#and she’s been hinting to my friend more and more over the past 2 years that it’s okay if she’s ‘not into boys’ and her parents will support | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

s4lv4tions · 7 months

Text

numerology; nsfw

pairing; gojo satoru x reader / gojo satoru x geto suguru (past) / geto suguru x reader (past) summary; numerology — the belief in an occult, divine or mystical relationship between a number and one or more coinciding events. or: trying to move on. wc; 13.4k cw; death, angst, requited unrequited love, violence, smut (at the very end, but mentions throughout), canon divergence, spoilers for manga an; if you think you've read this before, you probably have! i posted this on my old tumblr a year or so ago, and it's still available on my ao3. this version is slightly updated and edited, but still diverges from canon as it was created at the start of the culling games arc :)

The first time you bathe with Satoru, he cries.

You don't notice at first; he's quiet — abnormally so —, and his face remains pristine, unchanged. The only hint you get is a small, barely audible sniffle that stops as quickly as it starts — and you think he wants it that way. You don't think he's ever cried in front of anyone.

That's why you don't say anything. Just continue washing the suds from his hair, and pretend that the tears rolling down his cheeks are beads of water dripping from his hair — but you take extra care to massage the conditioner in, and peck his cheek as you finger-comb through silky, cloud-white strands.

It occurs to you afterwards — as he lounges on your bed, scrolling through channels with a wayward hand planted on his stomach — that perhaps, it's the first time somebody has taken care of him. The first time ever, or just the first time since… since…

Geto Suguru's face smiles up at you from your vanity — a tiny polaroid, his face no bigger than the nail of your thumb. Beside him, Satoru grins, cheeky and bright-eyed — you don't think he's ever been any different —, and in the corner, the smudge of your thumb covers the lens. You don’t have to lift the photo and check the back to know what’s written there, in your scratchy, looping scrawl; the strongest, 2006.

"Lord of the Rings?" Satoru calls, carefree as ever. A yawn catches in his throat, and his fingers slip underneath his shirt to scratch absentmindedly at his chest. "Ooh, haven't seen this one yet…"

"Uh, yeah. Sure."

It was a better time. Less pain. Less responsibility. Less death — or maybe the same amount, just shielded by the blinding cover of childhood inexperience. Suguru was still alive and burning bright, Satoru was happy (happier. He didn't cry in the bath, at least). Shoko didn’t self-medicate as intensively as she does now. The days were spent in childish ignorance and stupid indulgence, and even when things seemed their darkest, you never lost hope.

(It probably says a lot about you that, if given the chance, you wouldn't return. Whether that's because of what you know is bound to happen, and the pain is too much to experience again, or because you're so utterly pathetic that you'll take sadness and grief and a tiny shred of affection over… whatever it is you were back then, you don't know. A smudge in the corner of a picture of the jujutsu world's greatest.)

Suguru's eyes seem to burn into you. You turn the picture over, and rejoin Satoru on your bed.

"It's been two years."

Satoru doesn't like to talk after sex. Not in any way that's really meaningful, you mean, nothing that lets you in. He loves jokes, empty small talk, work politics. Chatter that's deep enough to show he cares a little without bearing any part of himself — your injury healed up? When was the last time you had a break? There's a new teppanyaki place in Shinjuku, I'll treat you. Don't work yourself too hard, you'll put me out of business!

If you're being honest, you didn't go into this expecting anything more than a person to scratch an itch with.

You're already friends — though, you're not sure friends totally encapsulates what Satoru is to you, romantic or platonic. You've been friends since you were 12. Satoru, Suguru, you — and then Shoko, when you all met in your first year at Jujutsu Tech. That's how it's always been.

You swear sometimes you know him better than yourself. You swear sometimes it's his voice you think with. Is that what "friends" encompasses? Somehow, it doesn't seem enough.

Whatever. The point is that your relationship with Satoru is already strong; foundations tall and proud and unshakeable. You didn't start fucking Satoru in the hopes of forming a relationship — one was already there.

It's just... Satoru is young, yes, and he enjoys flirting, but (contrary to common belief) he's not all that keen to sleep with the first person who's willing. You don’t say this with the belief that you’re special. It’s just that with work, and especially with — y'know, his… romantic history, Satoru hasn’t found the time or will to just sleep around. At least, according to him.

Sheer willpower isn't enough to make those urges go away, though, and… well, you had them too, and you were willing, and he trusts you. And you'll take anything he'll give you, really, even if it's just scraps. Even if sometimes it makes you feel worse.

Today's one of those days.

You feel sick, after. Not because of him — because of yourself. Your polaroid of Getou and any other photo he's in has been turned over, anything that could remind you of him tucked away, but — but he's everywhere today, everywhere, and you'd fucked Satoru despite it. And Satoru is covered in memories of Getou, of course. Every freckle, every shifting of muscle, every jut of bone — did Getou touch him here? Caress every bit of him he could get his hands on? Tangle his hands in his snow-white hair, breathe against his collarbone?

When you came, you cried. Pretended it was just because it was so intense, but behind your eyelids, dark, cat-like eyes stared back.

"Hm?" Satoru hums as if he didn't hear you, eyes fixed on the TV. Dumb doesn't suit him — it's honestly a bit of an insult for him to even try it. Like you didn't sense the stiffness of his limbs the second he'd stepped inside, or the crumbling edge of his smile, or the way he'd forced you to love him harder — pull his hair harder, scratch his back deeper, his Infinity turned off and his skin yours for the marking.

Satoru's mannerisms are scribed into your brain. You catch yourself emulating them, sometimes; hands waving, head tilting, grin wide and posture open. You wear it like an oversized coat, an ill-fitting costume, and sometimes you wish you could stop taking on pieces of him. The more you take, the more you must throw away — and it's Suguru that your memory discards. You find yourself forgetting how he hummed when he woke up from a nap, or filled his cheeks with food like a hamster; how he scrunched his face up when he laughed, pretty all the while…

The point is that even with his incredible knowledge, his awesome strength, the sheer holiness of his existence — you know Satoru. And the fact that he came to you today isn't mere coincidence.

You decide to come out with it. You've tiptoed around it for 24 months, give or take, had a shockingly brief mourning period before the jujutsu world forced you along, and… even with what he did, Suguru deserves better. "Suguru died today."

A beat of silence. Then:

"Mm, I guess he did."

You'd spent the day staring out at the grey sky, the miserable sight of soaked pavement. Grey, grey, grey. Concrete jungle. Heavy rain clouds and an ocean of multicoloured umbrellas, bobbing and rolling to destinations unknown. You hadn't said it aloud; hadn't even thought of it, specifically. The knowledge of it had just sat over your head like a thick, sweltering fog — and if you know Satoru at all, you know that he'd done the same. Maybe he hid it better.

You don't have to look now to know that his lips are pressed thin. You find the sudden thought of looking him in the eyes daunting, anyways, so you turn onto your side, back facing him, and pick mindlessly at the sheets. You don't want to see what his reaction will be when you say—

"Did you know that I loved him — back then?"

You don't want to see the shock, or the confusion — and you'd rather not see a lack of them, either. What's worse, you wonder — him knowing and loving Suguru too, or not knowing and loving him?

"...Yes."

You screw your eyes shut and try to will away the sudden surge of cold, like a sharpened dagger to your chest.

(It turns out that knowing is much more painful.)

Suguru Geto had been the apple of your eye ever since you'd met. 11 and gangly and stupid in a way that all children were always stupid, Suguru had been a bit kinder than his white-haired counterpart. Satoru, being Satoru Gojo, had grown up with no fear of authority, no mindfulness for his less-powerful peers as anything more than people who existed around him. You and Suguru were allowed the title of friends, but very few were. Anyway — he grew out of that mindset, of course, but your fondness for Suguru stayed.

(Though they'd always seemed to be on another level than you — not even just in terms of power, but… just caught up in each other, always. Suguru had only ever wanted Satoru. And vice versa.)

And then Suguru changed. Right under your nose, he changed, and his sudden quietness made sense. His fatigue. The way his hands would always shake when swallowing an exorcised curse, always had since you were kids, and then suddenly they were ingested with a scary calm. Nobody understands the taste of curses. Not even you, not even when he’d explained it in sickening detail.

You sigh, then. Tired and lethargic and not from physically straining yourself for an hour. This is bone-deep, soul-weary. It's been held in for 730 days, or maybe more. Maybe you've carried it with you since birth. "I never apologised."

"For what?" Satoru asks — and he laughs, jolly, and the sound fits awkwardly in his throat. A clear attempt at feigning indifference, but he's a bad liar. He always has been, because he's never needed to lie. Perks of being the strongest, you guess. You can just come out and say shit — and if you can't, not saying anything technically isn’t lying.

"I hated you, after," you confess. You dig your thumbnail hard intoyour pinky finger, taking momentary refuge in the sharp shock of pain. "I couldn't stand to look at you. When I did, I saw… I saw what you did. What you had, and what you had thrown away. I blamed you for Suguru. I blamed everyone except Suguru."

Another snicker, a bit too humourless. "You can't stand to look at me now."

"I…" You don't know what to say to that.

Truth is, you don't want to see his face. Contorted in pity, or disgust, or sadness for you. You've gotten used to living in his shadow — most everyone has — but that doesn’t ease the ever-present blanket of insecurity that you carry around your shoulders. It doesn’t dull the ache of inferiority you’ve been housing in your chest from the moment you were saddled with your technique. As you aged, you got better at hiding it, and you generally prefer your self-pity to go unnoticed, but Satoru—

He could always read you like a book. And you hated it. You hated being pitied by someone who was as powerful as him — someone as close to God as one could get. It was demeaning. Patronising. It makes you feel like a child again, bowing your head as your mother makes excuses for you.

You shift over — onto your back, and then onto your other side — and you look at him. You force yourself. Blankets pooled around his waist, his skin so pale it could be translucent, eyes icy blue and framed with fluffy white.

"You were forced to do it," you murmur. Your eyes remain trained on his chin — his are much too bright, much too all-seeing for comfort. "If you hadn't, he would've gotten worse. He never would have stopped. You knew that, you always did. It… took me a while to come to terms with it."

Satoru sighs. Then, he slumps down so that — like you — his head rests flat on the pillow, and his body arcs towards yours. He's forced himself into your sights again, in a way that’s gentle, but not so much that you wouldn't be able to figure out what he's doing: forcing you to face him.

"Would it have made you feel better," Satoru begins, reaching forward to brush his fingers against your chin, "if you were there when I did it?"

Would it have?

Would it have given you closure? Would you no longer spend your nights wondering what he'd looked like, what his last words were, his last thoughts? If he had spittled and roared in anger, if he had wept in fear, if he had attempted a smile, a joke? If he thought of you, or if you were just another insignificant blip in his radar?

In your mind, Suguru exists as his 17 year old self — smiling and mischievous, polite yet humorous. He puts extra broccoli on your plate and gently berates you to eat more. He tells you that you're a precious part of the team, that none of them would be who they are without you. He calls you crybaby because you always wear your heart on your sleeve, and tells you not to worry about things you cannot change.

Change what you can. Forget the rest and leave it to me, crybaby.

The bubbling hatred that had festered inside him has no place in your head. You want him to stay as he is, your Suguru that was never yours, shining like gold in your mind.

"No. He hated me at the end, I think," you say quietly. For a second, you dare to meet his eyes — bright and pointed in how they stare at you. You know he can see the tears that have begun to burn in your waterline, the way you ball your fists so hard you dig half-moon into your skin. He doesn’t need to be blessed with the Six Eyes to see.

"I wasn't interested in changing the world like he was, even with my Technique. That made him despise me, I think."

Satoru stares for a few more seconds. You wonder what he's thinking about. A second in your time is a lifetime in Satoru's; he must be thinking hard.

But he blinks, at last; sighs so deeply that his chest caves in with it, before he winds an arm around your waist and pulls you close, bare chest to bare chest, only atomic space between you.

There's nothing sexual about it. You're nothing but bones and skin and blood, here. He moulds your head to his shoulder with one large hand and cocoons you in his embrace, warm. Protected. You're not sure who the action is meant to comfort.

And just when you think the conversation is over — just when minutes have passed with nothing but the sound of the TV between you both — he speaks.

"Suguru could never hate you. Trust me."

You don't want to know what that means. You're only beginning to get over it, two years later.

Satoru is holding three onigiri in one hand, and two Starbucks' cups in the other — extra sugar, extra cream, extra ice, extra unicorn-marketing, just the way you both like it.

"There she is!" Is the first thing he says as he meets you just outside the metro, grinning.

It's sweltering hot today — the sun had risen early and would surely set late, and Satoru seems to be taking advantage of it. Gone is his Jujutsu Tech uniform and thick blindfold, but he's stuck with the all-black theme like he usually does — black jeans, black linen shirt, black socks and shoes. Even the frames of his sunglasses are black.

(Handsome. He's handsome. He's always been handsome — years later, you'd think you'd stop feeling the effects of it.)

Lucky for him. You're not, y'know, the strongest sorcerer in the last century, so there's no leeway for you — and even in your summer uniform, the skirt and short-sleeved blouse, you're sweating. Your only respite is that the combined force of you and Satoru will mean this mission is going to be a breeze.

Satoru tsks. "Took your time. I almost ate your onigiri."

A man nearby jogs past, clearly in a rush, and Satoru has to step closer to you to avoid him. He could've stayed still. He wouldn't have touched him, anyway, with his Limitless.

"And you would've had to buy another, genius."

A pout. "You only love me for my bank account, don't you?"

(He's joking. It's a joke.

But your hand shakes — a miniscule tremor — as you reach out to take one of the cups, and you know he sees it because he's Satoru and he sees everything. You turn away as quickly as you can, setting off in the direction of whatever place it is you're here for, and pretend that the fact that he can say it so casually doesn't kinda fucking hurt.

(He could never say it like that with Suguru — so bluntly, so crassly. Not without softened eyes and softened smiles and a gentle tilt of his head — those are mannerisms reserved only for him, never to be seen again. Instead, you get snickers and digs in the arm and teasing pulls of your hair. Of course it’s a joke. That’s all you are.

Perhaps you should just be grateful for what you get. Perhaps you should try to stop comparing yourself to a man you once loved. Perhaps you should try to stop comparing yourself to a dead man. Perhaps, in the end, you just love the pain of it all.))

"Yeah," you reply, taking a large, sugary sip. "And don't you forget it, either."

Satoru catches up to you quickly, effortlessly; his arm flops around your shoulder as he tugs you in the opposite direction, chastising you for going the wrong way — but it stays there long after it needs to.

Itadori Yuuji — Sukuna's dead-but-not-really vessel — thinks your cursed technique is powerful. He thinks it’s amazing that you can use reverse cursed technique — you must be really powerful, right? Gojo-sensei says you’re special grade. He also thinks you're very pretty. He tells you this over his fourth grilled pork belly wrap — this one bursting at the seams with kimchi, garlic, and roasted sesame seeds.

He doesn't say it in a flirtatious way — it's just an observation to him, simple and blunt, and you figure he has about as much of a filter as Satoru does.

"O-oh," you say, metal tongs frozen over the sizzling meat. "Thank you, Yuuji."

You had briefly met him for the first time before his death — Nobara, too. Megumi, the third piece of the golden trio, has been something of a little brother ever since Satoru had taken him in, and you know him well enough to know that Yuuji's death (or lack thereof) is weighing on him terribly.

(There are too many parallels you could make. Suguru and Satoru. Haibara and Nanami.)

Hiding it does make you feel guilty. To experience that grief, that loss — even if it will soon go away when Yuuji rejoins jujutsu society — isn’t something to take lightly. But Yuuji needs a guide that isn’t completely off the rails. Satoru and you balance each other out, and balance seems to be something Yuuji needs.

He reminds you terribly of Satoru when he was younger. Maybe that's why you have such a fond spot for him — he's too goofy and well-meaning and genuine to dislike.

"Why are you acting surprised?" Gripes Satoru, chewing with his mouth open. "I tell you that all the time."

Your eyes narrow. You place a perfectly cooked slice of marinated beef on his plate. "You're you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He whines. "We're best friends, crybaby!"

"You don't say I'm powerful. You say I'm helpful. There's a difference. And don’t call me that."

"Is there?" Satoru asks, turning to Yuuji for guidance. The teen boy shrugs, preoccupied by assembling his newest monstrosity. "I call you pretty, too."

"Yeah, when—"

When you're eight inches deep in me, face buried in my neck, trying to get yourself off. Your cheeks flush with warmth at the thought, and you shut your mouth. Yuuji doesn't notice your slip up, busy as he is; Satoru does completely, and fixes you with a grin so sharp that you vow to not give him any more meat until Yuuji is completely full.

"It's not the same," you say, voice final. It's a lighthearted lunch. You don't want to ruin it by getting touchy over semantics, and that's exactly what'll happen if you keep going. "You say it to reward me. Like tossing a dog a bone."

You reach for the scissors to snip the meat into little pieces — and in doing so, you miss the brief frown that presses against Satoru's brow.

Neither of you say anything more on the matter.

Satoru has known you for five years when he realises that he resents you. Not completely, and not for one particular or solid reason, either. He prefers not to think about it, in any case, because you're one of his closest friends — and even at 17, he knows that that's hard to come by. Especially as the Strongest.

Satoru stares up at his ceiling; stares at the miniature striations only he can see, the starburst-shaped gyrations of clay used to finish it off.

Tonight, he's thinking about it. And many other things.

He hates that you're so hesitant about everything — he hates that you believe yourself so weak that you have to tiptoe. You, with your reverse cursed technique — which is a feat in and of itself — that could transcend time and space, just like he could. A technique passed down for hundreds and hundreds of years, accumulating power all the while…

(Your technique has lots of rules and regulations, of course. A handicap, and he understands it frustrates you, but his own frustration eclipses his understanding. Why should someone so strong feel anything but their own strength?)

He hates that you curl in on yourself when you're sad, or lonely, or angry. He hates that you wear your heart on your sleeve — he's never allowed himself to, not fully. He can't, never fully, because there are people who are watching him, people who hate him, people who want him dead. He can joke. He can make his political desires clear — but he can’t love like he wants to, and God forbid he cries.

He hates that you close your eyes and bask when it's sunny, like a cat in a sunspot; hates that you remember that he doesn't like chicken wings and prefers thighs; he especially hates that you watch over Suguru like it's your job, when Suguru doesn't need it.

And some part of Satoru hates Suguru, too. It was strange for him to come to terms with it, fond of him as he is, but as he grows Satoru realises that there's no love of his that isn't closely affiliated with hate. It makes the love all the more strong.

Satoru, for one, dislikes how polite Suguru is, even when he doesn't need to be. He hates that Suguru becomes a straight-faced, unfeeling thing when he's upset, and tries to hide it — the emptiness in his eyes unsettles him like nothing else.

Most of all, above all, Satoru hates that Suguru loves you, crybaby, and is too pussy to do shit about it. Satoru doesn't understand why, anyways, because he'd made it clear that if he wanted, Suguru could have you both and Satoru wouldn't care. Usually, the thought would offend him. How can you love someone when you already love me? When you've already sworn yourself to me? You already have the strongest, who else do you need?

But… he doesn't know. He kinda understands. You're precious to him, too, after all, sunflower soaking up the sun.

Like he said: there's no love of his that isn’t closely affiliated with hate.

Six and a half hours after the hours-long meeting that followed the ruined School Goodwill Event, you find yourselves in a diner somewhere in Harajuku. It’s one of those weird fusion places, loaning ornamentation and tokens from classic American diners, serving omurice with fries, sushi with mashed potatoes, with a cute little mascot that looks like Elvis. It’s loud enough and bright enough to make you feel timeless. It's a sensation you can appreciate.

Something’s been telling you that time’s ticking, and you’re not quite sure what it is. Trauma, probably. Anxiety. The fact that curses have been banding together, learning spoken language, amassing power — planning an attack on Jujutsu Tech, gaining intelligence, gaining anger.

Satoru doesn’t say it — doesn’t want to say it — but you think it’s unnerved him, too. The last time outsiders entered school grounds was… two years ago, wasn’t it? It’s crazy. Everything always seems to lead back to Suguru.

The attack has fueled something in both of you, anyways; something that makes you both stay up instead of knocking out like you usually do; something that makes you both hungry and restless and liable to travel across Tokyo past midnight. By public transport, no less. No warping or high-speed flying for you, tonight.

But you appreciate it. And you think that Satoru is taking things slow for the same reasons you want to — to take things in, to appreciate what you never think to appreciate. To admire the mundane, even for a little while. Satoru’s less emotionally attached to the jujutsu-less aspects of life than you are — bullet trains and waiting in line and standing on the train platform, escalators and traffic — but he enjoys them all the same when he has time to. And it’s not often The Strongest gets to experience pure, genuine normality, too, so maybe sitting in this gaudy diner and watching the world pass you by is a luxury he rarely affords himself.

He orders the most complicated drink they have — a sakura-caramel milkshake topped with whipped cream, glacé cherries, and an entire slice of cheesecake. He’s down to the last dregs of melting cream within 10 minutes, swiping fries from your plate between sips, ignoring your chides of rotten teeth and high blood sugar.

Blindfold swapped for glasses. Strands of hair drifting down against his forehead.

You’re always reminded at the worst times of how handsome he is. It’s not like it’s a secret, or he’s unaware of it — and he takes pride in his looks, if his extensive skincare shelf and general attitude is anything to go by — but he puts much more stock in his strength, in his usefulness to others, his intelligence. The things he can provide for others. Not many people realise that.

Maybe you shouldn’t act so high and mighty. It’s not like you don’t appreciate his appearance as much as the next person — hell, half the time you’re trying to stop it from distracting you — but maybe you get a pass. Y’know, as a person who actually has reason to marvel over the stretch of his neck and the flush of his cheeks and how his lips go the prettiest pink when you kiss him. Or the cords of muscle along his arms; the slender-yet-thick bands of muscle of his chest and legs. The large, veiny expanse of hand — slim, delicate fingers wrapped around a paper straw…

"Are you gonna eat those?" Says Satoru, slurping obnoxiously. “Haven't eaten since dinner."

You push the basket across the table, uncharacteristically void of argument. "Go crazy."

Satoru sets his empty glass aside, but the straw remains in one hand. The other he uses to pluck up fries, 4 or 5 at a time, his gaze suddenly fixed on you as he chews nonchalantly.

"Y'know," he says, licking salt from his fingertips, jabbing the straw in your direction, "I can always tell when you're horny."

"Excuse me?"

"You squirm," Satoru continues — matter-of-fact, casual, as if he's talking about the weather. "And you get quiet.”

“I’m a quiet person,” you snap, nails pressing against your palms under the table. “Sorry I know when to shut the fuck up—”

“And then you get flustered. And when you’re flustered, or embarrassed, you get angry.” He raises his hand — signals the cute waitress for another basket of fries, and leans back with his arms splayed along the back of the booth. “Don’t look so surprised! How long have we known each other?”

If you were a better person, you’d probably admit that yes, he’s right. You do get quiet when you’re horny, and you do get angry when you’re flustered — if you were a worse person, though, you’d remark on how you're the first person he crawls to when he’s sad, or overwhelmed. How getting you into bed and losing yourselves in each other is a sort of therapy for him. How he always tries to distract you with cheeky grins and sly, flirty comments, but then afterwards he cries in the bath as you clean him up.

You don't say that, obviously. Seems like a pretty shitty thing to bring up today of all days. He'd probably deny it anyways, but you don't think it's a coincidence that the attack has left him restless and he obviously wants to take you home.

The new fries are delivered to the table, but he looks right past them. He bows his head slightly, glasses slipping a little further down his nose so that his white-framed eyes peek over the top of them.

"Let's warp home," Satoru says — and oh. There's that voice. That drop in tone, that lack of boisterous humour he always employs. It's soft enough to have goosebumps rising on the back of your arms, smooth enough to have you squirming — yes, squirming, you admit it — in your seat. "Alright?"

"Yes." And it's embarrassingly breathless, and embarrassingly quick, but Satoru doesn't tease you. Just smiles, raises a hand for the bill, and watches you all the while.

You count seven stitches in the forehead of Geto Suguru.

Count, because it's all you can do. Everything else is lost to you.

Breathing.

Standing.

It feels like even your heart has stalled. Because—

Because—

Because Geto Suguru is dead. Dead, in the ground, no longer breathing, no longer living. Satoru had killed him. Satoru had demolished him.

The lips of the Geto in front of you twist — a sickening, stomach-turning imitation of the smile you once adored. On his face it's a sneer, a mockery. Your Suguru did not smile like this when you knew him.

"Hello," he greets pleasantly. His arms are hidden within the sleeves of his yukata. Hair down. Suguru always tended to wear his hair up, unless he was fresh out of the shower. Unless he was upset. It was too much hassle to take care of. You know when he took over the Time Vessel Association and donned the gojo-kesa he began wearing it down. "_____ _____, yes?"

You can't answer. Your ears are ringing. Your stomach gives a worrying lurch that winds up your throat — you think you're going to be sick.

How? Why? Who — who is this in front of you? Because it's not Geto, not Suguru — and you don't say that because of longing or a pathetic desire for ignorance. This thing feels wrong. Inherently, blasphemously wrong. Looking at him for too long makes your cursed energy prickle. Seeing Suguru's image painted in such slimy, rancid energy has you gasping for breath.

Satoru, your mind whispers. Satoru needs to know.

He should. He needs to. But this pseudo-Geto does not look friendly in the slightest, and you are isolated.

Looking back, it had seemed fine to go alone to exorcise curses in the belly of Tokyo's metro. Taking old service tunnels and eventually entering abandoned tracks hadn't felt scary. You're a semi-special grade sorcerer with years of experience under your belt and a powerful cursed technique that could get you out of most, if not all, pinches, restrictions and regulations be damned.

"I'm sure you're very confused. I apologise, really…"

The reality of the situation hits you. Maybe hit is the wrong word — it doesn’t come as a bloody, stinging smack in the face. It’s a trickle of ice-cold water down the nape of your neck, drawing dread from your head all the way into the pit of your stomach. You don't think this is a pinch you'll come out of — at least not battered half to death, especially when a silver-haired curse decorated with stitches steps out from behind pseudo-Geto. The curse Kento had fought. The one that he said to look out for. Patchwork.

Immediately, you know fighting isn't an option. But what else is there to do, in the face of pseudo-Geto and his silver-haired, sentient curse? Your technique may not be limitless in your possession, but in theirs? If they did to you what they did to so many others — transfiguring you past the point of recognition, stealing your body and technique, desecrating your corpse with cursed energy…

"I can feel it from here," titters the curse excitedly. "So warm… I have to have it! Her soul, I have to have it!"

Fuck.

You could try to escape, but you wouldn't have enough time to run past them and through the winding corridors of the underground, even while distracting them with your cursed technique. They'd catch you within seconds. You’re sure they have curses lurking around waiting to thwart you, too.

You could burst directly into the layers of concrete and metal above — use your technique to revert them back millions and millions and years to their very first forms, atoms and subatomic particles, and then rebuild them up as an ascending platform — but that would take too much time, and you'd be completely defenceless while you did. Not to mention the toll it'd take on you.

(Not to mention the fact that you'd be bursting into the public eye from a giant crater in the ground.)

"I'm sure you know what I'm going to do," continues pseudo-Geto, amiable. "I would ask you to join us, but I know that is impossible. Therefore, there is only one course of action."

Can't fight. Can't escape. Can't get answers. Can't stay clueless. How contradictory.

You're not dying, that's all you know. And if you have to do the one thing you never wanted to do, then so be it. Anything is better than death. Death is not an escape, in this scenario — it’s a guarantee of imprisonment.

"It's a shame," pseudo-Geto sighs, bloodlust swelling. "Such a waste of a good technique."

You make a Binding Vow with yourself within seconds.

