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flixpii · 8 hours ago

Text

Never Not Yours

part one

| fem!reader x remmick

word count : 15.1k

A/N : Okay...the full thing is 30.2k, so I'm splitting it into two parts. Originally, I was going to do three parts, but after rereading it so many times, I couldn't find a good way to cut it. Reading part one before part two is mandatory to understand.

synopsis : set in the south—reader meets a quiet, strange man with a past he doesn’t talk about. there’s tension, something off beneath the surface, but something tender too. it’s emotional, kinda eerie, lots of yearning. just trust where it takes you.

He's had those fuckass clothes for a while (don't ask)

warnings (MDNI 18+ because of eventual smut) : takes place before the events of the movie, fluff remmick is lowkey domestic, intense yearning, blood/blood drinking, vampirism & supernatural themes, sexual content (no actually smut until second part), emotional manipulation, angst, religious themes & questioning of faith, themes of loss & abandonment, mind-link shit

----

The wind moves gently across the porch, stirring the leaves like restless dancers. They skitter across the worn wooden planks, some catching under your bare heels before your broom shoos them off with a dull scrape. Each sweep is slow, thoughtful—like a rhythm only your body knows, passed down through the quiet motions of women before you.

A hum curls in your throat, soft and easy, the kind you don’t notice until it fills the silence around you. It floats into the evening air, joining the sound of crickets and the far-off rustle of the trees, like it belongs there.

You had been gone all day—your hands busy beneath the oil-lantern light of your father’s shop, serving regulars with familiar smiles and strangers with careful ones. Your brother hadn’t stirred from bed since morning, fever-warm and muttering in his sleep. With your father needing help and your brother too weak to stand, everything else had fallen on you.

And while you were gone, the house waited.

Chores collected in corners like dust and shadows. The garden sat thirsty. The porch gathered leaves.

So now, beneath the soft hush of nightfall, you work. The moon has begun to rise—silver and swollen, casting light across the steps in pale slants. Its glow kisses the back of your neck as you move, cool against the heat still lingering on your skin from the day.

It’s quiet. Not heavy. Just still.

As your hum carries on, low and steady like an old lullaby, your eyes fall shut for just a moment. The cool air draws into your lungs—clean and earthy, touched faintly by woodsmoke drifting from some distant hearth. The chill soothes the warmth clinging to your cheeks, to the back of your neck. It’s the kind of night air that settles deep in your chest, makes you feel something like peaceful. Almost.

Your hands don’t still, and neither do your feet. They keep sweeping, shuffling, nudging away the dry leaves and twigs that gathered like whispers on the porch. But your mind—your mind begins to wander. Carried off by your hum, by the quiet rhythm of your body.

Then—

A crack.

Sharp, brittle.

Your hum stops.

It came from the woods.

Dense, shadow-thick woods. The kind that swallowed up the last of the sun and didn’t give it back until morning. The kind your father always warned you not to stare into for too long after dusk.

Your eyes blink open, slow. No real fear yet. Just awareness. Curiosity. You’ve heard worse on this porch before. Possums. Raccoons. The occasional stray dog poking through the garden fence.

Still, you pause—broom held mid-sweep—listening.

Another sound.

Closer this time.

You frown and move toward the edge of the porch, the old rail creaking beneath your hand as you lean slightly over it.

Then, from behind a cluster of bushes, a small armadillo scurries out, its claws clicking softly against the dirt as it barrels forward in a panic.

You exhale through a laugh, voice spilling out light and worn.

“You damn animals.”

It’s not angry. Just tired amusement. The kind of thing you say when your nerves were quicker than your logic.

You almost laugh at yourself—almost—already shaping the words in your mouth, something about being a scaredy cat. But then—

Something shifts.

Not a sound this time. A presence. A weight entering the air to your left.

You feel it before you see it. The way stillness deepens. The way the hairs on your arms lift without reason.

Your body reacts before your mind does—snapping back a step with a sharp inhale. The broom handle is tight in your grip, your knuckles aching white.

Then a voice, smooth and low, cuts through the hush.

“Sorry. Ain’t mean to scare ya.”

Your breath stumbles. That voice—there’s nothing unusual about it. Not really. But something in the way it lands sits wrong. Not cruel. Not threatening. Just… off. Like hearing a familiar song played in the wrong key.

“‘Ain’t mean to scare me’?” you echo, breath catching on a laugh that’s more tension than humor. “You appeared outta goddamn nowhere.”

You’re still staring, still breathing like your lungs forgot how for a moment. He nods, and in that subtle movement, you get a clearer look.

He stands a few feet away in the moonlight, his features finally sharpening in the silver wash of it. Dark pants hang loose over worn boots, held up by thick suspenders. The pale blue of his button-up looks nearly gray beneath the night sky, its collar undone just enough to show the soft white edge of a sleeveless undershirt beneath. Dark coat encases his body.

His hair is brown and cropped short, but loose curls fall just enough to kiss his forehead. And his eyes—dark, almost black in the moonlight—don’t leave your face. They study you the way someone studies a flame: close enough to feel the heat but never quite blinking.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he says again, and this time, your eyes catch on the shape of his mouth.

His teeth flash faintly in the low light—mostly straight, mostly normal. But there’s something… different. A few crooked edges. One or two that seem longer. Sharper. Not enough to be sure. Just enough to make your stomach turn oddly, like you’ve just remembered a name you never learned.

“You need something?” you ask, voice steady but edged with something dry. “Or do you regularly stand outside women’s homes like some creep?”

The words leave you too fast.

Your tone isn’t sharp—more exasperated than anything—but as soon as they’re out, a cold flush rises up your neck. You shouldn’t’ve said it. Not like that. You know better.

You’ve heard too many stories.

Women who spoke with less nerve than you, and still ended up with bruises blooming along their jaws. Girls who went missing after speaking too plainly. You swallow hard, trying to keep your face from shifting, but it’s there—the flicker of regret in your eyes, in the way you grip your broom a little tighter.

But then, he lets out a low chuckle. Quiet. Unbothered.

It rumbles from his chest like he actually found your words funny, not threatening. The sound unwinds some of the tension in your ribs, loosening your shoulders just enough to let breath flow easy again.

He has humor, you think. That’s something.

Still, you don’t look away. You keep your eyes on him, even as he brushes at his coat—though you’re almost certain there’s no real dust there. Just a motion. Something to do with his hands while he thinks.

“I was just passin’ by,” he says, his tone smooth again, a little slower now. “Heard your humming. Sounded nice.”

His voice dips a little at the end, not like a compliment, not quite—but something close. Something softer. Like the words held a memory.

You say nothing, not yet. Just study him.

The way the moonlight shapes him now feels different than a moment ago. He’s not moving toward you. Not threatening. But there’s something deliberate in his stillness. In how his eyes take you in again—slower this time. Not rude. Not leering.

Just… like he’s remembering.

Then he says it, almost like he’s answering your thoughts.

“You kinda remind me of someone.”

\\\\\\\\

“Who?”

The question slips from your lips before you can think twice, quiet but sharp with curiosity. Your fingers freeze mid-stroke, the piece of charcoal in your hand stuttering against the paper and smudging the corner of your sketch. A rough breath pushes from your nose.

‘A man out near the riverbank.’

His voice threads through your mind—low, calm, almost casual in the way he says it. But the words land heavy. You shake your head gently, trying to keep them from sinking too deep, to keep your focus grounded here, now.

“Remmick…” you murmur, a note of warning in your tone, or maybe worry.

‘I know.’

A pause stretches in the space between your thoughts and his voice, like a breath being held.

‘He deserved it, ya know? He couldn’t—wouldn’t keep his hands to himself.’

Your eyes narrow without meaning to. You glance up at the sun dipping low in the sky. Even as it sinks toward the treetops, its light still burns hot and bright, stinging your eyes until you wince and look away. Your gaze falls back to the page in your lap, to the lines your charcoal had drawn.

You don’t say anything for a moment. You don’t have to.

‘Still there?’

The voice comes again—gentler this time. Like he’s leaning closer, brushing the words he spoke through the strands of your mind instead of speaking it aloud any longer.

Your lips tug, just slightly, into a crooked smile.

“You miss my voice already?”

There’s another pause. And then another.

The charcoal dust clings to your fingertips as you drag the side of your hand across the paper, wiping away excess and softening the shadows. A breeze slips past the open window, stirring the loose hairs at your temple.

‘I miss you.’

Those words come softer. Rawer. They settle into you like warm hands sliding around your middle, like something deeper than sound curling low in your chest.

You let out a slow breath—didn’t even know you were holding it.

“I’ll see you tonight,” you whisper.

‘I wish I was there now.’

His voice is a whisper now, like it’s being carried from far off and wrapped in something aching.

You rub the back of your nose with the heel of your charcoal-coated hand, leaving a smudge behind.

“You just gotta wait a little more, yeah?” you murmur, turning the paper slowly, holding it up in the late light.

The sketch is rough, but it holds something of him in it. Something of how he lingers in your mind even when you try to focus on anything else.

“I have a surprise for you when you get here.”

He doesn’t answer this time. But you don’t need words to feel it. It moves through the tether between you—an almost tangible pulse. Warm, steady, full.

Devotion.

The sun has long dipped below the horizon by the time a knock echoes through your small home—sharp, but not rushed. Measured. Expectant.

For nearly an hour now, you haven’t moved much, just shifting from chair to window to doorway and back again. The sketch rests across your lap, its edges curled slightly beneath your fingertips. You’ve wiped your hands on your apron more than once, but faint stains of charcoal still cling beneath your nails and settle into the grooves of your knuckles—proof of time spent trying to capture something delicate. Something he might see and recognize as his.

God, you hope he understands it.

Not just the way the lines curve or how the shadows fall—but what lives in the stillness between them. You drew it slow, with smudged fingertips and patient strokes, not to capture detail but memory. A moment stilled.

You hope he doesn’t look at it for what it is, but for what it offers. For what you can’t give him with your hands or your words.

Another knock sounds, and your head lifts.

You don’t call out. You don’t rush. You rise slowly from your seat, your nightgown whispering against your skin as it sways around your ankles. Bare feet pad across the wooden floor, each step unhurried. He’s already here. You can feel it in your chest before your hand even reaches the door.

Then his voice slides through the wood—warm, easy, touched with teasing.

“Gonna make me wait all night?”

There’s no pressure in it. No impatience. Just the lazy drawl of a man who already knows your answer. A man who feels your presence the same way you feel his—always, even before your fingers meet the doorknob.

Your lips curve. You let your voice rise in reply, light and falsely thoughtful.

“I don’t know… I’m thinkin’ on it.”

A pause follows. Still and comfortable. The kind that stretches sweet between two people whose bond was sealed long before this moment.

Your fingers close around the doorknob and twist it slow.

The door creaks open, and you lean into the frame with a crooked smile, eyes catching his shape in the porch light.

“Well, hello, sir,” you murmur, voice thick like honey over gravel. “Are you sure you’ve got the right house?”

He stands just beyond the threshold, dusk outlining his form in soft shadows. His mouth quirks with a grin as he tilts his head slightly.

“Ma’am, I just came by to warn you—there’s a wild animal prowlin’ around out here.”

You blink, playing along, smile growing wider.

“Oh? Should I be afraid?”

You don’t get the chance to finish the tease.

He moves forward in a fluid, practiced motion, arms sliding around your waist. You yelp through a breathless laugh as he lifts you off the ground like it’s nothing. Your toes skim the floor once, twice, before you’re fully cradled in his arms.

“They say,” he murmurs, lips near your ear, “the animal’s got a thing for women who keep it on its toes.”

His breath is warm. His hold is steady. And you melt into him without thought—like muscle remembers before the mind catches up.

Then his mouth lowers to the tender skin beneath your ear, pressing a deliberate, lingering kiss.

Followed by a faint scrape of teeth.

“It also likes to bite,” he whispers, every word drawn out slow, letting them sink into your skin like heat.

You laugh, breath catching on a sound you didn’t mean to let slip, arms curling tight around his shoulders.

“I think I’ll keep it,” you whisper, grinning against his throat.

And you swear—you feel him smile, too.

The night deepens around you, slow and quiet. The oil lamp flickers low on the side table, casting warm golden light across the room, leaving the edges in shadow. The kind of light that makes everything feel gentler—closer.

You’re curled into him on the couch, your back pressed to his chest, his arms wound around your waist with a familiar weight as his back rests against the arm. His breath brushes the crown of your head. Steady. Calm. His fingers rest lazily against your stomach, and your own hand fidgets with the cuff of his shirt, folding the fabric, then unfolding it again.

“I still remember the first night we met,” he says, his voice low and slow, rumbling deep in his chest.

The sound of it thrums through your back—warm and vibrating through the bones of you like a soft drumbeat.

You let out a playful, exaggerated sigh. “You bring this up every other week.”

He lets his chin settle atop your head. A soft, absent motion that makes you smile despite yourself.

“It’s adorable,” he murmurs.

“You scared me half to death,” you remind him, voice tilting up into something mockingly indignant.

He only shrugs behind you, his laugh rolling low from his throat. No apology. Just amusement.

Silence drapes over you for a moment, long enough for the house to settle around you. The wood creaks softly, and the outside hum of insects builds and fades with the wind. You sink deeper into him, the beat of your heart quieting against the shape of his.

Then his voice slips out again—lower now. Different. Threaded with something distant and fond.

“Do you know what really sticks with me?”

You hum, barely a sound, your hand still tugging gently at the edge of his sleeve.

“The second night.”

You groan, the sound full of heat and laughter, your spine stiffening against his chest. “Not this again…”

“I just had to interrupt your performance with the squirrels,” he chuckles, voice full of the grin you don’t need to see to know is there.

“They were trying to take the bird’s food,” you argue, a hint of pride in your voice.

“You practically chased them off with a broom,” he teases, drawing circles against your collarbone with the tip of his finger. “I swear your father had to come help you.”

Your breath hitches with the motion of his touch, but you still manage a scoff. “You stood there like some creep,” you mutter, turning slightly to glance back at him. “You could’ve at least been a gentleman and helped.”

He laughs again—louder this time, but not harsh. It fades slowly as he looks at you, something quieter blooming behind his eyes. His gaze holds yours, soft and still.

“Do you remember the third night?” he asks, voice lower, more careful now.

You watch him for a beat, the memory flickering behind your eyes like a distant spark.

Then you nod—slow, certain—and turn back into his arms.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I remember.”

An owl calls from the trees above, its song low and long, echoing gently across the yard like a lullaby meant only for the night. The grass beneath your bare feet is cool, still damp from the afternoon rain, and freshly cut—sharp and green-smelling as it brushes against your ankles.

You move with the wind, not to any melody made by man, but to the soft, layered rhythm of the night. The hum of crickets, the rustle of leaves, the breath of the earth beneath you.

Your eyes are closed.

Your hands sweep through the air—out, behind, above—fingertips carving patterns through nothing. The energy of it all coils in your belly and unfurls through your limbs like light, like water. It pulses through you, ancient and steady. You don’t dance to be seen. You dance to be felt.

And still—he sees you.

He stands at the edge of the yard, silent in the shadows.

You don’t open your eyes. Not yet. But you feel him. The weight of him. The awareness. The way his presence folds into the air like heat rising off stone. It doesn’t startle you. Doesn’t stop you. You’re too far gone in the rhythm to care. You dance as if he isn’t there—because in truth, everything in that moment belongs to something older than either of you.

But when you do finally stop, breath feathering from your lips, you turn your head slowly—and he’s still watching.

His mouth is parted slightly. His eyes are dark, drawn in, like they’re trying to memorize what they just witnessed. Like they’ve forgotten how to blink.

“That was beautiful,” he says, voice hushed and full—like anything louder might shatter the air between you.

The words curl around your ribs, nest there. A stranger’s compliment shouldn’t warm you like this. Not on the third night of him appearing without warning. Not after the way your father squinted suspiciously at him from the porch light the evening before.

And yet—

“I know,” you reply softly, gaze pulling toward the moon overhead. Its light turns your skin pale silver, glinting off your cheeks and collarbones.

Behind you, he lets out a quiet sound—half-laugh, half-exhale. Barely audible. But it reaches you all the same.

You turn then. Finally look at him. Really look.

And what you see in his eyes stops you.

Not hunger. Not mischief. Not charm.

But something older.

Something searching.

“Beautiful.”

His voice breaks the quiet with a tone that feels almost sacred, and the word lands like a ripple through still water—pulling you gently out of the memory you’d been floating in.

Your breath catches.

Your fingers pause against his sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, the words slipping out too fast, too sudden.

Behind you, Remmick shifts, his head tilting slightly. He hums, a soft note of confusion, the sound curling into the space between your neck and shoulder.

“What you sorry for?”

You look down, eyes falling to the hand still idly fussing with the cuff of his shirt—folding it, smoothing it, folding it again. Your teeth graze your bottom lip before you catch yourself.

“For not bein’ able to bring them back,” you whisper. The words sting in your throat more than you expected. “Your family.”

You feel it the moment it hits him—his body tenses behind you, the quiet inhale that doesn’t quite reach his lungs. He doesn’t speak right away.

But before he can gather something to say, you’re turning, twisting in his arms to face him. The words tumble out fast, too full, too heavy to hold back.

“Maybe I wasn’t what you were looking for—maybe I—”

“No.”

It cuts through clean. Not sharp. Not scolding.

Just certain.

His hand closes around yours, fingers wrapping tight—not desperate, just firm. Grounding. His eyes search yours, and his head shakes once, like he’s banishing the thought from both of you before it can settle.

“You are what I was looking for.”

He says it like a vow.

And then, softer—softer than anything else he’s said tonight, as his thumb brushes over your knuckles and his brow draws slightly:

“Love, I’m so happy to have found you.”

The silence that follows doesn’t ache.

It holds.

And when you breathe again, it feels like you’re finally letting yourself believe it.

“I have somethin’ for—somethin’ to show you.”

The words stumble out, your breath catching in your chest as you untangle yourself from him. A rush of nerves spikes through you, making your hands shake as they hover for a moment before finding their purpose. Your feet carry you over to the dining room table, where the sketch waits, neatly folded and lying there like something fragile.

You glance back over your shoulder at him, catching the way he watches you, still lounging on the couch but sitting straighter now, his feet brushing the floor.

“What is it?” His voice is low, but his eyes are full of something—something expectant, even intrigued.

“It’s just a little drawing,” you murmur, the paper suddenly feeling much heavier in your hands as you move back towards him.

His brow arches, eyes flicking to the ink stains along your fingertips.

“Is that why your fingers look like you’ve been diggin’ in ink?”

You swat his arm gently, a soft laugh escaping you as you push the nervousness from your throat. “It’s small—honestly—it’s nothing big. But I wanted to give you a clear, or as clear as it can get, image.”

You sit next to him on the couch and extend it toward him, heart thudding in your chest.

He takes it slowly, his brows furrowing slightly as he studies the sketch. His eyes trace the strokes and shadows, lingering on the curves of the lines, as if trying to piece together the story you’ve captured. The silence between you both feels thick, heavy with anticipation, and you brace yourself for a reaction you’re not sure you’re ready for.

But then, his gaze shifts back to you, and your breath catches in your throat.

His eyes are dark, a quiet storm of emotions swirling in them—confusion, curiosity, but most of all, longing. Desperate longing.

It hits you all at once, like a soft blow to the chest, and for a moment, you almost wish you hadn’t drawn it at all. You almost regret giving him this piece of you, this representation of something he can never have in the same way again.

But then, before you can pull back, before the doubt can settle in, he leans forward. The paper still in his hands, not forgotten for a moment as his lips find yours.

The kiss is urgent, the kind that pulls at your soul as much as it pulls at your body. Your hand rises instinctively to cup his cheek, the cool of his skin grounding you in this moment. You melt into him, the tension in your shoulders unraveling as his touch deepens the kiss.

And then, just as quickly, he pulls away, his forehead resting against yours, breath coming fast.

“The sun,” he whispers, the words barely audible but laced with something raw—something that echoes in your own chest.

———————

It’s been twelve full moons since the night you gave him the sun.

Since you handed him something he hadn’t seen in so long and watched it catch in his throat. The sun—captured in your lines, your hands, your memory. A light he could never touch again, offered to him through you.

Now, the nights are quieter, warmer.

And now, even after all these months, he touches you like that moment never left him.

“Remmick…”

Your voice spills out in a breath, soft and undone, as his lips press against your neck again and again—slow, lingering kisses that melt into the hollow of your throat and the curve of your collarbone. He’s kneeling between your parted thighs, the weight of him grounding you, steadying you.

Your hand is tangled in his hair, the dark locks soft against your fingers as they tighten just slightly. He groans at the feeling, low and deep, like it stirs something in him he never meant to let loose.

“You smell so good,” he murmurs, voice warm against your skin.

You let out a breathless laugh, light and quick—but it catches, twists, becomes something else entirely when his mouth opens against the spot just beneath your chin and he sucks gently, leaving a mark that makes your toes curl.

One of his hands grips your hip, firm but worshipful. The other guides your leg higher, wrapping your thigh around his waist. You can feel the flex of his muscles through the fabric of your clothes—always clothed, always drawn out like this, as if undressing fully would tip the balance into something neither of you could undo.

He moans against your neck, the sound vibrating through your bones as your hand tightens in his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath catch.

His tongue drags a slow line up the length of your throat—hot, wet, lingering—until it reaches the corner of your mouth. He kisses you there, not quite on your lips. Just close enough to make you shudder.

Your thighs tighten around him, urging him forward.

“Give it to me,” you whisper, panting softly now, your voice thick with need that’s become almost ritual.

Remmick’s eyes shift—darker now, pupils dilated, hunger swimming through them, but not for flesh. For this. For you.

