#there’s no way to know right now but you canon doesn’t have to reflect the current tone given and anything can be seen from different angle

[hythlodaeus-mynewoldfriend]

Demos is readying to see something new and is going along with things on his own terms now. He always coped better with life and the hardships that came from all that happened, he’s come out a lot healthier and opening up more to people and expanding his world, so for him he’s ready for this especially since by the time it happens it’ll have been 2-3 years since the end of EW and the scions have departed to him returning to the msq in 6.4.

Honestly this expansion couldn’t have come at a better time for Sib as she was the most broken and suffered the most throughout, but where she differs is she never truly confronted any of it. She got the tools and the first steps but has stayed in those early stages of mental recovery. Once cleared to go back out into the world she takes up more of an identity as an anonymous adventurer because she never got to actually accomplish what she set out to do in ARR before being tossed into the life of a hero, she spends a long while needing to find herself beyond the titles she’s been given her whole life that she clung too so tightly. With the current storyline happening she’s having to actively confront the trauma of losing her brother and the ramifications of finding out the truth from her father that he didn’t die right away, she’s having to take these tools and skills she’s learned and learning and apply them because she’s still repressing and putting on a face. She’s not as over everything that happened as she’d lead you to believe so her having this relatively lower stakes situation is good for her to really truly start work on recovery from all that trauma and learning how to live a life again knowing these things dont just go away and will be with her always and being able to keep going forward as a real person, as her true self.

From where we sit at the moment, Dawntrail feels strange tonally for my WoL. The one-two punch of Shadowbringers into Endwalker left her broken in many ways, and Alahra is still ultimately the weary wanderer of the Shadowbringers finale, duty-bound to continue on but not always sure that she can. I'm thinking a lot about whether she'll be ready to journey to the New World with the exuberance Meteor displays in the teaser trailer

So a question for all you WoLs out there:

Is your WoL ready for this new adventure? Have they managed to move on from the weight of Endwalker, or do they still bear scars from it?

[coralinnii]

forgetting your jacket and wearing someone else’s  feat: Sebek · Rook · Idia · Kalim genre: fluff, jealousy note: not gender-specific reader, no pronouns used (except maybe gendered French words in Rook's part but unsure), established relationships, reader is not part of Scarabia in Kalim's part, reader is implied to be smaller than Jack in Rook's part

I'm not sure how satisfied I am with this one because this was honestly quite a challenge for me. I haven't read book 6 yet so Idia may not be too accurate to his canon character? But still, I hope you guys enjoy it

Would definitely scold you for forgetting to wear your jacket. No matter how warm or how cold, Sebek always wears his school uniform neatly and with pride, his honour as Malleus' guard on the line. A sloppy appearance reflects a sloppy character, he believes.

You didn’t feel too bad when he was reluctant to give you his jacket upon request. You shouldn’t force someone just because you’re a little cold. 

Fortunately for you, a classmate of yours noticed your shivering and offered his own for the time being, saying he has a spare for Flying class. You thanked your good luck as you graciously accepted. Now Sebek won’t feel bad about not giving you his jacket, right? 

With your newly acquired jacket, you managed to survive the first half of the school day and went to find Sebek in the cafeteria during recess. You waved at him happily as you approached his table but he did not return the greeting. 

He felt a sense of bile in his throat when he saw you in a jacket that did not fit you at all. The shoulders were too wide and the sleeves engulfed you. Sure, you looked cute but he doesn’t like it. He initially thought that it was because he didn't like how unfitting it was on you. 

“Human, where did you acquire that jacket? It doesn’t suit you at all” 

When you answered how someone offered his jacket to you, the bile was more prominent. The way you snuggled into another boy’s jacket, the oversized fabric enveloping you like a warm cocoon. Sure, he was hesitant over handing you his jacket before, but knowing someone else provided for you hits him in a sore spot as your boyfriend. He wants to be the one to take care of you, to be your ever reliable knight. 

Quickly, Sebek stood up from his seat and started to remove his own jacket. Without looking at you, he asked you to remove the jacket you have and put his on. 

“But I’m comfy” 

“Please, I…I beg of you” 

You did as he asked and after quickly putting away his lunch tray, he escorted you back to your dorm to get your own jacket and to quickly return the jacket of that generous classmate of yours. 

“The idea of seeing someone else take care of you… as your boyfriend, I will not stand for it!”

A masterful huntsman, Rook Hunt is not an easy man to track. Not to mention the fact that he’s a third year and Pomefiore’s vice Housewarden, you figured that searching for him this early in the day would be a fruitless endeavour. 

Luckily, you did find Jack who, despite his grumbles over your absentmindedness, offered his jacket to you. Happy, you promised that you returned it with a favour to the beastman. 

However, the atmosphere around you seemed odd to you as the school day went on. Other students, particularly the beastman students, were busy whispering and gossiping behind you which confused you and honestly got a little bit on your nerves. 

All those unpleasant feelings quickly disappeared when you spotted a familiar feathered hat in the distance. Without a word, you quickly rushed through the crowd to give your boyfriend a hug from behind. 

Or least, that’s what you planned if it weren’t for Rook quickly turning to encase you in his arms instead. 

“I thought I heard your adorable footsteps running towards me. What a wonderful surprise!”

You laughed, thinking you should have known nothing gets past Rook. You tried to step back but realized that Rook maintained his grip on you, inspecting you with a look of curiosity. 

The hunter looks over your newly acquired jacket. The shoulders are much too bulky to be yours. He noticed the Savanaclaw emblem on the sleeve which would explain the jacket's size considering how the majority of those students are. However, he caught the scent of something -  of someone - familiar. A certain tall, gruff beastman to be precise. 

“Mon amour, is this perhaps… Jack Howl’s jacket?” 

“Oh, how did you know?” You exclaimed as you told Rook how you were cold today and Jack offered his jacket to you this morning. 

“So that explains the whispering I’ve been hearing” Rook thought as he carefully traced the lapels of the jacket clearly not tailored for you. There’s a charm to see you in a new look like this but the hunter himself is experiencing a new emotion, a burning feeling in his chest that compels him to rip away the offending fabric. Is this jealousy? Perhaps a possessive urge to reclaim his spot that feels threatened by a newcomer? 

Oh, what a beautiful new experience you have given this admirer of beauty. Rook happily revels in this feeling he has never experienced before until meeting you. 

“How wonderfully kind of him. Let us find him, I must share my thanks for caring for my beautiful trésor~” 

There’s a part of you that feels like it would not be a good idea to bring Rook to your friend, but you decided to brush that anxious feeling away. After all, the smile on Rook’s face convinced you that there was no harm (poor choice, really). 

Hidden from your sight, Rook’s fingers slightly twitched in anticipation as the two of you went to look for the white-haired freshman. Rook truly did want to offer his thanks to the beastman…with some helpful tips for surviving a hunter. 

“One must be very careful in the wild. It is not smart to leave marks near a hunter’s territory”

You didn't even bother to try asking him, this man isn’t even on campus. Even if he was, you doubt he would give you his jacket, probably claiming it’d be “such a normie cliche”, leaving you to find other means to find warmth. 

Thankfully, you found the kind-hearted Silver who was gracious enough to lend you his school jacket for the day. With all the interesting types of students you have encountered on this campus, your flame-haired boyfriend included, Silver is odd himself for simply being such an outlier case of a typical student here. 

The day went off normally, and you decided to visit Idia in his room before heading back to your dorms. You hope you could spend some intimate time with him, some cuddling and perhaps a kiss or two. 

Too bad your boyfriend had other plans, which was apparently playing video games while purposely ignoring you. His back is turned towards you and every time you get close to him, the gamer has the audacity to scoot AWAY from you. 

“Idia, please tell me what’s wrong before I actually get mad” 

“...that jacket” You heard him mumble which confused you further. You asked to repeat himself. 

Which led your introverted boyfriend to yell out, surprising you. “You're wearing that jacket! And it had to be that guy who’s practically an otome game target!” 

Idia was sulking the entire day as he saw you through the security camera accepting Silver’s jacket. He wanted to scream and call foul-play on that but instead he reluctantly faced reality. Of course, Silver will be that type of guy. The mysterious but kind knight archetype with good looks to boot. Idia wouldn’t be surprised if he was some kind of long lost prince. 

“Well, I would love it if my boyfriend would give me his, if he wasn’t allergic to coupley stuff” there was some snark in your tone but you never really want to pressure Idia to do something he doesn’t want. You would love to show off your relationship with Idia but you wanted to respect his comfort.

Idia knows that, and he’s grateful for you for not pushing him too far out of his comfort zone. But still, knowing someone acting like that with you, all sweet and caring, leaves a sour taste in Idia’s mouth.

There was a short pause between you two, letting the mood settle before saying anything else. Then, Idia quietly asked, “Do you want to share jackets…with me?” 

“Absolutely” you gasped excitedly and without another word, Idia turned to his computer and started searching the Internet for worthwhile jackets in his sizes and yours. If you have more jackets then you won’t have to go around asking for someone else’s.

Also, even he can’t resist the giddy feeling of seeing his amazing lover wear something that’s special only to you and him, not that he would admit it out loud. Too cringe.

“If we’re doing the lame normie stuff, we’re doing it our way. And no sharing with anybody else, right??”

Kalim would absolutely offer you his jacket, his vest, his shirt, heck even his pants without question. Whatever you want, he would give it up no questions asked. But you were surprised how you couldn’t find your boyfriend at first, until he texted you he had to be called in for a Housewarden meeting with Crowley which leaves you to wait for him in the cold. 

Luckily, a classmate of yours from Scarabia saw you shivering and offered his jacket to you. Afterall, you were his Housewarden’s beloved so he wanted to make sure you’re warm for Kalim’s sake. You were touched by this sentiment and accepted the jacket, promising to return it after meeting with Kalim.

Kalim ran to hug you as soon as he saw you as he left his meeting, enveloping you in his warm embrace with a grin on his face. In his excitement, it took a while for him to register your slightly new look. 

“Did you join Scarabia? Are we in the same house now?!” Kalim excitedly asked which you laughed at his silliness. 

When you explained the story about the jacket, Kalim was really glad. He thought about how lucky he is to have such kind people in his dorm that was so happy to help out his beloved, he must reward them later! The white-haired man was happy that you were cared for in his short absence. 

But, what is this other feeling in his heart? This heavy feeling in his chest that slightly aches when he saw how you adjusted the jacket on you, bringing it closer to your body like a comforting blanket. He felt unsatisfied, almost fearful of your attachment to this jacket. 

Was he jealous? 

Kalim shook off his thoughts as he removed his soft beige cardigan and the jacket you have. You watched him confused as he draped his cardigan over you, replacing the heat from your classmate’s jacket to his.  

“Kalim?” 

“I just thought you’d be comfier if you had my cardigan instead. It’s really soft!” he grinned as he pulled the large cardigan to wrap around you like a cute burrito. 

And to be fair, Kalim’s cardigan WAS comfier. Probably made with the highest quality and taken the best care by you assume Jamil. You happily snuggled into its warmth, reveling in the cloud soft coat, missing the loving looks from your sunshine of a boyfriend. 

Yea, he definitely likes seeing you in his clothes better. 

Don’t be surprised to see packages of luxurious coats and sweaters from yours truly. You two can match!

“If you’re ever cold, you can always come to me first! I’ll make sure to keep you warm!”  

[bg-brainrot]

The Thousandth Time (Astarion x GN!Tav)

Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Summary: Astarion and Rogue!Tav make love for the thousandth time. In a bathtub.

Tags: Smut, Slice of life, POV Second Person, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Fluff, Spawn Astarion, Post-Canon, bathtub sex, sloppy sex, seriously just sickeningly sweet smut, Spawn Astarion, Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Domesticity is romantic, Hand Jobs, Blood Drinking

A/N: Some context-- I wanted to write soft, gender neutral smut. And by the gods is this soft. I tried to look at what it's like to love someone for so long. In my experience, when you've been with someone for so many years, you still find a lot of love in the little things. which I hope I hit? Anyway, enjoy!!

Word count: ~5.3k

The thousandth time you make love to Astarion, you don't know it's the thousandth time.

It's a day like any other, really.

After a long day at the guild, you've arrived home, a sigh on your lips, a furrow to your brow.

"Whatever is the matter, my dear?"

You compose your expression and turn toward your lover. "Astarion," you start, a reflexive wistfulness to your tone. Gods are you glad to see him after a day like today. "Nothing is the matter. Nothing important anyway. Simply glad to be home."

Astarion gives you a look that says he doesn't quite believe you, but knows better than to pry too deeply into issues you'd rather not bring home. "Very well, darling. But you know I'm all pointy ears. Especially if Nine-Fingers has been difficult again."

"Ugh," you say, wincing in annoyance. "Do not say her name right now."

The vampire gives you a bright, toothy laugh. "That bad, eh?" You nod. He walks toward you, arms outstretched. "Mmm in that case, shall we call it an early night tonight?"

You dive into the comfort of his arms, holding him to you, inhaling his fresh, familiar scent. It feels like the day's troubles melt in his cold embrace, and the tension in your body finally relaxes. "That might be nice."

"Dinner first?" he asks, pulling away from you slightly.

You look into his warm crimson eyes, feel that same warmth reflected in your face. Of course, he’d check to see if your mortal needs have been met. "No need, I've eaten. How about you?"

Astarion brings a hand up to inspect your face, this way, then that. It’s as if he’s examining you for injury, not assessing if he can partake in a bit of your blood. "Mmm, you seem a tad tired, love."

"You know I'll manage. Besides, get my blood while it's still boiling with rage," you say, craning your neck for him in response.

"As delectable as that sounds,” he begins, letting go of your face, tracing his fingers along your neck. “I think a bath and bed ought to come first."

You want to argue the point, make sure he's fed to the best of your ability, but the yawn that escapes you is irrefutable. With nary another word, his hand is on the small of your back, guiding you toward the bath.

"Would you like to join me?" you ask him as you open the door. Your expression is calm, the question harboring no hidden intentions. Any other day, you may have raised an eyebrow at him suggestively, begun taking off your armor in a tease– but you're tired, simply not wanting to relinquish the feel of his arms around you.

"Certainly, if it keeps you from falling asleep in the tub…" he trails off, looking at you warily. He appears torn, somewhere between keeping you from drowning and keeping you from resting.

You give him a wry smile. “Imagine that. After felling all manner of beasts and men, finally succumbing to the tub.”

Astarion offers you a reluctant smile in return. “My love, I swear to every god above and below, if you die in any manner even remotely that ludicrous, I shall have to pretend not to know you at your funeral.”

“That’s fair,” you say, holding a hand out to him. “Best to make sure that doesn’t happen then, don’t you think?”

The man can’t argue with that, nor does he seem to want to. After an entire day away from each other, this closeness is exactly what the two of you crave. So he takes your offered hand, and follows you into the bathroom.

It has been years since you had added a tub big enough for the two of you in your house. While the two of you had accrued wealth enough for an entire bathhouse, you’d settled for a more modest setup. At least, modest in Astarion’s eyes.

The floor is made of the finest marble tiles, the walls of intricately laid and patterned brick. And in the center of the room, is the room’s main attraction: the enormous, magical tub. It’s long enough that you could comfortably lay down across the entire bottom, wide enough that you have to extend your arms to reach both sides. The outer edges are infused with enchantments to improve your bathing experience, and the tub itself is made of the highest quality crystal that gold can buy.

Once you enter the room, you activate the heat and water sigils along the basin’s edges and turn back to Astarion. “Would you mind grabbing some soaps from the shelf?”

He gives you a lopsided grin, eyes crinkling with amusement, but still moves to do as you ask. “Would you also like me to bathe you while I’m at it?”

“Oh, would you?” you ask half-joking. You begin to strip your armor off, piece by piece.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, picking out a few of his preferred scents from a shelf on the wall. He’s accumulated quite the collection now, enjoying mixing and matching as his nose guides him. “That could be arranged.”

You’re almost halfway through your armor when he returns, bottles of lemon, bergamot, and sage soaps in hand. “Ah, you know how much I love bergamot,” you say, smiling at it fondly, pausing halfway through undoing your leather straps.

“I know,” he says, placing them next to the tub before turning his attention fully to you. “I also know that you need help with that armor or we may be here all night.”

Holding your arms out wordlessly, Astarion starts to unbuckle each and every strap from the front of your padded armor. As he releases you from its confines, you take a deep, relieved breath and say, “Thank you, love.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he murmurs, leaving a long lingering touch along your now exposed collarbone. “While you strike quite the image in your armor, I think I much prefer you without.”

You laugh, feeling quite light in the now steaming room. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say your mind is straying quite far from rest, Astarion.”

The vampire shrugs, beginning to tug at your undershirt and small clothes with each of his hands. “Merely stating fact, my darling.”

With a few smooth movements, he’s taken off the last of your clothing, exposing every inch of you to the warmth of the room and the heat of his gaze. He seems just about ready to bury his head in your neck, begin covering every piece of you in kisses, when you speak, “Excuse me, are you planning to enter the bath in your house clothes?”

Astarion looks down at his own garb, the comfortable satins and silks of a man who spent the day lounging at home. When faced with your words and, ugh, logic, he says with a sigh, “Would you do the honors?”

You need no more invitation before your hands are on his soft, flowing shirt, running along it appreciatively. “Is this new?”

“It is,” he says, a hint of pride in his voice. “Do you like it?”

“It feels magnificent,” you respond, beginning to undo its buttons. “I may just have to steal it for myself one of these days.”

His lips purse at you. “You know, you could simply ask, darling.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you taunt, pulling up on the shirt's edges, tugging it up and off of him. Now, faced with the plane of his ivory chest, your fingers act on instinct. They trail down his shoulders, trace the line of his pectorals, drop down the center of his stomach to the waist of his pants.

Astarion gives you a low, approving noise before asking you wryly, “Now whose mind is straying?”

“Not mine,” you respond, pulling his pants and underwear down in one smooth motion. “My hands are just so tired, I’m sure you understand.”

“Surely,” he responds, as he pulls each foot out of his pant legs. “How is the water?”

The bath is steaming by now, visibly fogging up the room, but still, you bend down to skim your hands along its surface. “Ah, it’s warm,” you say, gripping the edge with one hand. “Maybe too warm?”

“No such thing,” he responds, and one of his hands lands next to yours as he bends down to feel the water for himself. The man gives a happy hum before asking, “Shall we then?” Then his now-wet hand is smacking your butt, his head gesturing toward the waiting water. 

“Excuse you,” you say, indignantly, as you turn toward him. “I'm tired.” But you don't feel tired. Not after running your hands over his cold skin. Not after feeling the quick contact of his hand on your backside.

“Not to worry, darling. I’ll take care of you.”

As in, bathing or–? Luckily you don't have much more time to think about it before he’s lowering himself into the tub. Even with his quick movement, even with the water’s slight obscurity, you easily note that Astarion’s cock has stirred in interest.

Ah. While you hadn’t meant to illicit anything by inviting him… it’s certainly not unwelcome. It’s a good thing that your exhaustion is all but melting away under his loving touches.

Acutely aware of his sharp gaze on the length of your back, you turn to face away from him, grab the edge of the tub, and slowly enter its warmth. As was customary in your baths, he would start with your back, so you take a spot in front of him, leaving just enough room for him to settle behind you as he pleases.

Too much room clearly, as Astarion immediately scoots forward, extending his legs to each side of you. You feel his hardening length graze your backside as he does so and can’t help the smile that curves your lips.

"Astarion, dear,” you start, placing your hands on each of his knees under the water. “Are you certain you want to bathe me?"

“And why wouldn't I be?” He leans closer, planting a soft kiss along your spine.

You debate backing up into his groin to prove a point but instead shake your head. "No reason, I suppose."

He begins by lathering his hands in a mixture of soaps, carefully measured out by eye and feel. All the while, you sit before him, hands on each of his calves, thumbs repeatedly rubbing the ridge of his muscles. While he’d had a nice, calm day today, his calves are always so tight from sneaking about– and it’s the least you can do for the man that’s bathing you.

Then his hands get to work.

At first he drags both hands along your back, once, twice. Once he’s made sure that soap covers every inch of you, he starts massaging you, working the soap into your skin, kneading into your sore muscles.

Astarion knows your body so intimately and, after so many years of tending to each other, he rubs all of your tightest spots. His knuckles press deep into your neck. His fingers work around your upper back. His thumbs dig underneath the edges of your shoulder blades, working out the knots he knows lay beneath. And, by the gods, if you thought you’d been melting under his caresses before, now you’re practically a puddle.

You can’t help the noises that come out at the sensation of his nimble fingers at work. Your shoulders ache from a long day of sneaking, stabbing, and general tension of dealing with people– the relief is palpable in the way you relax into his touch, grip his legs, and release several breathy moans.

And with each moan, you can feel his cock growing firmer against you. After the first few, you can feel him shift closer with every noise he draws from you. Knowing your affect on him has always done something to stir the fire in you, and this time it has you shifting uncomfortably as heat blooms between your legs. The both of you spur the other’s building lust, all the while the fresh scent that Astarion’s concocted permeates the air.

Then, when it’s clear he’s done with your back, thoroughly satisfied with each gasping breath of pleasure, his hands drop from your shoulders. They tail down your back, playing along your spine. And, in an almost leisurely motion, they wrap around your torso, where they finally settle on your chest.

I don’t think this is a relaxing bath anymore, you think distantly. Yet you’re unable to resist leaning into his palms, arching into his touch.

Sensing your shuffles, Astarion curls further into your back, almost entirely flush to you now. His fingers feel their way to each of your nipples, first gently brushing against them, then thumbing over them each in turn. They respond eagerly, perking up under his delicate sweep.

“Astarion,” you begin, turning your head back to him slightly and raising an eyebrow. “What are you doing?” Your tone isn’t exactly admonishing– your voice comes out too quiet, desire muffling all other emotions.

His hands trail down your chest, past the surface of the bath water, settling on each of your thighs before he responds, voice low, lips inches away from your ear. “Making sure that every single centimeter of my beautiful darling is clean, of course.”

“Astarion, I thought you would be, ahh… taking care of me," you say, barely holding on to your trail of thought as his hands dip between your legs, brushing your sensitive core.