Using a magnitude of cursed energy usually out of your reach, your entire body will be reduced to atoms — intangible, untrappable, unkillable — for as long as it takes to retreat to safety. In return, you will be unable to think, unable to move according to your own will, only a mere pawn to entropy as the rest of the galaxy is — high risk, high reward.

There are many things that could go wrong.

In reducing yourself to essentially nothing, in splitting your cursed energy into billions of particles, you could reach a state of such low cursed energy concentration that you are, for all terms and purposes, considered dead. In doing so, your Binding Vow could break, and you would be unable to return to living.

Or you could float for days, weeks, years — safety is subjective, subjective is dangerous when it comes to contracts, and you can only hope that your own understanding of it sets the standard.

It's either this, this fleeting, terrifying chance, or death. With one, you can return to your school, your students, your Satoru — you can tell them what happened. You can bring justice to whoever has disturbed Suguru from his slumber. With the other — nothing. Just plain, utter nothingness forever and ever.

(You know which you'd rather.)

The last thing you recall, in spotty haziness, is the heart-stopping sight of Suguru surging towards you, eyes bloodthirsty, face contorted in malice.

The last thing you hope is that Satoru isn't too upset about the risk you've taken.

Eight days after your solo mission, you resurface — a discombobulated, stumbling mess on the outskirts of Shibuya, eyes glazed and mouth stuttering over syllables. A nearby Window calls the college within seconds, and Gojo is there just as soon — hands shaking when he grasps your arm and turns you to face him, fingers trembling when he cups your cheeks and brushes them under your eyes.

It’s you. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you, and he can breathe, he can fucking breathe, his chest is lighter than it’s been for those entire 8 days — all the while, he burns with an anger so intense it hurts. And Satoru is no stranger to anger, of course — knows it as intimately as he knows himself — but he's not sure if he can remember the last time it had rendered him breathless, trembling. Bloodthirsty.

It's not the time to think about it. Not when you're shaking in his arms, so frail and weak everywhere except your hands — no, your hands remain strong, fingers digging into his clothes and skin. He turns off his Infinity. The sting of your touch grounds him.

Shoko is already waiting in the clinic for him — she’d been preparing ever since the call first came in. The students (the ones on campus, at least) crowd together at a distance, buzzing anxiously as Satoru disappears swiftly into the depths of the infirmary with you in his arms.

Bad things happen often. Too often. Satoru isn’t sure whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing that they haven’t gotten used to it yet.

“Gibberish,” Satoru answers when Shoko asks if you’ve said anything competent since he picked you up. “Just gibberish.”

Shoko is poking and prodding you with the usual doctor's shit — stethoscopes and thermometers and that blood pressure band that goes around your arm — and you just lay there and take it. Head rocking side to side, limbs trembling, mouth lolling open, and Satoru's trying not to lose his head because what good is taking your temperature? Do you look like you have a fucking cold? Is the way your eyes focus and unfocus normal? The way you can’t string together two syllables that make fucking sense?

But even with how he can see your cells malfunctioning all over your body, Shoko knows more about this shit than him. So he sits pretty on her swivelling chair, twisting back and forth, body the image of boredom but mind anything but. Time and time again, he’s reminded of how unprejudiced tragedy is — how it leaves no hint, no mark of itself, no time to prepare for the toll of it all.

Satoru had greeted you briefly before you’d left. Said something about getting lunch together, that you better be careful because you were treating him — the same shit he said time and time again, his real plea hidden within the folds and twists of his jokes and quips. Be careful. Don’t die. I can’t lose you. You’re precious to me.

You’ll be okay. You have to be — he won’t allow anything otherwise. But if he’d known last week that you’d end up like this, would he have said those things out loud? He doesn’t think so. He’s cowardly in that way.

A few moments later, Shoko straightens up. Immediately reaches into the pocket of her lab coat and pulls out a cigarette and a rusting lighter, and is puffing out clouds of bitter air just seconds later.

Shit. That’s not a good sign.

Shoko sighs. Rubs at her dark undereye circles and only makes them worse, taps her cigarette so that the ash falls to the floor. “I know what it is.”

Well fucking tell him instead of keeping it in!

“Oh?” Satoru says instead, leaning forward onto his knees. “What is it, then?”

“She used her technique on herself.”

“She does that all the time to heal."

“She didn’t heal herself,” Shoko snaps — and Satoru remembers that he’s not the only person you’re important to. That while he and Suguru had gotten ahead of themselves being the strongest, they’d left you and Shoko to stroll humbly along your own paths. The only girls in their year. The only person Shoko could fully confide in, really — at least in Tokyo —, the only person who had bothered to check up on her when she drank too much, smoked too much. Even if Shoko hated it.

Shoko is upset. Satoru doesn't what to do with it.

(Alcohol — she likes alcohol. Satoru reminds himself to pick up the most expensive bottle of the stuff the next time he's out.)

(No. She’s trying not to drink so much, isn’t she?)

(Whatever. Life is short.)

“She dissipated herself.”

Satoru knows about your technique intimately enough that it immediately gives him pause — but he runs over the details in his head, just in case, as if it isn’t already imprinted on the flesh of his skull.

Your cursed technique allows you to disassemble items down to their most basic units — subatomic particles — while your reverse cursed technique allows you to reassemble them. Items can be reassembled into their previous form, or to another related form, but you cannot exceed the item’s natural entropy threshold. If you do, the item cannot be reverted back to a physical state, and you will bear the brunt of the resulting shift in energy.

It's a finicky technique. Finicky and fickle and the risks tend to outweigh the rewards — but you'd always used it so elegantly, so gracefully. Even when you doubted yourself, you had a handle on it. Satoru admired that about you.

("You don't say I'm powerful. You say I'm helpful. There's a difference."

You'd said that to him once, when he brought you and Yuuji to lunch. You'd acted like it didn't bother you but he could tell it did — he didn't need his Six Eyes to notice how your nose twitched and your eyes narrowed, displeased.

But Satoru believes in two types of helpfulness.

The kind he is — powerful, needed, a force to be reckoned with. Someone that keeps things afloat, that acts as a beacon in the dark.

Then there's the other kind. The usefulness of pawns, of bait. Necessary, but not fundamental. Desired, sure, but rarely crucial.

You've always been the first. Always. You and him and Suguru and Shoko, always. Even he could admit that.)

You disassembled yourself into atoms. Into nothingness. You lost your mind, your body, your energy, everything—

Satoru sighs. He's been doing that a lot today.

“I didn’t know she could do that,” Satoru says. His throat is covered in a layer of sawdust. He can’t remember the last time he had to actually focus on not throwing up. “Why would she do that?”

“She talked about it, before,” Shoko says. She leans against the bed you’re laying on, gazing over her shoulder — and the way she looks at you turns his stomach, the upturn of her brows, the sad downturn of her mouth. It’s as if you’re already dead. As if she’s looking at a living corpse. “Just… as a theory. A last resort to help her get away, if needed, but—”

“But what?”

“She knew she didn’t have the power for it,” Shoko mutters. Breathes another puff of cigarette smoke. “If she tried, she'd end up just… fading away. In breaking herself up, she'd negate the cursed energy that gives her the power to put herself together.

"And the side effects would be… well, you can see that for yourself. Stupid, so fucking stupid…”

“Well, obviously she has the power for it,” Satoru murmurs. “Or made the power for it.”

“A binding vow?”

Satoru shrugs. Clenches his jaw, watching as you scratch at the faux-leather underneath you. “It'd make sense. Explains how she put herself back together."

(But for what? What could have driven you to such lengths?

A curse like Jogo wouldn't be all too difficult for you to defeat.

So who…?)

Shoko hums. She stares into space for a moment, eyes unfocused, and for a moment Satoru sees her younger self — the one who just started smoking, just started drinking, who carried the weight of all the people she healed (and those she'd failed to) tucked in her pocket. The Shoko that would make sarcastic quips and humble them when they needed humbling, but humour them when she knew the outcome would be funny.

A time when they had very little responsibility. Even him, shackled with it since birth. Comparing his duty from then to now is like comparing a boulder to the weight of the world.

He feels very old, suddenly, at 28.

"There's nothing I can do for her," Shoko says, softly. Regretfully. "If she did make a binding vow, I can only assume she made a condition about returning to normal. If so…"

Satoru can’t do anything about it, basically, she explains. Your condition is one that will only heal with time, patience, and the odd boost from Shoko’s technique. Maybe, she says — she's still unsure about that last bit.

It sickens him. It festers as a deep, curdling annoyance in his bones, his uselessness. It’s a sensation he had only felt once before, standing before the slumped-over body of Geto Suguru. Nothing he could do for him except put him out of his misery, and even then that felt like a cop-out.

So… he can't go directly after the thing that had forced your hand, because they had left no trace. He can't heal you, either. He can't take care of you while your body repairs itself, while your supposed binding vow returns you to your rightful state — that duty will fall to Shoko, or one of her interns.

He can do nothing. And Satoru is nothing if he cannot be of use.

Nine months after the events of the culling games, Satoru enters your room to see you sitting up — eyes wide, eyes seeing, and it only takes you fixing him with a single look to know that you're okay.

(Subjectively. Relatively.)

Suguru Getou — Kenjaku — is finally dead — exorcised. He’s not sure which is the right word to use. All of his allies, killed or exorcised too. Nanami, murdered. Nobara, comatose. Yaga, dead. Inumaki, Maki, Okkotsu, maimed; the great houses of sorcery destroyed and rebuilt in the image of Satoru’s will.

Itadori Yuuji — dead. Sukuna Ryomen — exorcised.

Adding up the gains, subtracting the losses, carrying the ones… Both sides seem to have lost pretty evenly. And he should be happy about it, too; things could have turned out much worse. And they would have, too, if he hadn’t pushed himself out of his pouting and escaped the prison realm — a feat that was half out of spite and half concern for the outside world, and maybe a little curiosity. Rage. Longing to see the bastard who’d stolen Suguru’s face and body, who dared to reanimate him and rouse him from peace — longing to slaughter the thing that had rendered you bedridden and half-mad for months.

He had been the one to kill Kenjaku. It only felt right to be the one to do so — he’d killed Suguru, after all; had been the one to leave him defenceless and open to manipulation. If Suguru hadn’t been dead, Kenjaku wouldn’t have been able to steal his body.

Of course, Satoru ignored the fact that the very last rotten, desperate dregs of Suguru would have enjoyed Kenjaku’s plan — it was the only way he was able to keep his eyes open when he blasted his brain to bits. It was hard enough the first time.

All of these things sit on his tongue, bitter and souring and curdling — every detail of the battle, of the culling games, the colleagues and peers and students he’d held in his arms, the ones he’d comforted as they slipped away, the ones he’d reassured and promised.

(Pink, blood-covered hair; a smile that never dimmed, a nervous murmur (“It’s okay, Gojo-sensei. I know what I got into.”). The shaky laugh that had followed.)

Satoru’s hands tremble at his sides.

Your eyes are wet with tears when you look at him.

“How long has it been?” You croak — voice dry and cracked with disuse, whining in some parts, low and wheezing in others. Bone-deep, the fear in your voice, and for good reason — things had already been at a boiling point when you’d been taken down. Everything had moved past you. “Satoru—?”

Another selfish decision on his part: he doesn’t tell you. At least, not now, when the words threaten to vomit out of his mouth, when the pain is suddenly too fresh and too raw.

(For one strange, too-long second, he’s reminded of his mother — weak, presence-less, powerless as she was. Empty-eyed and unhappy. She was hardly even a mother with the amount of governesses he had.

Somehow, though, every problem would seem worse when her eyes were upon him; every cut and bruise was more painful; every slight against him a grave insult; every mistake a cause for self-pity and temper tantrums — and none of it mattered, as long as she took him into her arms.

A rarity, yes, but… maybe one of the only fond memories he has of his childhood in the Gojo household.

Satoru feels like a kid again — suddenly sniffling from a bruise he swore didn’t hurt, his mother ready to pat his head and baby him and coo his name. Satoru. Not Gojo-sama.)

He crosses the room and plants himself upon your bed and takes you into his arms for the first time in months, and—

And for the first time since Yuuji’s death, since Nanami’s, since Suguru’s, since your injuries—

He cries. Openly. Heaving, chest-wrecking sobs; red, wet nose and ugly whimpers. It’s overwhelming. It’s cathartic. It makes the pain worse, for a second, before it begins to taper out in a bruising wave; with it, he remembers his darling underclassmen who died, his colleagues that he’d wanted to live at least a few more years; he remembers that despite years of being told so, he’s not God — he couldn’t stop Yuuji’s death, or Suguru’s, or Toge losing his arms, or—

“Thirteen months,” he manages to get out. “Thirteen months — you couldn’t talk, or move properly, or—”

Satoru grabs handfuls of you — hair, waist, belly, it doesn’t matter. He can feel you beneath his skin. Rushing, pounding blood, cells, micromolecules — and he doesn’t need to, but he engages his Six Eyes for a moment — actually engages them, doesn’t let them run unconsciously in the background. It’s a comfort to let himself see each receptor interact with each signal on each plasma membrane, to let himself see the tissues that formed organs that formed organ systems forming you, breathing, living, sentient—

He kisses you — or you kiss him, he’s not sure — but it’s far more intimate, far more tender than any touch he’d delivered unto you; hands clutching the sides of your face, your fingers digging into his wrists. You’re crying, salt on his tongue — and he only knows they’re not his own tears because you give a great, shuddering sob when you part, trembling like a leaf in the wind.

“I had to,” you gasp, and he wants to tell you that he knows, he knows, he doesn’t blame you, sweet girl — did what you had to do to live, to survive— “I had to—”

“Only go where I can follow, okay?" His eyes are burning again, voice cracking with the promise, regardless of the fact that he’d rather you do it 100 times over than die. But it's the only way he can tell you he loves you without telling you he loves you, and he can't remember the last time he said the words aloud.

(He does. He remembers. And he remembers that Suguru wouldn't mind if he said it to you — that Suguru loved you as he loves you. And he remembers that Suguru is dead and doesn't have an opinion anymore, so it really doesn't matter, anyways.)

Satoru calls Shoko when he rights himself, barely pulling back from your embrace to text her something barely understandable and hurried. You don't say much while he does; still acclimating to being aware, being awake — he catches you with your eyes screwed shut and your nose buried in his jacket, fingers tight on his arms again. Grounding yourself. Reminding yourself that you're alive, and with him.

Shoko scolds you between rummaging around for a thermometer and scribbling your prescription in messy, barely legible cursive — calls you a dumb bitch for doing what you did, tells you that you owe her a bottle of wine and a trip to a fancy hot spring, and it all seems a little lighter.

(She cries a little — if the slight glassiness of her eyes can be considered crying. Satoru only teases her a bit for it, though you're quick to mention how he'd blubbered like a baby when he saw you, and he's humbled quickly.

It's the most normal he's felt in weeks.)

Shoko clears away after a few hours — gives you strict orders to rest, and sends him a knowing look that he's not all too sure of the meaning of.

"You look tired, Satoru," you finally say when you're alone again. Your smile is sad, knowing, and Satoru curses it all. You deserve a grace period, a moment of ignorance before the grief settles in. "What happened?"

But when have you ever wanted a moment of ignorance? When has he ever been able to hide the truth of things from you? When have you ever been anything but his equal, his confidant?

"Everything," Satoru says. A short, humourless laugh punctuates his single-worded sentence. "Everything, crybaby. Everything that we thought could happen, and everything we thought couldn't."

A flicker of a smile — uncomfortable, flat. Your eyes flicker down to the bland, starched sheets of the hospital bed. "Did you see him?"

He doesn't need you to elaborate. There's really only one person you both mean when you say him.

"Yes."

"Who was he?"

Satoru shifts in his seat. "An ancient sorcerer named Kenjaku. His cursed technique allowed him to transplant his brain between bodies and possess them."

"And he chose Suguru."

"Yes. And many others, too."

"And you killed him."

"Yes. For Suguru, and for you. But mostly for Suguru.”

“I’m glad,” you say, but your fingers twist the sheets tightly. “When I saw him, I was angry. So angry, I… I wanted to kill him. I knew I wasn’t strong enough, and I knew he would kill me, but for a second—”

He understands. God, does he understand. “You wanted to take the risk.” No matter the cost, no matter the damage to your own body. Anger like that consumes.

“I did.” You swallow. Your eyes meet his. “It was like… adding insult to injury. As if it’s not enough that Suguru is dead, but this — this Kenjaku has to puppeteer him too. Disturb his peace."

The wind rustles the trees outside. The late-afternoon gold of the sun settles along the horizon, a burning orange that stretches the shadows and warms the wind and turns the side of your face honey-soft and sad.

“But I realised that I was probably the first person he’d revealed himself to," you continue, "so I was the only one that could warn you."

Always thinking about the good of others. It was another thing he admired about you — Nanami, too. Satoru, for all his big talk about changing the world of jujutsu, about being better than those who came before him, is really quite selfish.

It's why his hands had trembled when he'd had to kill Yuuji. It's why he couldn't put Suguru in the ground the first time they met after he became a curse user. Even when he knows things are necessary, he tries his damnedest to hold on — just for the chance of it all. The chance that Suguru could change his mind. The chance that Sukuna could be removed from Yuuji without him needing to die.

"And…”

One snow-white brow raises. “And?”

“You’ve already lost too many people that you love,” you say simply, shrugging — like it's a simple fact, no need for experimentation, no need for an academic paper complete with its own abstract and footnotes. Like you've always known, in some little way, but you're only able to bring yourself to say it now.

And Satoru — well, it's no secret to him, is it? He's known it since he was 13, 14, 15 — had a bit of a buffering period, sure — and now here at 28, he knows it just as well. The point is that you're not supposed to know. Not while you're still healing from Suguru and… being attacked by fake-Suguru.

Regardless of what he knows and how long he's known it, Satoru feels his throat begin to close up, twisting and turning and holding his breath tight. He doesn’t like the feeling.

“Love?” He echoes. His voice has gotten a little empty. It's too soon for him to say it aloud, he thinks. It was okay when he whispered it in his head after making love to you; it was easy when he grinned at your scrunched up nose and scoffed comments and thought fuck, I love you. It was easy when he could pretend it was a simple, passing comment, a trick of the mind — but having it said as fact?

Not so simple. But you don’t need to know that. “Is that so?"

You don't seem to notice his momentary pause — a lifetime of rambling in his time, a second's hesitation in regular time — too busy staring at the space where his fingers stretch apart over the sheets. Just inches away from yours. "We're friends, aren't we?"

Oh.

"Oh." Satoru blinks back. "Oh, yeah. Best friends, you and I, crybaby."

"I know it's normal for us," you say, ploughing ahead, "to just lose and lose and keep losing, but… I'll be honest. I never fully got used to it, and I don't want to."

He wishes he could say the same, but he can't.

He understands, in some capacity. Nobody wants to see the people around them die, a continuous and vicious cycle. Nobody wants to get so used to loss that most funerals no longer hold any emotional significance. But getting used to it had saved him. Getting used to it helped him act without consequence, without remorse, and that's what the battlefield both needs and requires of him.

He could count on both hands the people he wants to save in this world — about half of them were dead, at this point. A lot of them died while he was imprisoned. Two, he had to kill himself. He swore he'd protect the rest with all Six Eyes, every non-existent boundary of his Limitless.

So Satoru doesn't care much about getting used to death and dying and loss and grief. As long as you're okay, he's okay. As long as his job as the Strongest is done, everything is as it should be.

He doesn't say that to you, of course. You'd probably curse him out and call him a heartless bastard. Instead, he nods, hums and agrees and tells you the names of those who died when you work up the courage to ask.

It's a long night. It's an even longer list.

10.

Shoko keeps you for observation for 10 days after you wake up — three days longer than necessary, but she won't hear it from him, no matter how many times he reminds her that technically she falsified her degree—

He's joking. Mostly.

Satoru volunteers himself to help you back home, taking with you the plastic bag filled with your cleaned sorcerer's garb and weapon. He carries it over his shoulder along with two teddy bears, a half-wilted bouquet of tulips and a half-eaten box of chocolates (all courtesy of the second years — except for the chocolates, which are half-eaten because of him). He winds his other arm around your waist even though you can walk perfectly fine, but — it's just in case. Purely precautionary. For once, you don’t argue about being babied.

In the midday sun outside, you tilt your head back and close your eyes and smile. For a moment, it's as if the sadness has melted away from you — the tears you shed over Yuuji, Nanami, Suguru. The tears you shed over him, and he wasn't even dead. Satoru is glad your eyes are closed — even beneath his sunglasses, it's painfully obvious that he's staring.

You decide to take the subway home — it's my first time outside in almost a year, you remind him, so he pushes down any arguments he might have and enjoys the too-cramped journey towards Akihabara. You’re both shoved standing together, between a panicked looking man holding a tray of coffee and a woman with her child hanging about her legs, your head bobbing against his chest as the train moves.

For a moment — as the train passes momentarily out of the underground and becomes encapsulated in light — it's easy to drown in the normalcy of it all. For a moment, he sees himself looking in as a stranger would. Here, he isn't the Six Eyes; just a simple man taking his girlfriend home, standing close on the train, wishing to be closer. Riding home to your shared apartment where he'll peel oranges and feed them to you, where he'll lay his head in your lap and hold your hands to his heart.

His nose wrinkles. He prefers reality, he thinks, where he can be powerful and have you by his side; where he can protect you, uphold peace, change the jujutsu world for the best — and then go home all the same, and have you to hold.

"What are you thinking about?" You mumble against his collar.

"Oranges," he replies.

"I don't have any at home," you say, "or if I did, they're rotted."

"Don't worry — we cleaned your kitchen up. Me and the kids." It was an afternoon of Yuuji attempting to shove rotting potatoes in Nobara's face. That was before Shibuya; before everything, really.

"Oh? You got your hands dirty?"

Satoru tries to not think about that same beaming, smiling Yuuji's last breaths. "Of course! This is me we're talking about, honey. I was front and centre."

You snort, soft against his neck. It's a wonder he went almost a year without you. "Housewife Satoru. I'll keep it in mind."

When you return to your apartment, you shower together for the first time in forever. He spends extra time and care massaging shampoo into your scalp, detangling each knot; spends extra time rinsing the suds out, tilting your head back with a gentle tap to your chin.

Steam clogs his mind. Almond shower oil and citrusy shampoo fog his senses. The realisation that you could have potentially been taken away from him sits heavy like a stone in his stomach — why it hadn't sunk in in the past, oh, 13 months or so, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he's terribly bad at caring for precious things — but if he could, if it's possible, he'll remould and reshape his hands, his heart, his mind, just for the chance—

"Satoru," you breathe against his lips, "Bow your head."

(Bow your head, you say. He'd kneel if you asked him to.)

You brush your hands through his hair; rinse him free of suds and bubbles and kiss his temples as you shut off the water. What is supposed to be healing for you is quickly becoming therapy for him — muscles relaxing, mind clearing of all responsibilities, mournings, obligations. All he knows are the soft, newly washed sheets beneath him and your nose in the crook of his neck.

It's a strange sensation, the lack of tension, his brain not working overtime. But hardly unwelcome.

11.

Satoru asks you if you saw anything when you were indisposed. Memories, flashbacks, prophecies? Blurry half-truths, nonsensical babbling? You tell him that you can't really remember — and you can't, not really, but you do remember one thing.

When you were 11, you met Satoru and Suguru for the first time. It's that memory that you can remember playing in your head, over and over and over again: Satoru and Suguru, scrawny and still-faced in their yukata.

Satoru was from a great, traditional house. Suguru was not, but upon discovery of his powers, was taken into unofficial custody of the higher-ups. In most circumstances, you wouldn’t have been allowed within two feet of them — but the elders had deemed your cursed technique a great gift, and so you were warily accepted into the upper echelons of jujutsu society, a stranger, a foreigner.

Introducing you to the most powerful sorcerers your age was nothing more than political play, of course. The adults followed behind as you walked through the grand grounds of the Gojo family — (maintained by a team of 12 gardeners, according to the Lady of the house) — muttering and scheming between themselves, making sure nothing would go awry.

Nothing did, of course. Satoru picked his nose and Suguru told him it was rude and they bickered for a while — Satoru bickered, Suguru replied calmly and quickly. Satoru asked you if your technique was good or bad ("No such thing," interjected Suguru) and whether or not you think you could beat him in a fight.

(That last question was to stroke his own ego, of course. Everyone knew he was the strongest sorcerer born in the last century.)

At some point, Satoru made you cry.

You can't remember what about, all these years later — you'd think you'd remember, considering the fact that you know the amount of gardeners employed by the Gojo estate — but you know that you had tried to stop it; fists balled, teeth gritted, full-body heaves. Crying was the last thing you had wanted to do. Crying meant weakness. Weakness meant being taken advantage of.

But you were so scared. It was all so alien. You wanted to go home, but home didn’t exist anymore. You wanted your mother, but your mother was long gone. All you had left were stone-faced adults that were only interested in your abilities.

Suguru had been confused at your reaction to what he took as a harmless quip — a little callous, as most children are — but he had reassured you nonetheless.

"Don’t cry. Satoru speaks before he thinks," he'd said, nudging your shoulder. "Sometimes you have to ignore him and he'll be so bored that he has to think."

"I can hear you," Gojo huffed. "I didn't mean to."

"See?" Suguru smiled. "Works like a charm."

Yes, Suguru had always been there to protect you. Emotionally, at least. He was willing to be kinder to people. More gentle, more forgiving. He'd believed that it was his duty as a sorcerer to protect those that couldn't protect themselves, and—

Well. That had changed, by the end, but having that memory replay in your head made you see the bigger picture of it all. Suguru's place in things. Your place in things.

You'd loved Suguru, no doubt. And you’ll probably always carry a piece of him with you — you'd hate to do otherwise. You’ll carry his kindness and his jokes and his catlike smile, all tucked away in bubble wrap somewhere in your chest cavity — but you will never disregard his wrongdoings. Since his death, you'd argued against the two sides of him; felt guilty for loving him after what he did, felt guilty for hating him after loving him and knowing him for as long as you did. Two halves of a whole. Darkness in light and light in darkness.

He was both of those things. You love him, but you don’t forgive him, and you probably never will. He will never again be the boy that comforted you after Satoru made you cry; he will never again be the boy who let you braid his hair back. He won't be the boy who slaughtered innocents, either — death's funny like that. Indiscriminately doing away with both the good and the bad.

And that's okay. Kenjaku is dead, after all, and Suguru can finally rest — and with him, your warring mind.

12.

Midnight strikes and you're still awake. You don’t even seem tired, and that's after a long shower and takeout and a movie. Usually you'd be a drooling mess by now, but tonight is different. Feels different. Satoru isn’t sure if it's just a year's worth of built up sexual tension or something else, but he feels it regardless.

He's flopped on his stomach, hair still damp; you're curled up in the shape of a C, skin reflecting the light of the TV. He might visit Nobara tomorrow. Megumi usually goes on Wednesdays, too — they could make a day out of it, and you could tag along, too. He's got a craving for the pistachio macarons they sell near—

"I'm in love with you," you announce.

Satoru doesn't bother asking you to repeat yourself because he knows he didn’t mishear. It isn't the knowing that shocks him — he's not stupid, and you wear your heart on your sleeve — it's the sudden, quick verbal affirmation of it that catches him off guard. After all, haven’t you two been putting this all off? Yearning for a dead man? Being pulled from two opposing poles?

He turns his head towards you, opens his mouth to ask you just that, and—

"After Suguru, I thought I'd never be happy again," you say, and you’re smiling like you didn't just say something inherently heartbreaking. But no, you look fond — content, even, blinking slowly at him. "And I thought I'd never feel for someone as strong as I did for him. But here I am: happy, and in love, and okay."

