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couldeatthatgirlforlunch · 3 months ago

Note

Yandere batfam or justice league with a reader who’s afraid of strong people/men due to a past abusive relationship? She never wants to feel that powerless and weak again so she actively avoids interacting with anyone stronger, bigger, taller any more than necessary. She doesn’t hold it against other ppl she just has a lot of trauma that she’d rather not work through and feel safe in her little bubble

Hit me Hard and Soft

Synopsis: You get saved by Robin, but not everything is as it seems.

Pairing: Yandere!Poly!Romantic!Batboys X Gn!Reader

Tw: All characters aged up, of course; Mentions and descriptions of violence, including physical, psychological, sexual and financial abuse, and Damian fighting criminals (I'm particularly proud of the action scene I wrote); Drugging and being unconscious; Mentions of death of minor characters and suicide; Mentions of past grooming (Reader's ex) and age gap (Reader’s ex, Reader X Bruce, and the batboys age is not mentioned); Implied stalking; Mentions of kidnapping; Reader's very traumatized and weary of everyone; Reader doesn't trust the police; Mention of a panic attack and descriptions of actual panic; Guns and knifes; Mention of cigarettes; Implied needles; English isn't my 1st language.

Requested? Yes.

Extra notes: Wish I had more interactions between Reader and the batboys here, but I'm more than willing to make a part 2 with the right idea.

General masterlist | Hit me Hard and Soft - Series masterlist

He's back again. You wish you could say you didn't know why he always came back, but you did. The food wasn't that great and it wasn't that close to where he told you he worked or lived. It also didn't help that he always made sure to be served by you. And that he flirted with you.

— Evening, (N/N)! Is there something as sweet as you on today’s menu? — You gave a small and polite laugh.

— Strawberry pie… As always…

It was kinda sad, but mostly scary. If it wasn't for your ex, you would be thrilled to have gotten the attention of Dick fucking Grayson. The whole city knew he was handsome, rich, talented and charismatic. Gotham's sweetheart, Gotham's golden boy. And from your daily interactions, he lived up to the expectations. He was polite even when flirting with you and asking you out. Yet, something held you back.

— Nice! Since you get out in a few, why don't you bring in two slices? One for me and one for you, it's on me, of course. — You shook your head quickly, with an empty heart, just wanting to get away from him as fast as possible.

You were with your ex since you were 17 to 26. Almost 10 years wasted on a dirtbag. He convinced you to leave your friends, to leave your family, to leave your job. As soon as you started living together, you were completely dependent on him. Sometimes you blamed him, sometimes yourself, sometimes the people you had around you, but back then, where you came from, people weren't questioning the imbalance of powers between a 17 year old highschooler with no job and a 23 year old man with a steady job and living alone.

He convinced you that going to college and ending your relationship was the worst decision you could take. Then, that you didn't need your family, he could take care of you. One day, he decided you couldn't have friends.

He often locked you inside the house, cursed your skills and appearance, neglected your overall health, intimidated you, screamed at you, broke your things that he did and didn't pay for. He hurt you physically, even sexually. You knew both dating him and leaving him was hard, you just expected living with the scars was going to be easier.

And it was! You decided to run away from him and to Gotham when you received the news that your mom died and he didn't even want to let you go to the funeral. The grieving made you reflexive and you realized how shitty your situation was. For years you just thought that it would eventually get better, that you just needed to be strong, that he showed he loved you when he wasn't being an asshole, that you couldn't get anything better, that he made you feel special.

You couldn't even go to the police, he was a cop, you knew the chances that in any scenario you would lose. So you ran.

You knew it was dangerous, but you had nothing to lose. If he didn't kill you, you would do it yourself. You made a plan, drugged him, took some of his money, used his house keys, left everything behind for the second time in your life. You didn't waste time asking for help from the people you knew. You took the bus and went as far away as you could.

Your paranoia was so bad that for almost a year, you would settle in a city, work to save up enough, and leave again, rinse and repeat. Eventually, Gotham seemed big and far enough to go by unnoticed.

Or that's what you thought, until Dick Grayson stopped by the diner you worked to have breakfast before going to work, as a cop, and decided you caught his attention.

Since then, he came back everyday. Either breakfast, lunch, dinner, or just to hang out with some family member, usually one of his brothers, his dad appeared with him sometimes too. Your boss loved the attention Bruce and Tim attracted, the two most media active ones, since they both led Wayne Enterprises.

Eventually, even them started appearing multiple times a week. You thought you were healing, until you found yourself crying for almost four hours at home in a panic attack.

You didn't want their attention. Not only was it weird, but they were just so… Superior to you.

They were all taller, more muscular, faster, smarter, richer. It was like reliving the beginning of your relationship at 17, plus 10 times worse. Five because they were five people mirroring your ex, and more five just because of your trauma, experience, negativity and lack of naiveness.

Also, why were they ALL into you??? And they were aware of it! It was weird! Why??

Bruce Wayne was disarmingly charming in his dilf way. Dick was surprisingly accessible. Jason was soft spoken despite his resting bitch face and leather jacket. Tim was cute in a nerdy way. Damian almost made you laugh with his sarcastic humor.

Either way, you never wanted to feel as little as you felt before, so you just did your job, acted polite, but ultimately kept your distance.

Freedom has its difficulties, one of them being that you need money, and for money, you need a job, which means sometimes you have to stay until closing time, at 11 PM, in Gotham.

You're not the only employee to stay so late, but you and your co-worker live in opposite directions, so walking alone it is. They're taking the bus, but you only live two blocks away, so you gulp down your anxiety and keep walking. One hand on your pocket, holding your taser firmly, and keeping your head up, turning to look at every sound.

It's cold, and the street is empty and dimly lit. Some places are so dark that you wonder why you're even paying taxes if the streetlamps won't work.

Two men turn the corner a few meters in front of you, one at least a foot taller, the other, two inches max. They're wearing hoodies and their hands are on their pockets, the light behind them creates a shadow that doesn't allow you to see their faces, nor where they're looking at, but they are coming in your direction.

There's a car, parked between you both. Some people might think at this point it's just paranoia, but you’ve heard stories of people walking next to cars, getting pulled inside by someone who was hiding in there, and getting kidnapped.

Your first instinct is flight, so you turn around, ready to run, even if you look weird in case those guys weren't planning to do anything with you, just to see other two guys emerging from the other corner, those two almost as tall as that first guy. Aside from the smaller one, they're all broad, even with their thick clothes covering them.

One of them has a cigarette on his mouth, which he throws on the ground when you turn your attention to him. Your fear might have caused you to hallucinate, but you're almost sure he's smirking.

You freeze for a second, your only escape is to run to the side, and pray their long legs don't get to you first. You think you hear one of them start hollering at you.

You only take a step to the side, when a loud crash startles you so hard that you have to look behind, while walking backwards to the street. You take a second to process the sight.

Robin is standing in the middle, just a few steps behind where you were standing a second ago. He's at least half a foot taller than all of them, and a lot broader. He's holding the tall one by his neck with his right hand, repeatedly hitting his head against the car’s window.

You're shell shocked, torn between staying put to watch this disaster, as interesting as a car crash, or running away. Gotham is so big that you never thought you would encounter one of its heroes, you weren't sure if you even wanted to.

When the guy seems to stop moving, Robin throws him against one of the other tall ones, the guy practically flies across 2 meters before hitting him, and when he does, they both fall to the ground. You remember all the times when your ex pushed you to the ground.

Your eyes are wide, horrified, watching the shortest guy take a pocket knife out of his pocket. Your throat locks, even if you want to scream for Robin to turn around, you only manage to stare and stay in place, however, the vigilant turns halfway around just in time to grab the guy by his wrist and his arm, just as he launched to stab him. He uses his body’s impulse to push the guy forward, the knife going to the fourth guy's shoulder, you hadn't even seen him get so close to him.

You look at the man from the car, he's still unconscious, the one who got tackled with him, however, is already standing and walking to the fight.

Everything’s happening too fast, you turn to the side to see the guy with the knife on his back on the ground, groaning and twitching in pain, while Robin is punching the shit out of the other guy, movements faster than you could ever dream of achieving. You remember being on the receiving end of someone's fists before.

With a final elbow to the cheek, the guy stumbles to the ground, you don't know what level of consciousness he’s in, by his posture before, you knew he was already compromised since the first hits he took.

Robin doesn't move, doesn't even turn to look at the guy who just fell, he's just looking forward, and when you notice this, you look at the remaining guy.

He's pointing a gun at him.

You don't think you can watch someone get shot in front of you, and you know if he gets rid of Robin, it's over for you. Logically, you knew these vigilantes somehow never die, still, it's counterintuitive to think he won't.

And he doesn't, in the blink of an eye, Robin's on the air, his right boot kicking the gun away, while still on the air, he wraps his legs around the guy's head, bends backwards, puts his hands on the ground, then launches his whole body to the front, the guy getting thrown over him. He falls to the ground, Robin stands on top of him with perfect balance. You don't even have time to process what just happened, the coolest and scariest thing you saw your whole life, when Robin punches him one last time. Now, he's definitely unconscious.

You’ve felt like a bystander this whole interaction, it felt like ages, but in reality all of this couldn't have taken more than 20 seconds, maybe even less than 15. You don't know what to do now. You're theoretically safe, but Robin’s still too big, too strong, too fast. He knocked out four guys without getting touched a single time. He broke a car's window. He threw around two guys who weighed at least 80kg. He's not even panting. And now he's looking at you.

A whimper gets stuck in your throat. You don't know if you should thank him, stay silent, or yell at him to stay away from you. When he takes a step in your direction, your instincts get the better of you and you turn around, running.

You hear him call your name, although your brain doesn't process it. You see headlights and look towards it. It's a car. You don't trust you’ll get help, but at least you're not alone. You run in it's direction, waving your arms and screaming bloody murder.

The car almost hits you, but you don’t process that until the last minute, but you get tackled to the ground just in time by the hero from before. You scream again, he's too close. Now, he's trying to hold you down. You keep screaming and trying to escape. You look to the side and the car just kept driving away, likely the driver wouldn't stay behind to be another victim to Robin's hands. You know you're not being rational right now, those guys are known for helping people, he just saved you, he's still trying to stop you from getting hurt, but you're scared. You've been scared since you were a teenager.

Your eyes burn, your arms and throat hurt, but adrenaline doesn't let you feel anything. Not even the invasion of a needle on your side.

— Was it really necessary? — Tim deadpans Damian, who growls.

— You would have done the same, Drake.

— No, I wouldn't. You were supposed to use the psychological first aid approach and (Y/N) would've calmed down and trust us more in the future. But of course, you never use your brain. — Damian growls, stepping towards Tim, but he is stopped by Dick’s hand resting on his chest.

— Damian, calm down, Tim’s right. You knew better than to sedate them. You knew of (Y/N)’s trauma and you knew the route we wanted to take. — Damian's brows furrowed and he crossed his arms.

— I knew your feelings toward (Y/N) would make you become impulsive again. — Tim looked at Bruce, who was silent, with hands intertwined and elbows on the table, focused on your vitals on the screen and the sight of you laid on the bed on the medbay. — Will you now consider just letting you, me and Dick keep an eye on them during patrol? — Damian and Jason scoffed.

— Why you aiming at me now? It was the demon who gave that guy brain death! — Jason protested and Tim looked at him.

— Just to be sure you won't freak out like him and kill thrice as many people, on purpose this time. — Jason glared at him.

— B, you better add more security measures around (Y/N), before Timbo tries to clone them or something. — He muttered with snark.

Dick shook his head and sighed, going to stand on Bruce's side, crossing his arms and looking at you through the camera with him.

— What's the plan now, B? They're probably waking up soon. — Bruce hummed, relaxing his stance and resting his back against his chair. The silence lingered for a few seconds, everyone just looking at you, waiting for the oldest’s opinion.

Bruce turned around, looking at them.

— … Damian, Tim's right. You were impulsive today and you killed someone, even if it was an accident. I stopped expecting that from you since you were 12, you're an adult now. You not only broke our trust, but (Y/N)’s already shattered trust. They need to know they're safe with us, and drugging them, instead of puting to use more time and effort to bring the comfort to them, is not going to do that. You weren't much different than the man who hurt them tonight. — His father's words were like a punch to Damian's stomach, leaving him speechless. Dick pursed his lips, not turning around as to make it easier to not comfort his brother just yet. Bruce turned to Tim. — Tim, I understand you want to take measures seriously. But you need to give Jason a chance. That was unasked for. — The mentioned blinked, still unacostummed with the treatment he received from his dad when he followed his rules. Tim looked away. Bruce turned to Damian again. — Damian, no patrolling around (Y/N) until you prove we can trust your temper again. — He waited for a confirmation, which came with a sneered lip.

— Yes, father.

Dick looked back a Bruce.

— What about (Y/N)? — He bit his lips. Bruce hummed, turning to look at the monitor again.

— … What do you all think?

— Well… Damian said their name, they might not remember it, but they can't just wake up at home. They’d try to flee from us. We could bring them home earlier, but our ideal plan was to make them come willingly, in the period of at least two years, in the best case. We could leave them at the hospital, and just keep our plan going. — Dick listed the possible strategies they could take. Bruce hummed.

Tim piped up.

— I already altered their phone's algorithm to send the job application as my assistant at Wayne Enterprises to them. And the Wayne Foundation’s application for the internship at Gotham Uni. — Bruce nodded.

— Damian? What do you understand about that? — It was clearly the beginning of his test.

— The more secure in their independence they feel, the easier it is to heal and open themselves up to new opportunities. — Damian exclaimed with confidence. Bruce nodded.

— Jason, are you still interested in college? — Everyone looked at Jason surprised, he was also surprised, he hadn't talked to Bruce about college since before he died.

It took a few seconds to processes what it would mean.

— Uh… I think so?! — Bruce nodded.

— What about me, father? — Damian spoke inquisitively. — I also want more opportunities to get closer to (Y/N)! — Bruce narrowed his eyes at him.

— We will think about that when you're in the clear.

— But-

— That's final. You reap what you sow. — Damian huffed and nodded begrudgingly. — … Now, since Robin was the one to save them, take the batmobile and leave them in the hospital. Then come straight back home. Understood? — Damian clenched his jaw and nodded silently, leaving to get your unconscious body.

Moments later, when you were both out, on the way to the hospital, Tim fiddled with the computer, the scream showed the batmobile’s tracker, your tracker, Damian's tracker, Damian's contact lenses’s camera and the car’s camera. They all looked at him.

— … It's just to make sure…

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starlitscars · 3 months ago

Text

Made of ice

Jackson era! Joel Miller x F! Reader

Summary: One stormy night in the safety of Wyoming, it occurs to Joel that even though life has turned his heart into a slab of ice, there's a soft, melting spot buried deep inside... Only reserved for you.

Word count: 5.2k

Masterlist

Tags/warnings: MDNI, NSFW, implied age gap, canon-typical violence, Joel Miller needs his own warning, protective! Joel, soft! Joel, angst, fluff, smut, finger sucking, fingering, pet names, praise kink, language, no use of y/n, soft dom! Joel, negative thoughts, dea*h wish, self-doubt, self-confidence issues, Joel is a sweetheart here (but he doesn't think he's worthy of peace), rain, lots of rain, lightning, stormy weather, kinda established relationship, let me know if a tag has gone unnoticed.

Author's note: This is my very first attempt at writing for Joel Miller. I've had the idea in my mind for a few weeks now and it's hard to resist when it comes to him (did I say Pedro Pascal?) So I hope the details are accurate and if you decide to read this one shot, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did while writing it. If you want to be mutuals, I'll be more than glad <3

Divider by: saradika-graphics

Made of ice

You should've seen what you made of him.

The calm, slow beats in his chest are strikingly different from how he remembers them. In fact, he vaguely recalls the way those racing, dreadful patterns had carved themselves into his memory. With a rigid heart made of ice, it was nearly impossible to find the pulse in him, even at his most frightened, disappointed state.

Joel used to walk into the face of danger with a rifle clutched in his dying grip, a life to save and thousands to destroy, and in all those moments any sign of life was nonexistent in him. There used to be rage, hatred, regret, and frustration... Oh lots of frustration, running through the veins in his body. He used to walk, talk, and breathe. But he wasn't alive.

Now he doesn't find it in himself to call it miracle. But somewhere between the lines, you happened. You happened and fuelled the dying fire in the far corner of his heart. He used to keep it empty and dark, like a deserted house with no furniture, a perfect place for the noises in his head to become loud and maybe help him stand the never-ending days of what everyone called life.

You entered his life and now most of what he feels in these old veins is warmth, safety and attachment. Yes, he doesn't call it miracle, because his past doings are too stained and unforgivable to deserve a miracle. To deserve you. The real miracle. The fathomable idea of what it feels to be alive.

Joel feels alive.

