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meatsaint · 5 months ago

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The Genius, Michael Gavey.

Michael Gavey x Reader.

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, masturbation, foul language, loss of virginity, cum control.

English is not my first language, so I hope you will forgive me if there are any mistakes.

oneshot.

Michael’s good at a lot of things, and he knows it. Brilliant, really. Genius, if we're being honest. Maths? Please—he’s never even touched a calculator. Numbers are his domain, his sanctuary, the one place where he feels entirely at ease. Books too—though never fantasy; he’d rather lose himself in something real, something concrete. But everything else? Social skills? A complete disaster, really. Painful to watch.

It’s not as if anyone’s queuing up to see what’s behind those smudged glasses or that same red sweater he pulls on every Monday. And that's fine. Honestly, it is. He's made peace with it. It’s their loss, isn’t it? That's the mantra he clings to, the thread keeping his fragile ego intact: They're the ones missing out. And God, doesn’t he need to believe it.

When you arrived in Oxford, it hit him hard. Why? Because even when he was buried in the silence of the library, there you were, watching him. Always watching. Maybe intending to read a book—upside down, no less—or lounging with your legs thrown over a table, headphones blaring as if you couldn't care less about the world around you.

Michael Gavey isn't used to being seen. For fuck’s sake, he’s Michael Gavey. Nobody. Invisible, as he’s always preferred. But then you came along, and suddenly, invisibility wasn't an option. You became something else entirely: a problem, a distraction, a bloody nuisance he couldn’t seem to get rid of. And maybe, deep down, that’s what scared him most.

So, naturally, his response was to start staring back. Maybe if he leaned into being a proper weirdo, you’d back off. But no, of course not. You didn't flinch. You just stared right back, unwavering, unbothered. It didn't take long for one of the teachers to step in, warning him, of all people, to knock it off. And you? You just smiled. Smiled like you'd won some secret, twisted game, baring all your teeth like a predator who'd just cornered its prey.

When he squinted at you, furrowing his eyebrows in some attempt to decode whatever the hell was going on, you simply glanced at the table, still grinning like you had a secret you were dying to keep.

What was your problem? Were you planning something? Was there a game being played here, something sinister he couldn’t quite see? The questions clawed at him, gnawed at his focus, and yet, no answers came. Only that smile. God, he hated it.

Things weren't improving, no, they were deteriorating rather quickly. And it all took a turn for the bizarre when, in the dead of night, he awoke still half hard, with his shorts drenched in cum and his mind? Cluttered with vivid memories of a particular dream from the previous night. Never had he scrubbed a piece of clothing with such fury in his life; this treacherous body was doing him in. And the most egregious part? His cock was a bloody jest, because even after such mortification, he had to wank off once more just to make the torment subside.

That day, the Oxford corridors felt like they were smoldering beneath him, each step fueling the inferno inside his chest. His sneakers might as well have been on fire for how much he burned with rage. And then he saw you, loitering by your locker, looking infuriatingly calm as always. It was like you wanted to drive him insane.

He stormed over, slamming your locker shut with a single hand, his nostrils flaring like he was ready to tear you apart—not literally, of course. Well, maybe a little. He was unraveled, utterly tormented, and you? You were only making it worse.

“Stop.” The word came out flat, almost pitiful, his voice cracking under the weight of his irritation. His blue eyes, usually so sharp, were clouded and bloodshot, as if they’d been scorched by his fury.

“With what?” you asked, tilting an eyebrow, that insufferable smirk tugging at your lips. Carefree. Effortless. It made his teeth grind in pure frustration. He didn’t even understand why he felt so unhinged—just that he did.

“What the hell do you want?” he barked, his voice echoing down the corridor. Heads turned, a few people pausing to glance at the scene, but you didn't so much as flinch. No fear, no embarrassment. You just leaned lazily against your locker, staring at him down like you had all the time in the world.

“Your number, to start with, would be great.” The words hit him like a physical blow. His pupils dilated so fast it felt like the world had tilted. If darkness swallowed everything right then and there, he was convinced he’d still see you.

And that’s when everything shifted. You weren’t messing with him—not in the way he’d thought. No, you were interested in him. The realisation hit Michael like a slap, and even then, his perpetually self-loathing brain struggled to piece it all together. For once, his stupid mind was just that: stupid.

But then the messages started, tentative at first, and something clicked. You actually got on—really got on. It was strange, almost unnerving, how much you seemed to have in common. You liked some of the same nerdy things as him, and he found himself listening to bands he’d previously written off because you mentioned them. Slowly, the conversations moved out of his phone and into the library, where you started sitting at the same table.

People noticed, of course. Curious glances trailed after the two of you, some even daring to linger when Michael—Michael Gavey, of all people—was caught smiling. Not a smirk or a grimace, but an actual smile, albeit half-hidden behind his hand. But it was there, and for once, he didn’t mind. Not entirely.

And then, on a Friday night when everything seemed eerily serene, the text message arrived. 'Do you want to come to my dorm?' Panic ensued. Perhaps it's a tad presumptuous to assume you want to fuck him, isn't it? Yet, he was presuming precisely that. But the truth is, Michael has only kissed one girl in his entire life; otherwise, his knowledge comes from pornography, books about the human anatomy, and the hushed conversations in the men's locker room. And it's not that he didn't want to; in fact, he wanted to, desperately so, but the truth was that no one seemed sufficiently captivated to offer him the chance. But you, you were offering. Maybe. What does one do with that?

He took a shower, donned his usual jeans and a white shirt, slipped on his sneakers, and even spent time before the mirror wrestling with his blond hair, to little avail, of course. He decided he wouldn't be a coward; he had this chance, maybe, and he wouldn't squander it with timidity. He made his way to the girls' dorm on campus, garnering more than a few disdainful looks from the passing girls. It was just because it was him; if it were Felix sneaking in, they'd be all smiles. But who cares? There was only one person he hoped would truly appreciate his presence. He reached your door, his breath caught in his throat, and knocked so feebly that perhaps he thought you wouldn't even hear. Pathetic, honestly.

But you heard him, and when you opened the door, he froze for a moment. You'd just taken a shower; your skin was still slightly flushed from the hot water, wearing an oversized shirt, once black but now faded to grey, and some pajama shorts that honestly looked more like his underwear than actual shorts. He swallowed hard, managing a crooked smile. You leaned against the doorframe, your smile much more genuine.

"You came." The words slipped from your lips with such ease, rolling off your tongue with a genuine satisfaction that straightened his crooked smile.

"Yeah, well. It's not like I have anything better to do, of course." His reply lacked the sharpness he'd rehearsed in his mind, accompanied by a glance at the floor and a stupid, silly smile.

"Yeah, of course." You laughed, rolling your eyes, and turned your body to give him space to enter, if he wanted to, though he looked as if he might bolt at any second.

But he didn't run away; no, he actually stepped inside. The room was like most others, yet he was struck by how orderly it was. Like any typical dorm, there was the TV, the two single beds, a small table, and in the corner of an adjacent smaller room, the bathroom. The scent of cleaning products lingered, indicating you'd taken the time to tidy up before inviting him over. This shouldn't have pleased him as much as it did, but it did.

"Just take off your sneakers before you lay on the bed," you said with that nonchalant tone of yours, picking up the TV remote from the table.