Satoru opens his mouth — then closes it quickly. For some reason, he remembers something Suguru said to you when you were younger: "Satoru speaks before he thinks." But he wants to think about this — about what he should say. How does he respond to you quite literally baring your heart to him? How does he tell you what he wants to tell you, what you deserve to hear? He's never been good with real, genuine words — emotional shit never came easy to him out loud. His thoughts are much more concise than his mouth is, but he guesses it's because it moves so fast in comparison.

Pity you can't read his mind. It'd make things much easier.

“You don’t have to say anything,” but he wants to, don't you know? "You don't have to pretend. It’s okay. I know that… maybe you don’t love me as much as you loved Suguru, but I know you love me in some way, at least—”

Satoru frowns — strings of ideas and thoughts bunching up and stopping short as your words register. “As much as I— hey, stop putting words in my mouth—"

"The truth is," you continue on, "I feel lighter than I have in years. I don't dread life so much anymore. I don't dread you anymore."

"You… dreaded me?"

You hum. Your legs stretch down, arms forward, face scrunched up in a passing yawn. "I'm not stupid to think you didn’t know how I felt, but… I hated that I was so obvious about it. Even when I was fighting with myself about it, I was obvious. It made me hate being around you, sometimes."

You sigh, then — not as heavy and melancholy as they used to be, no. This is a sigh of relief, of cathartic release.

Satoru blinks, and attempts to wade through the seventy-or-so compulsions telling him to make a joke, to laugh, to tease you. Maybe he should actually be serious for once. Say it straight and say it firm, so you can't take anything the wrong way. If there was ever a time for him to not beat around the bush…

"I've liked you since I was 17," he confesses, finally. "Me and Suguru, we were together, y’know, and we were happy. And Suguru loved you, and somewhere along the line I… began to do the same, but we were so young and then… Everything changed so fast. Everything broke so fast.”

Your fingers brush against his, and he breathes in a sigh. Your eyes are wide and watery, low light reflecting like glitter in your eyes.

"Sometimes, it keeps me up at night," Satoru says, laughing a pained sort of laugh. "Out of everything, that's what keeps me up — that we could've been happy together, all three of us. It never would’ve been enough to make him change, but…"

At least you would’ve known what it was like. To be happy together in that way. To be content. To find your places in the world, hand and hand. To know what it was like — even if Suguru’s fall from grace was inevitable — so you wouldn’t have to keep wondering until your untimely, gruesome, sorcerer-style deaths, or whatever.

Back then, Satoru didn’t understand why Suguru never told you how he felt. He couldn't understand how he could be content watching from afar, looking but never touching. What Satoru wanted, he learned to take; the Strongest didn’t need to ask for permission, only forgiveness.

He learned quickly that some things were better left unsaid. And now, 28 years old, half of his friends, students, colleagues dead — he understands even more.

He remembers how Yuuji had tried to stave off tears when he realised he had to die; remembers how his student’s throat had felt being crushed in his hands. He loved Yuuji like a little brother. Like a son, even. He was family. He was his student, and yet his death had been necessary, and Satoru battled with it. It allowed him to succeed in the mission he was born to complete. But he had given up Yuuji in return.

There is no curse more twisted than love.

Therein lays the problem, he supposes. The second you love someone, you run the risk of having them end up like Yuuji did. Like Suguru did. Like Nanami did. When you are burdened with incredible power like Satoru is — like Suguru was — you must be able to sacrifice for it. The closer that people are, the more likely they are to be caught in the crossfire, the more likely you are to be hurt. Suguru hoped to avoid that at all costs. It was easier to watch from afar, less painful.

Satoru is a tad more selfish. Which is bad, he knows, because he's too prepared to sacrifice. Even now. Even now, he knows that if caught between saving you and saving society, he would be forced to — to—

Satoru inhales. The only thing for it is to simply stop things from getting that far.

He could explain all this to you. He could talk circles around you about it, in fact, but the truth is that it's all conjecture. Suguru isn’t here to tell him why he did what he did. He can’t speak for him, no matter how well he knew him.

"I don't know why Suguru never told you," Satoru says instead. He folds his fingers tighter, taking yours in his grip as he does so. "Guess that's something he took with him to the grave."

"I've stopped wondering," you say. “I’ll never stop regretting, but I’ve stopped wondering. I can’t stay rooted in the past any more. It was doing more harm than good."

And you raise your interlocked hands — nestle them under your chin and screw your eyes shut, like you're wishing on the evening star, like he's something precious to be treasured. All of a sudden he's 17 and confused about why he can't stop staring at you. He doesn’t have Suguru to tease him about it, now.

“I’ll never forget him,” Satoru announces — a warning, or a reassurance, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he’s telling the truth and nothing but the truth, and whether or not you like his truth is not his concern. He respects you too much to lie about this to you.

Your lips twitch upwards, a phantom of a smile. “Neither will I. "

"I'll never forget you, either."

The smile grows, blooms, blossoms, until it stretches bright and full across your face. The first smile of yours he's seen in a while that wasn't at half-mast, or tinged with sadness, or pain, or fatigue.

"How lucky I am," you whisper, "to be known by you, Gojo Satoru."

It should be the other way around, he thinks.

(12.5.

It's the first time he makes love in years.

Satoru has always fucked you. Always. No matter how tired you both were, no matter how injured — he'd always force himself to be rougher, force his touches to not linger as much as he wanted them to.

If he felt too much, he'd crack a joke instead of drowning in it; if he felt his eyes beginning to burn he'd bury his nose in the crook of your neck and push it down. If he thought of long, dark hair and cat-like eyes, he'd tighten your grip in his hair and the shock of pain would clear his mind. He fucked quick, and when he was done he'd lay far away enough that he couldn't feel your skin against his.

Tonight, he lets himself love and be loved again.

You're on top of him, ass flush against his thighs, taking every inch he has to give you; his hands have found your jaw, thumbs brushing back and forth across your dewy, sweat-slick cheeks. One hand of yours clasps around his wrist; the other bands to his chest, nails digging red into his skin. Your cursed energy blooms, flushes, flourishes when he opens his eyes to look at you.

He sees every pore, every hair, every dimple, every broken capillary, every scratch and scrape. Every part of you, bending to him in some places, unfalteringly stubborn in others.

"Look at you," he mumbles, blinking dumbly. "So… pretty…"

You snort something like a laugh, and continue: up, down, up, down. Slow, grinding gyrations of your hips that make his head spin pleasantly; and with his Limitless nullified, he feels every inch of skin, every tensing of muscle, every scrape and press fully and completely. He’s never felt so engulfed in it before — the sensations of it all, the warmth, your scent, your weight above him.

He'd drown in you, if he could. Take you in his mouth and nose and ears and everywhere, until he's left gasping for air and grappling for something of substance. Maybe once upon a time he would keep those thoughts to himself, for whatever reason — but now he's allowed to be selfish in his affections, allowed to give more than surface-level compliments and vague declarations of love.

Between pleasure-ridden shudders and sloppy, wet kisses, he breathes:

"I want you everywhere," he says, "All the time. Over me, on me, in me—"

You raise a brow, impudent and teasing in a way that makes his abdomen tighten. "In you?"

And maybe he didn’t mean it in the way that you took it, but he plays along anyways, waggling his brows. "You heard me."

"You're terrible."

"I'm not joking," Satoru argues — but it’s hard to take him seriously when his voice quietens, when he arches up eagerly to meet your lips—

When his grip on your lower back becomes painfully tight, when his lips part in a moan and his eyes screw shut and he throws his head back, hips rutting up to meet yours, and—

His peak rises to greet him — and his heart swells all the while. He finds himself clawing for you as his orgasm builds, hands clambering against your back, your neck, your hair, until (with a great, shaking breath, may he add): "Fuck, I — mmf, I love you—"

It carries him off to a state of fuzzy, empty-minded ignorance — pleasure tightening his entire body, fizzling from the tips of his fingers to his curling toes. Your name on his tongue, slurred and mellifluous, his smile dizzy and drunk.

As you smile down at him, so unbearably fond, Satoru thinks that he doesn’t mind saying I love you aloud after all.)

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xervn · 2 months

Text

like a french girl 🎨

part 2 - like a | art major ellie x dance major reader

first chapter | next chapter

ao3

summary: ellie had been struggling with finding the perfect model for her art final. that was until she saw you

18+ MDNI | 3.7k words | tags; college au, pining, still sfw for now, texting, no use of y/n, not proofread

a/n: if you're not imagining the prof as nick offerman you're not doing it right.

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The song finally ends and all the other dancers in the studio scatter, just as breathless and exhausted as you are, leaving the room reeking with sweat and the remnants of unbridled passion.

You try to steady your breathing, leaning forward with a hand bracing your thigh, fanning yourself off by pulling at the collar of your tee. Today’s practice was more exerting than usual, especially since you were the one leading it.

You might’ve showed off a little because you overheard some of your classmates undermining your talent; claiming they could do your own choreo better than you can. It wasn’t like what they said bothered you, however, you needed to set the record straight.

You’ve always been an amazing dancer, you have the awards, the scholarships to prove it. You’ve scraped your knees bloody to get to this point in your life. You weren’t gonna let a few shit talkers ruin a great thing. So, yeah, you’re absolutely winded because you wanted to prove a point, but you don’t regret a second of it. The looks on their faces was enough to clear any doubts for the rest of the year, for sure.

You drag your feet over to your stuff huddled in a corner, dodging past everyone else in a rush to leave. You pick up your water flask, taking a much needed chug. Mid-drink, you hear the doors of the now empty studio swing open and you swivel around only to see Dina in her black leotard, clutching her bag on her shoulder as she jogs towards you with a suspiciously wide smile.

“Hey, D. You don’t look like you want anything at all.” You say sarcastically, scoffing as you set your bottle down.

“Oh, come on! I can’t see my best friend?” Dina asks, resting her hands on her hips. All you can do is stare at her with an unmoving expression of doubt, folding your arms with a perked brow.

“My best-est friend in the whole world. Ever.” Dina adds on.

You don’t think Dina could make it any more obvious so you decided to wrap it up yourself. “Dina, what is it? I swear to god if you say Jesse…”

The expression on Dina’s face pointed in every direction that it’d be about him. You groan, amazed that you’re having this conversation again. She’s been pestering you for weeks now about meeting this “amazing” guy she’s been recently dating. She insisted that he’d be like another gal pal, but obviously you doubted that. You’re sure he’s as great as Dina says, but you find it awkward to meet him like that anyways.

“Just hear me out!” Dina practically begs, clasping her hands together and everything.

“Dina— I love you, but I don’t wanna be a third wheel for an hour.”

Her wide grin returns, looking oddly ecstatic to hear you bring that up. “Okay, well, what if I told you that you won’t?”

You already told yourself you made up your mind the minute this conversation started, but you gesture for her to continue anyway.

Dina’s face lights up as she goes on, “Jesse’s going to bring his friend too, then it’ll be the four of us!”

You’re not sure how to feel, it does cancel out the one annoyance you had, but now it sounds like a straight double date. The thought alone makes you cringe a bit.

Dina can tell, rolling her eyes before speaking, “His friend’s a girl, and she’s cool.”

You just silently make out an ‘oh’ and Dina snorts at your expression. Well, now there’s nothing keeping you from going, but you don’t feel like letting Dina have this one that easily, so you intensely rub your chin as if there’s something else to be considered.

“I’ll buy you food! Cinnamon rolls!” Dina exclaims with a hint of desperation. You giggle and stop the act, finally giving Dina a smile and a nod. She’s already pulling you in for a sappy hug and you return it with an eye roll, making sure she doesn’t go too crazy now that she’s finally convinced you.

“So, when are we doing that?” You ask.

“Today. You're so sweaty, gross.”

“Rude— Today?!”

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After a nice shower and a trip to a small on-campus bakery, it was time to go meet Jesse and his friend with Dina. Just to make conversation, you tell Dina about your embarrassing encounter last night as you two walk around campus.

“You mooned a stranger?! Listen, when I said you should hook up with someone while I was gone, I meant through a party or an app. Not the window!” Dina exclaims, not even attempting to hide the amusement in her voice.

Honestly, you were amused by the situation too, it was hard not to be. “Shhh… I didn’t moon her, she just happened to be there. Plus, my ass was mostly covered.” You reply with a playful grin before biting into your promised cinnamon roll. You didn’t really have anything to be embarrassed about, either way it’s an emotion you deal with often. First of all, you’re a dancer; you’ve tripped during a routine before, danced a few humiliating moves. It’s a part of the process. Second of all, your ass is fucking great and we’re ending on that note.

Dina tsks and shakes her head at you in pretend disappointment. Unable to take her seriously, you dissolve into laughter.

You two walk across the courtyard and into the school commons; a tall and open building, with the walls of it being large windows. For the time of day, it wasn’t that busy. You decide to scope out the small crowd, and play a little game with yourself to see if you can find out who Dina’s man is before she tells you.

Not him. Definitely not him. Maybe him? Nah. Who is that?

“Over there!” Dina taps your shoulder excitedly and points in the distance, but you were already looking that way.

There was a girl, maybe an inch taller than you in a black, patch-covered varsity jacket that definitely didn’t fit her, facing a taller guy that looked exactly like Dina’s type. You weren’t positive why you were drawn that direction, all you knew was that there was something vaguely familiar about that girl. You tried to put the pieces together, but you gave up not even two thoughts later; shrugging it off.

The guy looks towards you and Dina, smiling brightly as he beckons you two over. Dina links arms with you and drags you along before you can even acknowledge it. As you two start approaching, the mystery girl finally turns around and offers a small smile to Dina, only for it to drop the second she lays eyes on you.

Your eyes lock on hers and you’re absolutely mortified. It was definitely that girl. Y’know, the one you saw through your window? That girl. Even if you didn’t see her all that well last night, the struck look on her face gave her away. This funny situation was getting less and less fucking funny as you and Dina stride closer. The panic starts to override your sensory abilities, the unusual feeling etching into your thoughts. Maybe you should just own it? Pretend you don’t remember? Should you run away? You think you should—

“— meet Jesse!” Dina says, looking at you expectantly. You were so lost in your own thoughts that you didn’t notice you stopped walking. Now the girl is way closer than she was last night. You could keel over and die now, really.

It’s not like you’ll see her again. You wish you could turn back time and slap yourself for jinxing you like that. You glimpse up at her, and, fuck, she was looking back at you. You guys needed to stop doing that. Even worse, she’s just as hot as you were hoping she wasn’t. The hair, the outfit, the decorated carabiner hanging off the loop of her jeans? She’s a fucking lesbian wet dream.

You whip your head away, and unbeknownst to you, she’s still staring; gawking, even.

For Ellie, ever since you walked up, all that’s been going through her head was, ’I wanna draw her’ over and over again. Seeing you up close was even better than she could’ve ever imagined. Your… everything was better than she imagined. She initially locked eyes on you when you were still passing the courtyard and she was in awe of that smile of yours. She was obsessed with how you laughed, how you threw your head back as you did. For a moment, she wondered what was funny. For a moment, she thought about what she’d give to hear it. She had to look away and face Jesse so her whole body didn’t turn red from just watching you.

She only understood the gravity of the situation when you finally approached. What were the chances you were Dina’s friend? You were really in front of her now, an arm distance away. She has literally never been happier to go out before. She was genuinely glad Jesse dragged her out here for once.

For as long as she could, she admired you; already color-matching the shade of your skin, your eyes. Appreciating the plumpness of your lips, how expertly your gloss spread across them. She wants to appreciate more of you, but from the way you looked away from her, she worries you might think she’s a pervert and honestly, you’d be well within your rights to think so.

Ellie catches her stare, dipping her attention onto her feet instead. You catch the sheepish action in the corner of your eye and it automatically tells you everything you need to know. If she hadn’t seen anything, she wouldn’t be acting like that, right? Let alone remember you. You wish you weren’t agonizing over this, catching these little traits was only making things worse.

It’s painful; the situation. The whole thing didn’t even cross your mind until recently. You can’t make eye contact with anyone in front of you anymore, so you nervously say hello along with your name while looking out of one of the several windows.

Dina forces a smile, since she already introduced you herself, giving you a quick ‘what the fuck’ look on her face before turning back to Jesse who still hasn’t caught a whiff of the tension. Your behavior was incomprehensible. You’ve never acted this way around new people. The whole reason Dina begged you to come was because you were so personable, so you can only imagine her confusion now.

Jesse and Dina exchange looks before Dina attempts to continue the convo. “So, Ellie, what’s your major again?” Ellie. Now the (extremely good-looking) face has a name, great.

“Uh, drawing. Art.” Ellie says, awkwardly tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as her eyes darted everywhere but you. You were making it awkward, she was making it awkward, and all for different reasons.

Dina nods along to Ellie before saying, “Oh, really? Didn’t think you guys left your rooms.” Dina teases, slow-turning to Jesse who already has a fist bump waiting for her.

Ellie shakes her head with half a smile. “Ha, ha. Very funny. Yeah, I guess I needed some sunlight.”

“Yeah, right. I had to bribe you out with a DC comic.” Jesse chirps in, his tone taking a dramatically repulsed turn.

Ellie immediately punches him in the arm, “You haven’t even read the comics, asshole.”

Jesse’s hand shoots up to soothe the spot as he laughs.

“Well… I think DC is better than Marvel if you ignore the movies.” You spit out and Jesse and Dina are immediately groaning at your comment. The only reason you said anything was because you felt inclined to take Ellie’s side since they were ganging up on her. Not to mention you might’ve traumatized her, so you might as well attempt to make buddy-buddy. You weren’t lying though, you read enough comics in middle school to know; even if your appearance and style might’ve indicated otherwise.

Ellie teeters at the side, not expecting you to speak at all, let alone take her side. She didn’t think she deserved to hear you speak more than she has already, but here you were, making her blush over a silly shared interest.

Ellie stuffs her hands into her jacket’s pockets, twisting her lips before gaining the courage to speak to you. “That’s because it is. They haven’t read Sandman yet.”

“Oh, shit. Sandman was really good! Death was definitely my gay awakening now that I’m thinking about it.” You respond, glancing off as you dwell back on it.

Ellie definitely blacked out for a moment after hearing “gay” and “awakening” leave your mouth in the same sentence. Now there’s a part of her wondering if she has a chance with you.

She doesn’t say anything, she can’t say anything since she doesn’t trust her voice. You can’t tell if she’s super awkward or homophobic, but she doesn’t look like the latter. She just gulps loudly and you take note of… this whole interaction and store it in your brain for a later date, like a sleepless night.

With the sudden silence befalling, you both look over to see that Dina and Jesse are still passionately ranting and raving about how trash DC is, so passionately they look like they might kiss about it. Like, their faces are inches away from each other. You and Ellie are absolutely baffled at how this is even possible. They’re talking about superheroes. Superheroes! The sight makes you wanna hurl. You scowl and look elsewhere, catching Ellie grimacing in the process.

Her brows are furrowed, lip upturned, and her nose is slightly scrunched up to the point where she kinda resembles a squirrel. You snort to yourself at the comparison. Okay, she’s adorable, so it took everything in you to contain your laughter. Obviously, you did a poor job since Jesse and Dina turn to your stifled giggling, following your eyes to see a plainly disgusted Ellie judging them.

They get flustered, shyly laughing it off while Ellie pretends to scold them. “Welcome back. Now cut it out.”

Ellie turns to you with a surprisingly bewitching smile that catches you way off guard, and mouths out ‘gross’ while stealing a glance at the couple.

“Pfft, I think it might be time to change topics.” You say, biting back the smile forming on your lips. Ellie is unintentionally endearing, you can tell because, well, she’s growing on you. Maybe you’ve been overthinking the whole thing? From the looks of it, she might’ve just needed to warm up to you. You like that conclusion much more than anything else. Anything else being a possibly unflattering angle of your ass cheeks.

Dina chuckles before nodding, “Okay, well,” Dina puts a hand on your shoulder and looks between Jesse and Ellie, “She’s a dance major too. The trendy kind.”

“Trendy kind?” Ellie asks, focusing on you as she waits for an answer.

You roll your eyes at Dina for the silly description and fixate back on Ellie, finding yourself unusually nervous under her stare. “I’m focusing on commercial dance choreography. For singers, concerts, things like that.”

“She also did ballet for ages.” Dina chimes in. You nod reluctantly, since it was a long time ago, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t still use those skills.

“Oh, that explains it.” Ellie says, looking directly at you, clearly without a thought. She doesn’t mean anything bad by it, it just explains why she was weirdly infatuated with your back; your posture. Either way, that was supposed to stay in her head and not for you to hear.

You raise a brow, barely tilting your head to the side as you ask, “Explains what?”

You hold your eye contact with Ellie this time, silently waiting for an answer.

“Oh— err—“ Ellie stammers. She has no idea how to save herself. Even if she did, she doesn’t think she’d be able to say it when you’re looking at her like that. Looking up at her quizzically, slightly pouting out your full bottom lip. You’re a bit intimidating, you’ve always been a bit intimidating to everyone. However, Ellie finds herself oddly attracted at the same time and it’s really fucking with her brain. You aren’t even trying to be threatening though, you only want to know what she thinks of you. For no particular reason.

Ellie, flustered beyond comprehension, can only shrug and manage out, “Uh, nothing? I guess, um, that’s how you two met?”

You calm your expression, afraid Ellie might melt if you put any more heat on her and for the record, she would’ve, but not for what you think. You couldn’t read her at all and it made you wanna rip your hair out.

You end up giving her a small nod while a trace of curiosity lingers on your face.

Coincidentally, Ellie can’t read you either. Do you know she was the one “creeping” on you last night? If you don’t, then maybe all hope isn’t lost for her. But, of course, she can’t fucking tell. One second you’re looking at her like she’s a ghost, the next you’re giggling at all her jokes. But she’s not an idiot, she knows that as long as she doesn’t completely scare you off; she can complete her final. The only question from here is if she’ll ever gain the courage to ask you.

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The answer to that is no. No, no, no. You’ve been integrated into Ellie’s life for weeks now. Although it hasn’t been daily you always show up at least twice a week, over three when she’s lucky. It’s been weeks and she still can’t ask you.

In her defense, you guys are never alone. You haven’t even walked by Ellie since the dance wing and art wing are nowhere near each other. You’re always with Dina, she’s always with Jesse. All four of you occasionally meet up for lunch, or spot each other at student events and parties. Never just you and her. Ellie has tried to rehearse just asking you casually with Dina and Jesse around, but that sounds like a fuckin’ humiliation ritual. Imagining you saying “ew, no” or bringing up how she was ogling you through your window in front of them.

It’s not like you’ve been giving her the impression that you would. It’s actually far from that. You’re a walking ray of sunshine. You always, and I mean, always say hi to her first. Ellie might be a little nuts, considering it’s only between her and Jesse, but she swears you do. Sometimes, you even avoid him to get to her first and she thinks it’s the cutest damn thing ever, but as far as she knows, that’s just her imagination playing a sick prank on her delusion.

Good news is that her work has improved since she still gets to see you often. She steals glances at you, taking mental pictures of you whenever she can. If someone told her to draw you eating a damn french fry, she’d be able to do it perfectly.

Her professor leaves less marks on her work than usual, and with finals rapidly approaching, Ellie thinks this is the best she’ll ever be able to do. It’s way better than before and the chances of you modeling for her are slim to none, so she’s trying to convince herself she’s perfectly fine with wrapping it up here. Acting like it doesn’t eat away at her to not be able to draw your full body, all its perfections and imperfections.

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You’re chatting with some friends as you gather your stuff up to leave, when your professor calls out your name. Your head shoots up in that direction and you quickly excuse yourself as you walk over to a scruffy looking older man shuffling around paperwork.

“Yes?” You stand neutrally at his desk, completely unaware of what he has to say to you.

“You’re failing. Failing horrendously,” He shifts in his seat to look at you better, “You know you are human right? You labeled the rectus femoris the tibialis anterior for fuck’s sake.”

The… what? You had absolutely no idea you were failing and no idea what he was saying. Yeah, you spent zero time studying, but it’s human anatomy. It’s just a stupid mandatory course. The classes with actual dancing are what you put your time and effort into. What type of asshole teaches a science course at an arts school, then fails the students? Whatever.

You bite your tongue before speaking, forcing a faint smile. “Oh, well, can I make up the grade…?”

The man pinches the bridge of his nose before pulling out your paper from the stack and in front of you. “You’re not understanding, out of 640 muscles in the human body you got one correct. The pectoralis major.”

Honestly, you have no words. Seeing the paper in front of you was pretty humbling.

He laces his fingers as he continues to gruffly speak, “I don’t know if it’s because you’re gay or something and the only thing you can identify are boobs, but this is an easy grade. You had to get at least 200 correct to pass.”

Did he just? Your jaw dropped ages ago, and you start to say something but he immediately cuts you off. “I don’t wanna hear it, take your paper. Study, and I’ll let you retake it. Do not make me have to fail you.”

You purse your lips, conflicted with how he called you out and how he’s giving you a redo. You just snatch the paper and storm out of the classroom.

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dina: LMFAOOO

you: its not fucking funny

dina: is it becus ur gay or something

you: STFU!!!!

you: what do i do ffs

you: finals week is coming up soon and im stupid

dina: you shouldve taken the course with me last semester

you: help me study

dina: foh i barely passed

you: 😭😭😭im so screwed

dina: no ur not

dina: don’t worry

dina: ask ellie

Ask Ellie? Your thumbs shake over your screen. How could you ask Ellie? The amount of strength it takes to talk to her in real life without turning into putty is insane. You guys don’t even cross paths enough for you to comfortably ask for a favor, but you really need to pass this class. It definitely wouldn’t be the worst to finally talk to her one on one... hang out with her more… see her more… Fuck it.

you: what’s her number?

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what's this? click!

tag list: @bready101 @pascals-doll @macaroni676 @khai-le @pedropascalsbbg @seraphicsentences @starlight-savegery @snowy-vee

a/n: marvel solos but i think ellie would love dc

#ellie williams #ellie x reader #ellie x you #ellie x y/n #tlou2 #ellie williams x female reader #ellie the last of us #ellie williams x reader #ellie x fem reader #lesbian #ᝰ like a french girl

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blingblong55 · 10 months

Text

It would've been sweet- Alejandro Vargas

In which you and him were in a relationship and he leaves you for his ex, Valeria Garza.

F!Reader, angst, cheating

A/N: voted 2/3 to be next...so here ya go :)

7 years and 3 months, thats how long it this love lasted. Three years ago, Alejandro had found out his ex, Valeria Garza was the one who was running the Las Almas cartel, she was El Sin Nombre. And every night, he'd come home, cursing her, telling you how much he hated that woman. And then he'd tell you how much he loved you. How happy he was you weren't like her.

You met him 9 years ago, told him you weren't ready for a relationship. And he waited, sat with you patiently as the day where he could have you would soon arrive. At nights, he'd go to your place, sneaking past your guard dog like he was some teenager in love. Throw rocks at your window and then stand there, snacks in hand, "let me in, please." the door would later unlock. The neighbours complained about him. He would serenade you once a month, brought Rudy along to hold a speaker whilst he sang along to the lyrics. You would laugh a little as you watched him over do his words.

The night you let him take you on a date was pure bliss. He knew you finally caved in, rest assure he would let this date last for years to come. He always asked you out on dates, but you always said no. "Porfavor, just once." You looked at him, "...fine," a small smile on you. Truth be told, you wanted him all along, but wanted to see how far he took it and it was proved he was willing to stay even if you didn't want him around. As that first date came to and end, it was clear he wanted to ask for another.

You leaned in and kissed his cheek as he walked you to your doorstep, "Good night, ale, thank you for tonight." you walked inside, the bouquet of flowers in hand, Pink tulips. "Good night, chula." he says and watches you close the door. He chuckles to himself, what a night that was. As he made way back to his car, he called Rudy, "She kissed my cheek! Thank you for the advice, hermano." A victorious night that was.