Some days, it feels like his wretched past is clawing its way back into his mind, calling those demons to end his days of peace with you. Some nights, he's restless... So terribly restless. What if you get injured on your next patrol? What if the Raiders attack you when you're out of the gates of Jackson? What if something bad happens to you the moment his eyes close? What if these damn what ifs come to life? This old mind tricks him into seeing pictures of what has never happened and probably never will. You always assure him that you'll be careful. He trusts you and your abilities, but he does not trust his fears. Because if life is too good, it scares him.

It scares Joel Miller, way more than it would if he was trapped in a dark room with all of his fears and demons creeping on the cold hard floor towards him. He'd rather spend every day fighting off the Clickers and Raiders and every nasty threat out there, instead of pacing around the room and waiting to see if your patrols end well or not.

So he has no choice but to either convince Tommy to pick him as your patrol partner every damn time you have to do it – which he makes sure is as limited as possible – or occasionally keep an eye on you from a distance and let his thoughts consume him at the same time. Just like what he's doing now.

His persistence in being close to you tends to earn him annoyed eye rolls and "She's more capable than that, Joel." comments from his brother... almost all the time. But he simply can't help it, and he thinks that you know it. Because you never complain nor haul him over the coals for his instincts and worries and the immense amount of care his rigid heart feels for you. He's silently thankful for that understanding.

You are safe here, he thinks. Even though he feels restless, his heartbeat has never been this calm. He sits and watches you on nights like this and there's only one thought ringing in his head. All the scolding is worth it. You're sprawled out peacefully on the bed. His bed. It must be straight out of a fucking impossible dream. You're here, in his atmosphere, in his menacing, guilty, dark presence... And you have chosen it knowingly. It's all he can ever ask for.

The dim moonlight is swimming in through the curtains, casting a soft, silvery shadow over your face. Your hair is falling all around you like you're knowingly doing it... Posing for an artist just to paint this delicate beauty on a canva.

Despite his bitter mood, a content smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Tearing his gaze from you, he downs the remaining whiskey and silently places the empty glass on the table, deciding that he needs a short walk to free his troubled mind. One morning, Maria woke up and decided that Joel needs to stay behind and help Tommy in fixing the issues in the town's only library. So you should have another partner for your patrol days for god knows how long. He fucking hates being told what to do. He fought tooth and nail to prevent that, and if you weren't there to stop him, he would as well turn the mess hall into another ruin that needed to be fixed – which only meant more time away from you.

So it's going to take only two weeks, at worst. Only a terrible fortnight before things go back to normal. It's almost unbelievable how you have managed to awaken a sense of normalcy in him that he hasn't known in decades. Your absence is an instant threat to this normal life.

Maybe it's about time he gets used to it. He's not that weak. He shouldn't let his angers and worries run him. More importantly, he shouldn't ruin your much needed sleep with his usual problems right now. You've still got the weekend. He'll take a walk and be back here before you as much as stir in your deep slumber.

Oh. The damn library.

...

Jackson is eerily quiet in the middle of the night, enveloped by darkness and as isolated as it can be in this corner of the world. It's a stark contrast to how busy the whole community is during the daylight – bustling with happy greetings, careless jokes, movie days, small parties, and lots of work to do. It all asks for social interaction and he deeply hates it.

He hates when every passer-by's attention turns to you every time you step out in the open. He hates how prying eyes rove up and down your frame every time you walk into the bar. He hates how... He shakes his head, almost rolling his eyes at the loudness of these thoughts. Joel has to remind himself that he is the one you hold onto and introduce to everyone in every social gathering. The proud gleam in your eyes always placates him. There's no need to break a jaw in this town... Perhaps.

Lights flicker by the porches and the sound of his boots on the ground is the only sound that disturbs the silence. The sky is clouding over, distantly promising another stormy night in its gloomy wake. Occasional flashes of lightning light up the road and before Joel knows it, he's passing by the Tipsy Bison. It's 3 past midnight, no wonder why its doors are locked and closed. Either way he comes to a halt, letting the gears turn in his head as he opts for a very familiar path.

Your house. It's a short walk away from the bar.

Joel still recalls that day. How long has it been? Five, six, seven months? It feels like yesterday to him.

He'd had a terrible conversation with Tommy, not at all the way he'd planned it on his first day in Jackson. Things got heated up pretty quickly, leaving a bitter taste of rejection lingering on his tongue, the burn of the whiskey only worsening his mood.

"Just because life stopped for you, doesn't mean it has to stop for me..."

The words were ringing in his head as he stormed out of the bar. Shrugging his jacket on, all he wanted was to walk as far away from that area as possible. This affronted, begrudging, irrational sting was boiling in him and in that moment he was more than ready to leave the gates of Jackson even if it called for more danger. Life had really ended for him years ago, but to hear it from Tommy right after the hell he'd went through to find him... It really hurt.

The pain was resurfacing in rapid tides.

If his boots could dig deeper, get stuck in the snow and propel him into the cold biting blanket of the earth, he'd welcome it. If life had really ended for him, he had to make it make sense by ending himself as well. This... There was this distant melody echoing in the air and cutting through his troubles thoughts. The wind was harsh against his ears, and each step brought the melody closer.

It really could be the last song that played before his funeral.

Joel was surrounded by all the colors, and all he could see was white, eyes fixed on the ground. He didn't pay much attention as he bumped into someone. He barely lifted his head to apologize, and then his gaze settled on the crackling fire on the left side of the road.

Red and orange and yellow hues. It was a fresh contrast. His eyes were hurting from all the white snow.

He came to a halt, mindlessly waving at the person he'd bumped into. A dozen of kids had gathered around the burning logs in a barrel on the porch, rubbing their hands together and listening to the same melody he was entranced by. The same melody that he thought would be his burial hymn.

Joel's eyes followed their excited faces, wondering who they were looking at. He saw you mirroring their hopeful gleams first, and then he registered the guitar on your lap.

To make the matters worse, you had tilted your head, shooting him a funnily quizzical look. He might've looked weird back then. The town's newcomer, with a permanent scowl on his face, maybe plotting murder as well (considering that it was the main topic in all the words that already flew around about him).

He didn't answer, still dead in his tracks as if he was immobilized by some invisible force. So you shifted in your seat, silently offering him a spot among the children as if to say "You can come over and join us."

He had two choices in that moment, either a polite decline was on the table or a dismissive frown. He looked over his shoulder at the bar and finally opted for the third choice – or so his mind created another choice for him – and he nodded, joining in on your little gathering without as much as saying a word. He really wanted to hear that song.

He never asked whether you knew the words to that song, but that night when he lay in bed and his thoughts were far from the idea that he wanted to bury himself in the snow, he vaguely remembered the lyrics. And it hit him hard, like a punch to the gut.

Yeah, I don't want to hurt

There's so much in this world

To make me bleed

Stay with me

Let's just breathe

Stay with me

You're all I see

He wanted to ignore how the words affected him in the middle of the night. It was the first night he could feel some semblance of peace, not sleeping with an eye open in case someone attacked them. Ellie was safe in another room. So he really considered that. He considered the possibility of staying. He was relatively new to the community... And so damn unaccustomed to the whole arrangement. He almost woke up the next morning and started packing before he remembered where he was.

Stay with me

Let's just breathe

Those words stuck with him.

And his first encounter with you was a harbinger of different things to come.

One day of patrolling with you led to another, one night of inviting you for a drink led to another. One peaceful afternoon in the stable led to another. One gloomy evening in the clinic did not lead to another. He was way too protective of you to let that happen again.

He truly feels lucky. You could be anywhere else, better off if you picked anyone other than this grumpy, old man. And yet you still want him. You silly girl. You've melted his heart with your warmth.

But he's like a lake, deserted in the middle of a haunted forest and engulfed in coldness. Even though the center is warm and gooey, he keeps the surface frozen and rigid and menacing. Hard enough to keep his instincts sane and alarmed. Cold enough to let everyone know that you're his and he will not fucking share.

Lightning strikes again in the sky.

He lifts himself up and off your front stairs with a heavy grunt. An hour has passed since he left for a walk. The clouds have fully gathered in the sky and he thinks that he should be by your side now.

Joel really cares little for the details, always asking Tommy and Ellie to spare him the explanation and get straight to the point. But with you, it's hard to forget a couple of things. One night, a few weeks ago, you were pulling him past the threshold of your house. So adorably drunk and inviting. He was still a little pissed by how the rainstorm had ruined your nightly walk. Despite your complaints about sharing a kiss in the rain, he'd dragged you back to the nearest shelter possible, because he just didn't want to get fucking soaked. Joel didn't find it romantic at all. He was frowning, still pinning you against the wall for a begrudgingly needy kiss. You giggled into his mouth, playful fingers pocking at his chest. "Come on Joel. Let yourself enjoy it... All these neverending drops on the roof, the fresh earthy scent that comes after it... It's just really beautiful. One of the few things that kept me sane before I came here..."

He's not really against the idea. But the changing weather doesn't bode well with him. One day is sunny, and the next is rainy and it just goes to show how he has no power over the situation.

Hell. A part of Joel is really terrified of the changing weather. One day it was scorching hot, and the next his boots crunched against the white blankets of neverending snow, reprimanding him for his carelessness. Time would pass whether he wanted to or not. He is still terrified, wishing he could stretch the time he could spend with you. God knows he wants an eternity with you.

He has seen enough rain for a lifetime. He hasn't seen you enough. How could he enjoy getting soaked in tiny drops of water when all he wanted was to bury his face in the crook of your neck and stay there for a while – maybe forever and a little more?

But he has considered it since then. If there are a few things that keep you happy and rainy days have to be one of them, he'll give you that. He'll get used to that. There's no pattern with the rainfall in here, and the weather forecast is pretty much nonexistent. He has promised himself to tell you whenever it rains, even though he despises the idea of you catching a cold after minutes or hours of dancing in the cold, letting droplets of water wash over you without a care in this wretched world.

He also despises the idea of waking you up.

But he knows you'll like it. You careless, adorable girl. He lives to see that excited gleam in your eyes. Everytime you show it, this old heart pounds impatiently in his chest and it all feels like the first time it has happened.

He's back home in no time.

So, kicking his boots off as silently as possible, he trudges over and settles down by the edge of the bed, suppressing a low groan. His knees still ache from all the never-ending effort he's put in repairing the library over the past few days. Jesus, he just wants it to be done as soon as possible. It feels like he's losing so much time when he's away from you. Now that you're still pretty much asleep in the same position he last saw you, all Joel wants is to lie down by your side and melt in your warm embrace instead of having to fight with his thoughts and the world to not take away yet another precious piece of him. He can't afford to even think about losing you.

Each flash of lightning illuminates the contours of your beautiful face and he can't help himself when he lifts a hand and lets his knuckles gently stroke your cheek. Your lips are parted ever so slightly and you look so innocent in your unconscious dream. He almost backs down, part of him hoping that it rains throughout the day, just so he doesn't guilt trip himself for the pout on your face if you miss it. You need to rest.

As if you sense his hesitation, you stir in bed and lean into his touch. A low hum escapes you, and Joel is too weak to deny himself the softness it brings. His wounded knuckles are soon replaced with a calloused thumb and he wonders what's so interesting about these hands that never ceases to catch your attention.

One night at the bar, Joel had caught you actually staring at them and when he teased you a little about it, you just shrugged and grinned mischievously. "I mean... I just like them so much. Your hands are always warm, and... and that's all."

He shrugged it off that night. Ellie had also considered it a flex for him to have warm hands even in the coldest days of winter, but with you and the way you looked at him... It was different. He knew it was more than that.

And when the nights he shared with you went further than his sinful thoughts had planned, you showed him that it was more than that. It was more than the warmth you found there. If anything, your helpless whimpers were an indication of how capable and strong these hands were.

Heat blooms in his chest. It simply is endearing. The way you always seem to recognize his touch and send his head spiraling with the idea that you want him to do more. You've never been afraid of him. You've never pushed him away. You've never judged him for the horrible things he's done. Jesus, it should terrify him. Joel should've pushed you away at some point, because he knows you'd be better off without him, but how could he muster the strength to do so? Since that fateful moment on your porch, your presence keeps on inviting him for more. More than simply existing. And God, if you knew how he wants to do more than that every second of the day... Only if the world lets him breathe a little.

There's another bolt of lightning and raindrops finally begin to drum against the window pane.

Joel shakes his head to get rid of those worrisome ideas. Propping himself on one elbow, he leans over ever so slightly and lets his thumb trace its way to your chin, up to your jawline, and then back to the soft skin on your cheek. He draws circles over the blooming flush and then his thumb is traveling down to your lower lip. Your mouth parts just a little more, breathing even and content and if he gets a grip on himself, he may notice that there's a ghost of a smile in there as well.

"Baby..." He whispers softly, his gaze drifting all over your adorable face. You really are a piece of art, tangled in the sheets, in the safety of his house, and your innocent hums are doing something to him. Some obscene voice that silently pleads for more. More and more... Just to give you more.

You stir a little more.

He leans over and places a gentle kiss on your forehead, the sweet, fruity scent he's come to like a lot about you engulfing his senses. He watches every little movement with amusement. "My sweet baby... You want to see what's waitin' for you outside."

"Joel," you mumble sleepily, voice drowsy and laced with a hint of confusion as you rub your eyes and stretch your arms before looking around the dark room with a quizzical expression on your face. It doesn't take long for the realization to hit you and the familiar gleam in your gaze makes him smile. You stare a him, wide-eyed. "is it- again?"

He chuckles and gestures at the window. "Yes, a heavy one at that."

Again, there's that hum of delight as you follow his gaze. The pitter-patter of the rain cheers you up like a lollipop would do to a child. It's maddeningly adorable.

You should be running to the backyard by now, but instead you stare at him for a while. It's his turn to be confused. Your smile gets broader by each passing second as your delicate hands trace his face and run over the salt and pepper patches of his beard. When you playfully ruffle his hair, your eyes are still droopy and dreamy and so damn kissable that he just can't help himself.

His other hand fondles with a loose strand of hair beside you on the pillow before twirling it between his fingers. You bite your lower lip and lift your head just enough for a brief peck on the tip of his nose. He chuckles, letting his fingers draw a line over the column of your neck, down to your chest, and at last they disappear beneath the sheets, settling comfortably on the warm expanse of your belly.

Joel assumes that his presence is not too close to lock you in place, and yet not too loose to let you drift back into unconsciousness. You just have the perfect moment to escape. For goodness sake, rain is the one thing you choose over anything else. The thing you like a lot.

But you're still here, dazed eyes flickering all over his face and it just gives him a second thought. A new idea to test your patience. Seeing you still pinned under him and unmoving, was not really in his list when he decided to walk back home and wake you up. He chortles with amusement. If you want what he thinks you do, he could give you that... "Come on sweetheart, what's stoppin' you?"

His fingers drift lower, exploring the bare flesh of your thigh, right where his mouth was hours ago. Still as warm as he remembers, maybe a little bruised too. "It's all rainy outside. Ain't that what you wanted?"

"I know..." You mumble, an undertone of need sewn in your voice as you look down over the sheets that cover every movement of his hand. It's too dark for you to see anything anyway. He could easily toss the covers aside, but it's wickedly satisfying this way. "I'm- um, just feeling a little under the influence...and it's- uh, it's distracting."

His hand caresses its way to where he knows you need it the most, and you barely repress a shudder when his fingertips glide over your folds. But he barely feels you, a ghost of a touch hovering there as a smirk threatens to flicker at the corner of his mouth.

"Wonder if my hand's makin' a good influence or a bad one. What d'you say, baby?"

It pelts down steadily outside, but you don't seem to care the slightest about it. Neither does Joel. A low gasp emanates from you when his touch becomes proper, rubbing circles and spreading the slick over your clit as slow and unrushed as he physically can manage. You're still indecently wet after he'd brought you over the edge again and again before you dozed off... and the fact that some of his cum might be gathering in his hand is fueling his lewd thoughts.

You naughty girl.

"A very bad one, I see." He tuts, feeling your chest heaving up and down beneath him. It's easy to rile you up this way. Desperation is written in your expression... and he hasn't even started yet.

"She needs fixin', doesn't she?" Joel asks, bringing his movement to a sudden halt. You're too distracted by everything he does to form a coherent thought. He lifts an expectant brow, now actually waiting for an answer.

"Yes- yes Joel... need it so bad... so bad it hurts." You breathe, a helpless pout forming on your lips.

"I know baby. I know... Jus' lay down and let me take care of it, hm? How's that sound?" He demands again, but this time he doesn't give you a chance to respond as he pushes two fingers past your weeping hole, burying them knuckles deep within your warmth. You gasp at the sudden intrusion, eyelids heavy as you grasp his arm, squirming like a helpless, needy girl.

What a cruel man he is.

"Not off to a good start, angel. I know you can be more patient."

You nod quickly, biting your lip in an attempt to stop yourself from wriggling and twisting on the bed. For a split second, Joel considers pulling out to nuzzle his face between your legs and let the heat consume him. A perfect place to brave the cold, restless seasons.

But his fingers aren't shy either. He starts with slow thrusts, effortlessly sliding in and out before picking up the pace. He makes you adjust to his rhythm, and when you let go and open up, the obscene moans and chocked out cries are all that fill the silence of the house. Jesus, he lives to hear them every day. He rewards you by curling his fingertips to hit that spot that makes you see stars.