He brings his wrist up to his mouth and bites. Not gently. His fangs tear into the skin with practiced force, piercing just deep enough to make the blood run freely. Thick, dark, it begins to fall—hot drops staining the front of your dress.

You don’t wait. You never do.

You grasp his wrist and pull it to your mouth, lips parting as you begin to drink.

Slowly.

His blood pours across your tongue like smoke—rich, metallic, ancient. It coils down your throat, and you moan around his wrist, hips pressing down against him in a slow grind that sends heat lacing up your spine.

It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t kill. Not like it should.

His blood was meant to destroy—corrode, rot from the inside out. To anyone else, it would have been poison. But to you?

It settles like firelight in your chest.

No one, not even Remmick, understands it. How your body takes his blood and lives. Hungers for it. How it makes your senses crackle and your thoughts slip sideways into his.

He watches you now, still holding your leg in place, his wrist slack in your grip as you drink. His mouth parts slightly in awe, eyes half-lidded.

It’s not just the pleasure of it—it’s the connection.

A tether forged in something older than touch.

And as the blood pulses through your veins like a slow current, you feel the familiar shift begin.

The world stills at the edges.

Your breath synchronizes with his.

And then—faintly—like a whisper in a dream—

‘Can you hear me?’

The words aren’t spoken.

They’re felt.

From somewhere inside.

From him.

You close your eyes and lean into the warmth of his body, lips still pressed to his skin.

‘Always.’

You don’t stop drinking right away.

You stay there, lips pressed to his wrist, your breath ghosting hot against his skin with each swallow. His blood fills your mouth in steady waves, pulsing with something ancient and strange, tasting of earth and copper and thunderclouds ready to break. It spreads through your limbs like warmth pulled from the deepest part of a hearth.

You can feel the weight of him above you—his chest heaving slowly, his arm trembling just faintly in your grip. He’s watching you, you know he is. You feel it in the way his hand tightens on your thigh, his fingers digging in just enough to anchor himself. His hips shift closer, slow, a near-imperceptible grind that tells you he’s just as drunk on this as you are.

Your body shivers in response, the sensation of him—his scent, his heat, the deep thrum of his power—curling into you, winding itself around your breath like a silk thread being pulled tighter and tighter.

Finally, you release his wrist with one last lick, blood still slicking your lips, glowing faintly in the lamplight. You press your face to the inside of his arm, inhaling the scent of his skin, letting the quiet of your joined bodies settle back in.

He exhales slowly, forehead lowering to rest against yours.

“Every time,” he whispers, voice roughened, breath warm against your cheek. “It never gets easier, needing you like this.”

You smile, lips brushing against his skin.

“I don’t want it to get easier.”

Your hand, still tangled in his hair, slips down to cup the side of his face. His stubble grazes your palm. He leans into the touch like it’s the only thing keeping him together. His free arm slides around your back, holding you fully, folding you into him like he wants to memorize every inch of your shape.

You tilt your head, guiding his mouth back to yours.

The kiss is slow. Saturated. It tastes faintly of blood and something far sweeter—familiar, claiming, home. He groans softly against your lips, his body sinking deeper between your thighs as if he could disappear inside you if he just moved close enough.

Your bodies don’t rush.

You never do.

This has always been about something more than hunger. More than flesh.

It’s about the space between the blood and the breath.

It’s about the way his fingers tremble when they trace the curve of your back through your dress. About the way your mouth parts for him even before he asks. About how his voice breaks just slightly when he murmurs your name like a prayer, spoken only for you.

Your legs curl tighter around his waist.

His hand cups the back of your neck.

And for a long, suspended moment, you just exist like that—pressed together, pulsing with the same rhythm, your minds still softly tangled in that shared tether.

His mouth parts from yours, slow and reluctant, as though breaking the kiss costs him something. But then he’s lowering—pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the bare skin at the top of your chest, where your collar dips just below your throat. Each kiss grows messier, wetter, trailing heat in their wake as his breath thickens against your skin.

You feel his lips move back up, soft and deliberate, until he’s at your throat again. He sucks gently on the flesh there—right where your pulse flutters closest to the surface—and your head tips back instinctively, a moan slipping from your mouth, low and unguarded.

You close your eyes, drowning in the sensation, the way his mouth worships you like you’re sacred. You melt into it, hips rising just slightly, your whole body humming.

Until—

A pressure.

A shift.

A sharpness.

It presses, faint at first, then firmer. Something cold, glancing the curve of your neck.

“Remmick?”

Your voice is a breath at first, confused but not panicked. Not yet.

But then you feel it again—definite now—the unmistakable drag of a fang against your skin. Not playful. Not soft. A warning. A threat.

“Remmick,” you say louder this time, a tremor threading through your voice.

No answer.

Only a low growl—feral and guttural—rising from his chest.

Your heart stutters.

You push at his chest, sudden and firm. “Remmick—!”

His body jerks back as if he’s been doused in cold water, a choked sound tearing from his throat. His eyes, once half-lidded with desire, now burn red—crimson—staring past you, unseeing, his breath ragged and uneven. But as you stare, you see the color begin to fade—slowly, then all at once—retreating like a tide.

You sit up, the moment shattered. The air between you now cracked and sharp.

Your hands tremble as you adjust the sleeve of your dress, fingers fumbling. You don’t look away from him. You can’t. Your chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths as the last of the heat bleeds from your skin and leaves something colder in its place.

His mouth is parted. He looks dazed—like he’s just woken from something he didn’t want to be in. His gaze finally meets yours, and what you see there is no longer hunger.

It’s guilt.

And fear.

And something else he’s too afraid to name.

The room is quiet—too quiet.

Just the sound of your breath, ragged and quick in your chest. Just the soft ticking of the old wall clock, the distant chirp of crickets outside the window. The warmth from the oil lamp still glows, but it doesn’t reach your skin like it did before.

You stare at him.

And he stares at you.

Neither of you moves. For a long, trembling moment, you’re both frozen in the wreckage of what almost happened.

Then—he shifts.

Only slightly. A small movement forward, the start of reaching out.

But your body responds before your mind can soften it. You tense, your spine pulling back like a thread snapped tight. It’s not dramatic. Not a jolt. But enough. Enough for him to see it.

He freezes mid-reach, then withdraws—slowly, deliberately—his hands falling to his thighs. He nods once to himself, almost like he’s answering a question you didn’t ask.

With a heavy breath, he lowers himself to the floor, sitting back against the foot of the couch. His legs stretch out in front of him, shoulders hunched, head bowed. One hand comes up to rub over his face, dragging from brow to jaw like he’s trying to wipe away the moment.

“Fuck,” he mutters, low and hoarse. His fingers dig into his temples. “Fuck, fuck—”

You watch him. From where you sit. From the place where his touch had just been.

He curses again, quieter this time. Not angry. Not cruel. Just broken. Cursing himself, not the world.

And you feel something shift in your chest—not the fear, not yet. But the knowing. The understanding.

So you move.

Slowly, carefully, you rise to your feet. The hem of your dress brushes your knees as you walk, cautious and bare-footed, toward where he sits in shadow. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t hear you coming until you’re already there.

When he does lift his eyes, it’s quick, almost reflexive.

And still—you flinch.

It’s the smallest thing. A flicker of muscle, a pull at your shoulders. You don’t mean to. But it’s there.

And he sees it. All of it.

The guilt that floods his face is instant, undeniable. Like something in him collapses. He turns his head slightly as if to hide, like he doesn’t want you to see the part of him he’s just shown.

But you kneel anyway.

You sink down in front of him, the floor cold beneath your knees, and you reach out.

Your hands come up slow, hesitant—but sure. You cup his face gently, thumbs brushing the sharp cut of his jaw, coaxing his gaze back to yours.

His eyes flicker up, full of something wild and wounded. He opens his mouth—and the words fall out in a rush, cracked and frantic.

“I’m sorry—”

His breath shakes.

“I didn’t mean—”

He swallows hard.

“I would never—God, I’m so sorry—”

“Shhh…”

Your voice breaks through softly, warm and steady.

You press your forehead to his.

“It’s okay,” you whisper.

He doesn’t believe it. Not yet. Not fully. But he closes his eyes, and he lets you hold him anyway.

And for now, that’s enough.

Minutes pass, but they stretch long and aching, like time itself is unsure how to move forward.

You’re both seated on the couch, the air between you thick with what almost happened. Close enough to reach for each other, but neither of you does. Not yet.

You sit still, your knees drawn in slightly, eyes on the floor. Remmick leans forward, his elbows resting on his thighs, his fingers twitching at his knees.

Every few minutes, he swipes at his pant leg—dusting off nothing. Just a nervous habit. You’ve seen him do it a hundred times across three years. He does it when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s scared he’s hurt you, when his guilt starts to choke the words in his throat.

“You didn’t mean it,” you say softly, trying to fill the silence with something true.

But he cuts across your words—not sharp, not cruel. Just quiet. Defeated.

“It still happened.”

His voice settles into the room like a stone dropped in still water.

You don’t respond right away. Because you can’t lie—it did happen. This isn’t the first time. You’ve been here before. These moments where the instinct in him overwhelms the man you know. When something ancient stirs in his blood and almost—almost—makes him forget who you are.

Who he is.

And still… you stay.

Because it is instinct. Because it’s him. Because he’s tried so hard to be gentle, to be careful with you, to never take more than you offer.

But your humanity doesn’t always understand.

There are flashes. Of fear. Of your body screaming to move, to run. Even when your heart knows better.

Your hand rises slowly, brushing off your shoulder—not because anything is there, but because your body needs something to do, a motion to match the quiet storm inside you.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Remmick watching you. Just barely. Just for a second. Like he’s afraid to look too long.

“I’m not scared,” you say quietly, still brushing at nothing.

Your voice trembles—but not with fear.

“I promise.”

That part is steadier. More certain. Like you’re not just telling him, but yourself too.

He turns to look at you, eyes catching yours for a brief, flickering second. Then he leans back into the couch again, sighing as he drags both hands up over his face and into his hair.

His elbows rest wide, shoulders curling in, and for a moment he looks less like the creature who nearly lost control—and more like a man unraveling under the weight of being that creature at all.

There’s another beat of silence.

Heavy.

Full.

But not suffocating.

And then—you move.

You shift slowly, inching closer, careful not to startle him, not to break the fragile calm settling between you. His hands are still tangled in his hair when you press your body flush to his side, your knees drawing up gently to rest near his thigh. You let your head fall onto his shoulder, the weight of it soft but certain.

He tenses.

He always does, after things like this. After the hunger, the loss of control. Like he’s afraid your touch might break him. Or that he doesn’t deserve to be held after what nearly happened.

But when you exhale—a long, steady breath that says I’m still here—he softens.

Slowly, his shoulders lower. His body eases against yours. And then his chin dips to rest on the top of your head, the warmth of him grounding you both.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just breathes.

Then his eyes fall to your chest.

To the thin gold chain and the small cross nestled in the hollow between your collarbones.

His fingers move before his voice does, brushing lightly against your skin. He picks it up with careful hands, like it might burn him.

“Why do you still wear this?” he murmurs, thumb ghosting across the little symbol. The question isn’t mocking. It’s softer than that. Almost confused.

You shrug, barely a motion, your cheek brushing the fabric of his shirt.

“Sometimes,” you say softly, “it’s better to be comforted by the familiarity of it… than to sit in the discomfort of knowing you were raised by people who heel to an if.”

His thumb keeps moving over the metal, slow and thoughtful.

Then—quietly—he asks, “Even after what happened?”

Your breath catches. You don’t answer right away.

You feel the memory press up behind your ribs, the way some people spoke for God while hurting you in his name. But you shake your head, voice gentle but certain.

Your voice is quieter now, but not weak.

“I can’t blame God for the actions of men.”

Remmick lets the cross slip from his fingers.

“They’re his creations, though,” he says. Not accusing—just flat. Like stating a flaw in a story he’s never quite believed.

You pause. Your body shifts just slightly to glance at him.

His eyes aren’t sharp. But they aren’t soft, either. They look like someone who’s stood too long in the rain of something he used to want to believe in.

“Where is this coming from, Remmick?” you ask, reaching to touch the necklace again, your fingers now resting where his had been.

He’s quiet. Then his gaze meets yours.

“Because I’m not.”

Your brows draw slightly. “Not what?”

His throat bobs, and he exhales through his nose before answering.

“Holy.”

The word leaves his mouth like something unwanted. Like it tastes wrong.

You shake your head without hesitation, leaning back into him, fingers curling at the side of his shirt.

“I ain’t ask for holy.”

There’s a pause.

Then his arm slides around your waist, drawing you close—not fast, not rough, but sure. His hand rests flat against your back, and he holds you like you’re the only thing left in a world that never offered him much to believe in.

The room settles around you again, the stillness no longer tense, but warm in its hush. The lamplight flickers low, casting soft gold across the floorboards, the corners of the room melting into shadow.

Remmick doesn’t speak, and neither do you.

He just holds you.

One arm wraps around your waist, the other hand resting along your spine, fingers splayed wide, keeping you close like he needs the weight of you to stay grounded. Your cheek presses to his chest—cool and still beneath the fabric of his shirt. There’s no rhythm to lull you, no beat beneath your ear.

But it doesn’t matter.

You’ve long since stopped searching for it.

His stillness is its own kind of comfort.

The way he holds you, the way his body curves instinctively to shelter yours—it tells you more than a pulse ever could.

Your fingers fidget lightly with the hem of his shirt, not out of nerves but instinct. He shifts just enough to pull a blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over both of you in a quiet offering. His movements are careful. As if he thinks too much noise might startle the moment away.

“You always run cold at night,” he murmurs, just above your ear.

“I do not,” you whisper back, half a smile in your voice.

He hums in amusement, dipping his head slightly to press a kiss into your hair. Not rushed. Not wanting anything. Just the kind of kiss someone gives when they think no one else is watching.

Your breath begins to slow.

Your hand, once gently moving across his chest, grows still. He feels the change in you almost immediately—how your weight softens against him, how your fingers twitch once, then relax completely. Your body melts into his side, trusting, safe.

And he stays still.

He couldn’t sleep, even if he wanted. Not anymore.

He just watches.

The way your face tips toward him, lashes brushing the tops of your cheeks. The rise and fall of your chest beneath the blanket. The cross glinting faintly against your skin as the lamplight burns itself out.

His hand strokes once down your back, slow and steady. A silent promise. A grounding.

He doesn’t dare move.

Because this—the weight of you against him, the quiet peace that followed the chaos—is something he doesn’t ever take lightly.

And though the house has fallen silent and your breath is deep with sleep, Remmick remains awake, holding you like you’re still asking to be protected.

———————

“I can’t stay here.”

His voice cuts through the air like a blade—sharp, absolute.

You chase after him, feet bare against the old wooden floor as he moves too fast, too frenzied, like if he stops for even a second, he’ll fall apart. Your hand brushes the edge of his shirt, just barely, but he’s already beyond your reach.

“Remmick—wait,” you call, breath catching, the words tumbling over themselves. “Can’t we just talk about it?”

He doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t look at you. His voice rises, tight with frustration and something dangerously close to despair.

“I need to get out. I need to find someone—someone who actually knows what the hell they’re doing. Someone who can help.”

“Help with what?” your voice breaks slightly. “You said it didn’t matter anymore. You said no one could conjure them, that it was impossible—”

“We have talked,” he snaps, spinning to face you. And when he says your name—he says it in a tone you’ve never heard from him. Not even when you were fighting. Not even when you were afraid.

You freeze.

Just for a second.

But it’s enough.

He sees it—the way you recoil just slightly, how your fingers twitch like they don’t know whether to reach for him or pull back entirely. And still, you try. You step forward, eyes wide, jaw tight.

“You said it didn’t matter anymore,” you plead, anger bubbling up beneath the desperation now. “You said you couldn’t find anyone who could conjure them, and we—we moved on, Remmick! We—”

Your voice shakes. You hate the way it does. You hate the way your chest aches from chasing him, not just through the house, but through the months that led to this.

He turns to you fully now, eyes scanning your face, your posture, your hair—longer now, pinned back in a way that’s already half-fallen from place. There’s something about your appearance that makes him still. Like he’s seeing not just the person in front of him, but all the time you’ve weathered together. All the nights. All the blood. All the silence.

He says your name again.

Softer.

And then he closes his eyes.

“I tried,” he breathes, voice quiet, almost tender in its regret. “I really did.”

When he opens his eyes again, they’re empty of hope.

“But being with you…” He pauses. Swallows. “It reminds me of the part of me that still wishes I was human. That part that wishes I could connect with people again.”

You flinch, like you’ve been struck. But you don’t back down.

“You connected with me,” you say sharply, your hand flying up in disbelief, gesturing to your own chest. “You said that. You said I made you feel like—like you were still something.”

He breathes hard through his nose, jaw clenched. And then—

A pause.

A beat that goes on too long.

Too heavy.

His gaze doesn’t quite meet yours.

“That was a mistake.”

The silence that follows is loud. Deafening.

You stare at him. Waiting. Daring him to take it back.

But he doesn’t.

He just stands there, full of that distant kind of grief that’s been killing him slowly long before this moment.

Another long beat of silence.

The kind that presses into your chest and makes it hard to breathe. The kind that makes the room feel smaller, heavier—like the walls are listening, holding their breath along with you.

Your vision blurs slightly. Tears swell hot at the corners of your eyes, but you don’t let them fall. You won’t. Not in front of him. Not after this.

You swallow hard, jaw tight, voice trembling as you force the words out.

“How dare you?”

His eyes snap to yours, startled—not by the volume, but by the weight of it.

You take a step forward, fists clenched at your sides to keep from shaking. He glances away, quickly—like looking at you is suddenly too much—but you don’t give him the out.

“How dare you say that,” you repeat, louder this time, voice cracking beneath the fury that rises like a wave behind your ribs, “after everything we’ve been through?”

He turns back, but you’re already staring him down, eyes wet and burning, teeth gritted so tight your whole body aches with it.

“You think you can just throw all this away? Call it a mistake?” Your voice quivers, but it doesn’t falter. “We survived things together. You shared blood. We—” you stop yourself, shoulders trembling as your breath comes fast and shallow. “Don’t you dare rewrite what we had just because you’re scared.”

His lips part, but nothing comes out.

And all you can do is stand there, every part of you pulled tight like a thread about to snap, holding on for dear life just to keep from crumbling at his feet.

You don’t even realize how still you’ve gone until he turns his back on you.

That simple motion—silent, final—makes something inside you break.

Not loud.

Not sharp.

Just a slow, spreading crack through the center of your chest.

Your throat tightens. Your limbs go cold. You press your lips together hard, trying to stop the trembling in your jaw. But your eyes burn, and your vision sways, and something deep inside starts to unravel like thread being pulled from the hem of something sacred.

He’s facing the door now. Ready to leave you in ruins.

“Look at me,” you say, voice trembling, barely more than a breath.

He doesn’t move.

Your stomach twists. Your fingers curl against your sides, and you take a step toward him, your voice rising—

“Remmick, look at me.”

He turns.

Fast. Too fast. Like he’s been waiting to snap.

You flinch before you can stop yourself, instinct pulling your body backward a half-step.

And that’s when he says it.

“You aren’t special.”

The words are plain. Cold.

His eyes don’t blink, don’t soften. They bore into you like he’s trying to make you believe it—like he needs you to.

“You weren’t special enough to conjure them,” he spits, voice stripped of all the softness it used to hold for you. “All this time, all this blood, all this hope—and it was wasted. On you.”

You feel the breath knock out of you, a rush of silence ringing in your ears. It’s like your body hasn’t caught up yet to what your heart just heard.

And then he says it.

“Meeting you was a mistake.”

Your face crumples—just a flicker. You try to hide it. Try to stand tall. But the ache comes too fast. Too deep.

He stares at you. Daring you to fight it. Daring you to say he’s wrong.

But he doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t know he’s already won.

Because he’s broken the one thing that held you both together.

The silence that follows is unbearable.

The words hang between you like smoke, thick and suffocating, refusing to clear. He watches you—still, unreadable—but something shifts.

Just for a second.

A flicker.

It passes through his face too quickly, but you catch it—guilt. The barest crack in the mask. A subtle falter in the set of his jaw. The tiniest twitch of something human behind his eyes. Something that wants to take the words back.

But then he straightens. Withdraws.

His shoulders pull back, chin lifts slightly, and the mask returns. Cold. Detached. It slips back over his face like armor—like he needs it to stand here and not fall apart.

You stare at him, still frozen, your breath caught so tightly in your chest it hurts.

And then, finally—you exhale.

A soft, trembling sound escapes your lips, the breath breaking as it leaves you. It unravels into a quiet cry—small, raw, but cutting straight through the hollow ache inside you.

Your knees don’t give out. Your voice doesn’t rise.

You just… break, quietly.

The tears fall before you can stop them, hot and unrelenting. They spill down your cheeks like something you’ve been holding back for far too long, and your hand comes up—uselessly—to catch them. But they keep coming.

You’re not sobbing.

You’re just grieving.

Grieving what he just said.

Grieving that he meant it.

Grieving the part of him that once held you like you were the only thing keeping him in this world.

You take a step back.

Just one.

But it says everything. The distance grows in more ways than one—and for a breath, you see it in his eyes. The way they flicker. The way his fingers twitch. Like he’s about to follow you.

For a split second, it looks like Remmick might reach out—might step forward.

But he doesn’t.

He stills himself. Draws his hand into a fist at his side. Locks his body in place like it’s the only way he can keep from unraveling.

You stare at him through the blur of tears. Your breath is uneven, your chest tight with every word he’s thrown at you, and still—still—you look at him like you’re trying to see past all of it. Like you’re still trying to find him underneath the cruelty.

And when he finally speaks again, his voice is lower. Less certain.

“I meant what I said,” he tells you.