"Can I be your boyfriend? Can I have that privilege?" A smiled creeped up on you, your arms around him, "yes!.." It was the question you so long waited for since that first date.

7 years and 2 months later from that first month as an actual couple and now you stand there, empty handed as he walks with Valeria in hand.

1 year ago, that is when the beginning of his love affair and the beginning of the downfall of you two started. He saw Valeria, she was alone, was only there to confront her and arrest her. But then she called him by the old nickname. From then on, he would have more 'missions' to go on. Rudy didn't even known of such affair, which only made things more dangerous and fun for them both.

"Hey, I just wanted to let you know I left dinner in the oven, just in case you come home late. Love you!" you left a voicemail just like every single night when he was gone. And like always he didn't respond. "I know you are probably busy, so I just wanted to wish you the best of luck! Be safe out there, love you!"

The thought of him cheating never came across your mind, you felt so secure in the relationship and you knew he wanted you from the very beginning, the way he kissed you over and over when he was home. It was as if he hadn't just left her bed and arms.

The day you walked in on him and her in your shared bedroom, all those clues hit you harder. "Ale?" your voice hinting at the pain this view brought, "r/n, ...mi amor..." his eyes widened. You were supposed to be on a trip with your friends, not to come back for another day. You walked out, ran to your car and drove away, the ring he was supposed to give you burning in the pocket of his trousers that were laid on the ground.

"Now that she is out of the picture," Valeria kissed his shoulder but he moved away. "It's best if you leave." His past actions now bringing in the regret he would sure live with for the rest of his days. The rest of the night you drove, only pulled over to let the pain set in. Alejandro didn't know where you were, sent los vaqueros to look for you, but you were nowhere to be seen. This only made him worry more.

After Valeria left what was once a home, he sat on the bed. Phone on hand as he listened to the voicemails you left while he indulged in his sins. "Hi! Just wanted you to know I miss you and that I hope you are safe wherever you are!" You were so oblivious to the thought of him cheating which only pained him more. He cried when he heard your voice, listened to all your voicemails.

"Heard it'll rain today, if need be I can drop off your uniform for this weather," why were you always so attentive to him? It's funny, he fell for you first but you fell harder, always blushing at the sight of him, like a little girl. All you did for him, small portions of your love for him and how did he pay you back? Cheating, breaking your heart, his promises, ruining the one thing in this world that he cared for the most, the only good thing left for him as a soldier.

One thing is for sure, he wouldn't have you. No more I love you's, cuddles during rainy season, out of nowhere kisses, those puppy eyes you made, how you mumbled in your sleep and especially no more you.

You know the greatest loves of all time are over now.

A/N: I dreamed this happened to me, I woke up crying...(i'm heavyly delulu)

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sheriffaxolotl · 2 months

Text

Fallen: A Path to Redemption (Chapter 2) Alastor x Reader

"Solace, you say? Well, my dear fallen friend, in Hell, solace comes with a price."

“What kind?”

“How about... your soul, my dear.”

Word count: 5,403 ✿ Friends to Lovers ✿ Slow Burn ✿ Eventual Romance ✿ Drabble | Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 |

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Well, this certainly wasn't how you envisioned spending your day.

Taking in your surroundings, you find yourself standing in the grand foyer of a hotel. Normally, a hotel lobby would be alive with the hustle and bustle of guests and staff, but here, it resembles more of a ghost town - nothing but a hollow shell.

Despite its dilapidated appearance, there was an undeniable charm to the Hotel. Its faded grandeur spoke of a bygone era, a time when it had been a beacon of luxury and opulence. But now, it seemed destined to fade into obscurity, a relic of a forgotten past. Maybe that’s why you liked it.

With a wry smile, you couldn't help but shake your head in disbelief. It's a disaster in every sense of the word. This place would need a desperate touch-up. As you scan the room, you notice a few other individuals, their curious gazes fixed upon you. Some faces are familiar, adding a touch of familiarity to this otherwise surreal moment.

Charlie Morningstar. The name echoes in your mind, stirring up a knot of conflict over what you heard her discussing on the news this morning. Her vision for the hotel clashed and aligned with your own beliefs, leaving you torn between admiration for her ambition and concern for the consequences of her actions.

Husk. The feline demon's presence brings a wave of familiarity, and you share a silent acknowledgment with him. There's no need for introductions between the two of you; you were witness to the deal he struck with Alastor to retain his powers. You remember the mix of pity and sympathy you felt for him at the time, though you tried to convince yourself it was for the best.

Niffty. Your absence during the deal-making process for her doesn't go unnoticed. You had been on annual leave at the time, a rare break from the chaos of Hell. The irony isn't lost on you as you inwardly chuckle at the thought. Who would have thought the Radio Demon would grant you such a luxury? In some twisted way, the perks and benefits he offered over the years almost rival those of Heaven.

Alastor, the enigmatic Radio Demon, his presence here still puzzles you. What could have possibly prompted him to bring you to this strange place? You mull over the possibilities, the puzzle of his actions spins through your mind, each potential answer more confounding than the last.

The angry-looking moth lady and the arachnid demon are two figures you're unfamiliar with, though there's a nagging sense of recognition with the latter. You rack your brain, trying to recall if you've crossed paths with the arachnid before, but nothing concrete comes to mind.

Sensing that they're waiting for you to break the ice, you take the initiative and step forward, offering a polite introduction. "Hello, I'm (Y/N). It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," you say, placing a hand over your chest and executing a graceful curtsy.

The princess's eyes light up with excitement as she eagerly returns the gesture, albeit with a hint of haste and clumsiness. It's endearing, and a small smile tugs at your lips. She seems harmless enough – at least, that's the impression you get. But in Hell, appearances can be deceiving.

"Oh my gosh!" Charlie practically leaps towards you, her enthusiasm palpable as she seizes your hand and shakes it vigorously. The boisterous energy of her greeting threatens to jostle the rest of your body as she welcomes you to the Hotel with unbridled excitement. "Welcome to the Happy Hotel! I'm positive you are going to love it here!" she gushes, her words bubbling with genuine warmth.

You offer a forced polite smile as you reluctantly withdraw your hand. "Ah, well, we'll see," you reply, unable to shake off the uncertainty lingering within you. "I still don't know the exact reason I'm here for…" Your voice trails off as you cast a sidelong glance at Alastor, who looms over the scene with an intimidating presence. You can't help but feel dwarfed by his stature, a sense of insignificance washing over you in his grand shadow.

"Well, what else if not to help me and keep track of paperwork!" Alastor interjects with his signature taunting grin, gesturing mockingly to a stack of paperwork piled high on the reception desk. You suppress a grimace at the sight, inwardly bracing yourself for the daunting task ahead. That's a lot of paperwork to tackle …. It's going to be a long day.

"Wow. That's definitely a lovely stack if I don't say so—" You begin, making your way over to inspect the paperwork, but before you can even lay a finger on it, the poor pile collapses, sending papers cascading across the lobby in a flurry of chaos. "Oh! Oh no!" you exclaim, scrambling to gather the scattered documents before they disappear into the chaos of the hotel.

"I'm so sorry!" Charlie rushes over to lend a hand, her expression mirroring your panic as she apologizes profusely. "I really haven't had time to organize it, and Vaggie has been so busy—" Her words tumble out in a jumble of apologies and explanations, but before you can reassure her that it's okay, Alastor intervenes.

"No harm done, dear!" Alastor's voice cuts through the commotion, his wide grin betraying a hint of amusement as he surveys the scene before him. "Accidents happen, after all. No need to make such a fuss, dear!" Alastor interjects smoothly, his voice oozing with confidence as he effortlessly lifts the princess off the floor. " (Y/N) has an innate ability with paperwork! She'll get it sorted in no time! No time at all!" With a smug grin, he gestures grandly with his arm, the epitome of self-assuredness. "So, what do ya think?"

Charlie's eyes light up with unbridled excitement as she gazes around the lobby, taking in the flurry of activity Alastor has set into motion. "This is amazing!" she gushes, her cheeks flushed with amazement. She can hardly believe her luck right now. Before her was a real group of staff for the hotel. That Alastor had pulled out of thin air.

"It's... okay," Vaggie huffs, her demeanor a stark contrast to Charlie's bubbling enthusiasm. She stands by her girlfriend's side, arms crossed tightly over her chest, radiating skepticism. It's clear that she doesn't share Charlie's excitement about the new staff, her distrust evident in the furrow of her brow.

Vaggie's reservations stem from her deep-seated mistrust of the newcomers, all handpicked by one of the most dangerous and powerful overlords you can come across in Hell. While she loves Charlie dearly, she can't help but feel a sense of frustration and apprehension. She knows her girlfriend's heart is in the right place, but she also recognizes her naivety. Not all demons deserve a second chance, and Vaggie fears that Charlie's unwavering optimism might blind her to the true intentions of their new recruits.

Despite her reservations, Vaggie remains committed to supporting Charlie's vision of redemption. She wants to believe that there are demons out there genuinely seeking redemption, eager to turn their lives around. She's determined to protect Charlie and the hotel from becoming another pawn in the Radio Demon's twisted games. ‘At least one of the sinners Alastor brought looked half decent..’ Vaggie thought as she glanced over at you, watching as you had been glancing curiously through the paperwork. You don’t seem half bad.

Alastor's laughter fills the air as he pulls both girls close, his arms enveloping them in a deceptively warm embrace. "This is going to be very entertaining!" he declares with a mischievous glint in his eyes. With a swift motion, he distracts Charlie by extending his hand, inviting her to dance, while simultaneously maneuvering to push Vaggie out of the way. The room is suddenly filled with the faint strains of music, drifting in from some unseen source.

"Ugh," you groan softly to yourself as you gather up the last of the scattered paperwork, carefully restacking it onto the reception desk. Despite your best efforts, you couldn't help but be reminded of Alastor's flair for theatrics. It's almost impressive how seamlessly he manages to orchestrate chaos and entertainment in equal measure.

"You have a dream, you wish to tell," Alastor croons as he spins Charlie around the room, his magic weaving through the air to transform their outfits into something far more dapper, as if they were out dancing of an old fashioned movie. The sudden change catches Charlie off guard, but she adapts quickly, twirling gracefully in his arms. "And it's just laughable, but hey, kid, what the hell?"

As the impromptu song and dance unfold before you, you find yourself tuning it out, focusing instead on the task at hand. With a determined air, you break down the pile of paperwork into smaller, more manageable piles. Inventory. Bills. Subscriptions... You pause, a furrow forming between your brows as you come across a particularly peculiar document. What subscriptions could possibly be of interest in Hell? With a shake of your head, you push aside the thought, deciding it's best not to dwell on the mysteries of paperwork in Hell.

Caught off guard by the snap of fingers, you're swept up in a whirlwind of theatrics as a strange sensation washes over you. Before you can even comprehend what's happening, your clothes morph into an elegant V-neck black 1920s flapper dress, complete with fringes that sway with every movement. But as the music fills the air with its lively melody, you feel yourself being pulled into the rhythm of the dance by a mysterious force. It's as if invisible hands guide your movements, coaxing you to join the lively spectacle unfolding before you. But amid the musical chaos, your gaze catches a familiar sight—– the silhouette of a shadow whisking in front of you, unmistakably one of Alastor's shadows. The shadow pulls you further into the song and dance, its presence both eerie and mesmerizing. Despite the uncertainty of the moment, you can't help but surrender to the magic of the music, allowing yourself to be carried away by the rhythm.

"Inside of every demon is a lost cause," Alastor sings, his voice carrying through the room as he grabs Angel and Husk close, manipulating their movements as if they were mere puppets on a string. In the blink of an eye, hats appear atop their heads, completing their transformation into characters straight out of a vintage cabaret. Husk seems torn between irritation and resignation, his fist raised threateningly before ultimately settling for a defiant flip-off directed at the Radio Demon. Angel, on the other hand, merely smirks and responds with finger guns, already embracing Alastor's proclamation with a devil-may-care attitude. "But we'll dress them up for now with just a smile!"

Before you could even register what was happening, Alastor materialized in front of you, his presence commanding and unmistakable. A fox fur draped around his shoulders added a touch of elegance to his attire as he deftly wrapped it around your neck, the soft fur caressing your skin with a delicate touch.

With surprising dexterity, he spun you around, the fur trailing behind you like a playful companion. The sudden movement left you momentarily stunned, your senses reeling from the unexpected whirlwind of events. As you tried to regain your composure, your eyes widened in shock at the audacity of his actions.

A teasing grin played on Alastor's lips as his hand landed firmly on your backside, the gesture bold and brazen. A wink accompanied his playful demeanor, adding to the mischief dancing in his crimson eyes. The sheer audacity of his behavior left you speechless, your hand instinctively flying to cover your open-mouthed gasp.

Caught off guard by his unexpected antics, you found yourself at a loss for words, your mind struggling to comprehend the sudden turn of events.

Alastor seems satisfied with his handiwork, his grin widening as he dances away with a flourish while he continues his song and dance. But on his way, he shoves Vaggie out of the way, a move that doesn't go unnoticed by the fiery moth demon who angrily shakes her fist at him. Anger burns in Vaggie's eyes as she glares daggers at Alastor, her frustration palpable even from across the room.

As I try to collect myself after the unexpected encounter, you didn’t how to interpret Alastor's bold actions. While he's always been comfortable enough to nudge me or place a guiding hand on my back, his recent actions were something he had never done before – even in jest.

Lost in your thoughts, you're suddenly jolted back to reality by a deafening explosion from the other end of the room. The doors to the hotel are sent flying, taking little Niffty along with them in a whirlwind of chaos and confusion.

As the chaos settles and the others rush to inspect the hole in the wall, you can't help but grimace at the impact the tiny demon took, already anticipating the soreness that will undoubtedly plague Niffty tomorrow. While the rest of the group shares a look of surprise, you divert to get the door off of Niffty, who miraculously bounces back up the moment the door is lifted off her.

"Again!" Niffty exclaims with a gleeful grin, her enthusiasm undiminished by the unexpected collision. Before you can offer any protest, she darts off, joining the others who have ventured outside to investigate the cause of the explosion.

It's only a few moments later that you emerge from the hotel, your gaze drawn upwards to the sight of a looming aircraft hovering ominously above. The sound of voices reaches your ears, and you strain to make out the words amidst the chaos.

"...harboring the striped freak!" The declaration draws your attention, and you look up to see a familiar figure—a snake-like demon you recognize from encounters with Alastor in the past. Memories flood back to you of the times when he would orchestrate ridiculous attacks on the Radio Demon, his antics once a source of amusement. But now, faced with the reality of the situation, amusement is the furthest thing from your mind as you brace yourself for what comes next.

As the snake-like demon addresses Alastor with a less-than-menacing expression, you quickly make your way to join the others, glancing up just in time to catch Alastor's contemplative expression.

"Do I know you?" Alastor's question is met with a wicked grin from the demon, his malicious intent clear despite the seemingly genuine tone of his voice.

"Oh yes you do!" The demon's reply is accompanied by a retreat into his aircraft, his actions accompanied by the aggressive clanking of levers and buttons being pushed. The tension in the air is palpable as everyone braces themselves for whatever comes next.

"And this time I have the element of... Surprise!" With those ominous words, a giant weapon emerges from the aircraft, positioned directly in front of you all at eye level. The air crackles with energy as the weapon charges, threatening to unleash destruction upon everyone in its path.

"Hahahaha, I'm so evil!" The snake-like demon's cackle echoes through the air, sending a shiver down your spine as you prepare for the inevitable confrontation that lies ahead.

As the menacing aircraft and its looming weapon are ensnared by fiery rings and engulfed in smoke, monstrous black tentacles emerge, gripping the ship tightly. The cacophony of sirens blares through the air, mingling with the snake demon's horrified screams as it struggles against its inevitable demise. Amidst the chaos, Alastor remains unperturbed, his signature grin etched upon his face.

Static crackles and arcane symbols materialize around Alastor, his figure shrouded in an aura of otherworldly power. His shadowy minions swirl around him, a silent testament to his mastery over the dark arts. The tension in the air is thick as the inevitable unfolds before your eyes.

With a deafening explosion, the aircraft erupts into flames, scattering debris in every direction. The group stands frozen, a mixture of dazed and terrified expressions etched upon their faces. However, you can't help but shoot Alastor a knowing look, silently questioning the necessity of such a dramatic display. After all, you've seen worse from him before – unfortunately.

Despite the destruction wrought by his actions, Alastor remains unfazed, his grin widening as he revels in the chaos he has caused. It's a chilling reminder of the darkness that lies within him, a darkness that you know all too well.

With a sudden shift in demeanor, Alastor's cheerful and oddly friendly persona returns in full force, his arms outstretched in a display of excitement.

"Who's hungry for some grub?" he exclaims, his voice exuding enthusiasm. "I'm in the mood for some jambalaya! My mother once shared with me her wonderful recipe for jambalaya. In fact, it nearly killed her! Ha ha ha!"

As he makes his way back toward the hotel, Niffty skips along beside you, her boundless energy infectious. You fall into step behind Alastor and the others, observing the dynamics between them. Angel Dust blows a playful kiss to Husk, who looks on with a mix of confusion and irritation. Charlie offers Vaggie a reassuring smile, but the worry still lingers in her girlfriend's expression.

When you lock eyes with Vaggie, you offer her a small, reassuring smile of your own, hoping to alleviate some of her concerns. However, your attempt at comfort is short-lived as you hasten your pace to catch up with the group. The events of the day whirl through your mind, leaving you with a sense of unease about what lies ahead.

You didn’t notice the sign on the hotel changing from ‘Happy Hotel’ to ‘Hazbin Hotel’.

You followed the group through the makeshift entrance, the remnants of the door scattered around. Your steps quickened as you headed toward what you assumed to be the direction of the kitchen, but your focus was abruptly diverted by the sight of the paperwork once again strewn across the reception desk floor.

"Oh boy," you muttered under your breath, a tinge of frustration evident in your voice. With determined strides, you hurried over to the mess, bending down to gather the papers. As you sorted through them, a sense of order began to emerge as you stack them into piles. Bills, reminders, a letter from... oh, coupons, and yet another bill—

"It’s not very polite to sneak up on people. One of these days something is surely going to happen," you remarked, your tone laced with a hint of mock warning as you sensed a familiar presence behind you. Turning slightly, you were met with the sight of Alastor, his grin as unsettling as ever. His presence always seemed to catch you off guard, his sudden appearance feeling like a twisted game of cat and mouse.

"Now, now! That's never going to happen, my dear!" Alastor dismissed your concern with a wave of his hand, stepping closer to inspect the stacks of papers you had organized on the desk. His jovial demeanor didn't waver as he continued, "Come on! This can be dealt with later, we have-"

"Am I not here to work?" you interjected, cutting him off abruptly. Alastor paused, his gaze shifting down to meet yours, towering over you with his imposing presence.

"Well, yes! But only charity work that I have volunteered you for!" His tone was almost gleeful as he spoke, seemingly reveling in the idea of assigning tasks to you. Despite the lightheartedness of his words, you couldn't shake the feeling of unease creeping into the back of your mind.

As you glanced up at Alastor, you noticed a strange mixture of pride and something else in his expression, something you couldn't quite place. It left you feeling grateful for the opportunity to contribute to something greater than yourself, even if it was labeled as "charity work." You had been working alone in that radio station for seven years. A change of pace would be nice. Yet beneath that gratitude lingered a sense of suspicion – it was unlike Alastor to offer assistance without some ulterior motive.

Lost in thought, you hadn't noticed his lean a little closer to you until you felt a stray strand of your crown braid being twirled gently. Startled, you glanced up to find his piercing gaze fixed on you, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes.

"You still wear your hair like you have a halo," he remarked, his fingers delicately toying with the loose piece of hair. His touch sent a shiver down your spine, igniting a strange mix of confusion and familiarity within.

A rush of warmth flooded your cheeks at his words and actions, the subtle intimacy of his actions stirring something deep within you. Despite your efforts to maintain composure, you couldn't deny the blush that heated your cheeks. You chalked it up to his absence, convinced it had impacted you more than you realized. Surely, it was just the result of your lack of social interaction or contact with others for the past seven years.

Your heart skipped a beat as he twirled that loose strand of hair and you found yourself holding your breath as you met his gaze. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, leaving only the silent exchange passing between your locked eyes. Was it judgment you detected in Alastor's gaze, or was there something else lurking beneath the surface?

The fleeting moment of connection sent a shiver down your spine again, but you quickly pushed aside the unbidden thoughts, refocusing on the task at hand. There were too many questions swirling in your mind, too many uncertainties to dwell on in that fleeting moment of intimacy. You forced yourself to maintain composure, burying the stirring emotions deep within as you turned your attention back to the paperwork, determined to remain professional despite the unsettling encounter.

With a small, nervous smile, you nodded in response to Alastor's comment, feeling your cheeks still flush slightly under his scrutinizing gaze. "Old habits die hard, I suppose," You replied, attempting to brush off the unexpected intimacy of the moment.

Alastor's grin widened, a knowing glint flickering in his eyes. "Indeed they do," he murmured cryptically, his tone laden with unspoken meaning. He lingered for a moment longer, his presence casting a shadow over your thoughts before finally stepping away with a flourish.

He simply grinned at the state you were in before turning away, his demeanor shifting seamlessly as he made his way back to the kitchen. You followed in his wake, your mind still reeling from the brief encounter. As you both navigated the bustling corridors of the hotel, a sense of unease gnawed at the edges of your consciousness.

Despite your efforts to quell your doubts, you couldn't shake the lingering questions about your friendship with Alastor. Was his warmth genuine, or was there a darker motive lurking beneath his charming facade? He had been gone for seven years – maybe you were just overthinking a little bit. You had spent too much time apart, and now that he was back, you were struggling to readjust to his presence. Memories of your past interactions flashed through your mind, moments of camaraderie and laughter mixed with shared experiences and moments of your odd friendship. You found yourself torn between the familiarity of your friendship and the uncertainty of what lay ahead. 'Mistaking a friendly gesture for something more… Come on, (Y/N)…'

In typical Alastor fashion, he moved on as if nothing had happened, his attention already focused on the task at hand in the kitchen. You hurried to join him, eager to lend a hand and put the unsettling encounter behind you.

As you worked side by side, the familiar rhythm of their collaboration brought a sense of comfort amidst the uncertainty. The clatter of pots and pans, the little calling of ingredients being pulled out —it was a welcome distraction from the whirlwind of emotions swirling within you. It reminded you of old memories of similar moments like this – some with Rosie at your side as well. It causes you to smile to yourself a little.

You watched him move with effortless grace through the bustling kitchen, you couldn't help but wonder what he had been doing for seven years.

Before you could dwell on it further, Alastor snapped his fingers with a flourish, and in an instant, both he and you were adorned in matching aprons. The sudden change brought a startled laugh to your lips, momentarily breaking the tension that had been building within you.

"Ah, much better, don't you think?" Alastor chimed in, his grin widening as he gestured to their new attire. "Now we can tackle these culinary delights in style!"

You couldn't help but chuckle at his remark, feeling the tension easing between you. "Absolutely," you replied, a genuine smile spreading across your face. "Nothing like a bit of flair to spice up the cooking process."

As you worked together, the playful banter between you and Alastor flowed effortlessly, each teasing remark and shared laugh easing the tension that had lingered in the air. It was moments like these that reminded you why you had missed him during his absence, why his sudden return had stirred up such conflicting emotions within you.

But amidst the laughter and camaraderie, there was an undeniable undercurrent of something more—a subtle shift in the dynamic between you that left you feeling both exhilarated and apprehensive.

As you continued to work alongside Alastor, your attention occasionally drifted to the tender moments shared between Charlie and Vaggie. Their love for each other was palpable, evident in every glance and touch.

And of course, there was Niffty, flitting about the kitchen with boundless energy and enthusiasm, a ball of energy. Her antics never failed to bring a smile to your face, even if she was a bit odd at times.

You couldn't help but notice the way Angel Dust flirted shamelessly with Husk, his usual charm turned up to eleven as he attempted to win over the grumpy bartender. It was a sight that never failed to amuse you, the sheer audacity of Angel's advances paired with Husk's deadpan responses never failing to bring a smile to your face. You chuckled to yourself as you watched their interaction unfold, grateful for the lighthearted distraction.

During all this you got a moment to introduce yourself to Vaggie and Angel Dust, even if it was just quickly. The latter seems to really look you over with a raised brow. But you tried to not read into it.

Once everything had been finished and everyone did their own little jobs to get the table set – even with a bit of complaints from certain individuals -, it was a nice moment considering everything that happened that day.

At the head of the table sat Charlie, her vibrant energy filling the room as she presided over the idea that her vision for the hotel was coming to life, with a wide smile and infectious enthusiasm. To her left, Vaggie sat with a stoic expression, keeping a watchful eye on the newcomers, while to her right, Alastor lounged in his seat, his signature grin never leaving his face.

You found yourself seated between Alastor and Niffty, the energetic maid chattering animatedly as she passed around platters of food with lightning speed. Despite the chaos of the moment, there was a sense of warmth and camaraderie that permeated the air, a feeling of belonging that you had rarely experienced in the past few years.

As plates clinked and glasses clattered, conversation flowed freely around the table, a cacophony of voices and laughter that filled the room with life. The sound of Husk getting annoyed at Angel Dust flirting or Niffty popping off for a moment to chase something on the ground added to the lively atmosphere. It was moments like these that made you feel like maybe you had been missing out on something.

Despite the cheerful ambiance of the dinner table, you couldn't shake the nagging feeling of unease that lurked beneath the surface. As the conversation flowed around you, laughter ringing in your ears, you couldn't help but feel like an outsider looking in at that moment.

Charlie's infectious enthusiasm and Vaggie's watchful gaze created a sense of warmth and inclusion, yet you couldn't shake the feeling of being disconnected from the group. Memories of past betrayals and broken trust danced at the edges of your mind, casting a shadow over the otherwise joyous occasion.

You found yourself retreating into the safety of silence, unable to muster the courage to contribute to the lively banter. Despite the genuine smiles and friendly gestures directed your way, you couldn't help but question the sincerity of it all.

Was it all just a facade, masking hidden agendas and ulterior motives? Or were you simply allowing your past experiences to cloud your judgment, projecting your own insecurities onto those around you?

You tried to push aside the nagging doubts and insecurities that plagued your mind, but they stubbornly persisted, whispering cruel reminders of past betrayals and disappointments. The laughter and conversation continued to swirl around you, but you felt like a stranger in your own skin, unable to fully immerse yourself in the moment. You couldn't help but feel like you are a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. It was a familiar feeling, one that had haunted you since your fall from grace —a constant reminder of your inability to trust others completely.

As you sat there, feeling disconnected from the lively atmosphere around you, a subtle shift in the air caught your attention. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Alastor's gaze lingering on you, his keen observation picking up on the subtle signs of your discomfort.

With a knowing smile, he turned slightly in his seat to face you better. "My dear, forgive me if I'm mistaken, but you seem a bit... unsettled tonight," Alastor remarked, his voice low.

You glanced up at him, surprised by his perceptiveness. "It's nothing, Alastor," you replied, trying to mask your unease with a casual shrug. "Just... feeling a bit out of place, I suppose."

Alastor's smile faltered slightly at the edges, a flash of something flashed in his eyes before it was gone. "Is there something troubling you, (Y/N)?" he asked, his tone gentle yet probing.

You hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. But with Alastor's gaze fixed on you, you found yourself opening up despite your reservations. "I suppose... I haven't been the best socially since your disappearance," you admitted, your voice tinged with vulnerability. "It's always been hard to trust others completely, especially after everything that's happened."

Alastor's eyebrows shot up in mock surprise, his lips curling into a playful grin. "Well, well, well," he teased, his tone light but tinged with amusement. "You mean to tell me that my absence has left you socially inept, (Y/N)? I must say, I'm quite flattered."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help but chuckle at his jest. "Oh, please," you retorted, playfully swatting at his arm. "Don't let it go to your head, Alastor. I'm sure I'll manage just fine without your charming presence."

