone, like a petulant child, simply because Prince Itadori danced with me — even though it was you who insisted we end our ruse?” You asked coolly, arms crossing over your chest, your hip jutting out to the side.

Satoru lifted his chin high, stubborn and prideful. “I simply wanted to admire the flowers.” He gestured to the few dried, brown buds still attempting to cling to the last vestiges of summer before they succumbed to autumn’s decay.

“You’re a dreadful liar.”

—-

The Duke rounded on you, his crystalline eyes glowing with a foreign anguish in the night air. “Because you do not know what it is like to — to burn for someone who does not feel as you do!”

Your arms fell limply to your sides as the weight of Gojo’s tacit admission choked the air from your lungs.

“Burn?” You repeated, voice hardly more than a whisper. “You — you burn for me?” Your feet moved or their own accord, closing the careful distance you’d tried to maintain between yourself and this — infuriating man.

Satoru’s face fell as he realized his slip, and with a heavy sigh, he ran a hand over his tired face. When he finally looked back to you, your stomach fluttered at the pure anguish in his expression. “Why do you think I came out here? So abruptly?”

How vain you’d been to think your ruse incapable of progressing behind either of your controls; that it would not end exactly where you now stood.

It was then or never. “Why do you think I followed?”

A wind shifted through the garden, disturbing the fallen leaves which had gathered on the orderly, cobblestoned garden path. But those leaves were crushed beneath the Duke’s urgent steps as he closed the distance between you. His hands found your jaw and he looked to you only once before he slammed his mouth down over yours, his fingers digging into your cheeks as though he could keep you rooted there, utterly his to consume.

And you let him.