But it lacks the venom now. The edge has dulled. There’s something buried beneath it—something fragile. And he tries to hide it, tightening his jaw, avoiding your eyes. It’s the kind of lie someone tells when they need it to be true. When the alternative would break them.

You drag the heel of your hand across your cheek, wiping away the tears, though the dampness clings to your skin. Your eyes don’t leave him.

And then, after a long, aching silence, you say it:

“Turn me.”

His eyes widen. His head jerks slightly, like he misheard you. For the first time since he turned away, his composure shatters just a little.

“No,” he says immediately, shaking his head like the word itself might undo something. “No.”

But you’re already stepping forward. Slow. Certain. The pain in your chest rising like a tide.

You close the space between you until you’re right there—nearly brushing against him, close enough to feel the cold tension radiating off his body, close enough to make him hold his breath.

“Turn me,” you repeat, firmer now, eyes locking with his. “Do it—so you won’t leave.”

His face twists. “You don’t know what you’re asking—”

“Yes, I do.”

Your voice doesn’t shake now.

“Because I know you, Remmick. I know what this is. You don’t mean what you said. You’re pushing me away because you’re scared, because you think you’re protecting me—but I see you.”

He doesn’t speak. He just stares at you, stunned, struggling to hide the storm behind his eyes.

“And yes,” your voice softens but doesn’t lose its edge, “your words hurt me. But I’m still here.”

You lift your chin, breath shallow. “So if this is the only way you’ll stay—then do it.”

Remmick shakes his head again, more forcefully this time, jaw clenched, eyes glinting with something wild and frayed.

“No,” he mutters, barely more than breath. “No.”

But you press closer to him anyway.

You’re almost flush against his chest now, breath mingling with his, your hands reaching for the front of his coat—gripping the worn fabric in tight fists, like if you hold hard enough, he won’t disappear.

“Please,” you beg, voice cracked, raw. “Remmick, please—just turn me. Don’t go. Don’t leave me like this—don’t say those things if you don’t mean them.”

His hands twitch at his sides, knuckles pale with restraint. He looks down at you, expression dark, unreadable—but there’s something breaking behind his eyes.

“No,” he says again, louder this time, harsher. “No.”

He moves—tries to back away—but your grip tightens, frantic now, fingers curled tight in his coat like you’re afraid he’ll vanish the second you let go.

And then the sobs come.

They ripple through you like a storm, wracking your body as your knees almost buckle beneath the weight of everything—his words, his distance, the unbearable ache of loving someone who keeps pulling away.

“Please,” you choke again. “Please…”

Your voice crumbles. You’re not begging for the turning anymore—you’re begging for him. For the Remmick who held you at night. Who pressed kisses to your shoulder while you slept. Who whispered that you made him feel alive again.

And that’s what shatters him.

His face crumples—just for a second—and then his hands are on yours, trembling.

“I can’t,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I won’t.”

He grips your wrists gently but firmly, peeling your hands from his coat with heartbreaking care, as though touching you too harshly might undo you completely.

“I won’t do that to you,” he breathes, eyes locked on yours, swimming with sorrow. “I won’t damn you.”

His words tremble. His hands linger on your wrists even after he’s pulled them free.

His grip on your wrists lingers, trembling, as if some part of him doesn’t want to let go.

But he does.

He peels away from you slowly, like it hurts to break the contact. Your hands fall limply to your sides, empty now. Cold. His touch still clings to your skin even as he steps back, gaze flickering down before he forces himself to look away entirely.

You stumble a step after him.

“Remmick—” your voice is barely there. A breathless sob tangled in his name.

But he turns his back to you.

One hand rakes through his hair, gripping the strands tightly, like he’s trying to pull something out of himself. His other hand curls into a fist at his side, knuckles cracking as he breathes heavy through his nose—too steady for a man this undone.

You stand there, frozen in place, a hollow thing trying to find footing on a crumbling floor.

“Remmick,” you say again, louder, more fractured, the plea cracking down the middle.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look back.

He moves toward the door, each step sharp, deliberate. You want to run to him, to grab him again—but your body won’t move. It’s locked in place by too much—rage, grief, love, disbelief—too much.

He reaches the door, and his hand clamps down on the knob so hard it groans beneath his grip.

Metal warps under his palm, the shape bending slightly from the pressure. He closes his eyes.

He could stay.

He wants to.

But if he does, he won’t leave at all. And that terrifies him more than the sound of your voice breaking behind him.

With a harsh exhale, he yanks the door open.

Outside, the night air spills in—cold and wide and merciless. He stands there for a moment, held still by something invisible. He hesitates.

Just one second.

The ache in his chest blooms again. A bloom with no heartbeat, no blood. Just hollow space where your voice used to echo inside him.

But then—he steps forward.

Down the porch stairs. Into the dark.

And as the distance grows, he tries—tries—to drown out the sound of you crying behind him.

You don’t move.

You can’t.

Your body is still frozen in place, chest heaving with sobs that feel too big for your ribs, too old to cry. Your hands tremble at your sides—empty, aching, reaching for something that isn’t there anymore.

Then, like instinct—like the last spark of hope clinging to a thread—you reach for him the only way you still can.

Through the link.

‘Remmick…’

You don’t speak it aloud. You don’t need to. You close your eyes, press your hand to your chest, and focus everything—everything—on him. The ache. The longing. The sharp panic rising as his presence starts to feel distant.

‘Please… come back.’

No answer.

You try again, harder this time, your mind pushing past the pain, straining through the space between you.

‘Remmick, please. Don’t do this.’

Still—nothing.

Not a whisper.

Not even the faint echo of thought.

You feel him.

You feel him walking away. Each step pulling the tether tighter, drawing it out like a thread unraveling at the seams. He’s walking into the woods now, into the dark, and you can feel the earth swallowing his presence inch by inch.

‘Answer me,’ you plead, the thought barely holding together under the weight of your grief.

He doesn’t.

He keeps walking.

And as he moves deeper into the trees, your link with him—so often warm, so steady it felt like breath—begins to fade.

Fainter.

Fainter still.

Like fog slipping through your fingers.

You press your forehead to the wall beside the door, tears spilling again, lips parted in a silent gasp.

There is nothing now.

Just the dark.

Just the cold.

And the silence where his voice used to be.

———————

Your feet brush against each other beneath the quilt as you tug it higher up your shoulder, chasing warmth that never quite stays. The winter air creeps in through the cracks in the wood, biting at your arms, your neck, anywhere the blanket doesn’t reach.

You nestle deeper into the bed, letting the stillness settle over you. It’s a familiar kind of cold now. Quiet. Lonely, but bearable.

Your eyes grow heavy, breath evening out as sleep pulls at you.

Your hand rises absently to scratch your scalp—fingers dragging through the short strands before you wince, quickly remembering that you’d cut it just the morning before. A change. Something new. Something yours.

But then—

A cry.

Loud. Restless. Piercing.

You bolt upright, rubbing at your eyes as your feet find the floor, already moving.

The old boards groan beneath your steps as you hurry down the hall, the sound of her cries swelling with each stride, high and sharp and full of tiny, desperate frustration.

You push open the door to the guest room.

The soft glow from the lamp you’d left on filters across the bassinet—your sister’s, now yours for the week since she dropped off your niece. Just until she sorted some things out. You’d said yes before you could even think twice.

The baby’s cries fill the room now, bouncing off the walls in wild, wordless protest. You step forward, peering into the bassinet, and there she is—flushed-cheeked and determined, trying to shove her fist into her mouth.

“Girl,” you murmur, exasperation bleeding into affection as you tilt your head and reach in, “you a handful.”

She wriggles as you lift her, her little body warm against yours. The moment she’s in your arms, her cries soften to hiccupped whimpers, mouth still working, cheeks damp. One tiny fist rubs beneath her eye, and she lets out a pitiful little sigh that nearly breaks your heart.

Your feet carry you back down the hall without needing to think, swaying with her as you walk.

You move through the kitchen with practiced ease, one hand on the bottle, the other keeping her tucked close, even as she squirms.

The quiet of the house wraps around you again.

Not the same quiet it used to be.

Not the same ache.

But quieter still.

You bounce her gently against your hip as the bottle warms in the pot of water on the stove, her head tucked under your chin, cheeks flushed with the aftershock of her crying fit. The kitchen is dim, lit only by the glow of a single hanging bulb that hums softly above.

Outside, the wind groans low against the windows.

Not loud. Not sharp. Just… present.

You press a kiss to the baby’s head, murmuring soft nonsense under your breath, the kind of words meant only for soothing, not meaning. Her small fingers clutch at the collar of your nightshirt, still rubbing at her face now and then, whimpering with discomfort, but quieter now. Contained.

You sway with her, barefoot on the chilled wood floor. It creaks beneath you with each step. Familiar. Lived-in.

But something about the quiet feels different tonight. Not wrong exactly, just… off.

The wind shifts again, brushing against the side of the house like fingers trailing across old wood. You glance toward the window, frowning faintly, but don’t stop moving.

“You don’t even like the cold,” you whisper to the baby, rocking side to side. “Don’t know why your mama insisted on that thin little blanket…”

Your voice trails off as your eyes linger on the dark glass of the window.

There’s nothing there.

Just your reflection. You and her. The slow rise and fall of her breath against your chest. The soft flicker of the light swinging just slightly above.

Still—you find yourself listening harder.

To the house.

To the air.

To the quiet between sounds.

The bottle clicks lightly against the side of the pot as you reach for it. You test the heat on your wrist, then bring it to her lips. She latches, her little mouth greedy, like she hadn’t just cried the walls down.

You breathe.

In.

Out.

Steady.

But you don’t stop watching the window.

There’s something in your chest—nothing sharp yet, just a whisper in the gut. Like being watched. Like the moment just before thunder. A pressure that builds but hasn’t broken.

You shake your head.

You haven’t felt that way in a long time. Not since—

You blink. Your fingers brush over the back of the baby’s head. Her eyes flutter closed slowly as she suckles.

You stare into the window a second longer.

Just your reflection.

Just the wind.

But your fingers curl tighter around her.

And you don’t move far from the stove.

Her tiny breaths come slower now.

The bottle hangs at an angle in your hand as her mouth relaxes around the nipple, no longer sucking. Just resting. The tension in her little body has gone limp with sleep, one arm flopped across your chest, the other curled under her chin. Her lashes flutter once, then still.

You watch her.

Your niece.

Small and warm in your arms, her cheek nestled just over your heart. It calms you—being her anchor. Being needed, even in the quiet. Even when your own heart has been patchwork ever since he left.

You sigh and gently ease the bottle from her mouth, slow enough not to wake her. It comes free with a faint pop, and you hold it loosely in your hand, cradling her a little closer with the other. Her lips twitch slightly in her sleep, like she’s still dreaming of something sweet.

You press another kiss to her temple and begin to turn, shifting your weight toward the fridge.

Then—you freeze.

He’s standing in the kitchen doorway.

Remmick.

The air leaves your lungs so quietly you don’t realize you’ve stopped breathing.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t move.

He just stands there, tall and still and real, like he never left. Like he could’ve always been there, just at the edge of a memory, just out of reach.

The low light from the overhead bulb flickers faintly, casting soft shadows across his face, half of him cloaked in darkness. His eyes are locked on you—not the baby. Not the bottle. You.

He looks older somehow. Or maybe not older—just tired. Worn. His clothes are damp at the hem, boots mud-dusted from the woods. The air around him is cold.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

The bottle dangles in your hand.

The baby sighs in her sleep.

And all you can do is stare, heart stuttering in your chest like it’s trying to remember how to feel everything it buried.

He doesn’t speak.

And God, you’re not even sure if he’s here to.

But he’s here.

Your lips part—

But nothing comes out.

The words catch in your throat, stuck behind the tide of disbelief and something deeper, something aching. Your gaze stays locked on him, searching for a reason, for any kind of explanation etched into his face.

But Remmick only stares.

His eyes, once soft only for you, now guarded, flicker downward to the bundle in your arms. His expression doesn’t shift, not fully—just enough to register something unreadable.

“…She yours?”

It takes you a moment to process the question. Not because it’s complicated. But because he asked it. Because he is standing there, like he didn’t disappear without a word—like two years didn’t pass in silence.

A scoff escapes before you can catch it. Sharp, tired, disbelieving.

“You’ve been gone, what—two years,” you say, voice low and tight as you rock the sleeping baby in your arms. “And you show up asking if I got knocked up?”

The bitterness is subtle, tucked beneath a layer of false steadiness, but it’s there. Your fingers tighten slightly on the bottle in your hand.

You try to sound even. Indifferent.

But the truth is, the weight of him being back—just standing there like the past didn’t happen—is pressing on your chest like a hand. And you’re doing everything you can not to fold beneath it.

He doesn’t answer. Not yet.

Just watches you with those dark eyes, unreadable in the low light, like he’s still catching up to the sight of you. Of what he left behind.

And maybe, just maybe, what he’s already regretting.

When he doesn’t answer, something in you shifts.

Breaks.

Not loudly. Not all at once. But in pieces—one word at a time.

“You don’t get to ask questions like that,” you say, still low, still sharp, but your voice thins with every breath. “You don’t get to show up after years—after walking away from me, from everything—and act like you still have any right to know what’s mine.”

He stays still.

Silent.

Watching.

“You left me begging,” you whisper, your arms tightening around the baby now asleep against your chest. “I begged you not to go. I told you I wasn’t scared. That I was still here, and you—you just turned your back like none of it mattered.”

Your words grow quicker, more desperate.

“I tried to call to you—through the link—we shared that. I tried every night for weeks. You didn’t answer. Not once. Not even to say goodbye.”

Still, he doesn’t say a word.

Just watches.

And that’s what finally makes something snap.

“Say something, damn it!” you nearly shout, but the sound trembles with pain more than rage. “Don’t just stand there like a ghost in my kitchen—like you didn’t rip me apart and vanish like I was nothing!”

Your voice breaks completely now. Your throat burns. Your eyes sting again despite all the tears you thought you’d already spent on him.

And still—he says nothing.

But he moves.

Quiet. Intentional.

One step.

Then another.

And another.

Your breath hitches as he closes the space between you. Reflexively, you take a step back, shaking your head.

“No—Remmick, don’t. You shouldn’t be here.”

But he keeps coming.

Until he’s standing right in front of you, the baby nestled safe between your arms and your chest, sleeping through the weight of everything around her. His presence so close, you can feel the cool air that always clings to him pressing against your heat.

Then—slowly, almost as though he’s afraid you’ll shatter beneath it—he lifts a hand.

You don’t stop him. You want to. You think you should.

But you don’t.

And when his palm finally meets your cheek—his thumb brushing softly beneath your eye—your entire body caves inward.

Not physically.

Not visibly.

But everything inside you folds.

You melt into his touch like you were made to. Like nothing’s ever felt more real, more grounding, more right—even now. Even after everything.

Your eyes close. Just for a second.

The quiet between you hums like a wound.

His hand stays at your cheek, steady, thumb grazing the corner where your last tear dried. Your eyes stay closed, not because you trust him—but because the moment you open them, you’ll have to feel everything all over again.

You breathe in, slow and shaky.

He breathes out, slower.

Then—

He speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

Two words.

So small.

So late.

Your eyes snap open.

You pull back—not far, not entirely—but just enough to see him. Really see him. His face is drawn, tired. Not just from time. From regret.

You part your lips. The words rise fast in your throat, fueled by every long night, every unanswered cry, every bitter second he left you alone with all that love and nowhere to put it.

“Your sorry doesn’t mat—”

“I know.”

He says it before you can finish, the words low and plain.

Not defensive.

Not performative.

Just… true.

Your mouth hangs open for a moment, the rest of the sentence dissolving on your tongue. There’s something gutting about the way he says it—how fast it comes, how quietly.

He knows.

He knows he can’t fix it.

He knows it’s not enough.

He knows he left something in you that never stopped aching.

And somehow, that hurts worse than if he’d tried to argue.

You stand there in his grasp, his hand still at your cheek, eyes searching yours with that old ache—the one you used to know so well. The silence lingers again, thick and full of everything unsaid. And then—

Your voice cuts through it, quiet but steady.

“…Why are you back?”

He flinches. Not visibly. But you feel the tension ripple through his fingers, still resting lightly against your skin.

He hesitates. You can see it—the way his jaw works, how his eyes lower to the floor between you. For a moment, you think he won’t answer. That he’ll leave you in the dark all over again.

But then, just barely above a whisper—

“I think I’ve found someone.”

He looks at you again. “Some people. Who might be able to help.”

Your chest tightens. You nod once, slowly, the motion tight and mechanical. And before the silence can grow unbearable again, you let out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh—bitter and tired.

“That’s good for you,” you murmur.

And then, you move.

You turn your face from his hand and gently pull your head out of his touch. The loss of his presence against your cheek feels colder than it should, but you ignore it. You shift the baby in your arms, her little body warm and boneless against yours, one tiny fist curled near her mouth.

“You should leave,” you say softly, not cruel, not even angry. Just… done.

You take a step toward the hallway.

But his hand finds your wrist.

Not hard. Not forceful. Just enough to stop you. To ask without words.

“Don’t,” you say, voice barely audible.

But before either of you can move again—

Your niece lets out a small, whimpering sound.

A soft whine, pained and restless, as she begins to stir against your shoulder. Her gums, still tender from teething, are clearly giving her grief again. You instinctively bounce her, soothing.

But it’s the sound—that tiny, human ache—that breaks him.

You feel it.

Something changes.

You glance back, eyes narrowing in quiet confusion, only to find Remmick… crumbling.

His expression falls apart all at once—like a dam finally giving in. His eyes close, jaw clenching as he sucks in a breath too shaky to steady. His shoulders drop, and he lets go of your wrist like it burns.

“Remmick—?” you start, brow furrowing.

But he’s already there—standing in the ruins of whatever wall he’d tried to keep between you. His hands tremble as he drags them over his face, voice breaking in the back of his throat.

“I shouldn’t’ve come back,” he murmurs, like he’s talking more to himself than to you. “I thought—I thought I could just come in, tell you what I found, and walk away again.”

His eyes meet yours, red-rimmed, wet.

“I didn’t think it’d feel like this.”

You don’t move.

You feel the tremble in him, the rawness beginning to leak out of every word, but you don’t step forward. You keep your distance—not out of punishment, but because if you move now, if you let yourself soften, you don’t know if you’ll be able to hold yourself together.

He’s the one breaking this time.

And you’ve broken enough.

“I didn’t think it’d feel like this,” he says again, voice thin and cracking, like he’s choking on the very thing he’s fought so long to suppress.

You say nothing.

Your arms tighten just slightly around your niece, who shifts again with a small whine before nestling back into your shoulder. The quiet hum of her small discomfort is the only sound in the kitchen for a long moment.

Remmick’s hands shake as he pushes them into his hair, like he’s trying to rip the feeling out of his skull.

“I thought I could handle it,” he goes on, his voice a hushed blur. “Thought I could just see you, tell you what I found, and leave. Be… grateful, even. That you moved on. That you looked okay.”

You blink, your stare sharp.

“I’m not okay,” you say simply.

He freezes at that.

“I wake up every night thinking I’m still waiting for your voice in my head. Still hoping you’ll answer. I spent months checking the woods for you like a fool. I tried to forget you, and every time I thought I had—I’d dream of you.”

Your breath hitches, but you keep your tone even. You don’t raise your voice.

“I am not okay,” you repeat, softer now. “But I lived.”

Remmick looks at you like you’ve just slapped him, and maybe, in a way, you have.

He nods slowly, eyes lowered.

“You should go,” you say again. Not unkind. But firm. “You said what you came here to say.”

His mouth opens—but no sound comes.

For once, he doesn’t argue.

He just stands there in the kitchen he once haunted, in the silence he left behind.

And you don’t reach for him.

You don’t fold this time.

Because you’re still bleeding from the last time you did.

He doesn’t follow you.

You don’t even hear him move.

Just the quiet behind you, the kind that settles in when someone’s made the choice to stay still instead of chasing after what’s slipping away.

You walk back to the guest room without a word, her small body pressed close to yours, the way babies always seemed to mold themselves into you like they trusted you with every part of them. She stirs, lips parting in a sleep-heavy pout, but she doesn’t cry. Not this time.

You kneel beside the bassinet and lay her down gently, smoothing your hand over her soft curls, fixing the thin blanket to cover her—tucked just enough to keep her warm, loose enough not to make her squirm. The room is quiet but not empty. It is full of her steady breathing, of your own heartbeat finally slowing, of the warmth that lingers in your chest even through the ache.

Then you leave her.

Walk through the halls that still hold a whisper of his presence, as if the walls remember his shape, his shadow, even when he is gone.

And when you make it back to your bed, you don’t hesitate.

You slump into it—face buried in the pillow, arms limp at your sides—and let a few tears finally slip free. No heaving sobs. No gasps for breath. Just a quiet spill of sorrow that doesn’t ask for permission.

You can’t feel him anymore.

That connection, that strange tether that once ran like a livewire between your ribs—it has gone still. And you know, without needing to check, that he isn’t here anymore.

But that doesn’t mean he won’t come back.

That’s the cruelest part of loving someone like him.

They always return just when you’d started to believe they never would.

And as you drift off to sleep,

you dream.

It begins with the sound of wind—soft and low, brushing through tall grass that doesn’t exist anywhere near your home. The air is warm here, golden. Drenched in late-afternoon sunlight that sways with the trees like it’s dancing. Everything glows. Even the shadows.

You stand barefoot in the middle of a field you don’t recognize. But somehow, it feels familiar. Like something from a childhood you never lived. The sky is streaked with honeyed orange and rose-colored clouds, and the breeze hums low, tugging at your dress like it’s trying to guide you somewhere.

You turn slowly—

And he’s already there.

Remmick stands a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of a long coat you’ve never seen him wear, his expression unreadable but softer than he’s ever looked. His hair is a little longer. His eyes… not quite the same. Warmer. Human.

