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jjanuaryrain · 3 months ago

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Another DPxDC drabble, this time Sam going to Bruce Wayne for help

Who knows, maybe I'll add this to the dead on main fic I'm working on. We'll see. Anyway, more under the cut.

Words: 3237

The air was cold and clammy, laden with heavy gray clouds and drizzling sheets of rain when Sam Manson stepped out onto the driveway. The rain pattered a steady rhythm on her black umbrella and she folded her long batwing sleeve over her arm to shut the car door behind her. The sleek black airport taxi idled quietly behind her as she turned to take in the familiar mansion looming before her.

The wrought iron gate arcing above her head was slick with rain, but a singular call button and speaker sat sheltered out of the rain. Sam approached and reached to press the button with a single black-tipped finger. The speaker hummed to life a moment later.

“Wayne Manor, Alfred Pennyworth speaking. How may I help you?” The voice was smooth and poshly British, and Sam took a breath of the cool October air.

“Samantha Manson to see Bruce Wayne,” she murmured into the cold metal. It felt wrong to speak at any higher of a level.

There was a moment’s pause and Sam smoothed her hand over the black lace of her dress. She could do this.

“Were we expecting you this evening, Ms. Manson?” The voice replied after a moment.

Sam pursed her lips together and raised her chin. She put on her best impression of her mother. “No, you were not. However, I believe this to be a matter urgent enough to warrant such a visit.”

“I see,” Pennyworth said. And then, “Why don’t you come in out of the rain? I will contact Master Bruce once you’re safely indoors.”

Sam let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth.”

“Please, call me Alfred.”

Then the speaker clicked off and Sam took a step back so the gates could slowly swing open on their motorized hinges. She waved off her driver and watched them reverse down the long driveway, then turned back to the building that loomed above her. She took a breath.

She could do this.

⋆₊✧₊⋆

The foyer of Wayne Manor looked much the same as Sam remembered from the few galas she’d attended within its walls – vaulted ceilings, sweeping staircases, and two wings diverging off to the left and right. To Sam’s knowledge, neither she nor any of the other gala guests had ever ventured beyond the ground floor before. She wondered if that would change tonight.

Alfred Pennyworth took her umbrella at the door and she made sure to lightly wipe her boots on the mat inside the door. She felt the inherent urge to remove them before stepping further into the house, but none of the Waynes seemed to be from a similar culture, so she dismissed the feeling.

Alfred showed Sam the way to the drawing room to the right and gestured at one of the many cushy couches. “Have a seat if you wish, Ms. Manson,” he said politely. “Master Bruce is finishing up a call in his study and will be out to greet you shortly. In the meantime, may I offer you some tea?”

Sam took a seat and nodded, folding her hands in her lap. “Earl Grey if you have it, please.” Alfred nodded and stepped through a side door that Sam hadn’t even noticed. And then she was alone.

She took a deep breath and clasped her hands tightly together. She was here now, and there was no going back. If she intended to go through with her plan, she couldn’t back down now. The entire endeavor was a long shot, but it was the only option she had left.

The only option Danny had left.

Alfred returned after a few minutes with a tray laden with fine china and two steaming cups of tea. There were also tea sandwiches and scones, and Sam took one comprised of cucumber and cream cheese along with her tea. She thanked the butler again, and he backed out of the room with a bow. She almost felt like she was back in Japan.

A clock on the far side of the room ticked away the time. One minute, then two, then three. After seven movements of the minute hand, footsteps sounded from the foyer. Sam placed her teacup down and folded her hands once again in her lap as Bruce Wayne approached.

“Samantha,” he said warmly as he swept into the room. He was dressed in a crisp navy suit with the top few buttons undone. His shoes were a clean but well worn pair of loafers. “Or Sam, rather. Is that right?” Sam nodded. Mr. Wayne crossed to and settled into a chair opposite Sam, seizing the second cup of tea from the tray on the low table between them. He grinned at her over the lip of it. “To what do I owe this pleasure? It’s not often that people make the journey to Gotham, and certainly not all by their lonesome.”

Sam gave the man a small smile. She wanted to slap the joviality off his face.

“I’m afraid I’m here for business,” she said instead. “Not pleasure.”

Mr. Wayne’s eyebrows raised and he set his teacup down.

“Is that so?” He asked. He leaned back in his seat and regarded her with keen eyes, sweeping them clinically over her person before returning his gaze to her face. “What business do you wish to discuss, then? I don’t recall having any dealings with your parents in recent memory.”

“That’s correct,” Sam said as evenly as she could. She got the distinct impression Mr. Wayne was humoring her. She squared her shoulders. “I should clarify that I’m not here on my parents’ behalf. I’m here for my own interests.” He raised his eyebrows higher. “Or, I should say, the interests of the world.”

There was a pause. Wayne sat up a little straighter.

“The interests of… the world?” He repeated.

Sam nodded. “It is my understanding that you are one of the main financial backers for the Justice League. Is that correct, Mr. Wayne?”

“It is,” Mr. Wayne confirmed, eyebrows drawing together.

“And the Batman?” Sam pushed.

“Well…” Wayne laughed slightly at that and waved a vague hand in the air. “If he were to exist, then sure. But he’s scarcely more than a ghost.”

“He was on national television with Wonder Woman last week, sir,” Sam deadpanned.

Mr. Wayne chuckled and spread his hands like what can you do? Sam did not return his smile. She was quickly becoming sick of seeing his stupidly bright teeth and she hadn’t been in his presence for 10 minutes. She ground her teeth.

When Sam didn’t respond, Mr. Wayne dropped his hands and studied her face. Then he sat up straighter in his chair and met Sam’s gaze seriously.

“What’s this about then, Sam?” He asked. Sam tried not to prickle too obviously at the use of her name. “What business on behalf of the world have you traveled all this way to present to me?”

Sam took a slow breath through her nose. She unclasped her hands, blood rushing back into them at the release of pressure. She’d brought the folder, but the idea of actually handing it over had her stomach clenching. Amity Park and its inhabitants were her best kept secret, the one she and her friends didn’t dare to speak of outside of its borders. And more than that…

“Have you ever heard of the Ghost Investigation Ward, Mr. Wayne?”

The words just sort of fell out of her mouth, but it worked well enough as a start. It was clearly not what Wayne had expected her to say, at least. The man across from her blinked a few times before his face settled into a confused frown.

“I can’t say that I have. And, please, call me Bruce.” Sam nodded once. She’d expected that Bruce wouldn’t know of the GIW, of course, had even hoped so. But it still stung to be reminded how alone she and her friends had been in dealing with this for all these years.

Sam took a steeling breath. She could do this.

Sam reached into the depths of her sleeve and withdrew the folder. She set it carefully on the table between the two of them, to the right of the tea tray. Bruce tracked the motion before returning his quizzical gaze to her. Sam’s heart rabbitted in her chest, but she forced herself into calm. She breathed in and out once, then spoke.

“This file contains all of the information I have on an agency funded solely by the US government that has been carrying out unlawful experimentation on nonhuman entities for nearly half a decade.”

Silence. Wayne stared. Sam pushed on.

“Their work is in direct contradiction with the Meta Protection Acts, yet they have full authorization from and the full support of the federal government. They–”

“That is quite the accusation,” Bruce interrupted with a frown. Sam couldn’t help the glare she shot his way.

“It’s not an accusation,” she said forcefully. Perhaps a bit too forcefully, because Wayne leaned back slightly in his chair. She took a long breath and searched for that internal place of calm. This was for Danny. She didn’t have the freedom or luxury of letting her emotions control her right now.

She tried again.

“It’s not an accusation, Bruce,” she repeated more calmly. “It’s the truth. This file,” she tapped the closed brown cover and Mr. Wayne’s eyes followed the movement, “should have everything required to substantiate my claims and more. It contains copies of the contracts signed between the ward and the Homeland Security, as well as receipts for funds provided by the government in order to create their so-called ‘experimental facilities.’”

She couldn’t help the way her lips curled into a sneer as she spoke, but Wayne wasn’t looking at her. His eyes had locked onto the Homeland Security crest stamped across the file in front of him. Good.

“The file also contains records of the ward’s stated goals, recent movements, and the results of all of their experiments, up until about a month and a half ago. Once reviewed, I’m sure you’ll find that everything about this agency, from its methods to the very purpose of its creation, is at odds with everything the Justice League stands for.”

And you, I hope, she added silently. Please don’t stand for it, either.

Wayne was flitting between looking at the file and Sam, questions swimming in his eyes. Before he could interrupt again, Sam flipped open the folder to its first page. Bruce sucked in a sharp breath when he saw the file and leaned forward to inspect it.

Sam watched his eyes rove over the photos Tucker had managed to pull from the GIW’s database before they’d moved it offline: the torn and broken bodies of countless ghosts, the remains of beings that had been ripped apart for no reason beyond human hate and curiosity. Wayne’s eyes were wide as he took it all in, and his skin had paled to an ashy grey. Good.

“This is the business I traveled all this way to discuss with you,” Sam told him grimly. His eyes flicked to hers momentarily before they were drawn inexorably back to the carnage laid out before him. He pulled the file closer, mouth pressed into a thin line. “This is why I ventured to Gotham all by my lonesome and showed up on your step with no warning. These are the interests of the world I come to represent.”

Sam let him take in the horror before him, to soak in the ghastly knowledge that Sam had been living with for over a year now, for a long minute. When he took a breath and began to pull back, she snapped the folder closed and returned it to her sleeve. Bruce looked up when she did so, and she could’ve laughed at the look on his face if the situation weren’t what it was. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

“Sam,” Bruce said gravely, sinking back into his chair with a shake of his head. “This is–” he started, but Sam held her hand up. She wasn’t finished yet.

Bruce complied, leaning back in his chair and covering his mouth with a hand. Sam folded hers back into her lap.

“I am under no illusions that you extended me the favor of this unplanned meeting for any reason other than my family’s name,” Sam told him. Bruce didn’t even try to object. “So I am going to ask that you keep your opinion of me and my name in mind when I ask you for this next favor.”

Sam met his gaze, willing him to understand how much she needed this. How much Danny needed this. This was their last resort.

After a long, tense moment, Wayne nodded. “I’ll listen,” he said softly. “Whatever you need, I’ll hear you out.”

Sam’s throat tightened at the words, and she nodded stiffly. She was almost done. She could get through this.

“If you mean that,” she started, but her voice broke. She swallowed it away. “If you mean that, then what I need from you, Mr. Wayne, is a meeting with the Batman.”

The silence after the words left her mouth felt suffocating. Bruce just looked at her. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she held his gaze defiantly, chin raised. She wouldn’t let him say no. He couldn’t say no.

“The Batman?” Wayne asked after a moment. She nodded again, through the lump in her throat. Bruce frowned, steepling his fingers in front of his face. Then, “Why the Batman?”

Sam blinked. “Sorry?” She asked.

“Well, why not any of the other members of the Justice League? Surely this is something that could be investigated by any one of them.”

“I…” Sam didn’t have a response prepared for that. She squeezed her hands together. “I guess… he’s the one I trust the most to get justice.”

Wayne nodded slowly, considering her through calm eyes. “Is that what you want?” He asked. “Justice?”

Sam hesitated. There were a lot of things she wanted. Justice was one. Revenge, another. Danny to be safe more than anything, really.

But when she thought of herself, of Tucker and the people of Amity Park, of the ghosts who had simply left the Zone at the wrong time…

“Yes,” Sam whispered. Her throat burned. “I want justice.” It felt like a ridiculous thing to say, to hope for. There were so many ridiculous things she hoped for these days.

“I want to see the GIW demolished,” she continued despite herself. She clasped her hands hard, feeling the muscles shift and the bones grind. A tear threatened to slip down her cheek. “I want to see the agents pay for what they’ve d-done. I want to look every single o-one of them in the fa-face and know that they understand what they’ve d-done. The lives they’ve ruined.”

A sob bubbled up and Sam tried to push it away but it was no use. Now that she’d started, there was no stopping it, no stemming the waves of emotion.

“I want them to understand it and to be f-forced to live with it,” she said through gritted teeth. Tears slipped freely down her cheeks. “I want what they did to destr- destroy them like it’s destroyed u-us. And I want- I want anyone, anyone at all, to acknowledge that they- they left us there! They- they left us there! In that fucking town to rot! To deal with it by ourselves and we can’t- I can’t- I can’t-” Sam covered her mouth with one half numb hand, but the sobbed words came anyway. “I can’t save him!”

Just saying the words out loud had Sam doubling over on the couch, sobs wracking through her body. It felt so good to finally say it, to finally admit it to herself, that she couldn’t reel herself in.

“Oh god,” she cried into her knees. “I can’t- can’t- I couldn’t save him! He’s- and I can’t do anything!” She pressed her skull into the bone of her knees, panting into her skirt as sobs wracked uncontrollably through her body.

A weight dipped onto the couch beside her, and suddenly Sam was tilting over slightly into a strong, warm body. Mr. Wayne didn’t say anything as he held her. He didn’t offer the empty assurances she had come to expect from adults, didn’t try to convince her it was okay, or that she didn’t need to be so upset. He just pulled Sam gently onto his lap and let her cry and cry and cry.

Sam didn’t know how long she laid there, hiccupping and sniffling into Mr. Wayne’s cotton suit. It was just until the burning, aching guilt began to abate, and she was finally able to quell the tears.

Once she’d stopped crying, the two of them sat in silence for a few minutes. Mr. Wayne’s arm was a reassuring weight across her shoulder and back. Sam listened to the clock tick away across the room and tried to breathe in time with the second hand. Seven seconds in, eleven seconds out – just like Jazz had taught them.

Tears returned to her eyes at the memory, but she just let them fall where they may. She didn’t have enough energy to do much else.

“Why don’t you stay the night in one of our guest rooms, Sam,” Mr. Wayne suggested quietly. He rubbed a gentle hand up and down her arm. “Most of my children are away from home at the moment, so you’ll have the floor to yourself. It’ll just be my youngest, Damian, on the floor below you. Alfred can make it up for you now, if you’d like?”

Sam sniffed and pushed herself into a sitting position. Her face felt tight and dry despite the waterworks, and she resisted the urge to wipe at it. She relished the idea of being able to wash away her ruined makeup and sleep the day off in a real bed, rather than at the hotel as she’d planned.

“Yes,” she agreed quietly. “That sounds very nice, thank you.” She saw Mr. Wayne smile at her from the corner of her eye before he stood and called for Alfred. The two of them had a quiet conversation that she ignored in favor of gathering herself further, and then the butler vanished once again. Sam looked up at Bruce.

“You… You believe me, right?” She asked tentatively. She felt childish saying it, but she had to know this hadn’t been a waste. She had to know there was still hope. “You’ll think about what I said?”

Bruce Wayne gave her a soft smile, much realer than the ones she’d received when she’d first arrived. He returned to his spot on the couch and took her hand, looking her in the eye.

“If there is any truth to what you’ve told me,” he started and Sam couldn’t help the face she made. “Of which I have no doubt,” Bruce added quickly, with another slightly ironic smile. Then his face grew more serious, and he gently squeezed her hand between both of his. “Then I will do everything in my power to see the GIW stopped and shut down, permanently. You will get your justice, Sam. I guarantee it.”

And, just for that moment, Sam actually believed him.

#danny phantom #danny fenton #sam manson #bruce wayne #dpxdc #dc x dp #fanfic #fanfiction #idk what im doing with this #inspiration just came #and now here we are #dunno who the target audience is for this lol #me ig #alfred pennyworth #batman

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seiwas · 6 months ago

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new year superstitions (or some shit) | bakugo katsuki

wc: 1.4k

summary: bakugo's never believed in timing things for luck (or: affection is hard, but bakugo thinks it's about damn time he tries harder)

contains: written with f!reader in mind but can be read as gn!, aged up!pro-hero bakugo (mid-twenties), reader is described as pretty, vaguely alludes to reader's quirk, established relationship, fluff.

you slip into bakugo's space just a few minutes shy of touching the new year.

everywhere around you is loud, lively in the way new year's eve parties go; a group of people down the street stand outside of a bar, waving their streamers and blowing on small trumpets to welcome the next hour. from a distance, fireworks are shooting up to the sky, right above some luxury hotel having its annual countdown.

it's neither bakugo's thing nor yours to be up this late, partaking in celebrations like this, but he supposes some things are worth experiencing at least once—

the scent of your perfume hits him before he sees you, the space around him tightening in that familiar way the air around you shifts when you hold your breath. you smile, a small, gentle lift of your lips that falls into pace with your blink. pretty.

warmth pools in his stomach, building slowly to crawl its way up his neck and over his ears, overflowing to dust his cheeks.