“I am taking care of you,” he whispers, finally closing the remaining distance between your back, his front. At the feel of his stiff cock pressing against your back, you give an involuntary gasp. He seems to enjoy your reaction, taking a moment to slowly grind the entire length of his hardened arousal along your backside once, before he settles between your cheeks. “Unless you’d rather leave all of this stress pent up, my dear?”

You’d been tired– been ready to bathe and head off to bed. But something about this man never fails to ignite the fire in your heart– or your loins. “I suppose not,” you murmur, releasing Astarion’s calf, running up his leg with your fingers, landing on his arm, gripping it closer to you.

“I knew you would see reason,” he says, taking your grip as guidance. His hand moves down to begin stroking your heat, building up steadily to the fast-paced rhythm he knows you like. In the water’s buoyant embrace, his actions feel a touch more fluid, his fingers more silken.

It has taken time experimenting together to reach this place– one of utmost security and intimate knowledge of each others’ bodies. But now that you’re here, you’ve found that Astarion’s agile fingers are obscenely precise in their movements. Like he knows exactly which pins to tumble to unlock your utmost excitement.

So you can't help the way you buck into his touch, nor the way the water sloshes around you both in response.

"Careful, love," he says, hand stilling. "We don't want to make a mess this time, do we?"

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you remember the last time this had happened, how the floor had been practically flooded. You should agree with him, make sure that such an incident doesn't occur again. But the front of your mind is wholly occupied, thinking only of how he's stopped moving his hand, how being careful may mean that he takes it too gently. "Mmm, we managed to clean it up well enough," you respond, jerking your hips back, pressing against him with need.

Astarion's laughter rings upon the bathroom's stone walls, before it turns into a groan as you roll your hips once more. His voice is a bit huskier when he responds, "You know we’re going to regret it later.”

You smile back at him, satisfied with the noise you’ve elicited. “Sounds like a problem for later, doesn’t it?” Then your hand squeezes his arm, motioning it back down to your now throbbing arousal. “For now, what was that about releasing my stress?”

“Oh very well… in that case, let’s find where you ache most, shall we?” Astarion murmurs, dipping his head, placing a kiss on the base of your neck. “Here?” Your shoulder. “Or perhaps here?” Then his hand settles back between your legs, fingers touching you in a rather delicate caress. “Or maybe here?”

You hum a noise of approval as his . “Oh, there.”

His fingers close on your swollen sex, rubbing languidly as he whispers in your ear, “Mmm, darling. So much tension…” A bit more pressure. “I must simply…” A bit faster pace. “Massage it all away…”

If anything, his touches cause you to grasp at his legs harder, all of the muscles in your body responding in kind to his ministrations. Your back arches instinctively, earning an exquisite groan from Astarion. So when his next stroke causes you to clench, you lean into it, grinding your ass back into the full length of his erection, sliding easily in the water’s low friction.

His other hand finds its way to your hip, helping you match his pace as you continue to rock into him.

The two of you fall into a beautiful, raucous rhythm, each open and generous with your vocal pleasure, the water’s regular splashes punctuating each movement.

“Yes, yes, gods, Astarion.”

“My sweet, you’re the only divine thing here.”

Then your words begin to lose sense, your rhythm begins to falter, and it’s clear that you won’t last much longer under his caring fingers.

You also know that Astarion hasn’t been tended to nearly as well as you have.

So you move to turn toward him. With how his full length twitches against you in urgency, your own nimble fingers ought to return the favor.

Astarion stops you, placing his unoccupied hand back on your chest to hold you in place. "Ah ah ah. Love, I'm here to help you."

"You are helping,” you start, pushing back against his hand. “But I don’t want to leave you like this.” ‘This’ is obvious as the man clearly exercises every ounce of self control he has judging from the visible veins on his arm, the way his legs squeeze reflexively around you each time he strokes you.

He gives you a reluctant groan, one that does nothing to hide his desire. “Must you always be so selfless?” His hand doesn’t release your chest though, and he begins tracing delicate, wet circles around one of your nipples, as he murmurs, “Fine, just let me continue.”

Staying in place for him, you reach back with one hand to feel for his cock. It’s almost unreal how naturally you slot around him, the way your fingers circle around its girth. The entire length, inch-by-inch, the pattern of his veins, the sensitive lip of his head– they’re all intimately familiar to you now. As is finding just the right grip, the right pace.

When you start to pump him in earnest, Astarion can't help but shudder, his movements losing their steady, pulsing beat. In losing his pace, he takes on a new one– erratic, a bit fumbling, but utterly intoxicating.

You're both stoking each other’s fires in tandem, wildly offset in your desperation to touch each other more and more and more. 

The water feels almost cool compared to your heated core, to the sweet friction you're building together.

Astarion's face tilts into your back, grunting as he strains to right his tempo– his forehead presses against you, his cool exhale grazes your searing skin. His chilled touch is a reprieve in the sweltering fog of steam and heady lust. Hearing your sigh of relief, he seems all too willing to make more contact.

His lips crash onto your back roughly, and his fangs nick your skin. An involuntary shiver runs through your body as you imagine the pleasure his drinking evokes from you. As you imagine the man behind you lapping at your neck, moaning in satisfaction, flushed pink with your very blood–

"Take some blood,” you offer, breathless. Imagining would never be enough, you find yourself craving the real deal. So when you say your next word, it comes out more pleading than you intend, “Please."

“Whatever my dearest desires,” Astarion replies, voice low and rumbling. He removes the hand from your chest and places it on your shoulder, holding you in place as he places his lips at the crook of your neck. His nose rubs gently against your fleshly washed skin. “Mmm, you smell so good.”

Then his fangs pierce you.

When you first began your relationship, you hadn’t intended to enjoy his bites as much as you do, but after years and years of them, the pain hardly registers now. All you feel is close– So very close to the man you would gladly give your lifeblood to.

He draws a gulp, and you feel the blood course through you, into him.

Another drink, and heat builds in you as you feel his cock grow harder in your hand, his veins more prominent.

A third long pull of your blood, and you feel his fingers quicken at your aching arousal.

You jerk into his hand in reaction, trying to seek an outlet for your pleasure. Your mouth emits a whimper– you hadn’t been comfortable whimpering with Astarion at first, but after he drew one out of you, he couldn’t get enough.

He still can’t, and you feel his lips curl into a smile at your neck, his fingers move with more urgency.

All the while you continue stroking his length, fingers sloppy in your own hazy state. It doesn’t seem like you need your usual dexterity though, because Astarion is practically writhing with newfound reactivity. Drinking blood always leaves him especially sensitive.

One last shaky swallow and he removes his fangs from your neck. But not his mouth. His tongue begins lavishing your puncture wound furiously as he struggles to hold back his approaching peak.

With the way he haphazardly tilts his hips into you, it’s all too evident to you that he’s reaching his limit. He’s not afraid to tell you so either.

"My sweet," he all but moans into your ear. "I–I can't last much longer. May I?"

You know what he means, and you honestly can’t last much longer either– you’re positively light-headed from a mixture of bliss and blood loss. So you stop your movements, nod your addled head at him.

He removes his hands from your core and neck, reaching out to your legs. Pulling them out and apart, he shuffles behind you, moving impatiently.

Realizing he can’t do this alone, he gestures, motioning for you to put your legs up.

Still a bit dizzy, you carefully place each leg on either side of the tub’s edges, hooking yourself in place by the ankles. It feels a precarious balance, but you can hardly care when you’re this eager to have Astarion inside you.

Astarion seems just as eager, rubbing his length against your ass hungrily as you get into position.

Perched and ready for him, the man is quick to help once more– his hands grip your asscheeks and lift in a swift movement. You’re particularly buoyant in the water, and you rise higher than either of you had expected. Your hand instinctively reaches out, gripping the edge of the tub to brace yourself, and you hear Astarion give a deep chuckle from behind you.

Holding back your own almost giddy excitement, you try to compose yourself for him. Angling your hips up, you’re almost floating on the water for a moment as Astarion lines the tip of his cock with your entrance.

However, you’re instinctively clenching a second later when a pair of your lover’s fingers tease at your opening. You barely avoid clamping your legs back together at the sensation. 

Recovering from the tickling probe, you look back to see a lust-drunk fanged smile, lips smeared with red. "Astarion, please,” you mutter. “I can't balance like this all day."

"Come darling, I know you’re quite talented," he taunts, easily gliding his fingers back in, curling until you truly do begin to lose balance.

"Astarion," you breathe out, clutching the side of the tub even harder to stay afloat.

Then his fingers slip back out, replaced a moment later by the head of his cock. “No need to worry, I have a seat for you right here.”

His palms cup your backside, his fingers squeeze, as you lower your hips back down, taking in his entire, slick length effortlessly in the water.

“Now isn’t that better?” he asks, grabbing your hips with one hand, the other finding yours on the side of the tub for support.

“Mmm,” is all that you manage, as you adjust to the sudden fullness. You haven’t lain with anyone else in so long, it’s hard to remember a cock other than his. Still, you can’t help but feel like he settles in you just right. Especially when you both slot together neatly, you taking him to the hilt.

Astarion drops another kiss on your back. “Comfortable?”

“Mhm,” you mumble. Now that you’re securely held in place by Astarion’s hips flush to yours, your legs hanging off the tub’s edges, you place your second hand back at your aching arousal. You begin to stroke yourself back into the same fervor Astarion had you in moments ago.

After a small, deliberate thrust of his hips, testing how you rise and fall in the water, Astarion starts moving against you. It’s slow at first, the water rippling out from you both in small waves. Then his hips rock back, only to drive back into you with sloshing force. 

“A–ahh!” Sweet hells, he knows exactly how to hit your most sensitive spot. You had already been so heated, but now, with your lover’s full, hardened length pressing into you? You feel dizzy with pleasure.

Years of lovemaking, and you’re still in awe of how well he knows your body. It’s more than his previous experiences culminating in some kind of skillful paramour. No, this was built through time, trial, error, effort.

So as this gorgeous man you call love bounces you up and down in his lap, you feel yourself coming undone. Your breaths come ragged as you ride his cock, water spilling out of the tub with each and every buck. Your fingers clench the tub, barely holding on as you feel your pleasure coil tighter and tighter.

Astarion places kiss after kiss down your back, and you hear him murmuring, "Gods you're perfect." A harder kiss. "You feel so good." Another thrust. "Each." A nip at your skin. "And every." A thrust. "Time." Another kiss. "I–I love you."

For your part, you’re finding entire sentences difficult. With the feel of him throbbing inside you, the way his lips feel along your back, each roll of his hips, you're truly only capable of a few phrases. "Astarion." A splashing bounce. "I love you–" A loll back of your head. "Oh hells–" A dip of your hips. "I love you too."

When your peak finally runs through you like a shockwave, when you clench around him in ecstasy, those very same words are still on your lips. "I l–love you."

He moans at the sudden tightness, the muscles that now hold him deep within you. "Darling," he breathes. "Oh love. I can't–"

Astarion means to say that he can't hold on much longer. He'd already been so close, holding back only to keep your pleasure going. So you reach down to his fingers on your hip, as best as you can while still hanging on for dear life, and squeeze his hand. A wordless affirmation, a plea to join you, as he always has.

And it’s that silent communication that has his fingers lacing through yours, his neck craning back, his hips stuttering.

When he comes, there's no pretense or performance. There hasn't been for many years. So when you look back at his face in a hazy fuzz of emotion, the expression you see is utterly unbridled.

It's a look of sheer pleasure– his perfectly pale skin flushed a light rosy color, his usually impeccable hair stuck to his face in a mixture of sweat and water. His eyes are shut, his mouth agape as he spills into you.

So enraptured are you by the mundane beauty of his climax, that you’ve strained too far from your precariously balanced position. Your foot unhooks from the tub’s slippery edge and you fall onto Astarion’s lap with a large splash as he finishes. You’re both left panting and wet in the wake of both your and the tub’s peaks.

Water drips down your face, all of the soap bottles have been knocked from the edge of the tub. The high you’d felt just moments ago feels doused in the stark reality of making love in a bathtub. 

However, when you feel Astarion’s breathy laughter on your back, feel his softening cock twitch with his last few thrusts, you know he’s still in fine spirits.

You stay together for a few moments as you both collect yourselves. Water is wiped from eyes, your second leg comes back into the tub, and several deep breaths are had. Once you’re relatively sorted, Astarion pulls himself out of you with a long, happy sigh.

The man falls back from you, sitting against the end of the tub in a tired flop. Then he’s patting the water in front of him, motioning you to join him in some post-coital cuddles.

You don’t need much more of an invitation.

Floating through the now much lower water, you stop just in front of him. Movements relaxed, you wrap your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, and scoot into his waiting embrace.

"So," you start, looking at the wasteland of water and strewn soap bottles around the tub. "Looks like we made a mess."

"I told you we would," he says, closing his arms around you, pulling you against his chest.

"I know," you say, leaning into him comfortably. Your body is truly exhausted now, but your mind is a buzz of joy. "It was worth it though."

He laughs into your shoulder, squeezes you tighter. "Feeling better, I take it?"

"Gods yes," you say, tilting your head into his silver hair. "Thank you."

"Oh my sweet, it was my utmost pleasure," he replies, and you can feel his smile on your skin.

You both lean back, grinning at each other like fools. The smiles stay, even when your lips meet in a soft, wet kiss.

You will need to clean the room, the tub, likely your bodies once again– but all you can truly feel right now is content. Enjoying Astarion’s gentle fingers as they trace a pattern onto your skin, the warm water all around you, you very nearly forget that today was merely a day like any other.

The thousandth time you made love to Astarion, it was messy and wet and silly– somehow, it was sweet, caring, and loving all the same.

The thousandth time you made love to Astarion, you didn't know it was the thousandth time.

Just as you hadn't known your tenth thousand kiss, nor your hundred thousandth 'I love you.' Were anyone to ask you about them, you might not even remember the days or events surrounding any of them.

What you do know is that each individual moment holds no less importance, that the affection shared between you doesn’t diminish with each recurrence.

You’re unable to quantify your love, nor would you want to. All you really want is Astarion– his soft lips, tender hands, and whispered words of love– until your dying breath.

[burst-of-iridescent]

well since i can already tell that we’re all going to be subjected to the same old tired mai & mai.ko discourse for the foreseeable future, let’s get it clear right now that the atla comics have never been, and will never be acceptable mediums of character development, and here’s why:

1. the comics are given the benefit of hindsight, which impairs organic character growth.

it’s become extremely clear over the last few years that many of the comics are made as, or include, direct responses to criticisms of the original show — especially when it comes to katara, mai, and the canon pairings. aang didn’t ask katara for consent? look, he’s checking if he can kiss her! mai doesn’t care about fire nation imperialism? here, she’s an anti fascist! iroh was a creep to june? don’t worry, here he is apologising!

many of the things the characters do or say in the comics feel unnatural because they are not written as characters, but as mouthpieces for the creators to address fandom complaints from the original show.

“but that’s good, right? they’re trying to make it better!” i mean… sure? it still doesn’t change the fact that it’s damage control, and that no matter what stories span the middle, the arcs of these characters still begin and end with avatar: the last airbender, and the legend of korra, both of which are fixed and immutable. the comics cannot retroactively fix the issues of either show, because they’ve already been defined as the goalposts of the characters’ lives, and there is no way to undo that.

it’s like if you eat a meal that isn’t to your satisfaction, and maybe the chief makes you another dish, which is all well and good — but it doesn’t fix the fact that the original meal still sucked! sometimes, accepting criticism means accepting that there’s no way to go back and fix it but to do better next time, with the next story you wish to tell.

if the legend of korra didn’t exist, and the arcs of the characters were left open after atla, then maybe there would be for the room for the comics to function as character development if not for the fact that…

2. the comics are intended for a very different audience than the show.

it’s obvious that the audience for the original show vastly outnumbers the audience for the comics, likely by thousands, if not millions. this isn’t the mcu, where the installation of any atla property is vital to understanding the next, and so on. you can skip the comics and miss nothing whatsoever (and honestly your life would be far improved by doing so).

those who read the comics are likely only the real diehard fans of the show — and the creators know this, which is why we have the whole issue of point one above. but this difference in audience matters, because it reflects the significance of the story being told, and how important it is for the audience to know it. this is why, if the characters’ development and storylines in the comics truly, genuinely mattered, it would have been in the show already.

i’m not saying that the gaang wouldn’t have continued to grow and change post-atla, but generally stories exist as closed circuits, self-contained within themselves. when you end atla, you’re meant to believe that those arcs are finished. that’s the whole reason the comics deal mostly with fun silly adventures, or with quick, temporary conflicts instead of grand, overarching narratives, because they are not truly meant to function as a continuation of the story of atla, or its characters.

(if you ask me frankly, they’re meant to be nostalgia cash grabs, but that’s neither here nor there.)

creator intention matters with the atla comics (or any atla property, in fact), because creator intention was the subject of criticism for the original show in the first place. why must we rely on the comics or the cookbook or avatar legends to tell us that katara did things with her life outside of aang? why do we need to turn to something released nearly two decades after atla to find any evidence that mai denounced the fire nation’s imperialist indoctrination, when she’s romantically involved with one of the show’s most important characters? why are these stories relegated to a medium with far less reach, far too late?

the answer is that the writers didn’t find those stories to be originally worth telling, and that is the real problem fans have been pointing out since 2008.

so, tldr:

[love-anddeepression]

EVERYTHING IS FINE- Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader

this is it. angsty asf. bittersweet ending it’s sad people. tw: infidelity. based on my most recent post. please comment i’m literally begging you and tell me how you like it<3

Part 2

In the depths of your heart, you already know. Your Miguel is not yours anymore.

You remember the stolen glances between him and Dana where you pretended not to notice the palpable tension between the three of you amidst the throng of about ten other people in the house.

It was a nice dinner that you’d planned, after spending almost a week away because of your actual job as well as your little side gig that was being a part of spider society.

But fifteen minutes into the little shin-dig and you get a call from none other than your boss. Not the nice one who showed you the ropes when you first joined and provided you with hours of mentorship. The bitch that was a variant of your husband was currently floating above your watch as you glared at him in the bathroom.

“We need you.”

“Not today.”

“It’s an emergency.”

“It’s always an emergency.” you roll your eyes.

“Look this was unplanned, you think my life’s aim is to torment you?”

“Kind of.” you nod and he groans, “Give me twenty minutes.”

——

At the end of twenty minutes, you storm out of your house as quietly as you can, yes it’s an oxymoron but you’re pissed off.

At Miguel, at your husband, at yourself.

Your mother always said that you were one to pity yourself, even when every bad thing that happened was the result of your own actions. All your life you’ve disagreed, but now you think that maybe your mother was probably right.

None of this would have happened if you’d just said no. No to Dana making her way into your marriage to her guy best friend and co-worker.No to the variant of him with fangs and red eyes and No to your own urge of fucking things up because you wanted to see what happened. If maybe what your heart felt was wrong. That there was nothing wrong with you and Miguel, that he still loved you.

You let out a shaky breath and open a portal from an alleyway behind your apartment building. The purple hue reflects onto your face. No, you weren’t a spider. Just a traveller that stumped your boss and changed his perception of everything he knew about the multiverse.

The man himself nodded at you as you stepped onto the platform he was standing on, looking back to the holo of what looked like a rogue Doc Ock, Goblin and another Spiderman.

“What, now we have evil spidermen? Isn’t that breaking the canon?” you raise an eyebrow.

“That’s the thing. There’s no canon event broken. He was meant to be a villain. Yet, I’ve never heard of him, or of this universe.”

You look at him like he’s just told you that he used to be a stripper in college and all his money came from his side-gig, “I’m sorry, what? The all powerful Miguel O’Hara with the pixel suit doesn’t know of the existence of a universe?”

“You’re being real helpful right now.” he grumbles.

“Thank you, I knew you’d appreciate the help.”

——

The house is quiet when you walk in, evidently everyone has left. The kitchen has been cleaned and the lights are off.

He’d always been your biggest supporter. Always so humble even though he had a high position and a fat paycheck, always telling you to let him help you. Doing some of your work for you when you were busy.

The bedroom door creaked a little as you enter, the sound of your loves breathing makes you crack a small smile. His hulking figure curled up and moving up and down. His face slack.

God he was so beautiful.

You shed your clothes and go through your night routine as fast as you can. Brushing your teeth and scrubbing your face. Cursing the pimples that always make their way onto your forehead at the wrong time.

The mattress squeaks as you get on, slowly wrapping your hands around his body. He stirs and looks up at you, his eyes softening. He’d been drinking, you can tell. He hasn’t looked at you like this for a while.

“Hi.” his hands cup your face and you smile softly as you kiss his rough palm. Your own covering his.

“Sorry I disturbed you. Thank you for cleaning up.” your hands mirror his actions, thumbs caressing his cheekbones.

He answers you with a soft kiss. And then another. And his hands are travelling down to pull you to him. Engulfing you as he hides his face in the crook of your neck. Your hands move to play with his hair as he drifted back to sleep.

You close your eyes and pretend that everything is fine. That the lipstick stain on his shirt in the laundry basket wasn’t the same as Dana’s.

———

“Are you fucking dumb?” O’Hara seethes, as he disinfects the gash at the bottom of your neck.

“It’s just a graze, i’m fine.” you grumble, “it’s not like anyone’s gonna care if i die.”

“No, just shut your mouth. Stop talking like you’re some martyr. There are plenty of people here who would miss you.”

“Miguel, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.” you chuckle, “i get it-

“No, you don’t. actually, you don’t get it. the woman i loved died, and she’s gone and i’d do anything to have her back, and you’re so convinced that if you died your own fucking husband wouldn’t want to die too? Stop acting like you’re expendable.” his eyes glow and yours widen, “This may come as a surprise to you, but people care.”

You gulp, “Sorry.”

He grumbles under his breath as he sprays the wound with bacta so it heals faster. Apologising when you wince.

You look at his concentrated face that is focused on wrapping the bandage around your shoulder and the bottom of your neck. His face is mere inches from yours. He is the splitting image of your husband, save from the red eyes and fangs. But this close you can see the differences, his eyebrows are a tad thicker and his ears are smaller.

He is harder and his words are sharp. Your love is soft and quiet. Mean when he has to be, but kinder. More open.

More loving. Yes. He’s more loving and he loves you.

You look away and focus on the ceiling. You don’t see his eyes watching your face. Eyes filled with sadness and want.

——

“Dana, here. Have some tea.” you pour a cup for the woman sitting next to Miguel at the table. At your spot.