You want to speak, but your voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. Because he’s already moving toward you, quiet steps through the grass that doesn’t bend beneath him.

When he reaches you, he doesn’t touch you right away.

He just looks.

Looks at you like he’s never seen you before. Like he’s trying to memorize you again. Your face. Your mouth. The soft glint of your necklace as it catches the dying sun.

And then—he lifts a hand. Presses the back of it to your cheek.

It’s warm. He’s warm.

His thumb runs beneath your eye, so gently it makes your breath hitch.

“I didn’t know,” he says, voice barely above the breeze. “That I could miss something before it ever left me.”

You close your eyes.

It’s a dream. You know it.

But in this moment, it doesn’t matter.

Because he’s not a vampire here. Not a shadow. Not a man made of memory and regret.

He’s just him.

And for a moment, just long enough, you let yourself lean forward—

And rest your forehead to his.

Your forehead rests against his, breath mingling. It’s soft. Still. Timeless.

But the warmth of his hand begins to fade.

Not suddenly. Gently—like dusk rolling over daylight.

And before you can stop it, the field dissolves beneath your feet. The grass melts into wooden planks. The orange sky darkens into candlelight flickering against old wallpaper. And your bare feet… they touch floorboards you recognize.

The dream has shifted.

But it hasn’t abandoned you.

You know this place.

Your sitting room.

The one before the wallpaper peeled and before winter made everything too quiet.

You’re sitting on the floor, back pressed to the couch. Remmick is across from you, legs sprawled out, his shirt sleeves rolled up and suspenders hanging at his hips. There’s a record spinning low in the background, some jazz tune that always made your foot tap.

He’s smiling. Really smiling.

That rare, crooked grin that used to only appear when he was completely unguarded. When he forgot to be what the world turned him into.

“You gonna play fair this time?” you hear yourself say, younger, teasing.

He narrows his eyes at the worn deck of cards in his hands. “I always play fair.”

“You cheat like you’re allergic to honesty.”

“And yet,” he says, laying a card down with a flourish, “you keep comin’ back to lose.”

You’re laughing now. The sound echoes in your dream like it’s something sacred.

Then—he leans forward. His eyes drop from your eyes to your lips. The moment stretches.

“You wanna know the truth?” he asks quietly.

You nod.

“I don’t care about the cards.”

He reaches over, fingers brushing yours as he plucks a stray card from your lap.

“I just like watchin’ you laugh.”

Your dream self softens. You remember this night. The scent of warm wood. The way his fingers ghosted over yours longer than necessary. The way he kissed you an hour later like it was a confession he didn’t have words for yet.

You blink—and it’s like the moment folds in on itself.

The music distorts. The candle flickers once—

Then dies.

You’re left in silence.

And slowly, your dream-self turns to find the room empty.

No Remmick. No warmth.

Just the echo of what once was.

You don’t try to speak into the quiet.

The room around you stills—dim, waiting. You expect to wake up now, maybe with that ache in your chest again. That emptiness that always followed dreams of him.

But instead, you feel it shift again.

Not the space. Not the light.

You.

It begins in your chest, like a second breath filling your lungs. A memory rising not from your mind, but from your body. A sensation before a thought.

And then you’re there.

Not in a room this time, but in the woods just behind your home. Summer hangs thick in the air—humid and fragrant, cicadas buzzing in the distance. It’s night, but the moon is full. Bright enough to see the glint of his eyes across from you.

He’s standing close. Too close.

Your fingers hover just above the cut on his wrist.

“I told you,” Remmick says, voice quiet, not angry, “it’s not safe.”

You remember this.

Not just the words. The pull.

Your dream-self looks up at him, gaze steady. “You told me everything about you wasn’t safe. But I’m still here, ain’t I?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

You reach for his arm before he can stop you, fingers brushing the blood that beads along the open wound. It’s still fresh—dark, and viscous, and wrong in color—but you’re already bringing it to your mouth.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says.

But it’s too late.

You taste him.

The blood is bitter at first. Cold and alive in a way that makes your tongue go numb. It slides down your throat like fire threaded with frost. And then—it happens.

The world bends.

Not violently. Not with force.

But like silk pulled tight over your ears, like your body isn’t yours anymore. The trees go silent. The wind cuts off. And your breath—

You gasp.

Your hands go out to steady yourself but he’s already there, catching you before your knees buckle.

And in the space of a blink, you’re in him.

Not in his body—but in his mind.

You see flashes.

A house fire. A laugh.

Hands reaching for him and pulling away in the same breath.

A name he hasn’t said aloud in years.

Your own face.

And you feel him—

The grief, ancient and echoing.

The hunger he’s tried to chain.

The fear that you’ll vanish like everyone else before you.

It crashes into you.

He sees your thoughts, too—your quiet wondering, your ache, your stubborn belief that he could still be loved.

He stumbles back, eyes wide, breathing like he’s just surfaced from underwater. You sway, dazed, a smear of his blood still wet on your bottom lip.

His voice is hoarse when he speaks.

“You linked us.”

You blink slowly, heart rattling in your ribs.

“I didn’t mean to.”

And yet—

You both know something sacred just snapped into place.

You remember the way he touched your face afterward—like it was a thing he’d dreamt and didn’t believe could be real.

You remember how you didn’t sleep that night.

You just listened—to the new quiet that settled between your thoughts.

#remmick #remmick x reader #jack o'connell #remmick x fem!reader #angst #sinners #sinners 2025 #watching meet the blacks while formatting part 2

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robinvomit · 21 hours ago

Text

[ excuse me? ] + not rated, but uses the term tits.

it had been a day. one of those soul sucking, head throbbing, everything has gone wrong, need a voluntary coma kind of days. the kind of day where even breathing felt like too much effort, like you may just give out with every inhale. somewhere in the middle of trying to survive it, through the missed bus, the passive aggressive emails, shitty customers, spilled coffee, that one unavoidable puddle, the weird guy on the street who definitely called you something that classified as a slur - you made a very important, life changing decision:

you were going to bury your face in kon's absurdly perfect chest and simply cease to exist for a while. pretend the day never happened. pretend the world around didn't even matter.

by the time you reach the compound, still half vibrating with rage and not an ounce of willpower left in your body, you don't even register the ability to hesitate.

you find him in the rec room, slouched back on the couch, watching some ridiculous sitcom rerun. he doesn't register you being in the room until you're in front of him, glaring like his comfortable existence has offended you as a whole, just by breathing.

"hey-" kon starts, brows drawing together in that effortlessly confused, pretty boy way of his. it makes the rage boil hotter in your veins and you can't even name why. maybe it's because he looked so.. laid back. like the world didn't even register to him. you knew that wasn't true, but he'd always been good at hiding things.

you cut him off with a sigh that sounds like it came from the depths of your fucking soul before shaking your head. "no. don't talk. i don't want to hear your voice. please."

"…okay..?"

you could hear the breathed out "hurtful" that followed but you didn't acknowledge it.

"i need to," you say, voice heavy, dramatic, annoyed beyond belief, as you nudge his knees apart to step between them and jab a finger a bit hard into his pec like it personally owes you the comfort, "drown in your tits."

he blinks a few times like he's processing each word separately while also still taking in the fact you just pushed yourself between his legs like you belonged there. his lips parted for a second before any words came out; "..excuse me?"

your hand just flattens against his chest before curling a bit. you lean closer to him, fingers pressing into all that ridiculous, infuriating, shirt straining muscle that has you almost at a complete loss. "kon. i'm not kidding. i need to go full face first into your chest. like. suffocate. just for a little while. it'll heal me. restore the part of my fucking soul that's somewhere out in the city."

kon stares at you, and you stare back.

he opens his mouth again, probably to make a joke because it's kon and he can't help himself, but you glare, and the joke dies in his throat. he clears his throat, shifting a bit. "are you.. okay?" he asks instead, voice a bit softer.

you shake your head again, lip beginning to wobble. "i'm exhausted. i'm gross. i am a burnt out, emotionally flammable gremlin that hasn't eaten. i slept like shit, started my day with tim in my ear and you are warm, and soft, and strong, and *superboy*- look, are you gonna let me smother myself in your man tits or not?"

"…i mean," kon says after a second, the tips of his ears turning pink. "i'm not gonna say no, but like… there are couches.. and blankets.. pretty sure there's some plushies.. and words we could use to-"

you're already crawling into his lap, ignoring the other suggestions. "oh, okay, no then-" he muses, letting you make yourself comfortable.

"shhh," you mumble, cheek pressing directly against his left pec. your arms circle around his waist with the kind of desperation people have when their boyfriend is the only good person seemingly left on the planet. "you talk too much. just flex. for my spirit. because you love me and any other time you'd be showing off anyway."

he lets out a stunned breath that may or may not be a laugh, you aren't sure, his arms instinctively settling around you as you settle against him like a weighted blanket with trauma and tears threatening to form. "you're so weird." he sighs, patting your lower back.

"mmhmm," you hum into his chest. "but your chest is doing god's work right now, so whose fault is that, really?"

kon just squeezes you a little tighter as you shift, nosing against the center of his chest. "you're lucky i like you."

"i'm lucky you're built like a superhero and mine and always so stupidly warm and soft."

"i mean, i.. kinda am but that's not the point." he mumbles, more to himself, just sinking further into the couch.

you stay like that; for how long, you don't know, just melting into him, drowning in the safe, steady rise and fall of his chest, letting yourself disappear for a minute into someone who holds you like you're worth something.

"better?" he asks after a little while, nudging his cheek against the top of your head. he doesn't say what he's thinking. how small you are like this, not weak, just vulnerable and human. how you've never let yourself be seen like this in front of the others.

you just nod, attempting to squeeze closer to him, like you're trying to fuse with him for the sake of comfort.

#dc comics #dc scenarios #superfam x reader #superboy x reader #kon x reader #kon el #kon #conner kent x reader #conner kent #kon el x reader

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m-robinavitch · 5 hours ago

Note

Soft thoughts only today

Jack is the kind of man who makes you chicken soup from scratch when you are not feeling to well, including the noodles. Yes he is a doctor. Yes, he studied medicine. But nothing beats the hot soup and fresh brewed tea every few hours for comfort and getting fit again (and lots of forehead kisses). You dont need a heatpad. He has his hands, has he not?

Michael (I fucking hate how American speak that name. It's so harsh sounding to me) is the kind of person who fills up your tank without you asking. Who has your snacks of choice stocked at his home and a box with period products. Not exclusively period products tho. There are also toothbrushes, deodorant, travel sized shampoo and conditioners of all sorts. He likes to be prepared when friends are over or his son.

Two very large heavy warm hands that make your back feel so nice. And tea just tastes so much better when he makes it for you even if he does nothing more than add some honey and lemon. But it’s his grandmothers recipe. Same thing she made him when he was sick as a kid a million years ago. He’ll prop you up on the sofa so he can be close in case you need him- watching one of your comfort romcoms that he swears he hates but finds himself paused while kneading the dough to watch the scene unfold. He doses your meds for you and makes sure you’re drinking water while he also runs you a bath so by the time you get out the soup is ready and perfect.

He’ll let you lay on his chest while running his hands up and down your back as you sleep- watching that romcom that you turned in before you fell asleep from the combination of delicious warm soup, hot tea, and your husband’s solid chest to rest on. Forehead kisses or soft lips on your temple before he checks if your fever has gone down some.

But when Jack is sick he continues to work himself like a dog and-

“I’m fine honey- no no I just need a quick power nap before work, wake me in 15.” While draped halfway over the sofa, shirt partially on because he got dizzy while trying to get dressed. He’s already snoring- maybe because you gave him the nighttime version of his meds instead of the non drowsy one. Oh well.

“Okay Jack- take a quick nap.” You roll your eyes- having already called Robby to let him know that under no circumstances should anyone bother your husband in the next few days while he rests. It was inevitable that if you were sick then he’d follow suit. Luckily there’s still plenty of soup left over.

MY LOVE MICHAEL-

You have no idea how much I love that please because the idea of him being that acts of service lover I-

Anyway so-

He knows you haven’t got gas in a week- knows you hate doing it and will end up being late to work one morning because you forgot about it. He nearly has a stroke when he takes your car- the entire dashboard is lit up like a Christmas tree. Oil needs to be changed, tire is low on air and need to be rotated, windshield wipers need to be replaced, fluid needs to be added, engine needs to be checked- you’ll get around to it okay, you’re busy. Totally not projecting or anything. You scream when you turn in your car the next morning and the dashboard is empty save for your mileage. He didn’t even say anything about it- doesn’t have you pay for anything.

And when you first started dating he always had snacks you liked at his place. He was just observant, had seen what you ate while at work when you got a moment to actually eat. He had seen what you kept at your own place. So when you dug around his kitchen for something sweet one day- your favorite ice cream was in his freezer. When you had a craving for something salty and you raided his pantry- your favorite chips were stocked and waiting for you. He noticed the first time you have over that he didn’t have anything for you to use really. So next time he made sure he was stocked in case you or Jake or even Abbot came over. It was sweet. Especially since you were struggling that first night. No brush for your hair, no conditioner, no makeup remover, not even real face wash. Dammit you know he’s a man but come on Robby. At least he had a toothbrush for you.

#lexi answers life’s questions #lovely mutuals #jack abbot #Dr yapper #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #jack abbot x female reader #dr jack abbot #dr jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbot x you #Dr fruitcake #michael robinavitch #michael robby robinavitch x reader #michael robby robinavitch x you #michael robby robinavitch #michael robinavich x you #robby robinavitch #robby robinavitch x reader #robby robinavitch x you

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hikariyaps · 1 day ago

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coffee dates

word count ☆ 1.3k pairing ☆ megumi x fem!reader [college au] content ☆ pure fluff a/n ☆ i'm baaaaaaaackk

megumi fushiguro needed coffee right now. it was a cold, foggy morning in the middle of november. it was six and he was awake, thanks to his stupid alarm that he forgot to disable the night before. since he was already awake, he figured why go back to sleep? after all, a little extra studying wouldn't hurt.

currently, he's fighting to keep his eyes open, all bundled up in a warm sweater and scarf, walking to the on campus café. apparently, yuji managed to blow up the coffee machine in the boy's dorm common rooms. only god knows how it is always that imbecile that manages to do things like this.

so here he was trekking throught the biting wind, bag on his shoulder, hands in his pockets because his best friend blew up his source of sustenance.

the café is warm and smells strongly of coffee and butter, it's comforting. he sighs stepping inside. he just hopes that the barista knows how to make coffee properly. ever since the machine blew up, he's been here a few times in the morning. every single time the barista has been sleep deprived. and every single time the barista has messed up his coffee.

he takes his usual place near the window and sets all his study material up. the place is quiet, save for the mellow music playing softly from the speakers. he walks over to the counter, expecting to see the usual barista's face.

but there you were. all soft and glowy and awake. he needs a moment to process this. 'hi, what can i get for you today?' you ask, voice like honey, a polite but genuine smile on you face, booting up the computer to punch in his order. it takes a few seconds for his brain cells to recover before he answers.

'i'll have a large black coffee and a croissant, please.' 'okay, that'll be 700 yen.' you say, typing the order into the ancient looking computer.

megumi pays and takes a seat, he was supposed to be studying but his eyes were on you. you looked like an angel, or maybe that was just his foggy brain. but something about you didn't let him take his eyes off of you. he watches as you make his coffee and warm up his croissant. and instead of calling him to the counter, you bring his order over to where he was sitting.

he mumbles out an awkward thanks and his eyes flit back to his laptop screen. as soon as you were gone though, he immeadiately went back to observing you. the coffee was immaculate, just the way he liked it. most people assume its very easy to make a black coffee, but he was very specific and this might be one of the best coffees he's ever had.

pretty soon, he became a regular at the cafe, started dropping in more than once a day, hoping to catch you, so he could have the coffee you make again, of course. funny thing is, you were always there. he doesn't know your name, you don't wear a nametag. but he told you his and he loves the way it sounds when you say it. you talk to him more than the other customers since he's been coming here a month.

most people don't usually come here so often, so you were pretty excited about him. he was very polite, really pretty and honestly, very cute. he might seem quiet, but he had the prettiest smile on his face whenever you talked to him.

yuji and nobara know about you. they found out through stalking him when he started leaving immeadiately after class to visit the café before closing time. it was pretty obvious that he found you pretty, his gaze said it all. he did not hear the end of it once he came back to the dorms.

they became regulars at the café too. mostly for the purpose of gathering information for megumi. his love life was more than just dry, it was like the afternoon in the sahara. they were more than happy to stalk- get to know a girl he finally liked.

it wasn't through them he heard your name though. it was a sunday, early january. the café was not really empty, but not really full either. he hears someone call out a name, and then you respond and disappear into the back. he repeats your name multiple times softly under his breath, committing it to memory. not like he could ever forget it.

it isn't until february, that something happens between you both. you were sick of just looking at him work and making small talk. for once, you actually wanted more.

so when megumi's waiting for his coffee to go, you decide to woman up and ask him.

'so, do you have a valentine?' you ask, tone totally conversational, nonchalant if you would, while making his coffee. which was a stark comparision to how fast your heart was beating.

he hums. 'nah, i have my eye on someone but they haven't asked' he replies, thankful that your back was turned.

'who?' you ask, and he swears he can hear disappointment in your voice.

'you.' he says, the word slipping out before he could decide whether it should be said or not.

you on the other hand have just gone though the five stages of grief and then were quite pleasently surprised, celebrating inside your head while crying invisible tears.

you hide it quite well as you hand him his coffee and say 'my number's on the recepit. text me later?'

and he nods, small smile splaying on his lips. he texts you as soon as he steps out the café and you reply immeadiately.

you guys text each other very frequently and he's way easier to tak to on text. you get to know a lot more about him and you know this isn't just some silly little crush. you wanted him to be yours. and megumi feels the same way.

he takes you out on valentine's. it isn't anything too fancy but you know its genuine. its a small picnic, with your favourite foods. you're surprised that he remembers.

he remembers a lot of things, especially when it comes to you. he remembers your prefrences, your favourite brands, your schedule. he starts showing up to pick you after classes to drop you off to the café. at this point, both of you knew you had pretty strong feelings for each other, but there was no label for you guys.

not until you came over to his dorm for the first time. it'd been a year since you guys first met. you bring over hot chocolate and pastries that you made. there, lying on his bed, comfortably warm and feeling particularly fuzzy, he says it.

'i love you,' he whispers, soft and careful. he was acting as though it was a fragile, tangible thing that would shatter if not treated right. he was hoping you wouldn't break it, those three words symbolized his heart.

you didn't break it, instead you leaned over and presses your lips to his in a chaste kiss.

'i love you too,' you whisper back, forehead resting against his forehead.

you lay in the silence holding each other for a minute. until yuji and nobara start howling from the other room. 'I THINK FUSHIGURO FINALLY SCORED A GIRLFRIEND!' 'YEAH NO SHIT SHERLOCK, THEY SAID THE L WORD!' you wondered if his room was bugged.

and here you both were now six years later, on a coffee date, to the same café, reminiscing and reminding each other how much you loved each other, when he pulls out a ring and asks you to be his forever.

you say yes, of course.

and that's how megumi fushiguro got the love of his life, also known as his personal coffee maker.

©hikariyaps2025

#hikariyaps #jujutsu kaisen fluff #megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro #megumi fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujustu kaisen #fushiguro x reader #megumi x you #jjk x reader

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scopophobia-polaris · 1 year ago

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i think youre sick and twisted youre sic an twisted you cannot go on here and be like oh monsterfication in hyrule <3 it also happens to the non-humans its not that crazy OH BUT THE GORONS 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 THE GORONS 👀 👀 👀 and then disappear I'm biting you I'm biting you like fredbear bit that child I'm biting you bithgin you my lawyer will hear from you youre like a little ghost in my ear teasing me about gorons and then I wake up and there's nobody there 💥this is sick n twisted u need to dig your brain just to get the goron lore out I need to stop sending you brainwaves about ganondorf and start sending you brainwaves about the gorns you will hear from me 🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵me when I get you em what I get you me when I get y

OHHHH EZLO WANT A GOOD IDEA???? SOMETIMES THEY START TURNING INTO DODONGOS AND SHit

My best example of this ...IS TIMIE ACTUALLY

#whats funny is that Timie is no where near crazy enough to be deamed as anything BUT a Goron #but the fire breathing is.....a warning sign #but to other GORONS they seem off #like Darmani.....you came back wrong #actully timie is a good example for now of what happenes to non human races that enter the woods #DEEP WOODS FOR DEKU #deku are immune to Farore's curse upon the woods as most things living there are #unless they go deeper #thats Farore's land and youre not supposed to enter it #she has never given anyone the Okay to enter there and yall wanna hear something nuts #the only thing that has gone in there and like ..came out okay #is skull kid

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microwavetoaster-selfships · 3 months ago

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SiirrrrRE

MILES AXELROD GET THE FFFUCK

OUT OF MY WORKPLACE GARAGAGE MOTHERFUCKGIJTBT GOD DAMMITTT!!!!!! AWEERRHAAAAAAAAAAHAHGYG

All it cost me was my glasses and the massive grime and grease stain across my forehead now. I swear I'm not beyond-fucked insane when I say that the damn oil smelt like brown sugar what was that. Think that was the messiest I ever got fixing a car cause magically I did not care about anything anymore.

I uh. Hit the tag limit but I'm sure this will still pop up if I search his name in my blog search feature.