You shudder particularly hard at that, more arousal pooling inside you and soaking his fingers. You're losing your grip with reality, and he can sende it as your legs begin to shake and your knee brushes over the denim of his jeans, but you still remember to abide by his "No squirming" rule.

You're so pliant and obedient in his hands that it does nothing but to spur Joel to give you more. And so he does.

"I like these sounds," He adds a third finger, tilting his head to whisper in your ear. "I dream about them all the time."

You whimper and tighten your hold around Joel's arm. When he feels that your orgasm is creeping impossibly close, his thumb joins and rubs rapid circles over your bundle of nerves and that's your undoing. You clench around him, walls tightening and squeezing his fingers deeper – if that's even possible – as waves of white-hot euphoria crash over your worn out body and take over your senses. Your back arches involuntarily into him. A sound between a groan and a curse escapes his throat.

"That's it. Atta girl... that's it, so fuckin' beautiful."

His touch is unrelenting as he talks you through it with a string of sweet nothings.

Only when you come down and rest back on the bed he slowly pulls out. You're panting heavily, face flushed and heated and so effortlessly seductive that Joel is sure no fucking artist could ever capture it in words of a poem or colors of a painting. Joel is the only one to witness this moment and it swells his chest with pride. He wants to drink it in, let it run through his veins like never-ending liquor.

He lifts his hand, smirking as you gape at the way it's glistening under the dim light. You're in awe. He softly places the tips between your swollen lips and you waste no time in swirling your tongue around them, licking the slick off as if it's a delightful lollipop. And the hazy look on your face says that it's more than just a sweet treat.

His own breathing hitches when you open your mouth a little wider and take him fully in, sucking and humming and driving him absolutely crazy. He shakes his head slightly, catching the playful gleam in your gaze.

"Hm. Still a very bad influence."

When you're fully recovered and satisfied, Joel lifts you up in his arms and walks towards the backyard, chuckling at your confused expression. You give a squeal and wrap your hands around his neck to keep yourself steady, at the same time trying to gauge what his next plan would be. You really have forgotten about the rain, haven't you?

He comes to a halt, making sure the blanket he'd just picked off the bed is not leaving any part of your body uncovered. The rainstorm has eased off considerably over the past hour, but he doesn't want to risk it. Keeping you warm and safe in the cold is and will always be his top priority, no matter if his back or knees protest from how much they ache. Hell, he aches for you and that content smile on your face. Nothing beats it.

"My girl still wants to go out, hm?"

Your eyes flicker between him and the half-open door, filled with excitement and delight and a tiny flicker of doubt. "Yes Joel... but...you sure you want to join in?"

"I don't know," He feigns innocence, pretending to think for a short while before his face lights up with an idea. "Do I get a kiss for it?"

You laugh and lean up to press your lips into his in a soft, lingering kiss. It's so tender and reassuring that he has to pull back before changing his mind and taking you back to the bed.

"Then it's settled."

It has been settled for a long time.

Maybe he can get used to it. Maybe you get a better idea of what you've made of him with your presence at times when he easily complies with things that make you happy. A heart made of ice, molten enough to experience the world with you all over again. Even if he gets soaked in the rain, he's alright with it. You kiss him and all the discomfort is forgotten.

He should give it time and learn to breathe again. Learn to stay, to settle. To let you know that you're all he sees.

Yeah, I don't want to hurt

There's so much in this world

To make me bleed

Stay with me

Let's just breathe

Stay with me

You're all I see

The words are carved in his head. He chances a glance at the living room before walking past the door. Your guitar is placed on the couch. Maybe one day he'll bring himself to play his melodies for you too. He think that he's got a lot of time for it now. He wants an eternity with you, and in this wretched world, eternity lasts as long as you'll have him.

One, two... Ten droplets fall over him. He kisses you again, harder and longer. His ice-cold heart melts just a little more at your careless laughter. Just stay with me.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller one shot #the last of us #joel miller smut #tommy miller #ellie miller #pedro pascal characters #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst

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ahqkas · 8 days ago

Text

“MILLION DOLLAR MAN — bruce wayne.

PAIRING! bruce wayne 𝒙 fem!reader SYNOPSIS! bruce met you through a dating app (his sons’ doing, really) and the temptation to invite you over for christmas is getting harder to resist WORD COUNT! 3.6k WARNINGS / TAGS! fluff, bruce is literally down bad for reader in this one, unedited + lmk if found! NOTES! for nat & based on this req. , header bellow belongs to @/v6que © ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

BRUCE WAYNE AVOIDED RELATIONSHIPS LIKE A SOLDIER DODGING BULLETS, each attempt adding yet another layer to the armor he wore daily. He didn’t need them, the women, or so he told himself. They entered his life easily — at his own charity galas, where one pretty bird thought she could get a kiss from him by the end of the night. Female admirers who ate up his charming smiles and sharp eyes seemed to flock around him at all times. And those countless girls who were lured in by the Wayne name, the status, the wealth.

And Bruce gave them the attention they craved from him.

The women served their purpose as brief districtions, companions who helped him maintain his public image, but none of them really mattered to him.

They kept the colder side of his bed warm, but never his heart.

It wasn’t that Bruce didn’t want love — some part of him did, but that part was buried under the weight of Batman. Allowing himself to lose the walls around him and find an attachment in a woman wasn't something his alter ego was okay with, not with the way he’d been living. And another part convinced him that his duties as Gotham’s protector, with all his scars and wounds, didn’t make him a possible object for such things. Love and vigilantism didn’t mingle together well.

Maybe that’s why his own sons and personal butler teamed up on him. Batman was a hero to many, but with how much it damaged Bruce’s internal beliefs, it would ruin him soon enough.

It started as something innocent (but it seemed the wolf was clothed in sheep’s wool): Dick, his oldest, had teased him about his non-existent love life during a training session in the Batcave.

The large space was full with flickering lights coming from the monitors and grunts from the fighting men. Sweat filled the air, masculine and strong, but that only indicated to the hard work they were doing. Training wasn’t easy, they liked to train with the maximum intensity ( it was kinda needed, too ) and it showed. From their damp hair and glistening skin to the rippling muscles underneath their clothes.

“You know, Bruce,” his son started when he blocked yet another strike coming from the man in question. A puff of air left his mouth upon the attack. Not fair. “for someone who spends his nights saving people, you sure are terrible at saving yourself from eternal loneliness.”

Bruce delivered another jab, this one directed straight at Dick’s weak point. “Not now, Dick.”

But his son was nothing if not persistent and he always got what he wanted, whether it was with or without serious consequences. “I’m serious. When was the last time you went on a date? And don’t try to tell me you had one on your arm during the last charity event. That doesn’t count.”

Both of them fully knew Bruce’s arm candies were way more interested in his name and money than in his heart and soul. The truth made his jaw muscles tighten at the realization.

“My personal life is irrelevant to my work.”

Dick took the opportunity and circled the older man like a predator catching the prey’s scent of blood. A sweet weakness, that one. He’d be stupid if he didn’t take the chance. “Is it though? I mean, sure, you’re great at taking down supervillains and brooding on top of high rooftops, but even Batman needs a little action sometimes. The different kind of action, of course. Or are you planning to spend the rest of your life married to the job?”

Bruce swiped his right leg toward Dick’s shins, trying to take him down like he was the said supervillain but the acrobat jumped right on time, avoiding Bruce’s attempt with a grin on his face.

He landed on his feet and crossed his arms at his chest, leaning the weight of his body against one leg. The playfulness disappeared from both his voice and expression and instead, seriousness graced him whole. “Seriously, Bruce, even Alfred’s worried. He brought it up the other day while we were decorating the tree. Something about how the manor feels colder than usual this year.”

“The heating system is fine.”

With Jason gone, it was the truth. His second son had this strange relationship with all the members of the family. Off and on. Off and on. No one truly knew where they stood in Jason’s eyes but he made the effort and showed up on Christmas Eve the other year upon receiving Alfred’s invitation.

Bruce doubted he would show up two years in a row.

“That’s not what he meant, and you know it,” Dick pressed, and effectively added more salt into Bruce’s wounds. It stung and it fucking hurt. As much as Batman was ruthless, it didn’t mean the man under the mask was resistant against the pain his life brought. “You’re not getting any younger, B. It wouldn’t kill you to let someone in. And I don’t mean us. Try to meet someone who isn’t friendly with a criminal record.”

The older man could only stare helplessly at the other. Those words his son, partner, spoke were loud, crawling their way into his mind and much to his dismay, his heart as well.

Before he could voice his dismissal, a younger voice called out. It was familiar in a way family tended to be.

“You are wasting your breath, Grayson. Father has neither the time nor the inclination to entertain your nonsense,” his youngest son declared into the space of Batcave, his voice ringing out and echoing every single word. The blood son, Damian Wayne.

The father didn’t even flinch, just let out a deep sigh through his nose. It was as usual between those two, always bickering from Damian’s side and teasing remarks from Dick’s. You could mistake the blood running through their system as one, if not for the physical differences. They were brothers in all but red.

“Damian,” Dick started in that lecturing tone he’d always seemed to use with the younger boy, “when was the last time you saw Bruce here even try to have a social life?”

Damian rolled his eyes, the green disappearing behind his eyelids before they reappeared, rougher than they were. “The so called ‘social life’ you’re referring to consists of women who barely last through dinner. Why would he waste his energy on distractions when Gotham requires his full attention?”

“Because even Batman needs a break. You know, normal human things? Like dating, smiling, not dying alone in this cave surrounded by bats?”

“If Father is content with his choices, who are you to meddle? Unlike you, he does not require constant companionship to validate his existence.”

“Ouch,” Dick put his palm against his heart in a mocking manner, feigning hurt as his lips formed a pout. “You’ve got a real gift for the Christmas spirit, don’t you?”

The younger son narrowed his eyes at his supposed brother. The constant bickering was almost normal in their lives so far, and nothing seemed to be changing any time soon. He had to learn how to live with the excuse of a brother, although he started to form a light liking towards him. He wasn’t so bad. “I only speak the truth,” his green irises flicked to Bruce. “Though it is peculiar he tolerates your interference. Perhaps even Father has realized how pathetic his current romantic life—or lack thereof—appears.”

The object of the conversation let out another sigh, this one loud enough for the boys to hear. Their gazes snapped toward Bruce with accusingly great speed.

“If you two are done debating my personal life, there’s actual work to be done.”

He missed the glance his oldest threw at the youngest. He missed the look filled with amusement and a plan that was already brewing. He missed the nod they gave each other, although Dick’s was more pronounced and determined.

The next few hours were spent creating Bruce’s dating app profile.

The final result was the definition of real sugar daddy vibes. Every detail had been debated (mostly argued over though) and thought through, so to say the boys were satisfied with it was an understatement. The oldest prided in the work, saying how it would get so many women to reply which would eventually lead to the right one. The middle one Dick and Damian (only Dick) dragged into the activity beamed up once the profile was set while the youngest scoffed and scowled during the entire process.

During the next evening, the boys showed the main man his new account.

Bruce was left speechless upon seeing the bright screen flash before his eyes. Not a single word was muttered as he watched his boys showing him the app and explaining how exactly it worked (he’d never used a dating app before all this so bear with him). The main photo on the profile was a candid one of him, the one Cass had taken on a sunny day in the Wayne Manor gardern. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt, the long sleeves rolled up past his elbows as the muscles of his forearms bulged up. The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips, the sunlight casting shadows across his sharp features and Bruce had to admit they chose a good photo.

It wasn’t intimidating, but it wasn’t exactly friendly as well. The good old middle.

The boys knew he was convinced to give it a try when he waved them off with a deep sigh slipping past his lips.

The game was on.

It was past the midnight when he lied in his bed, propped against one too many pillows and wondered why he was still scrolling through the damned dating app. It was late—far past the time he should have been out on patrol, but Red Hood and Red Robin got it covered for him.

Bruce wasn’t looking for anything specific, really. If he were honest, this whole situation felt out of place for him. Swiping through the profiles was more like an exercise for his thumb.

First was Madison K. Her profile opened with flashy colors that immediately put Bruce into a doubtful situation. Were all these women going to be like this? Madison was beautiful and her looks screamed professionalism: her makeup was done flawlessly, adorning her bright eyes and full lips. She looked like she belonged on a cover for a fashion magazine, not a dating app. Her bio made his thumb swipe left.

‘Manifesting my best life. CEO of my own happiness. Looking for someone who’s successful, ambitious, and knows how to treat me like a queen.’

The next account’s bio made him grimace and swipe left once again.

‘Looking for someone who can keep me living the dream. If you’re successful, generous, and ready to spoil me, let’s talk.”

At this point, Bruce was ready to delete the dating app his boys set up and enjoy the rest of his night. Most of the profiles he swiped through were simply bland to him. Nothing felt genuine. Right. It was safe to say he was losing the hope Dick had set in him earlier in the evening. Until he stumbled upon your profile.

The account stood out among the others—simple, elegant, but with a certain amount of warmth that seemed genuine. Bruce’s heart skipped a beat once he scrolled further and came across your photo. The picture showed you in a cozy cafe, the one Steph adored so much for their cinnamon roll buns. A soft smile danced on your pretty face, highlighting the curve of your cheeks as you looked off to the side. You captured Bruce in a way the others didn’t.

You looked like a fawn surrounded by hungry wolves. You were admirable while they were craving wealth and status. Two different sides of a coin, but Bruce had already known his pick.

Your bio was sincere, a sight the man liked to see.

‘I enjoy the little moments — finding beauty in the simple things. I believe in kindness, and I’m looking for someone who values honesty and a deep conversation.’

His mind flicked briefly toward the countless hours he spends in the cave, surrounded by work and worries. You seemed like the one who could understand the balance between the quiet and the loud, someone who could exist in both of his worlds without losing that spark you held in your gaze.

Before he could overthink it, Bruce clicked on the “message” button.

Once the screen of your non-existent chat appeared, his mind went blank and all he was capable of was to stare mindlessly at the phone. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but no words came to him. What did one say to someone like you? He wasn’t used to thinking ahead when it came to women. This was a new field. And he couldn’t screw up.

Finally, his fingers moved before his mind could think of whatever embarrassing thing it was capable of.

> Hey, I noticed your profile and wanted to reach out. There’s something about your words that struck a chord with me. I’d like to know more about you.

And that’s how the two of you started your relationship, or whatever you could call it. Neither of you voiced it as official, but that was okay. He hadn’t expected to feel this way, not so soon. And yet it came at him, crashing like a large wave of emotions every time you were around. You changed everything for him.

Your conversations became the highlight of his days.

His ears perked up every single time without a fail when he heard the soft ‘ping!’ of the notification, already convinced it was from you (and it 98 percent was). Whether it was early in the morning before he started working in the chaotic Wayne Enterprises or late at night when the Batcave was quiet and felt at peace. You were always there with him.

You were thoughtful, generous, and refreshingly kind. You asked him questions that no one else dared to: what he wanted from life, what made him happy, what kept him awake at night. You didn’t flinch at his silence. You didn’t push him to give answers he wasn’t ready to share. You understood him in a way only a few people did.

Piece by piece, he let you into his world — not that part filled with constant danger and threats, but that part that longed for something real.

By the time Christmas approached, Bruce was sure of one thing: he wanted you in his life.

The holiday was just around the corner, filling the air with joy and gratitude as it always did. The snow was blanketing the streets with white powder, and although many people were complaining about the cold, it had its charm.

Christmas had always been about family for Bruce, about gathering around the tree and full table with the people who mattered most. It was lonely at first, after the death of his parents, but over the years, Alfred had made it work. The table was always full of tasty food the kids adored and presents Bruce knew would make them more than happy were neatly waiting for them every morning after Christmas Eve.

This year though, Bruce wanted it to be a little different. He wanted you to be part of it.

You might actually fit into the chaos of the Wayne family — the teasing and playful banters between you, Dick, and Tim would be absolute gold to hear. You probably even could handle Damian’s wit which was something his father would like to see. He could picture you smiling, holding back your own remarks. The idea of you sitting beside him at the long dining table, sharing their traditions, made his chest feel warm in a way he wasn’t used to.

That night, he sent you a message.

> Are you free on Christmas Eve?

Your response came in quickly, as it always did. Bruce’s heart thumped against the bones of his ribs.

> I am. Why?

He hesitated for a bit, overthinking his decision.

> I’d like you to join me for dinner. It’s a family thing but I’d really like for you to be there.

> Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude.

> You wouldn’t be intruding.

Bruce could picture the light frown between your brows and a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. You often did it unconsciously, never knowing how pretty you looked this way. But even as he pictured your face, a part of him was growing more nervous about the situation. Would you agree to an event this serious? Spend Christmas with him. And his family. Or were you coming up with excuses right now? He wouldn’t blame you.

> Then I’d love to come.

His heart skipped a beat and that night, Bruce went to bed feeling a little lighter than he usually did.