Is it toxic to think that maybe you want her to choke on her tea?

She’d started to carpool with Miguel a few months ago , seeing as they worked together and were on the same team, it was more efficient and made more sense.

You didn’t want to seem like a toxic wife so you nodded and agreed, because you were secure in your relationship with your husband.

“Thank you.” she says your name with a wide smile as she sips the tea, “Amazing, as always.”

“I know right, she makes amazing tea.” he smiles at her and raises an eyebrow. Dana snorts.

You look between the pair trying to hide their smiles, “Did I miss something?” an awkward smile makes its way onto your face.

“Inside joke, you wouldn’t get it. It’s a scientist thing. I don’t think your writer brain could handle it.” Dana waves you away as if you’re a fucking waiter and you bristle.

But what drives it home is that Miguel laughs out loud when she says that. His hair flops onto his forehead and Dana fixes it for him, her hands running through this hair.

You fight the urge to break a plate on her head but you know it’ll be fruitless. Because your husband will take her side.

Maybe you’re just being dramatic. Maybe the tears you’re trying to hide as you make breakfast are unwarranted and you can’t take a joke.

Everything is fine.

You call out to them from the kitchen, telling them you’re going to be late and his voice is brighter when he says, “Okay, honey.”

—————

“You okay?”

“I’m fine, boss.”

“You look dead.”

“Your eyes bags suggest the same.”

“You’re hilarious.” O’Hara smirks

“Thank you.” you take a sip of the beer he’d passed.

It was late, far past dinner time. And the both of you had taken time to go over the record of what anomalies were most common and key weaknesses in most villains.

“But seriously, are you okay?”

You gulp, “Tell me about your wife. Please.”

He blanches, and then looks at the tears welling up in your eyes.

“Well, where to begin?” he turns to face you, “She…was a writer, she had her own business. She loved sunflowers because they faced each other when the sun wasn’t in the sky.” he smiles sadly, “she was terrified of frogs and dead fish. And she hated onions. The pickiest fucking eater.” he shakes his head and chuckles.

“She sounds sweet.” you know she was variant of you, Miguel had shown you the web of life and in every universe there was version of you that made their way into his life. It was beautiful, honestly.

“She had short hair, and her smile. God, it could make anyone’s day better.” he rested his head on his hand and looked at the hologram shining in front of the both of you.

“She sounds like a dream.” you reply.

“She was.” he nods.

“Hey would you mind bringing up a live of my house?” you ask.

“Why?”

“Humour me, will you?”

He grumbles and a hologram showing your universe pops up, on the screen is your living room. And Miguel freezes when he sees the scene before him.

He sees himself kiss Dana. The version of him who is married, is kissing his co-worker. He’s taking her in his arms and nuzzling her nose. He’s pecking her cheeks and tickling her like she’s his wife.

Like he’s in love with her.

“I love you.” his voice echoes throughout the room. And Dana says it back.

His head whips to look at you. You don’t look surprised, rather, you look defeated. You breathe out like it’s a finality. Your beautiful beautiful eyes transfixed on offending scene in front of you.

Before anything else happens, he shuts it off. Immediately turning to look at your frozen form, “Hey, you with me?”

You shake your head and smile. Eyes still fixed onto where the hologram was, “I’m fine.” Tears fall down your cheeks as your mouth quivers, “I’m okay. Everyday he comes back around this time. And they carpool. I told him I’d be late today. Just after I made them tea and they laughed at an inside joke amongst themselves.”

His eyes widens, “Oh honey.” his moves to hug you and you let out an ugly sob, “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“I knew it.” you say into his chest, “I’m so fucking stupid.”

His hand pats your back, “You’re not stupid.”

“I mean, I know i was busy, i know i wasnt always home. But I tried, i fucking tried. WHAT IS SO WRONG WITB ME?” the dam breaks and you let out a wrecked shout of agony that breaks his heart into two, “Why wasn’t I good enough?!” your body shakes violently.

“No.” he says firmly, taking your face in his hands, almost squeezing your cheeks and forcing you to looking at him, your hands fly to cover his, “ You are good enough. You are enough. Listen to me. That fucking idiot doesn’t know who he just lost.”

“But-But if i wasnt so busy-

“If he had a problem, he should’ve told you. He’s a fucking pussy.”

Your words are silenced when he shakes you once, hands still holding your cheeks, “You are the most perfect person. And the both of them will pay. I promise that, cariño.”

His arms wrap around you to engulf you as you hide your face in the crook of his neck, rapid breaths slowing. His pulse beats and you can feel the vibrations on your own skin.

You close your eyes and pretend everything is fine. Because you’re in his arms.

[steviewashere]

Welcome Home

Rating: Teen and Up Pairing: Steve Harrington & Wayne Munson, Pre-Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson CW: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse (Not Graphic But Prevalent), Referenced Period Typical Homophobic Slur(s), Referenced Drug Use (Recreational Use of Marijuana) Tags: Post-Canon, Post Vecna, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Wayne Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Wayne Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Good Parent Wayne Munson, Steve Harrington has Bad Parents, Coming Out, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Steve Harrington Gets a Hug, Pre-Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Al Munson is a Bad Person

Read the content warning!!

🫂—————🫂 He knows the person he wants isn’t home. But Steve can’t afford to stall any longer. If he continues to wait out in his car, it’ll probably be towed, and he’ll be arrested, and he won’t have the person he needs to bail him out. It’s not like he can just turn the car around, though; make his way back home.

Home doesn’t even exist anymore. It took one night where he thought he was alone, because he was always alone, for them to come back and see him. See him with another boy. Not experimenting, because he knows damn well who he is. But making semblance of love, because he’s been desperate enough for it his entire like. Now that he had it, or something as close to it as he can get from a late night cruising pull, it’s even farther away.

Yeah, maybe he should’ve rain checked. Maybe he should’ve bought out a motel room for the night. Maybe he should’ve just entertained himself with his own hand and the wrinkled magazines that Eddie smuggled for him.

Speaking of Eddie, he’s not here. His government replaced van isn’t parked outside the new Munson’s trailer. Only Wayne’s is. And he’s not sure if he’s ready to face another adult. He is an adult, he knows this, but sitting behind the big wheel of his car—his hands look like they belong to a child and looking at himself in the rearview mirror, it’s like matching gazes with ten year old him; wide-eyed, afraid, and forced against his will.

He is afraid. And maybe he should just let himself feel that. But he doesn’t have the time or the energy or the gall. So he shuts his engine off, hauls an old duffel bag over his shoulder, and makes the arduous journey that is the thirty second walk up the front steps.

Knocking, he swallows his pride. Every part of him is lost and disorganized. He didn’t style his hair. And he couldn’t grab his belt from where it had been kicked under his bed in panic. His shoes are untied. There’s also a large hickey at the base of his neck, unhidden by the stretched collar of some ratty maroon t-shirt he thought he tossed years ago. It’s stark against him in the reflection of the nearest window. He can also catch the dark bruises left on his biceps—grabbed by his dad when he tried to make an initial escape. Maybe he should’ve risked the arrest.

The doors open rather quickly, though. And through the screen, a plume of smoke pools over him from—what smells like—a stale joint. Wayne Munson stands on the other side with tired eyes and a pinched mouth. He’s dressed down in flannel pajamas and has that joint between his fingers. All his movements are slow as he takes Steve in.

“Eddie’s not home right now,” he states instead of offering a greeting. “Is there something I can do you for?” His eyes dip low from Steve’s. Following down the stretch of his neck, where it’s tense and rigid, over that hickey. Pauses momentarily. And then continues to look around, over, down—right up until he notes the bruises on Steve’s arms. “You…Uh…You making a runaway from a bad date, kid?”

Steve swallows. It stings a bit, though not from the hickey. When he closes his eyes to gather his words, he can almost feel the hand around his throat—the wedding ring cold over his wanted bruise, but the red hot spray of spit over his forehead. All as he cowered against his bedroom wall, tense to the floor he stood on, praying that his dad would make it quick.

He’s shaking, he knows. Trembling something minute that, hopefully, Wayne won’t pick up on. “Good evening, Mr. Munson,” Steve greets quietly, voice quaking. “I—I’m sorry to intrude, but I don’t know…There’s nowhere else I can go right now.” He peels his eyes open and peeks up through the screen door. Wayne’s eyes are the size of saucers when they lock stares. He hefts the bag over his shoulder higher, there’s a warm ache through his upper back. Slammed against the wall; remember, he reminds himself.

The screen opens wide and Wayne gestures over to the couch. “Leave your stuff by the door, kid.”

He steps through, plops his bag by the small breakfast nook, and chucks his sneakers to mingle with the pile. Then, he just stands in the doorway. Wayne’s off of his right shoulder. Towering over him a bit, but warm and solid. Steve knows he doesn’t have to be afraid, yet something in him skitters when Wayne’s left hand rests gently on his lower back. “Have a seat,” Wayne murmurs, “you’re shaking like a leaf.”

Acknowledging, without words to say, Steve nods. He shuffles over to the sofa and sits on the farthest cushion on the right, where he tends to settle when he comes over.

“You eat?” Wayne asks.

“No,” Steve mutters, “my dad didn’t give me enough time.”

“You like pepperoni on your pizza?”

Steve nods. “Anything except mushrooms, sir.”

“Wayne,” he says softly over his shoulder, “that’s my name and you wear it out all you like. I ain’t your daddy.” Steve just grunts in response, watching warily as Wayne orders them some food.

When he’s done, Wayne faces him again, leaning against the edge of the dining table. His joint has long since been put out, resting warm in the ashtray on the same table. Steve leans forward on his cushion, hands dropped between his knees. His hair falls limp in front of his eyes, but he doesn’t care. Nothing matters now, does it?

“I’ll only be here a night, promise.” His shoulders hunch inwards. That ache back and persistent. And he knows wherever he sleeps, be it on the floor or the sofa or even in the grass outside, he’ll just wake up hurt. More than just physically. “I know that there really isn’t space for me here and I…I don’t know. I’m not expecting you to take me in just because I get myself in messes.”

For a moment, the room stretches with silence. Going diagonal with the former words.

Then, Wayne takes a deep breath. Shuffles over to a dining chair. And plops down, watching. “You mind telling me what happened?” He asks gruffly, though not pessimistically. “If you’re in trouble, I can only let you stay here a night.”

“Depends on what you view as trouble, Wayne.”

Wayne narrows his eyes, twisting his mouth. His left hand rests on the surface of the table, fingers stretched towards the ashtray and the discarded lighter next to it. “Illegal shit. Anything that gets you in trouble with that Powell bastard. Not including weed. That’d make me a hypocrite, and that’s one thing I ain’t.”

Again, Steve nods his agreement, the acknowledgement. He fidgets with the tips of his fingers. Nails digging into the fatty parts, turning them white with pressure. “I didn’t do anything illegal, swear. Just did something stupid.” Warily once more, he eyes Wayne. “How do you feel about Reagan?”

“That man can rot in hell for all I care.”

He chuckles, despite everything. Then, he takes a sobering breath. “I had a…I picked up a boy tonight. Because I wanted to have—We were going to have sex, to put it simply, Mr. Munson. And I took him to my room, thinking I’d be alone for the rest of the night…”

“And you weren’t,” Wayne states, not asking. What questions need to be asked to an admittance like that? Steve nods, mouth pinched and eyes shiny. “I’m guessing your folks came home.”

“Yeah,” Steve whispers just loud enough to be heard. “I must’ve made a…noise loud enough to be heard downstairs. And my dad had just come home. And he…maybe the boy also made a noise, I don’t know. But one thing came after the other, and the next thing I knew my dad had gripped me on my arms and threw me against the wall and I thought he was going to kill me dead right in my own room and he was spitting about…he called me a-a fag and a fairy and I…

“I didn’t fight back. I didn’t speak. I was so scared. I am scared, Wayne,” Steve admits, voice trembling and his nose burning. “All I could do was take it.”

Carefully, Wayne extracts himself from his seat and situates himself on the coffee table. Right in front of Steve. “Where all did he hurt you, Steve?”

He swallows, remembering. “My arms,” he mutters, pointing, “and my neck and…he dropped me down on the ground and while I was reaching for my shirt, he got me on the ribs.” Narrowly, he misses Wayne’s furious gaze. Instead, he finds a shiny blank spot between mugs on the far wall. “He was so furious he didn’t even take his dress shoes off by the door,” he meekly states, “and he didn’t stop until my mom screamed at him to at least let me grab some of my stuff. She told him it wouldn’t be worth it, and I quote, ‘to murder our son.’ He told her that I wasn’t his, but he let me leave.” 

He’ll never thank his mom for that, but at least she granted him grace. Though, she didn’t look pleased either. Her face set and jaw clenched. He knows that if she had the chance, when he wasn’t in earshot, she would’ve said the exact same thing as his dad. Steve withers further at the thought, if that’s even possible.

“I’m just lucky that I’m not dead, right?” He adds a moment later, face wet with tears and throat thick with grief.

Wayne sharply inhales. “You’re safe here,” he says lowly, “just as Eddie is. You’ll forever be safe here, I promise you that.”

Steve’s eyes cut back to him. That ferocity in his gaze like a warm blanket over Steve’s shoulders, something he can cling onto and believe. “You know about him?”

“You’re not the first kid to run here from their daddy,” Wayne utters.

Something in Steve’s stomach twists slowly. His chest crackling with those words. Remembers when Eddie Munson was out of school for a week in eighth grade. When he came back: long sleeves in late May, hair shaved close to his scalp, heavy eyes, and new silver scars over his knuckles.

“I’m not…”

“Eddie would never cut his hair voluntarily,” Wayne states, voice grim.

Steve looks down at his lap, fingers picking nervously at each other. He murmurs, “I’m safe here,” but more of a reminder to himself. He’s not sure if he’s had a promised safety in years. All the stuff with Vecna and the Upside Down and now his dad—which never started with tonight; it had been growing to that, always something small like a slap to the wrist or a dull smack to the back of his head, but his life had never been almost choked out of him. He never feared, just always worried.

God, he always worried. And now here he is, trembling with his tail between his legs.

The silence stretches between them after that. Wayne gets up at some point to pay for the pizza, gather a couple plates, even relight his half-gone joint. And in the time it takes him to sit back down on the sofa with the food, Eddie comes back.

He tumbles through the door, a thousand words spilling out of him, coat hanging off of his elbows, and one shoe already stepped out of. He’s a whirlwind of movement and thing after another after another. But then he spots them on the couch; Wayne eating slowly and Steve curled nervously, face turned away from the door. “Aw man,” Eddie drawls. “Sharing pizza and weed without me? You guys always have all the fun when I’m not here.”

“Ed,” Wayne mutters, “we need to have a conversation, alright?”

Steve peers over, just as Eddie’s eyes widen.

“Did I…Is it something I did?” Eddie murmurs, voice falling meek. “Is everything okay?”

He can’t help but try to hide further. Flinching into himself, eyes closing on their own accord, cheeks flushed, and lips trembling. Tries to pinch the bridge of his nose, but he’s already opened the waterworks once tonight—they’re not going to close up again just from this. He looks to Wayne, eyes pleading for him to explain. He’s so tired of having to digest this, let alone regurgitate it.

“Come sit in my chair, Ed,” Wayne says, gesturing to the brown chair near the window. He waits until Eddie does what he’s told, sitting slowly and looking at them with his too big, concerned eyes. His eyebrows raise, even Steve can make that out through his blurry vision, waiting for some sort of explanation. “Okay, I need you to listen and not ask questions. No interruptions unless I ask you to respond, you got that?”

“Wh—Yeah, Wayne. I’m all ears; you’re freaking me out.”

Wayne nods gently, his left hand out in a placating manner. “You remember, I mean you most definitely do, but do you remember when you had to come here all those years ago?” He asks softly. Eddie acknowledges by nodding, nothing more. “Steve is going through something similar,” he explains gently, “and I’m letting him stay. If you want to know the specifics, that’s something that you’ll have to hear when Steve’s ready, got it?”

Eddie inhales slowly. His face gaining that same furious ferocity that Wayne’s had. But then he looks to Steve and all the hard features of his face soften. Back to something familiar and warm and homely. “Stevie?” He ventures. “You okay?”

He shrugs. Answers thickly, “I don’t know.” His cheeks wet with more tears and he roughly wipes them away with a shaking hand. “I don’t…I thought they loved me? Even just a little bit.”

Warmth crowds him as Wayne lays a firm arm over his upper back, hand wrapping around his right shoulder, just missing his bicep. “Eddie? Why don’t you clean up a bit in your room for his stuff? Get some new sheets on your mattress, too. Think he could use a sleepover, that alright?”

“Course,” Eddie answers almost instantly, voice soft and calm. “I’ll set out some pajamas, too, Stevie. You want a sweatshirt or a t-shirt?”

Steve sniffs and swallows heavily. “Sweatshirt, please.” 

Slowly and carefully, Eddie comes over towards the couch. He places a gentle hand on the back of Steve’s head. Thumb running up and down at the base of his skull. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “we’ve got you now, though.” And with that, Eddie retreats to his bedroom, the door clicking softly behind him. The rustle of things being moved around ever apparent through the thin wood.

Wayne clears his throat and pulls Steve in a little closer, tighter. He says close to Steve’s ear, “We love you here, you got that? You have no reason to hide yourself or sneak around or try and fit yourself in a box.”

He nods minutely. “M’kay,” he mutters, “I’ll try and find another place soon, I promise. I just don’t have the money—“

“Nonsense,” Wayne states steadfast, “this is your home now. And I won’t have it any other way.” He pulls back just enough to make them lock eyes again. The air smells of grease and weed and Irish Spring. Amber light flooding around them and dim enough to not hurt his head. Everything around him is soft, gentle. It feels like home. Wayne holds him by the shoulders, firm but not suffocating. “Don’t tell Eddie I said this,” he whispers, “but he doesn’t shut up about you. He’d kill me if I didn’t let you stay and I’d beat myself up about it. As long as you stay true and playful with my boy, then you’re my boy, too. You hear me?”

Steve’s eyes blur again and his nose stings and he wishes that he could stop crying, but this is nice. The warmth and the love and the tenderness. He could burn alive from it and still be grateful. It’s so much better than the lonely, cold sprawl of his parents’ house. A house he never thought he’d leave.

“I hear you,” he musters.

“Good,” Wayne murmurs. “Why don’t you go use up some of the hot water and take as long of a shower as you want? I’ll get your things into Eddie’s room and—don’t tell that Powell bastard at the station—but I’ll roll something for you, if you want it.”

Despite everything, Steve finds himself laughing from his belly and smiling enough to ache his cheeks. “Yeah, okay,” he agrees. “Warning, though, I’m really annoying when I’m high.”

“Then annoying you’ll be,” Wayne gets out around a chuckle. “And keep smiling, boy. You ain’t got a thing to worry or fear here. Even if your daddy comes running on over, I’ll make him leave just as fast with his tail between his legs, swear it.”

His smile relaxes to something soft, a ghost of a thing. He leans forward and hesitantly wraps his arms around Wayne, relishing in the hug that he gets in return. “Thank you,” he says, muffled into Wayne’s pajama shirt, “think you literally saved my life tonight.”

“You’re a good kid, Steve,” Wayne murmurs, “you’re always welcome in my home.”

He knows he’s crying again, a gentle and silent thing into Wayne’s shoulder. And yet, despite everything, he’s lighter.

Later, he tells Eddie all that happened and is held close, a hand in his hair and fingers tracing over his trembling shoulders. Later, Wayne will make a grand breakfast spread to celebrate new family. And even later, Wayne’ll crack a joke about no funny business while he’s sleeping. But Steve will know, through the tired and playful glint in Wayne’s eyes, he’s all too happy that Steve and Eddie figured themselves out.

For now, though, Wayne hands him a clean, soft towel. It’s dark green and well loved. And he knows, too, that his soul will eventually look just like that. And just like the towel, he soaks it all up. Including the warm, “Welcome home, son,” Wayne says before he closes the bathroom door.