He glanced at the paused movie on the screen before turning his attention to the bed. His mind wasn't exactly racing as he sat down, beginning to untie his sneakers, but his focus soon shifted to the side of your face. He was transfixed by how your hair framed your features, how your lips were so perfectly shaped, and how your eyebrows slightly furrowed in concentration. He had to run a hand over his face, nearly knocking off his glasses, to bring himself back to reality, blinking several times to refocus on removing his sneakers.

"I chose 'Evil Dead,' but they didn't have the classics." Your voice drew his gaze upward again. You casually made your way to the bed beside him, practically throwing yourself down, causing the mattress to bounce. "Is that a problem for you?" you asked, turning to look at him, your eyes locking with his.

His throat visibly tightened as he swallowed, while you didn't even blink. For a moment, he found it a rather amusing jest. What could a girl like you, with the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen, with lips that curved into the brightest smile he could imagine, possibly want with him? He was either the luckiest bastard in the world or the biggest delusional of the year. But that was fine, at least for now.

"No, it's not a problem at all," Michael mumbled, unsure if he was referring to the movie choice or something else entirely. But it would suffice either way.

He saw you smile widely, and you felt you should, noticing his blue eyes dilate behind his glasses. Looking down where you had crossed your legs beneath you, you tried to focus and simply pressed play on the movie. The low noise from the TV soon filled the room, the colors of the film painting your faces and reflecting in Michael's glasses. The silence was comfortable, as always. The sounds of calm breathing filled the space, but well, his eyes weren't really on the TV; they were on you. To the point where he had to rest his hand on his face, just to appreciate it, perhaps.

"You know, watching a movie works better when you're looking at the screen," you commented, your eyes still fixed on the screen, though you felt the heat from his gaze on your cheek.

"I prefer to watch you." His words were barely above a whisper, but they reached you, making your smile widen even more.

Your eyes flicked to him, while his remained steady, though he felt his palms sweating against his cheek. He was nervous, and his attempt at an impassive expression wasn't fooling you. The words that left his lips were just truths, and seeing you smile, it was good to see you smile, it brought a subtle curve to his own lips. Sighing, you drew your knees up to your chest, resting your chin there, unsure of what to make of his words or of him. Just as he was unsure of what to make of you or how much you unsettled him.

"I hate almost everyone here except you." Your words mirrored his in tone, quiet, perhaps too intimate to slip out.

They made him pause, just looking at you, wondering. Time seemed to stand still, the screams from the movie not reaching your ears; things were quiet, almost silent. And that's when his hand rose, wrapping around the back of your neck, perhaps with the most courage he'd ever mustered in his life. Your lips parted slightly when you noticed him shifting on the bed to get closer, and you responded in kind, leaning towards him, your hand hesitating before also reaching up to the back of his neck, slipping between the golden strands to hold him firmly. Bringing your faces close, your breaths began to mingle, and soon all that was reflected in his glasses were your lips, all his attention focused solely on them.

"You're trouble, and you want to know why?" Michael whispered, your gaze falling to his lips as they formed the words. They were thrown at your face, raw and direct. "Because it seems like after I met you, there's been something wrong with my brain." He lifted his thumb to trace your bottom lip, as if to commit it to memory.

"Yeah?" Your response lacked strength, not truly. "That's good, because it seems like after you I'll never be the same." Whispering another confession, now it seemed more than fitting, even with your breathing too rapid to say much more, or what you truly wanted to.

A faint smile touched Michael's lips, perhaps an attempt at composure before he leaned in closer. Tilting your heads in opposite directions, your noses brushed against each other, the taste of each other's breath mingling on your lips, shared. His lips were the first to part, capturing your lower one slowly, almost tentatively, until yours responded, capturing his upper lip. The kiss started slowly, your lips moving together with an unhurried grace, despite your quickening breaths at the contact. His free hand found your waist, attempting to pull you closer, while your hand tangled in his hair, gripping it almost in a fist.

But it wasn't enough, far from it. Leaning forward, Michael guided you both down onto the bed, supporting himself with each hand on either side of your head, positioning his body between your legs, which parted to welcome him. One of his hands slid down to your thigh, lifting it and pressing it against his side, your hips naturally seeking each other, and his already hardened cock brushed against your increasingly aroused intimacy. Sounds escaped between kisses, your hands sliding to grip his back, when Michael pressed your bodies together again, rolling his hips and drawing out a sly moan from his own lips, making it difficult to continue kissing you.

Your hands reached for the hem of his shirt, attempting to pull it up, but his hands caught yours, pinning them above your head, fingers intertwining there, as he pulled back just enough to look you squarely in the eye. His heavy breathing made his chest rise and fall, sweat causing his glasses to slide down his nose.

"I..." the words seemed reluctant to escape as he gazed down at you, your lips flushed and your chest heaving. He didn't want to dissuade you, but he had to say it. "I've never done that."

Your only response was to lift your head from the bed, seeking his lips and succeeding in a gentle capture, with him lowering himself to return the kiss. Though not deep, your teeth nipped at his lower lip, tugging gently, perhaps trying to draw him closer. Your fingers pressed against his above your head, yearning to be free, you just wanted to touch him, feel him, it didn't matter if he was inexperienced, if you had to guide him step by step, or if this was all you would have, feeling him like this above you.

"Just touch me, I don't care," you murmured against his lip, without the strength for more words, which in response prompted him to roll his hips against yours again, closing his eyes with a moan, just as your head tilted back, lifting your hips to meet his movement.

His hands released yours, and you quickly grabbed his shirt, pulling it up and off him, and he reciprocated, lifting yours inch by inch until he could pull it over your head. Without a bra, your breasts were bared to him, making him pause. His lips went dry as he took in the sight of your hardened nipples, ready for attention, despite his momentary hesitation. You saw it in his eyes, in how they flickered to meet yours, and your hand reached to caress his cheek before grabbing the back of his neck, gently guiding him toward your chest, arching off the bed to ensure he understood your consent.

And he understood more than clearly, leaning down to kiss the space between your breasts before moving to one, enveloping it with his mouth entirely, using his hand to squeeze it firmly. The sensation of your skin against his mouth elicited a low sound from him that vibrated through your body, prompting you to grind your hips against his already hard cock. His tongue followed, swirling around your nipple, sucking as if his life depended on it. His mouth salivated, saliva running down your chest, glistening your skin with his essence. His free hand went to your other breast, squeezing it tightly, his lips trailing kisses to the other side, his tongue sliding along until it reached your other nipple, circling it with fervent enthusiasm.

"Fuck," you murmured, your intimacy throbbing, squeezing as you leaned on the bed to create friction against his erection, making him to bite the nipple in his mouth to stifle a loud moan.

His lips left your chest, observing the glistening, swollen flesh from his attentions. His eyebrows furrowed at the sight, going straight to his core. He looked down to where his hardness met your shorts, stopping himself from climaxing right there, taking deep breaths.

"Tell me..." his words trailed off, his lips struggling to draw in breaths. "Tell me how to be good for you." His whisper was broken, he was too far gone to really care about it.

You smiled, even in the throes of your overwhelming need for him. One of your hands took one of his, slowly guiding it to your core, and he watched intently as you slipped it inside your shorts and soaked panties, biting his lip as his expression contorted with pleasure. Slowly, you positioned his fingers perfectly over your clit, starting to move them in circles, making your breathing quicken further. Fortunately, Michael was a quick learner, or perhaps just desperate enough. Your fingers left his as he took over, moving them faster, circling over your soaked clit. You tried to reach for his hardness in his pants, but with his free hand, he caught yours and pinned it to the bed.