Alastor feigned offense, clutching his chest dramatically. "Ah, but where's the fun in that?" he replied, his grin widening. "Why, you'd be denying yourself the pleasure of my company, my dear."

"Perhaps you're right," you conceded with a smirk, enjoying the banter despite your lingering worries. "After all, who else would I have to keep me on my toes with their ridiculous antics?"

Alastor's grin widened, and he leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "Ah, but my dear (Y/N), you know you wouldn't have it any other way."

"But fear not, my dear (Y/N), for I promise to make your suffering as enjoyable as possible."

You couldn't help but laugh at his audacity, the tension in your shoulders easing as you shared this moment of camaraderie with him. Despite the uncertainties lurking beneath the surface, you found solace in Alastor's familiar presence, grateful for the brief respite from your worries.

Little did you know, however, that the calm before the storm was merely a fleeting illusion, and that soon, your world would be turned upside down once again.

♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿

My AO3 account!

Before I sign off, I wanted to extend a heartfelt thank you to each and every one of you for your comments and kudos/likes. Your support and engagement mean the world to me, and I'm genuinely surprised and grateful for the response the Drabble and the first chapter has received. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I can't wait to share more with you soon. Until next time! - Ivory

#alastor x reader #alastor x y/n #hazbin hotel #fanfic #alastor x fallen angel #hazbin alastor #radio demon #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor the radio demon

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orobaxis · 1 year

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Hi omg I loved ur ominis work I’ve been dying for any drop of anything 2 do with him since the game came out. Could I request some established relationship ominis x reader fluff? Maybe they’re studying together or they’re hanging out in the undercroft? Tyyy🫶

i could recognize her by touch alone, by smell (i would know her blind) -

ominis gaunt x f!reader (hogwarts legacy)

what is a day in the life of ominis gaunt? a lot less games of gobstones than he wants, a lot more nagging to study for his owls, and a lot more love than he ever had

no plot, just vibes

words: 2393

ominis has come to expect constants in his life. for one, every day he would find you waiting for him at the grand staircase, greeting him with a cheerful “good morning!” and looping your arm around his. he can never get used to the feeling of you being so close to him, feeling the heat radiating off your skin and smelling a scent that is so undoubtably you. he especially likes being able to be with you so early in the morning and having breakfast together.

it’s early enough that the great hall isn’t bustling with students yet; with a few early risers moving about here and there. you sit by the slytherin table beside him and help yourselves to some hearty breakfast.

“so,” ominis starts, “what have you got planned for us today?”

“hm, not much,” you tell him, “we do need to get that herbology homework done, though. i don’t want to spend any more time with it than i have to.” you look around the great hall, “sebastian didn’t want to come?”

ominis sighs. his friend has been…odd lately. you are both concerned for him, sebastian is getting more desperate to find a cure for anne, his twin sister. it also doesn’t help that the new fifth-year student has been following him around, seemingly encouraging his search and directing him to research more on the dark arts. “no,” he replies, “well…he wouldn’t wake up when i tried to. i think he’s exhausted from some escapades he’s been doing with that new student…”

you make a disapproving sound at that. “i’m also wanting to send an owl to anne. maybe get her some treats from honeydukes from when we last went,” you ponder.

“i think she will appreciate that,” he tells you with a smile, and he can almost sense you smile back in gratitude. he feels you push him gently with your shoulder, affectionately resting your head on his shoulder before sitting back up to resume eating.

you have become a real constant in his life. ominis admits that it took him longer to warm up to you than with anne and sebastian in your first year, but when he did, he didn't just 'warm up', he melted. the feelings he has for you are stronger than the ones he has with the sallows, treating them as the siblings he never had (rather, the siblings he wishes he has). everything with you though is more intense, and before he knew it, he was falling hard and fast. he still wonders if your mind is a bit of a mess because you seem to feel the same way. despite this, ominis thinks he doesn't mind it one bit.

“the headmaster is acting quite odd today.”

you look up to see ominis with a curious look on his face. he plops down beside you with a sigh before pulling out his parchment and quill. you both agreed to meet up in the greenhouses to do your homework.

“what, you mean he's not his usual awful self?” you ask him with a raised eyebrow. he rolls his eyes at that, “no, that's not what i mean. i mean...his attitude is still a troll’s, but he was going on about bubotuber pus as moustache paste and whatnot...i couldn't understand him.”

"hmm, maybe he was just feeling particularly chatty today,” you remark, “and maybe gave us hints on what questions they will ask us in our O.W.L.S.”

"i doubt that," he huffs. he stands in front of his potting station, sighing when he realizes the venomous tentacula he planted seems to have wilted (it didn't try to reach and devour him), "is my venomous tentacula dead?"

"oh no, it's still alive," he hears you walk over to stand beside him, "just sulking a little, i think. you haven't visited the greenhouse in a bit and i think it got hungry, although it did try a weak chomp when i first arrived," you giggle when ominis makes a face, remembering the last time he came to check up on it, it started chewing on his robes. "nothing a few pieces of meat can't cure."

"good, because i doubt professor garlick would appreciate it if i turned in a decaying plant," he mutters in relief. "i would barely pass the O.W.L.S. this year, i doubt i would have any chances of finding a good job in the future."

"stop that," you reprimand him softly, moving to grab his hand and guide him away from the table. the venomous plant hisses from its spot, clearly not appreciating not being fed. "you're a smart wizard, ominis. one of the smartest. if not THE smartest--"

"now you're just making fun of me," he tells you half-heartedly, lips twitching up into a smile when he hears your giggle. your hand moves to ruffle his hair, but ominis quickly stops you with a gentle hand to your wrist. “don’t mess up my hair.”

“you have to let your hair down sometimes, ominis!” you exclaim, “i like seeing your hair all disheveled.”

ominis laughs but says nothing, dropping a quick peck on your wrist where your pulse point lies. he drops your hand and returns to his parchment and starts dictating, his quill writing down his words. he pretends not to hear the gasp you made and your flustered breathing as you return to your station to resume your homework.

"well?" he turns his head slightly to your direction, "just gonna sit there in shock?"

"shut up!" you exclaim, before returning to your homework. you work quietly while ominis dictates for his quill, enjoying the peaceful (as it can be, with ominis' venomous tentacula) atmosphere of the greenhouse, until ominis' quill stops writing resolutely.

"all done!" he says triumphantly.

"oh, i'm almost done too!" you say, hurriedly scribbling on your parchment. once you're satisfied with it, you start to clean up and put away your things. when you tell ominis that you're good to go, he extends his arm to you, his hand waiting, "let's go then."

you slot your hand into his and he tangles your fingers together as you walk out of the greenhouse.

not that professor binns minds, but ominis doesn't really hide how boring he finds history of magic. he would sit there beside you, his chin on his palm, with almost a relaxed smile on his face.

"you could atleast pretend to listen, you know," you tell him. ominis turns to you, and the smile on his face widens,

"why should i? this is the most boring class we have. i'd rather be playing gobstones."

"well, first of all, we will still get tested on the goblin rebellions of the 18th century," you remark, whilst also trying to stifle your yawns behind your hand, "and it wouldn't look good if we get like a 'T' in history of magic. and secondly, you're not at all good at gobstones! you always lose to me!"

"i doubt we would get a Troll in this class," ominis tells you nonchalantly. "and you only win because i let you! you can be such a sourpuss when you lose! i've seen you with sebastian and anne, and not to mention zenobia!"

"well, zenobia is a reigning champion at gobstones!"

with his chin still propped up on his palm, he uses his other hand to reach for the pocket of his robes, "here, have something sweet."

you can see that he is offering you a candy, probably something he got from professor ronen's class. trying to hide a grin, you ignore his outstretched hand and ask him teasingly, "what something sweet? a kiss?"

it's like you can almost see the moment ominis processes what you said, and you trace the flush from his neck to his face, until he becomes redder than a tomato. he huffs, tossing you the candy, mumbling under his breath, "shut up!"

when professor binns ushers everyone out of the classroom to look at ancient relics, you end up playing gobstones against ominis after all (you win again).

ominis pretends it bothers him, but you begin to suspect that there may be some truth to what he told you about letting you win. ominis however, may have lost the game, but hearing you laugh really makes it a win-win situation.

on your way to the undercroft, ominis stops you. “i have to go to my dormitory,” he tells you, “i left something there.”

“oh, alright,” you reply, “do you want me to come with you?”

he sputters in surprise at your question, “w-what?”

“to the dormitories?”

“no!” ominis flushes at the thought of you being in his dormitories, and in his bed? his cheeks reddening even more at the thought and his neck heating up in embarrassment, “no, i’ll be quick. i’ll see you at the undercroft.”

“are you sure?” you ask him. “the walk doesn’t bother me.”

“no, i insist,” ominis calms down now, the heat in his cheeks dissipating. you have known each other for some time now, yet he still couldn’t help being flushed with words that you say and the things that you do. he is entirely enamored.

“alright, if you say so,” you answered in a sing-songy voice, making him smile. “i’ll see you at the undercroft.” with any luck, you hope to see sebastian somewhere in the defense against the dark arts tower or hopefully even in the undercroft. you haven’t spent as much time with him as you used to, with him usually being too busy running off with the new student. you just hope he eventually comes back to his senses.

when he gets to the undercroft, you call him over to the sofa that you had conjured. ominis sits beside you, his eyebrows raising, "i thought you'd've conjured a desk or something. and start nagging me to study."

you roll your eyes. "well, i would...but i got sleepy. the undercroft isn't the best place to study you know, it's dark and i hate that i can't see anything--"

"that must be so terrible for you," he remarks, receiving a gentle slap to his chest.

"i didn't mean it like that!" you say defensively, "and i just thought i could take a short nap instead of studying. we did do a lot of studying this week."

"hmm, if by a lot, you mean, 'doing the very bare minimum and completing our homework', then i'd say we did quite the studying."

you cross your arms and glare at him playfully, "ominis gaunt, i'll have you know that i study too outside of school hours. i go to the library and read up just before going to bed. and what about you? how are you preparing for your O.W.L.S?"

"you mean to tell me listening to you read the books isn't going to be enough?" he jokes, laughing at your 'horrified' gasp. you both try to get as much work done since O.W.L.S are coming up closer by the day, and you would jokingly nag him to actually do some revising instead of 'making you read' books for him. he loves the sound of your voice, and you like the relaxed look on his face when he listens to you.

ominis had been thinking about giving you something. it is something he had been keeping. he showed it to sebastian, who had been telling him to give it to you for some time now. he had been a bit nervous, though, and decided that maybe today is the day he will give it to you.

"i have something for you," he starts, "that's why i went back to my dormitories."

you sit up in surprise, turning to him. "what? ominis, love, you know you don't have to give me anything--"

"i know," he tells you, "i want to."

in his hand, he offers you a necklace. you gasp, hands flying to your mouth in shock. it looks beautiful! so elaborate, and yet, simple, its sheer elegance shining within the dark halls of the undercroft.

"ominis...it's absolutely beautiful," you run your fingers on it, still in ominis' hand. "where did you get this?"

"an old lady in hogsmeade...turn around," he instructs, "i originally wanted to give you something that is a gaunt heirloom--

"ominis!"

"sebastian wanted me to, said it's more elegant. but...i didn't want to give you something from that horrendous family," he huffs, "i believe you deserve better than that. so, i took the heirloom and traded it for this one, the old lady seemed very happy and in awe of it."

"i know i'm not so good with words," ominis starts (he immediately hushes your protests), and i would only be teasing and sarcastic to you. but i hope you know...y/n, there isn't anything that i wouldn't do for you. i really hope you know that and if not, i'll prove it to you every day."

you sniff, trying to stop the tears from falling down your cheeks, "oh love, i do know that. and i want you to know that i would do anything for you too."

he clasps the necklace around your neck, running his hand softly on your neck and a bit further down, making you shiver in delight. "you might think me silly for saying this," he clears his throat, "but i think, it's you for me, you know. and it's silly since we're so young and..."

"ominis," you began, but he interrupts you--

"you may not feel the same way, but i really think it's you. i dream of you, you know. all i do, is dream of you."

you finally turn, reaching to grasp his hands in yours. "oh ominis, of course i feel the same! if you still have doubts, then i will have to do my best to make sure you know that. every day, i will remind you." you hands fly to touch the necklace, skin still tingling from where his touch burned you, "thank you so much. i don't know what to say...how could i ever repay you?"

ominis chuckles, "it's a gift, silly. i gave it to you without asking for anything in return. although,"

"hmm? what is it?" you ask.

"i wouldn't say no to 'something sweet'."

hope everyone is doing well! i finished the main story, 70 hours in! still have some side quests to finish <3

thank you so much for all your replies! it really warms my heart!

also if you sent a request and i have replied yet, please know that im working on it! <3

and sorry if there's a weird formatting, i was working on both pc and phone!

#ominis gaunt #ominis gaunt x reader #ominis gaunt imagine #hogwarts imagine #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy imagine #hogwarts

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valleyof-goldenlilies · 10 months

Text

Se Zaldrizoti’ Prumia - Chapter 1: A Platter of Grapes (Daemon Targaryen x Tyrell!Reader)

Chapter 1: A Platter of Grapes

The Red Keep is graced by an old, familiar presence.

HOTD Masterlist | Main Masterlist |

Warnings: Extremely, and I mean extreme slow burn lol, Daemon and Y/N both being little shits who cannot stand each other, I have a blood feud with the HOTD costuming department for Rhaenyra and thus I go into extreme (probably historical inaccurate) detail about the clothes of the characters, Rhaenicent hints so faint that if you blink you’d miss it

Word Count: 3.3k words

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire and Blood characters, save for Y/N Tyrell, although I did expand on their characterisation, which might deviate from canon. All credit for the characters goes to George RR Martin and the showrunners of HOTD. The GIF above is also not mine, original credit to the creator is stated above. Go check them out!

A/N: A special thanks to all those who have reblogged my ‘Se Zaldrizoti’ Prumia’ related posts 💗 your support is truly appreciated and has been the source of my smiles over the past few days

lovely dividers courtesy of @firefly-graphics !

105 years after Aegon’s Conquest

Queen Aemma’s chambers was a busy hive of activity, as usual. The queen’s serving girls, ladies-in-waiting, and Grand Maester Mellos went in and out of the Queen’s apartments in a constant rotation, fussing over the heavily pregnant Aemma’s every need or discomfort. Aemma herself was exhausted at the constant fussing and prodding, but Viserys was deeply concerned about the babe in Aemma’s womb - which he insisted with vehement conviction was a son, and therefore must be treated with the utmost level of care, and after five failed attempts at producing an heir, Aemma had learnt over the years that to be overcautious was not necessarily a bad thing.

Aemma sat sprawled on her lounge, occasionally grimacing when a sharp ache rippled through her body should she choose to adjust herself. Clad in a simple white linen shift and an intricately embroidered rose pink robe of Myrish silk and lace, she felt beads of sweat beginning to form at her temples once more. Her pregnancy had cursed her to endure bout after bout of severe sweating, despite the fact that it was nigh autumn and the ladies of the court had taken to long sleeves and wrapping shawls around their shoulders. Closing her eyes and dabbing at her forehead wearily, she sincerely hoped that the babe in her belly would be the boy Viserys had so longed for, if it meant that she would stop being plagued with the labours of pregnancy.

Her tired expression fell in an instant, replaced by a radiant smile as a woman dressed in a light green linen gown with long bell sleeves walked into her view, nodding politely to the exiting Grand Maester. “You finally came back,” Aemma joked lightly, watching the woman take a seat on the cushioned stool next to Aemma’s recliner. “I was afraid you got sidetracked and forgot about my grapes.”

The woman’s (Y/E/C) eyes flickered with amusement. “I could never dare forget about you, my queen. You would have me beheaded and my head placed on a spike if I did.” Aemma let out a laugh as she reached over to pluck a grape from the bowl in Y/N’s hands. Y/N shook her head at the queen’s lack of dining decorum, but offered up the much awaited platter of grapes to Aemma’s eager hands regardless. “And pray tell, what shall I do if I had executed my favourite and most competent lady-in-waiting, hmm?” Aemma jested, shoving three grapes into her mouth. It was definitely not something a queen should be doing, but Y/N had been Aemma’s lady-in-waiting for nearly two years, and her friend for far longer. Decorum was not a concept that existed between the two of them.

“You flatter me, Your Grace. And slow down, the grapes will not fly away.” I chided gently, as Aemma continued shoving three grapes at a time into her mouth. “The grapes won’t, although I’m afraid Rhaenyra will. Didn’t she say she would come to see me at first light? It’s nearly midday.” Just then, like clockwork, a commotion could be heard near the entrance to the Queen’s apartments. Princess Rhaenyra and Lady Alicent Hightower’s voice could be heard laughing together among the subservient voices of the servants greeting the two of them. “Speak ill of the Stranger,” I laughed, as Rhaenyra and Alicent appeared in view, smiling with their arms linked.

Rhaenyra was wearing a silk gown of soft gold, with butterfly sleeves. The bodice had a ribbed triangular corset that was cinched at the waist, and the skirt parted at the middle to reveal a layer of dark crimson brocade, with faint scrollwork detailing in tiny golden threads. A similarly coloured velvet shawl patterned with gold-threaded dragons was draped over her shoulders, to protect her from the chill. Meanwhile Alicent was clad in a gown of light blue worsted yarn, with bell sleeves going to just above her wrists. A thin layer of cream muslin peeked out of her sleeves and ruffles of the same material covered her collarbones modestly. Blue roses were sewn around her waistline, and olive leaves were embroidered around the neckline of her dress. I suppressed a smile when I noticed a garden violet tucked between Alicent’s reddish brown locks, and a similar one nestled in the princess’ white-blonde tresses.

Rhaenyra immediately went over to Aemma, Alicent staying a respectful distance away. “Your Grace,” Alicent smiled and curtsied politely to Aemma, and Aemma greeted her warmly, “Good morrow, Lady Alicent.” “Mother, Y/N”, Rhaenyra crouched down next to Aemma, holding out a hand to stop me when I stood up to offer her my seat.

Rhaenyra wrinkled her nose when she noticed her mother clad in such thin clothes, and started detangling her shawl from her shoulders, but Aemma only shook her head with an affectionate smile and stilled Rhaenyra’s motions by cupping her cheek with one hand. “It has been quite long since first light, has it not? You have forgotten about your poor royal mother, Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, though her voice was tender. “Forgive me, Mother. But the weather was far too lovely for me not to take Syrax out for a flight. She has been growing lazy as of late.” Aemma snorted softly, adjusting a braid that had loosened from Rhaenyra’s hairdo. “Now that explains the dragon stench overwhelming my apartments then. You are lucky that Y/N was kind enough to accompany me during your absence.” “Is it not my duty, my Queen?” I teased, “Unless you find my company repulsive, of course.” Aemma pursed her lips thoughtfully, although her eyes were filled with mischief as she said, “Your company is delightful as always, although the waiting time for my food to be brought up is quite outrageous.” “Then I shall pray to the Seven that they might bestow on me the power of flight to serve you better, your Grace.”

“Seven hells!” Rhaenyra cursed, fumbling in her pockets. “Rhaenyra! Language,” Aemma scolded. “What is it?” I asked, concerned. Rhaenyra groaned in frustration, “I had a present for Mother, but I must have dropped it in the throne room when I was showing it to father yesterday.” “How careless,” Aemma chided, although her tone was soft as Rhaenyra bit her lip and hung her head slightly. She must’ve really wanted to give the present to Aemma.

“Why don’t I go retrieve it?” I offered, standing up and smoothing my dress. “The kitchens are but a stone’s throw away from the throne room, and I am certain Your Grace’s appetite for grapes has not yet been sated.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes shone with gratitude, “Yes please! Thank you, Y/N.” “Tis nothing, princess. What does it look like?” “It’s a necklace, with a ruby falcon pendant, ” Rhaenyra described, “I got it to remind Mother of home.” “Oh Rhaenyra,” Aemma murmured softly, a soft look of love flooding her face. Rhaenyra held her hand tightly, “There was a sapphire one, but I thought the ruby one would be fitting. For both your Arryn and Targaryen roots.” Aemma squeezed her daughter’s hand, “I will cherish it fiercely forever, as I do with all your gifts.” My face took on a wistful expression as I watched mother and daughter interact and I spoke softly, “Worry not, princess, I will find it and bring it here.”

I retreated out of the room, returning Alicent’s smile with one of my own as I passed her on my way out of the room, but not before Aemma called out to me, “Make sure you make haste! Your queen desires for more grapes!” “Of course, my Queen!” I called back, grinning.

The throne room was blissfully unguarded, which signified the absence of the King, and by extension, any nosy courtiers who might frown upon me fumbling around the throne room like a sneaking rat. ‘Perfect, no need for awkward pleasantries then.’ I opened the double doors leading to the throne room, shutting the doors with a heavy thunk. My eyes took a while to adjust to the gloom of the throne room, but I nearly let out a shriek when I saw a shadowy figure sitting on the throne room. Was that the king? And if so, why in the Seven Hells was he sitting in a darkened throne room?

“Byka zaldrīzes,” an all too familiar voice called out. My heart thumped furiously in my chest as my mouth dropped open in disbelief.

No. No way. He was somewhere floating around in Lys, if court gossip was to be believed. It couldn’t be him.

“Won’t you come closer? It’s only been 8 years since we last saw each other. Surely you haven’t forgotten me.”

Daemon Targaryen. Second son of Prince Baelon and Princess Alyssa, younger brother of king Viserys, and the most annoying royal pain in my ass.

His petulance and near unnatural ability to be able to get on every single nerve in my body had caused me to become a devoted practitioner of self-restraint, given how badly I longed to throttle him or slit his throat with a dagger whenever he was near me. But much to my consternation, societal propriety rendered me unable to challenge him in a duel or even brawl with him, like most boys would do to sort out their differences. But even so, it was not in my nature to silently endure the countless pranks and jests he tormented me with, and thus I often paid him back tenfold for every misdeed he committed against me. My mother was chagrined, while Prince Baelon and Viserys merely laughed and observed our antics with much amusement, along with the rest of the court.

My lips twisted in a frown, and my heart still beating fast from the initial shock, I walked closer to the Iron Throne. “As much as I’d like to, your memory still leaves an unwanted stain in my mind.” The figure sitting languidly on the throne leaned forward as I approached, making me finally catch a glimpse of the boy whom I used to detest with every fibre of my being. Although he certainly bore no resemblance to the annoying brat I detested.

Gone was the lankier frame of his youth. In his stead, it was a man, of tall stature and strong muscular frame, honed by years of intense sword training and puberty. His hair had lengthened considerably since the last time I saw it, and my lips twitched in amusement as I remembered how I had once cut it off when we were children as retribution for him dousing me with a bucket of Arbor Gold while he and I were sneaking around the Red keep late at night, him claiming that he had something interesting to show me. I treasured the memory of that deliciously girlish scream he let out when he realised I had dared cut his precious white-blonde locks. His face had lost its roundness over the years as well, becoming lean and chiselled, lending a harsher quality to his expression, but it only seemed to accentuate his daring and dangerous beauty, or at least, if you listened to the giggles of the twittering ladies of court. His eyes, still filled with that same mischievous glint, watched me as I stood in front of the throne, raking over me shamelessly. I rolled my eyes at that, at least some things never changed.

“Ah, but you remember me nonetheless.”

“The emphasis was on the word ‘unwanted’, your Grace.”

He laughed, leaning back against the throne leisurely as he stared at Y/N. ‘It was a sheer marvel his body was not littered with a thousand cuts by now,’ Y/N thought, a scowl on her face.

“I see the years have finally taught you some manners. I couldn’t remember the last time you addressed me formally. You always had some rather…colourful turn of phrases up your sleeves, however. Maybe the years of looking for a prospective marriage match have taught you some decorum.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, the vein in my neck beginning to tick in annoyance, as it always did around him. “You know they say, people age slower when they get married. You are living proof that the saying is false.” He let out a throaty laugh, crossing his legs as his voice took on a mocking tone. “I see your lack of marriage prospects have turned you from sour to bitter, byka zaldrizes.”

I bristled, “Stop calling me that. Why are you here?” “I heard there was a tournament being held in my honour. I should be in attendance since all this heraldry was made on my account, should I not?” “The tournament is for the King’s heir.” Daemon learned forward again, his tone edged with menace, and defiance. “Precisely as I said.”

I shook my head, duly unimpressed. “There is no need for you to be sitting on the Iron Throne though. Tis not your place.” Daemon scoffed, “And who are you to command me? I am a Targaryen prince, I sit where I please.” “The King would disagree with that if he were here.” I fired back.

Suddenly, I remembered I was here on an errand, not for idle chat, so in a huff of frustration, I turned away from the offending prince and began to search the halls for a glint of red anywhere. “Running away, byka zaldrīzes?” I gritted my teeth, resisting the urge to punch him in his smug face. Calm down, Y/N, you already did that once, and by the Seven Hells, the consequences were absolutely not worth it. “Unfortunately, I am here on an errand, not for childish bickering, your Grace.” I heard a faint sound of footsteps behind me, but I ignored them as I continued to pace around the vast empty room. No sign of any necklace at all. I groaned internally. Perhaps I should’ve asked Rhaenyra for more instructions before taking on the task.

“Could the errand be this?” I whirled around, finding the Prince in far too close a proximity for my liking, a smirk on his lips and a necklace with a ruby falcon dangling from his raised right hand. My eyes widened, chest sagging in relief as I beheld the necklace. “Yes. Oh thank the Seven,” I reached out to grab the necklace, but Daemon only snatched it back. I let out a strangled noise of frustration, “Hey!”

Daemon leaned in closer, pressing me against a pillar uncomfortably. “Thank the Seven? I think that they shouldn’t be the one you’re directing your thanks to,” he murmured softly. Goosebumps broke out on my skin, as I glared into his eyes. His infuriatingly, inhumanely beautiful purple eyes. Damn him. “Back up.” I hissed. Daemon seemed to take it as an invitation to lean in closer, his face was mere centimetres from mine now. My breathing became more uneven, feeling a mix of frustration and another strange feeling I couldn't place. “Are you going to punch me again if I don’t?” he whispered softly, his eyes sparkling with deviousness and mischief. “Yes,” I hissed.

“However, if you take a step back, I might find it in me to thank you for your nosiness in picking up things that do not belong to you.” “Yet if it were not for me, you might have needed to scour the whole of King’s Landing to find this little trinket.” He withdrew from me with a smirk, and I huffed, glaring at him. “Well? I’m impatiently awaiting your gratitude, byka zaldrizes.” Gritting my teeth, I finally bit out, “Thank you, Your Grace. Will you please return me the necklace now? The princess is in need of it.”

A rough laugh escaped him. “Now that’s more like it. You’re very welcome, my lady.” He dropped the necklace into my waiting hand, eyes watching me as I clasped the falcon pendant in my hand and internally praised the Seven for being able to find it, although through an unconventional method. “You changed a lot, you know,” he said, his eyes still studying my face. “That’s to be expected. It’s been 8 years. You have changed too.” “You’re quieter,” he observed. “Well, I can hardly scream at you now that we’re both adults, can I? I have a reputation to maintain.”

The prince scoffed at that, “Reputation. Lady Primrose always stressed about that. I didn’t think you’d take her lessons to heart.” “She was my mother, Your Grace. And she is correct about the importance of reputation, especially as I am chief lady-in-waiting to the queen now.” I chided him. He chuckled darkly, “The topic of reputation is not one I much care for. You should know that better than anyone, my lady.” I raised my eyebrows, “Is that why you came back to court without Lady Royce then?” Daemon rolled his eyes, “That boring cunt is the least of my worries. Court is already dreadfully dull. Should I need to suffer in her presence for any longer, I might just mount my own head on a spike.” “I always thought you a warrior, but it seems you are a coward in the face of marriage.” I mocked. I could see Daemon’s face scrunch up with anger at my claim, and I smirked, relishing in how he still had the same sore spots he did when we were children. Classic Daemon.