🫂—————🫂

[undercovercameron]

a domesticated rafe cameron

summary: a bf headcanon for sir rafe m.f. cameron

notes: *NSFW NEAR THE END* i have been seeing so many headcanons for rafe as a bf recently and i used to do these all the time for other fandoms and people and holy fuck i miss and love them.. allow me to indulge myself. also a lot of these are not simply him being touchy or super cute positive ones bc he’s canonically a murderer and drug addict and felon sooo akdjdjd we all of course romanticize him but i just thought i’d say that. lemme know what you think !

tags: rafe cameron x reader

i think rafe is a very complicated kind of lover

he’s a complex ass dude as it is, so that obviously reflects in your relationships

your relationship probably started unconventionally, either because of a fuck up or drunken mistake or maybe even meeting him randomly on a golf course or on the beach and just immediately being drawn to each other

he wants someone that challenges him a Little bit but really just wants someone to go with the flow and let him take the lead

he already gets enough direction and bossy shit from his family

(probably a couple arguments have sparked because of that; he sees too much of rose or ward in you. it’s also something that draws him to you, though, so take it with a grain of salt)

on the topic of arguments, you two are no stranger to them

he always ends up apologizing though, even if you started it—he’d just much rather have your mouth on his than have it yelling at him and knows there’s always a way to get you back on his side

he’s a proud man, so his apologies are usually in the form of him complimenting you or giving entirely hypothetical situations in which he Possibly Might Be Sorry

you take it because it’s probably the best you’re gonna get

he shows his love and affection in a little different ways that other people you’ve dated

of course he’s no stranger to PDA

in fact it only puffs his chest that you want to be seen with him and touch him

he’ll never admit it, but he loves when you kiss his face

like duh,

but not just his lips, he really likes when you kiss him on the temple or just press your face to his cheek or peck at his jaw

he also likes when you hold onto his belt when getting his attention or trying to move him

a lot of your dates involve watching a movie or TV show, because truth be told he is a home body

maybe not his home, but def a home body

your house is a reminder that he is apart of your life; he sees the pictures, the movie tickets, his favorite chips (salt and vinegar, ew i know), or spares of toothbrushes and his clothes in your closet

in any social situation he is either looking at you, thinking of looking at you, touching you, or asking people where you are

he cannot stand to make small talk without his emotional support girlfriend at his side

you’re just so much funnier than all these other people

he prides himself on his ability to make you blush, and does it any chance he gets

he doesn’t really get to laugh a lot, as he is either in distress or about to get punched or reprimanded, so you’re always whispering some joke into his ear to get him to laugh. your success rate is much better than anyone else’s in his life

he knew he loved you when you grabbed his hand during a dinner you were at and some politician walked in with a very apparent and badly concealed nose job. you just mouth “oh my god” and he had to snort to cover up his laugh

you were also all dolled up and cute and sexy that night so that may have had something to do with him knowing he loved you

he is also a great communicator

it’s not in his nature to hide his feelings because they’re so fucking obvious on that expressive face of his

and he never knew he could have so much fun texting until you came along

now he’s a regular emoticon user

weird, right?

now onto spicy things,

you’ve never known a partner to ask you how you feel more than Rafe

it’s a praise thing, you think

he wants to hear that he feels good, that right there, that he fucks you so good, that he’s perfect for you

the nonverbal sign that all those are true is when you throw your head back and a gasp is caught in your throat

the very idea that your breath is stolen every time he does something good makes his heart skip a beat

his cheeks get very red while you’re having sex, so your cool fingers are usually petting them or pressed near them

you have a thing for his legs

i mean come on

he just walks around like that all day

he walks around with a dick like that in his pants all day, and you’re supposed to just ignore it?!

absolutely not

you especially like when he wears those hoochie daddy 5 inch inseam swim trunks, because you get to see where his skin gets a little paler and softer and it makes you get goosebumps at the thought of where it leads

those trunks are a treat usually, saved for a special occasion where he doesn’t have to be around his family and he can have you in his lap, hand trapped between your legs

let’s just say you two fuck like rabbits

two beautiful young adults, what else occupies your time?

it gets a little annoying for other people when you’re apart of their dinner party, because you’re always late, but then learn to just deal with it

it’s better to not have a sexually frustrated rafe cameron that accidentally stabs through his plate of rice and vegetables like that one time at the island club with your parents when you licked up a drop of lemon sauce from your chin and his eyes nearly bulged out of his head

decidedly not a great time or place to act like that

anyways,

i just think while yours’ and rafe’s relationship def has its ups and downs like all other relationships, your recovery period after an argument is remarkably high

you both know you’re not mad anymore, so it’s not worth it to be bad communicators and make it worse

at the end of the day, there’s always space for you in his bed, and he always welcomes you with a slap on the ass and a whisper of “we’re totally fucking in the shower tomorrow”

(and yes. you do)

notes: i hope this doesn’t seem to scatterbrained, i may or may not end up adjusting or editing this later to be closer to what i think would be him

[b1adie]

im better at explaining my thoughts verbally but like. here is my thoughts for some au w/ sparkle x robin.

(sparkle isnt AS deep into the elation in this cuz i feel like canon sparkle cannot hold any serious relationship at all. its impossible. shes just kind of an anthropomorphic rickroll) (and she wants black swan so bad it makes her look stupid)

so like this is assuming that the backstory we saw in sparkle’s animation is true, that she was a stage actress that started losing her sense of self before becoming a fool

and like, robin’s kind of an actress in a way. she’s a singer but the Perfect Facade she has to constantly put on is kind of close! but regardless of that, they’re both performers, so like. could have met at an event or something perhaps before robin got REALLY famous and they could have been friends and found it nice to have someone who understood what it’s like having to keep up an act all the time

but then ofc robin’s career takes off and she can’t be around as much even though she wants to make time to see her friend, their schedules never allow it and before you know it it’s been years since they’ve seen each other. in person, at least! sparkle sees robin everywhere she goes, on posters and merchandise and playing on the radio constantly.

this is around the time the elation starts creeping in and she starts struggling to know what parts of her are Real and what parts are the act. with no other close friends, she doesn’t feel safe letting her guard down around anyone, so she’s constantly playing this role… along with the meddling of the aeons, she pretty much loses it around this point. devolves into something akin to canon sparkle.

AND THEN! she gets that job to go to penacony. and she knows robin is going to be there. she wonders if the fame has changed her, or if she’s somehow really managed to stay that kind person she once was. but then she realizes that doesn’t really matter, because the sparkle that robin knew is long gone... right?

she tries not to think about their past. it’s useless now. it’s hardly even her past. she hears everyone talk about her, but never sees her in person until she watches her fall victim to Something Unto Death.

then, like the mentally stable and well adjusted person she is, she shapeshifts into her and starts pretending to be her. she isn’t sparkle. she isn’t the person robin knew. she’s less than a stranger. robin is dead. sparkle is a mask. she creeps up to a mirror, checking out her reflection. this is the closest she’s seen robin in years. and robin is dead. she clasps her hands together. it’s almost like they used to do. she runs her hand through her hair, greets herself in her voice… the nostalgia turns to vitriol, though, and she can’t help but laugh at how stupid and unfortunate it’s all become.

she goes off to mock robin’s brother about her death. in a way, she’s mocking herself, too. but then again, how can she mock what doesn’t exist? there is no self for her. she is whatever mask she wears, whatever role she plays. this makes it all the more frustrating that those sappy genuine emotions are insistently vying for her attention at the back of her thoughts. memories of the face that once wore these thousands of masks, the voice that wanted to scream, the arms that wanted to catch robin when she fell. those are all gone.

so why won’t they stop haunting her?

she’s close to the mirror again, hands pressed to it, forehead too, lips hovering over the glass…

she laughs and shatters it.

[sherewrytes]

𝔹𝕣𝕠𝕜𝕖𝕟 ℙ𝕚𝕖𝕔𝕖𝕤, ℝ𝕪𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕟 𝕊𝕦𝕜𝕦𝕟𝕒 6

↳ Sukuna x f! black reader

Summary: After the death of his grandfather, Sukuna Ryomen is left to shoulder the weight of his family, caring for his younger brothers, Yuuji and Choso. As he withdraws into grief, his relationship with Y/N, his girlfriend of a year, begins to crumble. When Y/N discovers the truth about his grandfather’s passing during a heated argument, it leads to a painful breakup. Now, both are navigating life apart, but Sukuna’s heart aches for Y/N. Determined to win her back, he must confront his pain and find a way to break through the walls he’s built. Can he rekindle their love, or is it too late?

contents: heavy angst, modern au, 18+, smut, dark romance, drug use, talks of depression and similar topics. (a lil )

fic warnings. ooc, profanity, mental health issues, toxic relationships, cheating, explicit smut, serious drug use, mentions of depression + more to be updated as story progresses.

Please read with proper discretion. this is a work of fiction. all characters are written to portray roles that are necessary to the plot and are in no way a reflection of their canon counterparts.

Taglist: @for-hearthand-home@clp-84@thelightknight21@favvkiki  @helightknight21 @dylsw @ria-s-writes @sleepymothafterhours 

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Here is another chapter cause I'm still writing out the other fics right now :)

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Chapter 6: The Weight of Loss

Y/N’s POV

It’s almost comical how different my life feels when I’m at school compared to when I’m at home. At Pratt, I’m a student, focused, and driven, with an entire future ahead of me. The campus is buzzing with the usual energy—students chatting, the sound of sketch pads flipping, the hum of distant studio lights. But the weight of everything outside these walls presses down on me more with each passing day.

It’s been weeks or days since the breakup with Sukuna.The loss of our relationship feels longer than the time we actually broke up but it feels like the echo of it still reverberates in everything I do. I’m trying to push forward, trying to act like I’m okay, but the reality is… I’m not. I haven’t been okay for a while.

The work in front of me should be enough to distract me. Finals are coming up, and my portfolio still feels like it needs a hundred more hours of attention before it’s anywhere near perfect. But I can’t stop my mind from drifting back to that night—his touch, his voice, the way he looked at me when he left, the pain in his eyes I couldn’t fix.

I sit in one of the studio rooms, surrounded by scraps of fabric and sketches, trying to focus on the design I need to complete for my final project. My hand trembles as I draw out another silhouette. It’s difficult to concentrate, especially when my phone buzzes on the table.

I don’t even need to look to know if it's from Utahime. She’s been checking in on me regularly. She doesn’t understand everything, but she knows enough to ask if I’m okay.

I pick up my phone, hesitating for a moment before responding. Yeah, I’m good. Just a lot of work to get through.

It’s a lie, but I don’t want to burden her with the truth. Everyone has their own problems, and I don’t want to be the one who drags them down.

I scroll through the texts, my heart dropping when I see a message from Toji. It’s just a short note, nothing particularly alarming. Sukuna's in the hospital. He’s okay, but he had a breakdown. You might want to check on him.

I read it three times before I let it sink in.

Sukuna’s in the hospital.

I bite my lip, the sting of old wounds coming back. What’s going on with him? Why does everything feel like it’s falling apart? I don’t even know how I feel anymore. I spent so much time loving him, fighting with him, then pushing him away, only for him to spiral deeper into whatever this is. And now, he’s in the hospital… alone?

I don’t even have the right to care, do I?

I put my phone down, my hands running through my hair as I try to make sense of it all. What should I do?

There’s a knock at the door, and I look up, startled. Utahime enters with a cup of coffee in her hand. She smiles when she sees me but then stops when she notices the look on my face. She doesn’t even need to ask.

“Something’s wrong,” she says gently, placing the coffee down in front of me.

I swallow hard, my throat dry. “Sukuna’s in the hospital,” I say quietly. The words feel so surreal coming out of my mouth.

Utahime doesn’t speak for a moment, just nods, as if she knew this might happen. “You’re thinking about going, aren’t you?” she asks, her voice soft.

I shake my head, my chest tightening. “I don’t even know what I’d say to him, Utahime. I—” I stop, the emotions threatening to spill over. “He played with my feelings, and I let him. I gave him everything, and now... now look at us.”

She sits next to me, her presence comforting. “You don’t have to go to him if you’re not ready,” she says, her hand gently brushing mine. “But don’t ignore what your heart is telling you. Sometimes it’s easy to get lost in anger or pride, but if you care about him, and you think he needs you—maybe you should go. Just to know he’s okay.”

I stare at the coffee in front of me, the steam rising gently. I feel so torn. Part of me wants to throw it all away and run to him, to make things right, but the other part is terrified of what that would mean.

“I’m just… so tired, Utahime. Tired of trying to fix everything,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “And I don’t think I can keep doing this. I don’t want to keep getting hurt.”

She leans back in her chair, giving me space. “You don’t have to fix him. You just have to decide what’s best for you. It’s okay to care about him, but it’s also okay to take a step back. You don’t owe him anything.”

I nod slowly, but the weight in my chest doesn’t lift. If anything, it feels heavier.

As much as I want to ignore the message, as much as I want to pretend everything’s fine and keep moving forward, I know deep down that the story isn’t finished yet. But the question is, how do I make peace with it? How do I let go of the part of me that still wants him in my life?

I guess I’m going to have to figure it out, even if it hurts.

I stare at the message from Toji, my thumb hovering over the reply button. I could feel the tension building in my chest, the pull to cave in and see him, to check on Sukuna, to offer whatever comfort I could. But I can’t. I won’t.

I text back quickly, trying to keep my answer as firm as possible, even though doubt gnaws at me. Yes. I’m sure.

I put my phone down and take another sip of the coffee Utahime bought for me. The warmth soothes me, but it’s not enough to quell the rising discomfort I feel. Maybe I’m running away from something I should confront, but every time I think about him—about everything that happened—my chest tightens. I know I’m not ready to face him.

Mei Mei sits beside me, her usual confident and laid-back demeanor a welcome distraction. She smiles at me, her eyes bright despite the obvious tension in the air. “I heard you’ve been dealing with some drama,” she teases, nudging my shoulder playfully. “You always seem to attract it, huh?”

I laugh, but it’s hollow. “Yeah, it seems like it. Just trying to get through finals without any more drama.”

She leans back in her chair, clearly not convinced. “If you say so, but I’ve known you long enough to know when something’s bothering you.” She raises an eyebrow. “You’re not fooling anyone. What’s going on?”

I set the coffee down, rubbing my forehead. Mei Mei’s known me for years. She doesn’t give up easily, especially when it comes to stuff I’d rather keep to myself.

“It’s… complicated,” I say, sighing deeply. “Sukuna’s in the hospital.”

Mei Mei’s expression softens. “Hospital? What happened?”

I explain the basics—the fallout from our breakup, his breakdown, and the fact that it seems he’s been spiraling for months. As I talk, it feels like I’m peeling back a layer of myself I’ve been trying to keep hidden.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” I continued, my voice shaking slightly. “But now… I just feel like I made it worse.”

Mei Mei listens, her face serious. When I finish, she doesn’t say anything at first. She just looks at me for a long time, her eyes calculating, like she’s trying to figure something out.

“You can’t keep carrying his weight, Y/N,” she says gently, her tone softer than I expected. “He’s not your responsibility anymore. I get that you care, but sometimes stepping back is the healthiest thing you can do—for both of you.”

I nod, trying to hold it together, but her words sink deep into my chest. I know she’s right. If I keep going back to him, trying to fix things that aren’t mine to fix, I’ll just keep breaking myself in the process. But knowing that doesn’t make the choice any easier.

I reach for my phone again, checking for another message. There’s one from Toji.

Y/N, I know you’re upset. I get it. But you need to understand he’s really struggling. He’s not the same guy anymore. Please, just think about it. He’s not okay.

I feel the weight of the message, the silent plea in his words. It almost makes me want to go. But no. I made my decision.

I turn my phone face down, looking back at Mei Mei. “I’m done with it. I need to focus on my future. On me.”

She smiles, a little proud of me. “Good. It’s about time. You’re a strong woman, Y/N. Don’t forget that.”

I lean back in my chair, feeling the exhaustion from the last few months hit me all at once. Finals are coming, and I don’t have the luxury of letting my emotions run the show anymore. I have to finish this. For me.

But even as I sit there, I can’t ignore the small ache in my heart, the part of me that still cares, that wonders what could have been. For a fleeting moment, I let myself imagine a different reality, one where everything with Sukuna was easier, where we were happy and I didn’t have to make these impossible decisions.

But that’s not my reality. Not anymore.

Toji's POV

I stare at the screen of my phone, Y/N’s last text still lingering in front of me. Yes. I’m sure.

The words hit harder than I expected. I knew she wasn’t going to just drop everything and run to Sukuna, but hearing it from her directly… it stings. She’s shutting him out, and there’s nothing I can do to change it. Nothing any of us can do.

I glance over at Sukuna, still out cold in the hospital bed, his breathing steady for now. He’s been through hell these past few days, and I hate to admit it, but I’m worried. Despite all his bullshit, the bravado he puts up like a fucking wall, he’s broken. And it’s not just the aftermath of Jin’s death or the guilt he carries around like a fucking anchor. It’s more than that.

I thought, maybe if Y/N came, it would snap him back. But she’s not coming.

I let out a slow breath, running a hand through my hair. The room feels too quiet now, even with the constant beep of the heart monitor in the background. The silence between me and Sukuna is almost deafening, and I can’t shake the sense of impending disaster that hangs in the air.

I think about what Y/N said—how she couldn’t keep carrying his weight. And part of me gets it. She’s right. I told her before that Sukuna wasn’t the only one who needed to get his shit together, but I guess… I didn’t expect her to walk away. Not like this. Not after everything.

I can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if we’d all handled this differently. If we had talked more, not let everything fester. Maybe she wouldn’t have had to make that decision. Maybe Sukuna wouldn’t be lying here, broken and lost. And I wouldn’t be standing here, feeling fucking useless.

Sukuna murmurs in his sleep, his hand twitching slightly, and I look back at him. He looks so different when he’s not putting on that mask. I can see the fear, the guilt, everything he hides away in his waking hours. It’s all on display when he’s vulnerable, like this.

He whispers something under his breath, and I lean in closer, straining to hear him.

“Y/N… I’m sorry…”

His voice cracks, soft and fragile. He doesn’t even know I’m here. Doesn’t know I’m watching him break down piece by piece. But I heard it. He said her name.

It’s fucking killing me to watch him like this.

I stand up, running my hand over my face, trying to shake off the weight of everything. I can’t do this. I can’t fix this. No matter how many times I try to tell myself that this is his fight, not mine, I can’t stop feeling like I’m responsible. We all are.

I check my phone again. Y/N hasn’t replied. I don’t expect her to. She’s made up her mind, and honestly, I don’t know what I would say if she did respond.

All I can do is sit here and wait, hoping that Sukuna pulls himself out of this hole he’s dug. He’s going to need all the help he can get, but I’m not sure I can even be that for him anymore.

I glance back at him one last time before walking out of the room. Whatever happens next is out of our hands. I just hope for his sake, he’s not too far gone to fix it.

I step out of the room, needing some space to breathe, even though the weight of everything is still pressing down on me. My phone buzzes again. Another message from Y/N. I don’t look at it. I can’t. Not right now.

The hallway feels emptier than usual, and I’m just about to sit down when I hear footsteps approaching. I glance up, already knowing who it is before I see their faces. Gojo’s impossible to miss, his presence like a fucking storm in the calm. And right behind him, Geto, walking with that same quiet intensity he always carries. They're holding bags in each hand, the smell of fast food wafting into the air.

Gojo gives me a lazy grin like he's just come back from a fun afternoon instead of dealing with a pile of shit that’s only getting worse.

“Got you something.” He waves the KFC sandwich in the air, the crispy fried chicken peeking out from the wrapper. “Figured you could use something real to eat. You’ve been looking like you’ve been living off hospital snacks.”

I glance at him, but I’m not in the mood for a joke. I just stare at the sandwich for a second before nodding. “Thanks.”

Geto just raises an eyebrow and slides a bottle of cold Coca-Cola into my hand. "It’s cold. Thought you could use a little sweetness with all this shit."

I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I take the sandwich, unwrap it, and take a small bite. The taste is oddly comforting, and for a moment, it feels a little bit of normal. But only for a second. My mind is still a million miles away, locked on Sukuna, on Y/N, on everything that’s been happening. I can’t seem to get a grip.

Gojo leans against the wall casually, clearly unaffected by anything going on, while Geto remains quiet, eyes focused like he’s waiting for me to crack. The silence stretches, uncomfortable in its own way.

"Is he awake?" Gojo asks, breaking the tension, his voice light but his eyes searching mine for an answer.

I take another bite of the sandwich and sigh, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "Yeah, but he’s not really there. Talking in his sleep… saying her name. Y/N."

The mention of her name hangs in the air for a moment, and I watch as Gojo’s expression shifts slightly. He doesn’t show it often, but I know he can’t be completely oblivious to what’s happening. Not with how tightly he and Sukuna have been bound, even when things were rough.

“I’m sure he’s just… in his head,” Gojo says after a pause, trying to sound nonchalant but clearly struggling with his own thoughts. “He’s got a lot of shit on his plate.”

Geto’s expression hardens slightly. “He’s not the only one, Gojo. Y/N’s been through her own hell. She’s not just some side character in his story. It’s never been that simple.”

“Yeah, I know,” Gojo mutters, though he doesn’t seem entirely convinced by Geto’s words. He glances back at the door where Sukuna lies, still deep in his own turmoil. “We all know what happened between them. It’s fucked up, but that doesn’t change what he’s going through.”

The words cut through the tension like a blade. I swallow the rest of the sandwich, my stomach growing heavier with the implications of their statements. The more I think about it, the more it feels like we’ve all fucked up in our own ways. We’ve all allowed this to spiral out of control, and now, we’re left picking up the pieces.

“I get that he’s hurting,” I say, voice tight, “but what do we do now? What can we even do? She’s not coming, Gojo. She’s done.”

The words feel bitter in my mouth, even though I know they’re true. Sukuna has lost her, and there’s no going back.

Gojo and Geto exchange a look, the silence dragging on as the weight of the situation settles in. Gojo pops the cap off his own bottle of Coke, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“You just keep pushing forward,” Gojo says after a moment. “You don’t get to wallow in this shit. That’s not how it works, Toji. You just keep moving forward. That's all you can do.”

I’m about to respond when I hear a low murmur coming from Sukuna’s room. The door creaks open slightly, and I glance toward it, the worry clawing at my insides again. Gojo stands up and gives me a pointed look.

“Let’s go see how he’s doing,” he says, voice more serious now, and I can hear the weight of his words.

We all walk to the room, our steps heavy with the unspoken truths we’ve been avoiding. Inside, Sukuna stirs in the bed, his eyes barely open but wide enough to see the panic in his gaze.

“Y/N,” he whispers, almost like a prayer, his hand gripping the bed sheets tightly.

The room feels cold as we stand there, watching him struggle with the demons only he knows. His words hang in the air like a knife, cutting through the silence.

“Maybe we can fix this,” Gojo mutters softly, more to himself than anyone else. "But not like this."

I watch Sukuna’s face, the same man who used to be full of fire and rage, now broken. Maybe Gojo’s right—maybe we keep pushing forward. But even I know, with everything that’s happened, there’s no easy fix to the mess we’ve created.

Sukuna's POV

I’m trapped in the in-between, stuck in the land of the awake but not living. I can hear them talking, but my mind refuses to connect. Every word that escapes their lips feels like a blur, and I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear about Y/N or Jin or my own damn self.

The steady beeping of the heart monitor is the only thing grounding me in reality, reminding me that I'm still here, still breathing, even if it feels like everything else is slipping through my fingers. The voices swirl around me, but none of them cut through the fog in my mind. Not even Gojo’s voice, not even Geto’s.

Y/N. 

Her name lingers in the air like an echo I can’t escape. It’s all I can think about. How I fucked things up. How I hurt her. How I lost her. I can’t get away from the image of her, standing there in her apartment, looking at me with those eyes—those brown eyes I used to drown in. Eyes that no longer saw me the same. Eyes that were filled with pain.

My stomach churns. I want to scream, but the words catch in my throat.

My younger brothers.

Yuuji. Choso.

I’m supposed to be their older brother. I’m supposed to be strong for them. They’ve lost so much already, and I can’t afford to lose them, too. But if I keep spiraling like this—if I let this guilt eat me alive, if I let my demons drag me under—then what happens to them? What happened to me?

I’m supposed to protect them, but I’m barely holding myself together. I can’t keep breaking like this. I can’t keep letting everything fall apart just because I don’t know how to deal with the shit that’s happened.

I’m supposed to be better. Better for them.

But how? How do I fix this? How do I fix myself when everything feels broken beyond repair?