"Don't." The words came out swiftly, a desperate command because he knew well that if you touched him, he would cum right then and there.

You accepted it, not attempting to touch him again. Feeling his fingers slide over and over your most sensitive spot, the sounds began to fill the room, the wetness so intense it seeped through your pajama shorts, and he could hardly believe his incredible luck. His eyes moved to your face, noticing your parted lips, your cheeks flushed red, and your breasts, still glistening from his saliva, seeming to beckon him. One of your hands gripped his wrist, and he could see from your expression how close you were. The hand that had been holding yours to the bed released it, moving to the back of your neck, lifting your head to make you look down.

"Watch," he murmured, sliding his thumb perfectly over your clit, and you felt like stars were bursting behind your eyes even as you complied and stared.

You saw his hand moving inside your shorts, the veins in his forearm pulsing with the effort, the muscles there flexing. His hand held you tightly, almost encompassing your neck. And when his fingers started moving side to side, you knew you were finished. Your lips parted completely, a groan trapped in your throat escaped, you tried to throw your head back but his grip prevented it, and then, your walls clenched, he could feel the pulsing around his fingers, your belly flexing as you reached your climax, clamping your legs around his forearm.

Your body goes limp on the bed, your thighs still trembling as his hands slide from your neck down to your thighs, smearing his taste there. He grips the hem of your shorts, pulling them down along with your panties. When his eyes meet your pulsing, glistening pussy, a sigh escapes him, eyes closing momentarily to regain control. You hear the sound of his pants being unzipped, him kicking them off along with his underwear. Your eyes open just in time to see him grip the base of his cock, bringing the head to your sensitive clit, eliciting a tight, desperate moan from you.

"You're so beautiful." he murmurs, dragging the precum-slick tip of his cock across your clit, making your walls clench as he watches. His free hand runs down the inside of your thighs, ensuring they're coated in your own wetness.

He squeezes his eyes shut in pure ecstasy, rubbing his cock from your clit to your entrance, gripping the base tightly to stave off his climax. Your thighs tremble, your hands gripping the sheets, but nothing seems to alleviate the intensity, there's no escape. You're consumed, completely. Your hips start to move desperately for contact, even as your body protests, your fingers threatening to tear the sheets apart. He rubs once more, the almost sinful sounds echoing off the walls, mingling with his low moans and the contractions of his stomach. You can tell he's doing everything in his power not to cum.

"Can I?" He opens his eyes to whisper, looking directly into yours, and with no strength left to speak, you simply nod.

He sighs deeply before positioning himself at your entrance and pushing inside, feeling your walls resist yet yield as he presses in until fully seated, your groins meeting. A drawn-out moan escapes your lips as his head falls back, a soft groan leaving his throat followed by a sequence of breaths that made his entire body tremble. Michael pauses, trying and failing to calm his racing heart and the overwhelming sensation of your hot, tight insides. Leaning forward, he rests one hand on the bed while the other removes his glasses, setting them aside. Your hands rise to the back of his neck, bringing his forehead to yours, holding it there as he makes the first thrust. Both of your lips part, your moans and breaths mingling.

His thrusts were deep, yet slow. He would withdraw almost completely before sliding back in, each time making your eyes squeeze shut tighter and your head press against his. The sweat on your foreheads seemed to meld you together, turning you into one entity. His eyes opened, burning into your face, and you met his gaze, your eyes filling with tears of pure pleasure as he thrust even deeper.

"I like you," he murmurs, cupping your cheek as his other hand grips the headboard, making the wood creak. A smile graces your lips, almost cut off by his cock sliding in deeper.

"I like you too," you manage to reply between ragged breaths, your fingers tightening around the back of his neck as if it's your lifeline.

He brings his lips to your forehead, giving you a long, lingering kiss, his breath warm against your skin. Then, he brings his hand to your mouth, and with that signal, he starts thrusting with all he has, making you scream into his hand, which hopefully muffles the sound. He rests his own mouth there to also muffle his moans, feeling sweat run down every part of his body, mixing with yours. The bed bangs against the wall, your eyes roll back when he hits that sweet spot inside you, your hands lifting to dig your nails into his back. As your walls clench around him, he feels your climax spill out, soaking the sheets and his lower abdomen. With a louder moan, he quickly pulls out, his cock spilling his cum over your belly.

He releases your mouth and the headboard, letting his full weight rest on you, his head finding solace in the crook of your neck. Your arms encircle his neck, keeping him close as your entire body trembles with the aftershocks of pleasure. Both of you are exhausted, both satisfied. Michael's thoughts drift back to the early weeks of knowing you, how he wished you would vanish, and now, how he dreads the thought of you leaving, like everyone else. The irony might have drawn a bitter laugh from him if he weren't so physically spent.

"I wasn't bluffing," you hear him murmur into your neck, capturing your attention amidst the sensations still coursing through your body. You slowly turn your head towards him.

"What?" you whisper, perhaps fearful that even a slight increase in volume might make this moment slip away, just as much as he is. His eyes, those blues that most people overlook, capture your senses.

"I really like you." Hearing those words again, this time not in the heat of the moment, did something different to you stomach, perhaps quickened your heart more than the entire act itself, burned your skin more than anything else.

Drawing him closer with your hand, you adjust his position so he lies on your chest, where he places a gentle kiss. Your fingers delve into his hair, and you cast a brief glance to the side where his glasses still rest. A smile graces your lips because the truth is, you are utterly and hopelessly in love with the genius Michael Gavey. The irony is that he doesn't seem genius enough to realize it.

#smut #michael gavey #ewan mitchell #ewan nation #aemond targaryen #aemond #house of the dragon #oneshot #saltburn #fanfic #x reader #aemond x reader #hotd aemond

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jks1uv · 1 month ago

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𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑖𝑛 ; jason todd

summary: a very fucking big small side effect of being baptized in the lazarus pit is retrograde amnesia. however, love is the dimension that transcends everything; even the loss of memories.

pairing: fiancée!reader x fiancé!jason todd.

trope: partial memory loss + both parties learning to falling in love with each other again + boy who thinks he’s unworthy of love x girl who loves him like it’s breathing + she fell first but he fell harder.

genre: fluff + angst + slow-burn & rekindling romance.

warnings‼️: crude language + mentions of his murder + mentions of violence + reader’s 24, jason’s 25 + jason’s a drug / crime lord + reader & jason are yearners.

word count: 9,622.

random disclaimerrr: it can take somewhere between days to years to recover from retrograde amnesia & gain your memories back. for fanfiction purposes, i’ve dramatized the recovery. italics = inner thoughts, bold italics = flashbacks. i love this song, i breathe this song. nobody fw this song like i do. canon states he was 15 when he died but i changed things up. i haven't read a single comic & all the lore ik is from google, tiktok & this app lol. pls lmk on how i can improve! happy reading! ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ ♡ © 2025 @jks1uv

Here you are; face to face with the man whose warmth you were sure could no longer feel in the dark of the cruel, lonely night. You were sure the thread of his love was no longer in the stitches of your heart.

The one man you’ve ever loved that much and hard, is limp and unconscious. It doesn’t need to be said how he’s also very much alive this time around.