#you canyou can see int he photo the stearing is on the right. it has clutch and wverything.#same model same make same year fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckfuck #i have seen. ONE other land rover here. but it was white. this one is. g.greeb.#was trying not to be a freak and take five hundred pictures of this random guys car but.#what are the fucking odds. like seriously. again it was like. fully british imported here to the US. right hand driving and everything.#i .oi got to work on it. I saw it in the parking lot and blitzed for the fucking work orderss once i finished mine.#It came in for an oil change heuauaihehaiahahhahahahahahahausgahaha #i mean it wssnt an oil LEAK just a typical oil change but. fuck.#so british so so british the. the caps on the air valves on the wheel were little UK flags.ni.#i wanted to pull it into the bay but i was like. no. nay. i dont want to fuck up this guys car. only manual I've ever driven was a tracktor.#and that was like. ages ago.#I dont know. im sure there's a rent a car service in England.#Same model make same. everything. four doors. stupif. back area that sorta has seats but sorta not. fuck.#what are the odds. here. british car. in this specific shop. and. green. and same evetything and.#i accidentally locked the stearing wheel trying to start it so that was fun but we good we good.#me. me got to work on it. i honeslty have a conxerning amount i could go on about all of this.#Fucking. deppression gone. obliterated. non-existant. i dont gaf about anything possiblh upsetting anymore.#everytihng is sunshine right now and rainbows and flowers and sparkles.#and no other work orders came in while i was working on it thank goodness so i could dwaddle a little bit. oooohohhhhh #surprise husband jumpscare or some shite what the ever loving fucking hell.#tried not to be a freak about the entire thing but videos and games never did being in it justice of course.#proper. persectiv of not being through a camera lense and.#everything is good my heart is full i sorta could cry right now if something pushed me over the edge but good tears.#im so just. i have so mang feelings for him that it is like. an overwhelming amount. love him so much it is spilling out of my heart.#i dont know. universe came by to say hello. hi.#this is insane everyone is insane everyone is just nuts. everything is good so good right now.#stress has practically melted away everything is good. peaceful. okay. and it's not even my Friday.#My friday is tomotrow but man. ooohhhhh i needed this.#“Axlerod could fix me” not what i MEANT but oksy that too thst also works go for it.#sorry not to go over it again but i cant stress it wnough just. what are the odds. seriously.

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astro-b-o-y-d · 1 year ago

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How pissed do you think Shermie was when he found out about what really happened with Stan and Ford???

#Hayley Speaks #It might not hit as hard if you headcanon him as the baby in the flashback #But if you don't and you headcanon him as older than them it's like #Okay so he comes home to find out one of his younger brothers got kicked out #And the other moved all the way to the other side of the country #And then the news about Stan being dead comes up #So I fully imagine that while Stan never outright told him about what happened; he knows damn well that he's not Ford #Even after all the time they spent apart; that is so CLEARLY Stanley Pines who is suddenly going by Stanford #Maybe Stan hides his hands around Shermie to continue the con but Shermie knows #Which means something probably happened to Ford and Stan doesn't want anyone to know #So he keeps the secret and doesn't let on that he knows #He could always confront Stan about it but also like #The last time he really saw Stan was long before he got kicked out of the house #He does NOT want to scare off what is potentially the only brother he has left #He's always felt like the third wheel when it came to them; both because of the twin thing and the 'being the oldest' thing #Combined with the whole 'Pines men don't talk about their feelings' thing; he thinks it's best to just let Stan keep pretending to be Ford #And silently mourn the loss of the brother that the rest of the family doesn't realize is even gone #But THEN the grandkids are like 'Yeah Grunkle Stan's twin brother is back now!' and he's PISSED OFF #He kept Stan's secret for THIRTY YEARS and the bastard didn't even have the gall to let him know that Ford was back face to face #Neither of the bastards had the gall to do it?!#They just took off on a fishing boat together in search of adventure??#He's so mad at them but also...that is so painfully in character for them. At least from the memories he has of them as young kids.#But also.......he's their brother #They couldn't have told him ANYTHING???

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wolvietxt · 5 months ago

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𝓢ILENT 𝓣REATMENT.

pairings : frank castle x fem!reader warnings : argument, crying, hurt / comfort, happy ending, established relationship au, shouting, implied size diff (like my fav trope if you can’t already tell) silent treatment summary : after an argument with frank, you both end up giving eachother silent treatment, until the tension gets too unbearable for you in the car. wc : 4.5k a/n : i got a req for this a few days ago but i think i deleted it or something i can’t find it now💔 but it was from an anon so thank you for this one because i loved writing this ALSO!! thank you to everyone who leaves feedback + little comments on my frank fics i notice it happens more when i write for frank and it’s the absolute sweetest

the air in the apartment felt heavy, charged, like a storm was brewing right there in the middle of the living room. frank was pacing now, his big hands flexing at his sides, his jaw tight enough that you swore you could hear his teeth grinding.

you didn’t fight - not like this. not with him raising his voice and you trying so hard not to let yours crack. it wasn’t how things usually went. frank was tough, sure, rough around the edges in a way that didn’t really go away even when he was at his gentlest. but with you, he was softer. he made an effort to rein it in because he’d told you once, in a rare moment of vulnerability, that he didn’t want you to ever be scared of him. and you never had been.

but tonight, he was angry. angrier than you’d ever seen him at you, and the worst part was you weren’t sure how it had even escalated to this.

“so what?” frank barked, spinning on his heel to face you, his broad frame taking up what felt like the entire room. “you think i’m just gonna sit back and let this slide?” his voice was sharp, cutting, and it made you flinch, even though you knew deep down that he’d never in a million years actually hurt you. “you think that’s who i am?”

you held your ground, even though your heart was pounding against your ribs. “it’s not about letting it slide, frank,” you said softly, your tone calm, measured - a stark contrast to the heat in his voice. “it’s about not making it worse. escalating doesn’t fix anything.”

“escalating?” he repeated, his voice rising, almost incredulous. “this isn’t escalating, this is handling it. you don’t just let people treat you like crap n’ walk away. you should know that’s not how it works.”

“sometimes it is,” you said quietly, refusing to match his volume. “sometimes walking away is the only thing you can do. not everything has to be a fight.”

“bullshit.” the word came out harsh, and the bite in it made your chest tighten. frank rarely swore at you, and when he did, it was never like this, never with this kind of edge.

your hands trembled slightly, so you folded your arms across your chest, not in defiance but as a way to steady yourself. “frank, please. i don’t want to argue about this.”

“yeah, well, maybe you should’ve thought about that before you went and tried to handle this on your own.” he threw his hands up, his frustration spilling over like a dam breaking. “you didn’t even tell me, and now i’m supposed to just sit back and be okay with it?”

“i didn’t tell you because i knew this is how you’d react,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

his face twisted, a mixture of disbelief and something else - hurt, maybe. but it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a hard, almost cold expression. “damn right this is how i’d react,” he shot back. “because i give a shit. because i don’t want you getting hurt or screwed over or whatever the hell else might happen if i’m not there to step in.”

“i know you care,” you said, your voice still soft but firm. “but you can’t control everything, frank. sometimes things happen, and you just have to let them go.”

he let out a sharp, bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. “letting it go gets you hurt. letting it go gets you walked all over. i’m not gonna let that happen to you.”

his words were loud, forceful, like he was trying to hammer them into your head, but they only made your throat tighten more. “i can handle myself,” you said, your voice shaking slightly despite your best efforts.

“can you?” he snapped, and the doubt in his tone stung worse than any of the yelling.

you flinched, your eyes dropping to the floor. “that’s not fair,” you whispered.

“yeah, well, life’s not fair,” he shot back, his tone still razor-sharp.

silence fell between you, heavy and suffocating. you could feel the sting of tears threatening to spill, but you refused to cry - not in front of him, not when he was like this, which he never had been before. you’d seen flashes of it occasionally, never once directed at you. so instead, you turned on your heel and walked out of the room, your steps quick but steady, your back straight even though every part of you felt like curling up into yourself.

you didn’t look back, but you could feel his eyes on you as you left.

the door clicked softly as you shut yourself in the bathroom, leaning back against the cool wood as you tried to pull in a steadying breath. it felt like all the air had been sucked out of your lungs back in the living room, and now the weight of it all was crashing down on you.

you stared at the tiled floor, your arms wrapped around yourself like that might somehow hold you together. your chest felt tight, your eyes stinging with unshed tears, but you bit down hard on your bottom lip, refusing to let them fall. not yet, anyway.

you weren’t used to this - not with frank. he could be sharp, blunt, even infuriatingly stubborn sometimes, but he was never cruel. not to you. in the years since you’d met him, since the whirlwind of your relationship had gone from cautiously circling each other to something real and steady, frank had always been your safe place. he was intense, sure, but his intensity had always felt protective, grounding, like you could lean on him no matter how bad things got.

so why did it feel like he was the one knocking the ground out from under you now?

you pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes, trying to will the tears away. it wasn’t fair to pin all the blame on him, you knew that. this argument wasn’t entirely about frank’s temper, or his need to protect you - it was about your own unwillingness to let him.

the issue had started small, just a casual remark you’d made earlier in the week about someone you worked with - someone who’d been taking advantage of your kindness. you hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but frank had picked up on it immediately, and the more you’d tried to brush it off, the more his protective instincts had kicked in.

at first, it had been sweet, his quiet grumbles about how people didn’t deserve to treat you that way, how you needed to stand up for yourself more. but somewhere along the line, it had turned into this - a full-blown argument where neither of you seemed to be able to see the other’s side.

you weren’t blind to why he was upset. frank had been through more than most people could even imagine, and the idea of someone hurting you - or even disrespecting you - lit a fire in him that he couldn’t always control. but the way he handled that fire was what made your chest ache. it felt suffocating, like his need to protect you was overshadowing the fact that you didn’t want - or need - him to fight your battles for you.

you let out a shaky breath, the first tear slipping free as the weight of it all settled heavier on your shoulders.

frank had always been larger than life to you - not just physically, though his sheer size and strength made you feel small in comparison, but in the way he carried himself, the way he seemed to command every room he walked into. it was part of what had drawn you to him in the first place, the quiet confidence that bordered on intimidating until you saw the softness he tried so hard to hide.

he’d always been gentle with you, even when his hands were so calloused and rough, even when his voice was so gravelly and low. it made the harshness of his words tonight cut deeper, the sharp edges of his anger something you weren’t used to being on the receiving end of.

you wiped at your face quickly, straightening up as you tried to pull yourself together. you hated crying - especially over arguments like this. it made you feel weak, even though you knew it wasn’t, and the last thing you wanted was for frank to think he’d broken you. he’d never stop beating himself up over it.

still, you couldn’t bring yourself to go back out there yet. not with the way his words were still echoing in your mind, the frustration in his voice still ringing in your ears.

you stayed there for a while, letting the quiet of the bathroom wrap around you like a blanket, giving yourself the space to breathe and feel without the weight of frank’s presence bearing down on you.

meanwhile, in the living room, frank was pacing again. his hands were on his hips, his brows drawn together in that way they always did when he was deep in thought - or pissed off.

he knew you were upset. hell, he wasn’t an idiot, and he’d seen the way your eyes were brimming with tears before you’d turned and walked away. it wasn’t the first time he’d pushed too hard, but it was the first time it had been directed at you, and it was eating at him in a way he didn’t want to admit.

but the anger was still there, simmering just beneath the surface, and he couldn’t seem to let it go. it wasn’t directed at you - not at all. it was at the situation, at the asshole who’d made you feel like you had to handle everything on your own. but frank wasn’t exactly good at untangling those things, at separating his frustration from the people he cared about most.

he scrubbed a hand over his face, letting out a low growl of frustration as he dropped onto the couch. his mind was running in circles, replaying the argument over and over again, each word sharper than the last.

the silence in the apartment felt deafening, and for a moment, he considered going to find you, to try and talk this out. but he stopped himself, his jaw clenching as he forced himself to stay put. you needed space - he knew that much, even if it went against every instinct he had.

he sat there for a long time, the tension in his body refusing to ease as he stared at the spot where you’d been standing just minutes before.

the car keys sat on the counter, untouched, while the clock crept closer to the time you were supposed to leave. it had been a whole thing - this charity function a few towns over. someone important to frank had invited him, and even though it wasn’t the kind of event he’d normally go for, he’d said yes because it mattered to them.

you had said yes because it mattered to him.

but now, with the argument still heavy in the air, the thought of sitting next to him for almost four hours felt like trying to breathe underwater. the quiet that lingered between you wasn’t the natural kind you often enjoyed. it was thick and suffocating, and neither of you seemed ready to cut through it.

you stood in the bedroom doorway, watching frank tie his boots like the act itself had wronged him. his movements were sharp, jerky, and his mouth was set in a grim line. you weren’t sure if it was guilt or frustration written in his expression, but either way, it left your stomach in knots.

he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, yanking it on with a force that looked like it made the seams strain. his head turned slightly toward you as if he was about to say something, but then he thought better of it, his eyes dropping to the floor instead.

you didn’t move, didn’t speak, just hovered in the doorway as he brushed past you toward the front door. the weight of it all - the argument, the way he hadn’t looked at you since - pressed down on your chest like a boulder, and your throat burned with more unshed tears.

when he held the door open for you, you walked through it wordlessly, your gaze fixed on the floor.

outside, the crisp night air felt sharper than it should have, like even the weather was conspiring to remind you how raw everything was. frank locked the door behind you without a word, and the sound of the lock clicking into place made you flinch.

he didn’t notice.

the car ride loomed ahead of you like a punishment, the thought of sitting in that confined space together for hours making your palms sweat. but there was no way out of it, not without causing more problems.

frank climbed into the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles went white. he started the engine without looking at you, the low growl of it filling the space where words should’ve been.

you slid into the passenger seat, keeping your hands in your lap and your gaze fixed on the window. the city lights blurred into streaks as the car picked up speed, but you weren’t paying attention to where you were going. your mind was stuck on everything that had been said - and everything that hadn’t.

he’d been angry. louder than usual, harsher, the words tumbling out of him like he didn’t know how to stop them. but you knew frank. you knew the fire in him wasn’t because he didn’t care - it was because he cared too much, and it scared him sometimes.

still, knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.

the silence in the car was unbearable, the kind that made you want to fill it just so you didn’t have to sit with the weight of it anymore. but frank wasn’t giving you an inch, his eyes glued to the road and his shoulders hunched up like he was trying to shield himself from the world.

you stole a glance at him, your chest aching at the sight of his furrowed brow and clenched jaw. he looked tired - angry, yes, but tired too, like the argument had drained him in ways he didn’t want to admit.

your own emotions were bubbling up, threatening to spill over no matter how hard you tried to keep them in check. your hands trembled slightly in your lap, and you clenched them into fists to try to stop it, but it didn’t help.

you didn’t even realize you were crying until a tear slipped down your cheek, cool against your flushed skin. you brushed it away quickly, hoping frank wouldn’t notice, but you doubted he’d even glanced your way.

the road stretched on, dark and empty except for the occasional glow of headlights from oncoming cars. the longer the silence dragged, the heavier it felt, like it was wrapping around your throat and making it hard to breathe.

eventually, the ache in your chest grew too much to bear. you didn’t know what you wanted - comfort, maybe, or some kind of reassurance that everything would be okay - but the urge to reach out was overwhelming.

your hand hovered hesitantly over the center console, your fingers trembling as you debated whether or not to do it. it felt like crossing some invisible line, like putting yourself out there in a way that left you completely vulnerable.

but then you glanced at frank, at the way his brow furrowed and his jaw tightened, and something in you broke.

with tears brimming in your eyes and a small, helpless pout tugging at your lips, you let your fingers reach up to grasp at his. the touch was so light it was barely there, but it was enough to draw his attention.

he glanced down at your hand, his gaze softening instantly as he took in the way your fingers trembled and the sheen of tears in your eyes, the wet tracks of tears that’d already fallen etched on your face.

“ah, sweetheart,” he muttered, his voice rough but laced with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

his hand moved to cover yours completely, his fingers curling around your smaller ones in a gesture that felt both protective and grounding. his thumb brushed over the back of your hand in slow, deliberate strokes, and the tension in your chest eased just a little.

you sniffled, blinking quickly to clear your vision as you looked up at him. his expression had shifted, the hard lines of his face softening as he met your gaze.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.

frank let out a heavy sigh, his grip on your hand tightening slightly as he pulled the car off to the side of the road. the tires crunched against the gravel as he put it in park, and before you could ask what he was doing, he was out of the car.

your breath caught as he rounded the front of the vehicle, his movements deliberate but not rushed. he opened your door, the cool night air rushing in as he crouched slightly to meet your eyes.

“c’mere,” he said softly, his tone a stark contrast to the anger that had been there earlier.

you hesitated for only a moment before unbuckling your seatbelt and letting him pull you into his arms. his embrace was warm and solid, his arms wrapping around you in a way that made you feel small and safe all at once.

“’m sorry, baby,” he murmured against your hair, his voice rough with emotion. “shouldn’t’ve yelled. shouldn’t’ve made you feel like that.”

you buried your face in his chest, your own arms slipping around his middle as you let out a shaky breath. “i’m sorry too,” you whispered.

“you don’t gotta be sorry, you did nothing wrong. my sweet girl’s just nice to everyone, isn’t she?” he cooed, his hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his thumb brushing gently against your temple as he peppered hard kisses over your face. “we’re okay?”

you nodded against him, a small, shaky smile tugging at your lips. “we’re okay.”

he pressed another kiss to your forehead, lingering for a moment longer than before. but instead of pulling back completely, frank’s lips trailed down, brushing lightly against your temple, then your cheek.

your breath hitched, your hand tightening around his shirt as he hesitated, his lips hovering dangerously close to yours. when your eyes flicked up to meet his, there was something unspoken between you - an ache, a pull that neither of you could ignore.

“frank…” your voice was barely a whisper, and it only made him lean in closer.

his hand moved to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek as his lips finally found yours. the kiss was slow at first, soft and careful, but there was a heat behind it, a depth that made your stomach twist in the best way.

he kissed you like he needed you, like he couldn’t get close enough no matter how tightly he held you. his other hand slid to your waist, pulling you against him just enough to make you feel the strength behind every touch, every movement.

when he pulled back, it was with a low, rumbling breath, his forehead resting against yours as he tried to steady himself. “you’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he murmured, his voice rough and tinged with something deeper.

your cheeks flushed, your heart racing as you tried to find the words, but all you could do was nod, your fingers still gripping the front of his shirt.

he pressed one last, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth before stepping back. “c’mon,” he said, his tone softer now, his thumb brushing your cheek one last time before helping you back into the car.

as he slid into the driver’s seat, his hand found yours again, holding on tightly. this time, neither of you let go.

the rest of the drive was quiet, but not in the same way as before. frank kept one hand on the wheel, the other holding yours firmly in his grasp. his thumb moved in slow, lazy circles over your knuckles, a silent apology with every stroke.

you felt the tension melting bit by bit, your chest no longer tight with the weight of everything left unsaid. instead, there was this warmth - a softness between you that hadn’t been there earlier. it was unspoken, but it was enough to ease the ache in your heart.

“we’ll stop soon, yeah?” frank broke the silence, his voice low and softer than usual. “get you somethin’ to eat.”

your lips curved into a small smile, your first real one since the argument. “i’m okay,” you murmured. “we don’t have to stop.”

“nah.” he glanced over at you, his eyes lingering for a second longer than they should’ve. “you didn’t eat much earlier. ain’t lettin’ you sit through this thing hungry.”

the tenderness in his voice made your cheeks heat, and you squeezed his hand lightly in response.

it wasn’t long before frank pulled off at a small diner on the side of the road. the neon sign flickered against the night sky, casting a warm glow over the parking lot.

“c’mon,” he said, cutting the engine and stepping out.

before you could even reach for the door handle, frank was already there, pulling it open for you. his hand was outstretched, waiting for yours, and when you slipped your fingers into his, he gave them a gentle squeeze.

inside, the diner was quiet, the hum of conversation and the clatter of dishes filling the space. frank led you to a booth in the corner, his hand never leaving yours until you slid into your seat.

“what’re you in the mood for?” he asked, his eyes scanning the menu even though you both knew he’d end up ordering the same thing he always did.

you shrugged, your fingers playing with the edge of the napkin in front of you. “maybe just some fries.”

frank frowned, lowering the menu to look at you. “you need more than that.”

“frank, i’m fine - ”

“i’ll get you somethin’ else too,” he cut in, his tone leaving no room for argument.

you bit back a smile, knowing better than to push him when he got like this. instead, you let him order for both of you, his gruff voice somehow softer when he spoke to the waitress.

when the food arrived, frank nudged the plate closer to you, his eyes narrowing slightly when you hesitated. “eat, sweetheart,” he said gently.

you rolled your eyes but grabbed a fry anyway, earning a satisfied grunt from him.

as you ate, the tension from earlier felt like a distant memory. frank had a way of grounding you, of making you feel like no matter how bad things got, everything would eventually be okay.

after the meal, frank walked you back to the car, his hand settling on the small of your back as he guided you outside. the night air was crisp, but his touch was warm, steady, and it made you lean into him just a little.

“y’alright?” he asked once you were back in the passenger seat.

you nodded, looking up at him with a soft smile. “yeah. i’m okay.”

his eyes lingered on yours for a moment, and then, without a word, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. it was quick but tender, and when he pulled back, his hand cupped your cheek for a second longer.

the drive to the function was quieter this time, but it wasn’t the heavy silence from before. it was comfortable, the kind of quiet where words weren’t necessary because you both knew everything was okay now.

as you pulled up to the venue, frank cut the engine and turned to you. his expression was softer, his usual rough edges smoothed out in a way that made your heart ache.

“you look beautiful,” he said, his voice gruff but sincere.

your cheeks flushed at the compliment, and you glanced down at your dress, suddenly feeling shy. “thank you,” you murmured.

he leaned over, his large hand settling on your knee as he pressed a quick kiss to your temple. “‘m gonna keep tellin’ you that all night,” he added, his lips quirking into the faintest of smirks.

the warmth in your chest grew, and you couldn’t help but smile back at him. “you don’t look so bad yourself,” you teased, your tone light.

he chuckled, the sound low and rumbling, and you swore it was the best thing you’d heard all day.