"thought you looked a little lonely over here," you mumble, stifling your giggle as you watch him turn pink.

he furrows his brows, a soft "tsk," escaping his lips out of habit as his head turns to you. you always tease him like this; he should be getting used to it by now.

a gust of wind picks up from your spot on the balcony, pushing the glass door shut. the noise from inside muffles to dull chatter, the beat of tonight's music recognizable only by the subtle vibrations on the metal railing resting against his back.

the winter breeze seems to have tapped you, too, as you tuck your chin deeper into the red scarf around your neck.

"y'should've stayed inside," he nods to you then to the balcony door, crossing his arms, "s'cold here."

you frown, inching closer, just enough that you could loop your arm with his if you wanted, "sometimes, i can't tell if you're bad at taking hints or just really good at ignoring them."

he eyes you from the side, red vermillion the shade of your scarf—the one he gifted you just a few days ago for christmas. you pout, loosening the fabric around your neck so he can hear you clearly.

"you know," you take in a shaky breath, "this is the f-first time we're at s-something like this as y-y'know…” you pause, glancing at him to gauge his reaction, “t-together."

his nose turns a shade of pink darker; it's true, and he can hear you clearly—every tremor, every shiver. he sees you pretty clearly too, the softest hint of red on your lips. this relationship with you is new, just a little over a couple of months, and it makes him think—

"k-katsuki, are you e-even—"

it's reflex when he does it―his hand shooting out to grip your elbow, pulling you closer into his parka. right where you were standing lands a small clump of snow, fallen from the balcony of the unit above.

you look up almost immediately, a little flustered.

"s-sorry―"

bakugo feels warm despite the cold, heat blazing across his entire face as little puffs of air tickle his neck when you speak. like he said, this relationship with you is new, and though he's held you a few times already, affection, in any capacity is still something he's getting used to.

and you're aware of that too; of course you are. but when you push yourself away to create some space―

"told you s'fuckin cold."

―he keeps his other hand on your back, holding you into place.

bakugo is intense in most aspects; he meets things headfirst with no hesitation, but being this close to you makes him feel weird, a kind of unusual he thinks he should approach with caution―as if to keep himself from ruining the moment.

so his eyes wander. down the street, on the view behind you; they focus on the wisps of your hair ruffled from the earlier breeze, the tips of your eyelashes, blinking. then slowly and carefully, they land on you.

and you―

you beam, eyes widening momentarily before flashing him the brightest smile. it stills him so much that he doesn't notice your hands loosening the scarf around your neck even more, unwinding the fabric until the lengthened ends sit on your palms.

it's when you say "okay," gently and so... so... sweetly, that he feels the softness of wool hit the tips of his ears and down his neck. an ache spreads throughout his chest as he locks eyes with yours, tongue pushing against the roof of his mouth for another tsk―but you beat him to it, your finger coming up to press against his lips.

"s'cold," you giggle, a hint of teasing.

he narrows his gaze, about to retort when you both hear muffled shouts from inside the party, "ten... nine... eight..."

the group of friends down the street seem to be in on it too, echoes in unison, shouting, "seven... six... five... four..."

and from afar, right where the hotel is situated, are the numbers "three... two... one..." lit up on the sky.

you tug on bakugo's parka to draw his attention; the expression on your face is something he can't quite decipher―winter on your cheeks and your lower lip pulled between your teeth. the air around him tightens again, evidenced by the way you suck in a breath.

then, it happens all too fast―the way you tiptoe up just that little bit; your fingertips stamping chills down the edges of his scarred cheek. you kiss bakugo right as the new year strikes and the moment happens too quickly for him to notice.

"happy new year, katsuki," you whisper, close enough that it tickles his chin. it must have been a small peck, it must have been. he can only assume as he blinks it back to memory.

you've kissed before―three times to be exact, four counting this one. and he's not opposed to it (what kind of idiot would be?); in full truth, he fucking loves it.

but, affection is hard, and fuck, it's always been you initiating it―

"sorry, too much?" you mumble sheepishly, pressing your lips together, "just figured since it's the new year and all..."

―which is even more fucked by the fact that you feel the need to apologize for it.

he stares at you, bewildered out of his fucking mind that he still hasn't grown the damn balls to kiss you himself.

so, to hell with new year superstitions, he thinks; bakugo's never believed in playing to luck and chance in the first place. he'll kiss you right now because he wants to―

because it's what he's been wanting to do since the start of tonight, since yesterday, since a week ago; since you kissed him the very first time and all he could do was stand there, trying to act like the very feel of his lips pressed against yours didn't make his mind howitzer impact right in that moment.

―it just so happens that it's the new year, and it's about damn time he grows the balls to initiate it for once.

his hand reaches for your cheek before you can take a step back, fingers slotting themselves by your ear and resting against the edge of your jaw. your eyebrows shoot up, the look in your eyes something between confused and surprised. his thumb slides itself across your cheek before swiping down to touch the edge of your lips, feeling.

there's a dull warmth beneath the pads of his fingertips, heating up when he leans in. the air tightens; breath on hold as his nose bumps into your skin, and it's faint, the slightest touch of your lips against his. your eyes fall shut before his do, and he shivers, a slight tremble as he deepens the kiss.

he starts out slowly, uncertain, moving his lips tentatively. it's a push and pull―soft, quick pecks sandwiched between longer, drawn out touching. it almost feels like this moment's been suspended amidst all the noise, lips locked and gliding, lingering; he swears he can feel you grinning.

your fingers grip the fabric of his parka and tug, and he sees it as a signal to be rougher, taking your bottom lip between his and slightly biting. you squeak the tiniest bit, but it's enough to make him pull away completely, eyes wide as his thumb presses against your chin.

"fuck," he whispers, catching his breath as he tugs just enough that he can see the inside of your lower lip, "did i hurt you?"

he's squinting, brows furrowed while looking for any sign of blood when you shake your head, stopping him. his gaze shifts to take you in―your glossy lips, slick with spit; your eyes, completely blown but somehow still twinkling, and when you giggle, he almost finds it cruel you have to look so fucking pretty.

"it's just your canines," you smile, "i like them."

fuck, he really should've done this sooner.

a/n: this ended up way longer than i planned woops! haven't written bakugo in a while but i miss the guy!! and i wanted to write him so terribly flustered and bad at affection but being so frustrated because he wants to try!!! and he should be better than this!! anyway! i had this idea around christmas time but couldn't write it in time for the new year because i got sick. so it's a little late, but i hope you enjoy!

i'm not sure if you remember my dear willow @willossom, but you sent me a request a good while back for one of my events with the prompt: saying "i love you" in all the ways you aren't used to for bakugo, and this reminded me loads of it!! 🥺 though this isn't the written request for that one yet (i have something else planned for it), i just wanted to let you know that i thought of you while writing this!!!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

#bakugo x reader #bnha x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #mha x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bnha #katsu #shotorus.writes #shotorus.workbook #also bc i was scratching my head writing this for him Habfshbh i am RUSTY hELP

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tangyneon · 12 days ago

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inky, tawny, teddy!

Your tastes might be ridiculous... but Gojo's weakness for you?

Now, that's a whole new level of ridiculous.

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader tags: teen!gojo; teen!reader; tooth-rotting fluff; humor; gojo and you have been engaged since childhood because of an agreement between his clan and yours; neither of you really knows what that means now; pining looks so cute on gojo; denial too looks good on him; vaguely unestablished relationship; vaguely long-distance relationship; word count—895. warnings: none. this is a sequel of sorts to 'lychee pops!', but please feel free to treat it as a stand-alone if you wanna!! notes: many people asked me to write more for these two, so here it is, my loves!! hope you'll enjoy reading this, babes!! ❤️❤️

It's 10:30 at night, and Gojo Satoru finds himself standing in front of a vending machine.

But not for a snack, nor for canned coffee, and certainly not for that disgusting hot corn soup Shoko loves to sip, as if it isn't some crime against humanity.

No—this is the kind of machine that feels like it should be in a forgotten corner of a forgotten festival. Or maybe in one of the small shops that sell foolish knickknacks—things people don't really need, but they buy anyway.

Lit up by a single neon light—flickering, at that—the machine hums. Gojo feels a chilly breeze rush through the alley, sending a shiver up his spine and lifting his hair a bit. The night smells of rain on asphalt, of exhaust and smoke, of city life and its restless hubbub.

All the while, the boy—who should technically be asleep in his dorm right now; who could be anywhere else in this large, loud city—stays standing before the vending machine. Staring at the capsules filled with cheap things, idiotic things, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets and his mouth tugged down into a frown that is not quite a frown anymore.

This is stupid, he tells himself. Very, very stupid.

And yet, he stays right there.

He lets his eyes scan the chart of little plastic prizes—frogs, hearts, cats, stars—until something catches his eye.

A tiny teddy bear keychain.

White as snow, with round ears, stubby arms, and two black bead eyes that somehow seem to be staring right back at him.

Oh, wow, he thinks dryly.

Because the second he sees it, he thinks of you. His mind goes to the way you'd tilt your head, smiling softly because it'd remind you of the teddy bear you lost when you were a tiny kid. Even without you here, Gojo can already picture your fingers wiggling in that ridiculous little wave, a silent "I want it".

You would lose it over this thing.

The thought makes his lips twitch. Only a bit. Before he heaves a sigh as though he is being forced into something painful—even though no one is watching, and nobody is making him do it.

Nearly reluctantly, he digs a handful of coins from his pocket, then feeds them into the machine one by one—carefully listening to each sharp clink of metal—as if he is paying some kind of penance, eager for it to be over.

Soon enough, the coins are gone. And the capsule drops with a light, hollow, echoing thunk. He sighs again, then squats, pops it open and lifts the keychain by its thin gold chain.

It looks even stupider up close—this tiny white bear, dangling in the air, catching the glow of the neon light above.

Gojo stares at it for a moment.

Then—only because he feels the need to, for some reason—he mutters under his breath, "You better love this, dummy."

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Gojo wraps it up the next morning.

He's not any good at this kind of thing, though. But then again, it isn't like you are either, so he does not really care—not that the boy would have cared, were you good.

He simply scrounges up a bleak envelope, shoves the keychain inside with a bit of tissue he finds at the bottom of Geto's bag, then studies it. He grimaces, then adds a folded scrap of paper.

don't get weird about it. just saw it and thought of you. it's stupid—just like you.

Sealing it, he scrawls your name and the address of your clan's estate on the front in messy handwriting, then goes to drop it off in a nearby red post box before he can change his mind.

And then—well, Gojo heads to his classes and forgets about it.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Gojo does not actually forget about it.

He thinks about it, all day and all evening—until the moment he is sitting down with his dinner, and his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Half-eager, and half-ready to feign distraction and indifference, the boy flips it open—then pauses.

Your face fills his phone's screen—you and your bright grin, your shining eyes, and the tiny bear you're holding up beside you. As if it has made your entire day. As if it is already the most precious thing you own.

Gojo just stares at the photo.

For one beat. For two beats. Maybe for a whole minute—he is not sure, nor particularly bothered, truth be told.

His thumb hovers over the keys. He wonders if he should send back some smart remark. Or a joke.

Eventually, Gojo moves his thumb away, finding himself smiling—not his usual wide, mischievous ones, but something smaller. Maybe even realer. The kind of smile that sneaks up on the boy, softening his whole face without him meaning it to.

"Ridiculous," he mutters—but the word comes out unbearably fond, more a soft little laugh than a complaint.

He stares at the bear's dumb face for a second more. Then, shaking his head, he slides his phone back into his pocket, and leans back in his seat, eyes drifting to the inky sky outside the window.

Wondering already—already—what he can send you next.

Because if this is what it takes to see you smile so brightly from so many kilometres away, Gojo reckons he'll buy out the whole stupid vending machine next time.

#jjk x you #jjk x reader #gojo x you #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #gojo fluff #gojo satoru fluff #jjk fanfic #gojo fanfic #jjk #gojo #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #[tangyneon's works]

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mischievousmoony · 9 months ago

Text

𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝

⟢ remus lupin x fem!reader ⟢ when james and sirius prank you guys after your third date, you just have to prank them back ⊹ 1.1k ⟢ warnings/tags: no warnings i think, muggle au probably ⟢ requested

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Remus leads you into his flat by your hand, briefly dropping it only to lock the door behind you. Meanwhile, you take in the space, trying not to look like you're snooping as you strain your eyes to look at the kitchen through your peripheral vision.

You wander deeper into the flat. It's neither small nor large, and you soon come upon the living room, where you find two boys on the couch snickering to themselves. They straighten out when they notice you and clamp their mouths shut.

"Oh! Hello," you greet them.

Remus rushes up behind you. "Uh, hey guys," he says, sounding airy with nerves. "Um, this is James. And Sirius," he says, pointing to each of his roommates as he introduces you to them.

You shoot them a small wave as Remus introduces you to them.

"It's nice to meet you both," you say politely.

"Likewise," the one with longer hair, Sirius, says.

"Charmed," James, the one with glasses, says at the same time.

"Anyway, we'll be going now!" Remus' voice is up an octave, and he wastes no time to lead you away with a hand pressing against your lower back.

You wave goodbye to the boys, and your eyebrows draw together when they suddenly erupt in a fit of quiet laughter.

"So, I thought we could watch a movie," Remus says as he leads you down the hall. "I remember on our first date you told me your favorite movie was- oh no."

Remus stops in his tracks as he swings open his door. For a moment, the two of you stand immobile in his doorway.

You stare at his bed, which is scattered with red rose petals. In the center of a carefully laid heart, the petals spell out "B MY GF." And on his nightstand, an array of candles burn, filling the room with a sweet aroma.

"This- this-" Remus stammers as he steps further into his room.

You follow, and the door shuts behind you.

"I didn't- this isn't- this is-" Remus is shaking his head as he manages to rip his eyes away from the display on his bed. He holds his hands up in front of him, a sign of innocence.

You bite your lower lip to withhold the smile that's fighting its way onto your lips. "Remus," you try to interrupt, but to no avail.

"I did not put this here. I promise. I- I-"

"Remus!" you exclaim, grabbing his shoulders.

This finally shuts him up. You've never seen him look so worried. Granted, you've only been on three dates with him. Still, he looks riddled with apologetic concern.

You feel desperate to ease his nerves, and you find yourself pushing up on to the tips of your toes and leaning in to press a kiss to his lips. It's slow and sweet, and when he finally recovers from his initial surprise, it's even sweeter as he kisses back.

It's everything you hoped your first kiss with Remus would be.

When you pull away, you notice the nervous look in his eyes has been replaced by a fond, albeit confused, expression.

"I know it wasn't you," you explain. "And if the giggles that came out of the peanut gallery in your living room is any indication, I think I know who did."

"Yeah, I'm really sorry about them. About all of this. I- I would never-"

"I know," you assure him. "Our dates so far are proof that you're far more romantic than this," you snort, looking at the tacky display on his bed.

"Yeah?" he smirks, one of his hands raising to trace up your arm.

"Mhm. And however you do end up asking me to be your girlfriend, I'm sure it will be much more romantic than that."

Remus' eyebrows shoot up, and his momentary confidence fades as he begins to feel flustered under your gaze. "You think so?"

"Oh yeah. So romantic I can almost guarantee I'll say yes."

Remus swallows hard as a blush peppers his cheeks. "You sure are putting a lot of pressure on me, you know?" he says playfully.

"I'm sure you'll manage to impress me."

Remus exhales slowly to expel his nerves. He lets his hand trail down your arm and laces his fingers with yours. "How about we start that movie?" He tugs you deeper into his room, but you don't budge.

"Actually," you say, dragging out the word, your tone laced with mischief. "What do you say we get back at those roommates of yours?"

A grin tugs at the corner of Remus' lips. "What did you have in mind?"

"Just chase after me, and follow my lead," you instruct. Remus nods, and then you storm out of his room, letting his door crash into the wall as you go.