He's weighing down on the shoulders of his beloved brother, in the way eldest sons gently cradle their brave-faced youngest brothers in times of need.

Dick looks at you and you see him. For the first time, you truly see who Richard Grayson-Wayne is.

The dutiful, eldest son, yes. But more than that, something he will always be no matter the consequence of life; a brother.

You recognize that bleeding, aching heart of his and understand that it was bleeding and aching with yours too.

He’s still a brother even if he lost his. That title doesn’t just go away, lost in the wind like the smell of freshly cut grass and 2015.

You step aside and Dick wordlessly carries his little brother into your house.

“I... we can't talk here.”

You can't stop staring at the larger body of muscle on your couch. You can't believe he's just lying there, on the couch.

Suddenly, you can't seem to remember the misery that left you incapacitated. You don't taste the grief in the salt of your tears on your tongue.

Those years seem so far away, it's disorienting.

“Y/n?”

You're broken out of your trance and you swiftly move your head towards the older brother.

He sympathizes with you. He takes you by the hand and leads you to your bed. You sit down and he follows suit right next to you.

It's silent for a few moments, he's trying to find the right words to explain what you see.

“We found him, Bruce and I.”

You look at him but he refuses to make eye contact. Instead, he finds feigns interest in the scratches on his knuckles.

“Have you heard of a the new drug and crime-lord in Gotham, recently?”

You nod. You'd about of him; the man in black who hides himself under a red hood. Ironically, that's also his name: the Red Hood.

“…He’s actually Jason.”

And with the way he says it so quietly, so softly; you'd almost think you imagined him saying those two words.

Almost.

But almost is never enough, especially not in this moment. You need more.

“What?” You whisper harshly.

He still refuses to look at you but you won't have that anymore.

“Dick, look at me.”

He reluctantly looks you in the eyes and you can tell he feels awful. He feels that way because this isn’t how life after Jason’s death was supposed to be.

He was indescribably euphoric as any loved one would be, but it all came crashing down just as fast and fleeting the feeling was.

He didn’t want it to be this way but alas, when life gives you lemons.

“I’m really sorry, Y/n.”

He can’t imagine how life was like for you but he knows it wasn’t pleasant.

You look at him with gratitude and squeeze his hand in thanks. He squeezes it back and you lay your head on his shoulder as he explains everything.

Jason grumbles and groans half in pain. The other half in disorientation.

Even though your curtains are closed, they don't block the sunlight from coloring in your once-dark living room.

Dick’s lying on his stomach and snoring away.

Jason carefully gets up and sees the older man not so gracefully splayed out across his air mattress (yes, he's one of those people) on the floor.

Jason's gaze follows the confines of your living room. He scopes out the unfamiliar space and he soon finds himself in front of the fridge.

He's staring at the notes and magnets among other things you have hung up. However, his eyes stop in front of a collage of pictures.

You made a photo strip out of the pictures you took with him at this specific photo booth.

There were 5 photos that consist of the strip, each from 5 different dates.

Jason can't figure out why he feels a strange, magnetic pull towards this woman.

She shouldn't mean anything to him but that doesn't sound right.

It's like deep down, he knows- feels like there's something missing. It’s weird; feeling something’s wrong but not knowing what could possibly give that inclination.

He studies the woman that he's sure is the sun. Jason's sure this woman's smile and joy are willing and radiant. In fact, he's so sure this woman is the quintessence of all he's been missing.

A home.

Jason feels a pit of emptiness open up in his stomach that fills up with dread just as quickly.

Jason couldn't remember much of his life before the Lazarus pit breathed it back into his mangled body. His painful rage and sadness were the only evidence tying him to a life beyond revenge and strife.

When and Dick and Bruce realized who the red hood truly was, they did everything in their power to convince the broken boy to come back with them, even if it was just for a little while.

Back at the Wayne manor, he discovered a few memories of what he presumed was a better life, but he also found some things that he didn't think was possible for a man like him.

On his dresser he found what appeared to be a golden wedding band, a Revlon hairbrush, and a key with Buttercup from The PowerPuff Girls printed on it.

He asked Stephanie Brown if those items belong to her or Cassandra Cain but she dismissed the notion. She told him who those items really belonged to but he couldn’t believe it.

A woman he’s romantically involved with? His fiancé?

Yeah, right.

There wasn’t much evidence to make her claim viable, until he found a couple of words engraved inside what he found to be his golden band.

Always — Y/n

“Y/n.” He whispered your name like it was a secret only for him to know.

He stared at the band for a bit, not believing he found something so delicate and pure. A love so strong, it made him want to get married.

Stephanie got to know her older brother through the retelling of memories. Memories that people seemed so fond of. Through them, she learned what he liked, disliked. How Bruce was going to break his rule, bend his code of ethics for him.

Jason talked to her, cared for her. But he never really opened up about himself and what goes on in his head. At the very least, he was there for his little sister when times were tough and that was enough.

He was immortalized by his grave but seeing him in the flesh— at this moment, made her overwhelmingly emotional.

She hesitantly put a hand on his shoulder and he looked at her.

“It was your idea.”

“…Really?”

His heart warms with an unfamiliar fondness.

Jason never thought of himself to be a romantic but this revelation forces him to look at this ring and himself in a different light.

Now as he stands in front of your fridge, Jason thinks this must be you. The woman in these photos, the woman whose name is engraved on the inside of his wedding band, the woman of his dreams. It must be you.

Jason turns around to wake Dick up and tell him about his epiphanies but here he is. Face to face with you, instead.

Your lips part to sharply exhale and you're about to say something but your mind betrays your tongue. You don't want to say what you want him to hear because of the way he's looking at you.

His eyes are wide in surprise. It's her he thinks.

Jason slowly stalks his way towards you like you’re a doe he doesn't want to scare you away.

There's a tremble in your bones. The kind that vibrates with a desperation to pull him into you and never let go.

You want to hug him, kiss him and stare into his once-blue eyes until you count the different flecks of green in them.

But you can't. You can't touch him yet, you can't talk to him like he's your soon-to-be husband yet. You can't softly sing him to sleep when he needs it yet.

So, you’ll settle on yearning for him. You’ll brave a smile when you're wistful and you'll hold on to the hope of him coming back to you.

You're determined to make him remember you no matter how long it takes.

He's in front of you now, there's an almost dazed look on his face.

His eyes are a a grayish-teal, making you question how much of him has truly changed.

“Hello.” Your voice is a bit shaky and breathy.

Jason half-blinks and tilts his chin to the side a bit. “Hi.” He murmurs.

“Why are you two acting like side characters in a high school romance anime?”

His name ain’t ‘Dick’ for nothing!

You've spent the entire afternoon cleaning the guest bed and bath room to make space for Jason.

In the meantime, Jason is trying to figure out how not to make a fool of himself.

“I dunno… what if she's changed her mind?”

Jason’s getting cold feet but he'd never blame you if you did.

“Dude.” Tim sighs. “You were literally the loss of her life all this time.”

And he’s right, Jason knows that.

He’s just really anxious and his insecurities are bubbling up. It's inevitable when it comes to the matters of the heart.

You're not just any girl— you're his fiancé.

In his heart, you’re an integral part of him but in his mind; you’re a woman who deserves so much better.

You can't possibly want to grow old with him.

“It must mean something if she's spent years of her life tolerating you.”

Always count on Damien Wayne to say the thing(s) nobody else will.