Snow blanketed the long driveway leading up to Wayne Manor and for once, Bruce wasn’t thinking about the pressure of Batman or the chaos the boys would definitely stir up tonight. His attention was entirely focused on the one making your way towards him. He stood just outside the grand entrance, dressed in a dark, perfectly tailored suit that fit him like a glove. The soft crunch of tires on the white powder alerted him to your arrival, and as your car pulled up, Bruce started to feel the nervousness. He adjusted his tie with a single hand.

When you stepped out, his breath caught.

You were breathtakingly beautiful. Dressed in an inky black that hugged your figure in all the right places, the fabric shimmered under the outdoor lights of the mansion. The smile you gave him when your eyes met melted all the nerves that had been harboring in his system. He was finally calm and composed, for what seemed like the first time in the evening.

“You’re early,” Bruce pointed out softly when you walked up the stairs to meet him in front of the door, and his eyes sparkled with little stars at the sight of you. How did he get so lucky? “You look stunning, by the way.”

“I didn’t want to keep you waiting. And thank you. You clean up well, too, Bruce.”

Your gaze held a playful edge in it as you accepted his hand, locking your palm around his bulging biceps and squeezing warmly. The touch added the missing piece of the puzzle Bruce was trying to solve while his cheeks warmed a rosy pink under your influence without any hesitation. The gesture felt natural, like it always belonged there.

The two of you approached the doors of the manor in a shared silence, although it didn’t feel a bit awkward. You took a moment to take in the place. It was like something out of your childhood dreams — tall, arched windows glowing with the soft light of a dozen garlands lining the entryway. The faint hum of holiday music and the occasional sound of laughter echoed through the manor.

It was Bruce’s home.

“Do you always go this big for Christmas?” you voiced a question that's been sitting on your mind since the moment you saw the large Christmas tree from the entryway to Bruce’s living room. Decorated with lots of ornaments, it looked lovely, accompanied by a heap of presents.

“Alfred insists,” admitting with a soft chuckle, Bruce rubbed the nape of his neck as he led you deeper into his home. “And the boys like the holidays. I want them to have the best.”

The scent of pine and cinnamon enveloped your senses the further you moved. The sounds grew louder, too. You awe made him feel lighter somehow. The dining room at Wayne Manor was nothing short of spectacular this night, with the long mahogany table adorned with a dozen of flickering candles and plates of food that looked like it belonged in a holiday spread for a cookbook.

You were sitting beside Bruce (he kind of insisted anyway), your hand occasionally brushing against his. He helped you settle into the chair which earned a teasing glance from Dick. Speaking of his oldest son, he was sitting across from you with an easy grin that told you some questions would come your way sooner or later. Tim was at Dick’s right, while Damian occupied the chair from the other side of his father.

The evening was more than successful in your opinion. Steph asked you about your favorite literature, while Tim quizzed you on trivia about Gotham (which you surprisingly got all right). Damian, after much persistence from Dick, shared a story about his latest art project, though he kept glancing at you as if trying to gauge your reaction.

Through it all, Bruce remained by your side.

When the night finally came to an end, and everyone drifted to their own space of the manor, Bruce walked you to the entrance with a gentle hand against the small of your back.

“Thank you,” his gaze met yours as he handed you your coat, effortlessly helping you slip your arms into the sleeves. “For coming tonight. For putting up with them.”

You gifted him with the most precious kind of a present; your smile, smaller hands reaching up to adjust the collar of his dark suit. “Of course. They’re wonderful, Bruce. I enjoyed myself tonight.”

For a man who othen found himself at loss for words when it came to talking in emotions, Bruce found himself smiling softly with his heart feeling lighter than it had in years. Because for the first time, Christmas didn’t feel like an obligation. It felt like a new beginning.

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fushitoru · 5 months ago

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the importance of skincare a gojo satoru fic

PAIRING: gojo x reader SUMMARY: worried about your boyfriend's skin health, you're set out on a mission to teach him about skincare, sitting him down and rubbing products over his face while seated on his lap. only, he convinces you that he has something to teach as well about facials. just not the kind you expected. WARNINGS: NOT EDITED, oral (m!rec), gojo cums all over reader's face, nsfw, FLUFF (a lot of it), established relationship, gojo is a nuisance, gn!reader, i have writer's block and this helped, silly little thought based off this drabble

“Applying sunscreen on my boyfriend because otherwise, this is what we’ll look like when we’re 60.”

You gasped out loud, despite being alone. Rolling around on the couch you were lazing in, you stared at the paused screen in front of you: a woman and her boyfriend, except she’s finely aged with a few wrinkles, and he looks like an extremely wrinkled potato. Suddenly, your mind flashes back to all the moments your boyfriend, Satoru, would scroll on his phone while you finished your nighttime skin care routine.

“Baby, you really should start doing some skincare.” You give him a sideways glance while rubbing snail mucin all over your face.

Satoru looks up from whatever nonsensical reel on his page half heartedly and observes you as you pat your hands all over your face and neck. “I wash my face.”

“Using your 13-in-1 wash?”

“I don’t use 13-in-1 wash.” Satoru fully looks up, frowning. Sassily, he adds, “And what you’re rubbing all over your face looks like cum.”

That’s as much prodding you’ve done to convince your boyfriend to adopt better facial hygiene, but today was different. You were not about to let your pretty boyfriend get skin cancer or age like milk.

The door opened, as Satoru stepped into your apartment. “Hi, baby!” You perked up from washing your dishes, your form barely able to peek over the kitchen counters over to him, at your doorstep. He can hear pitter patters of your feet as you make your way to him. Then your warmth envelops him, smelling of dish soap and rose. He gives a little mwah! to the top of your head while murmuring, “I bought crepes for you today. Extra Nutella and everything.”

But rather than excitedly reaching for the crepes, you stayed in his hold, hugging onto him tight and stuffing your face in his shirt, breathing in deeply as if to memorize his scent. Satoru confusedly looks down at you, hesitantly coming up to rub your scalp to give you head scratches with his free hand. “Are you okay?”

“Satoru, we have to talk,” you mumble into his chest.

Alarmed, Satoru looks down at you. “Oh my god,” Satoru nervously exclaims, “at least let me put down our crepes before you give me a heart attack.” Your only response is to nuzzle your face further into his chest, while he grabs your hand, unwraps you from him, and leads you to your couch. He puts the crepes down on the dinner table and grabs both of your hands, pouting and frowning slightly in that sweet, ignorant way of his. “What happened? Did I do something wrong?”

You glanced up at him, staring in distress. “Babe, you need to do your skincare.”

“This is what you wanted to talk about?” Satoru looks at you confused. “I thought it was something serious.” You almost want to sob at the way he looks like a confused kitten. You don’t understand why you’re so hung up over that one TikTok—although, your menstrual cycle app did say menstruation was near—but it definitely changed your outlook on your boyfriend’s skin health.

“This is serious.” You were visibly growing more and more listless until you suddenly make the decision to stand up and make your way somewhere towards the bathroom.

When you came back, you had your hefty Chanel purse, one that Satoru gifted you for your 2nd year anniversary. You set it down in the space between you and Satoru with a plop! as you began to rummage through the contents to find your essential skincare items. Dragging him to the bathroom, you command him to wash his face. And, to his credit, he does go through all the motions, albeit a little confused.

A few minutes later, you sit him down on the couch—with your skincare items in hand—and take your seat on his lap. Satoru’s still a little confused as to what’s going on, but—to his credit—you aren’t doing much explanation, either.

“Baby, I’m really confused,” Satoru is now putting his hands on your hips, pulling you closer to his torso as you lather different creams on your hands. Any further questions from him are stopped as you gently rub them all over his face, targeting his T-zone and cheeks.

“I saw a TikTok of this girl ‘nd her boyfriend, ‘Toru,” you explain, lathering his face. “He doesn’t do his sunscreen, so he’s going to look like an overboiled tomato when he’s 60. Didn’t want the same for you.”

You continue to reach for another bottle, until you realize it’s set too far down the table for you to reach. Naturally, Satoru reaches it for you and puts it in your hands, frowning. “You made me so worried. I thought I did something wrong.”

“You are doing something wrong. You’re doing your pretty skin wrong.” You were scowling, but your hands were sweetly patting Satoru’s face in a way that made him relax. After a long day of dealing with Yaga, he appreciated your soothing hands massaging the tension out of his face. It was never easy dealing with dissaproving old fucks.

Deciding to adjust his posiiton, Satoru crossed his arms behind his head, laying back onto the couch instead of sitting. Closing his eyes, he felt you straddling him in an effort to reach across his torso to his face to continue your pampering. You both fell into a comfortable silence as you droned on about what you were putting onto his face. A serum that smelled good. “This is hyaluronic acid serum. This’ll keep your face nice and hydrated.” A cream that felt cold on Satoru’s skin. “This is niacinamide, because I know you picked on your acne and boogers when you were going through puberty.” He wanted to protest, but it was so hard to when you pair the insult with a small smooch on his nose. Something that smelled harsher than the others. “This is retinol, and it’ll help you prevent wrinkles.”

In the midst of your teaching, he cracked open an eye and grabbed both of your hands by the wrist, seemingly in thought. “Wait, babe. You’re missing something.” You blinked. “What?”

“Well, there’s this thing called facials." The beginnings of a smug smile bloomed across his face. It’s really good for your skin, ‘nd I have just the thing with me."

“‘Toru, you are so stupid,” you whined, licking up and down his cock and balls, giving little kisses to his pink and throbbing length.

“Shhh, baby, this is good fo’ you, I promise.” Sounds of plap! plap! echoed throughout the room as your boyfriend slapped his cock against your cheeks. He groaned, taking in the arousing sight of you: on your knees, only wearing his shirt. His cock hardens at the thought of you, his pretty little girlfriend, spending all day in his clothing. He could see your cute little baby blue panties covering your ass as his shorts rode up in your attempts to take his cock deeper in your mouth. As you continued to slobber on his cock, deepthroating him, he could continually smell your arousal, moaning as he realized you must be ruining your underwear.

“Awww, I can smell you, sweetheart. Your little pussy getting wet from just sucking my cock? I’m not even touching you,” Satoru pouted in faux pity and cooed, patting your head while he continually fed you his cock.

You tried to protest. “Mmmff—”

“Shhhh,” Satoru had a cocky smile on his face as he shushed you. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, baby.” With that, he lightly grabbed your hair, looking down at you for permission. When you nodded, he began face fucking you in earnest, cock throbbing as your hot, wet mouth enclosed around him. Your tongue laving over his sensitive spots made him groan. “Your mouth feel sooo good. What a good girl, taking my cock, slobbering all over it—fuck.”

He felt himself coming closer. “Baby,” he groaned, “you’re about to make me cum. Gotta give you your facial, right? Make you all nice and pretty?” You whined, tears running down your cheeks because of your stuffed mouth. It sent vibrations up and down his cock, making him come even closer. “Fuuuuck. Fuck, I’m coming.” Satoru pulled out of your mouth, pumping his cock onto your face, your tongue stretched and your eyes directly on his. Rubbing your tongue softly on his tip was what made him reach his climax; he moaned as he splurted long and think ropes of cum, coating your cheeks, forehead, and tongue. It was all so messy. Even after being done, Satoru was continually rubbing his cum into your skin with his cock.

“Wheeew.” Satoru giggled, reaching down to put you on his lap. “Looks like you got your skincare.”

“Satoru, please give me a tissue. Right now. Your cum is dripping all over my face.”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” he whined. To your annoyance, he only further rubbed in the creamy substance over your face, using his palms and fingers to spread it.

Disgusted, you knew what to say. “You’re never getting head from me ever again.”

Satoru had never scrambled to the bathroom faster.

a/n lol he's so stupid. this is the only thing i could force my brain to write but now i'm locked in and finishing all my drafts fr

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bigspirit4 · 2 years ago

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…

if you read this and the first post, I sincerely apologize. you’re getting a hard look at the deepest recesses of my mind, open agape and oozing my most vulnerable thoughts I could ever reveal. they’re words that I need to be said, written. I find I don’t ever learn my lesson unless I talk about it. so, I hope those who care enough to read are receptive.

#she starts not responding as much #she gets a new job. she’s getting busier #she’s bad at communicating though. she told me herself #I respect it. I still text her but I don’t expect a response right away. that’s the mature thing to do right? we’re grown!#I wasn’t sure to what extent she meant that. keep that in your back pocket for later in the notes #anyway flash forward to THIS WEEK. I see her post a tiktok of this guy who looked somewhat like her soon-to-be ex husband.#in the caption she calls him her handsome sweet boy and that she needed no one else #my heart: eviscerated. I am about to faint. I am serious as a heart attack in saying all of this.#regardless of whom I may have mistaken this man for. it wasn’t me. and while we never made time to discuss what we wanted to be #or anything in regards to relationships #aside from us calling each other babe and saying we love each other. feel it needs to be stated: she started it. it doesn’t matter much #I loved her too. I didn’t realize how much I still loved her until we started talking again. it hit deep upon realization #on mobile so can’t read the tags fully so idk where I’m at. I confront her on it after she says she’s been on a “affection bender #crux of the whole shit is I told her I don’t want a relationship if she’s gonna post her side piece on tiktok. much less see other men #it hurts she’s would do that. but. I extend empathy. I always will.#she’s not in a great spot. she seems somewhat mentally unstable. she’s on the autism spectrum I learned. manic depressive 2 if memory serves #I loved her all the same. I think I always will. it’s hard not to. I’m convinced she’s my soul mate #but how do I know that. that’s just intuition. and what kind of soulmate? there are 4 kinds and she may be the type to teach me a lesson #anyway. back to being the lost soul I already was. time to snap out of my delusion and get back to the grindstone #maybe that’s where I’ll find my purpose. and kindle the love for life that romance and partnership likely never will #it seems like a perilous journey. that didn’t deter me before #I shouldn’t worry so much #there’s freedom in knowing it won’t get better. even more so I’m letting go of expectation #I’m fucking kidding myself. if I could I’d spend the rest of my life with her and that’s just how I feel. and I’ll love her and care for her #valiant efforts to do so at the very least.#I would dead serious uproot my life in Georgia and move to Cali to be with her. at the drop of a pen I’ll be going breakneck speed down I-10 #just to feel her pelt my face with spit while she holds hands with the sweet boy she met.#I am a deeply depraven creature starved of any intimate connection. the one woman I know I could have that with doesn’t want me.#and I’ll let it go. I have to. there has to be more. I’m worthy and I know it.#it’s hard to internalize and know that. that’s where the work needs to be done.

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sexykwan · 2 years ago

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#going to mention panick attacks later #fanz.txt #so i've been feeling sick for a while #like since October?? i was a little vetter in November but i think since late january #there hasnt been a week in which i havent felt sick at least twice ??#got like pretty bad i had to leave uni home earlier than i planned to to go home #went to a heart doctor but things are fine apparently #and then i got another terrible sick day and i was so sick my parents had to come get me at 2am (they got here around 4)#so like idk what it is but one of like the biggest option ?? like is ✨ anxiety ✨#my mom is convinced ive been having panic attacks and i went to my old therapist and she also said they could be panic attacks #but i dont get it why would i be getting panic attacks LIKE miss ma'am what are you doing #anyways i dont know i dont understand but i am once again sick and i wanted to share my story w someone jdjdj

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saturngas · 6 months ago

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hickeys on display

[🪐] satoru wears proudly the hickeys you left on him last night

pairing: gojo satoru x f!reader

genre: fluff

warnings: established relationship; only one suggestive paragraph; crack fic? again me trying to be funny; nanami mentioned!; slight possessive traits;

word count: 1k

nanami sometimes pitied you. you were a good human being, a nice woman, a devoted and strong sorcerer. but why did the world reward you with this menace that calls itself satoru?

the moment his eyes landed on the tall sorcerer walking in the bakery shop, nanami swore he wanted to throw himself off the window.

satoru had convinced him to go out to his favorite bakery shop to spend time while his beautiful wife returned from the mission. the blonde man actually didn't have any other plans for the day, so he could bare a couple of hours with the strongest.

but not like this.

Japanese culture revolved in humbleness and respect towards others. satoru was anything but that. he had gained multiple stares since he landed on the bakery, all eyes focused on the angry marks on his attractive neck and collarbones.

"what happened to you? were you attacked on your way here?" nanami asked sarcastically as satoru sat down in front of him.

"what do you mean, nanamin?" he faigned ignorance as he adjusted himself on his sit, his large hands fidgeting with the menu. nanami sent him a dead stare, not believing his cluelessness. "oh this?" he pointed to his exposed skin. "oh it's just that I miss my wife so much. I also want anyone to know im so taken."

Nanami couldn't believe his ears. he wanted to choke the hell out of the sorcerer for being so shameless.

"your ring is sufficient."

satoru eyed the silver band adorning his ring finger, the lovely reminder of your wedding playing on his head. "well, yeah I guess... but people dont usually look at other's people hands first."

the curious and judgmental stares from the strangers in the store were making nanami a bit uncomfortable. maybe he should just have his baguette as a take out.