"I mean that's so distasteful! Did you honestly think I'd say yes!?" you shout loud enough for the boys in the living room to hear you.

Remus stifles a laugh as he calls after you.

You stomp down the hall with Remus following closely behind, doing his best to make his begging for you to wait sound genuine.

When you make it to the living room, you spin on your heels.

"Come on. Rose petals on your bed? Candles? Did you think I was going to have sex with you or something!? After only three dates!? God, I really thought you were different!"

"Please, just hear me out," Remus pleads, and you're impressed by his acting.

"Just forget it. I'm out of here!" You sell your act by letting your voice waver, as if you're tearing up.

Finally, you storm out of the flat and let the front door slam behind you. Snickering to yourself, you lean against the wall just outside their door, and begin to count down in your head.

Three... two...

The door swings open, and Remus' roommates rush out.

One.

"Wait! Please wait!"

"It wasn't him!"

The two boys are geared up to run down the corridor. But when they notice you waiting, nonchalantly leaning against the wall, they trip over their own two feet. James runs right into Sirius, and the pair take several moments to untangle themselves from each other.

You can't help but cackle at the sight of them. Soon Remus appears in the doorway, his own laughter mingling with yours.

James and Sirius look between the two of you, perplexed.

"Seriously? You thought I would fall for that?"

James sputters, still confused, but a smirk slowly works its way onto Sirius' face as he begins to understand that he's been bested.

"Oh, I see," you continue. "You didn't think you'd get away with that without being pranked back, did you?"

James puffs out a laugh. "I've got to hand it to you, that was a good one."

Sirius claps Remus on the shoulder. "Oh, mate. She's a keeper."

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

#remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x fem!reader #remus lupin #remus lupin fanfic #remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin drabble #remus lupin oneshot #remus lupin blurb #remus lupin one shot #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin fic #fluff #fem!reader #remus lupin imagine #remus x reader #remus john lupin

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disneyprincemuke · 1 year ago

Text

ღ this barbie has a baby

"wait a second," max blinks, hands in the air to stop the conversation from going any further than it could. the rest of the guys quiet down and slowly turn to him. "are we just going to glaze over the fact that she said she's bringing a baby to the paddocks tomorrow?"

lando furrows his eyebrows. "surely, she's not talking about an actual baby, right?" he looks around for approval. "i just assumed she was talking about a... partner... boyfriend, perhaps?"

mick shrugs, "i always just assumed she was talking about a grown person. she wouldn't bring an infant to the track."

"is no one even concerned that she's only turning 19 this year and you lot assume that she's got a baby?" alex asks, scowling at his friends as he scratches his head. "maybe she knows someone named baby?"

"she calls them 'my baby', though," mick points out as he presses his lips together. "it has to be a person, right?"

"who's betting what?" charles raises his eyebrows. "i think it's neither a partner nor an infant. a car she named baby, maybe."

max furrows his eyebrows, throwing charles a questioning stare. charles just shrugs before looking around the group to get their opinions as well.

"okay, i bet dinner that it's just a friend," alex says. "you're all going to be eating your shit when tomorrow comes."

lando shakes his head. "i still think it's a boyfriend."

"what if it's a girlfriend?"

"fine," lando scoffs, clenching his jaw as he glares at charles from the corner of his eyes, "then i think it's a partner. happy?"

mick scrunches his nose. "i am not participating in a bet about my teammate! and i've seen her car before – it's definitely not called baby."

"don't be such a party pooper," max frowns. "come on, mick, you have to have made some assumption about who or what this baby is. i still think it's an infant."

"she's 18!"

"potato, potato," max waves their concerns off. "so this is all for dinner, right? bet?"

"yeah, bet."

"mick!" she throws her arm into the air at the sight of the german entering the paddocks, waving him to approach her. "come here! i want you to meet baby!"

mick perks up, eyebrows shooting up that he's coincidentally the first face she's seen as their day starts. she's in the middle of a crowd, hands held out ahead of her as he approaches. as the crowd dissipates, he realises that she's got a stroller parked in front of her.

could it actually be an infant? oh, god, suddenly he's very concerned for her as a person in general. how could this have happened?

"this is baby!" she grins, unzipping its cover to reveal two ears and a brown sweater. "my cat!"

his blue eyes jump between the cat and the girl with a pink bow in her hair, unsure what to do with the revelation that baby is a cat. so who exactly is buying dinner tonight? "your cat? baby is a cat?"

"yes!" she beams, reaching down to scratch the feline's chin, who purrs and closes her eyes at the affection. "my dad got me baby two years ago when i finished in the top 10."

"wait," mick looks down at baby again, "is she wearing a louis vuitton sweater?"

"well, she's a sphynx," she frowns, fixing the sweater and pulling it down a little, "she gets cold sometimes." then she takes a step back with a grin, hands held out as she spins around. "and look! we match!"

"why are you spinning– oh, what's this?" lando grins, noticing the way they were conversing before he even passed through the gantry. "oh! what is that?"

"her cat," mick says through gritted teeth, eyes widening and hitting lando softly on the arm to urge him to just keep his opinions to himself. "baby. that's barbie's cat – baby."

"you named your c-" lando scowls softly, dropping his head low as the girl stops spinning. he turns to mick to hide his face away and blinks. "that's not a cat, mate. that's raw chicken."

mick simply shrugs in response. “i know.”

“she’s a sphynx! isn’t she cute?” the girl giggles, tapping lando on the shoulder. “and we’re matching clothes.”

lando stares at her. “this is baby… a cat? not even a person? not even an actual infant?”

she blinks at him. “infant? i’m 18.”

“what are you guys doing obstructing the paddock entrance and wh– hey, what’s this?” alex approaches with his hands grabbing the straps of his backpack.

“it’s baby,” lando grins, blinking hard at his friend. “a cat.”

“oh, how love– oh,” alex cuts himself off as he hunched over and looks into the carrier. he looks at lando and mick. “i imagined a more fluffy cat.”

“is that raw chicken wearing an lv sweater?” max pops up between mick and lando, furrowing his eyebrows.

“raw– she’s a cat,” she says again, pointing at baby with vindiction. “do you need to start wearing glasses?”

max grins with a small nod. he turns slightly to the men next to her. “why does her cat look something i’d find in the poultry section of the grocery store?”

“probably because it is part of the poultry section of the grocery store,” alex mutters, maintaining his grin to appease the young girl standing in front of them.

“oh, what a lovely looking cat!” charles beams, towering over the stroller wide eyed. “can i pet her?”

“yes! this is baby!” she shrieks excitedly, grabbing charles’s shoulder. she holds her arms out. “look — we’re matching clothes!”

charles’s eyes widen along with his smile. “oh! you have to get me some so i can match with you guys one day!”

“fun’s over,” max grumbles under his breath, waving his hands in the air to dismiss themselves. “i’ll see you and your chicken later.”

she furrows her eyebrows. “she’s a cat!”

— bonus

"a chicken?" oscar blinks, scowling slightly at the older men standing before him. "she has a pet chicken?"

"sphynx cat," mick points out with a tired sigh and a roll of his eyes. he turns to max, "you can't keep calling baby a chicken. you'll upset barbie."

max throws his hands in the air. "you should have seen baby! that's not a cat!"

logan tilts his head, eyebrows furrowed. "what's a sphynx cat?" he shrugs when he receives stares from them. "i'm not a cat person."

"those hairless cats," oscar explains. "have you got a picture of this said pet chicken?"

"pet chicken?" fernando had been walking by when he suddenly overhears something of a pet chicken which, in theory, is already such an absurd situation. he just has to know what is going on. "who has a pet chicken?"

"barbie."

he takes a step back. "that's some next-level rich people behaviour. not even lance owns a chicken?"

"sphynx cat," mick corrects again, looking around to ensure that she's not around to hear the guys making fun of her choice of best friend in the form of a pet. "it doesn't even look like a raw chicken, mate, it's a grey cat."

oscar grins. "so raw chicken that's expired?"

"a sphynx cat!" fernando cheers with a soft clap. "how nice! but isn't that a bit..."

"could be worse, really," mick mutters. "she told me earlier she originally wanted a tiger."

"really? what pulled her away from wanting a tiger?" logan asks.

mick sighs. "she read up that it's not very conducive for wild animals to be domesticated. she does, however, contribute tons of money to wildlife charities monthly."

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#max verstappen x reader #alex albon x reader #charles leclerc x reader #lando norris x reader #mick schumacher x reader #fem!driver #f1 fem!driver #female driver #formula 1 fanfic #disneyprincemuke #disneyprincemuke imagines #disneyprincemuke f1 #disneyprincemuke sd

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noira-l · 7 months ago

Text

𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞

⋆ ★ '𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞' - 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬

chapter summary: At a sorcerer gathering filled with tension and subtle power plays, you find yourself talking to a mysterious man whose sharp remarks leave you both intrigued and uneasy. Just as the air grows heavier, Satoru steps in, his protective charm and simmering jealousy shifting the dynamic completely.

pairing: gojo satoru x f!sorcerer reader

warnings: a little possessive and jealous Satoru.

author's note: a little shorter text, but I still hope you like it <:

The hall buzzes with low conversation, a steady hum of voices filling the corridor outside the meeting room.

You’d been here a while already, drifting from one polite exchange to another, acknowledging nods, handshakes, and quick, shallow smiles. The yearly gathering was mostly an opportunity for sorcerers to talk strategy, review successes, and hear out the latest initiatives, yet it felt more like a family reunion for most - a chance to reaffirm alliances and, just as likely, lay the groundwork for future favors. This time the meeting is being held in Kyoto.

You play the part well, stepping in and out of conversations, adjusting your polite mask as you went.

Currently, you’re listening to some young man boasting about his latest missions. He’s tall, with a narrow face and eyes that glint with a self-assured pride. His family, he mentions, is associated with the Kamo clan - a name he drops with the kind of casual reverence that suggests he thinks it should impress you. You smile, nodding along as he details his accomplishments. You half-hear him recount a cursed spirit that gave him trouble last month, barely resisting the urge to glance away and search for a distraction. His stories are neither subtle nor modest, but you keep up the polite act, occasionally tilting your head as though you’re intrigued.

Finally, he seems to remember you’re standing there. His gaze shifts, appraising you with a newfound interest, and he offers a half-smile.

"You know..." he says, leaning in with the faintest hint of self-satisfaction "... you’re surprisingly put together. Quite charming, actually."

You haven't said a word to this men in past twenty minutes.

You blink at him, momentarily thrown off, before offering a modest wave of your hand "Oh, no, no, no." you say, forcing a laugh that sounds just the right amount of flattered "I’m not that charming."

"You should accept a compliment when it’s true." a voice interrupts from beside you, its tone heavy and worn, carrying a weight that cuts through the surrounding conversations.

The voice catches you off guard, pulling your gaze to its owner.

You look up to find a man watching you, his presence both striking and unfamiliar. He stands taller than most, with a dark, gaunt face that seems almost carved in shadow. His cheekbones are sharp, hollowed, giving him an intense, almost haunted appearance. His hair, slicked back but slightly unruly, suggests an effort to appear put-together, but stray strands slip forward, defying control. The darkness of his eyes, set deep beneath tired brows, gives his gaze a solemn, wearied depth that seems to hold stories untold.

You feel the air shift around you, his words lingering in the silence between you. He doesn’t look at the man you were speaking to - only at you, as though he’s drawn to some unspoken understanding, as if in that brief moment, you were familiar, even if he wasn’t.

His presence commands attention, though he offers none of the arrogant energy your previous company exuded. He seems grounded in something heavier, something you can’t quite place.

But just as suddenly, the man gives a slight nod, almost courteous, and turns away. His attention shifts to a small gathering nearby, his focus sharp as he approaches them, blending into the crowd with an ease that belies his imposing aura.

What the...

The young sorcerer next to you fumbles for something else to say, but the previous exchange has soured your patience. You excuse yourself with a polite smile, finally free from listening to that guy's talking.

For moments there was peace and quiet.

You catch sight of the man from earlier across the hall, where he stands out without needing to try. Others seem to notice him too, sparing quick glances his way, drawn perhaps by his professional demeanor or the calm intensity with which he holds himself. Everyone greets him and talks with him.

At one point, you spot him pouring himself a cup of tea with careful precision, his movements unhurried, almost ritualistic. You sip your own tea, enjoying the quiet moment, though curiosity about him still simmers in the back of your mind.

Then, unexpectedly, he’s beside you. You don’t remember seeing him approach; he just appears there, a calm, steady presence. He glances down, assessing you with that same detached expression, before speaking in a low voice that carries even in the bustling corridor.

Damn, he's fast... and creepy.

"Are you new here?" he asks, his tone neutral but edged with curiosity "I don’t recall meeting you, miss."

You meet his gaze and reply evenly "I’m from Tokyo. Last year, I wasn’t at the meeting - missions kept me away." there’s a beat of silence, where he seems to process this before offering a low, thoughtful hmph.

You addressed him in a rather informal tone. You don't know if you're coming off as rude at the moment. Although he was the one who added something to your previous conversation and didn't even introduce himself.

You can feel a vague smell spreading through the air. Something like candles, incense, paper and... dust? You realise that he smells like that.

"Ah. That would explain it." he concludes, his voice as unchanging as his expression "We wouldn’t have an opportunity to cross paths, then."

You simply nod, sensing he isn’t the type to need a response to his every statement. There’s a weight to his presence that doesn’t invite unnecessary words, but you still can’t shake the question: Who is he?

Without any prompting, he speaks again, his tone flat as if reading off a ledger.

"That man you were just talking to..." he says, nodding subtly toward the overconfident sorcerer who’d been eager to boast of his successes "...is due to marry into the Kamo clan in a few months. Comes from a wealthy family; they’re indebted to him. Interesting technique, too."

He states it all so matter-of-factly, like he’s recounting weather statistics rather than family arrangements.

You can’t help but raise an eyebrow, remarking "You don’t strike me as a gossipy type, sir."

Make up your mind - are you keeping the formalities or not?

A faint flicker of something - irritation? amusement? - crosses his features "I’m not." he replies smoothly "I’m just telling the facts. I see no reason to explain myself for stating the truth."

You’re left momentarily silent, the conversation now veering into the faintly awkward. He doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just doesn’t care. He’s content to stand there in his quiet, unyielding way, his gaze somewhere distant.

And then, over his shoulder, you catch a glimpse of Mei Mei across the hall, watching you with a familiar gleam in her eyes.

Her smile is as polished as ever, but you recognize it well enough to know it’s not entirely innocent. She’s sizing up the situation, her eyes twinkling with a subtle mischief, and she gives you the smallest of nudges with her gaze, clearly pissed at your predicament.

You break eye contact, lifting your mug for another sip to avoid her gaze. The dark man beside you doesn’t seem to notice any of it; he’s still watching the crowd, as if nothing at all unusual has happened. But you know Mei Mei too well to ignore the sly iritation in her look. You sink a bit lower, wondering how you managed to end up in such an odd position, and decide that maybe your tea requires all of your attention for the moment.

Whatever amusement or politeness you’re managing with this stranger, Mei sees it, and she isn’t about to let it go. But it’s not as though you asked for this - he approached you, started the conversation himself, leaving you no clear path to exit.

The atmosphere thickens as you take another sip of tea, trying to hide the flicker of irritation bubbling beneath your polite mask. Mei’s gaze is still burning into you, a reminder that this interaction is already treading dangerous ground.

And this man, whoever he is, has yet to introduce himself yet holds the air of someone accustomed to observing, weighing, and speaking only when necessary. You consider, for a brief second, introducing yourself by your maiden name if necessary, a small layer of distance in case things turn even stranger.

But before you can decide, he shifts slightly, his gaze leveling with yours "I wonder if you have a problem seeing the facts." he says in that measured, heavy voice "You’re a sorcerer, looks like a stronger one; you shouldn’t have a problem with such things."

A questioning expression crosses your face before you can mask it. His words hang in the air, vaguely barbed, and you can’t tell if he’s trying to insult you or make a point.

He wants to test your control or what?

You take a breath, steadying yourself, and ask calmly, but still very confused "What do you mean by that?"

He leans closer, his face just within the edge of your personal space.

"Is seeing your beauty in the mirror difficult for you.." he asks quietly, his eyes fixed and intense "..or are you pushing this fact out of your head?"