Dick quirks up an eyebrow at his baby brother's opinion but when he looks at Jason, they both know he means well.

Stephanie and Cassandra offer him words of advice and encouragement. Though, he's not sure how helpful they'll be as they don't personally know you but apparently, ‘that's besides the point’.

“Just remember what we said and you’ll be fine!”

Duke hands Jason a small lotus plant as he ‘shouldn't show up empty-handed’ if he wants a chance at a great first— well, second impression.

Jason appreciates the gesture as the lotus sends a message of a new beginning, something he’s longing for.

He secures the plant, puts on his helmet and drives his motorcycle back to your house.

“Okay, you got this. Just be cool.”

He rings the bell and you swing open the door without even looking through the blinds. You just knew it'd be him.

You're a little breathless but you suppose he just does that to you.

The two of you lock eyes for a moment until he clears his throat awkwardly.

“This is for you.” Jason smiles politely and you swoon over the baby pink plant.

“Oh, wow.” You beam. “You really didn't have to.”

He disagrees. “I did.”

Your lips split open with a grin, touched by the gesture. “Thank you, Jason.”

He’s nonchalant when he nods, ignoring how nice it felt to see you smile because of him.

“Um,” You point at his shoes. “Could you place them on the rack next to you?”

“Oh! I-I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” You say calmly.

You don’t want him to walk on eggshells around you so you won’t mind teaching him how to be familial.

He coughs, still slightly embarrassed at himself (and at how fast his nonchalant streak came to an end).

“This is your room, the bathroom is right over there and, uh, I moved your things in… I hope that's alright?”

You didn't want to overwhelm him but you also wanted him to know that he has a say in things, even though he’s living in a place that used to be a part of him.

He’s touched at your gesture but he feels… disappointed? He’s not quite sure where he wants to be but doesn’t know what the feeling of belonging is like, either.

It’s confusing, but he expresses his gratitude nonetheless.

“Yeah, that’s great. Thank you.”

You nod with pursed lips.

He looks around at the materialistic things that describe him. Posters, collectable figurines, books. He loved his books.

Jason runs his fingers along the spines of the books neatly organized on a shelf.

It's quiet, you almost leave as you deem it intimate; becoming familiar with yourself. Jason is making up for all the time he's lost, not just with you but a part of himself as well.

“I remember when I read Hamlet for the first time.” He says after a while.

You smile knowingly.

“Alfred and I would read and discuss Shakespeare together at our own little private book club.”

Jason picks the book up and randomly flips through the pages, he comes across written annotations on transparent sticky notes.

“What’s this?” He asks, curious.

“Oh,” you walk up to him and he gives the book to you. “These are my annotations from when I read it for the first time.”

You admire the book fondly.

“You’d told me all about the book club so I asked for book recommendations. That way you could talk about your favorite literature with me.”

You're still looking over your notes while Jason stares into your side profile.

He thinks it's endearing; that you care enough about him to indulge in conversation about his hobby.

You also intrigues him.

How could you just so casually think of something so kind and thoughtful? How could you want to spend your time reading and truly understanding every reference, point, plot and quote; just to understand a part of him?

Can someone really care about another person that much?

Jason doesn’t find his answers in his beloved books but something tells him he’ll find out soon enough, in you.

Jason is banned from going out on patrol for the time being.

He was actually supposed to quit altogether when he proposed to you but Joker just had to follow the instinct of his passion: inflicting misery.

Dick insisted that the rest of the members will take care of patrolling as all Jason should focus on is you.

Kinda hard to do that when you're so... well, you.

It’s been a couple of days and he still thinks you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

Your beauty shines through your smile and the way you care for him. He feels it under the long, jagged scar carved atop his chest.

He’s distracted when he's reading in the living room.

There you are; in a large t-shirt that drapes over your frame and the neckline is cut. It hangs over one side of your shoulder and the sight takes his breath away.

You're cooking something you know he likes, just because you know how much it comforts him. But he doesn’t realize this yet.

“Jason?”

He averts his gaze and pretends he wasn’t staring at you since you stepped foot into the kitchen, half an hour ago.

“Hm?” His voice cracks just a bit but he hope you don’t notice it.

You turn around at his hum and walk towards the couch.

“Dinner’ll be ready in a few minutes, would you like to watch something while we eat?”

You and Jason used to watch movies and shows all the time together, courtesy of one of your love languages being quality time.

He bookmarks his page and sets his book down.

“Actually, I wanted to talk.”

You blink and show you’re listening intently.

His fingers rake through his hair nervously. “I was wondering if we could talk about stuff that would help jog my memory.”

“Yeah, of course.” You nod and smile at him.

He smiles back, albeit small but he does.

“Okay.” He claps his hands together and goes to the kitchen to wash his hands.

As you set the table, Jason watches you carefully. He wanted to know everything. Every chore, every part of your routine, every detail. He wanted to help with dinner but was nervous to be near you.

What if he made you uncomfortable? He’d thought about it; his size, his demeanor, the fact that he’s not the man you’ve been around.

Everything’s changed since his… rebirth.

Life’s been hard and Jason doesn’t understand how to cope with the new set of incongruous events.

He sits across from you, a knee bouncing up and down under the table as you sit down.

You look at him expecting to start eating but find he’s not.

“Do you not like it?”

Along with his physique and mental health, you were afraid the liking to his most favorable things had changed, too.

He blinks in confusion. “Oh, no. Not at all.”

He quickly realizes how that sounds.

“Wait, that’s not—” His eyes are wide, head shaking a bit in refusal with his hands up. “I meant, no, as in… I haven’t tried it yet.”

You don’t want to laugh but you think it’s kind of funny watching him trip over his words.

The mannerism brings you back to a kinder time.

“Are you nervous?”

His smile is a bit lopsided when he picks up the fork.

“A little..?”

You can’t tell if it’s a question but you nod, trying to make him feel as welcome as possible.

“It’s alright.” You assure. “This is all very new for you so, please don’t feel as though you have to be polite to make me feel better.”

You offer him an encouraging smile before looking away, afraid you’ll burst into tears.

He stares at you for a moment, a bit stunned at your kind and refreshing candor.

Jason begins eating and has to hold himself back from emitting sounds of surprise and approval.

As he chews, he thinks about the flavor. He believes the taste of the spices blended with the taste to be familiar but is doubtful.

“Have I…”

You look up at the beginning of his line of questioning.

“I feel like I’ve had this before.”

You hum and nod in agreement. “You have.”

You think about quoting him back to himself, hoping that would be a good start.

“You used to say it was one of your-”

“Comfort foods.” He completes.

The relief that fills your being makes your heart speed up in excitement.

There’s a glint of excitement in your eyes. One that could easily be characterized as hope.

Jason feels it, too.

When he takes another bite and lets the flavors melt on his tongue, he lets himself feel the precise taste you so carefully measured with your mind.

Jason wanted to stop by the local farmer’s market so you decide to get some laundry done.

You’re folding your clothes and are deep in thought about him.

There’s potential, you think. A lot of potential to recover lost memories and make new ones along the way.

It’s the matter of whether or not he wants to do them with you that has you stuck.

The hopeful side of you believes he’s stayed this far, surely he feels the same.

The rational part of you doubts it.

You can never find the same person twice, not even in the same person.

You think about the lost look on his face you catch at times. You see it when he thinks he’s hidden it well beyond your gaze. You see it when he’s all alone and has his mind to himself.