"nanamin, have you ordered yet? I think ill have the strawberry cheesecake and a vanilla milkshak— what are you doing?"

in front of him was nanami holding up his phone, hands ready to take a picture of satoru as an evidence to you and a reminder to him to never go out with him again.

"im sending your wife a picture of you. I hope she doesn't approve this and takes you home away from people." as soon as satoru heard the mention of his wife, he stood taller in his sit, puffing out his hard chest, his exposed bruised neck more on display as a boyish grin struck his face.

"haha, okie~" a fit of giggles left his lips that made nanami exhale the hardest he had that evening. "please tell her I miss her and that I love her with all my heart."

come get your husband. he has no shame.

your phone buzzed in your pocket as a final puff left the remaining of the curses you just have exorcized. you checked the message sent by a good friend of yours, nanami. you couldn't help but laugh.

since you were called for a quick mission not too far from tokyo, poor satoru was left alone without his pretty wife. he insisted on going with you, however you reminded him of the house chores he had been avoiding the past weeks.

your husband had a habit of sending you recurrent messages whenever you were away. it could be him on a mission overseas sending you pictures of himself in every angle just to crack a smile on your face. or it could be him spamming you on texting him back if you left him on read by accident.

right now, it had been around thirty minutes since satoru had informed you he had finished his duties, sending you visual proof—he would often get away with it—and a dozens of messages declaring he missed you and was miserable without you, so he let you know he would be visiting nanami, probably because there wasn't anyone within his range he could bother.

what you didn't expect was the photo attached to nanami´s previous message.

satoru was sitting in a booth—probably in some bakery shop—with one of the biggest grins you had seen on his angelic face. his baby blue eyes were covered by his rectangular glasses and his white hair was a bit messy.

but what immediately caught your attention wasn't his toothy grin or his perfect jawline—it was the shameless exposure of his bare neck, where purple and red marks decorated the pale skin of his collarbones, neck, and trapezius.

the night before was a night. satoru made you feel so full that your eyes were at one point covered in tears of pleasure, your jaw as tight as ever as you took all of him so well. the carnal heat inside you was boiling and daring to explote, so you released it with snug bites on satoru's skin, anywhere within your range, making him groan and hiss in painful arousal. there were moments where you would almost chew on the rosy skin to suppress the loud moans. satoru took good care of you. but now?

your husband deliberately decided to wear that low collar sweatshirt you loved so much. but not right now! how was he so uncaring about showing the entire world your marital business?

a sighed left your lips as you replied to nanami with an "im coming," before departing your way to the place, already having the directions since satoru left his location on with you all the time.

"please dont ever do this, toru."

"then dont give me these hickeys! and dont leave me alone too much! I need to remind myself you still exist, baby."

"I was done with my mission in like two hours!"

"oh wow, you are getting stronger pookie bear."

taglist: @snwvie @fanficsforkicks

hello guysss, im working on other works because I have like so many ideas but it's kinda hard to write them all the way I want to. im also working on pt 2 of some works some of y'all have suggested. bare with me alr :]

#gojo #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk gojo #jujutsu kaisen #gojou satoru x reader #satoru gojo #satoru gojo x reader #gojo fluff #gojo fanfic #jjk x reader

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kaciart · 2 months ago

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@deadboyween Day 3 - Disguises

Patreon | Ko-Fi

Kaciart

'You look well fit mate'

'P-perhaps you should go with Crystal instead?'

'We need your big brain when we get to the files'

Edwin's like - well I have a solution for that 'Carry a mirror in your bag?'

Charles winces

'Edwin, mate, ah....this isnt a place where you take a girl...if you know what I mean?'

'Its dangerous?'

'Not exactly'

'Its either Crystal and Niko go as a team or you and me...do you get it now?'

'Charles!!' he hisses 'Did you not consider this information pertinent before we were almost at the venue???'

Asidian

RIP Edwin, his poor dead heart can't take this :>a

Kaciart

Charles ends up being way more convincing that he thought he would be

because his eyes can not stay away from that strip of skin

Asidian

....fair, honestly

Charles out here learning some things about himself >>

Crystal is helping :>a

Kaciart

her and niko built some pinterest boards

Charles is just a dude bro gay

They figured he'd pass well as that version

Asidian

Girls, please. The missed opportunity. You could have put him in a mesh shirt and given Edwin a heart attack

smh

Kaciart

they need a functioning Edwin xD

#deadboyween #edwin payne #charles rowland #payneland #dead boy detectives #my art

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educatedsimps · 7 months ago

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— how hq men react to "i like you"

they like you back but this is just how i imagine them reacting right after you admit you like them

≪ back to fics masterlist

the NORMAL ones who’d just blush and admit that they like you too (with varying thought processes tho)

↳ suga and yaku on a good day, yamaguchi after a minor panic attack (tbh he doesn't know if it’s a panic attack or if his heart is beating so fast because of you), ennoshita, kenma, aone, kita, ginjima, komori

the ones who would panic immediately. like their brains would short-circuit trying to process what you had just said. like what do you mean, you like them? YOU like THEM??? the first thing out of his mouth is “N-NOW?!” like no shit, sherlock 😐

↳ asahi, tanaka, noya, hinata, lev, kogane, bokuto, tendō but he’s calm first then he’ll be like ‘eh? … EH??’, goshiki

the ones who CANNOT comprehend 1. what you’d just said, and 2. why anyone would like them romantically (the poor boy’s a lil insecure sometimes, okay?) so the first thing he says is “why??” with the most incredulous look on his face (except ushijima)

↳ kageyama (he’s dumbstruck tbh), unhinged kenma, kunimi, ushijima, sakusa

the ones who would ask “are you sick?” WITH ZERO HESITATION like, he’s in denial okay ✋ of course you’d get his protective and caring side out, and he doesn’t even understand what you said. i mean he does…? but again, he doesn’t believe it. yet. and yeah, he’s genuinely worried that you’d said that because you were high or something LOL

↳ daichi, tsukishima but he’s like judging you kinda, akaashi The Overthinker ™️, iwaizumi 100%, matsukawa but he'd probably say it in a joking way while he tries to process the thought of you actually liking him, kindaichi, semi, yamagata, kita

the ones who would freeze and believe it for a second before convincing himself that you’re joking. also follows up with "who paid you to say that?" with all the skepticism in the world. it's not that he doesn’t trust you, he’s just in denial 🤧

↳ suga and yaku on an unhinged day, shirabu, suna (he thinks atsumu’s pulling a cruel prank on him), osamu (also thinks it’s atsumu), aran, hanamaki and iwaizumi (they both think it’s oikawa)

the mfs who go "well, i can't fault you for having exquisite taste" or some egotistical shit like that, ALSO with zero hesitation. like sir puh-lease ✋ knock ur ego down a notch, you’re not all’at (he is, tho)

↳ kuroo, oikawa, futakuchi, MIYA FUCKING ATSUMU

a/n: idk why but in my mind i just group suga and yaku together because they just give me rlly similar vibes (except suga is a lil more cray cray) and yes the two of them def have hinged and unhinged days but anyway i churned this out at 1am so excuse the half assedness of this one, i hope it was somewhat entertaining! i tried to be funny okay 🤧

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weltraum-vaquero · 9 days ago

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A pillar, familiar

Jayce Talis x Gender Neutral Reader

[Part 1] (not necessary for context) -> [Part 2]

Summary: You pick up the pieces of what is left of Jayce. Mending them, however, is another thing entirely.

Word count: 9k

NSFW UNDER THE CUT. MDNI

Tags: hurt/comfort, angst, established relationship, shame, past Jayvik x reader. Jayce getting washed like a dirty stinky puppy. Handjobs. Panic attacks. Traumatized Jayce.

Notes: This would not leave my brain. I need to hold him. This takes place after episode 6. Enjoy.

“It’s done.”

It startles you out of your skin, the tone of his voice, the way he’s braced against the doorframe to avoid toppling over the moment you open.

There are a million questions flashing through your head, but the buzz of them goes quiet when faced with the sight of Jayce, somehow worse for wear than before.

So you reach for his wrist — the one belonging to the hand he’s bracing his weight with, fingers wrapping gently around paler skin, the tan lines of where his beloved bracelet used to sit—

Oh.

The inside of his wrist is warmer than the rest of him, feels vaguely charged, tingly under your fingertips, akin to a soft electric current. There is something… hard and shiny embedded into his skin, his soft skin now ribbed with something—

“Don’t,” Jayce breathes.

So you let go. Try to linger at his palm or fingers instead, but he escapes your touch and sends a marked message with it.

“Are you hungry?” You offer instead.

That seems to be a step in the right direction. Jayce nods.

“Can’t… remember the last time I wasn’t.”

—

Jayce, tender, loving, sweet Jayce, Jayce who chased touch and chased your hands and chased your warmth, flinches under it now.

Flinches away when you set your hand on his shoulder along with the plate of warmed up leftovers on the table in front of him.

And he eats like a starving man. He’d always been quick with his food, eager, but this is a new, horrifying layer of desperation. Jayce devours the warm leftovers in rabid silence, scrapes the plate clean with his spoon, damn near close to licking it, before you offer seconds.

Those, he’s a tad slower about. Swallows them down at a vaguely more paced rate than before, and by the time he’s near done with them, Jayce has stopped altogether, nudges what remains of the food with his spoon.

That’s not an unusual sight either. It wasn’t rare to have Jayce and Viktor deep in thought after dinner at your shared table. You used to nudge his leg with your foot, or tangle your pinky with Viktor’s — to snap them out of it. It used to make them smile in spite of it all.

Right now, you don’t dare do either of those things.

“I feel… disgusting,” he confesses after another few moments of silence. Something in his voice is equal parts meek and angry.

Your heart aches. The old Jayce would have been nuzzling into a hug by now, and though you ache to scoop him up into one all the same, hold him until the burdens he bears so quietly soak up into you instead, he needs a different kind of tenderness now. And above all else, he needs tending to.

“I could run you a bath,” you suggest, and he scoffs at it like it’s a silly idea.

“I wish a bath could fix…” Jayce goes quiet. Settles the spoon on the plate, settles his elbows on the table, and shoves his face into his bandaged hands.

“It can’t make it any worse,” you argue, and that seems convincing enough.

“Okay.” His voice comes muffled from behind his hands. You expect he’ll lift his face after he sighs, but he keeps himself hidden, and it strikes you then that he hadn’t looked in your eyes once. “Okay. Yeah.”

“I’ll be right back.”

—

“Don’t say anything.” He utters it when you slide his coat, lovely white-gilded thing now ratty and torn and ragged, off his shoulders, and reveal an array of new scars on his arms. Even more await you below the grey undershirt he lets you lift up and off him. At your silence, Jayce insists: “Please.”

You know the look of battle scars on him. You’ve tended to the one on his back and just shy of his neck — deep and lacerated and sawed into him — yourself. But these look unlike the usual kind — nicks, bruises, scrapes, cuts, as though he’s been crawling through hell, rather than fighting. Whatever Jayce has been through, he has not brawled near as much as he has survived. The scar on his back remains the only one of its magnitude and size, his fingernails are worn raw and dirty, and the different skin you’d felt on his wrist is a dark, horrifying purple webbed around the crystal of his bracelet, now burnt into his skin.

And he stinks, too. You do your damndest not to wrinkle your nose. It’s not his fault.

Jayce shrinks under your gaze further.

“I won’t,” you promise, realizing you’ve been far too quiet for far too long. He flinches when you take his hands in yours, but doesn’t pull away this time around, so you count it as a small victory, before you point him to the closed toilet right behind him. “Have a seat, Jayce.”

With a fatigued grunt, and shifting his weight off the leg with the brace, he does so slowly. Every movement of his is sluggish with the weight of his fatigue, and it makes you ache all over in sympathy when he finally settles on the ceramic lid with a small whimper.

You kneel in front of him, near eye level with the brace that spans his entire left leg.

It’s… in his signature colours — red, golden, tattered white, and it makes you wonder…

“I’ve got it,” he interrupts your train of thought as if aware of what you’re thinking, starting to work on the contrived latches and belts that barely hold it together. The mechanics of it are intimately familiar to him, and you realize it’s not just because he’s built it with his own two hands, but because it’s like Viktor’s was. Before it fused to his leg. Recognizable metal on unrecognizable flesh. There’s no doubting it.

“Did you… make this out of your hammer?” You ask.

That makes him stop. Hesitate.

“…yeah.”

“Resourceful,” you praise in spite of the obvious shame he carries because of it. And with your words, some of the tension he holds so tightly in his joints dissipates. Jayce lets you slide the brace off his leg once it’s undone, winces a little when he has to shift his hips to facilitate it.

You know what comes next, and so does he. Yet, when you reach for the waistband of his pants, Jayce squeezes his eyes shut; not with reluctance, but pure dread.

You’re horrified of what you might find below.

“It’s okay,” you coo, as though comforting a spooked animal. “I promised I wouldn’t ask.”

Jayce nods. Braces himself on weary arms and lifts his hips off the toilet lid so you can get them down to his thighs. Off his knees, where they’re torn and sticky with blood and almost embedded into his skin (no doubt about it, he’d spent a long time crawling), down to his ankles.

You have to eat your promise at the newly revealed sight. His left calf is half scarred, half infected, skin colored unnaturally (greens, reds, purples, yellows) in webbed patterns like the ones on his wrist. It’s still leaking with both blood and what looks to be lymph, but more saturated in color, and somehow near iridescent, like an oil slick. Something about the placement and integrity of his shinbone is… not as it should be.

It’s making something in your stomach squeeze with nausea. You’re not up for the task of treating something like this — frankly, you doubt anyone in Piltover is. Jayce must have lived with this… anomaly, this corrupting and unnatural something on his body for months.

“Does it hurt?” You ask, cupping the part of his calf that’s still his own.

Jayce’s eyes fall lidded at the question, hiding a line of fresh tears under thick lashes. The question must have caught him off guard.

“Not… um, not as much as… when it happened.” His voice is warbled, the way you know it sounds when his vocal chords go tight right before a first sniffle breaks him. But now, he simply wipes at his eyes, takes a deep breath, and suppresses.

Oh, your poor, sweet, Jayce.

You slip his pants off his ankles.

Jayce swallows something thick and nervous when you return to his waist, now covered only by his boxers. Embarrassment is an old sight on him — he hadn’t been embarrassed around you, in front of you, since… since… god, you can’t even remember. But the image of him hesitating the first time you got to see him in all his naked glory, wide-eyed and puppylike, offers a semblance of comfort. You’d coaxed him out of his shell then, you will coax him out again.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” you reassure.

“I know.” He squeezes his eyes shut, and leans back on his hands to be able to raise his hips off the lid. “Go ahead.”

You make quick work of taking his boxers off, because his thighs (the soft, jiggly padding you’d grown to adore now shrunken) start shaking with the effort of holding himself up after just a few seconds. Once they’re past his knees, Jayce plops back down with a pained groan.

“Tub’s full and hot.” Your voice makes his eyes snap open, and a shadow of terror passes his face, as though he’s only now remembering where he is. You offer him your hands and a smile, because there isn’t much else you can give. “Any takers?”

Your weak attempt at a joke earns you not a smile, but something deeper and far more poignant in Jayce’s eyes. His waterline glistens with held back tears, he takes you in with all the desperation of a man who has lost, and will lose again.

And then he reluctantly puts his hands in yours.

Jayce was never light, and that hasn’t changed, but he feels undoubtedly lighter as he uses you to rise back to his feet, clinging to you. You’d braced his weight before, oftentimes when he’d thrown up (a sensitive stomach and sensitive feelings made him quite prone to it), and it’d been much more of a daunting task.

It comes instinctively to you, once he grabs onto your shoulder rather than your arm, to hold his middle instead. Startled with the touch, Jayce flinches as though burnt, and it makes something heavy and painful in your gut sink, your palm hovering above warm skin.

“I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. Doesn’t say anything else, but puts his hand over yours, and presses it to his side.

The short way to the bathtub is made long and difficult by Jayce’s limp. There were times when you’d helped Viktor cross small distances in this same apartment when he didn’t have a mobility aid at hand for whatever reason — but those instances had been incomparable to this. Viktor, having lived with his condition his whole life, had gained a certain sense of tact when it came to moving his weight like this. Jayce has not — the wound is fresh, unfamiliar torture.

Still, you somehow make it to the edge of the bathtub with him, sliding your hand from his back to below his elbow while he steadies himself against the wall and sits on the edge of the tub.

You linger close, ready to catch him, when he lifs his right foot off the ground and crosses over into the tub, now straddling its edge, before he reluctantly follows with his left leg. Nearly, Jayce topples, but finds purchase on the tile against all odds, and ultimately makes it where he intends.

His arms — thinner now, just like the rest of him — still house enough strength for him to lower the rest of himself into the tub. The damp white tile is grey-brown where he’s touched it.

All of him shivers once he settles, accompanied by a little sniffle, before he finally, finally looks at you. Genuinely; raw and broken and gathering what little he has left of himself to meekly ask:

“Could you help me?”