I hear Gojo again, his voice louder this time. "He's just... lost in his head right now. We can't help him until he helps himself." It’s all I need to hear to understand that I’m not getting any sympathy here. Not from any of them. They know me too well.

And maybe that's what I need.

I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to block out the pain. Maybe if I don’t open them, I won’t have to face the reality of what I’ve become. A broken man. A fuck-up.

But the truth is, I can’t run forever. I can’t stay in this fog of regret and self-loathing. I don’t want to be this version of myself. Not for my brothers, not for anyone. I’ve been here too many times before. Spiraling, falling, too afraid to face what’s staring me in the face. I’ve always been this way. But I can’t afford to be anymore.

I can’t let myself be the reason they lose me. Not when I still have a chance to fix it.

I hear Geto’s voice again, softer this time. "Sukuna... we’re here. But you need to come back. Come back to us." His words hit me harder than I expected, and I feel the weight of them pressing down on my chest. Come back to us.

I’m not sure how, but for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself feel something other than numbness. A crack in the wall I’ve built around myself. A tiny opening to a possibility that maybe—just maybe—I can still get out of this.

But first, I have to face the one thing I’ve been running from.

I have to face myself.

“Y/N,” I whisper to no one in particular, my voice hoarse, rough. "I'm sorry."

I don’t expect anyone to hear it. Hell, I’m not even sure I believe it yet. But it’s the first step. And for now, that’s all I can give.

I open my eyes slowly, squinting at the harsh fluorescent lights above. The hospital room is sterile and unfamiliar, and for a second, I forget where I am. But then it all comes flooding back—the weight of my actions, the destruction I’ve left in my wake, and the realization that I can’t keep hiding from it.

I don't even remember when I said it, but those two words still echo in my mind: I'm sorry. They were the first words I’ve said aloud in what feels like forever, but they carry so much weight. So much guilt.

I sit up slowly, feeling the ache in my chest. I’m not sure if it’s from the panic attack, the guilt, or just the overwhelming sense of being broken. But whatever it is, it makes it hard to breathe, to think. To feel.

Gojo is still here, his presence just as obnoxious as ever. But there's something about him being here that gives me a sense of stability like maybe he doesn’t expect me to be perfect, but he’s still here, regardless. And Geto... Geto is just sitting there, staring at me like he’s waiting for me to get my shit together. Maybe he’s right. Maybe they both are.

“Fuck,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. "How did I get here?"

Geto looks up from his phone, catching my eye for the first time in what feels like forever. “You’ve been here, Sukuna. You know the drill. You need to pull yourself together, for them.” His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it. He’s tired, I can tell. We all are.

“Yeah,” I replied, my voice cracking. "For them."

It’s a mantra I’ve been repeating to myself for weeks now—for them. For Yuuji and Choso. They’ve lost so much already, and I can’t be the one to break.

But I don’t know where to begin. I don’t know how to fix this. How do I rebuild what I’ve destroyed? How do I fix myself when I’m not even sure who I am anymore?

Gojo leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You’re not alone in this, you know.” His words are blunt, but there’s something softer in his eyes. He doesn’t say it often, but I can see it. The understanding.

"I know." I don’t meet his gaze, my eyes locked on the floor. It’s easier that way. “But I still fucked up, Gojo. I messed it all up.”

Geto sighs heavily, shaking his head. "You didn't just mess it up. But that doesn't mean it’s over. You’ve got to take responsibility for it, man. For her... and yourself."

For a moment, I don’t know what to say. The words feel like they’re stuck in my throat. But then I think of Y/N. Her face, her eyes... the way she looked at me when I ruined everything. I see her pain in every single interaction we had before it all came crashing down. I can still feel it. The way she’d retreat from me, the way she’d pull away. And the way I never truly let her in.

"I didn’t mean for it to go like this," I finally whispered. "I never meant to hurt her."

“You need to talk to her, if she’ll allow it” Geto says, standing up and moving closer. “And if she’s willing, maybe... maybe you can fix it. But you have to start with yourself first.”

I feel the weight of his words, like he’s trying to lift me out of the quicksand I’ve been sinking into. But I’m stuck. I’m stuck in the guilt, in the shame, in the regret.

“What if she doesn’t want me back?” I ask, barely above a whisper. "What if I’ve already ruined it too much?"

"You won’t know unless you try," Gojo says, stepping forward. “You can’t undo the past, but you can at least try to make the future better. For her. For you.”

I feel something shift inside me, something small but significant. Maybe it’s hope. Maybe it’s just the desperation that’s been eating away at me. I don’t know. But it’s there, and for the first time, I let myself feel it.

Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe, just maybe, I can start rebuilding—starting with myself. I have to try. For Y/N. For Yuuji. For Choso. For me.

I stand up, feeling the weight of my body shift. My legs feel weak, but I force myself to stay upright. Geto watches me carefully as if waiting for me to collapse, but I don’t. Not this time.

I might not have all the answers, but I know one thing for sure.

I’m done running from it.

“I’ll fix it,” I murmur, barely believing the words myself. But I have to say it. I have to believe it.

For the first time in a long while, I don’t feel so alone. Maybe I’m not as far gone as I thought. Maybe I can still fight my way back from this.

Maybe I can still be the man I used to be.

the nurse filled in, "We tried to contact your emergency contact yn ln but they didnt respond. Do you have anyone who can keep an eye on you?

The nurse’s words hang in the air, thick with unspoken tension. I feel the room grow heavier as they linger, and I find myself grasping for a response. Y/N’s name still feels like a foreign sound on my lips.

I open my mouth to speak, but the words don’t come. What would I even say? She won’t answer me anymore. Not after what I did. The silence stretches between us, suffocating.

"I have—" I start, but the weight of it stops me.

Before I can finish the sentence, Toji speaks up, his voice cutting through the thick air like a knife.

"You can take my information. What do I need to know?"

I look up at him, and for the first time in what feels like days, I feel a bit of relief. Toji, as blunt as he is, never lets me down. He’s been here since the start, and I know, deep down, he’s always had my back, even when I didn’t deserve it.

The nurse nods, taking out her tablet and entering Toji’s information with practiced ease. It’s almost like they’ve done this a thousand times before, and maybe they have. Maybe they’re used to people like me. People who screw up their lives and end up here, needing a reminder that they’re not completely gone yet. That there's still a chance.

But I don’t know if I believe that.

I watch the nurse leave, and the silence settles back into the room like a heavy blanket. Toji stands there, looking at me with something between concern and resignation. He doesn’t need to say anything. I know exactly what he’s thinking.

"Stop blaming yourself," Toji finally says, his voice low, but firm. “You're not in this mess alone, and you’re not gonna fix it overnight. But you’ve gotta stop running from it, or you'll end up buried.”

I can feel his eyes on me, watching for any sign of weakness, but I can’t give him that. I can’t give anyone that. Not after everything.

"I know," I mutter, my voice barely audible.

Toji shrugs and moves to the side, making space in the small hospital room. "We all fucked up, Sukuna. But it’s not the end of the world. You’re still here."

The words settle somewhere deep inside me, somewhere I didn’t even know was still capable of feeling something. I look away, pretending the words don’t hit me the way they do.

But I can’t stop thinking about Y/N.

Her face. Her eyes. How she would look at me when I failed her. The way she pulled away.

I failed her.

But I still want to fix it. God, I want to fix it so badly that it hurts.

I’m not sure how I’m supposed to do that. I’m not sure if it’s even possible. But for the first time in months, I feel like I can try. I have to try.

For me. For her. For everyone I’ve hurt.

“Thanks,” I say to Toji, my voice gruff and unsteady. "For doing this... for me."

He doesn’t respond right away, just gives me a sharp look like he’s waiting for me to crumble again.

But I don’t.

Not this time.

Instead, I stand up slowly, feeling the weight of my legs beneath me. There’s no escape now. No more running from my mistakes. No more hiding. I have to face this.

And maybe... just maybe, I can start with making things right.

For once, I don’t feel like I’m completely drowning. But the battle is far from over.

"I’ll make it right," I say softly to myself, more than to Toji.

The words feel fragile like I’m trying to piece together a shattered mirror. But I have to try.

I won’t be the man I used to be. I can’t go back to that.

But maybe, just maybe, I can be someone worth loving again.

For Y/N. For everyone I’ve hurt.

And for myself.

I’m finally being released from the hospital. The sterile white walls feel like they’re closing in as the nurses hand me a prescription for the medications I’m supposed to take. But I don't care about that right now. I just want to go home. I just want to breathe again.

The ride back to the apartment feels like it takes hours. The air in the car is heavy with the weight of everything I've done, everything I’ve messed up. I haven’t spoken a word the whole way. Toji’s driving, the only sound between us was the soft hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of the road beneath the tires.

When we get to the apartment, I’m not sure what to expect. The door’s wide open when I walk in, and there’s Choso, pacing back and forth. His voice rises, sharp and full of frustration as he glances over at me. His eyes are bloodshot like he hasn’t slept in days, and I know it’s because of me.

"Sukuna!" Choso shouts, throwing his hands up in the air, his face a mix of anger, pain, and worry. “What the hell were you thinking?! You scared the shit out of us, man!”

I flinch at his words, the sting of them going deeper than I want to admit. But I don’t say anything. I don’t have a defense, not for this. I can’t make it better with a few words. So, I stand there, silent, my head hanging low.

Yuuji’s sitting in the corner of the room, his eyes glued to the floor, his friends Megumi and Nobara beside him, looking as stressed as he is. The weight of it all crashes into me. I did this to them. I’ve been selfish, and it’s clear they’re carrying this burden with me.

Yuuji finally looks up, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm glad you're home, bro."

His words don’t hit me like I expect them to. Instead of feeling the relief I thought I’d get from hearing him, I just feel hollow. I’ve caused too much damage to fix it with just a few words. He shouldn't have to say that. I shouldn’t be the one causing him so much pain.

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it,” I mutter, the bitterness slipping out before I can stop it. "It’s not like I’ve been some fucking good example for you, right?"

Toji steps up beside me, his presence grounding. “That’s enough,” he says, his tone low but firm. “He’s home, and that’s what matters. Stop making this harder than it needs to be.”

Choso doesn’t let up though, his hands on his hips as he glares at me. "You’ve been running from everything, running from us, from yourself. We were worried you were gonna fucking end up dead, and now you’re back, but are you even gonna stay back?"

I want to answer him, to tell him that I’m trying, that I’m going to get better. But I know he won’t believe me. None of them will. Not after everything.

"Look," I say, my voice thick. "I’m sorry. I’ve fucked up, and I can’t fix everything in a day. But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere right now."

It’s all I can offer, and I know it’s not enough, but it’s all I’ve got. I can’t be the man I was before. I can’t just wipe away all the mistakes I made with a simple apology. But maybe I can try to be better.

Yuuji stands up slowly and walks over to me. I brace myself, waiting for him to yell, for him to say something harsh. But when he reaches me, he simply pats me on the back, like he’s trying to offer something I don’t deserve.

“It’s good to have you back, Sukuna,” Yuuji says quietly, his voice thick with emotion.

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat growing. I don’t know if I’m crying or not. But it sure feels like it. Maybe this is the first step in making things right. Maybe not for everyone, but for me, for Yuuji, for Choso... and Y/N.

The tears come without warning, falling like a flood. I feel them before I even know they’re coming, a warm rush down my face, blurring my vision. I can’t stop them. Not anymore. I’ve been holding everything in for so long, trying to keep the pieces of myself together, trying to be the strong one for my brothers. But I can’t do it anymore.

My knees give way, and I drop to the floor, the weight of everything—of all the things I’ve lost, of all the things I’ve fucked up—crushing me. My chest aches, tight, like it’s too small to hold all the guilt, all the pain.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter through gritted teeth, though I don’t know if I’m saying it to Choso or Yuuji or even myself. My voice cracks, the rawness of it is unfamiliar and painful. “Jin’s gone because of me... and Grandpa... he’s gone. They’re both gone.”

The tears come faster, like a storm I can’t outrun. I can’t hold it together anymore. Not for anyone. Not for them. Not for myself.

I hear Choso’s footsteps, feel his arms around me as he pulls me up, but I don’t want to be touched. Not right now. I want to crawl into a hole and disappear, to not have to face any of this, to not have to be the one who let them all down.

“Grandpa's funeral,” I whisper, my voice ragged. “Our parents didn’t even show up. They didn’t care. They never did.”

The words sting, but it’s the truth. The truth that I’ve been running from for years. Our parents left us. They abandoned us, and the only one who was there, who gave a shit, was Granpa. And now he’s gone, too.

“I’m tired of holding this in,” I choke out. “I can’t keep pretending to be the fucking strong one. I’m... not strong. I’m broken.”

I look up at Choso, and his face is pale, but his expression is gentle. I can see the hurt in his eyes, but there’s something else there too: understanding. He knows. He knows what it’s like to lose, to feel like you’re drowning in your own shit. And maybe he’s the only one who can truly get it.

I look over at Yuuji, and his face is full of concern. He’s standing in the corner of the room, silent, but I know the words are there, sitting heavy on his tongue. He doesn’t need to say anything, though. The fact that he’s here—just here—means more than words ever could.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” I say, my voice low and broken. “I don’t want to be like this anymore. I don’t want to let everyone down. I don’t want to keep losing people.”

But I’m scared. Scared of what it will take to fix all this. Scared of how much of myself I’ll have to break in the process.

“I’m so fucking tired,” I admit, my voice barely a whisper. 

Choso pulls me close, his hands gripping my shoulders as if he can somehow hold me together. “You don’t have to have it all figured out, Sukuna. We’re here. You’re not alone in this. You never were.”

His words hit me like a lifeline, but the truth is, I don’t know if I deserve it. I don’t know if I’ll ever be the person they want me to be.

But I know one thing: I can’t keep drowning in my own shit. I have to try to be better. Even if it’s just for a little while.

I’m home. But the journey to redemption? That’s just the beginning.

[slowd1ving]

ACT III: PASSION ✦ . 　⁺ VIL SCHOENHEIT NSFW

Vil Schoenheit and second place aren't supposed to be a thing. He's supposed to be the very embodiment of perfection, so why the hell is someone else's name usurping his crown on the Potions leader board? In which our starring actor cannot quench the flames of academic rivalry and resentment that consume him, nor can he fathom the enigma that you are. gn! scientist! reader warnings: contains nsfw but only later, angst with a happy ending, spoilers for book five, canon-compliant violence

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Scene I: Ember . 　⁺

He’s finally going to be number one, and have the stage all to himself. This is what he tells himself as he washes his face in the evening before the poison assessment.

“Mira, mira, at this moment right now, who is the most beautiful of them all?” Vil murmurs as he gently pats his face dry. It’s been ages since he’s last asked - between photo shoots and schoolwork, he’s barely had time to remember to ask.

“Neige LeBlanche,” the robotic voice echoes from his phone. Vil’s contemplative expression twists into one of scorn. Of course. It’s always him, isn’t it? No matter. He’ll beat both Neige and you very soon. He’ll conquer the stage and make it his.

“Tomorrow,” Vil promises his reflection. Tomorrow his luck will change. The two of you will both be on equal footing.

Surprisingly, these past few weeks have been somewhat enjoyable. You’re a competent manager, he’s forced to admit. It’s almost… fun, he supposes, especially when he sees your eyes tracing his movements across the ballroom. He doesn’t know why he craves that attention; his veins dance with fire after each practice in your presence.

He sets down his face towel on the vanity and rises. He can’t possibly distract himself with you the night before he finally overcomes you. It’s time for his evening tea anyway. Surely the lavender will soothe his turbulent mind. The floorboards creak as he steps out of the room.

Barely any light passes through the narrow corridor leading out of his room. Vil’s hairs almost jump out of his scalp as he feels a warm body collide with his, before callused hands grasp his wrists with a surprising gentleness.

“God, I’m sorry,” Vil almost screams as he hears your voice in the darkness. It’s strangely intimate, with your hands still fumbling around his wrists. He can feel his pulse accelerate, surely with rage, surely-

“Vil?” if he could see your face, he’d be sure you’d be squinting with those furrowed brows. His body stiffens under your touch; he knows you can feel his tension like a tightly coiled spring. “Is that you?”

“Yeah,” he’s not as composed as he should be. Pull yourself together. Your hands let go abruptly, and he hears your footsteps shuffle backwards inch by inch. He doesn’t know why he feels this pit in his stomach.

“My bad for bumping into you,” you brush past him, suddenly better adjusted to the dim lighting, it seems. “The storeroom’s right next to yours.”

Then, you’re gone. Vil lingers in the corridor, still surprised by what happened. He makes his way to the kitchen slowly, still feeling the lingering embers of your touch on his skin. It’s not quiet in there - he’d give a whole lot of thaumarks to sit and brood in silence for a bit, but nothing seems to be going his way today clearly.

Rook’s furiously penning something on the kitchen table, no doubt another poem of his. Some things never change. Kalim sits draped over the table with a hand of cards laying despairingly in front of him. The offenders who caused this misery are none other than Ace and Grim, who look ever so pleased with their own hand.

“Ah, Roi des Poisons,” Rook’s greeting causes eyes to turn towards Vil. “Have you thought of a prize yet?”

“Prize?” Grim’s eyes light up with interest; beside him, Ace’s expression is a mirror of that cat’s. They really are two peas in a pod, even if they vehemently deny it. “What prize?”

“Yeah, what prize?” you chime in from behind Vil. The tone of an instigator is present in your voice as you brush past Vil once again - he’s suddenly hyper aware of his surroundings. You survey the kitchen, slapping down a colourful deck of cards on the table. “Rook?”

“The prize for the poison assessment, bien sûr,” Rook explains, peering at the cards you’ve brought. “What is this- Uno? What’s that?”

“There’s a prize for the poison assessment?” you tilt your head in confusion, swivelling to Vil inquiringly. At the same time, Vil spots Kalim and Trappola look at each other with very intently pondering expressions.

“Is this the same assessment used to choose the Pomefiore housewarden?” Ace blurts out. His brows are clearly having a disagreement with each other with how far they’re furrowed. “Why would the Prefect be involved in that?”

“Surely.. Did you challenge Vil for the title of Housewarden?” Kalim swivels his head to you with anticipation in his voice. You frown and hold up your hand. Why haven’t you told your friends about this? Do you not realise the true magnitude of this assessment?

“Other way round,” your reply is accompanied by that annoying shrug. Clearly, that dim-witted Grim lacks basic comprehension skills.

“Henchman, has he challenged you for the seat of Prefect?” Grim’s smug question is met with silence. Trappola’s clearly struggling to contain his laughter.

“Huh?” you stifle a laugh behind your hand. “No, I was just challenged.”

“Why the hell would anyone want to be Prefect of this place?” Trappola chokes out. Vil can’t even bring himself to be surprised - of course they’d focus more on this dump of a place than the extremely rare poison assessment.

“We’re getting off topic,” you interrupt the fits of giggles Ace has somehow dragged Kalim into. “What prize would I get, since I can’t exactly take your seat?”

“More importantly, what does Vil want?” Ace glares at Vil. He hasn’t really thought about it; the taste of victory feels like it’ll be more than enough. Vil glances at you, noticing the way your expression’s become contemplative. He hates it. He hates the way you look at him with those eyes full of thought, full of knowledge, full-

“He stands to gain victory,” Rook remarks from the table. “For some, pursuit of success and achieving that is the greatest prize one can hope for. Vraiment, c’est beau, the tenacity of it all. Isn’t that right, Roi des Poisons?”

“That’s so stupid,” Grim blurts out. “You’re doing this for a feeling?”

Vil is silent. He’s thinking.

“Yes,” Vil concurs. “I will be satisfied with the taste of victory as my prize.”

“That’s it?” Grim’s sceptical voice is starting to irritate him. “What about you, henchman? Remember, he’s got a buncha thaumarks from acting and whatnot. Milk him for all he’s worth.”

“I’ll decide what my prize will be when I win,” you meet Grim’s eyes levelly. Vil can see the urge to argue rise up within that demonic cat, but ultimately the cat backs down seeing the conviction in your stance.

“How wonderful,” Rook praises. “J’adore t’assurance, trickster.”

“Thanks, I guess,” you pull out a chair beside Rook, sliding over the colourful pack of cards you unceremoniously dumped on the table earlier. Upon closer inspection, they seem to be brightly coloured with markers and fineliner. Homemade cards? “Now, let me explain to you the wonderful game of Uno…”

Your voice fades to nothing as Vil wordlessly slips out of the kitchen. He can’t even remember what he came here for. He’s forgotten it all. Pale gold hair falls out of its perfect arrangement as he desperately runs his fingers through his hair to distract him from his heated face. Surely what he’s feeling is hatred right? Surely he’s not replaying your rough touch on his wrists over and over in his mind?

The door is shut with a swift kick behind him. Vil stands in the solace of his guest room in Ramshackle. The only sound to be heard is the muffled chatter from the kitchen below and his heavy breathing. He should sleep, right? Sleep’s embrace will wash all his feelings away, right? He sinks onto the bed with all the odd assorted blankets toppling from their carefully folded pile. Sleep won’t come easy tonight, he can already predict.

He’s right.

Scene II: Blue Flame . 　⁺

His dreams are turbulent at first; kaleidoscopes of nightmares and death grip his mind, most of them caused by his signature spell. Only the impression of fear remains as the backdrop inside his mind eases into a canvas of a rich sanguine.

Something within him blazes alight.

The mirages of his dreams have never been so brazenly- His train of thought is completely derailed as he feels warm lips press against his wrists in chaste kisses, lingering for only a few seconds. Vil’s heart skips with anticipation as whoever it is gently clasps his wrists, so familiar to what happened earlier that he cannot help but look-

There you are.

Your expression is positively enchanting with how you look at him like that. Like he’s the most beautiful being you’ve ever seen. It’s not enough. He needs that look permanently engraved onto his optic nerve - the soft smile you give him is causing his mind to go hazy, the soft smile you give whenever you’re in the middle of lab work. It’s full of pure adoration and glee and he wants nothing more than to look up on that charming visage forever.

“Please,” his voice sounds distorted and muffled. The scarlet haze of the background slowly morphs into his familiar room at Pomefiore. And you - you’re above him, pressing him into his very bed. A teasing expression paints itself on your face as you kiss his jaw; all your movements are agonisingly slow. You treat him with care, sucking and nibbling on his collarbone while he’s seeing galaxies unfurl behind you. He’s so utterly gone.