You’re afraid to lose him. Again.

Your vision blurs with the unshed tears pooling in your eyes and you look down to blink them away. They plop to the ground and you quietly sniffle, not wanting to break just yet.

There's an ache in your left shoulder blade and an insistent ruckus of doubt swirling in your head.

You can't sleep soundly anymore, not that you ever did since his death.

His death, you think.

It still hasn't hit you, that he's alive. He's here, in the flesh and in your home. You're able to talk to him, see him.

You remember how you'd piece your heart back together the next morning after letting it break the night prior.

You bite your tongue when the emotions overwhelm you, when you feel as though you'll die if you don't speak. So you bury those words deep in your journal, where ink meets paper and stays far away from his eyes.

Your eyes quickly gather more tears than you can keep from shedding and soon, you’re crying silently to yourself. For the umpteenth time.

It hurts. Your heart hurts and your throat hurts. Hurt is the only other feeling you’ve come close to familiarizing yourself with other than hope.

You don’t hear Jason’s motorcycle engine when he’s outside. You don’t hear his heavy footsteps mark their way onto your floor once like how they used to.

He stands outside but doesn’t have the heart to see you. Hearing how wrecked you are was enough.

It hurts him, not being able to remember from the jump but he knows how patient you are. How understanding you are.

He figures the most kindest souls are the ones that hurt the most.

So, he leaves. He spends another hour and a half out and decides to get you your favorite things.

Walking through the aisles, the plastic bags of grapes catch his attention the most.

“She loves these.” He says as he picks up the biggest, juiciest batch.

The assurance in his words gives him a confidence that rivals your doubt.

A short flashback of you munching away on the grapes as you study enters his mind.

You’re sitting by a windowsill and you’re typing away, pausing every few minutes to snack on the round fruit.

He smiles to himself and grabs a bag along with some sliced pineapples and mangoes.

“Cherries… with salt.” He hums to himself.

Yes, you like to eat your washed cherries with some salt sprinkled on top.

Jason chuckles as the memory of you whipping up that treat comes to mind.

He picks up a bag of those round, tangy red rubies and goes to checkout.

He’s practically buzzing with excitement as he can’t wait to see the look on your face when you see how much he’s gaining you back.

He returns with the sight of laundry done and put away, the dishes are washed and your lotus plant watered for the week.

But no sight of you.

Where are you?

Jason debates calling your cell.

Would it be weird?

You’re not his, well, anything. But you used to be.

Your caller ID tempts his thumb but he ultimately clicks off his phone.

You’ll show up sooner or later, wherever you are… right?

You’re a grown woman, you can take care of yourself.

His breath staggers in his throat at the thought of you by yourself.

What if some asshole creeps up on you? What if you run into some kind of problem but your phone’s drained? What if you get lost?

He groans as if the noise will silence those nightmarish scenarios. Jason’s hands pull at his hair and he paces back and forth in thought.

“Fuck it.” He grumbles.

He throws his black leather jacket on, keys and helmet in hand. Tying the laces to his boots, he twists the knob and opens the door.

“Y/n?!”

His eyes look like they’re about to pop out of his skull.

Your eyebrows jump at his sudden shout, clearly not expecting this welcome.

“Umm… expecting someone else?”

He shakes his head vigorously, depicting a relieved expression.

You chuckle at him and step inside. Jason never takes his eyes off of you, he locks the door with muscle memory.

“No, God, no. I was just worried— where were you?”

You feel the butterflies swarm your belly at his concern.

“I had to throw the trash out and it wasn't too far so I didn't take my car.” You point at the small bowl by the door and sure enough, your keys are in there.

He follows the beeline from your finger and can only say one thing.

“Oh.”

Oh? Oh?? You were losing your mind over some simple chore and all you can say is ‘Oh.’?

Jason feels stupid.

How could he not try to look for the one obvious thing you can’t go anywhere without? Just jumping to the worst conclusions without thinking straight.

He chuckles in disbelief, bringing a hand to cover the top half of his face in embarrassment.

“I’m so fucking—”

“Altruistic.”

You knew he was going to berate himself in humiliation and think of himself as stupid or some second thing so you brought it upon yourself to dismiss that notion.

Jason is floored by your ability to see things in a different light, one that makes others orientate their original position.

He never thought about it that way. Not once did it occur to him that he was being thoughtful, caring, considerate. Altruistic.

It's true that he's a vigilante. An anti-hero, if you will. Protecting others and being altruistic are synonymous.

However, to him; it's a foreign concept to be on the receiving end. He thinks it's suffocating to be looked after as if he were a child. Especially when people (his father) do things that they (bruce wayne) deem best for someone (him).

Well, he used to up until a week and a half ago. Until you came along.

“Altruistic.” He repeats, feeling the word roll off his tongue.

“You know, the term used to describe people who go out of their way to do something for someone?”

You're only joking, playing around with him.

He sees it, though. He knows you're trying to lighten the mood because of what you don't know.

Jason just nods, a short chuckle sounding as he responds to your dry wit.

“Right, right. Yeah. I think I've heard of that somewhere.”

You laugh. You laugh and it feels nice. Probably because it's the first time you've truly laughed in some time.

Jason wants to encase some of your laughter in a jar and shake it around when he feels down.

It’s a lovely sound, he notes. Like a satisfying tinkering that makes your mind just slow down for a bit. Relax and take a moment to just breathe.

Your short huffs of air dissipate. “You catch on pretty fast.”

“That I do.”

If only you knew. he thinks. He wants to tell you that it's okay to cry, to let the part of yourself break and piece back. He wants you to know that you don't have to pretend nothing's wrong and that the obvious elephant in the room can be addressed.

Instead, he doesn't do either of those things. Jason doesn't think he's earned the right to reassure you of things like that. He doesn't think it's his place but oh, the irony.

Jason Todd feels like a 16 year old boy again.

Not in the sense of being immature, stupid, and reckless. More to do with the matter of his growing body and the feelings that come with it.

He’s big, huge, even. He knows he takes up more space than he means to occupy so he does what he thinks is the least he can do.

For example, he eats more than the average man so he insists on helping with the groceries by paying for them sometimes.

You argue, and boy do you lock it down; but it’s in vain when he looks at you with those deep eyes and mutters a small, ‘just let me do this for you’.

For me.

You’re weak when he asserts himself against your judgement.

He feels 16 again when you look at him with nothing but unwavering care and respect.

He used to get those looks, he remembered. Once upon a time where he wasn’t undead.

It was from the boy he respects the most; his older brother.

Jason started getting dreams since the first night he slept in your apartment.

Usually, he can’t sleep and when he did; he’d get nightmares. But not this time around.

He dreams of a time in the past, one where he’s not beating on a lowly thug or vice-versa.

It’s oddly bright but not blinding, the daylight fills in color nicely.

You’re sitting on a bed— he believes it to be your old one— and you’re making something out of nothing.

“Whatcha doin’?” You say without breaking eye contact from the scissors cutting a heart shape into the cardboard paper.

Jason registers you’re talking to him but he doesn’t know what to say.

“Is this real?”

You snort and shake your head.

“No, Jace. You’re in a sleep-induced coma and I’m the light that’s come to finally take you away.”

A wide grin has slowly etched itself onto his lips, it lifts his cheeks and creases his eyes.

He sees your excellent timing for witty quips is still there. He also notes the way you carry yourself around his presence. You’re relaxed, calm.