“c’mon, sweetheart,” he said, opening his door. “let’s get this over with.”

as you stepped out of the car, frank was already by your side, his hand finding yours once more. he held it tightly, his grip firm and reassuring, and when he glanced down at you, there was something in his eyes that made your breath catch.

it was love - raw and unfiltered, the kind that didn’t need words to be understood.

and in that moment, you knew that no matter what, you and frank would always find your way back to each other.

ᰔ frank castle : @stvr-dust, @uncertified-doc

taglist form linked in pinned post :3

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kitten4sannie · 9 months ago

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antithesis

pairing: peter parker/venom! yunho x gf! reader

genre: spider man au, smut

summary: your boyfriend is going through a phase.

w.c: 3.3k (porn with a microscopic amount of plot)

warnings: dom! yunho, sub! reader, venom should have his own warning bc bro is NASTYY (so is yuyu ��🏻), partial mind manipulation? on yunho’s part? bc venom is in his head? idk, praise/degradation, pet names/name calling, teasing, fingering, hand kink….,, SIZE KINK., manhandling, pussy eating, tongue kink, raw feral sex (doggy + missionary), bro has a monster cock, also monster fucking!! bc venom takes over <3, cum eating, breeding kink, bulge kink, dacryphilia, mind break, record breaking creampie

a/n: listen …….i LOVE venom, the things i would let venom do to me would set humanity back at least fifty years. NOW VENOM YUNHO ON THE OTHER HAND,, oh boy. boyyyy oh boy. i don’t think i have to explain myself when it comes to that combination bc this fic speaks for itself lol. are you curious now? why don’t you give it a peek then, hm? (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ and then lemme know what you thought of it pretty please? <3

song rec: new woman - lisa feat. rosalía (get it bc he’s a new man - bc of venom - 😼)

fictober 2024

“And just where have you been, Jeong Yunho?” you asked your boyfriend in a more teasing manner than anything, once he snuck in past the sliding glass door of the balcony, getting up from the couch you were waiting restlessly on. When he stood there silently just looking at you through the white eye-shaped sections of his mask, you pouted, nervously wrapping a lock of hair around your finger. “Just be honest with me and I won’t be mad, okay?”

Despite the lack of sleep, you were ready for him this time. He wasn’t about to casually sneak in or out of the house another night that week without you catching him. Usually, you wouldn’t have been concerned because you were used to him being gone when there was crime taking place or a super villain that needed to be brought to justice, but recently…your boyfriend was acting strange. He was starting to become moody and secretive, opting to brush you off when you asked him about it. Yunho had even taken up using substances in his free time, finding him drunk or high off his ass in the apartment when you got home from work. The final straw was when you came home one night to find him in the kitchen with freshly dyed hair and new piercings he had given himself, a few empty boxes of black hair dye and bloody safety pins laying haphazardly on the kitchen counter.

Yunho took off his mask and rubbed at his eyes like he was tired, leaving a bit of smeared eyeliner underneath them, before shoving his hands into the pockets of his frayed jacket, the one that was slightly zipped just enough to cover his iconic red suit.

“She knows about us,” said the annoying parasite that had just recently made a home inside him. “We should eat her.”

“No, I’m not doing that,” Yunho grumbled, running his fingers through his hair in frustration.

You walked up to him, gently putting a hand on his chest. “Yun, I just wanna know where you were at, that’s all. You know I respect your space,” you murmured, your pout growing slightly, your eyebrows upturned with concern.

“She’s looking at us with those big round eyes again, Yunho,” Venom told his host, letting out a disgusting groan only he could hear. “It’s gonna make us hard. If we’re not going to eat her, let’s fuck her, at least.”

“Mingi asked me to take care of some douchebags that had been causing trouble at that new club he works at. That’s all, baby,” Yunho replied softly, reaching down to press the back of his hand against your cheek, before cupping it. He noticed the teary look inside your doe eyes. “Hey, are you okay?”

You nuzzled into his big warm hand, before reaching up and wrapping your arms around his neck to hold your boyfriend close. “I’m fine…I’ve just been worried about you, Yun. You’ve been acting a bit…different.”

“Let’s show her just how different we’ve become, Yunho,” Venom egged him on, knowing Yunho could feel just how much he wanted to break through the barrier of his host’s mind and take control. “She’ll love it.”

How could he possibly explain to you that he was always in a never-ending battle with a frightening otherworldly parasite that had found its way inside of him? You would be so scared and disgusted, you’d probably never trust him again. He couldn’t risk losing you, not when you were his only anchor to the normal life he desperately craved, and the first person he’s ever felt this strongly about.

“I’m just going through a phase, I think,” Yunho expressed wholeheartedly, resting his hands around your waist, his thumbs slightly pressing into your hip bones through your sleep shirt, feeling just how delicate you truly were. You were so small compared to him, practically swimming in one of his band t-shirts that you regularly wore to bed; you were so tiny and cute, and…”Malleable,” Venom finished. Yunho couldn’t tell if the parasite was influencing all of his thoughts or if he was just that perverted.

“Do you wanna talk about it, Yun?” You pressed yourself closer to Yunho, feeling his large hands enclose around your small waist, making you feel a bit dizzy. When he shook his head, you tilted yours, wondering if what you felt pushing against your middle was exactly what you thought it was. “Or, do you want to take me to bed?”

It had felt like forever since Yunho had touched you, kissed you even. You had almost forgotten what it was like to feel him inside you, filling you up over and over again until his love spilled out. Just the thought alone made your body begin to overheat. Was it wrong of you to take his simple answer at face value? Should you have pushed the issue, instead of letting him push you back into the wall of the hallway? You weren’t sure, but you were just grateful that your boyfriend still wanted you like this.

“Did punching those guys at the club make you this horny?” you asked playfully, a sudden shiver of pleasure shooting up your spine when Yunho’s warm hands snaked up underneath your shirt and began groping at your tits.

“So horny,” Yunho joked back, watching you instantly melt underneath his touch, a shaky exhale escaping his bobbing throat as he swallowed.

“Nnngh, I didn’t know fighting crime did it for you, Yun.”

“Knowing I’m already getting your little pussy wet just from this is what’s doing it for me, baby,” he whispered into your ear, having to practically lower himself to your height just to do so, able to clearly hear the breathless moan that left your lips. Yunho was already breathing hard, his mind swimming with constant racing thoughts that all pertained to his pretty little girlfriend and what he was going to do to you, squishing your soft flesh in between his slender fingers, using his thumbs to rub your hardening nipples in teasing circles.

It had felt like eternity since Yunho had allowed himself to feel you underneath his touch, to even simply look at you with unbridled lust. He wanted to see all of you, witness the way you completely opened yourself up to him. It was driving him insane. Was it selfish of him to give into temptation when there was something else living inside him? Something that he knew was taking even more pleasure in this than he was? He wasn’t exactly sure, but he knew it was far too late to stop now.

“Let us see her tits, Yunho, they feel so nice inside our hands, we need to see,” Venom demanded, desperately shaking the bars of his figurative cage.

When Yunho tugged your shirt up and over your tits, your gasp became muffled, your eyes widening as he stuffed the hem of the shirt into your mouth. You were going to close your legs to keep your arousal from spilling down your thighs, but your eager boyfriend pushed his larger one in between them.

“You’re so pretty, angel,” Yunho cooed softly, admiring the way you began to grind your cunt against his thigh, despite the sheepish expression you offered him, a bit of drool escaping the corner of his mouth from witnessing such a display of pure desperation. “Look at you go…rubbing yourself all over my thigh like a horny little slut.”

“N-not a slut,” you whimpered softly, his insult causing a fresh wave of slick to leak out onto Yunho’s torn jeans. “Just need you, Yuyu.”

“Her breeding hole needs to be trained to handle my size. Do it now,” Venom growled into Yunho’s mind, growing more and more demanding by the second, very aware that his host was starting to lose control of himself.

“Yeah? How about this?” Yunho pulled your panties to the side so that he could watch as your greedy cunt swallowed up one of his long, bony fingers to the knuckle. “Is that enough, baby?”

“I meant with your human sized cock, you insufferable prick,” Venom chided, simply not understanding the pleasurable benefits that prolonged foreplay could offer being the uninhibited hothead that he was.

Something about the way Yunho was taking his time unraveling you, the way he was drinking in the sight of your bare body with pure lust inside his eyes, with only a single digit plunged inside you so far made you pulse and squeeze around it. “F-full.”

“But I barely fit one finger inside you, sweetheart. What’ll happen if I put another?” Yunho suddenly tugged your borrowed t-shirt up and over your head, leaning in close to your face to catch the way your breath hitched as soon as he slipped another finger inside, curling them just enough to hit your sweet spot each time he finger-fucked you, earning a few whiny moans from his beloved girlfriend. “Oh, that’s right. You turn into my little sex toy, don’t you?”

“Y-esss, Yuyu, just for you, fuck,” you cried out, hooking your arms around his neck to keep yourself from completely melting into the floor.

“That’s a good girl,” he groaned into your ear, quickly stuffing his slippery digits into you, incapable of getting Venom’s ungodly thoughts out of his head all the while. Fuck, he was feeling hot, dizzy. His head and cock were throbbing. He needed more. They needed more. He had no choice but to shove a third finger into you, your slick walls pulsating around him. “You think you’re feeling full now…just wait till my cock’s inside you.”

Gasping, your nails dug into his back through his clothes. “Oh my god, Yunho, give it to me, please, please, please,” you whined breathlessly into his neck, trembling in his arms as overwhelming pleasure washed over you. “N-need you inside.”

“Fuck, I can’t believe you’re already begging to be fucked like that. I almost forgot how needy you are when you want cock. You like the thought of me stretching out your little pussy that much, huh?” He smiled darkly against your heated skin, slowly dragging his tongue along it as you whimpered and nodded your head to his obscene question, not allowing you to witness the brief moment his eyes turned completely black. “I just might split you open.”

You almost didn’t recognize your boyfriend when he tossed you onto your shared bed like you weighed close to nothing, and you certainly didn’t recognize him when he manipulated your limbs until you were laying with your head down against the mattress and your ass up in the air. Usually, he wanted to do missionary, so that he could kiss and look at you when you both came undone, but now, now he had you in a position that was apparently ‘perfect for breeding’, or at least, that’s what you thought you had heard him mumbling about from behind you.

“Now’s the time, human. We must show her how great we are,” the alien reminded Yunho, delighted that his black parasitic poison was now making its way through his host’s veins, showing up from underneath his milky skin. It was changing him in ways that would most definitely benefit all three of you.

Yunho squeezed his large hands into the sides of your ass and spread it open, hyper focused on your dripping cunt and how it struggled to accommodate his ungodly size. “Poor baby’s so tiny, my little princess can barely take me inside her pretty cunt,” he sighed, pulling out just enough to send a few strands of spit onto his own cock, lubing up the base of it and pushing back in, a shiver of pleasure shooting up his spine as soon as he heard the broken cry that left your drooling mouth. “Looks like we’re going to have to break you in.”

You felt like you were losing your mind. Your boyfriend had just barely bottomed out inside of you and you were already about to cream yourself. And, it might’ve been the cock-drunk state you were in, but you swore to god that his dick got bigger. It felt like it was kissing your cervix already and he hadn’t even moved yet. Not to mention, it felt so hot inside you, and there was so much pre-cum coating your walls, you almost thought he had came prematurely, but he would’ve been asleep and snoring away already if he did.

Yunho violently interrupted your train of thought by slamming his hips forward, letting out a deep, long groan as though he were experiencing euphoria. He grabbed your wrists and held them behind your back, tucking them together so that he could hold them both with one large hand, and quickly got to work, yanking you back onto his cock, using you like his own personal sex doll. “That’s fucking it, isn’t it, angel? You like that? You fucking like that?”

“Nnh, yeah– fuck me, don’t stop,” you moaned back, realizing this ‘phase’ of Yunho’s was one of the best things that could’ve ever happened to the both of you, previously unaware that something this rough and borderline animalistic could feel as good as it did.

“She’s ours, she’s ours, Yunho, fuck, we’re going to cum inside her,” Venom blissfully announced into Yunho’s head, fully taking over his host in that very instant, gracing Yunho with the symbiote’s much more endowed features.

It was then that you let out a sudden gasp, the air that quickly filled your lungs leaving as a wavering moan of pleasure instead. It was almost as if Yunho’s cock had grown twice in size. You didn’t even know how that was possible, but you were too lost in the moment to question it. “So big, it’s so fucking big, Yunho, nnnngh, it’s gonna break me,” you exhaled, quickly pulling at the sheets once he gifted you partial physical autonomy, your eyes beginning to disappear underneath your lashes.

“That’s right, pretty girl, and you’re going to keep taking it all, even after I’m done impregnating you,” Yunho agreed huskily, bending over you until his overheated body pressed into your shoulders and back, his long fingers curling around the softness of your hips once again. Just as his never-ending seed spilled into you and made its way into your womb, Yunho dragged his long, heavy tongue up in between your straining shoulder blades and along your neck, savoring your flavor. He truly wanted to eat you, unable to stop drooling, but the annoying mortal he shared this body with wouldn’t let him. Venom figured he would have to settle for the next best thing.

You didn’t even have a chance to finish shaking, let alone take a breath, before you were being lifted up and lowered back down onto your boyfriend’s face, your cunt fitting snugly between the curves of Yunho’s lips and nose. Just as he lapped at your extremely sensitive clit and slit, you couldn’t help but jolt away, his forearms suddenly locking tightly around your middle. “O-oh…!”

“Hold still. Need a taste of this pretty cunt,” Yunho growled under his breath, angling his head back and opening his mouth wide enough so that he could explore the entirety of your used cunt, licking and drinking up the mixed arousal that spilled out of you to his heart’s content.

“Y-yunhooo,” you whined pathetically, reaching forward to hold onto the headboard to keep yourself from passing out from the pleasure that was overloading your mind, looking down to watch how he eagerly nosed at your clit. “Fuck, i’ll cum again…”

“Then, do it, princess.” Just as he swallowed down more of your wetness, he realized it wasn’t enough, unable to keep himself from sliding the entirety of his tongue inside you, feeling you clench around the base of it.

“Oh my god, your tongue, it’s so–haaaah,” you reacted breathlessly, digging your nails into the wood of the headboard, the longer his serpent-like tongue slithered in and out of you so seamlessly, unable to fully understand how any of this was possible. When the thickest part of his appendage rubbed at your g-spot, you saw white around your vision, your ears ringing, unable to hear the filthy slurping sounds Yunho was making underneath you as he drank up your squirt.

When you came to, you were back underneath Yunho, in the missionary position he loved so much, yet this time it was profoundly different. His eyes were as dark as his freshly dyed hair, one corner of his mouth split open, inviting a myriad of long, serrated fangs, all while black wispy tendrils clung onto one side of his face like a second skin. You realized too late why Yunho was acting so out of character, and that you were never actually alone with him the past few weeks. You had an uninvited guest, an alien symbiote known as Venom, to be exact — and here you were, face to face with him, his massive alien cock stretching your used cunt open to the point of no return.

“Oh god, you’re actually going to split me open, what the fuck,” you gasped sharply, clutching the sides of Yunho’s cheeks, your fingers tugging at the ends of his sweaty hair.

“Silly human, as much as we’d enjoy seeing that, you won’t split apart. You have a prime body for breeding, didn’t you know?” he chuckled darkly in a two-toned voice, pressing his hand down into your abdomen to feel the sheer size of himself protruding through your lower belly each time his hips routinely smacked into yours. “We knew Spider-man’s pretty little girlfriend would make a perfect host for our offspring. Just look at you, you’re taking us so well.”

You didn’t know what was going to break your mind first, the fact that you were essentially being used as a breeding tool for an alien that would take great pleasure in swallowing you whole, or the fact that your cunt was eagerly swallowing up something so absurdly large, its heavy girth and width stretching you so wide, it felt as though you would fall apart at any given time. Despite the insanity of it all, your body and mind welcomed it, creaming yourself on his throbbing cock.

“Good girlll,” Yunho praised, letting his long slimy tongue slip out to lick up the side of your cheek until he tasted the salt of your tears. He fully sheathed himself inside you one last time, before his large hands cemented around your waist, holding you completely still as his hot load joined the other one he had previously fucked into you, his heavy breaths warming the skin of your neck. “That’s it, you dirty slut, take it all, just like that…”

You could hardly breathe, let alone move, simply laying still in your boyfriend’s arms, taking everything he gave you, as wave after wave of cum coated the insides of your aching cunt and flooded womb, some of it spilling down the insides of your legs and dripping onto the stained sheets below. It felt so good to be filled up in such a way, to be truly bred, that you came again without direct stimulation, letting out a broken cry, before Yunho silenced you with a gentle kiss.

When you opened your teary eyes, your boyfriend’s previously monstrous traits were gone, instead replaced with his usual soft, flushed features that you adored so much. You watched him open and close his mouth, as if he didn’t know what to say. You pressed another kiss to his lips, weakly running your fingers through his hair. “Should we go to the drugstore to get Plan B?”

Yunho gave you a goofy, though apologetic smile, leaning his face into your neck to give it a few kisses. He pulled himself back up to face you, his eyebrows upturned. “D-do you think it would work on an alien symbiote?”

You patted his head, knowing what you signed up for when you decided to date the Spider-man, figuring one of his superhero friends would have a solution for the both of you. You gave him a soft smile, happy when he returned it. “If not, let’s get a refund.”

Apply for the taglist here ⇢ ♡

fictober taglist: @littlefireball @crazylittlebisexual @luvbit3z @hwasbbyg @ane102 @linearities @hoe4yunho @tearfulsparks78 @sunkislove @binniesbabe @peelingpaint-heavyheart @prodsh00ky @dawn-iscozy @peachyy-jooniee @sunwoosbaby @screaming4san @cowgirlkller @markleecankickme @comicnerd557 @stay-thing-things @Alexxbear69 @kpopandthings @dekyepunn @m4m4-s4m4

#cromernet #ateez #ateez smut #jeong yunho #yunho smut #yunho x reader #ateez x reader #ateez fic #ateez fanfic #kpop smut

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apatheticsunday · 3 months ago

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Adopt a Bat Dad

AKA "Danny becomes de-aged in Gotham and finds the only person he knows who can probably help. Bruce Wayne, the Batman. Except Bruce thinks Danny is a kid mistaking him for his dad??" prompt idea!!

HC that Bruce Wayne and Jack Fenton look super similar. Therefore, Danny and Bruce also look pretty similar!!

I love the idea that Danny already knows Bruce Wayne is Batman. Maybe it's his aura or because the amount of kids Bruce has directly correlates to the amount of bat-themed sidekicks there are. Who knows? Anyway, Danny comes into a small bit of trouble. He may or may not have insulted an immortal witch who cursed him because he's an "immature child, may as well look as young as you act!"

So. Now Danny looks a solid 2-3 years old. It's a good thing that Sam and Tucker briefed him on all he celebrity gossip before he came to Gotham, because he coincidentally knows where the Wayne Enterprise building is. He... can figure it out. Probably. It's actually alarming how many people watch what they think is an unaccompanied kid huff and puff his way in downtown Gotham. (Also, wow, Danny severely underestimated how difficult it is to run after being babified.) But he does make it to the general area of where WE is supposed to be!

His legs are practically shaking at this point, sweating through his toddler-sized NASA hoodie, and searching frantically for Bruce Wayne. Because he really didn't think of it before, but it's Friday afternoon. What if Mr. Batman isn't at WE today? What if Danny gets to WE after 5pm and he's gone until Monday? Would Danny even be able to find the Wayne Manor, much less get transportation there?

Except as Danny's becoming increasingly worried (don't cry, don't cry, don't cry), he spots... his dad?? in the coffee shop windows beside him. No, not his dad. Bruce fucking Wayne! Hell, yeah! Danny smacks open the doors of the coffee shop with single-minded toddler-clumsy determination. Makes a bee-line straight to the coffee pick-up. Bruce Wayne is standing off to the side, quietly speaking on his phone, as Danny practically slams face-first into his knees. Thankfully, it doesn't take either of them down, but it is particularly embarrassing.

Especially when Danny clutches to Batman's pant leg and confidently shouts, "Batman!" Except... he doesn't. A weird jumble of words come out of his mouth that sound more like baba! It's like the world screeches to a stop because, first of all, what the fuck. Second, that bitch witch! She must've made it so whatever he says comes out in toddler-speak despite the fact that he should be able to say somewhat comprehensible sentences.

That doesn't stop him from trying, though, so he ends up babbling baba, baba, baba in an increasingly frustrated tone.

And Bruce Wayne, who's become used to Damian calling him baba instead of Father, can only stare down at this child who could pass as his clone. The similarities are striking. Even if the toddler is huffing, red-cheeked and clearly on the verge of crying, he looks so much like Bruce that he wonders momentarily if it's another Damian situation.

Regardless, there's a kid crying in front of him, tugging on his pant leg and calling for his dad. And Bruce is nothing if not absolutely weak-hearted against stuff like this. So, he leans down and just... scoops the kid up. Murmurs, "Shh, it's okay, kiddo. You're okay." Pats the kid's back, sways. Completely forgets he's in a crowded coffee (this is definitely going on YouTube, posted under 'Wayne Adopts Another??') and that he's on a phone call with Dick. It's like his Dad Instincts kick in and he's completely focused on Danny.

Danny is... bewildered. Because why is the Batman coddling him?? Except he notices that others have noticed, and have their phones out recording, which is really Not Good. He's not super confident that his parents would be able to recognize him while he's de-aged, but the fact that they might? That's opening a can of worms he can't handle at the moment. So his little string bean arms loop around Bruce's neck and he shoves his face into the collar of the man's suit. Much to his irritation, he can hear several girls next to him coo and giggle about him being such a cute baby. Danny's really regretting not approaching Batman privately now.