Like the answer to that would ever be anything but yes.

You take your spot at his side on the edge of the bathtub, and uncertain of where to lay your hands, you instead reach for the steel pitcher Viktor used for his baths. You and Jayce had always been the type to shower; quicker, easier, no prep required. But Viktor — especially when it came to washing his hair, preferred to make a small ritual out of it. Rubbing the shampoo into his scalp until it tingled, or letting you or Jayce do it for him, before he would dip the pitcher into the tub and rinse it off.

Since he’s been gone, since Jayce has been gone, you’ve picked up the habit yourself. Couldn’t bring yourself to throw the bent and dented thing out because it was Viktor’s, and pieces of his old self were growing increasingly sparse.

Once Jayce had disappeared too, it hadn’t even come into question that you would keep it, permanently.

Jayce looks at it, then at you, before he lowers his head and hisses. Recoils visibly, teeth gritted so hard you can see the tendons in his skinny neck rising, dips his head into his hand and paws at his forehead like he’s desperate to dig a thought out.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” you utter gently though it’s crystal fuckin’ clear it’s anything but. What has he seen? What has he done? Your hand hovers hesitantly over his shoulder, but the way he’s been recoiling has you deciding against touching him any further. Instead, you attempt: “You’re safe, now.”

And that alone makes something in Jayce shift. He scoffs at the mere concept of it, and spits, with venom meant to conceal fear: “None of us are.”

The last thing he needs is you panicking — but you’d be lying if you claimed you weren’t scared to death just now.

He inhales a long, winded breath, and reluctantly looks up at you. He must have sniffed out the horror in your expression, because his eyes soften, and he sighs. Adds on a softer, more discouraged tone:

“Not until… I fix this.”

Fix it how? you wonder, but don’t dare say it.

“We’ll fix it. By doing what we do best,” you say with a conviction you lack. “Figure it out. Together.”

The old Jayce would have reached for your hand with a dopey, enamored look on his face. Would have said something sickeningly sweet and hopeful before he’d lean in for a hug or a kiss.

This Jayce swallows his words, looks down at himself, and brings his healthy leg closer to his chest, until he can hug it for comfort.

“How long…” Jayce’s voice falters. He lays his forehead on the top of his knee, and closes his eyes. “How long was I gone?”

The truth makes you choke. It comes out of your throat like a ball of thorns, unwilling and scarring.

“Well over six months.”

“Shit.” It hits him somewhere painful — his eyes go damp, and he swallows a knot in his throat. Water droplets pearl off his arm and fingertips as he reaches for your hand, the one you’re holding Viktor’s pitcher with, and gives it a loose little squeeze around your knuckles, before he lets it fall back into the water. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m just glad you’re back.” You stifle a sniffle, reign in the shake of your voice, you can’t be the one falling apart right now, he needs you. “I thought I’d lost you.”

At that, he falls silent, fully. Stares down at the murky water below for a long, uncertain moment until you realize you need to take the reins back into your hands lest the two of you are left sitting here for any longer than need be.

“Close your eyes and lean your head back for me, puppy. I’m gonna wash your hair.”

Jayce complies with the same willingness as his old self, though not as fast. Something in his back pops a little when he tips his chin up, so you rush to support the weight of his head with one hand, while you dip the pitcher into the tub with the other.

His hair’s never been this long. Always the kind to keep it nice and tidy, Jayce often said something about how the feeling of it on his nape bothered him, how it made him run too hot in the summer. Now it sticks to his forehead, to the back of his neck, falls behind his ears once you pour water over it. Something about it must startle Jayce, because when the stream of water rushes over his ear, he flinches first, frowning something fierce, before his hand finds the width of the forearm you’re holding his head with. And he clings to you.

You let him.

You keep it there even as it becomes a difficult task to lather his scalp in shampoo with just one free hand (it hardly foams), you keep it there even as you rinse it off. He’ll need a second wash, but the water’s already so murky it’ll be an impossible task for him to be anywhere close to clean if you reuse it.

“I’m gonna unplug the drain and turn the shower on, okay? Water’s getting too dirty.”

Jayce tips his head back up straight once you tell him so, and watches with dread as you stick your hand into the brown-grey water to feel around for the drain. After you succeed, the water level begins to slowly but surely fall, and you can’t exactly tell what Jayce is looking at — just that he’s dreading it. Only when you turn the faucet on, and switch the water to the shower head to return to him with it, do you understand.

“I’m disgusting,” he mutters.

The water level had left a ring of dirt on the bathtub.

“It’s not your fault,” you console. “And I’m not disgusted.”

He doesn’t look you in the eye, but that doesn’t make the rest of his sentence sound any less genuine.

“You should be.”

You try not to let it sting. It can’t be just about the state of him — he must have done something, something he thinks would make you recoil.

It doesn’t matter. Wherever he’s been, whatever he’s had to do to survive long enough to get back, you know your Jayce would never do something horrific out of anything but necessity.

So you don’t say a word. Only put the shower head in his hand and tell him to lean his head back once more so you can shampoo his hair a second time. You don’t plan on making a whole thing out of it, don’t plan on scrubbing his scalp more than strictly necessary. But his frown begins to melt at the same time as the shampoo starts to foam up nice and proper, scarred lips part in a lax expression of pleasure — and who are you to deny him more of it? You keep at it until his eyes crack open just enough to peek at you in question, until the murky water’s sunk down to his hips.

It’s a quiet form of communication that Jayce still speaks, albeit not as fluently as before, when you nod for it and he hands you the shower head, and lets you rinse his hair off. Once it’s done, he lifts his head and lets out a deflated sigh, shoulders sinking with relief.

“Better?”

He nods.

“Told you so.”

The scarred corner of his lips curl upwards for a fraction of a second at that, before a shiver shakes him, and, reminded of the quickly draining water, he curls in on himself a little to preserve heat. Struck with an idea, you put the shower head on its support on the wall above.

“I think it’d be faster if I helped you shower, instead of drawing you a second bath.” you begin. “I’ll help you stand so we can rinse you off, alright?”

Jayce hums affirmatively.

You thought it would stay a dream, a distant longing to strip for Jayce ever again. There’s some delight to be had in doing it still, though not the way you’d imagined in all those lonely nights with nothing but your own hands to console you, but you’re glad to be doing it nonetheless — even if it’s to help him above all else. He watches you quietly, not hungrily, but with a hearty mix of nostalgia and curiosity as you step into the tub between his knees, naked, and crouch down to his level.

His arms are heavy wrapped around your shoulders (Jayce always went for the shoulders in embraces — you’re glad that hasn’t changed) as you help him scramble up to his feet. It’s a daunting task, one that has you wondering how the hell you’ve even succeeded once he’s up and leaning on you, his left leg hovering off the ground. It doesn’t matter.

You’re reminded of how you used to waltz with Jayce at those fancy events as you carefully maneuver him around so that he can stand under the water stream. How he moved with a distinct lack of grace even then, how it used to make Viktor smile from the sidelines. How the three of you would be on each-other the second your apartment door shut behind you, and oftentimes far before that.

Under the grime, the dread, the fear, he is still your Jayce. Warm and pliant and willing in your arms, tucking his face into your neck and sighing once the warm water hits his back.

“Can you stand on your own for a bit?”

“Not for long.”

“I’ll make it quick.”

Jayce braces himself on the wall with one hand and watches you lather your palms up before you hand him the soap bar and get to work. His face comes first, unfamiliar in your hands. You rub at his forehead, the bridge of his nose, tell him to close his eyes when he just won’t. Massage gently at his closed lids, then scrub at his beard — still a strange sight on him. By the time the suds have been rinsed off, he already looks a good five years younger. Looks just a fraction more like your Jayce, too.

He squeezes the water out of his eyes before he opens them to look at you, so close now your breaths are shared. Under damp lashes, his pupils go wide at the closeness, the way you hold him for a long second, face cradled between your palms, and look at him. The new, deeper creases in his face — his crow’s feet, between his brows, between his lips and nose — the nicks and cuts where the dusty pink of his lips meets the rest of him, the broken, profound weariness he carries in his pretty amber eyes.

Jayce lets them fall shut again as though on the edge of sleep, before he presses his face into your palms like a dog. A long, winded breath leaves him before he sits still in your hold.

The old Jayce would have kissed your palms in worship, would have whispered a sweet little something. This Jayce soaks up the mere act of being held like a rare delicacy, does so in silence. And doesn’t allow himself too much, because he pulls from your hands less than a minute later, and tells you he can’t stand for much longer.

The tremble in his right thigh is testament to it.

So you make quick work of lathering him up everywhere else. His neck, the back of it. His shoulders, his fuzzy chest, whatever you can reach of his back. His stomach, his hips—

“No. I’ll do it,” he interrupts when you reach the lovely spot where his hips draw into a V. You’re not about to argue, especially not about… this. It’s not something new per se, you’ve seen and touched him in various vulnerable and embarrassing ways — but this Jayce has different limits for what he deems acceptable, this Jayce goes rigid under your hands instead of soft, this Jayce hasn’t asked for a kiss once yet.

Your Jayce is scattered within this new, unfamiliar version of him. You will find what’s left of him — and you will find a way to love the rest of him too. At his pace.

So you hand him the soap bar wordlessly, and step a little closer to help brace his weight instead. Jayce takes the assistance offered, wraps the arm around your shoulders tighter, and tucks the other between your bodies to get to work. Scrubs in the front, the back, then leans a little heavier on you when he has to spread his legs to be thorough. You grasp the underside of his left thigh and look at him in silent question.

“Yeah, that’d help,” he replies. After a moment of silence: “Thank you.”

So you hoist his injured leg a little further up, until you can hold it securely next to your hip. That allows Jayce to lean most of his weight on you, and also has him pressing against your leg, an intimately familiar position. You swear you can feel… something, prodding at your thigh before his hand wedges in-between. But that’s wrong to think about right now, when he needs you in plenty of other, far more important ways. You must have imagined it.

You busy yourself with the next best thing to avoid your mind drawing any other unneeded conclusions: taking the soap bar and lathering up his thighs while Jayce rinses himself off. You linger somewhere safe, on just the outside of them, before you work your way inward, gauging Jayce’s reaction every step of the way.

There’s a little sound that comes from him, a half-whine half-groan that has your eyes flicking to his face, finding it downturned, before you look away.

You really need to stop.

You turn your attention back to his thighs with eager hands instead, kneading at the still plump fullness of them. This is where he always stored weight, other than his stomach and his hips, and though they’re visibly thinner now, they still have some heft to them. Oh, how you’ve missed squeezing the soft flesh, missed brushing your fingers through the curly fuzz on them, missed the way it grows thicker, darker, coarser near his crotch, where his pubes are now sopping wet.

Jayce hands you the shower head wordlessly, and you have to remind yourself not to be disappointed at the received message. He’s tired, and you’ve indulged enough. It’s alright.

You don’t question the hand he keeps between his legs. Focusing on the task at hand instead, you rinse his thighs off as well. Are about to step back and gently set his injured foot on the ground, until he breathes desperately, and groans.

“Oh, come on.”

His head falls to your shoulder as if in shame, the arm tucked between your bodies flexes. Your first worry is that you’ve somehow hurt him.

“What’s wrong, Jayce?”

He groans, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean to… fuck, this is the last thing I need right now.”

Confused, you lean back just enough to get a better look at him, but are left none the wiser with the way he’s hanging his head and his hair’s curtaining his eyes.

“Didn’t mean to what?”

He sighs. Swallows. Tells you the truth like it’s dreadful.

“… I’m hard.”

Oh.

You’re almost inclined to laugh at the absurdity of it. Out of all the issues there are, this is at the very bottom of the list — if on it at all.

Poor, sweet Jayce. Had he considered himself an inconvenience? Thought you wouldn’t want to?

“It’s okay, I don’t mind. I can take care of it,” you assure, nuzzling at the side of his face that’s closest to you. Brushing the cup of your palm to his knuckles, where he’s fisting his own cock, unmoving. “And I’d like to, if you want me to.”

He shakes his head again. You try not to let disappointment sink in your gut.

“No. I… Not here. Not now.” He tilts his head to glance at you from below thick, dark lashes, and exhales a shaky breath. ”I really… hah, I need to sit down. My leg hurts bad.”

You know better than to ignore Jayce — in general, but also especially when he sounds like that. On the verge of crumbling. The water’s shut off quick, before both hands come to rest under his arms to help him move his weight, until his back faces the edge of the tub. Slowly, you help him sit.

He sighs with relief once he settles, brushing the hand that isn’t still cupped over his cock over his right thigh, flexing and shaking with the effort of having supported his weight for so long. It’d be wisest not to wait, and dry him off before the cold gets to him. As for you, you’ll decidedly live, and the chill that takes you hardly feels significant as you wade over the tub’s edge, to the drawer where you keep the towels. You take the fluffiest, biggest one — coincidentally one of Jayce’s old towels which you’d still kept in use — and you return to him. He’s managed to cross over to the other side, facing you, breathing subtly with the effort.

You waste no time in draping it over his head — and try not to think about the sight of Viktor, freshly out of the hexcore chrysalis, blanket you and Jayce had shared draped over him. Jayce raises one of his hands to his head, but you’re faster.

“I’ve got you,” you assure. Place both hands over the towel and start to rub at his hair the way he used to when he stepped out of the shower in what perhaps was a small cry for attention from you and Viktor. Nothing around his body — just a towel draped over his head and shoulders, hair still damp and tousled.

Jayce hums at the contact low and long, like a cat’s purr, before he lets himself dip forward slowly, until his forehead comes to rest upon your damp chest. He sits through it dutifully, lets you rub the towel down his back then his front. Takes it from you once again when you reach lower, and dries himself off down to his feet.

You hang it up to dry, then retrieve another towel for yourself. Coincidentally, one of Viktor’s. Jayce says nothing, but reaches out for it by the time you’re drying your middle. Fiddles with the edge for a moment, swallowing audibly, before he lets go and sinks his head.

As far as Viktor goes, you’d gotten a little better at managing your grief. Jayce, wherever he’s been, whatever he’s done, seems taken with the same pain as the day Vik had walked out on you and Jayce with nothing but a blanket to his name, never to be seen again. Well, sort of. You’ve heard rumors — and you will let Jayce in on them, once he’s rested.

You finish drying yourself off too, and ready yourself for another long, painful walk. Jayce seems to dread it just as much as you, burying his face in his hands for a moment, before he lets you have them instead. Pulls himself up with what little strength he still has, breath coming out in labored bursts against your neck when he finally manages to stand.

He’s very warm. And though not as soft as he used to be, on account of having lost quite some weight, his hips and his waist are still pliant under your touch when you wrap your arm around him.

The walk to the bedroom is torture. You have to stop halfway there and catch your breaths together, to whisper something encouraging at him before you brave through the rest of the way.

Jayce positively crashes on the bed once you reach it. The mattress protests under his weight with a pained creak, but it stifles under his long, languid sigh. He’s made no effort to position himself properly; his right leg hangs off the bed, his left is tucked a little closer so that it’ll fit on the mattress. You can’t help but get an eyeful of his ass, of the dark peach fuzz on his cheeks, growing thicker below where they go fullest, thinner up his back. There are dimples that were not so visible before at his lower back, just above his ass — another telltale sign that he’s been eating far too little. He shoves his face into the sheets, nuzzling at them, his trembling hands fist the pillows, his chest expands with how he breathes it all in. Jayce chokes on the exhale like he’s overwhelmed, before he gasps, more to himself than to you: “Hah… Oh my god.”

He must have not had a bed to sleep in for a long time.

You’re not sure what to say, so you don’t. Only crawl onto the sheets next to him, and linger, hand above him. And you’re not sure where you should touch either — if you even should.

Jayce tilts his head to look at you from where he’s pressed into the sheets, before he closes his eyes, and nods.

“Please,” he mumbles.

So you go for the closest part of him that’s within reach, which is his head.

It’s… abnormal, to be running your fingers through hair as long as Viktor’s on a head that isn’t Viktor’s. Jayce hums, and after another few moments of gently scratching at his scalp, finds it within himself to crawl closer. Until all of his body’s on the mattress, until he can rest his damp head on your chest and — after a second of reluctance — sling his arm over your middle. Curl up next to you like he wants to be small, knees bumping your leg.

“There you are.” You talk to him the way you would to a wounded animal. Lay a kiss on his forehead that has him pressing his skull into your lips desperately, like it could fix him.

And maybe it can. Maybe every single reluctant touch is slowly going to bring your Jayce back, going to mend the broken pieces he came to you with into the man you cherished. Maybe love will fill in the cracks like gold.

You go for the blanket at your feet and tug it over the both of you, heavy and comforting, before Jayce settles back against you, cuddles a little closer. Lays his injured leg atop your hip, which you reach for instantly. You cradle his knee reluctantly for a second, before Jayce nods, and you begin pressing your knuckles into the top of his thigh… up, down, up, down.

“O-oh…”

A shiver rattles him, from the base of his skull to his tailbone.