The words hang between you, clear and unembellished. His gaze remains steady on you, unblinking, like he’s sizing you up not just as a sorcerer but as something else altogether. His face betrays no humor or playfulness; he delivers it as if it’s a truth as plain as daylight, a simple observation he sees no need to dance around. The weight of it strikes you silent, caught between surprise and…something else you can’t quite name.

In that suspended moment, you don’t know what to say. No clever remark comes to mind, and his expression doesn’t offer any clues to where he’s coming from. You’re left there, face blank, feeling as though he’s drawn back a curtain you didn’t know was there, leaving you exposed in a way that no amount of polite nods or tea-drinking can disguise.

What are you supposed to reply? This is so strange.

The silence stretches, and for a heartbeat, it feels like it’s only the two of you standing there, locked in this peculiar exchange that feels strange and entirely out of place in the bustling hallway.

"Hey, Usami!"

You turn toward the sound, finding Satoru making his way down the corridor, his casual stride breaking the almost oppressive formality of the scene. He’s late, as usual, but when the principals haven’t even arrived, can it really be called late? The man turned to the voice calling.

So this man’s name is Usami.

You barely have time to register the relief you feel as he approaches before he’s beside you, his hand casually slipping onto your hip, his touch grounding you, a gesture both possessive and protective.

He greets Usami with a look that could only be described as borderline hostile amusement "You have such a fancy watch, shouldn't you use it sometimes? You'll miss your meeting with Mei soon."

Usami’s expression doesn’t change. He meets Satoru’s stare with that same impassive, almost haunting gaze. The man's gaze fell for a moment on the hand on your hip. Then his gaze turns to you once more, eyes briefly lingering on yours in a way that feels strange, almost unfinished.

"I hope we meet again." he says, his tone neutral as he bows his head slightly. Then, without waiting for a response, he steps back and vanishes into the crowd, moving with an unhurried ease that’s almost unsettling.

Satoru’s grip tightens just a little on your hip, his body tense.

You exhale, your shoulders finally relaxing as Satoru’s hand remains at your hip, steady and reassuring "What was that all about?"

Satoru gives an exaggerated, annoyed sigh, his mouth pressing into a pout that reminds you of a disgruntled cat.

"That guy? Ugh." scoffs "I can’t stand him." he mutters, glancing at Usami’s back with open irritation "All he does is follow orders from the higher-ups without thinking. It’s like he doesn’t even have a mind of his own. Have a brain or something."

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued by his unusual pout. It’s not often Satoru openly displays this kind of irritation. He’s genuinely ruffled.

You watch Usami drift away until he approaches Mei Mei. She stands near the wall, playing with her braid, her gaze flickering toward him in a way that makes your stomach sick.

Of course, you think, feeling the last piece of this odd puzzle settle into place.

But before you can think on it further, Satoru steps directly into your line of sight, blocking your view of Usami and Mei. His fingers find your cheek, gently guiding your face toward him, his thumb brushing against your skin as he pulls you back into his focus. He lowers his glasses, his eyes are narrowed, a glint of challenge and irritation within them.

"And why..." he asks, his voice a low murmur meant just for you "..are you looking at him?" he stares at you, his blue eyes watching you closely.

You part your lips slightly, losing your focus entirely on the darker shade of his eyes and the glimmering swirlings that you see inside them. He’s waiting, his expression somewhere between curiosity and a stubborn insistence that demands your full attention.

"I’m not." you reply innocently, though you know he doesn’t believe you. His hand still hadn't left your hip, it slid over it and found its place at your waist, pulling you a little closer.

You feel warmth sneaking into your cheeks and your knees want to bend under his gaze.

Satoru’s lips twitch, but his gaze doesn’t soften "Good." he says, moving his fingers so that they are able to lift your chin higher, making you look only at him, keeping his eyes locked with yours.

"Because if you’re looking anywhere, it should be here." he finished, the corners of his mouth slightly lifting.

tl (italics - couldn't tag): @kalopsia-flaneur, @dainslumi, @syneyam, @idiotgojo, @itachiiwrites, @fidgetydeer

#gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen #gojo x reader #years to come series #years to come #gojo satoru #gojo x you #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojō x reader #gojo x y/n #satoru gojo x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu gojo #jjk #jjk usami

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celestisdivinitusinsaniavero · 5 months ago

Text

That one time, Charles had a slip-up.

[Listen, I watched Apocalypse again, and this has been on my mind ever since. I love this man so much, it hurts.]

young!Charles Xavier (Wheelchair) x Reader TW: Oral (f!receiving), dirty telepathy.

You're pacing the front of the classroom in Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, chalk in hand, as you sketch out Mendelian genetics on the blackboard. The familiar screech of chalk against the slate is comforting. You're in your element here, explaining the logic of dominant and recessive genes with an enthusiasm that hopefully borders on infectious.

"Any questions so far?" you ask, facing the class. But it's not their faces you seek; it's not them you crave validation from. No, if you're honest with yourself, you're playing to an audience of one—the one who's not even here today: Charles.

Of course, you've seen him around the mansion—how could you not? Charles Xavier, with his sharp wit and sharper suits, his intense eyes. Even seated in his wheelchair, he carries himself with a grace and confidence that sets your heart racing. His presence lingers like in the study halls, and every so often, when your paths cross, his warm eyes seem to twinkle just for you.

"Miss?" A student's voice pulls you back to reality, and you shake off the daydream with a laugh that you hope sounds more professional than flustered.

"Sorry, I got lost in thought. What's your question, Jamie?"

As you navigate the minefield of mutant teenage curiosity, something shifts within you—a sudden invasion of vivid and unexpected images almost knocks you off-balance. There you are in your mind's eye, but not as you are now. Instead, you're perched on the edge of Charles' desk, the mahogany surface cool beneath your fingertips, the ambient light dancing across your—

No. Stop that. This is neither the time nor the place for such fantasies. You cough to dispel the inappropriate mirage and refocus on the lesson. It must be the pollen of spring air wafting through the open windows, you tell yourself, or perhaps the strain of teaching genetics has finally cracked your decorum.

You walk back to the front of the class, your mind still reeling from the vivid images that seem to have hijacked your thoughts. You clear your throat, attempting to regain composure as you refocus on the genetic intricacies of Punnett squares. But it's difficult—oh, so difficult—when you think of Charles's mahogany desk, your body is there, on top of documents and pens, spread like a sacrifice for him.

"Adenine pairs with thymine," you recite, your voice a little too breathy. You fumble slightly with the chalk, and it drops to the floor. Bending to retrieve it, you're hit with another wave of those illicit thoughts.

You’re sprawled across that desk now, papers fluttering to the floor like they’re too shy to watch. Your thighs are parted, your panties soaked through, and Charles stares at you like you are his favorite meal. His breath is hot against your skin, puffing out in little gusts that make your core throb like it’s got its own heartbeat.

“You’ve been thinking about this for weeks, haven’t you?” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, like gravel soaked in whiskey. His tongue darts out, tracing the crease where your thigh meets your swollen center.

He doesn’t stop there. Oh no, he is just getting started. He’s kissing his way up the inside of your thigh, his lips soft and wet, a hint of teeth scraping against your skin in the best kind of way. And then he’s there, right on your hot flesh, his tongue brushing against your clit.

“Charles,” you gasp, your fingers clawing at the edge of the desk as his tongue slips between your folds, lapping at your juices. He’s good at this—too good—and you know why: He can read your thoughts and understands precisely what drives you wild. You’re already shaking, your hips jerking up to meet his mouth as he sucks your clit into his mouth, rolling it between his lips.

“Oh god,” you moan, your voice cracking as he slips two fingers into your dripping wetness, curling them, hitting that sweet spot inside you like he’s got a roadmap. Your thighs are trembling and you can feel the heat building in your core, white-hot and unstoppable.

“I want to hear you,” he growls against you, his breath hot and wet, and then he’s devouring you again, his tongue flicking against you in hard strokes while his fingers move at that delicious pace.

And that’s when you feel that sweet, soul-crushing wave of pleasure that starts in your toes and rips through your body like a hurricane. You’re coming, hard, your heat clamping down on his fingers as he licks and sucks you through it, drawing every last drop of ecstasy out of you until you’re a quivering, sobbing mess on his desk.

It's like being jolted awake, and suddenly, you're back in the classroom. The daydream bursts like a balloon, and you're aware of your surroundings. You're standing in the middle of the classroom, giving a lecture about... wait, what was the topic again?

"Guanytosine... cytosine..." The words are suddenly foreign on your tongue, a tangled mess of syllables. You shake your head, trying to dispel the imagined orgasm, but it clings with a tenacity that makes your knees weak.

"Any questions?" you ask, more out of need to break the spell than actual inquiry. A sea of blank teenage faces stares back at you.

"Alright, then." You manage a smile as the bell finally chimes. "Don't forget to review chapters five and six. We'll be discussing mutations next class."

The students file out, their chatter and laughter a welcome distraction. Once the last one leaves, you lean heavily against the doorframe, taking in the now-empty classroom.

Fresh air. You need fresh air. Stepping outside into the crisp morning, you embrace the solace of the estate's gardens. The manicured lawns stretch out before you. You close your eyes, taking in deep lungfuls of the verdant fragrance to push out the scent of Charles that you can’t shake.

The soft sound of wheels on gravel draws your attention. The sunlight catches in his hair, giving him an almost ethereal glow that's hard not to notice.

"Hello, darling," he greets you warmly, those expressive eyes meeting yours with a depth that always seems to see right through you. "How were your classes today?"

You open your mouth to reply, aiming for nonchalance. "Good," you manage, but it comes out more as a question than a statement. A blush creeps up your neck as flashes from that earlier inappropriate fantasy flicker behind your eyelids. You can feel the heat of your cheeks matching the roses beside you.

"Is everything alright?" he asks, his tone laced with concern.

Before you can fabricate some form of reassurance, his hand brushes against yours, a simple touch that sends a jolt of energy through you. His thoughts unexpectedly merge with yours, revealing the image you've been dreaming about—now seen from his perspective.

Your cheeks flush crimson. You either revealed your secret fantasies about him or... those vivid images were actually his, projected directly into your mind.

"Charles," you breathe, looking up at him with wide eyes

"Ah, I'm sorry about that," he says, his voice tinged with embarrassment and a playful undertone suggesting he's not entirely repentant. "I suppose my thoughts were... louder than intended."

"Your thoughts..." you begin, feeling heat rise to your cheeks again. "They weren't... "

"I projected," Charles admits with a small smile. "A slip-up. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable."

Uncomfortable isn't quite the word for it; more like overwhelmed and flustered beyond belief.

"Seriously?" you ask. "That happened unintentionally?"

"Well, not entirely," he replies with a grin. "It was bound to slip out eventually. But..." He chuckles alongside you, the sound mixing with the rustling leaves and distant chatter from the mansion. "Next time, I'll endeavor to keep my dirtiest daydreams to myself," he promises, though the twinkle in his eye makes you wonder if he truly intends to.

"Well, you could at least take me out to dinner first," you jokingly reply.

"I'll be by your door at seven." Charles smiles, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

You blink, caught off guard by his swift response. "I... wait, really?"

Charles' lips curl into a playful smirk. "Unless you'd prefer to skip straight to the desk?"

Your cheeks flush an even deeper shade of crimson. "Dinner sounds lovely," you manage to say, your voice a touch higher than usual.

"Until then," he says softly, bringing your hand to his lips for a gentle kiss. The gesture is so charmingly old-fashioned that you can't help but smile as he rolls away.

#charles xavier #professor x #x men #charles xavier x reader #x men apocalypse #x men first class #x men days of future past #x men movies #reader insert #female reader #charles xavier imagine

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dragonsfictavern · 1 year ago

Text

Reminiscent Nightmares

Astarion Ancunin x Durge!Reader

a/n: I am consumed with soft wordless sex. Total physical communication showcasing a couples intimate knowledge of each other. I love I love I love.

summary: After a nightmare of past pains you’ve inflicted, Astarion is right there to comfort you. While you feel as though you can’t talk about it, Astarion will be there for you in other ways until you can. He will always be there for you.

warning: MDNI +18 make outs, groping, soft p in v sex, clitoral stimulation. Nice and simple.

word count: 2K

Your brows furrow, shaking your head, even as you lay in a deep sleep. Squirming around in your bed a whimper escapes you as visions— no memories, whirl through your mind in a torturous loop. Pools of blood come in waves, crashing against the walls and flooding the vision of your dream. Endless faces pass the view of your eye, being presented with them all before they fall off to the side and another takes its place.

Kill after kill you’re reminded of every single one. Your mind not allowing you to forget about a second of the pain you inflicted on others. An unending stream of the damage you caused and the torture you brought upon others. All of it now coming back to you.

By the time you’ve gone through them all, you’re whimpering, tears streaming down your cheeks even though you remain asleep. Just when you think it’s over, when all is done, when you’ll finally be able to gain some release… one more head slowly floats through the river of blood.

The head slowly comes to a stop and the face that greets you is none other than Astarion’s.

You scream and a second later Astarion is shaking you awake. Your eyes shoot open and scatter around as you try and take in your surroundings, your breath is heavy with panic, and you can’t stop squirming as you feel your skin crawl. The idea of Astarion being gone, and worse by your hand, haunts your every waking thought.

When Astarion gently cups your jaw, bringing your gaze to his, you cry out at the sight of him, more tears streaming down your cheek. Astarion shakes his head, quietly shushing you in hopes to calm you down. Your tears seem unable to stop as your eyes move over his every beautiful feature. Your hands reach up, taking his face in your hold. Thumbs rubbing over smooth cheeks. You feel him. He is here. He is unharmed.

Your eyes catch onto your hands and you know that he is safe. He is safe in your embrace. You aren’t like that anymore. You don’t do those things anymore. Neither of you do. Ever since everything ended and you’ve both settled into your new lives in Baldur’s Gate. You would never hurt him, not then nor now. While there were some close calls you have full control. You’re positive.

Nothing will ever harm him. Not you or anyone. You two will spend your days protecting each other from whatever threat may come your way. You’re a team. You continue rotating through those thoughts, filling your mind with them as you inhale and exhale deeply, meeting Astarion’s worried gaze once more. His free arm moves around your waist and he brings you impossibly closer. The feeling of his body against yours furthers your comfort.

With time you eventually calm down, your breath slowing down and the panic dissipating. When fully relaxed against his body, Astarion’s eyes furrow in a silent question. You blink back, not wanting to even think about it right now. Not wanting to think about anything. So you lightly shake your head at him and his features drop just as quickly as his question, understanding you immediately.

Instead he uses his hold in your jaw to gently guide your lips to his, continuing to provide you with closeness and comfort. You inhale sharply through your nose as your lips collide. A small moan escapes you as you lean into his touch, lips simply connecting for a moment. But you both easily fall into a gentle rhythm as your lips caress each other lovingly.

Astarion’s hand slides into your hair and he uses it to pull you in closer, groaning as his mouth devours yours. Both of you quickly become swept up in the easy dance of your mouth’s movements. You whimper, everything Astarion being the only thing you can focus on. The only thing you can think about.

When he slowly brings you back down on the bed, hand on the back of your head for extra cushion, you moan again, flicking your tongue along the seam of his lips. Astarion rolls on top of you, legs cradling your hips as he opens his mouth to you. You both grin as you take turns teasing each other with your tongues. His actions meant to distract and comfort and you weren’t ashamed to say they were working.

Astarion slowly works to undress you both, taking his time, savoring the taste of your tongue on his. Only separating when you have to and then his lips are crashing back down on yours. You moan, softly pulling him down once he’s finished, your body shuddering to feel his cold skin brush along the heat of yours. The contrast sending sparks up your spine.

Your body arches into his as you feel his hand slowly making its way down your form. The sensation of his mouth and hands continuing to drive all worrying thoughts out of your head. Astarion takes his time with you, wanting to feel every groove and curve that makes up your body. His hand slips between you both once he reaches your hips.

A hiss escapes him and you feel his breath ghost across your face. Your brows furrow and you whimper, hips jolting up, knowing his next movements precisely. A moment later you feel the crown of his cock parting your folds. Your eyes snap open only to meet Astarion already looking down at you. A soft expression on his face as he gages your reactions, always making sure you’re ok. You do the same, reaching a hand to touch his cheek. You bring his forehead to rest against yours, taking a moment to connect with him emotionally.