And it doesn't end!!

Bruce calms the kid down and then immediately goes to the store manager, asking if any parents have lost their child. He doesn't trust that someone may claim Danny as theirs when that may not be the case. Then, he calls up Gordon, asks about any missing person reports on a child the ages of 2-4 with average height, medium build, and black hair. No hits. Eventually, Bruce makes up his mind and takes Danny home with him. Oracle will likely be able to pull more information than the GCPD anyways.

Meanwhile, Danny zonks out. Like full on, toddler-sprawl open-mouth drooling, because it's been a long day and he got Batman. He did it! And from the way Bruce is still carrying him, Danny will likely be with him for a little while. A little catnap will do him some good. Maybe when he wakes up, he'll magically have the ability to speak normally instead of hysterically babble.

(Four hours later, Danny wakes up on the couch at Wayne Manor, bundled up in super soft blankets with Bruce talking on the phone with some woman. Bruce smiles at the way Danny says baba again. Danny's ready to throw that witch into Bruce's well-maintained fireplace because screaming son of bitch isn't as satisfying when it sounds like sa-bA-BAH!!")

Cue Danny doing increasingly ridiculous things to make The "Greatest Detective" Batman realize he's not a literal baby and Bruce Wayne so enamored with this little kid that he does not realize.

#batdad #batfam #dpxdc #danny fenton #danny phantom #batman #the batman #mine

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mostly-imagines · 1 year ago

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Guard Dog vol. II

jason todd x fem!reader

aka don’t fuck with jason’s gf pt. II

3 in 1 blurbs

warnings: mild standard gotham violence, in the 3rd section: attempted sexual assault and panicky thoughts afterwards from reader

“Sweetheart, this is…not good.”

You turn your head over to him, where he’s frowning, hands on his hips as he inspects your bedroom window.

You tilt your head, looking it over from your place on the couch. “What’s wrong with it?”

He sighs, “Well for one, the lock is broken. But even if it weren’t, this thing would be so easy to break.”

“It’s the lock the place came with.” You shrug. At least it has a lock. In Gotham that’s kind of asking a lot.

“Yeah, I can tell.” He frowns at the window once again, moving over to stand behind the couch. “I’m getting you better locks.” He looks to you, “I can install them tomorrow?”

You tilt your head up to look at him, “You don’t need to get me new locks, Jay…”

“Okay.” He kisses your head, “I’m getting them.”

You sigh in defeat, though your smile makes it lose its credibility. “Tomorrow’s fine. I assume you’re staying the night, then?”

He makes his way to the kitchen as he says, “Well, I’m not leaving you alone here with this piece of shit the only thing between you and Gotham.”

“I’ve lived here for two years.” You say flatly.

“Don’t remind me.” He mumbles as he moves behind the counter. “Actually, your door chain’s broken too, isn’t it?” It is, but that’s his own fault.

You had a long day a couple weeks ago and had a very long, very hot shower the second you got home. Unfortunately, it had slipped your mind to text him that you were home safe and he’d broken through the chain in one try to make sure you were okay.

You hum, “It wasn’t doing much anyways.” Clearly.

He grimaces as he heats up the stove for dinner.

You laugh lightly, “What?”

He looks back at you with a frankly adorable frown, “I don’t like that.”

You’d never thought much of it. You hadn’t had any—well, many—problems living here before, and you still had your deadbolt and handle lock.

“It’s okay. I’m safe here.”

He looks like he strongly disagrees. He comes back over, sitting next to you, taking your face in his hands. “Will you please let me set up some security measures around here?”

“Did Jason Todd just say please?” You say in faux-shock.

He rolls his eyes at you, “I’m serious.”

You sigh, contemplatively. “I don’t want my apartment looking like the Home Alone set.”

He laughs at that, “It’s not going to. You won’t even notice most of them. Just do it for me, please?”

“I’ll agree, but only because I know you’re going to do it anyways and I’d like to pretend I have control over this.” That’s not true, you’d agree to literally anything if he said please that sweetly again, but that’s your business.

“Fair enough.” He smiles, kissing your cheek.

No, it’s not fair at all.

It’s late. You’re not even sure how late but the city has calmed from its usual noises, indicating that your boyfriend will be home soon.

You’re coming up heavy on cramps tonight and according to the mockingly empty spot in your medicine cabinet, you’re out of ibuprofen. Yeah, it’s late, but the store on the corner is a three minute walk and fuck your stomach hurts. Jason wouldn’t like it if you went out without telling him though, so maybe you should wait until—

The sound of the living room window sliding open breaks you away from your thoughts, followed by a clatter of something hitting the ground.

You walk back into the dimly lit room, finding your boyfriend sliding the window shut again, holsters abandoned on the ground. He turns and collapses onto the couch face first, body immediately gone limp.

“Hey, baby.” You bite back a laugh, coming over to rub his muscled back from behind the couch. He groans into the cushion in response. “Why don’t you go get in bed?”

He hums almost imperceptibly, sitting up and rubbing his eyes roughly with his palms.

He stands and takes your hand in his as he passes by, tugging you towards the bedroom. The deep ache in your abdomen reminds you of your earlier train of thought. You pull your hand back, stopping in your tracks.

He turns back to you with a frown, wanting to know what could possibly be getting in his way of falling asleep, holding you close.

“I gotta go pick up some ibuprofen. I’ll be right back.” You say quietly, not wanting to disturb the quietness of the night for him. His frown deepens as you head towards the door, watching you.

You’ve got your purse in hand and are reaching for the handle when you hear his footsteps following in suit. “Hey, it’s okay. Stay here, I’m just going to the 24 hour store on the corner.”

He shakes his head, “You’re not going out in Gotham alone at two in the morning. Put your coat on, it’s cold.”

You do as you’re told, shrugging the coat on as you glance over at him. “Jason, it’s okay. You’re exhausted, go to sleep.”

He ignores you, throwing a sweatshirt on to cover up his armor, and follows you out the door; albeit far more sluggish than usual.

He was right though, the night air is bitter and slaps your face with every step forward you take. He lingers a few steps behind you, honest to god almost falling asleep mid step a couple times.

Frankly, you’re not even sure what kind of fight he’d be able to put up in this state. Though, he’s surprised you plenty of times before. In any case, his head snaps up every time there’s any sign of movement around, instantly on alert.

He trails behind you as you browse through the narrow aisles, hands stuffed in his sweatshirt.

As you’re standing at the store counter paying, his neck is craned forward, resting on your shoulder. You rub soothing circles into his hand with your thumb, though you’re sure it’s not doing anything to help his exhaustion.

You’re walking back home, the bite of the air a bit more forgiving in this direction. There’s another man walking down the sidewalk approaching, hands in pocket.

Jason’s too tired to bother with subtlety, glaring directly at the passerby before he could even think of trying anything. And it works, because the guy averts his gaze real quick and speeds up past you.

He continues working at his post from just behind you all the way until you’re back inside your apartment.

He takes the medicine container out of his pocket and cracks it open for you, wordlessly filling up a glass of water after. You gulp down a couple of the pills, and he takes the glass and bottle out of your hand the second you’re done, setting them on the counter.

He turns to you, eyes barely open, mumbling, “Can we sleep now?”

You smile at his fatigued state and take his hand, leading him to the bedroom.

Your neighbor likes you. You know it, Jason knows it.

The worst he’d done was flirt with you, badly, and shut his mouth real quick whenever your boyfriend emerged from your apartment.

And Jason let that go; he knows better than anybody that you’re heavenly and sweet and clever, of course this fucking guy likes you. Jason set an unspoken rule with himself, that he won’t get violent with any guys unless they put their hands on you. Something he knows for absolute fact your neighbor has not done.

At least he hadn’t until a couple of hours ago. You’d been in the hallway at the mailslots, your boyfriend nowhere in sight, when he decided it was the perfect time to make a move. Make several moves, actually.

You’re sitting on the couch, knees to chest, still trying to wrap your mind wround what had happened when Jason sees you. You stopped crying a while ago and you’ve entered the phase of…well. That happened.

Your hear keys jingling outside the door, followed by your boyfriend's entrance. He’s carrying some grocery bags and has a book tucked under his chin.

He lets the bags slide off his arms, and sets the book on the counter with them, beaming, “You’re never gonna guess what b—“ His smile drops when he sees you. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head, “Nothing.” But your blinking feels off all of a sudden, and you can’t remember what you usually do with your face when you’re not lying. It doesn’t matter though, you could be an academy award winning actress and you’re still sure Jason would be able to see right through you with a single glance.

He frowns, “Don’t lie to me.” He moves towards you, kneeling down in front of you. “Please. What’s wrong?” His eyes are worried now, more than usual.

You don’t want him to worry about this. He already worries about you too much and he’s got all his vigilante stuff and…you just want to believe that this is a manageable situation and not a problem. Not something that affected you.

“It’s just…it’s not a big deal, okay? I can handle it—”

His posture stiffens and his voice suddenly goes low and serious, “What happened?”

You know where this is going. “Jason. Promise me you won’t do anything.”

His brow furrows, and his frown turns to something closer to anger. “Did someone put their hands on you? Who?”

“Jason—”

“Who did it?”

“The neighbor, b—” he immediately snaps to a stand and starts towards the door. You hurry to grab onto his hand before he can escape your proximity, “Jason. Please don’t.”

The break in your voice is enough to make his rage falter and turn back around to face you.

“Baby, if he touched you—” His eyes are pleading, begging you to let him go take care of this. If not for you, then for him.

“It wasn’t—he didn’t do anything. He didn’t get to. I hit him and he backed off.” Which is…sort of true.

He stares at you. “In the hallway?”

You blink. “…Yeah?”

He takes off towards the bedroom wordlessly. You follow quickly on his tail, watching him sit on the edge of your bed, opening his computer and clicking through it quickly.

You slide over next to him, and see that he's pulling up a file under the name of your building and today’s date. It takes you two seconds too long to realize what he’s doing, the thought only sinking in right as you see the hallway security camera footage on the screen.

“Jason—” you try to close the computer but he bats your hand away.

He forwards through the footage, as you scramble trying and failing to reach past him, various building occupants coming in and out of frame rapidly.

“—please just listen to me.” But he did listen to you, and he heard that someone tried to hurt you. That was all he needed to hear.

He stops when he sees you enter the frame, watching closely. He sees you flipping through the mail. He sees your neighbor slither out of his apartment and stand far too close to you. You take a step back only to be met with two steps forward by him. He says something to you, probably asking where your boyfriend is.

The angle doesn’t show his face, but it does see yours, and you look incredibly uncomfortable. You don’t answer him, which evidently was enough of an answer in itself.

Your neighbor tries to brush some of your hair out of your face but you snap your head away, stumbling back a little. He uses your lack of balance as an “excuse” to grab onto your waist, pulling you close to him.

Your hands are out in front of you and you’re shaking your head as he pushes towards you. His lips land on your neck and you try to move backwards, but he grabs your wrists and holds you in place.

You fight against his grip, and upon realizing that your struggling doesn’t matter to him at all, you dig your nails into his wrists so hard you draw blood. He groans in pain and his grip on you loosens.

You snap your hands away and push yourself away, locking yourself in your apartment. Your neighbor lingers for a moment, shouting something at the door before trudging back into his apartment and slamming the door.

Jason snaps the laptop shut, coming to a stand once again. His fists clinch at his sides. “That was not nothing.”

No, it wasn’t. But you feel so helpless right now. You sure as hell felt it in the hallway, and it keeps lingering in you and you’re not sure why. You couldn’t do anything then, you can’t do anything now…it feels like all the bad things in the world are closing in on you and you just have to let it happen.

“I…I don’t want anyone to die because of me…” your words aren’t quite matching your thoughts, but this is the closest you can get right now.

He pulls back to look at you, brows furrowed. “It’s—it’s not because of you. It’s because of him. Baby, if I were on patrol and saw him grab some other girl like that I’d do the same thing.”

You know that. You know that. But communication seems impossible right now even though it’s the only tool you have to stop things from closing in.

“No, I know that. I know…it’s just…” Things are closing in anyways. Alright, this is happening now. Your eyes start watering and your voice trembles.

“Fuck, baby.” His hand flies to the back of your head, other arm wrapping around your middle, pulling you to him.

You feel a bit silly, crying over the potential death of someone who tried to hurt you, in front of the Red Hood of all people.

“I’m sorry, I—I don’t know. It’s—it’s too many bad things. I can’t…”

“Okay. Okay. It’s okay. I’ll stay here. I’m staying here with you, okay?” You nod into his chest, tears dampening his shirt.

This is a temporary solution, you know that even now. But you think once it expires, it might be easier to accept whatever Jason’s going to do later.

He’s quiet for a few minutes, holding you in his arms as you sway back and forth lightly.

“Will you forgive me if I kill him?” He whispers into your hair.

You roll your eyes but smile nonetheless. “Don’t.”

“Is that a yes?”

You pull back to look him in the eyes, face setting. “I’m getting the feeling you’re going to do something regardless of how this conversation ends.” He says nothing. “Just, please, don’t kill him.”

He holds you tighter and you do the same, laying your head against his chest again. You feel him press a kiss to your head as he takes a deep breath.

You think on it for a moment, figuring it needs saying, “And don’t get in trouble.”

Your neighbor comes home late that night, trudging through the front door with a perpetual frown. He opens the door to his notably unlocked apartment. He drops his bag on the ground with a thump and flicks on the lamp next to the door. He shuts the door and turns the lock when the red elephant in the room pipes up.

“Hey, bud.”

He jumps, spinning around, “Who the fuck—oh, shit.” He freezes the second he sees him, sitting in the armchair across the room. The Red Hood nods, loading the gun in his hand.

Your neighbor stutters, “What—what are you doing here?”

He looks up at him, cocking the gun. “You put your hands on your neighbor, yeah?”

He looks fake-shocked at the accusation. “What? No, I would ne—which neighbor?”

He can’t see it, but Hood’s face drops into a deadpan. “That is really not helping your case.”

Your neighbor eyes the gun nervously.

Hood sighs, “I’m not going to kill you. I’ve been told it’s bad manners to execute someone the first time you meet.” He glances down the nail marks on his arm and steels his jaw. “No. What’s going to happen is you’re going to break your lease and move out. Within the next week.”

The neighbors eyes widen, “A week? Are you insane?”

Hood tilts his head a bit before shaking it, “Nah, you’re right. By tomorrow night.”

“This is my apartment. I live here, I’m not going anywhere. And unless you’re secretly Saul the landlord under there, you can’t do anything about it.” He crosses his arms, clearly feeling very proud of himself. Well, killing him isn’t the only option, is it?

Hood stands, making his way across the room casually. “Yeah, I thought you’d say that.” He clocks him hard on the head with the frame of his gun. He goes down quickly and loudly, clutching his head, groaning. “The alternative is getting beaten half to death and hoping whatever hospital you end up at knows what they’re doing.”

Honestly, neighbor boy is pressing his luck as is. Maybe it was a bad idea for Jason to bring the gun.

“Fuck! Fine! I’ll go!” He wails.

Hood kicks his abdomen with the side of his boot, though not nearly as hard as he wanted to. “Shut up. You’ll disturb the neighbors.”

The neighbor groans again, quieter. He mumbles something about Hood being crazy but it gets lost under the grunts of pain.

Hood crouches down next to him, patting him on the head with the barrel of his gun. “Don’t worry, bud. I’ll check up on you. And if I ever see you so much as look in the general direction of another girl I’ll put a bullet in your head. Sound good?”

Your former neighbor drops his head to the ground, hand still clutching the growing swell on his forehead.

#these are all wildly different lengths my b #jason todd loves his gf #jason todd the doberman #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #jason todd x you #jason todd/you #jason todd/reader #jason todd fanfic #jason todd fanfiction #red hood x you #red hood imagine #red hood x reader #red hood fanfic #red hood fanfiction

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dykekarkat · 4 months ago

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okay sorry im literally never going to be normal about "i wouldn't have given him to you if i'd known you would just throw him away so carelessly". jean is saying this to ANDREW after andrew interrogates him over grayson and the possibility of him having touched neil. andrew who came back from easthaven to see that neil the Real Boy josten went to the nest for him. neil josten who doesnt remember the nest at all. who might not even know if he was raped or assaulted.

he asks jean because jean was there, jean was complicit even if he was hurt by the same monster, and jean will Know. and jean gives him the answer he needs to hear, because andrew almost lost neil only a few months ago and andrew stood on the stand only a few weeks ago and detailed all the horrible things that have been done to him for everyone to hear (everyone knows now bee) and andrew would NOT have been able to handle the fact that he kissed/touched neil the first time only a few weeks after the nest. if grayson had in fact touched him.

so this. despite the understanding jean and andrew have of each other (jean's hand on his neck, andrew's ever present armbands) is andrew needing to know so he can protect neil, even if at this point grayson is dead and gone. AND THEN. for jean to TURN IT BACK ON ANDREW. to imply andrew does not care enough about neil to take care of himself, which would allow him to more effectively protect him, to remind andrew of the fact that JEAN got neil out of the nest. that jean kept him alive in there and returned him to south carolina not whole but not broken.

for jean to say andrew was throwing him away, the way jean got thrown away by his parents, the way elodie got thrown away by their parents. jean who may not have been able to truly protect neil in the nest, jean who has gained neil's devotion and protection despite that, who could not protect him but would Keep him no matter what. like wow okay this is crazy tthat interaction was actually fucking insane like that was so fucking oahvdskskjsdkjg.

#tgr spoilers #aftg #andrew minyard #andreil #jean moreau #jeaneil #neil josten #hey so turns out i have some Feelings and Thoughts about this.#probably my favorite line and interaction from the entire book (predictable i know)

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yes-no-maybe-soo · 1 month ago

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Okay so listing the shit Sylus has gone through from memory...

He is heavily implied to have been rejected or outright abandoned by his parents as a very young dragon

He was always an outcast. Not human enough. Not dragon enough.

He cut off his scales and his horns because he hated them so much. But they grew back no matter what he did (again as a child)

The only kin he had got slaughtered right in front of him. Leaving him as the last dragon alive.

The same humans who slaughtered his kin but spared him because of his appearance turn on him the moment they see he is not in fact human and try to kill him. Again, this all happens when he is young.

He is then persecuted by humans until at some point, he ends up sealed in the Abyss, a greatsword lodged in his chest, preventing him from moving freely even down there. He stays like that for 1,600 years, surviving on Wanderer Protocores

He meets MC, who frees him. They fall in love, split half their souls with each other, and are happy. But due to the dragon's curse, Sylus is destined to kill her one day because she is his beloved... or she him, because she is his destined archnemesis.

MC is taken from him. Sylus goes berserk and loses his mind, his dragon instincts taking over fully.

He sacrifices himself for MC last second before he can kill her. Breaking their curse. Giving her a chance at a life free from being used and abused, and himself eternal rest

Only, MC has other plans and curses him to eternal life, essentially. Only she can kill him.

At some point in time, Sylus is reincarnated together with MC in the nebula. There they are both locked up in a gladiatorial cage as mere children, forced to kill for public entertainment. Think Hunger Games.

They successfully escape together, but at a later point in time they are separated by the Deepspace Tunnel or as Sylus says "You were quietly moved to another garden in a foreign land".

Sylus ends up in space-time prison. We don't know how long he spent there or what was done to him, but I doubt it was in any way pleasant or easy.

He escapes and space pirates through the cosmos for MC, who he can probably sense is still out there. He eventually pinpoints her location, but is unable to properly reunite with her... because she has regressed to a young child. He frees her, but walks off... effectively losing her a third time. He also learns of the horrific torture that Gaia put her through. He watches over her from a distance, but never approaches her, valuing her autonomy too much to insert himself. But he waits for her. Hopes �� no, knows – that she will find her way to him, if only to seek answers about her past.

The next 12 years – as most of his existence – are spent almost entirely alone, with no one except Mephie for companionship. He has no friends. No family. No close associates. Things do improve with Luke and Kieran's arrival.

14 years after he left her, he meets MC again. But she doesn't remember him, and worse, actively hates him and blames him for the death of her family, of which he had no part.

He is told straight to his face that MC – his soulmate and prime reason for living – rejects him, fears him, and is disgusted by him. Which very visibly hurts him.

Sees the Deepspace Tunnel again and with it, memories of losing MC. Again, the pain on his face is very visible.

In Death and Rebirth, he gets a hurtful reminder that he still doesn't have MC's full trust. And – yet again – the distress is apparent. Because their trust in each other is everything to him.

So... in summary: Sylus has been used, abused, isolated, and locked away for most of his life. He is so unused to kindness and to being treated like a human being that he doesn't know how to react when people wish him happy birthday.

Any care he was shown for the first millennia of his life came exclusively from MC, the one person to actually see him as something other than a Monster. Said soulmate is taken from him twice, tortured and repeatedly killed, her memories of him erased. When they meet again in current timeline, she hates him, and it takes a long time for Sylus to undo the damage of their first meeting.

The man has not had it easy, nor has he gotten to feel much joy.

So it'd be understandable to become bitter. Cruel. Cold.

But he doesn't

Hell, he never even crashes out (as far as we know).

Instead he's compassionate, an animal and nature lover, attends and donates at charity events, takes in the two orphans that tried to kill him, is the King of Consent, very emotionally mature etc.

Sylus is so strong, man... he never lost himself. He never lost his innate kindness despite a life (or lives ig) where nearly none was ever shown him.