You’re still the same you.

He sits at the edge down of the bed and you look at him with offense.

“Why’re you sitting so far away?” You pout

“But I’m right here.”

You lightly groan and reach out to pull him closer to you, his knees touch your thigh and only then are you satisfied.

“Better.” You express to him.

Jason takes this moment to get a good look at you.

He’s sure you’ve grown into your features now, time and style enhancing your appearance.

Everyone changes physically but he realizes it’s the inside he’s looking for.

“Jay?”

“Hm?”

“Wake up.”

That makes his heart drop out of his ass. He nervously blinks. “What?”

You look at him like you know. Like you know he doesn’t belong here, in the past.

“Wake up.”

You say once again but your lips aren’t moving. Why aren’t your lips moving?

“Hey, Jason. Wake up.”

He sharply gasps when he sits up, soft pants escape his throat and you’re here.

“It’s okay, you’re okay.” You reassure.

Your hands are on his shoulder and you’re sitting on the bed.

There’s a small nightlight plugged in beside the door to the bathroom and it illuminates your figure.

He makes out your face in the dark and once he realizes, he winds down.

“I couldn’t breathe.”

You nod. “I know. I was getting some water when I heard you wheezing.”

You were scared. You were worried and he knows it. He hears it in your wavering voice.

“I’m okay now.”

Jason doesn’t know why he feels the need to comfort you but he does.

Your hands aren’t on his shoulders anymore but he feels the warmth your touch leaves behind.

“I’m fine.” He murmurs again.

You just nod and get up to leave when his hand darts out to wrap around your fingers.

“…I had a dream. Er, nightmare? I dunno… A mix of both, I guess.”

You sit down and he wonders why he’s telling you this but the need to tell you overshadows his want to keep it inside.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?”

You hope asking him won’t trigger anything because the last thing you want is to be nosy.

“We were in your room, I’m pretty sure. You were younger, though. Fifteen.”

You recall the moments Jason would sneak in from your bedroom window in your youth. He was 16 and you, 15.

Good times.

“You were making something… I don’t remember what, exactly.” He squints and moves his hands around, trying to recall the events leading up to the imagery. “I heard your voice telling me to ‘wake up’ but your lips weren’t moving.”

He looks at you, coming to an understanding. “Because you were telling me to wake me up in real time.”

You look at him and can’t help but feel sad.

“I'm sorry” You whisper, not trusting your voice.

Instantly, Jason cups your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the skin under your eyes tenderly.

“I’m not.” He assures. “If this is what has to happen to me to remember you then I'm good with it.”

You close your eyes and sigh, your palms full with the bunched up material of your shorts.

He tilts his head closer to you, as if the distance is what's keeping you from truly seeing what's in his eyes.

“Look at me.” He gently asks.

You comply and he almost crumbles with how much you've managed to hide from him.

His eyebrows raise a little and come together in ruth. “Don't hide from me. Don't hide how you really feel.”

Jason doesn't know how he's doing this— touching you and saying all the right things. The words are just spilling out and for once, he can't stop himself.

Maybe because it's almost 3am and that's when his tongue and spine meet; to relay all emotion without a hiccup. 3am is when he's unabashed in his feeling, unafraid of his truth.

You stare. Your big, beautiful eyes pick at the spare parts of his woeful soul and you see. You see the windows of his soul tainted with an unimaginable sorrow.

“I can't.” You choke out.

How can you not hide yourself from him? How can you look at him and not want to open up your heart and let him see what's growing inside?

You're grief-stricken, he's melancholic. That isn't going anywhere.

“Y/n.” He implores you to reason with him. To give him a chance at witnessing you.

You feel like you’re drowning. You can’t breathe, your chest hurts and you feel your lungs constrict.

You can’t tell him how you really feel. He already feels guilty as is so how are you supposed to just let him read your mind?

To know how much you long for someone who can’t remember what you mean to them, to see how badly the lack of their presence has affected you.

Jason has no idea what realizing those things does to a person, what impact it’ll have on him.

He’s not ready.

“I… Good night, Jason.” You heave.

He watches you walk away, cutting him deep and leaving him to bleed dry.

The next morning can only be described as awkward. Tense awkwardness, actually.

There’s been no sign of you leaving your room since last night and it’s currently half past 2.

Jason hasn’t slept since you left the room. He was up all night evaluating all the possible outcomes from that point on.

Should he leave?

He knows you won’t ask him to but he wouldn’t abide by the request, anyway. He’s become selfish.

Yes, Jason Todd has grown accustomed to you and this little life of peace but he can’t be blamed. This is what he signed up for when he put a ring on it.

The ring. Your ring.

Now that he’s thinking about it, he’s seen you wearing it 24/7. Your left wedding finger is always donning the engagement ring, not once do you take it off.

Even when washing the dishes.

It is at this moment he has an epiphany. You were so close to letting your walls come down but seeing how afraid he was, painted in a foreign frame; you backed down.

He’s suddenly conscious of how much anguish you’re willing to put up with if it means for him to experience a minimal amount.

You want him to remember you without accepting the consequences of mental strain. You don’t want him to push past his anxiety, to make him face his fear of the unknown; but you’ll face your tears on your own.

A deep anger simmers inside him.

The amount of selflessness you’ve shown is incredibly unfair.

Isn’t marriage a united proposition? Isn’t his duty as your husband to make your problems his, to support you through all things good and bad?

You just backed away without giving him a chance to fully comprehend you.

How could you do that? Why did you do that?

Jason’s made a visceral statement in your life and he must know. He has to remember.

With a newfound confidence, he vows to try harder. He vows to push himself past the brink of frustration to remember you. He vows to do whatever it takes and replace that vacant look in your eyes with all those years of love and care.

He swings the door open and strides towards your bedroom. He knocks, a gentle rhythm of rapping. “Y/n? Are you there?”

He waits about 30 seconds before knocking and calling out your name again.

Nothing. No response.

Jason thinks about trying the knob but the last thing he wants is to scare you away.

Invading your privacy is a hard pass but he has to get through to you. He feels as if he’s running out of time.

In a desperate attempt to get a hold of you, he twists the knob but finds the space empty without you.

He goes to the bowl by the door and finds no sight of your keys but a sticky note, instead. Be back soon it reads.

Jason walks back to your room, standing in the middle of the doorway; unsure.

There’s a magnet inside that’s poking him, coaxing him to come in.

He knows he shouldn’t but would he find clues to a past life?

He tentatively steps inside, his eyes wandering around the interior.

Your color theme is fitting. Very you.

The walls are painted a nice color in coordination to your queen sized bedding. There’s a small bedside table with a couple of drawers with the most unique lamp he’s ever seen— a white lily of the valley flower and the bulb is inside!

It’s so you. He huffs out air through his nose and smiles.

He spots a halfway closed journal with a pen inside, marking a spot atop the desk.

No. I can’t.

But he wants to. He wants to know so bad what you’re really like. Who you are when you’re not performing for anyone else.

Jason wants to read the thoughts you keep buried so deep inside yourself, the secrets your heart closets. The pains your soul harbors.

But he can’t break the only trust he’s so worked so hard to build.

Jason runs his fingers across the spine of the book, feeling the embroidered thread run along.

There’s a poster above the table, one of your favorite movies.

A flash of color and sound hits his senses all at once. It looks like a memory of the movie.