“Where does it hurt, sweet thing?”

“Lower.” And after a second of hesitation, he adds: “Be gentle.”

As if you’d ever be anything but.

Your palms brush lower, under the scrapes on his knee, to his shinbone. It’s palpably crooked right under the joint, you can feel the bump, the way his bone fused back wrong. It has you wondering if he’ll be able to walk without an aid ever again.

You test the waters with a soft press of your fingertips on the abnormal skin on his calf, trying not to think too hard about the smooth, wax-like ridges and ripples of purple skin you’re gently stroking, gauging his breathing for any signs of pain. It’s steady, grows steadier and shallower still as he relaxes. You stick to that. Cupping your palm around the back of his calf, kneading gently.

“My thigh,” he breathes his next instruction, sounding significantly less pained.

His hamstrings are drawn tight and rigid. You try with just a rubbing of your palm, but soon realize that your method will yield nothing. So you ball your fist tight and use your knuckles instead.

Jayce tilts his hips to press against you and moans. It sends a shiver through you, how equally exhausted and ecstatic he sounds, how he paws at you at a lack for any other way to express how overwhelming it is.

“Good?” You ask.

He nods.

“Don’t stop.”

So you insist, press at the underside of his thigh (drawn violin-string-tight and knotted with months’ worth of pain), then at the bulging muscle at the top of it, and finally, press your palm into the muscle on his ass to rub in circles, bringing him closer to you.

That has the hard-earned laxness of his body turning to uncomfortable tension.

“Shit. Sorry.”

You’re about to ask what for, until you can feel it. Poking your thigh the same as in the shower. His cock, leaking at the tip, leaves cold dampness where it’s nudged you.

“I’m— It’s a reaction,” he rushes to justify himself. “I haven’t been… and this is… ’s good. I just… I don’t want… god.” His next sigh sounds a little too close to a sob. “I just wanna sleep.”

Sweet boy. You brush a strand of hair behind his ear — something you’d subconsciously always wanted to do to him, frankly — before you tell him.

“Do you want me to get you off, baby? I can make it quick.”

Or, you used to be able to. Not like it was a particularly difficult feat anyhow.

Jayce takes a moment — doesn’t look you in the eye at all — before he reluctantly nods.

“If you want to.”

If there is one thing you know about Jayce, is that he can always use a little more tenderness. And you suspect that hasn’t changed one bit.

“Of course I do.”

You kiss between his knitted brows as if to urge them apart before you brush your fingers down the fur on the front of his flat stomach. You miss the small bump of padding under his bellybutton, miss the way the skin of his hips spilled over his boxers if the waist was too low. It’s unfamiliar to be able to feel the hardness of his hipbone, to have it jutting out in a way reminiscent of Viktor‘s body.

But oh, thank god, his cock’s just the same as it always was. Short but chubby, the slight curve to his right, the abundant dripping that damn near lubricates the whole expanse of his tip, the vein that goes from frenulum to the seam of his balls. Scorching hot as though freshly pulled out of an oven, the slightest give at the squeeze of your fist until it goes rigid. He damn near spills in your palm then and there, curling up and closer like a puppy, pressing his face into your neck for comfort.

Jayce whimpers with delight, relief, as though being touched — and being touched like this — is a rare, divine gift.

He’s significantly hairier — Jayce was as adamant about keeping himself trimmed below the belt as he was about his haircut. Not so much for pleasure or aesthetics (though those played a part, certainly) but moreso because it bothered him if it got too long.

It never bothered you. Certainly doesn’t now, either, when you stroke his foreskin back and fist his length until you reach the thick, rich hair at the root.

You’re ecstatic at how soft he is here, too. Everywhere else on his body, he’s scarred, scraped, wounded. Not here — his cock is as silky smooth in your palm as it was the first time you touched him here, all doe-eyed and muffled puppy whimpers as you stroked him into his first release.

It nearly has you forgetting that you’re stroking him dry, and that it can’t be good, until he squirms a little at the overstimulating squeeze at his tip.

“Mm… Lube?” He asks, voice muted against your skin.

You’ll give him something much better. He deserves it — always had, really, but now more than ever.

“I’ll use my mouth,” you promise with another kiss to his forehead. Work your way down between his brows — furrowed again — to the bridge of his nose. “Missed tasting you.”

”Don’t.” You can feel his nose nudging your lips as he shakes his head, how he grips you a little tighter when you shift just a hint. “I want you here.“

“I am here,” you assure, not quite sure what he means. A kiss to his cupid’s bow to settle him, a brush of your palm to his cockhead, gentle and careful, not enough to slide his hood back. “Just close your eyes and lay back. I’ll make it good for you, Jayce.”

That does little to change how he clings to you.

“No. Want… you to hold me. Please, use your hand — it’ll do.”

That is when it hits you that he had ached to be held much more than he’d ached to get off. Of course he had — of course Jayce would.

Of course you’re going to give him what he needs.

“Okay,” you coo. Kiss his cheek to reassure him. “I can do that.”

He clings to you a little tighter when you have to unfortunately turn away from him to search the nightstand drawer for the bottle.

You want it to be good. Want it to be comfortable, tender, easy. So you pour a generous amount into your palm, and rub it until it warms thoroughly, before you reach for him again.

Your other arm wraps tigher around his shoulders, comes to cradle the back of his head with splayed fingers.

Jayce sighs shakily, as though on the verge of breaking, when you stroke his cock into slickness with one glide of your hand, swollen tip to twitching root.

“Thank you,” he moans into your neck. “Oh, thank you.”

“Thank you,” you counter. Stroking his foreskin up over his tip, then back down, and thumbing at the underside of his crown, where he’s most sensitive. Jayce mewls for it, blunt nails scratch at your arms — they would have broken skin, had they been any sharper. “For coming back. For letting me take care of you.”

“Sorry,” he says anyway. And as you ease him out of the crook of your neck to gaze into his eyes, glittering in the moonlight, you intrinsically understand what for. Sorry for making you do it. Sorry for how I am, sorry for how much I am.

You scratch at his scalp gently as you speed up the strokes of your hand. It has him tipping his head back in ecstasy, pawing at you a little more desperately.

“Don’t ever apologize for that again.” You kiss the column of his neck; thinner now. “This…” Your voice falters, and you make up for it by twisting your palm around his cock as you steady your tone. He gasps, but keeps his eyes open, keeps them on you, soaking up every word. “Jayce, this has been the best day of my life since…”

The explosion. Since Viktor left. Since Jayce disappeared, too.

“Me too,” he chokes out. You can hear the tears in it, the way his throat must be stringing tight with the cracking dam he’s built to hold back his sobs. “I missed…”

You nod. Pet his locks like he’s just a scared little boy — because behind it all, he always has been. “I know, baby, I know.”

His face finds its way back into the warmth below your jaw, as though that is the one place left where he’s safe. And maybe it is… you dread to think of it.

And you shouldn’t think of it, not when you have the far more important ultimate goal of granting Jayce release, reprieve, reverence.

“M-mh… close,” he tells you, and the way his cock gives a vehement twitch as though he were coming already only confirms it.

Already.

It almost makes you cry, the fact that he’s still so eager to melt from the slightest touch. Your Jayce.

You wish you had a third arm, more to touch him with, to pet his hair, to fondle his swollen balls, to hug him closer, because god, does he look like he needs it. Jayce presses his body to yours as though he wishes the edges of your beings were blurred, overlapping, entwined. It’s hard to stroke him through it, the angle makes your wrist ache, but you’re not about to let him down.

His lashes tickle your neck with how they flutter shut, before his forehead presses into you, his nose crushes your collarbone. And he sobs. Sweet, familiar little sniffles that are borne of pleasure, of overwhelming.

His chubby cock is heavy in your hand, on the verge of bursting. You can feel his balls against your thigh, the way they softly twitch, drawing up against his body. All of Jayce swells like a rising tidal wave. Almost there.

You blindly reach for the tissues on your night stand, tug out two for good measure. His eyes snap open at the sound, alert, scared, searching. You suspect it will be a while until he stops being on guard so tirelessly.

“I’ve got you,” you assure him. His damp hair is soft between your fingers when you pet it, and his dick twitches when you thumb at his weeping cockhead. Jayce settles, nods, and nuzzles at your chest for comfort. You can feel his breath on your collarbone, labored and coming through his nose and gritted teeth, until his mouth audibly falls open, and he whines on his next exhale. Something in his hip pops painfully when he snaps forward into your grip — once, twice, thrice, until he gasps, and oh, “There it is…”

His dick pulses in your hand the way a fresh wound does, hurt and struggling as his orgasm consumes him.

Jayce curls up as if from a gut punch, hurt leg rising from where it’d been draped on your hip to your stomach. The first thick rope of his cum shoots across your tummy, sticky and lukewarm, all the way up to your lowest rib.

You barely manage to hold his tip into the tissues in time, and it overflows moments later regardless. His cum pools in your palm heavy and thick and it just won’t stop, but then again, neither do you, dutifully stroking him off into the tissue.

His orgasms were never this long, and it’s clearly new to him, as well. Dazed and overwhelmed by the intensity, the duration of his own peak, Jayce begins to writhe about halfway through, until it has him shivering, wheezing for air, tears and snot on one of your shoulders, desperate near-painful grip of his on the other.

You slow your touches to languid strokes, steering clear of his tip, simply massaging his shaft to get all his orgasm’s worth while he comes down from it.

“Sweet boy,” you praise before you go for even more tissues, slowly dabbing him dry while he tries to catch his breath. You can hear his heart beating from all the way there, can feel the way his ribcage expands with each breath as if he’s run a marathon.

You clean up his mess in the meantime. Jayce whines when you get up and retrieve the small garbage bin you keep in your bedroom and toss all the tissues there, then go for more, to wipe yourself off.

His brows knit into an uncomfortable frown, but ultimately he doesn’t complain further when you peel the blanket off him to clean him up. There’s just a few droplets, in the fuzz at the base of his cock, which you make quick work of, before you seal your work with a kiss to his stomach. The rest of him has gone slick with fresh sweat, and his eyes, damp and glassy little things, crack open to watch you.

You wipe the remnants of his tears next, but Jayce doesn’t seem particularly moved by it. He lets it happen, same as the kiss you press to his cheek, then at his jaw.

“How was that?” You ask through the trail of chaste pecks you plant down his neck.

Jayce just hums affirmatively.

“Come back,” he tells you.

He’s gotten what he needed — now, you want your fill. And maybe it’s selfish, but you want, you need to feel his skin on your lips. Need to kiss down his body the way you used to before, so that you may at least wake up happy and satisfied if this was all just a dream.

“In a second.”

He smells like himself again. Clean, familiar, warm, the scent of his skin imbues you, begs you to go further. Down his chest, his hairy stomach, over the sensitive crest of his hip. You can feel his stomach clenching.

“I said I don’t want—“

“It’s not that,” you interrupt. “Just wanna kiss you. Let me have this for a bit. Please.”

His hand finds your shoulder, before he sighs, and nods.

“Okay.”

Down the fuzz of his thigh, you nuzzle at him where his scent’s a little more potent, before you move on further down.

A kiss on his knee, and then, the final destination, your lips graze the place where his shinbone is cracked apart, where it bumps his skin from within.

“Don’t,” he says.

“I love you,” you counter.

At that, he swallows. Stares up at the ceiling like the answer might be there, somewhere, among the stars he cannot see.

He inhales shakily, swallowing, before he mutters: “I can’t—“

“I don’t care. I love you.”

At that, Jayce sits up from where he’s laying, and stares down at you with a heaving chest, a tight throat, and wide eyes.

You gently lay your cheek on his knee, cradle the weight of his wrong calf in both your palms like it’s precious anyway — and it is, because it’s an undeniable part of him, no matter what.

And then you kiss his knee again, holding eye contact.

At that, something in Jayce breaks.

He scrambles away as if hurt, to the edge of the bed. Sets his feet on the ground and sits up, about to stand, until it dawns on him, momentum still drawing him forward, but not up, that he can’t.

So Jayce just hunches over, a sight worryingly similar to Viktor on days when he was hurting so terribly he could do nothing but sit and sob. Jayce buries his face in his hands, and after a long moment of silence, wheezes, chokes on his own spit, starts coughing.

Reluctantly, you turn to him, with the sinking feeling of having undone all the shakily built progress of tonight with a kiss.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, though you’re not sure what for, only that you really are.

Except his coughing doesn’t calm. It turns into a spluttering, a barely drawn breath, an interrupted exhale, another stilted, brusque, wheezing inhale.

Jayce paws at his own breastbone with one hand, as if to tear his heart out, bunches his hair up in the other.

“Fuck,” he coughs it more than says it, the whole expanse ribcage widens with another labored inhale. It whistles on the way into his lungs, windpipe drawn tight in resistance.

Oh, no. You know exactly what this is, based on the way sweat starts to bead at his brow, the way his hands clench, scratching at his chest, legs trembling with pure panic.

Touching him was a double edged sword in moments like these even far before… he became who he is right now. But there were other things that worked, and you pray they still do.

“Jayce?”

He looks at you for a brief moment, startled like a feral animal in a trap.

“Easy.” You try your best to keep your voice steady. You go for old reliable — if this won’t work, hauling him all the way back to the bathroom and running cold water down his wrists will. “Tell me two red things you can see right now.”

Your attempt goes ignored, unacknowledged. Jayce swallows a sad little sound, and finally, finally speaks.

“You… we used to kiss him like that.” On his leg, you realize. On days when the pain was gnawing at Viktor’s joints and bones, or on days when he looked into the mirror like he wished to throttle his reflection. Jayce drags in another breath. Whimpers and cradles his head in both hands now, wincing and flinching. “Fuck.”

“You mean… Viktor?” You ask carefully. It’s a territory that is thin, crackling ice for you as is — and it can only be worse for Jayce, who has decidedly not spent his absence processing his grief.

He nods.

Nothing could have prepared you for his next sentence.

“I killed him.”

What?

Jayce sinks at the same time as your stomach does, until his elbows rest on his knees, and he sobs so hard you fear he might throw up. Under a metaphorical just as much as corporeal pressure, he crumbles, he breaks, he cracks.

“I killed him,” he repeats. His shoulders shake with another cry, and he winces like someone’s grabbed him by the neck and squeezed. “Put a hole. Th-through his chest. You can’t imagine… how it was gaping, magic sparking like, like… some broken circuits on a fucking machine, a-and the way he looked at me. Oh, god.”

And though there are a million questions racing through your head, at odds with the bile rising in your gut, you find it within yourself to ask just one.

“Why?”

“I had to,” Jayce says. “I had to, you have to… you have to believe me.”

Why the hell would I? and How could I not? should not be equal statements that weigh on your mind the same. But they are.

“I’m sorry.” Jayce tries again at your silence. And you realize that is what he had been truly apologizing for all this time — not his helplessness, not his pain, but his sins. “I’m so sorry. Please.”

What is he pleading for? Forgiveness? Comfort?

He sniffles, shifts a little closer to you. You don’t embrace him when he settles his head on your shoulder and sobs. But you let him find a semblance of comfort in your warmth all the same as he starts to sob so hard it makes him choke and tremble like he isn’t all lean, scarred muscle.

He killed Viktor.

“If I told you even half of what I’d seen while I was gone… you would never believe me.” He swallows another set of tears, and lifts his head to look at you.

He is not, and will never be your Jayce again. You feel it burning at your stomach, the disgust he’d predicted. He knows you well.

You should kick him out of what once was your — all three of yours — sacred space. You shouldn’t want him tainting the memory of tender hands with his bloodied ones, you shouldn’t want a lover turned killer in your bed.

But you will take what you can get. You will take what’s left.

You will cradle the jaws that bite, you will hold the hands that pulled the trigger. You will kiss the eyes that have seen Viktor dying.

“Try me anyway,” you say.

And you brush your hand to his own.

#jayce talis #jayce arcane #arcane jayce #jayce talis x reader #jayce arcane x reader #arcane jayce x reader #jayvik x reader #my writing #arcane x reader

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keitorin3 · 1 month ago

Text

Short: Leon (The Long Suffering)

Arthur: I'm gonna mess with this goofy eared kid.

Leon: *Internally thinking* Why do I feel like Arthur just met his match??

Arthur: He's absolutely terrible, the worst Manservant I've ever seen!

Leon: I'm sure with time he will improve, Sire. It's only been the first week.

Arthur: I've already sacked him, but then changed my mind and re-hired him back.

Leon: Ah... I see... Why?

Arthur:... *Internally thinking* Because I liked the way he looked at me when I won.

Arthur: It was difficult to find good help nowadays.

Leon: Right...

Arthur: Can you believe it, Merlin went and accused himself of being a sorcerer! In front of my father during the council meeting!

Leon: He what?! 😨

Arthur: I know! All because a girl gave him a flower. That idiot. I don't know where his head is at.