Daemon felt fury bubble up in him, like a kettle dangerously close to boiling point. Seeing her smirk however, made him forgo his initial angry outburst and settle for a sharper, more hurtful one. “Bold words for someone who keeps rejecting marriage proposals. If there’s anyone who is a coward, I would say it’s you, my lady.” The vein in my neck was probably protruding to the high heavens by now. I longed to yell at him, like I always did back in my girlhood, but I couldn’t, because he was right. Yelling would only prove his point and allow him the pleasure of gloating. I was not about to rise up to his bait. Turning away from him, I walked out of the hall briskly. “It was a pleasure seeing you, your Grace, but I’m afraid I must be off. I hope we never have the misfortune to cross paths again.”

My hand was on the brass door handle when I heard him call my name once more. “Y/N?” Rolling my eyes, I kept my back turned away from him. “Yes, your Grace?”

“I was sorry to hear about Lady Primrose’s passing.” I stiffened at his unexpected condolences. I hadn’t thought about my mother in a very long time. “She was as much of a mother to me as she was to you” I tilted my head downward, closing my eyes for a brief moment. “It has been 7 years since she passed. There is no need to offer your condolences…but I appreciate it nonetheless.”

Daemon heard the doors to the throne room slam shut. His eyes still cast on the door Y/N had just left from, he tilted his head slightly. A soft chuckle resonated through the throne room. ‘Same old Y/N’, he thought to himself, a smile curling at his lips, ‘but…different somehow.’ Oddly enough, he felt his heart twinge for some reason at her sudden departure. He had not realised how silent these past 8 years have been, not until today.

Queen Aemma was delighted with her daughter’s present, although a bit put out that her lady-in-waiting had arrived back at her chambers with no grapes in sight. But observing the mildly murderous glint in Y/N’s eyes, Aemma wisely kept her mouth shut. She wondered what had happened to make Y/N so annoyed, but then she let slip an amused chuckle as realisation dawned on her.

Daemon.

translation: byka zaldrīzes: little dragon

And that’s the first chapter! If you loved it so far, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated :) Thank you for reading! Chapter 2 should be out in the next week or so! Let me know if you wished to be added to a taglist in the comments or through this form

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thezombieprostitute · 2 months

Text

Sparks Fly - Part 3

Summary: After working as an engineer for Wilford & Gilliam Trust for several years you find evidence of seedy dealings and burned books. After turning in the evidence you find yourself in danger and seek help. You're taken into the protection of a mob family where you run into your high school best friend, Mace.

Word Count: ~2k

Warnings: Implied violence and attempted murder. Please let me know if I missed any.

Part 2 -- Part 4

Series Masterlist

Unsurprisingly you woke up several times during the night. Your stress from the past week or so isn’t going to disappear overnight, no matter how good Mace’s grilled cheese is. Each time you tiptoed out to the main area and were comforted at the site of Mace sleeping in front of the door, as he promised. You were able to calm yourself down each time and get some more sleep, thinking through all the different security measures Mace talked you through.

At one point you wake up to the smell of bacon cooking in the kitchen. Your stomach rumbles so you get out of bed. Mace is cooking up bacon, eggs and toast for two. He looks up and smiles as he sees you, “coffee just started brewing. I’ll get you a mug when it’s ready.” You nod, still tired, and sit down at the table, watching him work.

He’s definitely bulked up since high school. He was kinda lanky back then but his arms have definitely gotten bigger and his shirt hints at some serious muscle underneath. Part of you wonders if he built that through work or exercise. The rest of you is wondering how it would feel to be held close in those muscly arms.

He brings over a plate, “hope you don’t mind your eggs scrambled with cheese. Also got some strawberry jam for your toast, if you’d like.”

“Thanks, AC,” you smile, quickly digging into the food. He sets his own plate down and comes back with a couple mugs of coffee before eating.

“We’re going to be getting some more food stuff delivered today,” he says between bites. “If you’d like to request anything specific let me know before noon or so.” You nod in understanding. “GBH will be regularly trading shifts with Barton, another one of the best in the security business. Again, you’re not likely to see him, but he’s definitely watching out for us. Probably both of them will be on task when it comes time for your testimony.”

You freeze at that. You’d been so busy trying to stay alive you hadn’t had time to think about the actual trial. Mace notices and starts gently rubbing the back of your hand. “Hey,” he whispers. “You’re gonna be okay. We’ll be there for you every step of the way, alright?”

“Can you be there with me,” you whisper back, voice strained with emotion.

“I’ll talk about it with the Bosses, okay?”

You nod and pick at the rest of your food, appetite suppressed by fear. Mace’s face goes from worried to slightly mischievous as he goes for his phone. “I know a few things to add to the grocery list,” he comments as he types.

“What are you getting?”

“It’s gonna be a surprise. A good surprise, I promise.”

“As opposed to the surprise birthday gift you tried to get me by hacking the school grading systems and giving Pacifica all C’s and D’s?”

“In my defense, it was a great plan,” he argues. “Low grades meant more time with her tutors, which meant less time in her precious social circles. Maybe then she would’ve left you alone.”

“And, instead, you forgot that Pacifica’s parents were rich enough to correct your work,” you chuckle.

Mace sighs, “thus, your birthday surprise of Pacifica not being on the honor roll was thwarted.” He shakes his head as he smiles, “but I promise, this will actually be a good surprise.”

You’re both on the couch, watching reruns of Mythbusters, when Mace lets you know that the groceries have arrived. He encourages you to stay seated while he goes to the door, waiting for the knock. As he walks away you can’t help but think about smacking his ass, which has also “improved” since high school.

Mace heard the quiet knock and checked the peephole, confirming it was Curtis. He opened the door and started taking some of the bags. They walked them into the kitchen, Curtis confirming the door was closed and locked behind him.

“This is all the food stuff that was on the list,” Curtis said. “Also got a bag of clothes for you.”

“Thanks,” Mace nodded.

“Teach was the one to get the clothes,” Curtis admitted. “She’s got you at least a week’s worth of everything. Hope you don’t mind that she went through your clothes.”

“Nah, I trust her as much as I trust you,” Mace shook his head. “Thanks for agreeing to the personnel change for this.”

“Not much of a choice,” Curtis grumbled. “Between Teach and Rogers, I was clearly never gonna win. Good thing I already support you doing this.” Curtis patted Mace on the back. “You’ve got your regular jobs covered?”

“Yeah,” Mace nodded as he started putting away groceries. “Called in a favor or two, said it was a family emergency and they’d get paid the on-call level wages.” Curtis nods his approval. “Also,” Mace continued, “need to talk to someone about going to the courthouse with her.”

Curtis’s face snaps up at that, “you sure?”

“She’s requested it. Said it’ll help her keep calm. I’m inclined to believe her.”

“I’ll talk to the security team. See what they can do.” Curtis pauses a moment before asking, “you’re willing to do all of this for an old friend? Or is it the promise of bringing down Wilford & Gilliam?”

Mace considered. “A combination?”

“Have you thought about what’s going to happen after she testifies?”

“I haven’t let myself get that far,” Mace admitted.

“You’ll want to talk to her about her options,” Curtis confided. Mace nodded his agreement and they finished putting things away in silence before Curtis headed out.

You’d stayed on the couch, not wanting to interfere with their conversation and because you don’t want to ruin Mace’s surprise. But you heard the man’s comments about “after she testifies” and your brain starts going into panic mode again. What options did you have if things went well? What if they went bad? You can’t expect to be kept safe here forever. Do you have anywhere else to go? How far would Willford & Gilliam go to silence you? To make you pay for your testimony?

Mace turns from the door after making sure it’s locked and sees you gently rocking on the couch. He slowly approaches, quietly calling your name until you stop to look at him. He’s shocked by how scared you look. “DC, what’s going on?”

You can only whisper, “what do I do after I testify? They’ve already tried to kill me. Will they keep trying? Where can I go? What options do I have?”

You start rocking again and Mace starts rubbing the back of your hand making gentle shush sounds, trying to soothe you. When that doesn’t work he pulls you to him and holds you, gently running his hand up and down your back. You appreciate the touch and find yourself leaning into it, putting your head on his shoulder.

When he senses you’ve calmed down he asks, “how about I get to work on that surprise?” You give him a small smile and nod. He goes into the kitchen and gets to work. You try to follow him but he tells you to go back to watching Mythbusters so you don’t ruin the surprise. Chuckling at his earnestness you comply and go sit on the couch.

A while later the apartment is filled with sounds and smells of Mace’s cooking. You’re pretty sure he’s cooking up burgers. Your mind goes back to a school play, some really bad, cheap knock off of Grease. You and Mace needed the credits and ended up playing the tertiary couple at the sock hop. It was the closest either of you had ever gotten to a date and you remember hoping it would have led to a real one.

Mace calls out from the kitchen, “would you be willing to move to the table?”

“Of course,” you chirp as you get up to move.

He starts bringing food over as you sit down. Sure enough, there’s cheeseburgers, and a giant pile of freshly baked french fries. You smile and he runs back to the kitchen and brings out a couple of chocolate malts. He sets yours down in front of you and looks at you, expectantly.

Your smile grows, “this looks amazing.”

“And feel free to eat up all of the fries. I know they’re your favorite.”

“I’m not gonna eat all of them,” you argue. Mace raises an eyebrow and you chuckle. “Seriously, I’m not eating all of them. Just, maybe, 80% or so.” He laughs at your response and you both dig into the food. His cooking really is great.

“I was thinking of that sock-hop knock off play from high school,” Mace says between bites. “It was a dumb play, but we had a lot of fun.”

“Yeah, that poodle skirt was something else,” you chuckle. “So glad I never had to wear it again.”

“It looked really cute on you.”

“Yeah, but it was so heavy and under those stage lights I got so hot so fast.”

“Fair. At least neither of us had to wear those leather jackets.”

“Mmm! Yes! I remember Donny almost got heat stroke or something!”

“I also really enjoyed, just…” Mace stops. You tilt your head, questioning. He sighs, “it’s nothing. How’s the food?”

“Oh no you don’t,” you correct him. “I’ve been telling you all of my feelings. You don’t get to hold back yours. That was never our friendship.”

“It was, actually,” he says quietly.

“How do you mean? We told each other everything.”

Mace takes a deep sigh, “no. I didn’t tell you everything. Couldn’t tell you everything, because I was a dumb kid.”

“You can tell me now. We’re definitely not teenagers anymore.”

“I wanted to ask you out. On a real date,” he confesses. “That play was the closest I knew I’d ever get to the real thing. That’s why it’s burned into my brain. None of my lines, none of the other characters, just you and me, on a date.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Like I said, I was a dumb kid,” he gulps. “Knew you’d be on your way to bigger and better things. Knew you’d be able to do so much better than me. High school was a pain in the ass for my self-confidence, too. As much as I thought I could be good for you, I knew you’d be able to find someone better than me. That you shouldn’t be tied to me for no other reason than we were high school sweethearts.”

“Meanwhile I was just waiting for you to make a move,” you sigh. “I’m so sorry.”

He furrows his brow, “why are you apologizing?”

“If I’d felt more confident, maybe I could’ve asked you out instead. Then we wouldn’t have gotten separated and out of touch. And I probably wouldn’t be hiding for my life.”

“It’s not your fault. It takes two people to stop talking to each other. I could’ve tried harder.”

“Well, at least we get another chance,” you smile. “If you’re willing, that is.”

“I definitely don’t want to waste this chance,” he confesses.

You get up from your seat and sit yourself on his lap, putting your arms around his neck. “Just friends, or more?”

Mace gulps, his eyes darkening, “more, please.”

You kiss him with more passion and want than you’ve ever kissed anyone before, enjoying the electricity at his touch as he returns the kiss.

Part 2 -- Part 4

Series Masterlist

Tagging:

@chibijusstuff

@jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory

@rebekahdawkins

@texmexdarling

Please let me know if you'd like to be tagged.

And many thanks to @krirebr for the inspiration for the surprise!

#mafia!james mace #mob!james mace #james mace x reader #mace x reader #mafia au #mafia!mace #mob!mace

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hazel-eye-coffee-shop-girl-blog · 29 days

Note

Tell me about Dean falling in love with a girl who has long covid - maybe they met when he saved her from a monster and they became friends, she occasionally helps him with research or patches him up if he gets hurt. He doesn’t hear from her for a while, and when he goes to check on her, he finds out she’s in the hospital with Covid - a monster he can’t save her from. He realizes he loves her, but may lose her. After she gets out he keeps coming to check on her because he knows she tires easily/has trouble breathing at times.

@deans-spinster-witch thank you for this ask. Actually thank you all that submit asks or sent me story prompts, I am going to get to them all, but I thought this one would be a good place to start.

First let me start off with my disclaimers:

1) I haven't see the last few seasons of SPN, so I don't know how they addressed COVID, if they did at all. So think of it as alternative timeline, not really canon.

2) My COVID representation is probably not 100% accurate, either by the reader symptoms or that I don't mention Dean wearing a mask or that he was able to be in the hospital with the reader.

3) I just POV and I think I may have jump from 2nd to 3rd person writing? I did my best to correct it, but sometimes I can't seem to correct it. Also did my best with editing, but I am sure I missed something. Flashbacks are bold italic and internal thoughts are just italic.

4) I am not sure if this is 100% what you were looking for. It does end on a cliffhanger, so I will be posting a second part. It was getting hella long coming in at 7,500 words. 😬 sorry.

5) swearing, hints of past trauma that we may get more in the second part. Self doubt/hate. Angst heavy!

Okay think that's it. It's a Y/N x Dean focus story with Sam making an appearance via phone. Characters are not mine but the work is. So please don't post as your own.

Feel free to like, reblog, send me feedback in the comments. And if you have a story idea, send it my way via asks or message. Or if you want me to tag you on my work let me know.

Okay think I have stalled long enough. Here it is, my first story back from 3 year break.

JUST BREATHE-

"Excuse me, sir, you can't be up here." A female voice, strong, laced with exhaustion, mixes with the sounds of the hospital. Doctors are being paged, staff are going in and out of rooms, and machines are monitoring patients. All of it, white noise, too, Dean. Because he can't look away or tear his eyes from what is in front of him. Y/N is lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to a ventilator. What happened? How did it come on so strong and so fast? He had just seen you last week when he came through town on his way to his next hunt. Picking up research that you had done for him since Sam was working on another case in California. You were the best…no, are, you are the best researcher he knows…you have to get better; you can't…

"Sir! I will have to ask you to leave if you're not family. The ICU is only for families." The female voce, insistent on getting him to pay attention to her. Tired, she was just so damn tired of no one listing to her today; she had better things to do than police people about.

"How long has she been here?" Dean asks, his voice firm but slightly wavering. He can't look away, watching as the vent goes up and down, breathing for you. Y/N, come on, you have to pull through; I can't lose you, Dean thinks, trying his best not to break. He prayed to God if he thought it would help if he thought the ass would be listing.

"Sir, I can't give that information if you're not family." Dean looks away from you for a moment, noticing the nurse standing beside him. She is dressed in blue scrubs, her hair pulled back, and a mask on. He can tell she is on her last nerve with him, and he has to win her over. He can't leave you, not now. "So, are you family?" she asks again.

"Umm…" He knew he needed to lie. If he told her that you were just a friend, he would never get answers and would never get back to this floor again. It was dumb luck that he could get your room number out of the receptionist downstairs. He pulled himself together to give her his winning smile and wink. "She's my sister." Clearing his throat, he looked back to you.

The nurse looks down at the chart in her hand. "Miss. Moore didn't have a brother listed as next of kin, but then again, a neighbor brought her in." Looking back up to Dean, he doesn't respond. "How about we go somewhere a little more private to discuss your sister's condition?" She lightly grabs Dean by the shoulder and turns him away from the window and you.

********

Dean did his best to listen to the nurse, but all he really wanted to do was get back to you. It was driving him crazy that he couldn't do anything; this wasn't caused by a demon, monster, or anything in his wheelhouse. You were brought in about a day or two after he had seen you. Your neighbor had come over to borrow something and saw you in the window, passed out on the floor. COVID had hit you hard, and you just couldn't shake it; your lungs filled up so fast with fluids that you passed out.

That was a week ago; you had been in the hospital for a week and on a ventilator. The doctors feel that your body just needs time to fight off the infection.

"She seemed fine when I saw her last; how could this happen?" Dean questions, trying to be as respectful as possible without raising his voice and getting kicked out.

"COVID hits everyone differently; we really don't know why. Some people may never get it, and some…" Not finishing her statement, the nurse looks away from Dean.

"Can I go back and sit with her?" Dean asks, more like pleading with her. He just wants to ensure you're doing alright and stand watch until you wake up. He doesn't know what else to do.

"I am sorry, but no," the nurse replies as kindly as possible. Seeing that he will protest this, she quickly adds, "But, you can come back during visiting hours. You won't be able to go in the room; we have to keep it clean because of COVID, but you can see her from the window." Hoping this will be a compromise he can live with. She doesn't want him to get upset and have to call security and have him escorted out. She can tell he cares for her and is scared.

Dean will take it; he knows he has to. You're the strongest person he knows. You will get through this; you have to. "Alright, I guess I will come back then," Dean says, getting up from the table.

********

Walking out of the hospital, Dean calls Sam to tell him what is happening and that he wasn't leaving until you were back home. Screw the world, let the monsters run amuck, and let demons rain hell on earth; he had more important things to do. "I don't care, Sammy, I am not leaving again. This is the only number you can reach me at, and only you," he says, getting into the Impala and firing it up.

"Alright, Dean. I hear you. Do you want me to come? I am almost done here." Sam offers, knowing that Dean won't take him up on it.

"No, I am good, but thanks. You stay on the West Coast until the world calms itself down." Letting the engine run for a bit, Dean takes a second. This has been the longest they have been working apart. It's been hard on both of them, but at least Dean has you to talk to. He has been leaning on you more since Sam was in California. Could Dean have caused this? Was he asking too much of you?

"Dean, hey, you still there?" Sam breaks through his intrusive thoughts.

Clearing his voice, "Yeah."

"You know, she will get through this. She's going to be okay," Sam says, trying his best to reassure him and get him out of his head because even if they are miles apart, he knows his brother. Dean is blaming himself right now for something that he can't control.

“Yeah, I know… I just… what if I…..”

"No, don't think like that, and don't think you had anything to do with this happening." Sam quips back, knowing where his brother's thoughts are going, and he will not have him spiraling out.

"But I ask so much of her. You know she will never say no. Even when she has other things to do, she always drops everything when I ask for a favor. God, I am such a user…"

"No, you're not. Y/N is strong, and she said she would tell you if she didn't want to do something. She wants to help; she thrives on researching this stuff, and you know it." Sam states, "Come on, you know she would rather research lore or listen to one of your 'tales from the front lines,' as she likes to call them, any day of the week."

The thought of you saying these words to him as you patch him up, 'Alright, Dean, what tales to do we have this time?' or how your voice would be giddy when he called you about a case he found. "Yeah, you're right, Sam," Dean replies. Feeling a bit better after talking with Sam, he always knows how to keep him from spiraling too much.

"I know I am; now go get some rest. She's going to need you when she wakes up."

"Night brother"

After hanging up the phone, Dean didn't want to go to a hotel or bar, but he was now wired and needed to do something. Pulling out of the parking lot was second nature, and he found his way to your driveway.

Sitting there, looking at the modest, two-bedroom, two-bath house, he would consider a second home for as much time as he has spent there. It was odd to think about walking through that door and you not being there. When getting out of the car, the sound of the door opening and closing is the only noise that breaks up the silence of the night. Taking a few steps, Dean stops himself from knocking like he usually does. Habit, he thinks. Pulling his keys out, he flips until he finds the one for your house.

It was an argument you had won, not that he didn't want a key. Of course, he did, but he didn't want it to fall into the wrong hands should something happen.

"No, I don't need a key, Y/N," Dean protest, not wanting to have this conversation right now.

"Yes, you do; now take it." You say, holding out the key for him to take.

"I don't need it; you're always here. Why would I need to get into your place when you're not here?" he questions. Finishing off his beer, he gets up from the couch and heads toward the kitchen. "You want another one?" he asks, trying to change the subject.

You get up and follow him. "Don't change the subject, Winchester," you say, following him and sitting on a kitchen stool. What if I wasn't home tonight?"

Tossing the empty bottle in the recycle bin and turning to face her, he can tell by the severe look on your face that this is an argument that he won't win. But why make it easy on you. "But you were," giving you a smirk, he opens the fridge to pull out two more bottles. "Besides, where would you be on a Friday night? You have a hot date I don't know about?" he questions. Handing one of the bottles to you.

He struggles slightly to open the bottle with his left hand since his right is currently in a sling. After putting his shoulder back into place and stitching him up, you open the beer in your hand, hand it to him, and take the other one from him. "Maybe," you say cryptically, a twinkle in your eyes.

"Really? Didn't know you were dating anyone?" Dean is slightly put off by this. It's not that someone would want to date you; it's the opposite. You're beautiful, and he always wonders how you were still single after all this time. Intelligent and funny, any guy would be lucky to call you his. Heck, he would like to call you his.

"I am not," you say, putting him out of his misery and his slight spiral of another guy touching her, kissing her… But I could still be out. Do you want to be sitting out in your car waiting for me to get home?" you question, pushing the key towards him. "Just take the dam key. It's only a key. I am not asking you to move in with me."

If you asked him that, he would say yes in a heartbeat. But the reality of his life, what he and Sam do for a living, gives him pause to take the key. "I just don't want anyone else to get their hands on it."

"Who, like Sam? Of course, you can give a copy to Sam." You joke, knowing what he's getting at but trying your best to keep this conversation light.

"No, not Sam. I am thinking Crowley, another demon or monster, or worse, Lucifer. I would hate for anyone other than Sam or me to get their hands on this and come after you."

"Dean, that's not going to happen."

"But it could, you know it could."

Letting out a sigh, you decide to pull out the big guns to get him to take this damn key. "A key is not their first choice to get in. You have put up all the wards you could think of." You say, proving that you are as safe as possible. "Heck, you made me even get this thing." Snapping off your leather bracelet to show off the anti-possession tattoo. "and you know how much I hate needles." The black tattoo shows nicely against your light skin and hides the other barely visible scars.

"Yeah, I found out real quick that day. I think I still have scars on my arm from you digging your nails in," he jokes, bringing his hand up to his wrist to run his fingers around the tattoo and the scars he knows are there.

"Haha, that's real funny." You fake laugh. " Just take it, please. It will make me feel better if you have it." You do your best puppy dog eyes as you push the key closer to him.

Dean takes a moment before caving. "Alright, but I am only going to use it for emergencies." he conceits, taking his keys out and putting your house key on the ring with the rest.

Getting up from the stool, you smile at him, "Thank you, Dean," you say sweetly and hug him.

Dean shakes his head, trying to shake the thoughts from that night, as he shuts the door behind him. He stood in the entryway, just taking in the quietness of the house, holding his breath, waiting for you to come down the hallway, saying, ‘Dean, you look like shit; what were you up against this time? Let me get you patched up, and you can tell me all about it.’ Guiding him to the kitchen, you would pull the first aid kit and a beer from the fridge.

Watching these memories play out in front of him, it's not until he lets out a shaky breath that he had been holding that he feels the tears run down his face, "Fuck! Y/N, you got to get better, okay…." choking back, "I can't lose you." The thought of losing another important person in his life. Someone who should have a happy and long life and who, without them, Dean wouldn't be standing here today. He owes everything to you.

Dean can't bring himself to step past the entryway, feeling like an intruder. "I can't…" feeling pressure in his chest, he turns and walks out the door. Locking the door and making the short walk to his car, the pressure subsides once he is in the driving seat. Knowing he can't stay in the house. Too many memories of you and his dark thoughts will keep him up. He also can't put the car in drive and go to the motel just outside of town. It's like his body won't let him leave.

*******

Y/N POV

You were in the hospital for two weeks, and Dean was by your side, or somewhat outside your hospital room, every day, every hour he could be. At least that is what the nurse told you once you were awake. Your 'brother' Dean has been by your side. The first time they told you this, you looked confused, which caused concern from the staff.

"Your brother, Dean," the nurse says again, her voice laced with concern as she points to the window that looks into your room from the hallway.

You turn your head slightly, your body stiff from being in bed for so long, and the breathing tube just being taken out. There you see him, Dean Winchester, raising his hand to give you a short wave, and a look of relief washes over his face, which is covered with a slightly heavy five-clock shadow. You give him a smile and look back at the nurse. "Yeah, sorry, of course, he's my brother. Just didn't know anyone called him?" you reply, "Can I have some water?" you ask, you're throat feeling like sandpaper.

"Sure," the nurse says, filling a cup and handing it to you. "Well, the doctor will be in soon," she says, giving you a short smile and walking towards the door.

"Umm, can my brother come in?" you ask. Knowing that no matter what she says, Dean will make it in here one way or the other. The nurse hesitates. "It's just that I would like him to hear what the doctor says. I am still groggy, not sure I am going to remember everything he tells me," you add, hoping this will pull on her heartstrings just a bit.

Which does work, "Sure." she replies, giving you a smile and then walking out the door. She briefly talks to Dean before walking away, and Dean enters the room.

"Hey, sweetheart," Dean says, shutting the door behind him and walking towards you.

"Hey yourself," you reply. You try to sit up a bit more, but you struggle a bit.

Dean quickly gets to you. " Here, let me," he says, finding the remote for the bed, setting you upright, and then readjusting your pillows. "Good?" he asks once it looks like you're settled.

Feeling slightly embarrassed that he saw you like this, you’re sure you're a mess, bed hair, hospital gowns, and oh man…your breath has got to stink by now, right? Trying your best not to breathe out, "Yeah, thanks." you quickly reply. Dean sits in the chair next to your bed but doesn't say anything. Okay, guess you will start. "So brother, hum?" you quip.

He smiles at this and looks away from you to the bedding. "Yeah, I had to say something; otherwise, they would never let me back in." Then, looking back at you, a slight panic sets in that you might be mad at him for this small lie. " You're not mad, are you?" he asks.

"No, of course not," you reply, wanting to reassure him that everything is fine. This does, as relief washes over him a second time. You hold out your hand for him to take. "Just wonder what Sam will say about having a little sister, that's all. I am sure he will hate being the middle child," you joke.

Dean gives a short laugh: "Oh, Sammy will be all right with it. He will be happy to hear you're awake, is all." Dean's fingers rubbing your hand back and forth are nice.

"How did you know I was here?" you ask, trying to remember the day before you were brought in, but it's all a blur. Was he coming to see you? Was he working on a case?

"I was coming back through, and you had helped me with the case in North Carolina…" lowering his voice, even though you're in a private room," that Dinji." Dean recounts, seeing you not remember. He continues, "I stopped by your place, and your neighbor was out and said you were in the hospital."

None of that is registering at all, like last month, which is a blank slate. Fuck, what else are you not remembering? "And you have been here this whole time?" you ask, wondering what the state of the world must be like if he has taken himself out of saving the world for two weeks! Is Sam okay?

Dean's eyes, bright green, lock with yours, cocking his head slightly to the side, with slight confusion at your shock that he was here the whole time. "Of course, where else would I be? I wasn't going to leave you alone here," he says, a matter of fact.

You're about to reply to this, ask more questions, ask how Sam is, but before you can, the doctor enters the room. "Miss. Moore, welcome back," he says, looking at your chart and then at you and Dean. And this must be your brother?" he asks, holding his hand for Dean to shake.