You’re deftly unbuttoning his dorm uniform shirt while he gazes at you with what he can only imagine to be starry eyes. It’s carefully folded neatly beside him before he can blink. Warm hands caress his body; he can feel the rough, callused skin brush against his waist and shivers. Your body hovers above his, just barely brushing over him. More, he wants to ask, please, do anything, but his lips betray him and he cannot get any words to leave his mouth. This languid pace you’ve adopted is nothing short of torturous. He can only hope his pleading eyes convey the message.

He lies on the deep blue sky of his cape, submerged in the midnight silk as you finally close the gap between your body and his. Whatever he was thinking about flies out of the window when he feels the warmth of your lips on his - finally. Vil’s eyes flutter closed and his hands clasp around the back of your neck so he can press himself into you further and further. Hyperaware. That’s how he feels right now, so much that he can feel your muscles tug your lips up into a smile. He can feel the way your hand wraps around his waist to pull his pelvis onto yours. He can feel the way your other hand presses down into the bed so you don’t fully sink onto him. He adores the way the two of you fit into each other.

“You’re the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen,” you murmur into his mouth. Vil hasn’t realised just how much he’s longed to hear those words until a heavy weight suddenly lifts from him. Curse his racing heart. Curse his flushed face. Curse you for making his soul do leaps and bounds. “Allow me to take care of you.”

You press your mouth against his, still keeping that maddening pace. Vil’s slowly coming undone from just this. His legs part as your knee slots between them. The whine emerging from his throat is muffled by your tongue in his mouth. Any self-control he might’ve had is beaten to a bloody pulp when your knee applies more pressure, and suddenly he’s grinding up against it to chase that high. The warm feeling of pleasure is slowly spreading throughout his stomach; he’d never thought he’d see the day where it came from you of all people.

Stars. That’s what plays behind his eyelids as he closes them, overwhelmed by the pleasure of being practically devoured by you. Your deft scientist’s hand moves from where it’s nestled in the slope of his waist and moves to his chest, where it lazily draws circles around his nipple. Vil lets out a strangled moan at the divine sensation of the rough pads of your fingers. More. He needs more of your touch. He needs you, he needs-

Vil wakes up with a rough start in his bed, breathing heavily. What the actual fuck. It’s completely dark outside and he can feel the uncomfortable sensation of sweat accumulated at his thighs and back. He grabs his phone from where it lays carelessly on the nightstand.

3:02 AM.

Details of his dream come flooding back to him vividly. He can feel a crimson flush bleed onto his cheeks like red ink. Not only has his sleep been interrupted, it’s been interrupted by you. Try as he might, he can’t get the image out of his head. Deep shame settles in his very bones - he can’t be thinking about his rival this way. He hates you, damn it! He hates the way you looked at him, as if you knew about the bottomless chasm of insecurity within him and still adored him nonetheless-

He covers his face with his hands with a groan, digging into his soft skin. He can’t spend the rest of the night wallowing in misery, not when there’s the poison assessment literally hours away. Whatever shame and other, inexplicable feelings pertaining to you, that will all be dealt with after the poison assessment. After he’s gone back to sleep.

3:13 AM.

Of course it won’t be that easy to slip back into the recesses of his slumber. Not when his mind is still plagued with you. Embers of desire still burn deep within his stomach; all he craves right now is to be touched. Sharp pain blossoms on his bottom lip as he bites down to suppress the small groan rising in his throat. He wants to scream. How dare the universe play this cruel joke? How dare his subconscious ruin his night sleep? His beauty sleep?? Not once in the past few years has his slumber been interrupted this badly.

His eyelids squeeze together and he forces his breathing to calm itself. Surely he can just act out the part of someone sleeping like a log, then his body will follow? Method acting. He forces his body to tense up for several seconds, then lets his muscles unravel to stimulate a relaxed state. He’s so tired. That must’ve worked, right?

The landscape of his mind is dark grey; he fades in and out of consciousness. He’s been trying to keep his mind completely clear to no avail. The half-slumbering state is broken instantly when his bed creaks underneath him. Annoyance builds within him as he slams his hand down on the goddamn mattress - he’s not even surprised by the appalling conditions of the room, but at least let the goddamn beds be goddamn functional-

3:35 AM.

The light of the phone almost blinds him when he picks it up. Overwhelming frustration thrums through his veins. Half an hour has been wasted, all because his subconscious put you into his dreams. Shame drips over his very being as he realises that the deep desire within his stomach still hasn’t been quenched. It’s gnawing away at whatever self-restraint he’s got. Vil wants to scream at the absurdity of it all. He who can woo millions with his performances, he who is world-renowned for his acting, he who can enrapture the hearts of those who surround him - he cannot even deceive himself and quash these desires.

He can’t even take a cold shower to take care of his problem. It would just disrupt his night’s sleep even further - he cannot afford that at all when the assessment tomorrow requires him to have razor-sharp wits. Biting his lip, the shame of what he’s about to do drenches him from head to toe. Of all nights…

His manicured hand carefully wanders down his body. Best to get this over with as quickly and with the least amount of effort possible. The tight fabric of his pants over the crotch is swiftly discovered by one hand, whilst the other creeps in under his shirt. He’s once again thankful that he’s been given his own room in the crumbling dormitory (and especially, especially thankful Rook’s room isn’t in the general vicinity).

A strangled moan leaves his throat and into the cotton of his shirt from where he’s stuffed some into his mouth. The stimulation his hand is giving him through the fabric of his pants feels heavenly after all the times he’s suppressed any form of desire. His other hand is circling his nipples, though it doesn’t feel as good as the rough friction of your-

Stop. Vil forces that thought out of his mind, choosing to concentrate purely on his body and the way his hips move upwards to chase that delicious high. It doesn’t take much to have his mind unravel from the pleasure, especially after that earlier- Again, he forcibly removes all thoughts out of his brain to focus on literally anything else.

Muffled groans escape his lips as he speeds up his actions, pushing his mind to that brink. His chest rises and falls faster and faster; he wants nothing more than to draw his pleasure out at the same agonising pace you- He does his best to ignore that, actually. The pressure created by his hand increases, forcing more and more noises out of his throat. His back arches in pure ecstasy. That all-consuming pleasure is finally within his grasp. His legs squeeze together as he finally lets go.

The sensation of the warm rivulets moving across the fabric brings him crashing back to reality. Shit. He’s not one for vulgarity, but it seems you’ve finally influenced him to break that habit. He’ll have to clean up properly in the morning, but he absolutely has to do something about the pants. He swiftly heads to the adjourning bathroom to change his garments and wipe himself down.

3:55 AM.

It’s almost four when he sinks back onto the bed, wracked with shame but finally, finally, his body listens to him and he can finally sleep.

He doesn’t remember his dreams after that point at all.

Scene III: Interlude . 　⁺

Vil doesn’t even look at you in the kitchen while he prepares a smoothie with the rickety blender that’s wobbling precariously on the counter he’s left it on. Your presence makes the back of his neck prickle.

“What do you mean you’ve got the poison assessment to do with the Housewarden of Pomefiore of all people?” Jamil’s flabbergasted voice resounds behind Vil. Seems like Jamil’s only just now found out about the challenge, and it’s elicited the only correct response to hearing about it.

“What is that shrug supposed to mean?” Vil can almost picture that priceless look of horror on Jamil’s face while you nonchalantly stuff your face with breakfast and shrug. “Do you have any idea what a rare occurrence this is?”

“Chill out,” your voice is only a mumble as Vil hears you chew between words. He can’t bring himself to turn around and shoot you a disgusted look like he would’ve done any other time. Curse you. “I dome think it’s that big of a-” you swallow loudly here. “-deal.”

“Right, I’m going to ignore that for the sake of my sanity,” Jamil’s voice is clearly on the verge of snapping. “One day that laid-back attitude will bite you in the ass.”

A flurry of sputtering and coughing behind him lets him know that you’re laughing right in Jamil’s face. It’s very interesting to hear the normally composed young man also unravel at your annoying nature. Your idiocy knows no bounds, it seems.

“Sorry,” you don’t sound sorry at all. Vil pours out his smoothie, listening to Jamil’s muttered expletives.

“Bonjour, trickster,” Vil turns just in time to witness Rook’s lips meet the back of your hand as you let out a small giggle. His eye twitches.

“Bonjour to you too, Monsieur Chapeau,” Vil stares incredulously at the two of you, before Jamil voices exactly what Vil’s thinking.

“Since when-” Jamil’s furrowed brows finish off the question for him. Why the hell were you suddenly acting like Rook? And why the hell were you accepting his advances with that laugh?

“C’est vraiment un beau jour,” Rook looks around the kitchen with a pleased smile plastered on his face. “The air of competition is such a tantalising scent.”

“Glad to see there are multiple clowns not taking this seriously,” Jamil mutters, once again an extension of what Vil’s thinking.

“I am taking this seriously,” you pout, draping your chin onto the palm of your hand. “I’ve already packed up my equipment ready to go to the lab. I hate how there’s no cars here though.”

“Cars?” Jamil blinks. “Nevermind, I don’t want to-”

“Henchhuman!” Grim’s annoying yowl disrupts whatever semblance of peace was in the kitchen before. Vil once again feels that reprehensible eye twitch emerge again.

“Whaddya want?” your mouth is full of food once again. Vil doesn’t even bother to hide his disgusted scowl as you loudly swallow once again. At least you have the shreds of decency to cover your mouth while you speak, unlike a rowdy little Epel he knows.

“Make sure you beat his ass, henchhuman!” Grim’s enthusiastic cheer leads to you petting his head expeditiously, while both Jamil and Vil look at the weird interaction with nothing but incredulity.

“You bet,” your smile is sharp with competition as you look at Vil. He almost chokes on his smoothie when he meets your eyes. There’s nothing friendly in that gaze; he can feel the competitive fire with him blaze up in all its glory. Finally, he can feel the pure resentment build up, the way it should be.

“Not if I crush you first,” Vil’s smile is as sardonic as he can manage, but you don’t flinch away from it. Grim shudders beside you, remembering the whooping he got from Vil several weeks back with Ace and Deuce.

“Keep dreaming, pretty boy,” you tilt your head to the side slightly, and Vil feels your words impact him as the back of his neck flushes beneath his hair. Curse you.

“I’m adoring the fierce competition,” Rook marvels, glancing between the two of you with wonderment. Vil tears his eyes from you to watch as the hunter’s expression becomes one of exalted joy.

“I’m not,” Jamil cuts in. “Get a room.”

“Mornin’, Prefect,” Epel yawns as he comes into the room, Kalim being a few steps behind him. “G’luck in the assessment. Beat that snobby wuss.”

Vil doesn’t even know what to scold Epel for: that flagrant disrespect or his elocution. So he just ignores it, exiting the kitchen as it slowly fills up with more people. He needs to calm his racing heart before the poison assessment rolls round.

He needs to get you out of his head, as soon as humanly possible.

Scene IV: Poison . 　⁺

Acrid smells meet his nose as Vil strides into the laboratory that’s almost exclusively used for matters such as these. Traces of his own poison assessment still cling to the air, with the species of fungi he used all those years ago being one of the more prominent scents.

You’re already there with your equipment - thankfully, none of the huge clanging machines present in your lab are there. However idle-brained you present yourself literally everywhere else, he’s sure you’ll have meticulously checked with Crewel that all your equipment meets assessment regulations and ensures fair play. After all, you didn’t have to tell Vil anything about magical resistivity. You especially didn’t have to put yourself at a disadvantage just so the two of you would start off on equal footing.

He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised by your noble nature.

Perhaps you would’ve been better suited if you ended up at RSA. He’s loath to admit it, but you’re a far cry from a lot of the twisted individuals at Night Raven College. His train of thought is cut off by Crewel’s entrance.

“Good luck to both of you pups,” Crewel’s voice hasn’t got that usual sharp edge in it. He seems to be genuinely rooting for two of his best students. Vil finds himself oddly moved.

It’s not yet time. Vil’s hands work quickly to unpack his own utensils on his workbench, stationed several metres opposite yours. His eyes sneak glances at you: the way your goggles are slightly lopsided, the way your lab coat is properly buttoned for once but still covered in that awful doodle-embroidery (seriously, where the hell could you have found the time-), the way you’re wearing bright pink rubber gloves. All these aspects are carefully documented and filed away in his brain, much to his behest.

His own lab coat is completely wrinkle-free, with his goggles designed to not only protect his eyes completely, but to match his face shape as well. The rubber gloves he sports are a tasteful deep blue that matches his dorm uniform. He knows he cuts an elegant figure in the lab outfit. Yet you don’t even spare him a glance, like you would otherwise in a lab setting. In fact, your face lacks its normal joviality that’s present when normally doing lab work.

Is this how you look when you’re in your lab back home? Your gaze piercingly meets your utensils and equipment, checking meticulously for any sort of flaws or issues. The movements you make don’t have that usual lackadaisical quality; instead, you handle everything smoothly and with grace. Have you been putting on a performance the whole time? Vil feels his throat dry up at the revelation. It’s awfully off putting, the way he’s never seen this expression on your face before. Sure, your eyes are still filled with passion, but this is the first time he’s seen you this focused.

You’re serious.

His blood pumps with a renewed vigour. You’re finally taking him seriously. Heavy thumps resound throughout his ears - it seems his heartbeat matches the anticipation he’s feeling. Beneath it all, a trickle of fear is stimulated by the frigid expression you wear. He has to beat you, no matter the cost.

“Before we begin, I’ll go over the rules,” Crewel announces. He’s sitting at the desk with several papers neatly spread before him. It’s almost identical to Vil’s last experience. Vil sees you place down the cloth and antiseptic you’ve been using to disinfect your bench before beginning, and don new gloves.

“You both have exactly three hours to create your most potent poison. Raw, or up to 20% refined ingredients are the only ingredients allowed here. Magic is only permitted for the use of the potion. Memory spells and any interfering with your opponent's potion are prohibited. The use of notes, flashcards, and anything of that ilk is also prohibited. This room is purposefully designed to ward off foul play,” Crewel concludes, looking between the two of you. His eyes soften. “I’m sure both of you will compete fairly and proudly as befitting of my pups.”

With a wave of his hand, a three-hour timer appears on his desk. Smaller, translucent timers also appear to float in front of both workbenches. Vil steels himself. With a deep breath, he coaxes the adrenaline to course through his cells. Success. His wits are razor-edged, and he can almost feel each neuron firing.

“You may begin,” Crewel’s words don’t cause you to scurry around like the previous Pomefiore housewarden. Instead, you carefully take out a balance and some beakers. Vil realises he’s watching you instead of beginning. Curse this. Curse you for distracting him yet again.

His scalpel swiftly dissects Solemn Nightroot as his first ingredient. The acidic juices slowly drip down into his pristine measuring cylinder. His recipe for most potent poison has remained unchanged; the only refinement, really, is that of his signature spell he used last time to imbue the poison with the most deadly curse he can conjure up. His potion last time was as perfect as it could be, being 94 points while his housewarden’s only had 90 points. Stupid magical resistivity. He’s not going to hold back.

Vil’s movements are perfect as he carefully double-strains the acid, then adds chlorine to kill off any microbes that would absolutely interfere with the next ingredients he plans to add. He breathes in the comforting gunpowder smell of fire spells as he lights his Bunsen burner with a careful swish of his hand. He pours the Nightroot into a beaker, opening the flame into a roaring blue one. He takes his container of Arrow Monkshood to the oil extractor at the corner of the room, taking solace in the whirring of the machine.

Over in the other corner, he can see you working with the fume hood. Strangely, beside you is a microscope and a Petri dish. He’s got no time to dawdle, so he heads back while the oil drips into the container he’s set underneath it. The fractional distiller is tucked away in the corner of the lab, and he sets it up on his workbench. The fraction he’s hoping to extract from the oil unfortunately has a boiling point of 350 degrees, so it’s going to take a while to get there. The oil’s poured into the distiller and the flame gets going. He’s got a few seconds to catch his breath and watch whatever the hell you’re doing.

You appear to be… incubating something? Not only that, you’ve got a decidedly assured stance. You know exactly what you hope to achieve with the poison. Vil feels a shiver run down his spine. His poison may not be enough - he has to evolve. That 94 threshold is simply not enough. What had you said a few weeks prior in your lab? “Plus, my refinery skills are so unbelievably sexy.” He doesn’t doubt it, not with all the whirring machinery that you’ve deftly hooked up together. Just a few tweaks - he needs to have only the purest ingredients within that potion to even scrape past your level.

He separates the fraction and takes it to the lab’s refinery machine; from what he can see, it just looks like a regular distiller, but it’s probably got a built-in magical filter to purify the specimen put in. The wait time goes by in a flash as he checks on his boiling Nightroot acid, slowly adding in powdered raw Devil's Claw berries - aptly named for their odd, teardrop shape that tapered off into a curved point. He adds the powder until it’s in excess then waits until the solution is cooled down before filtering.

What’s left before him is a pitch-black solution that’s now only missing several key ingredients: colourful frog poison, the Arrow Monkshood essential oil, and his signature spell. Innovation. He needs to change the way he thinks to beat you. Luckily, he thought ahead and brought some belladonna berries. Last time, the naturally secreted poisonous mucus from the colourful frogs wasn’t refined either. He brings the berries over to the juicer, watching the deep purple liquid pour into the flask. Next, he takes both the mucus and juice to the distiller, removing the beaker of distilled oil.

One hour and thirty-four minutes remain. He’s practically almost finished, but he can’t let himself get overly confident. There are still several steps to complete in the correct order. Meanwhile, he can barely tell what you’re doing as you wear a different pair of what seem to be magnifying goggles. You’re also wearing a respirator mask with tubing streaming outwards behind you. In your hands, you seem to be prodding the Petri dish you’ve procured with what appears to be electrical wires. There’s about five various colourful pieces of apparatus set up, all containing bubbling potions. You’re incomprehensible, you know that?

Vil doesn’t even want to know what the hell you’re doing. He turns back to the distiller, placing the mucus in one compartment, then the juice into the one below it. Fragrant essential oil wafts upwards from the Arrow Monkshood beaker. Cautiously, he carries it back over to his workbench, setting it next to the pitch black solution in the beaker. It’s slowly measured out and stirred into the solution meticulously. Even as it is, it should be graded at a rough 70 points.

The purified juice of belladonna berries is boiled into gaseous form and captured as such. Wisps of Vil’s magic wraps around the test tube it’s in to ensure it stays as bubbles and keeps the energy levels of a gas. The purified mucus is added straight in, with seven equal parts and seven counter-clockwise stirs in between. Finally, he can siphon the jet black solution into the exam flask, before adding the gas into it. The bottle is sealed with the exam provided cork and shaken gently. That cork won’t come off until it’s arrived safe and sound at the Research Institute for Curses and Poisons.

Thirty-nine minutes remain. Plenty of time to visualise the strongest curse he can imagine and infuse it into the bottle. Vil resists the urge to sit down and break one of the cardinal rules of lab practicals. Standing meditation will do. But before that, he has to clear away the equipment. It takes a quick five minutes, plus some magic, until he’s tidied everything up. Now, he can focus.

He peels off his rubber gloves, setting them aside on the bench. Direct contact is essential for Fairest One of All to work. Deep breaths. He clasps the warm flask between his hands. Eyes closed. A painful death to whoever is unfortunate to partake in this fatal drink. It’s not enough. Vil musters up all the shame, rage and resentment within him. I hate you. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t actually hate you. A loveless, lonely death to whoever’s lips this poison touches. The ugly monster within stirs. Forever shall the person sleep. It’s almost cathartic, to unload all that onto the flask he clasps.

He cracks his eyes open to observe the colour change - the abysmal black churns into a neon toxic green, bubbling menacingly within. It’s his best poison yet. Vil knows this. The only question is whether it’ll be enough.

Twenty-four minutes remain. Vil sticks a label with his name, age and house onto the little flask. It makes a satisfying thud when he places it onto Crewel’s desk. The only thing he can do until time’s up is sit in silence until you’re finished.

Vil watches you, slightly flabbergasted as you pull out a cocktail shaker to quickly mix your ingredients. Are you secretly a goddamn bartender? Somehow, you strain the suspicious, colour changing liquid directly into the narrow flask without letting any of the potion drip out. Your deft hands grab a test tube without even looking and precisely decant half of it into the flask, gently swirling it all the while.

Whatever was in the Petri dish is unceremoniously scooped out and shoved into the flask. Vil watches along in bemusement as you cork the flask and stand back proudly with your hands on your hips, before efficiently clearing up your station.

Fifteen minutes remain. Your station and home equipment is back to looking squeaky-clean. Another thud is heard as you place your own flask beside Vil’s. It’s strangely.. intimate, Vil observes, seeing the two creations touch side by side.

“A quick explanation of how the poison works so we can test the efficacy,” Crewel shows a rare smile on his face as he looks at the pair of you.

“My poison sends the victim into an eternal sleep in the span of approximately three seconds depending on body weight,” Vil explains briefly. “The actual stages of death are designed to feel completely isolating.”

“Wonderful,” Crewel picks up the potion with the same proud smile. “You’ve beat your five second average. What about you, pup?”

“My poison is a virus that acts by removing the victim’s magical resistance completely, before causing total cell annihilation within two seconds,” you explain slowly, clearly suppressing your excitement with the way you’re wringing your hands into the hem of your lab coat. Vil almost shudders at your enthusiasm at creating a piece of biological warfare; he’s glad it’s limited to this assessment.

“Virus? I can’t say I’ve ever heard of a poison utilising that particular medium for this assessment. People always tend to go with fungi as the pathogen,” Crewel comments with interest. “How have you engineered that?”

“Electrical fusion between rapidly multiplying viruses and my cells,” you gesture to the little Petri dish in the biological waste bin. “I chose the fastest magical one and boom- you’ve got a nasty little concoction that can be spread through both the air and liquids.”

“Marvellous,” Crewel holds your shimmering potion to the light, noting the colour changes. “I’ll also be sure to take your resistivity study papers with me to the Institute.”

“Thanks, sir,” you beam proudly. Vil can’t even bring himself to dislike you at that moment. You’ve worked hard, he’s seen it all too clearly.

“Scurry along, pups. You’ve both done a wonderful job,” Crewel shoos both of you along with an extremely proud expression. “I’ll send your equipment back to Ramshackle.”