Leon: Hold on a second sire, he really said that in front of the King and didn't get executed?? 😧

Arthur: *Waves it off* Yeah, I had to explain that it was cause he had a crush on Gwen. *Mutters to himself* Maybe I should get him some flowers? 🤔

Leon: !? ⁉️❕❔

Arthur: My idiot Manservant got sick and I got him flowers so he'd feel better. 💐

Leon: Arthur, he drank poison for you and you went off to find the antidote. 😑

Arthur: So you think he liked it?

Leon: ... *Takes a deep breath* I'm sure he did Sire.

Arthur: 😁 See! I take care of my servants~

Arthur: *Breaks into Leon's room*

Leon: *Jumps in fright* ⁉️

Arthur: I can't believe him!

Leon: What is it? Is there an attack Sire? Something happened with the King?

Arthur: No! It's that insolent brat Merlin. He came back with some guy, singing him praises and wants me to make him a knight?!😤

Leon: *Thinking* Is this really worth barging into my chambers? 😮‍💨

Leon: Really, then what did you do? 😑

Arthur: Ha, had the guy cleaning the stables.

Leon: 🤦🏼‍♂️

Leon: *Watches as Arthur sits with goofy smile and practically hearts in his eyes*

Leon: Sire?

Arthur: Isn't it the loveliest day to go out for a picnic? 🥰

Leon: Yes Sire, it is indeed.

Arthur: *Nods* I had Merlin pack a picnic for me and the lady Sofia. Where gonna go later today.

Leon: *Confused and concerned* But don't you have a meeting with the King today?

Arthur: *Waves it off* It's fine, I have Merlin to cover for me!

Leon: *Thinking* Oh boy...

[LATER]

Merlin: *Coming back from the stocks* I'm gonna kill that cabbagehead! 😠💢

Arthur: *Walks in* Merlin~! 🥰💐🌈

Merlin: 🌩️🔪😠

Leon: *Makes a break for it*

Leon: *Walks by Morgana's room*

Morgana: Please Arthur he just a boy and he's sick! 🥺

Arthur: I'm sorry Morgana, but my father is looking for him and if he were to find out you harboured a druid, you'll not only get into trouble but so would Gwen and Merlin.

Morgana: *Angry* 😠

Merlin: *Steps in* Please Arthur, we can't let the King kill him. 🥺

Arthur: ... *Turns away* I saw nothing, heard nothing. I've got to look for the Druid boy because clearly he isn't here. *Leaves room without noticing Leon*

Morgana: Tsk, of course he'd listen to Merlin.

Gwen: *Giggles*

Merlin: Arthur has a good heart. Of course he'd help. *The face of loyalty and innocence*

Morgana: 😏 He followed his heart alright. I'll remember next time to have you around to convince him for some things.

Merlin: 🤨❔❔ What do you mean?

Leon: *Overhears and follows his princes lead and continues like nothing happened*

Leon: *Witnessed Merlin doing Sorcery, trying to burn the Black Knight and fails*

Leon: ... I saw nothing. Just tired eyes. Yup, nothing here. *Mutters* Not like Arthur would believe it, or even care.

Uther: Where is my son and ward?! 😠

Leon: They've decided on a friendly hunting trip, they'll be gone for several days.

Leon: *Internally* They went after Merlin to his home village to fight bandits alone. And I'm not gonna say anything because

1. You'll blame Merlin and send him away

2. Merlin's a sorcerer who you'll kill if you knew

3. If any of the above happens Arthur might likely kill you and that'll be a worse headache then his pinning.

Uther: Those brats!

Leon: *Thinking* I couldn't agree more.

[LATER]

Arthur: If I ever retire from royalty, I think I'd like to live as a farmer.

Leon: Ah, is that so?

Arthur: Yup. Of course, Merlin would be there to do the work.

Leon: 😓

Arthur: But I'll get him Cows and chickens, maybe even a horse. He has a soft spot for animals.

Arthur: Merlin's mad at me. He started talking politely to me Leon! Politely. As in using my titles instead of insults. Even avoids looking at me in the eyes. 😟

Leon: 😬 Oof, what did you do?

Arthur: He's angry at me after killing the Unicorn. 😟

Leon: ... That would do it.

Arthur: What do I do Leon!

Leon: Try giving him some space for now and maybe flowers, you've said Merlin likes those.

Arthur: Alright!

[LATER]

Arthur: Merlin's not avoiding me anymore. 😊

Leon: Great to hear, what happened?

Arthur: We faced off the sorcerer of the Unicorns and I drank fake poison before Merlin could.

Leon: ... What?! 😱

Arthur: It's fine. Merlin's still mad about that but now he insults me about my intellect being the size of a peanut. ☺️🌈✨

Leon: I'm almost inclined to agree with him Sire.

Leon: *Spots Merlin and follows him to the Isles*

Nimueh: For a life to be saved, another life must be forfeited.

Merlin: He's my friend. I'd gladly give my life for him.

Leon: *Thinking* God these two are cut by the same cloth. I'm gonna go fully grey by 30.

[LATER]

Arthur: 🥰 Merlin said the most weirdest thing. He said he'd serve me for the rest of his life. That he was happy to be with me. ❤️🥰

Leon: *Bore witness to Merlins power and dedication to his loved ones*

Leon: He cares for you Sire. Would hardly leave your side if he didn't need to help Gaius make your cure.

Arthur: ☺️ Don't tell Merlin this, but I think Merlin's my best friend.

Leon: *Internally swears on his honor as a knight to support Merlin however he could and potentially get his prince to be less of an idiot. Hopefully*

Merlin: *Sneezes*

Gaius: You alright my boy?

Merlin: *Sniffs and shurgs* I'm alright.

Gaius: Hmm, some say that when you sneezing abruptly, it's because someone is talking about you at the moment.

Merlin: Ugh, probably Arthur talking about all the chores he has in stored for me. 😮‍💨

#bbc merlin #merlin #merlin emrys #arthur pendragon #merlin fandom #bbc merthur #arthur x merlin #shorts #leon the long suffering #Leon #short story #short fanfic #arthur loves merlin #prince arthur #Pray for Leon's sanity #He was close to committing treason

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godsfavdarling · 1 month ago

Text

waiting for the day to end

my masterlist, part 2

pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader summary: You and Spencer come back to his apartment, and your boyfriend’s drunken state brings old wounds to the surface. words: 2,3k warnings: angst, panic attack, drunk Spencer, mentions reader's ex-bf who was an alcoholic, no y/n a/n: I'm imagining later seasons Spence but I am not gonna yuck anybody's yum!

You smoothly place the keys in the lock of his apartment and quickly turn them twice to unlock the door. The dark room abruptly brightens when you flick the light switch on.

Spencer, who has been leaning against the wall near you, stumbles into the room right behind you.

The door slams shut behind him, the thud reverberating through the room.

You flinch, spinning around at the jarring sound.

“Sorry,” Spencer mumbles, a bit unsteady.

He throws himself onto the armchair with a heavy sigh, his head lolling back as he closes his eyes.

You murmur under your breath, “I’ll get you some water,” and head toward the kitchen, your heels clacking against the floor.

In the quiet, you take a few deep breaths to steady yourself before filling two glasses of water.

When you bring them back, you hand one to Spencer, urging him to drink. He gulps it down immediately, nearly draining the glass in one go.

You’ve never really seen him like this.

Spencer rarely—almost never—drinks. But tonight, it’s obvious just how far gone he is. He’s coherent enough to hold himself up, and his words still make sense, but you can tell he isn’t fully present.

He was already fading hours ago, just an hour into dinner at Rossi's when his team had convinced him to relax and celebrate Garcia’s birthday with a few drinks.

Now, he’s staring off into space, eyes glassy, a faint smile still lingering from whatever joke had last drifted through his mind. You swallow, feeling the anxiety tug at you.

You felt it early on. But you tried to ignore it.

Spencer was different.

He was responsible and careful. He liked being sober and in control. He was someone who avoided excess.

He was not a drunk.

You knew all this and tried to stay rational.

After his third drink, though, all that rationality flew out the window. With the last gulp of his third drink, you decided to excuse yourself, claiming you weren't feeling well, and spent most of the evening outside. The poker game was so intense that no one really questioned you or bothered to check on you.

You had thought, knowing Spencer’s sharp observation skills, that he would come find you shortly and ask what was wrong. He always did. He could always tell when something was off and always wanted to know. But tonight, he didn’t.

You waited, each minute stretching longer than the last, hoping he’d realize and come find you, that he’d be his usual self. But as the laughter and clinking glasses carried on from inside, you realized he was somewhere you couldn’t reach him tonight.

As you watched him now, slouched in the armchair with you far away from him sitting on the edge of the couch, your heart ached.

This wasn’t the Spencer you knew. He was lost in his thoughts, barely acknowledging your presence. You handed him your glass of water, and he took it with a mumbled "thanks", sipping it more slowly this time.

“Spencer, are you okay?” you finally asked, unable to keep the concern out of your voice.

He looked up at you, his eyes a bit clearer but still distant. “Yeah, just... tired,” he replied, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

You nodded, but the anxiety still sat inside you.

Stop!

Spencer is not him!

He is nothing like him!

You keep staring at him, fidgeting with your fingers and the hem of your black velvet dress, feeling helpless as you try to guess what he wants.

Is he going to stay here for a while? Does he need more water? Is he going to shower, or maybe just head to bed?

Finally, Spencer glances up, his gaze focusing on you as if for the first time tonight. His brows knit together as he notices the anxious look in your eyes.

"What’s wrong?" he asks, his voice soft but tinged with confusion.

You swallow, feeling a rush of emotions you’ve been holding back all evening. He’s looking at you now, really looking, like he usually does, but something about his unsteady, drunken state makes you hesitate.

He’s here, yet somehow not fully here, and you’re not sure how to answer.

You force a smile, shrugging as if it’s nothing, but your heart pounds. "Just… tired, I guess."

Spencer’s gaze doesn’t waver, and you know he sees through your answer, even in his state.

Now he sees.

He’s silent, watching you with a slight frown like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle. The quiet stretches between you, heavy and thick.

You glance away, twisting the hem of your dress tighter.

"Maybe you should get some rest," you say, your voice barely more than a whisper. You try to keep the tremor out, but it’s there. A lot of it.

He’s never seen you like this—not this vulnerable, this close to tears. You’ve not been dating that long. A lot of things are still unknown, unsaid, unshared and the toxic, drunk but highly functioning, unpredictable boyfriends have not yet come out in any conversation.

"I’ll be fine," Spencer mutters, rubbing his face with one hand as he sinks further into the chair.

His words are gentle, but they’re not the reassurance you’re aching for.

You wish he’d tell you he’d never do this again, that he understands why this is hard for you. But he doesn’t. He just looks at you, distant and hazy.

A lump forms in your throat as the silence presses down on you. You stand up, needing some distance, and force a tight smile. "I’ll let you get some sleep. I’ll go… take a walk or something."

As you turn to leave, Spencer reaches out, his fingers brushing your arm. "Hey," he murmurs, his voice soft but unsteady. "It’s like 2 AM. You’re not going anywhere alone."

You stop, frozen, a tightness forming in your chest. You want to say it’s fine, that you just need space, but the words feel like they’re stuck in your throat. Instead, he continues, unaware of how badly his presence is affecting you right now.

“Let’s take a walk together. It’ll help,” he offers, his voice tinged with concern, though still a little slurred.

You turn sharply, frustration and something darker bubbling up in your chest. “No!” you snap, louder than you intended, the word echoing in the quiet room. You instantly regret it, but the hurt is too raw, too overwhelming. You try to swallow the sudden surge of emotion, but it’s too much.

You finally realize that his hand in on your arm, and the realization hits like a cold wave. You feel an intense rush of discomfort. You don’t want him near you right now.

The feeling of his fingers on your skin, even though they’re meant to comfort, feels wrong.

You can’t breathe. You can’t handle his touch, not like this, not after everything that’s happened. You jerk away, backing up, your heart hammering.

Without a word, you turn and storm toward the bathroom. You lock the door behind you and lean against it for a second, trying to steady your breath.

The walls feel like they’re closing in, the anger and fear swirling inside you until you can hardly tell the difference between the two.

It’s not his fault, you think, taking a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside your chest.

He’s just drunk, he’ll be sober soon, but... why does it still feel so wrong?

You press your hands to your face, feeling the tears already starting to form.

I’m not that person anymore. I’m not going to let this take me back. I can’t let it.

Your thoughts race, but you force yourself to focus, turning the shower on. The sound of the water helps.

You quickly but clumsily step out of the dress and underwear, leaving them in a heap on the tiles.

You step under the hot spray, closing your eyes, letting the warmth soothe the tension in your muscles.

Just wash it off, just wash it off, you tell yourself as if the water could cleanse more than just your skin.

You’re lost in the sensation of the water for long minutes when there’s a gentle knock on the bathroom door.

You freeze. Your heart skipping a beat.

“Hey… uh… I really need to pee,” Spencer calls out, his voice even softer than before.

You swallow, fighting the panic rising in your throat, and quickly shut off the water. You wrap a towel around your body and open the door just enough for you to slip past him. Without a word, you go into the bedroom and gracelessly put on one of the shirts you left in his drawer.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow everything will be fine, you think, climbing into bed, curling up under the covers.

You just want this day to end. You need it to end.

Then it hits you—you’re in his bed.

You stand up and then sit again on the edge.

You should go home. You should be in your own bed. You want to get up, gather your things, get dressed, and leave, but you're paralyzed. You're overwhelmed. You can’t breathe. You can’t move.

Then Spencer walks into the room, his gaze landing on you. As if he can read the turmoil in your mind, he says softly, "It's late. Stay here tonight. Take the bed. I’ll take the couch."

You don’t say anything, unable to find the words.

He pauses, watching you for a moment, before quietly pulling his pajamas from the closet and heading into the bathroom.

You just need to sleep. You’ll sleep it off, and when you wake up, things will make sense again. Maybe Spencer will apologize.

Apologize for what?

He didn’t do anything wrong.

He’ll be sober. Everything will go back to normal.

But sleep doesn’t come. The bed feels cold, and the silence in the room is suffocating. You can’t shake the thoughts in your head.

What if he doesn’t remember?

What if he won’t leave it and you’ll have to explain and he’ll be angry?

Why are you angry?

Why are you upset?

Just as you're about to give up on sleep altogether, you hear the soft creak of the door opening. Spencer slips into the room quietly, his footsteps hesitant. He walks to the bed, sitting down beside you without saying anything at first.

"Are you asleep?" he asks quietly, his voice gentle, almost too careful. You feel his gaze on you, even though you’re facing the window, your back to him.

You don’t answer at first. You don’t want to talk to him right now. You don’t want to explain why everything feels broken. You don’t want him to ask.

But you can feel him there, his presence.

Finally, he speaks again, his voice low but steady. “Please... can we talk? I don't wanna go to bed with you upset and angry.”

You don’t move, staring into the dark. You wish you could say the right thing. You wish you could fix it, but all you feel is a dull ache in your chest, and the thought that maybe nothing will ever be the same again.

Spencer’s hand reaches out, his fingers trembling slightly as he hesitates for a moment before gently moving toward you. "Hey, I—" His voice cracks, and you can hear the sorrow in it, the regret, the helplessness.

But as his arms come closer, something inside you recoils. You can’t have him near you right now. Not like this. Not when everything feels so wrong.

You flinch, turning away from him instinctively, the words coming out before you even have a chance to stop them. “Please don’t touch me.”

The words hang between you like a heavyweight.

Spencer freezes, his hand hovering in mid-air, and for a second, everything is still. You can hear his breathing — shallow, uneven — as if he’s trying to understand, trying to process what just happened.

You don’t want him to feel hurt, but you can’t help it. You feel exposed, vulnerable, like a raw nerve, and his touch, even if it's meant to comfort, feels suffocating.

“Okay,” Spencer finally says, his voice small, resigned. He pulls his hand back slowly, as though giving you space to breathe.

You don’t look at him. You can’t.

“I’m sorry,” he adds, his voice distant now, like he’s trying to find his footing again. “I just... I’m not sure what happened. I know hurt you. I don’t know how but I’m sorry.”

The silence lingers, thick and uncomfortable, wrapping itself around both of you. Spencer hesitates for a long moment, unsure of what to do or say next. You can feel his eyes on you, but you don’t lift yours.

Finally, he clears his throat softly.

“I’ll... I’ll sleep on the couch tonight,” he says, his voice gentle and careful like he’s trying not to disturb the fragile air between you.

“It’s okay. If you want to talk... or anything... just come and tell me. I’ll be here.”

You don’t say anything. You still don’t look at him. But you can hear the sincerity in his voice, the aching honesty of it.

If only his words, his willingness to be there even when you’ve pushed him away could make things better.

But you don’t answer him, because you don’t have the strength to. You don’t know what to say.

Spencer sighs quietly, almost like a final surrender, and then you hear his footsteps moving away from you.

The door opens and closes softly behind him, and you’re left alone in the silence of the room once more.

Spencer’s words echo in your mind, but they don’t bring comfort. Not yet.

#spencer reid angst #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader angst #tw: alcholism

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