You gasp as he teases the hole of your sex and your heart skips a beat at the slight quirk of his mouth. Which only grows wider once he hears the way your pulse instinctively reacts to him. Your moans rip through the silence as Astarion pushes inside of you with ease. Your eyelids drop as you let out a whine, the feeling of him entering you has your body filling with warmth.

Astarion easily moves straight into a languid pace, his length gliding through your wet heat as he works you open, stuffing you full of him. Your hands slide into his hair, foreheads remaining connected as he thrusts inside you. Both of you maintaining eye contact. The intensity of emotion in his gaze takes your breath away. He wants to be here for you. To look after you. And though you may not be ready to talk, he is right here to comfort you.

Your nose nuzzles against his in a silence appreciation, your chest blooming with even more love and devotion for this man. Astarion grunts, a low rumble in his chest at your sign of affection, before picking up his pace only slightly. You sigh at the feeling of his cock massaging your walls, head falling back slightly as hips roll into yours. Soon your body falls into rhythm with his, pushing back against every pump into your core.

A soft cry leaves you as he hits your G-spot. Arms tightening around him, you’re desperate to feel him close. Astarion’s hands squeeze at your waist while his cock leisurely pumps its way inside you. He nips at your jaw gently, wanting your attention back on him. Your breath stutters as your hips meet once again in a quiet smack. Tilting your head up you meet his gaze and his lips are immediately connecting with yours, causing you to groan.

Heat swirls at the bottom of your belly as you feel your orgasm begin to grow. Your hands softly play with Astarion’s curls as you kiss. Your lips moving in tandem with the steady rhythm of his pulsing length. The feeling sends your heart racing and your skin tingling. An easy passion falls over you both like a thick cloud, blocking away the rest of the world and all that remains of you and Astarion.

You whimper against his lips, mind growing hazy as you’re lulled by his soft lips and the occasional nip of his fangs. Your nerves are on fire, your entire body prickling over as you savor each time he fills you. With the building pressure within you, you know you’re getting closer and closer to your climax. Astarion groans, feeling the way your muscles tense underneath him, feeling how your body radiates heat those moves through him and drives him with a need he’s only ever truly felt with you.

His hands caress your thighs, soothing out the slight twitching occurring as you find yourself just on the edge. Then a hand is moving to the apex of your thighs, his diligent fingers quickly finding your clit. Your jaw drops slightly and he uses this to his advantage, tongue slipping into your mouth to brush along yours. Your body jolts into his touch and you melt against the slow circles applied to your bundle of nerves.

It only takes a few more soothing strokes before your walls are fluttering around his cock and you’re falling off the edge, your release coating his cock. You moan loudly and Astarion swallows it all down, mouth latching down on your tongue and sucking lightly. Your body shudders in response, making the slight shaking of your body all the more worse as your orgasm moves through you in gripping shockwaves.

You clench down on Astarion, not even aware of your actions as your release consumes you. Astarion grunts, his stomach clenching and with a few stuttering thrusts, he sinks down inside you before spilling himself. Your eyes roll back into your head and you gently grind against him, milking him for every last drop.

Both of you rock into each other slowly, helping each other ride out your highs. Your kisses grow lazy, mouths smacking together, unable to stay away for longer than a few moments. Your eyes flutter as you desperately try and stay awake. Astarion watches you, his own eyes half-lidded, a storm of powerful emotions brewing in the depths of his red gaze. Yet you don’t back away from it, instead lulled into its embrace.

Astarion rolls you both onto your sides once you’ve both calmed down. He keeps you connected as he draws you tight against his chest. You breathe deeply, your body relaxed, contentment now coursing through you as you lay in Astarion’s arms. Both of you protected. Both of you safe. You slowly begin to fall asleep, grateful for your love and the way he flawlessly has come to understand you.

A moment later you feel a hand rest on the back of your head and your body jolts a bit, the touch waking you up more. Astarion shushes you gently, leaning in to press calming kisses across your brow. You hum and snuggle back in closer to him, accepting every kind of comfort he’s been giving you since your dream rousted you two up. It was only when he started to kiss your forehead did you realize you still remain partially tense. But with his lips on your skin your body completely melts into his and you fall into a dreamless sleep without issue.

Astarion stays by your side, not wanting to get up or move away from you. Watching over you as you rest and hoping the night passes by without anything else waking you. He knows you will talk to him once the morning comes. Share your concerns and let him be there for you in that way as well. He will always be there for you so long as you wish him and doesn’t mind having to prove so. Looking down at you and thinking this all through, he can’t help but lean in and nuzzle into your hair. He closes his eyes, for even if he won’t really sleep, he’ll bask in the act if it means lying with you.

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cece693 · 8 months ago

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Doing What's Right (Edward Cullen x GN! Reader)

Summary: You came to stand as witness to Renesmee's unique nature, even when your history with her father was less than ideal.

tags: no happy ending, reader is Edward's ex, Bella is dead, Renesmee is an innocent child

The air was thick with tension as you stood with Renesmee by your side, her small hand clutched in yours as the Volturi gathered in a crescent. Aro’s hand gripped Edward, his expression one of gleeful intrigue as he delved into Edward’s thoughts. The ancient vampire's red eyes gleamed with an unsettling kind of satisfaction, the curiosity of a predator who had just discovered a rare, curious prey.

"Fascinating," Aro breathed, his voice silkier than usual. "Such a peculiar existence this child has—neither fully human, nor entirely one of us." His gaze flicked to Renesmee, lingering in a way that made your grip tighten around the girl's hand. "And yet, you all risk so much for her."

Edward flinched slightly but remained silent, his jaw set tight as Aro continued to sift through his mind. The Volturi leader's eyes then shifted to you, a curious spark alighting in their depths.

“And you,” he said, addressing you directly, “I sense a profound depth of loyalty in you, though not exactly to this coven.” His smile curled higher, as though amused by his own words. “What makes you stand beside them given your...rocky history with Edward?”

The remark hit its mark, but you didn’t flinch. “I stand for what’s just,” you replied coolly. “No more, no less.”

Aro chuckled softly, releasing Edward from his grip. “Very well,” he said, turning to his guard. “It appears the child poses no danger. For now, at least.” With a languid wave of his hand, Aro signaled to his guard to retreat. You exhaled slowly, the tension in your shoulders finally releasing. Renesmee, still clutching your hand, looked up at you with wide, worried eyes, but you gave her a reassuring nod.

“It’s over,” you whispered to her, your voice soft but firm. “You’re safe now.”

Those words seemed to break the tense atmosphere as the vampires quickly rejoiced, hugging loved ones and letting smiles appear on their faces. However, you slipped back from the group. You needed space, the pain you tried to hide these last weeks threatening to appear. Running toward the Cullen home, you wanted to leave before anyone took notice, but it was too late.

Edward cornered you just as you turned down an empty corridor, his expression a mixture of hope and desperation. “Please, just give me a chance to explain,” he began, his voice quieter than usual. “There’s so much I need to say—”

You shook your head, already feeling the familiar ache in your chest that you’d worked so hard to bury. “What’s there to explain, Edward?” you asked, turning to face him, your voice tinged with exhaustion. “You made your choice. You chose Bella. End of story.”

His expression faltered, but he took a step closer. “I know what I did,” he said, his voice strained. “I know I made the wrong choice, and I—” His voice broke, and for a moment, you thought you saw genuine regret in his eyes. “I lost both of you. I lost everything.”

Your eyes narrowed. “That was the risk you took when you picked her over me,” you replied, your tone cold and unforgiving. “And now you’re here trying to salvage what’s left because you realized it didn’t turn out the way you thought it would.”

“She was my bloodsinger,” he said, as if the explanation could somehow erase the hurt that had carved itself into you over the years. “It was impossible to resist—”

“And I was your mate,” you cut in, voice rising despite yourself. “That was supposed to mean something. But you couldn’t resist your obsession long enough to think about what you were sacrificing."

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his composure visibly cracking. “I know,” he whispered. “I know I failed you, and I know I failed her. But…you were there for Renesmee today. You fought for her—you saved her. Doesn’t that mean something? Can’t we at least try to start over?”

The look in his eyes—the hope, the desperation—it was almost enough to make you hesitate. Almost. “No,” you said, shaking your head. “We’re not starting over, Edward. There’s nothing left to rebuild. I protected Renesmee because it was right, because she’s innocent and didn’t deserve to be caught up in all this. But don’t confuse that with wanting anything to do with you.”

He took another step closer, his hand reaching out as if to touch you, to bridge the chasm between you. “But I still—”

“You still what?” you interrupted, the bitterness seeping into your tone. “You still love me? Do you even know what that means anymore? You loved Bella, too, remember? And look where that got you. It got her dead, and it got you standing here trying to scrape together pieces of a life you threw away.”

His hand fell back to his side, the weight of your words settling over him. For a moment, you thought he might finally give up, finally accept that he had lost you for good. But his gaze remained fixed on you, a silent plea lingering in his eyes.

“Please,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t leave me again.”

You felt a pang of something—regret, pity, maybe even a shred of the love that once existed between you—but you pushed it away, locked it down deep inside where it couldn’t hurt you anymore. “I already did,” you said quietly. “The moment you chose Bella over me, I walked away. And I’m not coming back.”

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helluvapoison · 1 year ago

Note

4. Trying to hide your injury from them, but failing miserably once you faint right in front of them, "5. Where does it hurt the most?" with Lucifer and reader

Injured Prompt

Lucifer Morningstar x Reader

Did you know when you roll your ankle you’re not supposed to walk on it? You might’ve known that if the Pride Ring’s hospital ever answered the fucking phone!

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ

If your boyfriend Lucifer wasn’t out and about today, making up for some odd months of meetings, he could’ve teleported you there in no time. Then again, if he was here he might summon Belphegor themself. Not wanting to bother anyone, you told yourself it would be fine. Besides with Hell’s “no checking out early” healing abilities, it would right itself on its own by tomorrow! That continued to be your mantra but as the day got away from you it became harder to ignore that stabbing pain in your foot.

It certainly didn’t help that you’d overexerted yourself by helping Charlie move things up and down the hall because Nifty had clogged the pipes (again) which resulted in minor flooding damage. The whole time it felt like Vaggie’s suspicious stare saw right through your poorly worn mask. Charlie asked no less than 22 times if you were ok to which you waved off her concerns. It took a few hours but the furniture was moved out of the room, leaving only a mushy carpet to deal with. Neither Kiki nor Alastor could be found and since Lucifer wasn’t there to snap the problem away, the princess attempted herself. However her powers were still a bit… undisciplined. The best she could do to try and evaporate the water had actually set the carpet on fire.

Vaggie rested her hand on Charlie’s shoulder with a soft smile, “It might be time for a break, babe. Don’t want you to overdo it.” She pointedly shot that part at you.

With a sigh the blonde conceded and allowed Vaggie to usher her out.

Simultaneously grateful but cursing the downtime, you waited a minute before leaving yourself. Now that you've slowed to a stop your ankle throbbed with vengeance. Peeling your sock back to take a peek, you gasped. Your foot was definitely not purple this morning! Shit shit shit, it was definitely time for a break!

You limped to the elevator, using the wall for support when Lucifer rounded the corner. Like the wall had tried to bite you, you yanked your hand from it and forced both feet flat on the ground. You grimaced, poorly trying to conceal it with a smile.

“Duckie!” You greeted through a wheeze. Has breathing been this hard all day?

With much more enthusiasm in his voice, he sang your name and rushed over. Lucifer lifted you off the ground to spin with you in his arms, unknowingly providing momentary relief. His laugh and smile were infectious. Just a second with him had swept you into the world you shared and washed away your troubles. Unfortunately they returned once he set you down and despite how gently he did, you hissed when you touched the floor again.

“What was that?” He asked with a tilted head, holding onto your waist.

“Oh, uh, I’m practicing my Sir Pentious impression!”

You’re unsure why you lied. Maybe a part of you wanted to pretend for a little longer. You think back to the time you got a paper cut and he forced you into bed rest for three days. Once he found out about your ankle nearly snapping in half, you would, inadvertently, send him spiraling into his mother duck state of mind! And the poor man never seemed to catch a break! You didn’t want to stress him out over something that would heal.

He seemed to believe your fib.

At least someone did because it was getting harder to convince yourself.

“It’s good, it’s good!” Lucifer nodded thoughtfully, narrowing his eyes. You instantly knew he was trying to recall just who the serpent fellow was. “Anywho, I ran into Charlie just now. Heard this place almost fell apart without me, huh?”

He nudged your arm with his elbow, prompting you to laugh instead of focusing on the pain. You forced the sound out a bit too much to try and make leaning against the wall look natural. It didn’t. You almost collapsed against the surface, sliding down as your leg began to give. Lucifer slipped his hands under your arms, doing the majority work of holding you up. Your head began nodding off and you realized you were face to face with him. Not a good sign considering your height difference. He was wearing his nervous grin that you knew all too well he only put on before he started panicking internally.

“Darling, is this part of the Sir Pina Colada impression? Starting to, uh, worry over here.”

“Nothing, nothing. I think… I just… nee..”

The last thing you see is Lucifer’s smile dropping entirely, pupils shrinking to worry-filled slits.

Then black.

There’s a moment while waking up where it’s pure bliss. You’re not you; you’re not anyone. You barely exist— and then you do. The worries, memories, pain; it all comes rushing up on you like a train and hits you just as hard. You scrunch your nose and pull your eyebrows together as you attempt to sit up. Silk under your palms have you acutely aware that you’re not in your bed, but Lucifer’s. And you know what they say about speaking of the devil.

“Oh no! Nonononono, I don’t think so,” He sings, gently pushing your shoulders back until you’re flat against the plushy pillows, “You’ve got some explaining to do. ”

“Fuck, ‘m sorry,” You groan, “I thought I had it under control! I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Au contraire, darling, I want to worry about you! Just maybe not that much next time, alright? I think I had a heart attack! If that’s what those feel like… Ech.” Lucifer was wracked by a shiver, shaking off the final wave with his head.

You let out a breathy laugh.

The man smiled at the sound and honed his full attention on you, forcing a serious, but soft, tone, “Now! Doctor Morningstar is here to help, so tell me, where does it hurt most? ”

“My ankle.”

You recoiled when he attempted to peel away your sock. He muttered an apology, studying your foot rather unfazed. As interesting as it was to watch him get truly somber about something, you couldn’t appreciate it right now. The fire spreading from your ankle stole all your senses and he wasn’t even touching it anymore.

“It wasn’t all purple-y yesterday right? We might have to amputate.”

“Lucifer.” You growled through grit teeth.

He chuckled. “Sorry. That one killed when Charlie was younger. Ok, ok! Pain management first, jokes later.”

There was a heavy knock on the door that made both of you turn your heads. Your eyes narrowed while a bright grin spread across his porcelain face.

“Are you expecting someone?” You asked suspiciously.

“Belphegor, of course!”

Of course.

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer morningstar imagine #injured reader #poiboiwrites

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kylobith · 11 days ago

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Boromir Week - Day 2 - Into Eternity

Prompts: Son of Finduilas, Maternal Family, Grief and Loss

Summary: Boromir awakes to find a face he has not seen in many years.

Word count: 1,040

Everything is pitch black.

Below Boromir’s feet is an endless body of water, flowing around his ankles yet unfelt. Nothing but a phantom sensation. Its gurgling sound resounds around him, enveloping him in its calming mantle. It expands far into the horizon, as though solid ground was but an abstract notion. Above his head is a canopy of darkness, where not a single star or pinprick of light can be seen. The stream’s ripples reflect no light, comforting him in the idea that he has not been locked into a closed space.

But what is it then? Where is it? How long has it been?

As he throws glances around to survey his surroundings, his clothes emit a low rustle. His chainmail sleeve brushes against his belt’s buckle. The tinkle reverberates throughout the space like a fallen coin upon marble.

‘Is there anybody in here?’ his voice rises in a cry of raw fear. It is met by nothing but an eerie silence, heavier than anything he has ever experienced. Yet he continues to call out, his gloved hand seeking the curve of the horn at his hip.

‘Aragorn?’

Nothing but the broken chord of his own cry.

‘Merry? Pippin!’

The water laps at his ankles, splattering about as he frantically spins in desperation. His eyes are wide, searching — for light, for escape, for anything other than this pressing dark.