Dean does, letting go of yours, the loss of him, his touch is apparent. "Hey, doc, when can I take my sister home?" Dean asks.

The doctor starts to talk, but you're not listening; your mind drifts to Dean. He put his life on pause for you? Wow, that's something, but you're sure he would do it for Charlie, Jody, Claire, or Alex, right? Yeah, of course. Dean sees you as family, which is what you are to him; that's what you will always be. Yes, you were close. He and Sam saved you from the vampire nest, explained everything about their world, and gave you a purpose.

You feel a slight pressure in your chest. Now that you're awake, how long will he stay before he leaves again?

"So I will get the nurse to start the discharge paperwork, and you guys should be out of there in a few hours," the doctor says. Giving you a smile.

Not hearing anything but that, you just smile back and look towards the window. You hear Dean thank the doctor, and he leaves the room. "nice guy," Dean says, filling up the silence.

"Yeah," you reply. You’re not sure what you are feeling; it's almost like a weight on your chest, pressure. Maybe it is COVID; it will be better once you get home. It has to, right?

******

You didn't know Dean could fuss over you more if he tried. He insisted that he be the one to wheel you out of the hospital, only after he made sure the car was pulled up as close to the door as possible so you didn't have to walk too far. Then, when he pulled into your driveway, he insisted he carry you the short walk to the front door.

"No, Dean, I can walk. My legs aren't broken; I had COVID, that's all." you quip back as he comes over to your side of the car to pick you up.

"The doctor said you shouldn’t over-exaggerate yourself, that's all," he replies, trying again to wrap his arms around your waist and pick you up from standing against the closed car door.

You block his hands again. As much as you would like his arms around you, have him cradle you; where is this coming from? You also don't want him to hurt himself, or God forbid the neighbors see him carrying you bridle style. "Yeah, walking the three feet to my front door is not going to kill me." This comment is like a punch in the gut for Dean; it's written on his face. Shit, was my COVID scare that much of an effect on him? But why? Trying to write your wrong, you try to play it off. "Come on, man, I have been on my back for two weeks and must move a little bit." You quip back. Playfully pushing him aside and walking towards the door.

You get to the door but realize you don't have your keys, you didn't have those, or your phone when you were brought into the hospital. You wait for Dean to come up behind you. He doesn't say anything, pulling out his keys; he opens the door and lets you walk in first. You shuck off your jacket and shoes and go to the living room. Sitting on the couch, you try to hide the sigh of exhaustions that you feel from the small activities you just did; but it slips past your lips and is not lost on Dean.

"Want me to make you some tea? You hungry?" Dean asks.

"No, I want you to tell me what's happened since I was in the hospital. Did all the evil in the world decide to take a break while I was out, and that's how you got to have some time off?" you question, motioning him to sit next to you on the couch.

Dean shrugs at this, "No. I just told Sam I was taking myself off the board, is all." he says casually.

"Taking yourself off the board? Hum, I didn't know you guys could do that," you ask, Giving him an intuitive look.

Dean is giving you nothing back, shaking his head, looking around the room, and clapping his hands together. He points towards the kitchen, "I am going to make that tea for you." He walks away before you can stop him, leaving you to your thoughts. Something else is happening, and you know who to call to get the truth out.

******

Making that call seem more complicated than usual since Dean didn't leave your side for anything. Three days, three days of hovering and mothering you, and as much as you care for Dean, and possibly secretly loved him. Let's face it, those chest tightening pains at the hospital, the loss of his touch was not COVID symptoms, it was your heart telling you what you already knew. You were in love with Dean Winchester, and the fact that he dropped everything for you made your head spin and feel like the most important girl in the world. But you are a realist, and Dean Winchester is out of your league. He sees you as the little sister he got settled with, not the girl he wants to kiss and do other things with.

On top of that, you are sure his opinions of you drop a few points since you found out really quick that to pass the time while he waited for you to wake up, he decided to clean your house from top to bottom. The sheer embarrassment when you found out had you want the couch to swallow you up right there. "Excuse me, you did what?" you ask, thinking you didn't hear him right when you ask; the following day, a book you usually had on your coffee table was now on the bookshelf that it was never on.

"I did some cleaning while you were…" Dean says, not finishing that statement while he grabs the few dishes off the coffee table and heads towards the kitchen. He never finishes that statement. Whenever he says it, he never says 'when you were in the hospital' or 'when you were sick.' After three days of the hanging statement, you get frustrated over that.

But knowing he cleaned your house, how clean is clean? Did he do your laundry? Yep! Did he clean under your bed and put stuff away on your nightstand? God forbid he did a deep clean in your closet—oh, the embarrassment. "Why?" you ask, now following him, waiting for an answer that you sure won't come.

Dean has his back to you, rinsing off the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. "What? It's not a big deal. I had time, plus the nurse thought it was a good idea for you to come home to a clean hose." He says while wiping down the counter.

You try your best to breathe and calm down. Yes, all that is true, a clean house to come home too make sense. But having him go through your personal and private things, fuck, him cleaning your underwear. He will never look at you as desirable again, not like he did before. You look up from the floor to see him watching you, waiting for a reply. "thanks, I guess," you say, defeated. "I am going to go take a shower." You say, needing just a few minutes by yourself, shake off this feeling of rejection you know he doesn't realize he caused.

"You need some help?" he asks, approaching you and walking a step behind you.

You take a second, knowing again that he just wants to help, but God treats you like an old woman. Because you know that his offer of 'helping you out' in the shower does not imply sexy times; it's he saying he thinks you are weak and that you're going to get tired, fall, and hurt yourself. You get to the bathroom door. "No, I got it, thanks," you say, opening the door and shutting it before he can say anything.

*****

Dean POV

I know I am being overprotective, maybe even going overboard with not letting her do anything, and perhaps the deep clean was an overreach. But in my defense, I thought I could lose her, and if she was going to, no, when she was going to come home, I wanted it to be in a clean, COVID-free house.

I turn away from the bathroom door and walk towards the living room. I start to clean up, picking up the discarded blanket from my makeshift bed; even though she has a spare room, it's on the second floor away from her, and I want to be close in case she needs me in the night.

The rigging of my phone pulls me from my thoughts of her. Picking up, I see it's Sam. "Hey, what's up?" I ask, dropping the blanket and myself onto the couch.

"Just checking in, how's Y/N?"

"Good, still low energy, but I am just happy she’s walking and talking, even if I am annoying her."

"You, annoying her, I can't believe it," Sam says, with fake shock. "You know she can take care of herself; she has been doing that for some time now." Sam reminds me. Knowing that my hovering is coming for a place of love for Y/N, but it could be doing more damage than good.

"I know, it's just…" I pause briefly, looking back to see the closed bathroom door. "Sam, she just looked so helpless there lying in the hospital bed, hooked up to those machines…and there was nothing I could do…nothing that could save her…I just had to wait."

Sam knows that's not my strong suit, "I know, I get it, but maybe just ease off a little. I am sure it's making her feel like a burden, you doing everything for her."

"Yeah, you're probably right. I will try."

"I know I am." He clears his throat and paused briefly before asking what he knew I would not want to answer: "So when are you heading back to the bunker?"

I pause momentarily; the idea of leaving you hadn't crossed his mind. "Umm…" Hearing the door open, he looks to see you walking out of the bathroom and down the hallway to your room, wrapped in your navy-blue plaid robe, hair slightly damp from the shower. "Not sure yet, but I will keep you posted. I got to go." I say quickly, hanging up the phone. I know that she can take care of herself, but at the same time, I don't want to leave her again; what if I do and something happens, and there is no one here to save her again. Sam's right, though; I have to back off, or I am liable to smother her.

*****

Y/N POV (about a week later)

Something seems to have changed in Dean in the last few days. It was like the old carefree Dean was back. He hovered less, not watching my every move, and even went on a quick day trip to the bunker to pick up more books for me to read since I had read everything in my place twice, and if I was going to be stuck inside I wanted to do something productive. Granted, I had to ride shotgun on this trip, so although we got out of the house, I was still under his protective eye. But he wasn't babying me anymore; he cracked jokes, smiled, and even complained when I made him watch the same movie repeatedly.

Dean was going on a food run, and this was one outing he didn't let me go on. Too many people, could possibly get sick again, so he didn't want to risk it. But he also hated doing it, leaving you alone. "You're sure you're going to be fine," he asks again, standing in the doorway, you on the other side, trying your best not to push him out and lock the door.

"Yes, Dean, you'll be gone for an hour. I think I can survive." you quip, pushing him playfully, "Go, I promise, no running around the house with scissors or jumping on the bed. I will keep my butt on the couch until you get back."

Dean's worried face slightly softens, knowing that you will be fine, but that pit in his stomach—the thought of him walking out that door again and not having you in his sight—will never go away. "Okay, but call me if you feel off," he reminds you again.

"Yes, now go." You reply with a smile. Yes, he was getting on your nerves slightly, but you still loved the guy for it.

You watch as he pulls out of the driveway and down the road before you head inside. Walking to your room, you find your cell phone charging, and you quickly make the call you've been waiting to make since you got home.

He picked up on the second ring: "Y/N, everything alright? Dean texted me to say he was going on a food run. Do you need him? Are you not feeling well?…" Sam blurts out, a lengthy, run-on statement that has you slightly spinning.

Trying your best not to laugh at him. "Sam, calm down; I am good. I just wanted to talk to my friend. How are you?" you ask, wanting to ease into this discussion. Plus, you really did want to know how he was doing; ever since you came home, you only talked to Sam when Dean would call him and have him on speakerphone. Even then, Sam was instructed not to speak about cases he was working on. Dean had a theory that possibly COVID was stress-induced, but you know it wasn't.

"I am good, making my way back to the bunker. I have a case in Wisconsin, so I'm in your area. I was thinking of seeing you guys once it's done."

"Oh yes, please do, Sam. It's been ages since we've hung out together. I feel like a movie marathon is needed."

"Yeah, if you're up for it. Dean tells me you get tired easily. Is anything else not the same?"

"Umm…brain fog for sure; I lost all memory of the week before I went into the hospital. Some things don't taste the same. But honestly, Sam, can we not talk about me for a bit. Tell me about the case in Wisconsin; what are you hunting this time." You inquire, done talking about yourself, need a distraction, and avoid asking Sam what you want to know.

Sam, being the best friend, a girl could ask for, knew that a distraction from your symptoms was what you needed, and although it would be breaking his promise to Dean, he could hear it in your voice, the need for some kind of normalcy, at least what normal is considered for us. Giving you all the details, you can come to the same conclusion that it was a vengeful spirit and a simple salt and burn job is in order.

Once Sam is done talking about Wisconsin, a lull in the conversation forms, and you look at the clock to see Dean should be home soon. "Sam, can I ask you something?" You feel slightly nervous and try to figure out how to phrase your question.

"Of course, you can ask me anything."

Taking a breath, you wait a second before asking, "How was Dean when he found out I was sick? He said he 'took himself off the board' and has been hovering since I got home. He's gotten better, but those first few days, it was like he was a different person."

Sam can tell by the last statement that you're trying to bring some levity to an otherwise heavy question, a question that he is surprised you have to ask. taking a breath, he thinks about how to say, ‘You idiot, he loves you! and you love him!'

"I am glad to hear that he's lost up the reins a bit," giving a chuckle, "but honestly, Y/N, he was devastated. I know he's my big brother, and he tries his best to hide his emotions, but I could tell that night when he called to tell me what happened, he was scared. Scared that he was going to lose you, scared that he might have caused this to happen to you."

"How could he have caused COVID? I mean, I get he sometimes can have a big ego, but, come on, he can't cause an infection."

"No, but he thinks he has been asking too much of you, wearing you down. I can't say whether he's right or wrong. You and I know you occasionally burn the candle at both ends."

"Yeah, I am trying to get better at that. But Sam, he was treating me like I was 90 years old. He wouldn't let me do a thing around here. And did he tell you he cleaned my house—my whole house—before I got home? I mean everything."

"Oh man, I am sure you were not happy to hear about that."

"Your damn right. I wasn't."

"Look, it's not my place to say, but I will tell you this, remember that night when you and I got a little tipsy, and you might have let slip your feelings for a certain green eye hunter?"

Fuck, of course, he remembers that night; that was right after you had helped him and Dean take down a wraith, and Dean was out on a beer run. "Yeah, you asked me why I never seem to be dating anyone, and I said I can't be with the one guy I want, so why be with the wrong guy at all."

Sam waits for you to connect the dots, and although you're not sitting in front of him, Sam has a feeling you're making the connections: "Let's just say Dean has the same idea, and he has his eye on a hazel eye researcher that he thinks he can't have."

You're about to protest Sam's statement that Dean has no feelings for you other than sibling love, but before you can, you hear the front door open and Dean yelling, "Honey, I am home," sweetly.

"I've Got to go, Sam. Talk soon," you say, and hang up before he can reply.

*********

Sam's words kept rolling around in your mind all night, distracting you from Dean. During dinner, you were quiet, letting him lead the conversation and not making it known when he mentioned Sam might be stopping by in a day or two that you two had talked earlier. "Oh, okay, sounds good." you responded, still thinking, 'He has his eye on a hazel-eye researcher that he thinks he can't have.'

Dean went for girls that were the complete opposite of you, blonde, curves in all the right places without an ounce of fat to be seen, the girl that guys walk across fire for, not the girl that they run into fire to get away from. Not the girl who is socially awkward around strangers, who can put her foot in her mouth easier than anyone, and who has more of a backstory than is worth mentioning. No, Dean goes for simple, noncomplex girls, which makes sense, given his life is entirely of danger and complexity. Why go for a girl to add to it.

Dean can tell your mind is elsewhere, and he is slightly worried that you're lost in your head or that this might be another symptom. "Hey, space cadet, you with me? Because if you're not watching the movie, I will gladly turn it to something we haven't seen twice this week," he jokes, hoping to make fun of the situation.

His voice shakes you from your thoughts, and you look over at him; his eyes have just a hint of worry to them. The blanket across both of you, him in a simple white t-shirt and sleep bottoms, you in gray leggings, tank top, and open cardigan. Perfection, you and Dean cozy up on the couch, not a care in the world, him teasing you about your love of disaster movies, and you forcing him to watch the same one repeatedly, and he does; why? Because he loves you. He loves you like a sister, a friend, someone he cares for, just not someone he’s IN love with.

"yeah, sorry, I think I am just going to go to bed." You shake off that last statement: he's not IN love with you. God, you really know how to cut yourself deep, don't you? Getting up from the couch, you grab your water glass and head towards your room.

Dean gets up with you, "here, let me help you," he says, walking around the couch and placing a hand on your lower back.

This is the last straw, the final statement of his wanting to help you, again treating you like you're helpless. "Stop! Just stop!" you yell, feeling yourself boil with rage you knew you had been keeping at bay. You know his hovering is with the best intentions, but for you, it's blurring the lines between what you want from him and what you know he can give you. Your mind won't let it be accurate even after what Sam told you today.

Dean stops his hands from touching you, standing still like he is frozen in time. "Y/N, hey, I just want to help. You look tired, is all." His voice is soft and sweet.

He’s trying to placate you, like he would a child or grandparent, "Dean, I am fine; I can walk ten feet to my room on my own and not get lost or fall down, okay!" You lock eyes with him and see his face fall, and in that moment, you know that he's hurt; you've only ever yelled at him when you were injured and need him to find you. But that was screaming for him, not at him. You know that you should feel bad for your outburst, you do, but you know that this is not real, that this ideal version of him and you playing house can't last.

"What is wrong? Is this another symptom? Did something happen while I was out?" he asks, wanting to understand your sudden change since this morning. You start walking away from him, wanting to get into your room and away from him, knowing he will get the truth out of you. You don't want to hear his excuses or him placate you even more about why he and you will never be a thing.

You turn halfway down the hall to look back at him, standing there watching you. "No! It's not! I am a capable woman who can take care of herself. Stop treating me like I am dying, Dean! You saved me once; that should be enough for you." Turning back, you reach your door, hand on the handle to open it, when you hear Dean.

"What does that mean?" Dean questions, his footsteps pad against the hardwood floors, standing right behind you; you can feel his breath on your neck, "I know you are capable; you are the strongest woman I know." his voice low, sending shivers down your body, you feel his hand on your arm, turning you around to face him. He sees your tear-stain cheek, "Fuck, Y/N, talk to me; what is going on? Why would you say saving you once was enough?"

Your eyes, trying and failing to hold back the tears, are now on the brink of spilling out. He needs to just let you go. You lean back against the door, knowing he took that little movement as exhaustion, and you are. You are exhausted by talking about this repeatedly, tired that he just can't let you leave, won't give up, and will go back to seeing you only when he needs something. He needs to go back to his life and let you put him back into the box of things that you don't let yourself have. Taking a breath, you run your hands over your face, wiping the tears and pushing them back inside. Putting on your brave face, "You know, Sam will be here in two days. I think you should go back with him. Go back to the bunker, and 'put yourself back on the board.'"

Throwing his line back at him, telling him he needed to return to work and that you would be fine without him. Will you, though? In time, maybe? You turned the door handle and stepped into the room, never breaking your eye contact with him. He shut the door in his face and flipped the lock, not giving him a chance to speak, knowing that he would not force his way in.

To be continued

#supernatural #fanfic #fanfiction #dean winchester #writing prompt #fandom #supernatural fanfiction #dean fan fiction #dean x curvy!reader #dean x chubby reader #dean x reader angst #dean x y/n #dean winchester angst

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thatfreshi · 7 months

Text

"Deny Him" (Uni AU P. 2)

This might be the weirdest party you've been invited to.

tw - alcohol/drugs slightly mentioned, light description of sex, hints at abuse

@justporo

You're a little shocked, immediately being invited to a party by a model who doesn't even know you. Astarion looks you up and down, his eyes narrowed.

"Okay, well you most definitely cannot go like this. Come darling, I'm sure I have some clothes to spare."

He doesn't wait for you, simply beginning to walk, expecting you to follow. You do indeed follow, and he just keeps talking.

"So what do you think of our dear Shadowheart?"

"She doesn't seem to like you."

He shrugs.

"Not many people do. I'm an acquired taste, for only the most refined palettes."

He goes into his coat pocket, grabbing his room key, quickly entering.

"I know just the thing to give you, mainly because I'm so tired of it sitting in my closet.

The room is quite nice. You put together in your head that RAs must get their own rooms, because it's set up more like an apartment than a dorm. The two of you walk into his bedroom, which is surprisingly empty. It's also quite dark, as he took the liberty of putting up blackout curtains. Astarion opens his closet, which is full of random mismatched designer pieces, ranging over the past six years. He's precise as he moves the hangers around, finding a floral jacket.

"Here. You can keep it. It's so 2017 anyways."

You don't fully understand what that means, and you're not sure if being 'so 2017' is an insult, but you go along with it. The jacket fits pretty well for it not being tailored to your body.

"And if you ever need some extra money, you can probably sell that for a quick five hundred dollars."

Your eyes go wide, suddenly very scared to ruin a piece of fabric. Why is he giving a stranger something so expensive? He continues to look around in his nightstand, you're not sure for what. You start trying to remember what you've read about this man. There's been a lot of talk online recently on if his eyes are actually red, or if they're just contacts.

"So, are your eyes really red?"

He laughs.

"Gods no. That's the magic of editing my dear. Technically they're brown, but they look red in some lighting, and my editors have decided to play into it."

"And the hair?"

"Oh, it looks far too healthy to be bleached. All natural darling. Have you never seen an albino before?"

"I guess I haven't."

Without saying anything, he finally finds what he's looking for, a short gold necklace adorned with opals.

"Now, I do want this back, and if you break it I will ruin your life, promise."

He clasps is around your neck, hooking it properly on the first try.

"There. Decent enough I suppose. Besides, I don't have time to give you a proper makeover. You do have good bone structure though. Anyways, off we go!"

Shadowheart was right, he really doesn't stop for anything. It's a little intriguing though, how fast his brain works. All of his movements are so precise, decisive. Even something as simple as opening the door, the way his fingers wrap around the doorknob is carefully thought out. It's as if someone's following him, looking for mistakes, jotting down everything he gets wrong.

The two of you make some small talk on the way to the parking garage, which he doesn't seem all that interested in. He still walks in front of you, his coat leading close behind him because of just how fast he walks.

"So, what exactly is this party you're taking me to?"

"Just something Szarr put together for him and a couple of designer friends. The seven of us though, we're expected to be everywhere he is."

You can't see him, but he says it through gritted teeth.

"Why?"

"I've always assumed it's to show off. He likes to make it clear that he has refined taste in models, especially to his peers."

"And that doesn't bother you?"

Your question stops him in his tracks, as if no one's ever asked. You almost run into his back due to the sudden stop.

"No."

He says it slowly, and continues walking again, cautious at first. Nothing else is said of it. When you approach Astarion's car, it's more run-down than you expected. It's clearly an older model, something that's been repaired multiple times. You take the shotgun seat. The car ride is silent, and you mainly watch the details of his hands as he drives. They're a little shaky, slender. You have to admit, they're quite attractive. You watch as he shifts gears when you get onto the main street. It's almost peaceful, the silence, the city lights at night. Of course, until there are red and blue lights behind you.

"Shit. I'm already going to be late."

He hisses, pulling over to the side of the road. Oddly enough, he doesn't go to grab his driver's license. Instead, he just rolls down his window, waiting for the officer to come up to him. You watch in awe at how he just doesn't seem to care.

"License and- oh not you again."

He slides his shades down.

"Hello darling. Nice evening, isn't it?"

"I can't keep letting you get away with speeding."

"Oh, what's five miles over the speed limit?"

"Illegal, that's what it is."

"I'm sure I could make it worth your while if you let me off with a warning."

His words become slow and drawn out, like nectar from his tongue.

"You're lucky you know people around here. Go on, get out of here."

And with that, the officer leaves, and Astarion pulls back onto the road, not even waiting for the police car to leave. You're in awe of his audacity.

"Did you just... did you just try to bribe him with sexual favors?"

"Hm, did I? Bad habits are hard to kill I suppose."

He doesn't say anything else, leaving you to ponder his actions. Perhaps he's a little spoiled at his level of fame, but there's something else, and you can't quite put your finger on it. Before you can come to any kind of conclusion, you're parked outside some unassuming bar.

"Here we are darling. Don't worry, this place has a basement level that's much nicer than meets the eye."

When you make it inside, there's a single bartender cleaning beer mugs. Astarion gives her a nod, and walks to the back, where a door leads to a small staircase.

"After you."

His smirk is different now, almost as if he changed it on purpose. You walk down, and he follows closely behind. The sounds of music and chatter fill your ears, and the smell of smoke hits your nostrils, almost making you cough. You try to clear your throat, earning a chuckle from the model. When you reach the floor, the room is filled with a thin haze of smoke, with plenty of rich-looking people draping themselves across velvet chairs, talking about whatever yacht they just invested in and what stocks they're insider trading.

"Well, look who decided to show up. Szarr's been looking for you."

You recognize this woman as Aurelia, another one of the seven. Her reddish-brown hair is put back in multiple braids. Astarion is slightly tense at Aurelia's words.

"What did he say?"

For the first time since you met him less than a hour ago, he sounds uncertain. The woman meets your eyes, and then looks back at him.

"Private business. I'd be quick about it. Sure being late won't help matters much."

He sighs.

"Alright, well take my friend Tav here. I'll be back."

Just like that, he's gone.

"Tav? What a fun name. It's Aurelia, but I'm sure you've heard. My, my, he picked a gorgeous one, didn't he?"

It's almost as if she's looking right through you. Then, you process her words.

"What do you mean 'picked?'"

"We often scout for other models, for lesser shows that Caz- Szarr, is involved in. His Winter showcase is coming up, and Astarion hasn't exactly been pulling his weight as of recent. I assume he found you to try and appease him. After all, your bone structure is wonderful."

The same thing he told you earlier.

"I assume though that he was sloppy, and didn't tell you this beforehand."

"No, he didn't mention it."

"Well don't worry. Szarr will give you the whole spiel on why you should work for him, the fame and glamor, the money."

She gets close to you, wrapping her hand around your ear.

"Deny him."

Before you can ask her what she could possibly mean, or why you should deny him, Astarion comes back with Szarr in tow. Of course, you've never seen him in person, but his energy is quite off-putting. His black hair is slicked back, and his neck is adorned in many expensive chains.

"And this is Tav? A pleasure."

Without asking, he leaves a kiss on your hand, lasting on your skin a little too long.

"I'm sure you've seen my work, and my gorgeous children."

Something is wrong. Extremely wrong. You don't know what, but his voice makes you feel nauseous. Why would he call them his children?

"Of course. Although, I will admit I'm not much for fashion."

His mouth droops slightly, but it's all an act. He already knew what you were going to say.

"What a shame. And here I was just thinking about how your shoulders would make my latest dress look spectacular. Well, I'll leave you all to socialize then."

As he begins to walk away, he lingers by Astarion for a moment, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"And perhaps lay off the champagne tonight? You're looking a little puffy."

His hand grips the pale man's shoulder, causing him to wince a little, before he disappears into the crowd.

"What did you say to them Aurelia?"

"Just that you were trying to pimp them out to our lovely boss."

"God damn it, can you just keep your mouth shut?!"

You must look hurt, because when Astarion meets your eyes again, he almost looks guilty.

"It's fine. I'll find some other way to get back in his good graces. Apologies Tav. Most people jump at the opportunity to model for a man like that. I figured you would be that same."

"Like I said, you're losing your touch. Soon enough you won't be his favorite anymore."

The whole thing is making your head spin. This whole thing with Szarr, it almost feels like a cult. Your anxiety is spiking, your body screaming at you to leave. You listen, and turn to make a quick exit back up the stairs.

"Tav, wait."

Light footsteps follow you up the stairs.

"No, this is weird! Whatever's going on here, it's not right. Something isn't right."

As you hit the top floor, his hand grips around your wrist, gracefully turning you to look back at him. He was right, in the moonlight his eyes do look red.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought you into all of this, I've just been a little... desperate. It really is fine, but my plan wasn't to make you uncomfortable."

"How do you work with him? He seems, disgusting."

He looks off to the side, clearly thinking about what to say. Instead of speaking though, his eyes meet yours again, his gaze bouncing between yours and your lips.

"Aurelia was right. You are gorgeous."

The tone suddenly shifts, and his hands creeps up from your wrist to your face, pulling you into a kiss. You give in, the attraction for him somehow growing. He laces a hand in your hair, and soon you're both stumbling back out to his car, forgetting about the events from moments ago. The two of you fall into the back seat of the small car. Maybe you go along with it since you haven't slept with anyone in a while, or maybe because you simply can't pass up the opportunity that's been presented to you. It's mind-altering though, the sex. The same way he is with everything else, he's precise and decisive. He knows every spot on your body as if he's studied it his whole life. When things wind down, and you both catch your breath, something in his eyes shifts, pushing his hair back into place.

"We should get back. Sure you have a busy day tomorrow."

With that, you're putting your top on in the back seat of a stranger's car. When you do get back in the shotgun seat and look over at him, you remember the police stop, and what he said to you after.

Bad habits are hard to kill.

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion #baldurs gate astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #angst #freshiau

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nervocat · 1 month

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“Chapter 2 — The Present Time, Shared Memories, and the Letter.” (no cws - wc: 831, platonic/fluff/slight ansgt, gn reader)

It had been years since the fallout of the renowned High Cloud Quintet. Dan Heng had been banished from the Xianzhou, Blade was a Stellaron hunter — a wanted criminal, and Jing Yuan had become the General, with [name] as kind of “second in command.”

You two have been able to grow even closer than you were back then. You were both looked up to and were held in high regards by the Xianzhou citizens, and much has changed since then.

“Ahem, mx. [name],” Fu Xuan gets your attention, taking you out of your trance. You look to her and smile slightly.