“Thanks,” you call, turning your head as you exit the classroom. Your expression is giddy; Vil can see the urge to holler and skip within you. Your goggles are pushed back on top of your head, and the sun is gently kissing your features. For once, you don’t ignore him, chatting his ear off as if the two of you were friends.

It’s finally over.

He’s done what he can. He’s pushed himself to the limit to beat you. Now all that remains is Neige.

“Then I was absolutely sweating balls when I saw my little viruses not behaving properly,” you yammer, gesturing wildly. “Luckily I had my electrodes, or they might’ve crawled everywhere, y’know?”

Vil does not know. In fact, he doesn’t think he even wants to know. Ignorance truly is bliss.

He’s enjoying this sense of normalcy. In most cases, he rarely ever gets the chance to experience this. It’s part of the isolating experience of striving to be the most beautiful. His actor and model colleagues look at him with envy, and his fans with fervent adoration. But you, you’re undaunted by his beauty and treat him like he’s not some distant being.

“Don’t get me wrong, you’re still a prick,” you ramble on. Vil is once again glad you don’t like him because of his attitude, rather than his beauty. “But this competition was really fun.. I’m glad you challenged me.”

Vil blinks owlishly in surprise.

“Any thoughts on what you’d want as a prize?” Vil finally adds to the conversation. Of course he’ll pull through, but in the small possibility that you might be the winner (that innovative virus might sway the panellists, after all), he’s curious as to what you’ll select.

“Worried I’ll beat you?” you grin at him. It’s not the friendly grin you give to your friends - really, this one looks more like that troublesome Floyd Leech’s - but he’ll take it nonetheless. After all, the two of you aren’t friends. You interject before he can even think of a response. Of course he’s not worried. “I still haven’t decided. Money’s not really something I care about when my potions are so lucrative.”

Well, that’s decidedly not a relief. Vil can only imagine the horrors you might ask of him. Curse this. He should’ve done this Azul-style, with a clear contract to make it binding.

“I’m not gonna ask for your heart on a platter or anything, geez,” you mimic his widened eyes. “Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“I’m not,” the lie slips off his lips like butter. “I’ve no doubt that I can fulfil whatever you desire should you win.”

Curse his poor word choices. He doesn’t miss the way your eyes widen even further in surprise. Curse whatever implication he’s just made accidentally, especially after last night.

“Oh?” your lips tug upwards, barely missing a beat. Vil’s heart races, but he just stares you down impassively. “I’m sure you can.”

Your drawl makes him want to explode into little pieces and wriggle away. He loathes this feeling, loathes the way you make him want your attention, he loathes everything about that malicious smile you sport.

Curse you.

[cute-little-fly]

Will there be a Vassago love triangle in Helluva Boss season 3?

I have been seeing some theories regarding Stolassago. While I think it is a cool ship and conceptually they are cute I think that they are very unlikely in canon, even if temporarily, and they are not the only possibility to happen.

Let me explain.

What we have seen about Vassgo in the show:

In the episode Mastermind he was shown as a very righteous but also extroverted bird. He seems to care about Stolas a lot, but Stolas seems surprised by this, so we don’t know how much they know each other and why their interactions were like that. (This is a mistery for me honestly, if you are interested other post have covered this).

Vassago seemed very devastated at outcome of the trial, and he seems to know that all of it was unfair.

❤️💙Love triangle theory🤍❤️

The theory basically is Stolas being in love with Blitzø but feeling attracted to Vassago because of a possible falling out between Stolitz. After sinsmas for me this became very unlikely… but let’s see the evidence that is usually used for this.

One thing used to fuel the theory (even if not directly related) are certain parallels between Blitzø and Vassago:

-They both have a Red/White/Yellow color palette

-Vassago has some feathers in the back of the head that have stripes, that could be analogue to the horns.

-Vassago is wearing a red suit of a similar shape than Blitzø’s in the front.

-They both have or had something to do with pirates. In recent merch dropped Vassago has maps and pirate treasure imaginery.

This is used usually as evidence that Stolas might like Vassago because they are similar.

However, I haven’t seen people point out that Vassago has similarities with Stolas too. Of course, some similarities might be because they both are a Goetian prince, but, the rest of the Goetias shown at the trial are not like them at all:

The ones that I can think of are:

-They both like singing and music (Yes, I am taking this just because of the “Cántalo baby”).

-Vassago has a lot of stars in his clothes and magic, like the star on his neck. This star is in a similar position than Blitzø’s mother brooch, so that’s interesting.

-Vassago has also purple in part of his tail, and purple is a color that is also related to Stolas, because of night sky and stars.

-They both have a yellow or white lock of hair. In Stolas is inconsistent but now is permanent as the pupils so I will count this and assume he hid it before.

The similarities are between both of them tend to be overlooked, but I think are important for this analysis… Vassago could relate and reflect both of them for some reason and not just the love triangle.

Other things people use as evidence for the love triangle are:

-Viv liking some tweets about Stolassago and how Vassago has something that seems personal with Stolas.

-They talked about a temporary love interest for Stolas (but could be the BTB guy).

-People believed there was a duet between them, but that got disproven. These are two separated songs.

-The pride parade official art.

I don’t think the tweets mean specifically a love triangle. Those are either just art or the statement that Vassago seems to care too much about Stolas. But Stolas might not reciprocate that (in case is romantic).

Regarding the pride parade art:

The argument here is that Vassago is looking Stolas way, and that Stolas ambiguously looking back, because he has an eye more open and how this kinda foreshadows a love triangle.

This doesn’t fully convince me. For me Stolas is looking at Blitzø, because even if he has his right eye more open his gaze is going down. I think this is a subtle misdirection. (But, this part is my opinion, i can’t fully discard it).

However, let’s look beyond them:

There is a small unknown imp that is looking at Vassago while he looks at Stolas, Stolas is looking to Blitzø (and Vassago?) and Andrealphus is looking Stolitz (or maybe everyone?) with a confused/disgusted face from behind.

Remember that Viv said Season 3 was a queer roller coaster? This seems like that to me.

It is also more interesting than the love triangle.

I am excited to see who he is. The rest of the characters in this picture have been present in the show even in the background, like Dennis or the succubi at the parties or with Verosika. People tend to ignore him, but he might be relevant. He also seems to be trans, which is cool, because there are very few trans characters.

This messy scenario has a lot of avenues to develop.

If Vassago crushes on Stolas at first, or is too friendly, Stolas might feel conflicted in returning or not the affections because of the help he needs with Octavia. Vassago also could have something with this new character or Andrealphus, and who knows how his interactions with Blitz will happen.

I think that Stolas and Vassago could end up being similar to Blitzfizz. Two characters having chemistry that are very good friendship, with some old story behind them.

I really would like Vassago ending up positively influencing Stolitz in the long run, even if he makes a mess between them at first.

The symbolism and details that make him similar to both of them are pretty interesting, and I am excited to see what this will bring us to the table.

[nqueso-emergency]

i mean - i think buck has not exactly been liked by a big part of the buddie fandom for a long while. some of them liked to hide it or not admit it, but they were bad at it. i thought it was obvious they don’t like buck for the longest time.

if you read their takes, or their fics, or any headcanon, it’s always the same formula. buck screws up, buck acts like a child, buck needs eddie to come to the rescue because he doesn’t know better, buck has to apologize to eddie. most of the time they also have eddie be super understanding and catering to buck as if he was his second child.

but then the buck we get in canon becomes more and more like the complete opposite version of their buck. and eddie is becoming someone they also don’t register in their fanon fantasy. i think they deeply hate how buck is the more stable one of the two. i think they hate how buck has grown up and is, arguably, a bit more mature than eddie right now. i think they hate the show is starting to paint buck as a figure you can rely on, that is wise and helpful, and mature (i think they slowly want to make him be the perfect captain, but i digress).

meanwhile eddie is slowly spiraling down, he hasn’t exactly grown a lot since he came onto 911 (in comparison to other characters, including buck), he’s if anything, gotten slightly worse. he mistreats women and doesn’t show a lot of remorse for it - he doesn’t seem to be super guilty over the pain he caused marisol in 709/710. understandably he was more upset about chris, and i would think of this as a fluke, but we’ve seen this before (hey, ana). eddie has also been shown to lash out against people whenever he gets mad at them, and he’s shown he’s okay lying to his friends without, again, feeling remorse about it. and hey, i am okay with a flawed character. everyone at the 118 is flawed and i think that’s what makes them great characters. i personally don’t like eddie as much as the rest, but that’s mostly due to his lack of self reflection and how he usually doesn’t apologize for his actions. as well as for the way i just don’t see him grow up in a way i can relate to.

to sum this up, when you put buck and eddie together it is rather obvious how different they are. and how different they are to the version that exists of them in fanon. and when you put them together throughout the seasons you can see buck’s growth, something it’s barely there with eddie.

so it makes sense that they’re now hating on him. they started at 710 when they wanted buck to be the one to solve eddie’s issues, and were mad that he chose to leave the diaz family alone to deal with their stuff, and went home to decompress and be with his boyfriend. he’s been judas to them ever since.

but hey, if some of them stop shipping buddie because apparently buck is a pos (ofc it can never be eddie, the one to make several big mistakes and have questionable behavior during s7)… silver lining. if they leave because of them i won’t complain, i’ll just watch them to with a smile and a sip of coffee.

sorry for the long rant lmao.

No I think you're right! They want the dynamic of uwuBuck and parental figure Eddie and that is not what is happening. If they wanted that, funny enough, they'd need season 1 Buck, the one they really don't like. (Or even know)

I believe Eddie's problem is that he's always been the hero. He won that silver star and I don't think he really believes he should have. He was just doing his job, ya know? But everyone looks to him as this army hero and in reality this man is so terrified underneath it all he feels inadequate in every avenue of his life.

It's why Ryan's excited to basically "ruin" Eddie. He needs it.

[honeysucklehotchner]

walls — luke alvez x fem!bau!reader

summary: luke takes care of reader after she gets hurt on a case which leads them to confess their feelings for each other

warnings: unedited, lowercase intended, cm canon typical violence (only mentioned, nothing graphic), reader is injured (mention of broken bones and bruises), fem!reader, slightest mention of luke’s sweatshirt fitting loose on reader

a/n: rose from the dead to bring you this fic, i know most of my followers are here for hp and st content so i’m hoping this reaches the right audience, either way pls let me know what you think! <3

_-.*•.—.*•._-

you sat on the edge of your kitchen island, watching luke cut off the bottom of the bouquet of flowers that penelope had given him to bring you after work. a sweetheart, she didn’t want you to feel sad while you were stuck at home, replacing them every other week so you weren’t left with wilted petals. though you insisted it wasn’t necessary, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

he filled a vase from your cabinet with water and arranged the flowers neatly in it, setting it on your counter before leaning against the marble with his arms crossed, looking at you. you tried not to take notice of the way his arms flexed under his shirt.

you smiled at him, beginning to tell him about your day and the short walk you managed to take roxy on this morning. you’ve settled into a routine like this now, him coming over before and after work to pay you a visit, making sure everything is in order so you don’t have to lift a finger.

you’ve started to feel better, concussion fading and bruises turning brown. still, your wrist remains in a cast and ribs taking their sweet time to heal. luke had driven you to your doctors’ appointment yesterday and was there to pick up the pieces of your frustration when they told you you couldn’t start physical therapy for at least another few weeks.

tonight, you’re complaining about exactly that and how eager you are to get back in the field, claiming that you feel “totally fine!” but he doesn’t miss the way you wince slightly when you’re reaching for something in the cabinet or when something accidentally brushes against your side. nonetheless, he listens to you and watches you closely, the evening sunlight coming into your apartment from the windows reflects off of you, illuminating your hair and skin. you’re wearing a sweatshirt he left behind a couple days ago and it hangs loosely on your frame and he notices your socks swinging back and forth off the edge of the island don’t match. he doesn’t know how to tell you that he loves seeing you like this, outside of your stiffly professional work clothes. right now, he thinks you’re the closest thing to an angel he’ll ever see.

body acting on its own accord, he steps forward and intertwines his hand in yours and as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, you continue your rant. it’s not until he brings his other hand up to cup your jaw that you finally stop talking, eyes meeting his unsure of what exactly is happening. you wonder if you’ve fully recovered from your concussion because this feels a little too much like a hazy dream you’ve had before.

he holds your face so gently, eyes glancing between your own and your lips, “can i kiss you?” he whispers.

oh.

“i- yeah-” you reply, taken aback but admittedly desperate, having waited for this since the day he walked through the doors of the bau, “yes,”

he smiles down at you, tilting his head only slightly teasing at your eagerness as if he doesn’t feel the exact same way about you but he doesn’t give you enough time to react, before leaning in to meet your lips.

then with every ounce of self-respect in you disappearing, you lean back, the only thing keeping you upright is his hand on your waist. your left hand is braced against his chest and your other is holding his bicep. after a beat, you come to your senses and kiss him back with a similar fervor, wrapping your arms up around his neck.

he smiles against your lips and pulls away, not leaving you without a few more chaste pecks for good measure as well as a short trail of them down your jaw and neck as he buries his face into you and holds you close.

“luke, ow, ow,” you say, as he squeezes your bruised ribs a little too tight. he immediately loosens his grip and pulls back with his hands up in fake-surrender.

“sorry, sorry, i forgot,” he defends, and you laugh softly at his antics. it’s been a few weeks and you’re still admittedly a bit embarrassed about your whole unsub-incident that earned you said-injuries, but you’re sure that it sucks the most right now because you want nothing more than to be completely and selfishly enveloped in luke’s arms. so you do the next best thing and take the opportunity to lace your fingers together with both his hands and pull him back towards you.

“it’s okay,” you say, lips twisting into a shy smile. you’re sure your cheeks are a similar shade of pink to garcia’s favorite lipstick but if he notices, he doesn’t mention it.

he looks at you for a minute then smiles, doing the god-awful thing he does where he subconsciously sticks his tongue into the side of his cheek and it makes you dizzy. it’s something you know you shouldn’t take notice of, not as a friend, and especially not as a professional colleague but that line has been more than crossed at this point so you don’t find it in yourself to care.

“i’m in love with you,” he says softly, he reaches up and brushes a loose strand of hair away from your face and the way his fingers brush your skin is enough to erase the horrible thought in the back of your mind that this is just a cruel joke he’s playing on you.

“me too,” you reply, before furrowing your brow and squeezing your eyes shut. you shake your head, a laugh escaping you, “i mean, not-”

he raises his eyebrows, squinting ever so slightly and you take notice of the playful glimmer in his eyes as he waits for you to find your composure.

“i’m in love with you too,” you finally manage with a deep breath, biting the inside of your lip and smiling.

you wrap your arms around his torso and he holds you carefully, not wanting to hurt you again. still, you feel secure enough that let your shoulders relax for the first time in what feels like ages, an outward sign that you’ve let your metaphorical walls down and he’s more than happy to never let you put them up for him again.

[samioli]

The reason it’s painful for Miles and Fran is bc yes he had an evil revenge plot but clearly to hold him in high regard he had to treat them nicely at Some Point. If my evil stepdad who sent me to law school had an evil plan I would not be betrayed or devastated the way Miles is in the game. If my outwardly abusive father went to jail and died for his crime I would not be concerned about carrying his legacy

Like yeah angst but In Universe neither Miles nor Franziska knew about the darker side of Manfred (which is by design) and I know Miles in his demon prosecutor era is the worse version of himself but you don’t follow the teachings of someone who you KNOW treated you badly. Miles and Franziska are very intelligent and have moments of reflection and introspection regarding Manfred so if he was Only Ever Bad their journey would be more healing from him and less leaning to be less like him

Manfred very deliberately kept his hatred for Gregory and how it still stewed away from Miles once he was in his care. He took care of him. He taught him. He raised him alongside his biological daughter who thinks the world of him. Yes there are abusive parenting situations where the child still looks up to the parent but Mikes even at 9 is aware of the world in ways other children are not. He came from a very loving family with Gregory so he would recognize if Manfred was being awful even if he had no means of stopping it.

Thinking of MVK as a more complex character IN THE GAME ABOUT COMPLEX CHARACTERS EVEN IF SAID COMPLEXITIES ARE THEM BEING AWFUL is literally fine. Misty abandoned her children and didn’t make contact until Maya was an adult and Mia was dead we don’t exactly have a great track record of parents in this world when the “good ones” are eishy washy and emotionally stunted at best.

Say it with me AA fandom: nuance is good. Nuance is our friend. Wanting to have nuance doesn’t mean you “stand with abuse” or whatever dumb shit young fandom thinks now. I’m too old for that shit I grew up on it’s ok to like villains bc they aren’t fucking real thinking of them as multi faceted means they were written well

You’re doing great Samioli

Also he’s LITERALLY DEAD IN CANON ITS FINE I’m going back to bed goodnight

YOURE SO FUCKING RIGHT SAY IT LOUDER FOR THE PEOPLE IN THE BACK!!! ‼️‼️‼️‼️

[ladybirdswritings]

Silken Webs & Pirouettes - Miguel O’Hara x Reader

TW - PTSD, mentions of abuse.

Summary - You realize that maybe working with a man as intimidating as Miguel O’Hara just isn’t for you… Ballerina!Reader & CEO!Miguel. Alternate Universe with most of the characters included as seen in "Across the Spiderverse." Many cameos ahead. Miguel is a successful business owner but personality is canon. This is a steamy reader insert, Miguel x You! Enjoy and pls leave me lots of love and comments as it keeps me motivated <333

next chapter

six

You feel out of place. Stuffy, anxious, like a walking corpse with heavy eyes and an empty stomach. You’ve convinced yourself that once you waltz up those stairs, everyone is going to turn to you. Point and laugh as Mr. O’Hara rips you to tiny, pretty pieces with those awfully sharp teeth of his.

You took the stairs today because the glass elevator seems too dreadful. Each floor rising just getting you closer and closer to your demise, out in the open for the world to see.

You only have one flight left before you know it, though. The bittersweet stamina your body remembers from the times you used to twirl upon a silvered stage. You frown, maybe definitely purposely going slower up the final steps.

Your morning has been hectic. Your curls were in a battle with your hands and the straightener, reflecting the heat away like they were made of ice. Your hair is frizzy, and your ribbon has a tear in it. The sole of your boot is mere threads away from ripping apart and you’re terribly hungry. You had no time to eat, though.

The air constricts you as you reach the tip of the castle where the fanged creature with dark, unforgiving eyes dwells. Your body is overtaken with soft trembles yet you do your best to keep composed. Through the glass door and onto the shiny tiles.

The ambush doesn’t come… you ease.

Your eyes scan through the cold air that greets you. To your complete surprise, your Christmas tree still stands, covered in its pink bows and golden lights. You doubt you’ll ever be as confused as you are right now again at any other moment in your life.

Your eyes wander to the front desk where Cindy is seated, she smiles and nods and you swiftly make your way to her. Mary Jane wears glasses far too big for her petite face, clicking and clacking on her ivory keyboard.

“Hey!” She greets, handing you your bag of ribbons immediately.

It hasn’t been lit up to ash, it shocks you.

“Hey… is um…” thankfully she understands and you don’t have to say much more.

Christ, you’re treating him like he’s a monster tucked underneath your bed.

“Nope, he’s been out all morning… super weird between you and I, he’s never late!”

You believe her, but that doesn’t matter… all the tension in your body floats away like a cloud returning itself to the sky. The breath you’ve been holding since you conquered each step leaves you, and you finally feel as though you can breathe again.

“Uh oh, what’d you do?” Mary Jane inquires as she takes a sip of her peppermint tea.

You can only manage to shake your head, mumbling your gratitude softly and dragging the bag to the tree. The ladder still stands tall, taunting you with rusty screws.

“Hi pretty.” You whisper to the giant thing, hand burying itself in the tote to pluck out yet another pink ribbon. Knowing he’s gone, you work with ease. Gentle on the ladder, the ballerina in your heart still dances even though you cannot. Your balance is impeccable as you blanket the back of the tree now. It doesn’t take long.

Without him here, the office is alive. It’s happy. The women chat as they would while getting manicures at a salon. They giggle and swoon over Mr. O’Hara which is to be nothing more than expected. It makes you giggle. He must feel so high and mighty being surrounded by people bowing at the beck of his hand. Yet when his thumb doesn’t suffocate them, they blossom like roses.

They’re lovely, fun to listen to while you tinker with the tree. This is nice.

This is nice and the laughter and joy and “Santa, Baby” purring on the radio lasts all but an hour before dead silence and gasps soon flood your ears.

You chill, freezing up with your hand in the bag of bows. Your body is kneeling before the tree, the gold shining like starlight on your pretty features. Someone lowers the music quickly, and the man who simultaneously suffocates all the fun with just his presence alone walks through his elevator door.

You hear it ring, you hear the heavy clicks of his shoes and the adjust of his tie. Everyone is dead silent, now. Tense. Back to the normal that is known here.

You? You’re frozen, your head still bowed. You’re afraid of him, maybe. It is rare for you, you’re afraid of no one. Not anymore. Not after… well, it’s a promise you made to yourself.

Closer…

Closer..

Closer his boots near, until?

They stop.

They stop right beside you and god, it is right then in that moment that you’d rather run out and lay in the snow as you’re certain it would keep you warmer than you are in this moment, beneath him.

“You, come with me.” Is all he offers before marching forward on his path.

You gulp, maybe you misheard? A cautious glance at Cindy’s wide, sympathetic eyes and you know all you need to. This cruel, cruel man. He let you blanket his stupid, limp tree in ribbons, he let you get comfortable like a mouse under a warm lamp— not knowing there’s a serpent hiding away… ready to strike. Ready to tell you he’s letting you go.

Cindy raises her brows, as if rushing you to do something. To unfreeze. You dig your nails into your palm, hard enough to snap you back and you’re soon up on your feet. Each step you take, you look at nothing but your worn shoes.

The oak door is held open by him. They’re all staring, eyes like daggers stuck in your back.

“Time to actually do your work, ladies.” He commands, they comply immediately. Does he have a spy? Perhaps a meter that starts ringing when there’s too much fun…

The oak door slams, trapping you— the little mouse into his warm den. The sound startles you, making your eyes fall shut.

Keep it together…

He walks past you swiftly, scent of rich firewood and coffee intoxicating your body so much so that if you weren’t so horrified right now, your mouth would water.