‘F… Frodo…’

His lower lip quivers, his vision clouds as tears brim his eyes. Hot tears trickle along his stubbled cheeks, carving a path down his worn-out traits. With a soft, broken whimper, he buries his face in the large palm of his hand. He hiccups, the sound ragged and muffled, then curls inward, folding into himself as the ache in his chest twists down into his stomach. It is a sorrow he can neither name nor escape — one for which he knows he bears full responsibility, with no one else to help him shoulder its hefty weight.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

He crouches just above the water, tucking his forehead between his knees. His knuckles close onto a fistful of his hair, more than willing to yank it in self-pity.

And Boromir weeps without restraint.

A hand grazes his shoulder, light as a whisper and as a summer breeze, and he startles at the touch, as though pulled from the depths of some distant, drowning spiral. His head snaps around so sharply it throws him off-kilter. For a moment, he teeters, as if the submerged ground beneath him might give way.

‘My child,’ came the gentle voice, laced with affection and surprise, ‘what brings you here so early? What ails your heart?’

Before him stands a lean woman, her raven-dark hair cascading in silken waves down to her waist, cloaking her figure like a midnight veil. Its tresses contrast strikingly with the pale blue of her gown, floating on the water’s surface. Two glistening grey eyes fix him with unguarded concern. Boromir freezes at her sight, persuaded that his own pupils are deceiving him.

It cannot be.

As a cool breeze wafts through the silk of her garment, an unforgettable fragrance reaches him. And there is no shadow of a doubt.

‘Mother?’

He hauls himself up on his feet, staring at the apparition before him. Finduilas’ face, etched in memory but unseen for some thirty-two odd years, awakens a wound he long thought healed. He reaches out to cradle her cheek, his mouth parting and closing in silent wonder. Without another thought, he draws her close, folding her into his arms and pressing her against his sore heart.

‘Oh, my boy,’ she whispers, returning his embrace and weaving her fingers through his hair. ‘You are not supposed to be here — at least not for many more years.’

‘How can you be here? I… Where is this place?’

She pulls away, just enough to comb stray locks away from his tear-drenched face.

‘Though your body has fallen still, your conscience lingers still — for now. It too shall be snuffed soon.’

Boromir unconsciously brings his hand to the base of his neck, as though expecting to feel a pulse. There is nothing.

‘But the fellowship, they…’

His throat tightens, and a fresh wave of tears overwhelms him, stealing his breath in its merciless current.

‘I betrayed them. I breached their trust. Mother, I endangered them.’

‘They all live, Boromir. The others will be seeking the little ones. They will never be abandoned to their fate.’

‘Still, I…’

‘Hush, my baby, hush. They are alive for now, thanks to you.’

A brush of her thumb dries his tears away.

‘You did what you could,’ Finduilas murmurs. ‘Let go.’

A slow exhale rolls off his lip as he relaxes his shoulders. If he is dead, there is nothing he can do anymore. He must accept it.

Finduilas smiles from ear to ear as she admires him, her own eyes watering.

‘How you have grown! How deeply I regret having missed the years that shaped you, the events that made your character.’

‘Nonsense, Mother, you were ill, you…’

‘My hand was not that which wove my fate, I know this well — but a mother’s heart dares to dream.’

She lays her hand upon his then nods towards a path that, to the untrained eye, blends indistinguishably with the rest.

‘We must leave, Boromir. It is time.’

‘Will I see any of them again?’

‘When the time comes, yes. But do not wish it so soon. Let their destinies follow their course.’

His fingers curl around his mother’s hand as she takes a first step away from where they are standing. Boromir follows without question, the anguish in his heart ebbing away with each stride. Whispers and chants rise behind him, tugging at his attention. He glances over his shoulder, pupils searching for the source of the chorus. Nobody else comes within his sight.

O Boromir! From the high walls westward I looked afar, But you came not from the empty lands where no men are…

A peaceful smile unfurls at the corners of his lips, softening the lines of his face. He gives a single resolute nod, then turns his gaze toward the path ahead. Within a heartbeat, Finduilas and Boromir disappear into eternity.

Taglist: @emmathefanficgal @boromir-week

#Boromir #Finduilas #Boromir Week #Boromir Week 2025

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xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 2 months ago

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𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬

[ 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 ]

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈𝐈

Part I Part II

𝐚/𝐧 : I don’t know if this is what anyone expected, but I just had to write it. There’s a kind of ache that lives in my chest when it comes to Sylus—a need to take him apart, to let him shatter, to bring him all the way to ruin just to see if he can survive it. Maybe I wrote this for him, but really, I think I wrote it for myself. I needed to see what would happen if I let love break everything, and then asked if it was still worth it to keep going. Sometimes a story grabs you by the throat and doesn’t let go until you spill it out. This was that story for me.

Thank you for reading. If you made it to the end, thank you for letting me hurt him, and heal him, and bring him through the flames.

𝐜𝐰 / 𝐭𝐰 : graphic childbirth, medical distress, blood, near-death experience, emotional vulnerability, panic, references to past violence, trauma, heavy angst, themes of suffering, healing, and family. NSFW content (explicit emotional and physical intimacy).

If you have any specific triggers or sensitivities, please take care while reading.

𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐎𝐰𝐧 : [ Press Here! ]

𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 again believe the world merciful.

In the long years that followed—if years would still come for him at all, if the world beyond this suffocating room dared continue its slow, indifferent turning—he would remember that the birth of his child did not begin with the first contraction, nor even with the sudden, searing pain that shattered the air like the crack of a whip.

No.

It began in the mind, that ancient and ruinous labyrinth where every hope and every horror are twin flames, each bent on consuming the other to ash.

There was a moment—he would swear it, even as time blurred at its edges—a breathless interval before reality unraveled, when he lingered at the threshold and saw everything at once: her body writhing on the sheets, her hand flexing and unfurling with each fresh wave of agony, the slow, inevitable darkening of blood as it pooled beneath her thighs.

Midwives hovered in the periphery, their voices muffled by the deafening roar in his own skull. Above it all, suspended like a blade over his neck, was the single immutable certainty...

He could do nothing.

He—who had shattered stone with his fists and burned cities with a careless flicker of thought—could only watch.

It was then Sylus understood: the deepest hell is not for the murderer, nor the coward, nor even the damned who exult in their own ruin, but for those who love, truly love, and must stand powerless as all they cherish is broken by suffering.

The dragon within him raged against the invisible chains, snapping at bonds that held his claws from the throat of fate. Yet there were no monsters to slay, no enemies to tear apart—only the slow, relentless machinery of blood and time and pain: the indifference of birth, which honored neither strength nor prayer.

He pressed his palm to her brow. Her skin burned, slick with fever-sweat, hair tangled and matted, eyes fever-bright and drifting somewhere distant. Even now she slipped beyond his reach, toward that secret, impenetrable country where he could not follow.

How many times had he promised—quiet in the dark, desperate—that he would keep her safe? How many vows had he made, on bent knee, on bloodied lips, in the throes of need and devastation?

The memory was cruel in its clarity: the first time he claimed her in the wild heat of rut, half-mad and starving, driven by the same hunger that now left him helpless. Then he had been a beast, at least—capable of action. Now, stripped of even that small comfort, he was only a man: naked, trembling, unmade.

What is a man, but the sum of those he cannot save? What is love, if it is always shadowed by ruin?

His mind circled and circled, frantic for reason, for reprieve, for any spark of mercy. The world outside had fallen silent. All sound lived here, inside him, tearing him open, leaving him raw and emptied.

He watched her suffer, and felt himself die a thousand times before the dawn.

A groan tore free from her—low, guttural, echoing in the cramped room. It was not a sound meant for language, but for the abyss yawning open at the center of a soul. How grotesque, he thought, that agony should exist so nakedly; that the most private trial of flesh must unfold beneath the sterile glare of indifferent lights and the clinical gaze of white-clad strangers.

Blood fell, bright as accusation, spattering the floor in erratic, damning patterns. He could not look away. Absurdly, it seemed the blood wrote something—an indictment, a curse, the oldest language of all: suffering.

Voices drifted around him—soft, efficient, urgent, cruel in their detachment. The midwives moved through a choreography that belonged to another world, hands stained and faces set, not unkind but incapable of fathoming the storm that raged within his chest. They spoke in clipped commands, voices scrubbed clean of fear, as if the next moment could not possibly bring the end of all things.

“She’s losing too much—” “Pressure—here—” “Another contraction—”

The words shattered, useless, against the walls of his mind.

What did they know of love? Of the crushing weight of hope, the trembling risk of placing faith in another’s fragile flesh?

They could not see how each of her cries unraveled him, how he ached—savagely, shamefully—to climb into the bed beside her, to bleed for her, to bear her pain in his own flesh. And yet...

And yet, he did nothing.

He stood, monstrous in his impotence, forced to witness her soul fighting through the valley of shadows.

He reached for her hand—small, fragile, the hand that had shaped his world—and found it cold, slick with sweat, trembling with the effort of holding on. Her pulse stuttered wildly beneath his fingers, a frantic staccato as if her heart had already fled, beating far away where he could not follow. He pressed his lips to her knuckles—not for comfort, for comfort was blasphemy here—but as supplication, a silent, desperate prayer:

Stay. Please—stay.

A spasm wrenched her, arching her back from the sheets, and for a single, shattering instant her eyes met his. There was nothing left of the woman he loved in that gaze—only a wildness, a terror more ancient than language, older than dragons or men.

In that moment, he saw her not as mate or beloved, but as a creature remade by suffering, a vessel for some deeper, indifferent will. She was both impossibly distant and unbearably near, and he felt himself torn apart by the knowledge that she was alone, utterly alone, even as he clung to her hand.

Salt stung his lips. Tears, perhaps. Or blood. He could not tell. Time thickened, sluggish and erratic, congealing like the blood that would not stop. His own heart hammered, brutal, and his vision blurred at the edges.

Breathe, he commanded himself. Breathe, or you will fall.

But the air in his chest was not his own.

Somewhere in the chaos, he heard a ghost of laughter—hers, sweet and bright from another life. A memory, cruel and luminous, uncoiled within him. Never safe, no, but sharp and red as the pain that consumed him now.

He saw her as she had been—arched and shuddering beneath him in darkness, the fever of rut stripping him of all restraint, need clawing him into madness. He remembered her sobs, the bruises his hands left, the way her voice—soft and shaking—had called him back from the brink.

She had forgiven him then, given her heart not as a gift, but as a challenge: See what you can make of this ruin. Try, if you dare.

What arrogance had made him accept? What madness made him believe in redemption, in gentleness, after what he had done?

He saw himself then—a beast in a man’s skin, trembling with hunger and shame, afraid of his own hands and their capacity for ruin. She had chosen him, not because he was worthy, but because she had decided he would be hers.

That choice, not any violence, was what unmade him now.

He was not worthy. He had never been.

A scream split the memory, yanking him back into the present. She convulsed, fists clenched so tight her nails drew blood. The sheets were soaked, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood. He could not breathe for the scent of it, for the way it stirred the beast within—old hungers that had nothing to do with love or fatherhood. He wanted to tear something apart, to rend fate itself to pieces, but there was nothing.

Only her, breaking before him.

“Is she—” His voice was wreckage, barely human. The midwife’s eyes flickered to him, a flash of irritation and pity.

“She needs you calm,” came the reply, thin and cold as glass.

Calm. The word was meaningless.

He was a maelstrom. He was undone.

He bent low, pressing his forehead to the back of her hand, and searched—God, he searched—for words, for some way to reach her through the fog of pain. But there was nothing. He could only murmur her name, over and over, as if the sound alone could anchor her, could call her back from the brink.

A moment stretched—an eternity poised on the knife-edge of now. His thoughts spun, frantic and jagged: This is my fault. I brought her to this. I am the ruin and the witness. If she dies, it is my hands that killed her, even if I never touched her at all.

He imagined the dragon, pacing in the cage of his ribs, restless and enraged. What good was power, if it could not save what mattered most? He would have traded anything—his blood, his soul, his very name—to take her place. But there are bargains even monsters cannot make.

Her grip tightened, sudden and fierce—a wordless plea. He looked at her—truly looked—and saw she was not lost. Not yet. Beneath the agony was defiance, the same stubborn spark that had first undone him. Even on the threshold, she would not yield—not to pain, not to fate, not to him. A sob racked him, raw and helpless.

He was nothing. He was hers.

The world narrowed: her breath, ragged and fierce; her heartbeat, fluttering and unbroken; the blood, always the blood, marking love’s cost in crimson strokes. He bowed his head, a supplicant at the altar of her suffering, and waited for judgment.

If there was a god, let it see him now—broken, begging, emptied of pride. Let it measure his worth not in strength or fury, but in this: the willingness to be remade, again and again, by the pain of loving something more than himself.

He waited. And prayed—not for a miracle, but for the courage to endure.

How absurd, this hope. How pitiful, this faith, when all around him unraveled—her pulse stuttering, the hush before each fresh onslaught of pain, the cold sweat crawling up his spine as hours bled one into another.

He stared at his hands, open and trembling, as useless as wings torn from a bird. Was this what it meant to be mortal—to stand helpless while the world he cherished was threatened not by fire or thunder, but by the ordinary violence of nature? A god might strike with lightning, a dragon with flame, but here—here, the enemy was silence and blood, the relentless grind of flesh against fate.

A shiver coursed through him, born not of cold, but of the nakedness of his soul. He remembered a time before her—a time before love, when he had wandered in exile, half-man, half-beast, haunted by nothing greater than his own survival. Then, pain had been a dull ache in his bones, familiar and endurable. Now, every pulse of her agony cut him sharper than regret, more bitter than envy. Love itself was a wound—open, raw, unhealing.

He closed his eyes, found only darkness—a void shaped like longing. Into that darkness slithered questions, sly and venomous:

Who are you, Sylus? Who are you to think yourself worthy—of her, of a child, of something as fragile as family?

He searched for answers, but words shriveled on his tongue, hollow and insubstantial.

A father? A protector? A beloved? What does a beast know of such things? You, who have only ever learned how to take, how to destroy. You who made her bleed once with your hunger, must now watch her bleed for life.

He saw her as she had been, in peace—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, trust flickering through weariness. The curve of her cheek as she slept. The faint creases at the corners of her eyes when she smiled. The way she would tuck her hand beneath his chin, anchoring him to the world. Now all of it was unreachable, hidden behind a veil of suffering.

The voices in the room faded, their meaning stripped away. His whole being became a single, taut string, stretched near breaking. The midwives, custodians of hope and doom, moved with clinical detachment, their words another weight on his chest.

“She’s stable—for now.” “There’s a risk of hemorrhage.” “Monitor the pressure.”

Each phrase was another stone, pressing him toward suffocation.

He turned away, fixing his gaze on the faded, chipped paint of the wall, tracing patterns like a map of his failures. And then—sharply, painfully—he remembered his own mother, or the lack of her: a memory so thin and spectral it might have been conjured merely to fill the void.

Had she ever looked on him as he now looked on his mate? Had she ever suffered for him, or did she vanish before any such bond could be forged?

He could not recall her touch, her scent, the warmth of her arms. All he had ever known was hunger—hunger for belonging, for meaning, for a love fierce enough to make him whole.

Was this why he clung to her now? Was this why he dreaded her loss with a terror that eclipsed even death? To lose her would be to lose himself, to return to that unmoored, orphaned state—adrift in a world indifferent to his pain.

But worse—far worse—was the knowledge that she might be suffering because of him: for what he was, what he had done, what he had failed to do.

She stirred on the bed, a low gasp breaking his reverie. He snapped back to her side, reaching instinctively, though his touch was tentative, afraid she might shatter beneath his hands. She clung to his wrist, nails biting, eyes glassy with fever and pain.

“I’m here,” he whispered—not knowing if she heard, not knowing if it mattered. What good were words, here at the border of oblivion? He pressed her palm to his cheek, desperate for any proof she was still anchored to this world.

Another contraction seized her, wrenching her body into a bow of agony. He watched, powerless, as her teeth broke the skin of her lip, as the sheets bunched in her fists. Her breaths came in gasps—each one a small, terrible victory.

He remembered, then, something she had once whispered, long ago, in the hush after love:

"If we ever have a child, I want you to be the first thing they see. I want them to know you’ll always keep them safe."