#and he also somehow wound up with an aether core in his right eye which i'm just guessing wasn't put there voluntarily...#why did i make this? cuz my toxic trait is to wallow in misery idk. but also to draw attention to how remarkable sylus is #i love and admire him so freaking much man #sylus #lads sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus lads #sylus love and deepspace #sylus x mc #sylusmc #lads #love and deepspace

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kingkaisen · 24 days ago

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suggestion for your dad gojo series?idk if it’s too heavy so feel free to skip!!reader is chronically ill and/OR the kids worry that she has a terminal disease because she’s been very sick and weak lately, so they call gojo (who’s away on a mission) with over exaggerated claims on reader’s health and practically beg him to come back home. This could be either an actual illness or maybe something more lighthearted, like reader just has the flu etc and the kids are just being dramatic

“IS SHE GONNA DIE?!”

♡ —𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: This fic is part of my dad!gojo series, but reading the other parts isn’t necessary. All you need to know is that you & Satoru recently adopted two of Satoru’s students: Megumi & Yuji, and you also have young biological daughter.

♡ — 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Satoru gave your son, Yuji, one job: keep everyone safe while he was gone. So why, just why, were you practically on your death bed?

♡ — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: Tiny bit of angst but this is overall lighthearted, suicide joke, general descriptions of being unwell, your family loves you much they assume the worst when you sneeze to be honest!

♡ — 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 4K

When Satoru Gojo wasn’t around, Yuji considered himself to be the man of the house, thank you very much.

Did anyone officially bestow such a title upon him? No, not technically. But Satoru was parting on a month-long mission to a different continent, and before he walked out of the front door — and after he showered your face with kisses, playfully tossed your daughter in the air, and ruffled Megumi’s hair — he, too, ruffled his other student-turned-adopted son’s head of pinkish hair and said, “keep everyone safe, Yuji.”

Yuji’s brown eyes widened but then closed as he smiled brightly.

“You got it!” He gave Satoru a thumbs up, and that was that.

Therefore, when it came to day eight of Keeping Everyone Safe, Yuji found himself pacing back and forth outside of the bathroom door, gripping strands of his messy hair with his trembling hands.

He heard a few faint coughs from the other side of the door. He halted his footsteps. Knocking gently, he waited for a response, but one never came.

“Mom? Are you okay?” He called out. “You’ve been in there a while.”

No response.

Yuji pressed his ear against the door, listening for any sign of life, and yet again, only silence acknowledged him.

He took several steps back, preparing to launch himself at the door to break it down. If you got upset with him for doing so, so be it — at least your lecture would mean that you were alright.

“Three . . . Two . . . One . . .” Yuji thought, but before he could break out into a sprint full-speed ahead, Megumi suddenly turned the corner of the hallway, giving Yuji a puzzled look.

“What are you doing now?” Megumi scratched the side of his head.

“Stand back, I’m about to bust the door down.”

“Why?”

“Mom’s been in the bathroom for a long time,” Yuji turned his head to look at Megumi’s expressionless face. “I don’t know if she’s throwing up or bleeding out or unconscious . . . and she won’t answer me, so I’m gonna break in.”

Yuji looked the door up and down as if sizing up an opponent.

“What if she’s leaning against the door? She’ll get hurt,” Megumi said.

“Got a better idea?”

“Yeah. It’s called respecting her privacy. If she’s not feeling well, just give her a little time.”

“But she’s not answering me.” Yuji frowned. His face resembled that of a kicked puppy. Turning around, he leaned his back against the bathroom door. “She’s fine, right? She probably just ate something bad for dinner last night, right?”

Megumi glanced down at the floor, his brows furrowed — a telltale sign that he was thinking. “If that was the case, I think we’d all be sick, considering we all ate the same thing.”

“No, no, remember a couple months ago when we ordered pizza and-”

“And you got sick, and I didn’t. I remember. I’m pretty sure that was because I had one slice, and you ate the majority of the box without pacing yourself. But, putting all that aside, if she is sick, it can’t be from something she ate. She’s been coming down with something for four days now, at least.”

“Huh?” Yuji raised his eyebrows. “How do you know?”

Megumi sighed. “It’s been taking her a long time to do simple tasks. Her eyes are sunken in, and she’s been pretty quiet lately as well. She also-”

“Oh my god, she’s gonna die.” Yuji found himself sitting on the floor, his fingers, yet again, pulling at the strands of his hair. “She’s been dying for four days and you didn’t tell me?”

“I’m sure she’s not going to die-”

“Megumi, If she dies, I’m just gonna end it all, ‘cause I won’t be the one to tell dad that his wife died. No way. I had one job, to keep everyone safe! She could already be dead, you know, just lying on the bathroom floor, dead. Our mom. Deceased. How do we explain this to Maya? To Dad? Remember how he reacted when she caught a cold? This is bad, this is really-”

Suddenly, the door opened. Yuji nearly fell backward onto the bathroom floor but quickly caught himself before turning around to stare up at you.

“I can hear you,” you mumbled.

Oh, how pitiful you looked. Your eyes were sunken, your voice barely above a whisper.

Megumi gathered that, perhaps, you were replying to Yuji earlier, but if your current volume was as loud as your voice could get right now, it was no wonder he couldn’t hear you through the door.

“Mom! Are you okay? What’s going on?” Yuji sprung to his feet.

“I think you should see a doctor,” Megumi added.

“I’m fine, boys,” you whispered, slowly walking past them, and making your way down the hallway. “I’m just . . . I need to lay down.”

Yuji and Megumi exchanged a look. A slew of dangerous missions carried out alongside one another had gifted the two brothers the ability to tell an entire tale with just their facial expressions. One twitch of the brow and flicker of the eye, and Megumi knew just what Yuji wanted to ask him: Should we call the doctor anyway?

Yuji however, often struggled to read Megumi’s expressions, as the black-haired boy’s face was as blank as a fresh canvas more often than not. And right now, as Megumi did nothing more than glance back and forth between a worried Yuji and your slow-walking figure, disappearing into the depths of the house.

He didn’t know what to do.

Three hours later, Yuji ran his knife through the prepared sandwich sitting on the wooden cutting board on top of the kitchen island, slicing what would become his little sister’s dinner into two triangles.

“I’m not a chef, you know, but I made you the best sandwich ever, trust me.” Yuji put the halved sandwich on a plate. He then passed it to the young girl standing beside him, or at least, he tried to.

Though Maya had tugged on his pants leg ten minutes prior, pouting because she was hungry and you were still asleep, she folded her arms and poked her bottom lip out, refusing to take the plate.

“No,” she mumbled.

“What’s wrong?” Yuji frowned, tilting his head a tad. “Didn’t the best girl on the planet just tell me she wanted a super-duper-awesome sandwich?”

“I don’t want that! I miss mommy, and I miss daddy too. Can you get them?”

Oh, he understood.

Of course, Satoru was away, and poor Maya missed her dear dad even when he was gone for a couple of hours, let alone eight days.

He was the person she ran to when she came home from a playdate or preschool. He was the person she ran to when she woke up from a nap. When she wanted to share her snacks. When Barbie did something super-duper-awesome in her favorite movie.

And never, not once, had he greeted his little muffin with anything less than a big smile, no matter how he was feeling. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to run up to Dad and be lifted into the air and spun around and around as he talked to her sweetly and she giggled wildly.

However, you were still home, but in a lot of ways, you weren’t around either, hardly any different from an introverted ghost, haunting the hallways but not truly engaging with the residents who occupied it.

For Maya to turn down food because she missed you, must have meant she had grown tired of sandwiches and whatever else Yuji and Megumi tried to give her today. She wanted your cooking — for her mother to hand her a warm plate of yummy and nutritious food with a heartwarming smile and a forehead kiss.

“Mom’s sick right now, remember?” Yuji said gently. “So we need to do what we can to make things easier for her. And Dad will be back before you know it, you’ll see.”

The young girl still refused to take the sandwich.

Yuji got down on his knees. He, once again, tried to hand her the plate.

“C’mon, Maya Papaya. Don’t you wanna grow up to be big and strong? Only way to do that is to eat your sandwich.”

“Nuh-uh,” she shook her head.

Yuji sighed, rising to his feet. Perhaps, Megumi could coax her into taking a few bites, at least.

However, just as Yuji was about to shout his name, he heard slow-moving, shuffling footsteps approaching the kitchen.

“Mommy!” Maya squealed excitedly at the sight of you.

She ran for you, the gentle pitter-patter of her feet was yet loud enough to snap you out of the daze-like state you were in, almost as if you were sleepwalking. Introverted ghost.

Your daughter wrapped her small arms around you.

“Hi, sweetheart,” you mumbled, reaching down to ruffle her hair.

“Forget about the sandwich, Yuji. I can cook,” you gave your worried son a tired smile.

“Are you sure?” He asked, frowning.

You nodded, making your way to the kitchen sink once Maya released you. It was filled with dishes unsuitable for the dishwasher, such as precious mugs.

“You don’t have to do that, I was gonna wash ‘em,” Yuji said. Cleaning wasn’t his favorite activity, but he loved the idea of chores. It was domestic. Loving. Parents gave their children chores, and therefore, having them was his reminder that he was, indeed, someone’s child now.

He always helped fold laundry or took out the garbage with a smile on his face.

“I got it.” Your voice was weak. “Can you take Maya upstairs?”

Maya frowned, whining, “but mommy.”

“I promise I’ll . . .” you paused, resting your hands on the edge of the sink. Yuji watched the unsteady rise and fall of your shoulders. “I promise I’ll play with you later. We’ll sing, I’ll tuck you in, anything you could want. Just give me a minute. Please.”

“C’mon, Maya,” Yuji took the young girl’s hand, and though you couldn’t see your son’s face, he gave you a sympathetic, anxious look, silently praying that you were okay. “Let’s give mom some alone time, okay?”

They left the kitchen with much hesitation, but the alone time Yuji spoke of didn’t last long. Two minutes, to be exact.

You recognized the footsteps easily, a sound that blended in with the sink’s running water. The footsteps were soft, and they weren’t accompanied by a greeting, a sigh, a clearing of the throat, or any sort of noise that would unintentionally announce his presence.

Your quiet son joined you at the sink without a word, picking up a wet, clean dish with one hand and a drying rag with the other.

“I can do it myself, Megumi.”

“You always let me help,” Megumi paused. “You don’t have to overwork yourself. You shouldn’t be working at all if you want to feel better.”

It was true. You always let him help. Bonding with Megumi wasn’t the easiest task in the world. Unlike Yuji, who saw you and Satoru as parents and your house as his home even before you officially adopted him almost a year ago, Megumi struggled to fit in, to get used to parental love and family games and movie nights. But slowly, and quite slowly he was adjusting to being a son. Your son.

And washing dishes together was one activity you both did together regularly. It had gotten to a point where you left the dishwasher completely abandoned and void of dirty dishes that cluttered the sink all so you could prolong your time with your quiet boy.

It was a comfortable silence more often than not, but when he was in the mood to chat, he would tell you about his day. His plans for the week. How well he was recovering from his latest mission. And that little chatter? It made your day.

And he knew it.

Therefore, for you to attempt to dismiss him made him all the more worried about your health, as if he could get any more worried. After all, while Yuji was making their little sister a sandwich, he was surfing the web, googling endlessly about your symptoms.

It was pointless. All of his results ranged from a small cold to stage four cancer.

Megumi’s steady eyes trailed over your weakened frame. Your hands trembled around the dish they attempted to scrub. You blinked slowly. Along with that, your voice was so soft, he could barely hear you.

You suddenly dropped the dish into your hands. It hit the sink harder than you attended. You closed your eyes for a long period, long enough for Megumi to reach over and tap your arm.

“I’m not sick, honey. I’m going to . . .” you whispered. “I’m going to fold the laundry, cook the kitchen, and clean dinner. I mean . . . I’m gonna cook dinner and . . .”

Your words trailed off into nothing.

Megumi put down the glass plate in his hands.

Your head started to move back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Nonsensical mumblings fell from between your lips.

Your field of vision, which amounted to a blurry mess, suddenly became vast darkness. You went weak at the knees, and started to fall backwards.

“Mom!”

Your fainting spell lasted a couple of seconds in truth, but that was enough time for you to find yourself on the couch with a blanket draped over you, staring at the hazy living room ceiling with two things on your mind: the bizarre realization that you had, in fact, fainted, and the even more bizarre realization that Megumi had, in fact, — though in a panicked state — called you mom. For the very first time.

If you had the energy, you would have smiled.

But truth be told — and you tried shoving away the undeniable truth for quite a while — you barely had the energy to open your eyelids.

The only reason you fought to keep your eyes open was to show your boys that you were, indeed, conscious and alive, to hopefully, ease the muffled, panicked voices of your sons arguing right beside you, though you could hardly make out their words.

“I’m calling Dad.”

“Yuji-”

“No, no, no, I don’t care what you say-”

“If you’d let me speak for once, I was going to say that I should call Satoru, and you call an ambulance,” Megumi folded his arms across his chest, grateful that, according to Yuji, Maya was occupied with her dollhouse right now.

“This is bad. Is she gonna die? She can’t die, Megumi,” Yuji approached the couch, tears brewing in the reddened waterline of his light brown eyes. As he pulled the blanket higher until it practically touched your chin, he said, “I’m so tired of losing people. We can’t let her die.”

“Don’t call,” you mumbled.

“Mom,” Yuji sniffled.

“Don’t call.”

“You just fainted!” Yuji glanced back at Megumi who stood a little ways behind him. “Me and Megumi aren’t . . . we don’t know what to do.”

“We don’t want you to die,” Megumi brought his hand to his lips, fighting the strong urge to bite at the skin around his thumb. “I’ll make some tea.”

“Yeah, tea’s good, get her some tea! Hurry!” As Yuji spoke, he pulled out his phone and opened his dial screen.

“Yuji, please . . .” You weakly turned your head to face him.

Your boy’s hair was starting to grow longer. Time for a haircut. He also looked more pale than usual. Pale with worry, perhaps? Worry . . . worry . . . That’s right. You were worried about their school uniforms. They needed to be washed soon, by tomorrow, at least. You were worried about the groceries, or lack thereof. A run would need to be made soon. Megumi and Yuji’s favorite snacks and meals were predictable, but Maya, what would she want? Oh goodness, she was no longer a fan of sandwiches anymore. Maya . . . that’s right. You promised your sweet girl you would spend time with her, where was she? Did she truly want you, though, or were you nothing more than a substitute for her favorite person, Satoru? How was Satoru doing on his mission? He texted you earlier, but you forgot to respond. You needed to message him back. What else . . . what else was there to worry about? Oh.

No one had a proper dinner tonight. You needed to cook. And those dishes, they needed to be put away into their proper place . . . wait, just wait. You needed to wash Megumi and Yuji’s school uniforms tonight, because tomorrow, you would be too busy taking Maya to daycare. At least grocery shopping could be done afterward- damn it. No, it couldn’t. Tomorrow was Parent Day at Maya’s daycare, a day filled with bonding activities, and you’d show up, even if it killed you. You’d just have to grocery shop afterward, but those uniforms? They needed to be washed tonight . . . and dinner-

“What’re you mumbling about?” Yuji asked.

Only then did you realize your racing thoughts were trying to be vocalized. You shook your head and tried to get off of the couch, but Yuji gently gripped your shoulders and guided you back down.

“No, no, no. No moving. You need to go to the hospital. You’re so weak, and-and you can barely speak. I’m trying not to freak out.”

You didn’t have the strength to argue, but the look of despair on your face at the idea of being hospitalized was enough to make Yuji hesitate.

“I’m gonna call Dad, at least. Don’t try to stop me.”

Yuji kneeled beside the couch, watching you with worried eyes as he pressed his phone against his ear.

Satoru answered after a few rings.

“Dad? I’m pretty sure mom’s dying-” Yuji stopped speaking abruptly. “You’re already on the way home?”

—

When your eyes fluttered open again — only then did you realize they had closed — your blurry vision wasn’t attempting to focus in on the ceiling this time around. But at your husband’s black blindfold and pouty lips.

His concerned face was merely inches away from yours. His long fingers suddenly curled around his blindfold, and he pulled it down, revealing his worry-filled blue eyes and pinched brows.

Just how long had it been since Yuji called him? Did you blink, and he seemingly appeared in an instant? Or did you slip into a realm of unconsciousness for a couple of days?

What were the terms and conditions regarding his teleportation ability? Surely he couldn’t have done so all the way from . . . just where was he, again? Africa? Australia? How long had he been gone this time around, anyway? Wait a second . . . if Satoru didn’t teleport, and days have flown by, then you were falling behind! The laundry, the groceries, and Parent Day. Oh no, did you miss Parent Day? On top of breaking your promise to spend time with Maya? But no . . . it seemed like it was the same day, as if time hadn’t changed . . . and what day was that again? Sunday? Was it-

“Baby,” Satoru stroked your cheek softly as he leaned down to kiss your forehead. He knew you better than he knew himself, and that look in your exhausted eyes told him that your mind was wandering endlessly. It was no wonder you ended up in your current predicament. “Stop worrying. Try to relax that chaotic mind of yours.”

“She’s dying, right?” Yuji rubbed his face with his hand out of pure exhaustion. “Does she need to go to the hospital?”

Satoru couldn’t help but look back at Yuji and frown. When the teenager called him, his voice laced with sheer panic, Satoru’s entire world stopped. He thought he was going to lose you, the amazing woman who was his first crush, who made him blush and fumble over his words when he was a lovesick first-year, who later became his girlfriend, then his wife, and the mother of his children. Describing you as the love of his life wasn’t enough; you were his soulmate in every lifetime. He was certain of it.

But you weren’t lying on the side of the road, bleeding to death after a drunk driver swerved and slammed into you like he imagined, nor were you suffering from an incurable, terminal illness.

“She’s just dehydrated.”

Megumi and Yuji widened their eyes at Satoru’s words.

“What?” Megumi blinked.

“All this time, she’s just been thirsty?” Yuji paused. “That’s it?”

“You could put it that way, yeah. My overworked wife forgets to drink enough water to make up for the amount of work she does. This has happened before. Twice, actually. I’m not surprised her blood pressure dropped and she fainted. Poor thing’s exhausted.” Satoru rose to his feet, scooping you up in his arms. “I’m gonna take her to get some IV fluids. But don’t worry, she’ll be fine.”

Megumi sighed with relief. Yuji collapsed on the couch, tossing his arm over his eyes.

“She’ll be fine,” Yuji repeated Satoru’s words in his head. “She’ll be fine.”

“Get some rest, you two,” Satoru said to his sons, glancing back and forth between both of them. “Unless you wanna end up like your poor mom.”

And with that, Satoru left.

When a healthcare professional inserted an IV into your veins, slowly, but surely, you started to feel like yourself again, as if you were being revived. You looked at your dear husband’s face.

And it wasn’t the same look of calmness and reassurance he had around Megumi and Yuji. That brave face no longer existed. Instead, his rosy cheeks were wet with tears. Redness circled the blue of his eyes, and his white hair was a fluffy mess. He was a mess.

“Don’t scare me like that again.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled. “I wasn’t trying to die of thirst, I promise.”

With a trembling hand, he reached out and ran his thumb across your knuckles, releasing a shaky sigh. After all, this was the same man who could hardly pull himself together when you had a small cold.

“Not gonna lecture me?” You said with a tired, yet small grin.

“Can’t do that,” Satoru sniffled. “This is my fault at the end of the day. If I was home, I would’ve been able to help you out, and-”

“Your work is important, Satoru,” You paused, leaning your head back against your chair. Darting your eyes to the bag responsible for injecting fluids into your vein, you said, “Don’t let something as silly as me forgetting to chug enough water get in the way.”

“Excuse me?” Satoru looked at you, baffled. As if you had suddenly slapped him. “You’re my precious, amazing, beautiful wife? The best thing that’s ever happened to me? I will always prioritize you over anything. My world stops when I hear you cough two times in a row.”

“Seems like you passed that urge to panic over my health on to our kids as well,” You smiled, then suddenly your smile grew brighter. You didn’t know it, but the sight of your grin made Satoru’s heart skip a beat, just like it often did back when he was nothing more than an awkward teenager with a crush on you.

“Speaking of our kids, guess what Megumi did?” Your eyes glistened with excitement.

“What?” Satoru smiled.

“Guess.”

“Okay, umm,” Satoru leaned back in his seat, looking up at the ceiling. “He actually told you he needed something?”

“Nope.”

“He . . . Oh, I got it, you two did the dishes together again. That always makes you happy. That’s gotta be it, right?”

“Nope!” You shook your head. “Well, we did, but that’s not what I wanted you to guess.”

“Fineee, I give up,” Satoru said.

“He called me mom.” Your joyous words were accompanied by teary eyes. “He was worried, and it just slipped out, but he did it, Satoru. Should I bring it up and tell him how much it meant to me, or should I pretend it never happened? Probably the latter, right? I don’t want him to feel embarrassed. I think I’ll cook him something special to eat, kinda as a way of acknowledging what happened and letting him know I’m grateful without actually bringing up the fact he called me mom. Do you think it’ll happen again?”

Suddenly, Satoru rose from his seat, leaned over, and planted a soft kiss against your lips.

“What was that for?” You asked though you couldn’t help but grin.

“You’re just so . . .” The words were lost- no, not lost. Mere words simply weren’t strong enough to describe you, and his mind went blank as he leaned in, giving you yet another soft kiss. “God, and you have the nerve to wonder why everyone freaks out over the idea of something bad happening to you.”

Another kiss. Then another. Each one deeper and lasting longer than the one prior.

Your husband wasn’t one to shy away from public affection, and though you were in a private urgent care room, you couldn’t help but grow nervous over the idea of getting caught.

“Cut it out, we’re in public. Have some decorum,” you mumbled when he pulled away for a brief moment, strands of his white hair tickling your head.

“Yeah, yeah, something decor, I hear you,” Satoru kissed you yet again. “One more.”

One more turned into three, but eventually, he sat back down in his own seat. There, he stayed, holding your hand, using his thumb to toy with the wedding ring on your finger.

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