“Sit.” He commands as he takes his place upon his leather throne.

You let out a shaky breath, making your way forward with all the force you have left within you. Maybe you should just blurt out an apology and book it straight for the highest hills you can find…

The zombie you are, dressed in clothes you used to wear for rehearsal as it’s all you have. Ivory tights and pom pom boots, a pink skirt and wrapped shirt. You rehearse the moves of walking and sitting like a dance you’ve danced before. The leather is cold when it engulfs you, unpleasant.

You clasp your hands in your lap, picking at the remnants of the French manicure Rio gave you last week. Waiting for it, expecting, remembering. Your head is hung in shame, in submission.

“You look nervous.” He observes.

You stay silent, reluctant to admit how true that really is.

You feel him, you feel him like fire on your skin. His eyes demanding your attention, but you can’t. You won’t. It isn’t good enough for him. He leans forward,

“You’re new here, but if you cared to ask my girls what my first rule is? You’d know that you look at me when I talk to you, do you understand?” He commands, and like a ballerina does, you mend and comply. Heated as your face as becomes, rapid as your heart flutters, and nervous as your being is… your eyes follow the order and shoot up to face his own.

They are dark, scorching into you like hellfire, an incomparable inferno. You want to shrink, but you won’t. You can’t give him the satisfaction.

“Rule two. Answer me.” He commands.

“Yes…” you whisper.

He’s satisfied, at least you hope. It certainly seems that way. He leans back in his leather chair and keeps his eyes locked on you. It is then you’re certain he’s a sadist. It’s obvious, obvious by the way you press your knees together and pick at your polish that you’re uncomfortable. He doesn’t care.

The silence is dreadful, heavy and suffocating. You try your best to hold it, stare into his eyes and ignore the fire burning your skin from the bone but god— it’s too much.

“I didn’t know!” You blurt out, half hoping he is deaf yet also half hoping he understands what you mean.

His eyes narrow and you’re certain you’ve made a fool of yourself again. You let your gaze fall and the subtle sound you hear under his breath makes you snap them right back up.

“I know. Keep it that way.” He forces through clenched, sharp teeth.

If he wasn’t so horrifying, so cruel, you’d feel sorry for him. His words, the subject, it’s painful for him to utter— to think of. You can tell.

The silence blankets the room again, and your eyes beg him to let you glance anywhere but at him. You’re desperate though, the bigger part of you. Desperate to suffer here, instead of home. Maybe he knows just how desperate you are, maybe he’s using it. Maybe he’s delaying the inevitable, maybe there’s nothing you can do to avoid it.

It seems like forever, but he eventually speaks.

“I want you to do something for me.”

Pack your shit and leave…

You finish his words within the confines of your mind, prepared for them. They never come, no… what follows only shocks you.

“I want a tree. A small one for my office. Red and blue ribbons, and soccer ornaments.”

What?

This man, this enigma of a man seems to be the most capable creature alive and able to make your head spin like a record. You shake your head, confused…

“What?” It’s a soft whisper, weak.

“Rule three, I don’t repeat myself. You heard me.”

You did. You did and you still don’t slightly believe it. You’re dreaming, that must be it. You fell on the stairs on the way up and you’ve been tucked away in a coma.

No. It can’t be true. Sure, if anyone on this earth would be intimidating enough to make you truly feel their gaze in a coma, it would be him… but it’s far too real, too intense to simply exist within your imagination.

“I— can do that, sir.”

He only nods, once. Voice louder now, commanding the room, commanding you.

“I want it done by tonight, on my desk before you leave.”

You nod, mind still jogging to keep up with this conversation, to understand it. Your brows are furrowed, eyes searching for an invisible answer around the room. They land back on him and it’s as if he was waiting for them to do just that. A raise of his brow and he gives you an expression you can’t quite understand.

“You’re dismissed.”

Oh.

He talks to you like you’re just a dull-brained creature, incapable of understanding a word he says, an idiot. You stand on your feet and then swiftly turn your back on him, which is somehow more frightening than looking him in the eyes.

That must be it, you suppose. You’re grateful. Baffled but, grateful. You won’t test your luck, you won’t question it. Perhaps Cindy was onto something with her analysis of him. He’s just not— soft.

No, he’s in control and commanding and intimidating and far far easier to deal with than the cavalry at home. Okay… okay, you can manage this.

Even so? You can’t walk quicker to the door, it seems— hurrying out like the inferno from his eyes is just behind you. It is. The oak creaks softly behind you, and you huff as you make it out to the other side, surviving to tell the story of how you evaded the beast. Mary Jane and Cindy’s eyes are wide and waiting.

You only offer a thumbs up and nod, then get straight to work.

You’re happy for the excuse to waltz the city during this lovely time of year. Especially when you’re not paying for the things you buy. The streets are lined with snowfall surrounding cobble pavement, brick roads and sparkling trees that reach the sky. There are smiling St. Nick’s on every street corner and employees dressed as elves in every small shop. It smells of coffee and chocolate chips.

You’re not at all dressed for December. Your check hasn’t come in just yet, you’ll buy warm clothes when it does. Jack Frost is a bite on your shoulder, cheeks and nose pink and chilled from the snow. You’re trembling.

That doesn’t matter though because you’re also dancing, right now. Dancing like you did as a ballerina; that equates to simply following orders. It isn’t until the warmth of the small gift shop nearby embraces you that you ease. Warmth crawls up your spine and burns Jack off of it. You can think, now. You can stop following orders, stop dancing.

Your trembling fingertips are numb, grazing over the snow globes, ribbons and ornaments. Hmm…

Soccer…

Perhaps he’s a fan…

Blue and red ribbon…

Your teeth chatter as you grab a wicker basket and collect each color. You find lights to compliment them and a dark, lonely little tree by the windowsill. Fitting. Ornaments, then. Soccer balls and goals, flags and tennis shoes. It becomes more apparent as you fill your basket that this is not for him.

Cautiously, you grab your cracked phone and find your watch history. The thumbnail, the picture from last night. Where the grinning ghost sits on his shoulders, she’s adorned in a socccer jersey. No, the tree is not for him at all…

It’s for her.

Sadness swells at the base of your throat but you force it down with a gulp. Gentle thing you are, always so empathetic with the world around you. Even the cruelest parts.

Yet, his words from earlier only echo in your mind.

Keep it that way.

Maybe you’re stupid or maybe you’ve just never been good at following orders when there’s not a wire hanger involved… but you just can’t.

Your eyes glaze over the wooden ornaments stand and land upon a dark oak frame with a vacant place for a picture. You know just what you’ll do…

Time passes quickly and you are back at the office soon. The tree is small, but you handle it with care and adoration. You tie the ribbons by hand and place them snugly upon the blossomed branches. The lights are a mixture of red, gold and blue. The star is gold too and it compliments the rest nicely. The ornaments are small, hanging like icicles from the tips of each branch. Overall? It’s perfect. Missing one, final touch though.

Everyone has left, the office lights dim. It’s just you and the grinch who’s steadily growing a heart. Maybe not three sizes bigger just yet, but you’ll take even a quarter. It’s big enough for him to keep you at least… for now.

You hurry over to the front desk where you print the picture, ink staining the colors vivid and bright.

Her smile was so pretty…

You cut the excess paper and grab the photo frame ornament, adorning it with the heart warming picture of him and his little girl. After you clean your mess, you place the final touch upon his tiny tree and revel in your masterpiece. Perfection, all you ever strive for.

But now? Back into the devil’s den.

You would be lying if you said your heart isn’t pounding as you approach the oak door, but as soon as you make it there— you steady yourself.

You remember who you are, what you have survived.

One cold man who you won’t know in a few months can’t take that. Your fire.

The tree is stable in your hands, but it needs both of them to balance upright. With your foot, you knock.

No answer.

You knock again…

And, no answer.

With a huff, you risk the possibility of angering the beast more than he usually is and use your bum to push the large thing open. You’re very much annoyed to find him alert and well, glasses resting on his face as he types away at a document on his laptop. The square thing looks like a toy compared to his hands.

Christ.

He doesn’t regard you, he doesn’t need to. He already gave his orders. You’re careful to maintain balance as you gently bring the tree to his desk and place it to the corner of him. A switch of a button and it glows. You catch him then, glancing just once at it before continuing his work. The lights reflect in his glasses.

You tidy up a few spots and ribbons that shifted from transfer and then step back to admire. You’re satisfied. You don’t bother saying goodbye, he’s immersed enough as is and you’d rather refrain from unnecessary interaction with the heatmiser.

You smooth your skirt as you make your way out, ribbons bouncing on your locks. The door shuts behind you, you’re safe again.

The tiles squeak as your boots kiss them, gathering your bag and phone— you get ready to leave. Near the stairs and then— oh, right. You forgot to unplug the tree.

You know well how much of a disaster it would be if you set the floor on fire. With a huff, you make your way back and check the moisture with two fingers. All is well. You bend over and unplug the golden shimmer to make the top floor even darker, hearing the oak door shut swiftly as you do. It makes you jump.

Just when you almost missed him.

His steps are heavy… heavier than usual. Quicker too.

He must be tired, anxious for his bed. He’s filthy rich. He probably has the biggest bed with dozens of pillows and the softest of sheets. You wish your bed was like that…

You turn.

Maybe one day you’ll have a bed just as— oh!

Two hands case you up against the wall beside your ribbon tree, and all you see in front of you is that look.

That. Look.

It’s back.

Monstrous, horrifying, furious with you.

The darkness, the redness in his eyes is clearer now. The veins in his neck and the tension in his shoulders and jaw.

He raises his hand, you flinch by habit. Grasped tightly in it is the picture, except now— the glass has been shattered and it’s cutting into his palms. Your eyes widen, hands reaching out to help him. He pulls his palm back before you can, moving his head so that his eyes are staring directly into yours.

That look.

You chill.

“¿Qué carajo es esto!? Huh!? Tell me!” He growls, voice guttural, loud, horrifying— and it is then that you realize now more than ever that you truly are the mouse. And he? He’s the serpent.

With a grunt, he throws the glass ornament with his smiling, pretty girl across the room. It shatters even more once the wall finds it. He cases you in again, and you know now just how trapped you truly are. Just you and him on this lonely floor. He’s angry. You’re shaking.

You’ve seen this anger before. In her… in Katerina.

A gulp, maybe you’re a fish because your mouth bobs open far too many times to explain and yet you can’t. speak. The words catch themselves on the tip of your tongue. Your eyes can’t take it, they fall shut as you slow your breathing. There’s panic on the horizon. Memories so familiar to this flood back like an ocean of poison in your mind.

His index and thumb move to grip your chin, so angry and yet his grip is only firm, not painful. He tugs your face enough so that your eyes shoot open again.

“Did I tell you to do this?” His voice, perhaps it’s scarier now. It’s dark, low, composed like a cap on shaken pop.

“You knew better, girl! You knew better!” Her voice now… Katerina’s. Echoing in your head.

You’re suffocating, the air around you is too thin. You can’t breathe, you can’t look at those eyes.

No, no no. You’re panicking. His features blur as tears pool in your sight. He tugs your chin again, they fall onto his fingertips.

“You already forgot my rules, huh? You stupid, stupid girl…” he spits.

“You ungrateful, stupid girl.” She screams against your skull.

“I told you to keep it that way, didn’t I? Díos mio! What’s the matter with you?” He’s exasperated. He’s asking, eyes commanding an answer from you. You don’t know.

What is the matter with you?

Like the mythology of Rogue, it’s like everything you touch withers by your hand.

After everything Katerina gave you… after he took a chance letting you work here.

Your throat constricts as you gaze into the serpent’s eyes. Your heart is a hummingbird’s then, fighting so hard to fill that clouded brain with oxygen. You’re dizzy. You’re remembering.

You can’t. You need to move you need—

You can’t stop yourself, hand shooting up to dig your nails into the skin of his wrist. His eyes shoot toward the spot and he hisses, pulling it back. You take the chance to escape.

Under his arm and you stumble forward, hugging your midsection with a gasp, desperate for a lick of oxygen to bless your burning lungs.

A sob takes over you, but a close of your eyes and a quick inhale of the firewood and coffee that intoxicates you and you remember just where you are. You’re in his office. You’re not with her. You’re here. You’re here and you don’t want to be, anymore.

No, no not with him. Not after this. All of it, all of him. It’s too much, it’s too far. You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve home either but at least there you can save up and flee…

You’re so panicked, all your mind can do is run over the many ways you’re going to call home through the flashing images of her. Images of Katerina bloom like ivy in your mind as you plan out your next steps. You feel glued in place yet so desperate to leave.

You glance at the broken glass and jagged smile of the ghost girl, jumping when the warmth of his palm greets your shoulder.

“Mirame, look at me.” He commands, but softly. Rather, softer than usual.

You feel pathetic yet still, your hand shoots up to push his own away from behind you.

You’ve had enough.

You buried the devil in your past. Your life is far too valuable to dance with another one.

You’d rather be cased up at home forever, working a job around family that think of you as nothing more than scum than be around him for a day longer.

You know, now…

“I quit.” You force out through another sob, not daring to turn and face him. You’re hunched over, shaky and weak. On the verge of suffocating completely. You wipe at your eyes and don’t hear another sound from him before you snatch your bag and phone and practically run to the stairwell.

Two steps at a time, maybe three before December’s chill kisses you in icy greeting. You don’t need to whistle for a cab to brake. In you go, familiar as you’ve done this twice now because of him.

Only this time? You’ll never come back again…

🏷️ ‘s @reirain @needybitez @migueloharastruelove @laysmt @maomaimao @daisy-artfield | chap 6 song 🎧:

[bluejaysandblackbats]

Keepsafes

Fandom: Batman, DC Comics

Summary: AU where Martha and Bruce survive, and they adopt the batkids.

Chapters: 6/?

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Thomas Wayne, Martha Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Harvey Dent, Dick Grayson, Cassandra Cain, David Cain, Talia al Ghul, Damian Wayne, Jason Todd, Tim Drake

Relationships: Thomas Wayne/Martha Wayne/Alfred Pennyworth, BruHarvey, BruTalia

Additional Tags: Canon Divergent AU, Hurt/Comfort, Bruce Wayne is Not Batman, Angst, Alfred Pennyworth Knows All, Bruce Wayne Only Has One Child, Bruce Wayne is Not An Only Child, Bi Bruce Wayne, Unsafe for Work

Chapter Six: Lyon

“Brucie, wait with Alfred for a moment. I want to talk to Isaiah about setting up your next appointment,” Thomas whispered. Bruce hesitated, and Thomas smiled at him. “I won’t be long. I got a table for the four of us tonight at Pasquini’s. I can’t get enough of that pesto stuff.” Bruce smiled as he let Thomas go. 

Thomas took a deep breath once they entered the French doors and walked down the hall to Isaiah’s larger office. “Is everything okay? Is Bruce okay?” Thomas asked. 

“I want to start out by saying, Bruce is highly intelligent. He’s observant… Strategic, but not manipulative which is surprising for a child his age—.” 

“What do you mean?” Thomas interrupted.

“Bruce uses strategy to figure out whether or not people are trustworthy before opening up. He doesn’t try to manipulate a situation to get a desired outcome… He uses strategy as a means to assess threats. He was tense the entire time, never really relaxing… But given the trauma of the shooting, I can understand that. He’s in constant fight-or-flight mode… 

“But I picked up on other things. Bruce’s laser focus on the game as we played it… No matter how serious our subjects of conversation, he never forgot about the game. He insisted on playing it all the way through to the end… And about Alfred… He’s an important fixture in your family… Am I correct in that assumption?” Isaiah asked. 

Thomas nodded. “Alfred’s family. He’s been with me most of my adult life, and Bruce has known him his entire life,” Thomas replied.

“That’s good… It seems like Bruce is very emotionally attached to him. And I’ll tell you right now, Gotham Academy has nothing to worry about with Bruce. He’s not malicious… He’s got a strong sense of right and wrong, and he feels that although his actions were justified, he laments over being driven to violence,” Isaiah replied, “I think he’ll need long-term care to address the events of the shooting, but I think he finds a lot of comfort in his home life. He kept driving home that he felt safest when he was with you, Martha, and Alfred… How are you adjusting by the way?”

“Um… I’m doing a lot better. I was struggling with having to depend on Alfred and Martha to help me with things that I was so used to doing on my own… But now, I’m much more independent… I just—. It isn’t walking that I miss as much as the other things,” Thomas whispered. 

“Sex?” Isaiah asked. Thomas blew out a breath. 

“Yeah… I mean, we’re older and we were starting to slow down a little, but—. But we still liked to do—. We liked to set time aside to be intimate and warm toward each other, but I’m so worried that we’ll try something and it won’t… arouse me,” Thomas whispered, “And I hate that I can’t show that interest and love like I used to.”

Isaiah frowned and nodded. “You know, I’ll tell you something man-to-man. My wife and I struggled at first. I was ignorant of what it would be like to be with her. We had to adjust to each other… But it doesn’t have to be homework. It’s fun figuring out how to make up for the differences in a person’s body. 

“For Maya and me, that meant incorporating mirrors and signs in our sex lives. For you, that might mean trying to find other ways to get stimulated sexually. Have a sense of humor about it. If something isn’t working, be patient with yourself. Maya used to tease me about mixing up signs or getting flustered at seeing my reflection. 

“I’d say to try a little something this week if you can. Just ask Martha to do something different… Or switch roles. See how that works,” Isaiah replied. 

Thomas’ cheeks went rosy as he let things sink in. “Thank you,” Thomas whispered. Isaiah nodded.

“I’ll contact the school, and they’ll probably let him return on Monday or Tuesday to make sure he’s had enough time to move on from what happened,” Isaiah reassured him as he changed subjects. Thomas smiled back and nodded. 

**

That night after Bruce fell asleep, Thomas took Isaiah up on his advice. He entered the bedroom in his robe and took a deep breath. “We don’t have to tonight if you don’t—.” 

“Of course, I want to, but you mustn’t speak so loudly. What if Master Bruce should hear you?” Alfred whispered. 

Thomas offered a sheepish smile as Alfred leaned forward and kissed him. Their lips found each other, gently touching as they parted, and Alfred pulled away for a moment. “Martha?” Alfred asked. 

“She said she’d sleep in Bruce’s room tonight to look after him. I think she’s too tired tonight anyway,” Thomas frowned, “I understand if you don’t think it’s a good idea… I just—. I’m tired of being afraid that I’m not enough.” 

“You’ve always been enough, Thomas,” Alfred smiled as he stole another kiss from Thomas. 

“Have you and Martha—? I just—. I feel guilty because I haven’t really been able to, so I—.” 

“A few times… Not often,” Alfred answered, “Would you like to hear about it?” 

Thomas smiled and shook his head as he transferred from his chair to Alfred’s bed. Alfred climbed into bed beside him. He used to ask about every little detail when Alfred and Martha were together out of a macho sense of competition, but he’d matured in the past few years. “I’d like to talk about Lyon in nineteen-seventy-one. Do you remember?” Thomas asked as Alfred untied Thomas’ robe, exposing his nakedness under the dim lights. Alfred kissed his neck and chest, rubbing Thomas’ freshly shaved chest. 

“It was a lovely day. Sunny, but not too hot. I recall you feigning drunkenness after one glass of wine, so I could escort you back to your room. I was halfway through unbuttoning your shirt before I noticed,” Alfred trailed off as he kissed his chest. Thomas reached for Alfred’s cheek, only for Alfred to pin his hands above his head. “You were insatiable, Master Thomas.” 

Thomas closed his eyes, listening to the gentle smack of Alfred’s lips against his bare chest between graphically erotic descriptions of what his body looked like in the hotel during daylight hours. “The beads of sweat forming on your suntanned thighs… How could I forget the way you begged me to expose your nakedness as I have now?” Alfred whispered. “Would you like me to remind you what you sounded like?” 

“Mm… Mhm,” Thomas nodded. 

“ Alfred… You can have me if you—. ” 

Thomas chuckled. “I did not sound like that,” Thomas replied. 

“Your hand guiding mine to your shorts. So desperate… Engorged and throbbing. Your face was a portrait of agony and lust… How long had you desired me in silence? In secret? How long—?” 

“Alfred,” Thomas panted with his eyes shut, “Alfred, I’m ready.” 

Alfred let go of Thomas’ hand and looked down at his hardon. Thomas reached for it, trying to control the throbbing, and drooling of his cock. “Master Thomas,” Alfred whispered as he touched himself through his pajama pants. Thomas groaned as he listened to Alfred moaning quietly, his voice sounding much softer than he was used to. “You haven’t answered my question. How long?” 

“Alfred, I’ve wanted you every day since we met… I would’ve cum even if you hadn’t touched me that day… Oh, Alfred,” Thomas moaned as Alfred fingered him. “Alfred, don’t stop. Please don’t stop talking.” 

“The way it felt when you were inside of me, Master Thomas. The way you moaned my name that day. How you trembled as you came inside of me,” Alfred whispered. 

“Alfred, hurry,” Thomas whispered. Alfred nodded as he pulled his pajama pants down to his knees as he slid into Thomas. Thomas gasped. 

“Are you about to cum?” Alfred questioned as he sped up his thrusts. “How does it feel, Thomas?”

“Alfred, please… I love you. I’m sorry, but I’m about to—. I wanted to—.”

“Thomas, do shut up and cum for me, darling,” Alfred grunted as he kissed Thomas’ neck. Thomas shuddered underneath him as he came. Alfred stroked Thomas until Thomas grabbed his wrist. Alfred offered a satisfied smile as he kissed Thomas’ cheek and rolled over to finish himself off. 

“Alfred… Alfred?” Thomas whispered as he wiped himself off. Alfred turned his head to face Thomas. “I love you.” 

“And I love you, Thomas… Would you like me to hold you tonight?” Alfred questioned. Thomas nodded as he stared at the ceiling. “Are you alright?” 

“I don’t know why I’m still so nervous… Alfred, I’m—.” 

Alfred wiped off and rolled onto his side. “I love to look at you from that angle… You make a face… It’s quite beautiful,” Alfred replied as he tried to mimic Thomas’ expression. Thomas laughed as Alfred pulled his pants up and climbed out of bed over him. “You worry too much, my love. I’ll fetch your pants from my drawer. It’s far too cold to sleep nude in the house at this hour.”