What bitter irony, that all he could do now was witness, was endure.

A midwife murmured something, her composure stretched thin. He longed to rage, to shake the world until it acknowledged his torment, but all he could manage was a mute, broken nod.

Within him, the dragon writhed, frantic and impotent. Power—absolute in other moments—was now nothing but ashes. All those ancient instincts—to guard, to destroy, to claim—had been stripped away, leaving only longing and dread. What use was might, when flesh was so fragile? What solace in fury, when the war was waged inside her body, beyond his reach?

He tried to pray, but his prayers fractured into accusations.

Why give me love, only to threaten it with loss? Why let me hope, if hope must end in ruin?

No answer came—only the steady rhythm of her breath, the erratic tempo of her heart, the remorseless ticking of a clock whose hands seemed to move backwards.

His mind wandered, as minds do at the edge of despair. He remembered her first reckless smile, the courage in it. He remembered nights when her laughter had soothed the beast inside him, made him believe—if only briefly—that gentleness was possible, even for him.

Could a beast be gentle? Could a sinner be redeemed, not by penance, but by love alone? He did not know. All certainties had deserted him.

The hours stretched on. Night pressed its face against the window, indifferent, merciless. Every minute without disaster felt like borrowed time. He watched her drift in and out of awareness, her grip tightening and loosening. He found himself bargaining with fate, offering impossible sacrifices for one more hour, one more heartbeat, one more chance.

In the end, he could only remain—silent, present, unflinching. The reckoning of the self is not accomplished by words or deeds, but in the patient acceptance of powerlessness. He sat with his terror, his longing, his guilt, refusing to look away.

For her, he would endure even this: the torment of being a man, not a monster.

For her, he would learn what it meant to be remade by pain, and to wait for whatever dawn would come.

He did not know how long he remained like that—counting the rise and fall of her chest, measuring eternity in the shallow gasp of her breath. The night pressed in from all sides, absolute, suffocating, snuffing the last flicker of hope that dared to dwell inside him. Minutes stretched into a grinding march, a gauntlet of dread and expectation.

Then, as if the universe had rendered some unspoken verdict, everything changed.

It began so quietly he almost missed it:

a hesitation in the frantic pulse beneath her wrist, a slackening of the fingers clutching his own. He leaned in, searching her face for any sign—willing her to open her eyes, to speak, to defy this moment with the same stubborn will that once kept the world at bay.

But her eyelids fluttered weakly, her skin already losing its heat, the color draining from her lips. He heard the shuffle of feet, the sudden sharpened urgency in the midwives voices, as stillness fractured into chaos.

A sound escaped him—small, wild, more beast than man. He wanted to demand an explanation, but words disintegrated in his throat. He was exiled, suddenly, from the world of the living, cast into a place where only horror moved and nothing could be undone.

A chill settled deep within him, not from the night, but from the realization that she was slipping away, drawn toward a horizon he could never cross.

Her pulse—he checked again, desperate, pressing his thumb to the fragile blue vein—faded, fluttered, and faded again. The midwives closed in, their composure fissured by urgency.

Time, once a torment, fractured and collapsed. He was nowhere and everywhere. The room fell away; there was only her body, the blood soaking the sheets, the dwindling beat of her heart. He could not breathe. There was no air here, only grief and the metallic tang of endings.

He tried to hold her tighter, as if sheer force could anchor her soul, but her hand slipped from his. There was no resistance. A silence fell, deeper than any he had known—a silence that swallowed the world. He could not, would not, look away from her face.

Strength deserted him. He collapsed to his knees, the floor cold and slick with her blood, vision blurring. Still, he would not blink. He would not miss a single moment, even if it destroyed him.

In that silence, he began to bargain. Not with any god—he had no faith left for gods—but with the emptiness itself, the nothingness waiting at the border of life.

Take me. Take whatever you will. Only do not take her. Do not take them. Let this suffering end with me. Let the child breathe.

Let her wake, if only to curse my name.

He did not know if he spoke aloud or only in his mind; it did not matter. He was nothing now, only a vessel for love and terror, hollowed out by hope and dread.

Memory descended, pitiless and sharp. He saw his own hands—bloody, trembling, pressed to her flesh in violence and worship alike. He saw the wild, animal fear in her eyes the first time he surrendered to the rut, the bruises on her throat, the way she forgave him simply by returning, again and again, to his arms. Every cruelty, every moment of grace, every word uttered in need or anger—they rose now to judge him.

He remembered the first time he dared to dream of a future—something beyond hunger and exile. A house filled with laughter, a child’s footfalls, sunlight in empty rooms. He had believed, for a breath, that such things could be his.

How foolish.

Hope is a cruelty, a trick of the mind to prepare a man for loss.

His mind, always so sharp, now unraveled. He tried to summon a prayer, any phrase to ward off the void, but found only fragments—her name, his pleas, a broken litany of regrets.

If I could take her pain—if I could lie down in her place—if I could burn away every wound with my own blood—

His throat ached. His chest was fire and ice. He pressed his forehead to the sheets, heedless of who saw, uncaring if the world marked him weak or mad.

She was dying.

He saw it in the way her head lolled, in the terrible stillness where agony had been. The pain was gone, and with it—perhaps—her spirit. He reached for her face, brushed her hair back, desperate for breath, for warmth, for any sign. Her eyelids fluttered, and for a heartbeat he believed—hoped—she might return.

But the moment passed. Voices barked commands. He watched, powerless, as they worked over her—compressions, urgent words, hands frantic and sure. They called her name, again and again, as if the sound alone could anchor her soul.

He was outside of time. Nothing connected. The world dissolved into fragments: the limpness of her wrist, the ache in his knees, blood drying beneath his nails. He wanted to rage, to tear the world apart, but even rage was denied him. There was only waiting. Only watching.

In the darkness, a procession of failures: pride over tenderness, silence over truth, fury over forgiveness. He saw the ways he had tried to armor himself, only to learn that love demands surrender, not strength. He saw the first moment he called her beloved—and the last time he dared to hope.

He was naked now—stripped of story, defense, and delusion. Nothing left but truth.

He loved her. He needed her. And he was losing her, inch by inch, heartbeat by heartbeat.

At the brink of oblivion, he wept—not for himself, but for all that might have been. For the future that would never come. For the child, still silent in the womb. For the possibility of forgiveness, always a breath beyond reach.

He whispered into the darkness—a vow, a confession:

If there is any price, let it be mine. I will pay anything, bear anything. Only bring her home.

But the void answered only with silence. And the world, suspended on the knife’s edge, waited to see which would break first: hope, or the dawn.

He knelt, unmoving. His body felt distant, abandoned—a shell, emptied of meaning. He was no longer sure he possessed hands, or voice, or even eyes. His world was nothing but the space between heartbeats, the sick hush that follows a scream.

Is this how endings come? Not with thunder, but as the slow leaking of warmth, as breath fading from a winter window.

He stared, unfocused. Someone was speaking, but the words arrived broken and remote, syllables vibrating through fog. He could not distinguish language, only rhythm: urgent, then awed, then—something else.

A disturbance in the hush.

Was it a trick?

A shudder ran up his spine, the primitive terror of a man who hears the floorboards creak after a burial. But he could not move. Grief had weight, and he was pinned beneath it.

Then— Again, it came. A note, high and thin, impossibly fragile.

He froze. The world—no, the room—no, just the space between his ribs—cracked open, just a little.

He could not comprehend. The sound was too soft, too real, too terribly alive. A cry, but not hers. A sound that did not belong to the dying.

The ache in his chest sharpened, as if his ribs splintered outward. He raised his head, uncertain, his eyes gritty and raw from unshed tears.

There—across a gulf of blood and white sheets—someone lifted a bundle. It was absurdly small, swaddled tight, trembling. The room filled with the thin, insistent wailing—so raw it made the walls shiver.

He tried to speak, but only air escaped him. He watched, disbelieving, as a midwife cradled the child, examined the tiny limbs, pronounced something—what? A name? A verdict?—and the world lurched forward another half-second.

Alive.

The word did not register at first. It seemed indecent to hope, after bargaining with the abyss.

But the child did not stop crying.

That sound—a simple, animal refusal—demanded attention, forced the world to resume.

He pressed his hands to his face, as if to shield himself from the violence of hope. For a moment, he could not look. To see would be to admit life had not left him, that he was not alone in the wreckage.

He did not know how long he knelt, listening—raw, stripped, suspended.

Then, another sound: a hitch in the infant’s voice, a new tremor. Not just the rage of first breath, but the animal confusion of new existence.

And beneath it, softer still—a movement.

A hand, weak and unsteady, tightening ever so slightly in his grasp.

His head snapped up.

Her eyelids, so heavy, so gray, fluttered. For an instant—no longer than a heartbeat—he thought it a trick of lamplight.

But her lips parted, and a sigh escaped. A wordless sound, halfway between pain and homecoming.

He let go the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He watched as color, pale but present, returned to her cheeks. Not much—but enough. Enough for tomorrow to bloom.

He bent, pressing his forehead to the back of her hand, tears falling with silent violence. He did not try to speak. There were no words in him, only the animal gratitude of the condemned reprieved.

He was not forgiven. He was not absolved. But he was not alone. Not now.

He reached for her face, touching her hair, her cheek—clumsy, reverent. Her skin was cool but warming, her gaze unfocused but alive.

He knelt there, holding her hand as if it were an anchor to reality—one too immense to grasp.

He mouthed her name, a silent invocation, letting it quiver in the space between them.

He looked up, and the midwife—smiling, shaking—stood before him, holding the child. He did not move to take the infant. Not yet. It was enough to witness.

He gazed upon the bundle. The child’s fists were balled, face red and twisted in outrage at the world, each tiny breath a protest, a demand to be seen, to be held.

For a long moment, Sylus could not move, afraid to shatter the fragile spell. But the midwife lowered the child into his arms, and his body responded before his mind could protest.

He felt the weight—so slight, so impossibly heavy—settle in the crook of his elbow.

Awe descended, slow and suffocating. The dragon within him, always restless, always hungry, was silenced—brought to heel not by force, but by something like worship.

He did not sob. He did not shout. He simply breathed—for the first time since the world had ended and begun again.

He held his son, eyes wide, shoulders shaking. He looked to his mate—alive, bruised, battered, but here—and for a moment, all that had been ruined seemed, if not healed, then held.

He bent over the child, pressing his lips to the soft, wrinkled forehead.

“You are here,” he whispered, barely more than breath. “You are both here.”

He wept, quietly, as if the world might end again if he dared disturb the stillness.

He held them—his mate’s hand, his son’s fragile body—and let himself be remade, cell by cell, by the impossible fact of their survival.

He closed his eyes, and in the darkness behind his lids, there was no void, no punishment—only reverence.

For a time—he could never say how long—he remained that way: a man on his knees before the altar of survival, blinded by salt and gratitude. Each breath felt like a miracle, as though his lungs had been spared only on the condition that he would never again mistake this gift, never again believe that anything—least of all those he loved—was truly his to keep.

His world had become very small: the circle of skin he touched, the slick knuckles of her hand, the faint, miraculous flutter of his son’s heart beneath paper-thin ribs.

He pressed his lips to the backs of her fingers, not as a lover, but as a penitent—a silent act of thanks, apology, awe. Her skin was still marbled with blood, her palm rough from clutching the sheets, her nails marked with crescents of suffering. He kissed each finger, careful, trembling. He tasted iron, salt, the living world—proof that agony had not taken her.

The child in his arm quieted, hiccuping, searching blindly for warmth and safety. Sylus watched, astonished, as those tiny fingers curled around his thumb, trusting, unknowing.

The weight of the child—singular, untransferable—anchored him in a new kind of fear: the terror of being needed, of being the world to something so unformed. He knew, suddenly and utterly, that he would fail; that he would wound, even when he meant to heal; that to love was to suffer, and he would do it willingly.

He dared not speak. Words lived only in his chest, sharp and unfinished. He wanted to give her everything he had never had himself: safety, peace, a home untouched by violence or want. He wished for his son a memory not of weeping, but of the hush that follows when love, impossibly, endures.

All he could offer was a vow, born of exhaustion and surrender.

He lowered his forehead to her hand, eyes pressed tight.

“I am yours,” he managed, the words raw with the ashes of loss and the miracle of return. It was not a promise. Not a declaration. Only the naked truth—everything else stripped away.

He turned, reverently, to the child, pressing his lips—soft, unsteady—to the boy’s forehead. “You, too,” he whispered. “You are not alone.” He drew the fragile body to his chest, feeling warmth chase out the last of the night’s shadows.

The world brightened, slowly, hesitantly. A nurse dabbed away blood, murmuring something gentle. The room was warmer, no longer thick with dread, but trembling with the promise of beginning again. He heard her exhale and felt her hand tighten in his, tired but certain, a wordless insistence: still here.

Still his.

He lifted his gaze. Their eyes met, and in that look was everything unsayable: the record of pain endured, the madness of hope, the ferocity of those who refuse to be parted, even by the abyss.

He did not smile; his mouth had not relearned how. But he let her see him, every line of sorrow and relief carved deep and unhidden. If this was what it meant to be unmade, let him be unmade a thousand times more.

Time, slow and stumbling, began to move. Water pressed to her lips, a blanket tucked around their bodies, a midwife’s gentle word—neither blessing nor permission, but an invitation to rest.

But Sylus could not rest. Not yet. He was hollowed, scraped clean inside, left only with the raw edges of devotion. The magnitude of what had passed pressed in on him. He had come to the end of himself—and been handed back a life he did not recognize, a life not his alone.

He watched his son’s eyes, still clouded, blink open and shut, blind but searching. And with a kind of sacred dread, he knew he was now the answer to that search. The world would be written for this child through his hands, his voice, his failures, and his awe.

He closed his eyes. In the darkness, softer memories surfaced—not violence or ruin, but small, half-forgotten mercies: a lullaby behind a closed door, winter light slanting across a floor, the ache of having once been held and losing it. He would not lose it again. Not if it broke him.

Love, he realized, was not the easy absolution he’d once believed. It was no salvation, no promise of safety. It was a chosen damnation—clung to, cherished, even against reason. The shackle that makes a man free, the wound he’d carry forever, reverent and raw.

Love was the cut and the balm, the chain and the key, the fire that left nothing unchanged.

He opened his eyes. Pale dawn crept through the window, painting his mate’s hair in new colors, catching the soft down on his son’s head. It was a new day, but he was not new. Only changed.

He bent to kiss her brow, then the boy’s—silent benedictions for the living and the lost.

This, at last, was the meaning he had searched for through violence and longing and every form of despair: to bear witness, to serve, to suffer, and to kneel in gratitude before what he could never deserve.

He was dragon. He was man. But now, forged in agony and rebirth, he was something else.

He was father. He was beloved. He was, at last, free.

And in that freedom lived the certainty that he would suffer again, love again, kneel again—and that he would meet each new trial, not with pride or rage, but with a humility fierce enough to hold a world.

The day dawned. He did not look away.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #l&ds sylus #sylus qin #lnds sylus #lads sylus #sylus #sylus love and deepspace #sylus dragon #dragon sylus #fanfiction #fanfic #love and deepspace fanfiction #sylus x mc #sylus x reader #sylus x oc

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portraitofalinkonfyre · 1 month ago

Text

Frostbyte

Pairing: Four x Reader

Warning(s): Yandere behavior, slight mind break, so please scroll if any of this triggers you <333

Notes: Written for @heroesrest64's Haunted Heroes AU. Enjoy you wonderful person <33

Masterlist

Death, you decided, was a warm affair.

It came slow; like the tentative dipping of toes in the rolling ocean waves upon a rocky shore, or the soft laving of a child's tongue across a sweet treat.

Like something to be savored. Like something to die for.

Except you were cold; so dizzyingly cold that not even a night in the freezer could force your body temperature a degree lower, though nothing said it wouldn't further aggravate your frostnipped fingers, curled against your palm in a sad attempt at conserving warmth.

Your eyelids cracked open, flicking back and forth across the blurry landscape. It was a living room, nondescript at first, hazy glance, but you knew better. Your fingers twitched at the scratching sensation of rough fabric made itself known beneath your cheek, as though your body was reminding you that death, however likely, wasn't around this particular corner. In the center of your vision, the TV flashed a myriad of colors, igniting something close to terror in your feeble mind. What time was it? What was the date? What insanity would you face today—

Your thoughts stuttered at the gradual cool enveloping your ankle. Like a hand. Like a shackle.