“Diviner Fu, hello,” you welcome her. “Any news?”

“The General would like to see you. I am unsure why, though, wouldn't say,” Fu Xuan answers as she crosses her arms. You nod and get up from your seat.

“Thank you, Fu Xuan,” you say as you move swiftly to leave.

“I don't mean to pry, mx. [name],” you stop your movement and look back at Fu Xuan, urging her to continue with a nod. “Why do you always space off like that? You do it more than Jing Yuan,” she turns to you, her usual stern expression having a hint of curiosity in it. You sigh.

“Just reminiscing about the past, Lady Fu,” you reply solemnly, looking down at your necklace. You've never taken it off since they've gone. Other than your weapon you still wield, it's all you have left other than the muddled memories.

“You’re doing it again..” Fu Xuan chides. She then tells you to get going, saying she has more things to do and you both leave out the door.

As you make your way to see Jing Yuan, you look around at the Xianzhou. It's changed a lot since back then, but it's been a good change. It had to rekindle itself after the incident after all.

You walk up to Jing Yuan with a smile, shaking your head to rid of the thoughts still floating around in your mind.

“Hey, Yuan,” you greet with an accompanying wave. “Ms. Fu Xuan said you'd like to talk with me?”

“Yes, that would be correct, [name],” he answers as he nods to you in a greeting.

“Well, what is it you'd like to address?”

“There’s a few things, but for now, let's talk about the old times?” This has become a common thing for you two, taking a moment to reminisce about the time where everything was ok. You swallow hard, looking away and up to the sky before you agree and start walking the trail you always do, away from the Xianzhou bustle.

“You know, [name],” Jing Yuan starts, garnering your attention. “Even though you're my elder, it sure doesn't seem like it, huh?” he looks over to you with a teasing glint in his eyes.

“Oh stop it, you know I don't like being addressed as your elder,” you reply as you playfully elbow him. “It feels weird to be addressed as such.”

You two continue to walk, some Finches following along as you talk about your old friends and laugh about old memories.

“Yingxing always had a soft spot for you, including Dan Feng,” Jing Yuan says, holding a Finch on his finger.

“Yes, I realize that now,” you continue looking up at the sky, recalling the times you had with them as you crossed your arms. “Though it always seemed like they had something else going on behind us, didn't it?”

Jing Yuan thought for a moment as the bird flew off. “Yes.. even when I was younger, it always seemed like they were something more than friends,” he agreed.

“You never really talk about Jingliu by the way.. how come?” silence engulfs the both of you for a moment, a solemn look in Jing Yuan's eyes as he looks to the ground. Probably shouldn't have asked.

“Well.. I figured you knew a lot about her since you knew her then as well,” he finally answers.

“I suppose so, huh..” you wouldn't say the atmosphere was awkward for you two per se, but it was definitely not the usual for when you two were together in moments like this.

“This may not be the best time to bring this up, but..” Jing Yuan pulls out a folded piece of paper and offers it to you. “I want you to read this, and guess who it's from,” you comply and take the note from him.

As you read it, your eyes slowly widen. “This can't be from who I think it is.. right?”

“I see that you and [name] have become very accomplished peope since we last saw each other all those years ago.. It must be nice. In accordance with our old vow, we should once again roam our lands of past, drink in celebration and recount our great adventures.”

Jing Yuans nods at your words. It seemed he understood who it was from as well.

“Jingliu.”

notes: guess who finally got off his ass to finish ch 2 💀💀 but it's here after too long!! A few things abt the note here — can't remember if Jing Yuan knew abt the sender and I obviously added my own stuff in it to fit what's happening in this story so. Ya. I am pretty happy with this outcome so yay!! Angst in the works now for ch 3 hehe 😈😈 also if anything here is messy I'm sorry 🙏🙏

taglist: @dumbificat , @ariicandy , @thetwinkims , @imanonandawkward , @klemen-time , @akuangels , @nyoomiin

series m.list: To Pick Up the Shattered Remains

#🗯️ ͏ ͏͏ ͏: ͏ ͏ ͏ stars' tales ˑ ִ✷#・ nouveau livre ˎˊ˗#hsr #honkai star rail #star rail #hsr x gender neutral reader #hsr x gn reader #honkai star rail x gn reader #honkai star rail x gender neutral reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #platonic hsr x reader #platonic hsr

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ecoamerica · 23 days

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youtube

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

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murder-cookie-dust393 · 28 days

Note

Can we get some more Creme Brulee Cookie content, that cookie's a power house in my team- I was thinking since there were hints about him and Linzer Cookie being in a past relationship, what if y/n Cookie did like CB but didn't pursue him bc of his history with Linzer?

I have requests from late December, how embarrassing. I'm such a bad writer for not feeding you guys for like 3 months-

Old Photos

Tw: murder

You dejectedly sigh as you stare at the ceiling of your room. Thoughts filling your mind: negative ones. You didn't like the thought of Linzer with Crème Brûlée. But who were you to interfere? She was clearly more valuable to him than you ever could be. Even if you were his biggest supporter.

But it still hurt. You wanted to be with him. Cheer him on for his performances; ensure he was well cared for. Sure you could do so as his friend. But you wanted to be much more than friends.

You didn't have the place to interfere. You shouldn't interfere. It's wrong.

Those sentences repeated in your head as you lay on your bed. You wanted sleep to overcome you, but your mind seemed unwilling to let go though. You needed to move on. There was no point in clinging to a future that wasn't even possible.

Until you hear a distant knock, from your front door. You turn your head in the direction of the hallway, before slowly rising from your bed and walking out the door. You glance at the living room clock: 2:43 AM. Who would be knocking on the door at this hour?

You saunter to the door, looking through the glass. Your eyes widen slightly: it's Crème Brûlée. What was he doing here? You open the door, and immediately you're encased in a hug far too tight.

...Was your desperate mind imagining his embrace? Oh, how pathetic you are.

"Crème Brûlée? What are you doing here?" You utter, your voice scratchy from not getting out of bed for the last 3 hours. Why was he holding you so harshly? Did something happen?

"I love you. I swear, I can't believe you looked at my photos from three years ago." He bluntly states, his tone almost seemed as if he was offended. His hair brushes against your cheek as he buries his head into your shoulder.

"What?" You blink. Absolutely frozen. Did your mind just manifest your biggest wish in front of your face?

The door is still open, the cold breeze freezing your body only in sleeping clothes. He speaks once more, now his tone less brash and more soft, "Darling. My darling. Linzer is hardly a thought in my mind now. I've realized you are much better suited for me." His head nuzzles your shoulder, holding you against him.

"Wait. Wait. Does that mean..." You trail off, not having the confidence to even say it. It's impossible. Your life had never gone right when it came to love, so why would it go right at this moment?

"I love you. I've loved you for the last 3 years. Now stop hiding from me." He nudged you over the couch, not giving you a moment before coddling you. He should become a koala at this point.

You wanted to say more. It doesn't matter though. You were too ecstatic to even begin forming words. Finally, your mind calms and you fall asleep: exhaustion taking over. He was warm. Like you imagined him to be.

An hour passes by, before a sudden grin forms on the usually quiet Crème Brûlée. He caresses your head gingerly, loving the feel of you in his grasp.

"Finally, you've come to realize. I should have killed that terrible Linzer earlier, otherwise, we would have been happier earlier. No matter, we can be where we were supposed to be...together." He closes his eyes too as he continues to snuggle you.

You were too blinded by your love to notice why Linzer never was over at his house since three years ago.

——————————————————

Wow! I got this one done in one sitting. I'm so proud of myself. Usually, it takes multiple sittings to do requests. My attention span is non-existent.

- Celina

#cookie run #yandere cookie run #cookie run x reader #cookie run kingdom #yandere #yandere x reader #crk x reader #blurbs #crk #crème brûlée cookie

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kosmic-kalamity · 4 months

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sorry i died for a few days, i had school + i was sick all week but didn't know it

i'm working on some digital art and some more sketches for my silly trolls au, so for now i'll just share some miscellaneous thoughts i've been having about it:

- in this au, i'm using my own age gap headcanons for the bros. so, at the time of the brozone split, branch was 2; floyd was 13; clay was 14; bruce was 16; and john dory was 19. poppy is 2-3 years younger than branch, and viva is 2 years younger than clay.

- viva has been the acting ruler of pop village since she was 19, king peppy's grief over the lost of poppy leading him to retire early. poppy and branch became co-leaders of the putt-putt trolls when they were 16 and 18 respectively, after the original leader passed and they were deemed best for the job.

- instead of the snack pack being viva's best friends, her relationship with them is a bit more complicated. having found cooper as an egg not long after poppy was lost, he became something of a little brother to her; so, to viva, the rest of the snack pack are both her brother's friends and are kinda like little siblings to her.

- neither clay nor branch sing in this au (at least, not at first), though for different reasons: branch doesn't sing because singing killed his grandma (at least in his mind), and being lost during the escape only worsened his state; clay doesn't sing because, despite having already begun to gain back her colors by the time of the first movie, the lost of her entire family was a wound that never truly healed.

- i've also been considering having branch or poppy being the one kidnapped by velvet and veneer instead of floyd, since both are believed to be dead in this au and i think it would be interesting. should i make the change and have either of these two kidnapped, it'll be the other that goes on the hunt for brozone. so if branch is kidnapped, poppy will be the one to look for his missing brothers; and if poppy is kidnapped, branch will be looking for his brothers to help her.

- speaking of lost siblings, like in canon poppy isn't aware that she has a sister; the only hint of a past she has is an old hug time bracelet she doesn't remember being given to her. branch remembers all of his brothers to varying degrees, the one he remembers most being clay since he'd came back before the tree escape. and clay and viva both know about poppy and branch - their mourning of their lost loved ones helped spark their friendship - but viva isn't aware that clay had other siblings.

- also i'm gonna mention this now so i don't forget, but the reason i haven't talked about floyd, bruce, or john dory all too much for this au is because they remain mostly unchanged. all that really does change is floyd probably not being kidnapped and instead just…doing his own thing. solo career shit yknow. this au is more so centered around clay, branch, poppy, and viva overall.

anyway these are some silly thoughts, and i'm gonna get back to drawing :]

#kosmic.txt #trolls #trolls 3 #trolls band together #trolls branch #trolls clay #trolls viva #trolls poppy #i'm not gonna tag the other bros + the snack pack because they were only mentioned #i really need to name this au at some point but nothing is coming to mind rn #trolls au #what would i even call this au…aughhh #putt pop swap

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itsallyscorner · 2 years

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࿔*:･ﾟTwo in One | H.S

↝ pairing: Harry Styles x actress!reader

↝ summary: Harry finds Marvel interviews hard to do, luckily for him, you’re there to help.

↝ warnings: some cussing obvi. This was longer than expected whoops

↝ a/n: still struggling with trying to write so I decided to clash two of my favorite things in the world to help my creativity flow :) anyway I’m a whore for co-star fics oop🤪

“Right, so you’re paired up with Harry the entire tour. You okay with that?” Tasha, your publicist, informed you. You and the rest of your team had just arrived at the hotel where all the interviews for today’s press junket would be held.

At the moment you were in LA promoting the latest installment of the Eternals series. The last couple of months have been surprisingly enjoyable for you and your career. While you were a talented and well known actress around the world, you were famously known for the character you play in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. You’ve been part of the MCU family for a couple of years now;your first appearance being Captain America: Civil War and your latest one being in the Eternals sequel.

You were excited to be part of the Eternals crew, however, you still missed your Avengers family. Despite your character being around the longest in the cast, you were still the newbie amongst the actors. Everyone knew each other from the previous film so it was like a reunion for the lot of them. You were nervous to meet everyone, but the first table read you all had proved you had nothing to be anxious about. Immediately they made you feel welcome and it honestly felt like you knew them for ages. Though out of everyone, the one person who made you the most comfortable would have to be Harry.

He might’ve been shy at first but that didn’t hide the fact that he was an absolute sweetheart who was genuinely interested in getting to know you. He was intrigued by you—your personality, your journey as an actress—everything about you was just so interesting to him. While there was a hint of flirting and typical banter between you both, you guys were friends;close friends to be specific. Did you find him attractive? Yes, of course you did who wouldn’t? And yeah, there is definitely chemistry between the two of you, though you chose to not act on your feelings.

1. Harry was dating Olivia Wilde and you really didn’t need to be in the center of a cheating rumor

2. You weren’t too comfortable with the whole “dating co-stars while working on set” kind of thing.

Besides having a crush on him, you were okay admiring him from afar and supporting him as a friend. Even when filming wrapped up, you both remained in contact with each other, no matter what time zone or country you were both in.

Adjusting the black sunglasses that rested on the bridge of your nose you turn to Tasha, “Course I’m okay with that! More than happy actually, I’m more comfortable with him than everyone else here.” You admit to her as security guards guide you towards the elevators of the hotel.

Tasha peers at you from behind her coffee cup, “You two get along well.” She comments, though there was a hint of something behind her tone. Your brows slightly crease, turning to look at her, you find a cheeky smirk on her face.

You and your team, along with the security guards enter the elevator. One of the guards pressed a button and the elevators slide shut. You noticed your heart skipping a beat as the floors of the elevator increased. The higher you went the faster your heart seemed to beat out your chest. At first you thought it was nerves, but it wasn’t, it was the brunette haired boy waiting for you in a hotel room a few floors above you. However, you pushed down the feeling, not wanting to get caught up in your little crush for him throughout the entire press tour.

“Stop it.” You mumble towards Tasha, the smirk still evident on her features. While she was your publicist, the two of you managed to form a beautiful friendship over the past 6 to 8 years you’ve known each other. She was one of you best friends at this point.

The tall blonde shrugged, “I’m just saying, he’s newly single and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you making a few moves here and there.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her engagement ring flashing against the harsh elevator lights. The elevator dings and everyone slowly files out.

“That’s exactly why I shouldn’t say anything about my feelings. He’s freshly single, might I emphasize, I’m sure he’d want to explore the freedom of being single again.” You explain, linking your arms with Tasha’s. “Plus, it’s a crush, it’s not like I’m in love with him or something.”

Tasha rolled her eyes at your stubbornness.

“I understand Y/n. But there’s literally no denying that there’s something between you two. Whether you’d like to explore that or not is totally up to you, though as someone who’s quite familiar with the situation, I’d say you just go for it.” She advised while the two of you walked down the hall looking for the room with your and Harry’s name outside of it. You smile as you pass some interviewers already waiting outside the rooms, offering a little “hi” or “hello”.

When you spot Harry’s name on the door you stop in your tracks and turn to Tasha.

“Thank you Tash for the advice, really. But right now I just need to avoid thinking of that and just focus on the interviews. You know how overwhelmed I can get and the fact that he’s gonna be there the entire time doesn’t really help.” You reason with her. You appreciated her advice, although you seriously couldn’t be hyper focused on your crush on Harry. Maybe it was the fact that you were seeing him again for the first time that made you so giddy and lowkey obsessed with him. Whatever it was, you didn’t want to focus on it.

“Understood.” Tasha nodded. She peaked into the room where Harry and the camera crew was setting up. “Alright, you all good to go in? How’re you feeling?” She checked up on you.

“I’m good.” You confirmed. Tasha walked into the room, you trailing behind her. It was the typical setup: a backdrop with the film’s title plastered on it, a few chairs, and a camera crew. Tasha greeted Jeff, Harry’s manager, the two sharing a friendly hug. You greeted him as well before walking further into the room.

Already sat in the director’s chair with his name behind it was Harry. He was on his phone, mindlessly scrolling with his brows scrunched together, almost slouching in the chair. The increase in volume kn the room caught his attention, causing him to look up from his phone.

You eyes widen when his instantly connect with yours. His face brightens, eyebrows raising and a smile that squeezed into his cheeks.

“Hey you!” He excitedly greets you, hopping out of the chair with his arms wide open for you. Your own lips form into its own sweet smile as you find yourself being engulfed by Harry’s arms.

“Hello to you too!” You laugh into his shoulder, your arms wrapping around his waist. He leans back to look properly at you, though his arms remained around your figure.

“You’re late.” He teased you, a glint of playfulness in his green eyes. Your mouth gaped dramatically, leaning further away from him.

“Am not! I’m actually on time—“ you cut yourself off to look over your shoulder at Tasha. “Tash, we’re on time aren’t we?”

You feel Harry chuckle at your banter, eager to prove him wrong. The blonde smirks at you, “Thirty minutes ahead schedule.”

“Told you.” Harry rolls his eyes at you before bringing you back into his chest. Sure, you were friends, but when it came to showing affection, you and Harry were very touchy and “huggy” people.

“It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other, I’ve missed ya.” He looked down at you, eyeing your outfit for the day. “You look gorgeous by the way, love.”

A light blush forms on your cheeks, “Thank you, H. You don’t look too bad yourself.” You say, patting the lapels of his blazer. His outfit was fashionably casual yet comfy all at the same time. It made him look very soft and cuddly. Plus that stand of hair that curled against his forehead was very attractive—simple yet very effective.

He thanks you, leading you towards your chairs with his arm around you. He gives you a hand to hop onto the director’s chair before sitting in his own.

You lean you elbow on the arm rest and place your chin in your palm, “So, first interview for the movie, you nervous?”

He copies your stance, shifting closer to you, so the conversation was only between you both.

“Y’know what? Yes, actually I am.” He admits with a breath.

“Really?”

“Yeh, I mean it’s a bit different from other movies I’ve promoted. I’ve never been so self conscious about accidentally spoiling something.” He spoke, using his hands to emphasize his point. “Marvel’s bloody secretive, I feel like m’head’s bout to be chopped off or something if I let something slip.”

You let out the laugh at his comment, “I mean you’re not Tom Holland or Mark Ruffalo, so you’ll be fine.” You said, nudging his shoulder with yours.

Shaking his head he stares at you, “I don’t know how y’do it, I’m shitting m’pants right now.” The corner of his lip raises to cover up his nerves. He was joking for the most part, although Harry was genuinely worried about sharing too much about the movie or his character. The movie was a big deal to him since it was a different experience to the previous movies he’s been in. Marvel movies had more action to them and it was an honor to be part of the wide-ranging world of the MCU.

Harry was more than happy to be coupled up with you for the entire press tour. Besides the fact that’s he’s been having a budding crush on you, the two of you got along great and we’re very comfortable with each other’s presence. You bounced off each other effortlessly and there was a natural connection between you both—at least that’s what Harry believes.

“Oh, please! You’re going to be fine, Harry. I’m sure these interviews will feel like a breeze once you get through the first one.” You assure him, placing a hand on his arm. “Plus, I’m gonna be right next to you if you need help. You’ve got nothing to worry about.” You grin, the dimples in your cheeks going unnoticed by Harry. He had an urge to poke them, not in a menacing or teasing kind of way, but in a “oh you’re so cute, I adore you” type of way.

Harry hums into his palm gazing staring at you, “Guess you’ll be my good luck charm then, huh?”

“Sure, though I can’t guarantee how much luck I’ll be for you.” You snort, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I mean you’ve already got the charm, think we’re already halfway there, darling.” He shamelessly flirted. A boost of confidence shot through him when he saw you attempt to hide the smile behind your hand.

“Shut it.” You muttered, feeling a bit flustered at his comment. You’re so pathetically down bad for this man that a simple bloody pickup line was enough to have you blushing like a teenager, you thought to yourself. Gosh, you wanted to ram yourself into a wall headfirst.

Harry huffed, gently pulling your hand from your face, “Oi, don’t get all shy on me. I don’t need ya ignoring me the entire day.”

You placed your hand down to glare at him, “That was one time.”

“Y’still didn’t talk to me the entire day.” Harry rebutted, tilting his head at you. Happy that he could finally see your face again, he rested his head on your shoulder. The room was full of murmurs from different people. The film crew was double checking all the equipment and lighting before interviews began, while Tasha and Jeff were having a run down on today’s schedule.

Everything around you and Harry was loud and borderline chaotic. Yet the two of you sat in comfortable silence. Since you’ve arrived Harry’s nerves had calmed down. His palms weren’t moist and his heart wasn’t pounding as hard against his chest anymore.

“Y’know I actually did miss you.” Harry spoke, shifting to look up at you.

“I missed you too. I always see videos and pictures of you on tour, looks like so much fun.” You hum. Harry lifts his head off you, “Oh, y’keeping tabs on me now?” He smirked, earning him a swat on the chest to which he feigned hurt at.

“You wish.” You scoffed jokingly.

“You should come to one of the shows one day. I know a guy who can get me tickets.” He offered, the corners of his eyes crinkling at his own joke.

“Oh really?” You play along. Harry nodded seriously, “Yeh, he works for the guy who sings and all that. I heard he’s a right dick though.”

“Your friend’s not wrong.” You claim causing Harry to gasp at you in offense. The banter was cut short when Tasha and Jeff approached you two, signing that it was time for the interviews to start.

*clip 1 🎬*

“So Harry, how was it like to work with someone who’s been in the Marvel business for a while now?” Claire, an interviewer asked. “Did you ask her for any advice? Have you learned anything from her—what was that like?” Harry took a sip from his Starbucks cup and hummed.

Harry turned his head to look at Y/n with the corner of his mouth quirked up.

“She was horrible.” The camera panned to Y/n who’s mouth was in an “o” shape. Before she can speak, Harry placed a hand on her knee and began sputtering apologies through his laughter.

“He’s quite the comedian.” Y/n sarcastically remarks while Harry is pulling her into his side. Claire giggles at the two’s antics.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” Harry started. His arm remained around Y/n’s shoulders. “Y/n’s the opposite of horrible. She’s been such a help since day one and she’s been helping me today during these interviews. Uhm, I’m very appreciative of her actually—because she’s been patient with me and the ridiculous amount of questions I have. She’s been a kind of guide for me while we were filming this movie and I couldn’t have gotten through it without her.” He finished with a shy shrug.

“That was sweet.” Y/n cooed at Harry, who only blushed in response.

“Was it?”

“Yeah.” She nodded.

“Well I meant it.”

*clip 2 🎬*

“I know you guys can’t say much about the movie, but can one of you try to give the audience an idea of what goes down in this film?” Josh another interviewer asked.

Y/n hummed to herself in thought.

“Y’know I’ve been dreading that question.” Harry mentioned wiggling his pointer finger at the interviewer. Y/n snorted to herself and jokingly pushed Harry to lean back into his seat.

“I’ll take it.”

Harry looks up at the ceiling and said, “Oh, thank God.”

Josh laughed at Harry, “You’re not willing to risk spoiling it, huh?”

Harry shook his head, “Are y’kidding me? I’ve been on the edge of m’seat the entire time.”

“Have the people at Marvel given you the talk about spoiling the movies?” Josh asked.

“Yeh, they’re very strict about what we’re allowed to say and not say about the film.” Harry pointed behind him, “Actually a few minutes before we started, they had to pull me aside and remind me that I can’t say this or that about the film.”

An amused expression was on Y/n’s features, “Did they actually?”

Harry looked at her seriously, “Yeah! Wait—you didn’t get one?”

“Nope.” Y/n answered causing Harry to slump into his seat with his arms crossed. Josh and Y/n laughed at the man.

“Hey man, Y/n doesn’t need it, she’s a trained professional.” Josh said in the actress’s defense.

“Y/n, how has Harry been in the spoiling department? Has he let anything slip or almost slip?”

“He’s been doing well. Thankfully, he hasn’t let anything slip out yet, but that’s only cause he makes me answer all the hard questions.” Y/n replied, making quotation marks with her hands when she said the word hard.

Harry raised his hand like a child in primary school.

“I’d like to point out that I just helped us avoid answering the question about the movie by changing the subject.” He stated proudly earning himself a high five from his lovely co-star.

*clip 3 🎬*

“So Harry, we got to meet Eros towards the end of the first Eternals movie. What can the audience expect from him in this sequel?” Silence filled the room as Harry stared at the interviewer with a blank expression.

“Uh—hmm—what can we expect from Eros?” Harry mumbled to himself, looking everywhere but the interviewer.

“Mmm, uh, I-I don’t know.” He tried to answer with a sheepish grin on his lips. Harry fully turned his body to look at Y/n and leaned down to whisper in her ear.

“I need help.” He whispered, though the mic picked it up. Y/n began to whisper in his ear with her hands covering her mouth. Harry’s mouth gaped as if he were going to speak.

“Uh, we get to learn more about him as a character and what he means to the story of the film.” He recited almost childlike.

“What are some things will we learn about Eros in this film—that you can tell us, of course?” The interviewer continued to question, enjoying the interaction between Harry and Y/n.

Harry’s eyes widened as he sheepishly leaned back down to Y/n. She giggled to herself and began whispering in his ear again. Harry’s eyes furrowed before looking at Y/n in confusion.

“Am I allowed to say that?” He asked her.

“Yeah, they mentioned it at the end of the movie.” She explained.

“When?” His tone growing more confused and concerned that he wasn’t aware of the information about his character. Harry scratched his temple with the hand that rested behind Y/n’s chair and placed his hand back where it was.

“When Eros literally entered the scene.” Y/n clarified. Harry awkwardly smiled at the interviewer and sat back into his seat.

“If I get in trouble I’m blaming you.” Harry warned her.

Y/n rolled her eyes at him, “They all know Thanos and Eros are brothers, Harold.” She looks at the interviewer, “Right?”

The interview nodded in confirmation, “Yes ma’am.”

“Well alright then, anyway—.” Harry continued

*clip 4🎬*

“I think I’m not the only one who notices the lovely friendship between you two, you guys are adorable.” The next interviewer, Ana, pointed out.

Harry nudged Y/n cheekily, “Oh, stop it.”

“But you guys really are!” Ana exclaimed at the the two. Harry threw his arm around Y/n and pressed their cheeks together.

“We’re cute aren’t we?”

“We just can’t resist each other, we must be together all the time.” Y/n said, going along with Harry. She grasped his arms around her and squeezed it.

“At all costs. We’re practically attached at the hip.”

Ana laughed at the two actors, “I don’t doubt that.”

*clip 5🎬*

“How was it like working with each other? You guys seem like very great friends so I’m assuming all was well?” Another interviewer, Ben questioned the two.

Harry was seen stretching down in his seat to grab Y/n’s coffee, who was seconds earlier, struggling to pick up her coffee from the floor. He hands her the cup while she thanks him quietly.

“I guess I’ll start, Y/n’s been helping me answer questions all day.” Harry began. Y/n chuckled at him and continued to sip on her straw.

“We really do get on well, Y/n and I. I enjoyed working with everyone in the cast, but I honestly had the best time with her. Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever admitted this, but I’m a huge fan of her and her work. It was a huge honor to work with someone who’s insanely talented. She puts so much passion in her work and working alongside her is something I’d like to do again. She’s the sweetest and most caring person I’ve ever met and she never fails to make me laugh, I truly adore her.” Harry admiringly answered, fiddling with the rings that wrapped around his long fingers.

“Harry.” Y/n cooed at him, her heart warming at his little speech. Her hand smoothed his back, lightly brushing past his brunette hair.

Harry sniffed and jokingly wiped an invisible tear from his eye, “Gosh, I’m sorry.” Causing Y/n and Ben to laugh.

“Y/n? How about you?”

Y/n smiled to herself, “I mean he’s amazing. Like he said, we got really close to each other on set and we’ve became the best of friends. It was a joy to work beside him, he brought so much energy to set and was an all around sweetheart. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love him, he’s someone you want to always be around and have in your life. It made me really happy and proud to see him on the big screen because he’s so talented and I wish to see him in more films in the future.” She answered beaming at Harry with a glint in her eyes.

Harry rested his chin in his palm and stared at Y/n with the same look in his eyes, “We should just become a two in one deal and film all our movies with each other.”

“That’s not a bad idea, Styles.” Y/n acknowledged.

“It’s a good idea innit?” Harry looks behind the camera and waves his hand, “Get on that, Jeffery!”

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