"W-Who's there?" your voice cracked in your chest, throat, and tongue as the sensation ebbed and flowed—like someone had poured a vat of liquid nitrogen over your skin and... held it there—despite knowing full well who it was.

He was the coldest of them all; the one who touched you like you were something so preciously discardable, but oh-so-necessary. The one who lingered on the heels of tragedy, stalking the line between torturer and savior.

Four, you'd learned to call him.

For a split second, the touch faltered. Then, like a stab, it returned with full, frosty intent, until your foot kicked out, making sickening contact with the couch's arm, and the sweet kiss of freefall enveloped your body as it flew from the upholstery to the carpet.

Thump!

Pain exploded across your shoulder as it made contact with the floor, but it was more than welcome in the wake of the fading chill. Your nerves thrummed with adrenaline-tainted warmth—breathing heavy, muscles tense, ribs tight in your chest—and you scrambled to a half-sitting position, eyes glued to the empty spot on the couch.

If you stared hard enough, you could see the invisible glimmer of a man's silhouette, if it could be taken as anything but the terrifying ramblings of an overwrought brain.

Four, you'd learned to fear.

You'd seen him once; lips blue and eyes bluer, a thin coat of ice crystallized over his pale skin, gaze sharper than an ice shard. Even frozen, he was as quick as a whip, and neither here nor there at the best of times. It was a feat unto itself not to remember chilled fingers brushed your face In the darkness of the night, or the terrible notion of someone who was just as incorporeal as the flowing breeze.

But Four was here. Four was watching you.

Your knuckles scraped against the carpet as you scooted back against the wall, fingernails digging crescent indents deep within the sweaty flesh of your palm. Another wave of cold seemed to fill the room, swirling through the air like the invisible clutches of an impossible storm.

"What do you want?" you croaked, voice scratchy from seconds, minutes, hours, years of disuse. How long had it truly been? Did you want to know?

Nothing was said, but it didn't need to be. The faint indent in the couch popped to its normal position, and you shut your eyes in preparation for the stinging burn of his touch. Running was no longer an option, not when the muscles in your calves were tighter than rope or the curve of your shoulders could have broken down whatever feeble walls kept the incorporeal so impossibly untouchable.

The lights flickered. The TV screeched. Something shattered in the kitchen. The small clock on the wall began to spin. A scream echoed through the hallway. The puddle of water at your feet felt less and less like a figment of your imagination.

And, somehow, the cold-burned touch on your shoulder was the worst of all, searing through layers of fabric and flesh to brand itself into your very bones, taking roost within clustered marrow and scintillating blood.

If you didn't know any better, you'd say he wanted to be inside you. One with you. So connected that your body was his and your thoughts were hardly your own.

The chill ramped up. The chill threatened to consume you, all you had to do was let it.

The carpet was rough as your body fell on its side, left shoulder stinging as it made contact with the unvacuumed floor. Dropping like a fly. Dropping like you were dead. Maybe you were. Maybe you weren't.

The touch returned, just as freezing as it traced down the length of your side, only jabbing down when the ghost found the spot he was looking for. A broken whine filled the space as you curled in on yourself, trying to escape the incorporeal shard buried between the cradle of your bottom two ribs, digging in as Four sought a reaction. It was like he fed from your pain, your fear, your hopelessness, even from the first moment you laid eyes on frostbitten skin and eyes just as cold.

The lights flickered again, with far more violence than you remembered Hyrule ever possessing, and Four's touch was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

Relief was nothing short of a drug as it coursed through your chilled veins, igniting every nerve with a warmth that was just as punishing as it was welcome. Pins and needles pinpricks set your fingers and toes alight, and the pain forced your eyes to unscrew, only to snap open at the disposable cup sitting a few inches from your face.

Drink me, was scrawled on the recycled paper surface. It seems Wild's twisted humor had overcome his crazy once again. You never should have let him watch Alice in Wonderland.

It was a battle unto itself to force your stinging body into the barest semblance of a sitting position, reclining against the wall like someone too tired to continue. But that wasn't an option, not when Wild had the strength to force your jaw open to accept his food or Hyrule had the power to control your phone or Twilight could make anyone and anything do his twisted fucking bidding. Not when their anchors meant nothing. Not when you could feel them nestled in your very bones.

You took the cup with the certainty of a newborn deer, downing it in one magnificent gulp. Wild liked his creations savored, but it was better to just get it over with before he decided to get 'helpful'.

"Thank you," you croaked to the empty room that couldn't have been more full. It was polite. It was coercion.

Bedtime was a second terrible affair.

The night was cool, with just enough of a breeze that you could justify cracking your bedroom window open to breathe just a sliver of fresh air. A large shirt—so large that it hung on the pointed cusp of your right shoulder—covered most of your frame, complemented by a pair of ratty shorts that you were half sure even the ghosts slightly disapproved of.

Flopping onto your unmade bed felt like a lesser form of death, as swathes of cotton and polyester enveloped your body in a hug that felt worryingly real. You were almost concerned. Almost.

Head on the pillow, cheek smothered in contained faux goose down, and you still had no idea what or who you were. The ceiling was white and popcorned, and so was the window you'd cracked open. Maybe you could paint it blue. Or green. Dark forest sage or eye-bleed lime, it all looked the same to you.

A soft rustling of sheets caught your ear, and it was to your infinitesimal horror that the opposite side of the bed dipped and a familiar chill tugged at the edges of your sanctuary.

He was here. Four was here, and you didn't dare make a sound. Not when icy fingers fit so well over your mouth, or you could so vividly imagine what the ghost's palm would feel like as it pressed close to your jugular, feeling the structure bob up and down with each terrified gulp.

"Hi," you croaked; half alive, all dead. It was polite. It was survival.

The sheets rustled some more. The chill shifted closer. You wondered why sharing a bed with Four was worse torture than anything else, or why the thought of his ice-bound body against yours was the stuff of nightmares.

Hero of Hyrule? More like Hero of Harrasment, but you supposed it was better for everyone to keep that to yourself, not when you couldn't decide who you hated more: them or yourself.

Not when you let the dead into your bed and the ghosts of Heroes past into your heart.

You wanted to scream when something patted your shoulder, leaving a stab of incorporeal ice in its infinitesimal wake, braising the exposed skin in something you dared call a brand and realistically called a fucking birthmark from hell. Sleeping outside in the rain would be better. You'd rather have homeless autonomy to whatever fuckery this was.

Eyes screwed shut, mouth pursed. Would it matter if you looked? If you cried out? Wild would be on you in a second, pressing too-wrong fingers to your mouth, and life would seem all the more unlivable, though you knew the sweet kiss of death would only drag you deeper into this madness. You didn't want to be united to these psychos in death.

A whisper of breath fanned over your lips, and you snapped your eyes open just in time to catch bright-burn blues.

You inhaled.

You screamed.

Poor Reader :((

#linked universe x reader #lu x reader #link x reader smut #lu four x reader #lu four #yandere linked universe #yandere link x reader #yandere lu #yandere four x reader #yandere lu four x reader

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scribblesofagoonerr · 1 year ago

Text

— kArMa'S a B*TcH!

requested by @chaotic-toasters (thank you for being a therapist when needed!)

hope you enjoy the chaos, hehe.

requests are closed currently, however, feel free to drop to talk at all!

summary: reader needs therapy after witnessing that music video.

pairings: steph catley x reader, beth mead x reader, lia walti x reader, leah williamson x reader, kim little x reader

warnings: nothing but pure chaos and trauma over a certain music video...

Having lived in Switzerland, it wasn't often you got to see your auntie, so its' safe to say today you was thrilled about being able to hang out with her and more so, you'd be going to training with her and seeing the rest of the girls.

You'd been having so much fun hanging out with all of the girls, even joining in on winding some of the girls up.

"Hey, Y/N! C'mere a second, kid!" Your going about minding your own business, snacking on a sandwich in the canteen when your called out by Beth and Steph.

Poking your head up with the sandwich half hanging out your mouth, you tilt your head, "I didn't do it!" Your quick to protest.

You wouldn't call yourself a troublemaker per-say, but well, eh who're you kidding? You love being the centre of chaos.

Your auntie Lia wouldn't agree so much, it was one of the reason why you're stuck over in England for the time being right now.

Beth chuckles in amusement, "That's not why we're asking you to come over here," She pauses as she waves her hand slightly, "Come sit with us!" She encourages.

Shrugging your shoulders, you get up from your seat and make your way over to the two older girls, "What's goin' on?"

"We want to show you somethin', kid. You like watching music videos, don't you?" Steph wonders, holding her phone out in her hand but you can't exactly see what it is thats' on it.

"Er yeah, I do... Why?" You tilt your head in confusion but non the less plonk yourself down on Beths' knee instead of sitting on an actual seat.

What's the point of that when its' far less comfy, right?

"Perfect," Beth smirks and shares a look with Steph, "You'll like this then."

"Whos' music video is it?" You wonder, curiously.

"JoJo Siwa," Steph chimes in. "Your auntie told us that you like her music, kid."

"I do like her music," You nod in agreement.

Without further ado, Steph moves the phone to balance up against her water bottle before she clicks play on said music video.

You weren't completely aware of the fact that your reaction was being filmed either.

You really didn't know what to expect, given that all of all JoJos' videos you have seen in the past were normal, compared to this...

You were thrown off by the pitch black darkness, mysterious vibe of the music.

"Should I... Should I be scared about this?" You look between the two older girls with a slightly worried expression, "Wait, should I?"

Neither Beth nor Steph said much but laugh slightly, awaiting your reaction as the beat of the music started to play.

"Oooo, there's water," You take in the scene of the start of the music video, bopping your head along to the music casually, "Mysterious vibes." You state, wiggling your fingers like they sparkling.

All too soon that your watching the video and your mouth drops open, shaping the perfect 'O' shape as you stare in horror at the music video you're literally being forced to watch.

"What the-- She's making out with another girl!" You exclaim in shock, "My eyes... My innocent eyes!"

Even if you wanted to escape from watching it, you couldn't do that, considering that Beth had her arms tightly wrapped around your waist so you couldn't up and leave.

"Ah! My eyes!" You repeat as you shriek in horror, immediately trying to shield your face behind your hands. "This isn't the JoJo Siwa that I remember!" You exclaim, keeping your hands over your face while you shake your head profusely.

"Just watch it, kid. It's not that bad," Steph chuckles, amusedly.

"NOT THAT BAD?" You exclaim in horror, whipping your head to look at the Aussie, "THIS IS... THIS IS HORRIFYING!" You whine, trying to wiggle out of the blondes' arms.

"It's certainly a lot different," Beth jokes.

You continue to shake your head profusely, "Turn it off! Turn it off! I can't even... I need bleach-- I don't want to watch anymore!"

Unfortunately both of the older girls' continue to laugh at your own expense, finding the situation completely hilarious.

Of course they'd watched the video previously and as soon as they did, they knew you were the perfect one for them to film a reaction to watching this music video, considering your usual love for JoJo's music.

"This... This isn't even music-- I don't like it!" You begin to try and claw at your eyes, definitely not keen on the music video in front of you.

You manage to somehow worm your way off the blonde's knee, wriggling all the way to the floor as you do no more than lie there rolling around as you make a lot of noise shrieking like a banshee while clawing at your face, trying to scrub the memory of the video.

"Turn it... Turn it off, please!" You plead with them both, hearing the tune in the background as you continue to roll around on the floor like it would solve all of your problems.

Beth snorts in amusement at your overdramatic performance on the ground, "I don't see what's so bad about it, Y/N. It's just a music video." She comments.

"Just a music video? Bethany, that is pure vulgar-- That is... That's not even music!" Your absolutely horrified about the video; Why would anyone create something like this and actually put it out there?

The commotion you began to make was soon spotted as you lay on the floor by the rest of the girls.

"What's going on with your niece, Wally?" Leahs' the first to spot your not so normal behaviour.

"Is she okay?" Kim frowns, concerned.

Lia looks over to you and furrows her eyebrows, "I... I don't know," She watches you continue to roll around on the floor as she realises she should find out what's wrong with you. "Y/N, what's going on?" She wonders, concerned.

"My eyes, auntie Lia-- My eyes!" You exclaim, still trying to claw at them to try and block out the horror that you just witnessed.

"What?" Lias' left even more confused, trying to make sense of what is actually going on.

"Help me, auntie! Help me!" You continue to roll around dramatically on the floor, "I can't... I can't even-- I don't like it!"

"What? Y/N, sweetheart, I can't understand what you're talking about here," Lia admits, confused with your unusual behaviour compared to usual.

"Let me try," Leah suggests, getting up from her seat and joining the small group before she crouches down to your own level, "Hey buddy, what's goin' on?" She wonders, concerned.

"Pain! So much pain!" You exclaim dramatically while you still attempt to claw at your eyes.

Leah and Lia share a confused look, "Wha-- What're you talkin' about buddy, what's happened? Are you hurt?" She questions.

"Yes, yes I am hurt!" You somewhat whine in response, "I need... I need help!" You state, attempting to wriggle round on the floor, but thats' difficult with Leahs' hand resting on you to stop doing exactly that.

"Your hurt?" Lia immediately kneels down beside you and tries to inspect which part of your body is injured, "Where hurts, Y/N? Tell me so I can get help!" She panicks slightly, trying to figure out what it is that's exactly wrong.

"You... You can't help, the pains' in my eyes-- I need to bleach them!" You murmer, trying to erase the memory of the video but having no luck.

"What?" Lia's even more confused now before she glances at the older girls' giggling to themselves like school girls, "What is going on?" She asks.

"We thought we'd show Y/N the new music video that JoJo Siwa released," Beth snickers, finding it hilarious to watch your initial reaction to it.

Lia furrows her eyebrows even more confused than before, not understand whats' so bad about that.

"Are you girls crazy? Why... Why an earth would you show a little girl that type of video?" Kims' voice barks aloud, overhearing the conversation.

"Hey! I'm not a little girl. I'm almost 13, you know!" Your quick to protest, causing from the mid meltdown. "I'm... I'm traumatised, auntie Lia!" You exclaim.

"Show me the video? It can't be that bad," Lia gestures for Steph to press play on the video, so that herself and Leah can understand it and within the first minute or so in, her expression completely changes, "What is wrong with you two? Why an earth would you traumatise my niece with that sort of video!" She barks at them.

"Exactly my point," Kim waves her hand off, like she was talking sense the whole time.

"That is... That is one crazy video," Leah murmers as her eyes widen in disbelief, knowing its' no wonder the way that you suddenly reacted when you saw it.

"See, auntie Lia? Its' pure trauma... I need therapy!" You whine dramatically, shaking your head profusely, "Months and months of therapy!"

"Well, shes' not wrong there," Leah snorts, trying to stifle her laughter when Lia looks at her unimpressed, "But eh, yeah, seriously, girls... Why would you show her that?" She tries to act like the responsible adult that she is.

Safe to say that Steph and Beth found the whole situation most amusing to watch you freak out mentally, of course taking the opporunity to taunt you with that god-awful song.

At any given time of the day...

Curse that stupid song that exsists.

Like the moment that you're peacefully minding your own business, sat on the sidelines of the pitch messing around with your Nintendo Switch, having a blast on Mario Kart when Steph decides to walk over to you, casually picking up her water bottle to take a few swigs before she starts to hum that familiar tune.

"No," You whine, going to cover your ears.

You swear that Steph even smirks at you at one point, before she continues to go about humming the god-awful song.

"No, no, no stop-- I need bleach... I need to bleach my ears out!" You whine dramatically, trying to block it all out, "STOP ITTTTT!"

"kArMa'S a BiTcH--"

"Auntie Lia! Auntie Lia! Help me, Stephs' singing that song!" Of course you tattle-tale straight away, being the shit-stirring little menance that you are, "Auntieeeee Lia, make her stop singin'!" You continue to whine dramatically.

#woso x reader #lia walti x reader #leah williamson x reader #steph catley x reader #beth mead x reader #kim little x reader #arsenal wfc x reader #scribblesofagoonerr #woso one shot #woso fanfics #woso imagine #arsenal women x reader

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