Laughter, soft gasps, theatrical music to invoke foreboding feeling; only to be met with an emotional resolution from the unfortunate scene.

Tears run down your face as the beloved character faces his untime demise.

You couldn’t believe this. After all this time, all that character development, and he just… dies?

Jason doesn’t seem as tore up about it as you are but he feels for the character.

“He doesn’t deserve this.” You sniffle.

Jason nods, his arm around makes you close you in on his side and he rubs your arm up and down in a soothing manner. “I know.”

Jason exhales harshly, like he’d been holding a breath for too long.

He moves around, trying to find more things to jog his memory.

A glass jewelry box filled with pearls, gold, silver and rose gold jewelry catch his attention.

Where have I seen this before?

It’s like déjà vu except he can feel some kind of attachment to the object.

A finger lifts the lid and he finds a gold pole with a miniature ballerina glued onto it, separating the box into four sections.

“Happy birthday, Y/n!”

You’re surprised, of course a “simple dinner” wasn’t so simple. Nothing with Jason is, and that’s the beauty of being with him.

“Open my gift first!” Stephanie exclaimed.

You chuckled at her excitement and tore off the wrapping paper, ignoring everyone’s eyes gauging your reaction.

You softly gasp as the gift becomes visible, the beautiful glass case exceeding your expectations of a perfect jewelry box.

“Thank you, Steph.” You envelop her in a tight embrace, feeling oddly emotional.

“Welcome to the family.” She warmly congratulates.

It wasn’t official, not yet; but to be loved is to be seen. Feeling so loved by people who love Jason is fulfilling.

He watches as the two most important women in his life warm up to one another and he thinks of how blessed he is.

He blinks and is transported back into the present.

It’s working.

A joyous laughter exits his lips, the air filling his once empty lungs with a newfound hope.

A picture frame of you and him lies on your dresser.

He’s carrying you in his arms bridal style while your head is tipped back; an expressive look of joy on your face. He’s looking directly at the camera, donning a proud smirk in front of the apartment.

You two are in color while the rest of the background is in black and white.

There’s a small note at the bottom left, written in cursive. Congrats to our fav couple! with a smiley face next to it.

It’s like salt on the wound, seeing this photo.

He can feel his heart growing hands, scratching at the scar on his chest to be let out. To be freed from this torment of feeling.

The photo depicts everything he used to wished for, everything he had and everything that’s faded right now.

Your diamond ring shines brightly, competing with your smile and his eyes.

His index finger traces an outline of you and him. “I’m coming back to you.” He whispers.

You've been gone for quite some time, a little over 3 hours but you needed the time. You needed the hours to take a long reflection of the current state of things.

You kept thinking he wasn't ready but you realized that it was you. You weren't ready. Aren't ready? You don't know.

How does one find a way to cope with severe loss only for the pain and yearning to be diminished overnight.

Literally, overnight for you.

Events of last night come washing over your brain like a montage of your top 10 most embarrassing moments. It easily takes the place for #1.

You sigh, curling your fingers into your hair and gently tugging on them to punish yourself.

He didn’t deserve that. Just because you’re frightened of the future doesn’t mean he has to be on the receiving end of your cowardice.

You have to talk to him, to make this right.

You come back home at a reasonable time; right before you should start preparing for dinner.

It’s kind of dark, like a gloomy gray shadow blankets your living room.

But you see him. He’s sitting on the sofa waiting for your arrival.

“Jason.” You say his name so softly, he almost doesn’t hear it.

Another side effect from being baptized by the forbidden vat of acid are his attuned senses.

“I was waiting for you.” His voice is louder and clearer compared to yours.

“I know.” You nod.

“We need to talk.” He stands slowly, not wanting to alarm you.

“We do.”

“Then why don’t we?”

The desperation seeps into his throat but he doesn’t care. He can’t help it.

You shuffle your feet, feeling lighter on your steps.

“I’m afraid.”

Your admission is out of fear, anxiety, all things quiet. But it’s brave, sound, and all things hopeful.

Your sober judgement brings him closer to you.

“I can’t lose you again, Jason.”

You’re teetering on the edge of holding back and letting go.

He sees that.

Jason slowly brings his hands up, stopping at the length of your elbow. He’s still hesitant, wanting to touch you but nervous of the contact.

“You won’t.” He’s sure of himself. “I’m right here.”

He takes a hold of your elbows and his thumb subconsciously rubs up and down the skin.

You look into his eyes and all you see is the boy you fell in love with all those years ago.

He’s still in there.

“I’m trying. For you… for us.” He whispers the two-lettered word and it weighs heavy with the connotation.

“I just need you to throw me a bone.”

Despite the plea, he gives you a lopsided smile. One that shows he’s not annoyed or agitated with you.

And it makes you huff through your nose.

“Please?” He tries once more, a cute demeanor taking the place of his more serious tone.

You nod with pursed lips. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He whispers back.

You sit next to him on the sofa, sitting upright and where he can your side profile. Jason leans back in a small manspread.

“Where do you wanna start?” You ask.

Jason sits on this for a moment.

There’s so much he wants to know and at very different points in time. He thinks to tell you about his progress, the fleeting reels of the entire picture he envisioned.

Ultimately, he decides to have a go at the start.

“What was I like? To you, I mean.”

It shouldn’t surprise you that he asked one of the most obvious questions but it does. It surprises you because he hasn’t changed much.

You smile softly to yourself as time turns back. “You’re kind, gentle. Soft-spoken, loyal and so easy to talk to.”

He notices how you speak of him in present tense and not past like how he initially asked.

“You’re still the same.” You point.

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

You tilt your head. “How do you mean?”

“I, uh.” He sighs deeply. “I don’t know how to go back to how things… were.”

It’s not an admission of guilt, so why does it feel like one?

“I don’t either.”

You bounce your knee, a subconscious habit.

Jason picks up on it though. Before he can control himself, it slips out.

“Stop that.”

You stop and meet his gaze.

He looks shocked at himself. “I- I’m sorry. I don’t know why... how—?”

“I do.” You say. “You used to say that when I’d get ahead of myself. In my thoughts.”

“In your thoughts?” He parrots.

You just nod enthusiastically, so happy with this sign of progress. “Yes! You could just tell what was going on with me.”

He nods, crossing one leg over the other.

“I didn’t mean to tell you to stop bouncing your leg.” He clarifies. “It just… it felt natural to say that.”

“It’s completely okay. I mean it.”

You titter and Jason thinks of wind chimes.

“What else?”

He hums in thought. “Our relationship.”

“I was fifteen and you, sixteen.”

Jason’s immediately reminded of his dream.

“Sorry to interrupt but was my dream real? Was that an actual memory?”

Your lips turn up at this attention to detail. “Yes. I was working on a project for my midterm and you came over to keep me company.”

“Woah.” He breathes. “We’ve known each other for that long.”

“Yeah, you asked me out a little after that and we’ve been together ever since.”

Jason thinks of his adoptive father. “Did Bruce know?”

You think of all the times you’d gone over to the mansion and acquainted yourself with its people.

“He said I was ‘probably the only good thing going’ in your life.” You quote his words and can’t help but feel a sadness for him.

You lost your lover, a piece of your heart. But he lost his son.

“Y/n?” Jason calls your name.

Your neutral expression shifts to that of being pulled from daydreaming.

“Yeah.” You blink.

Jason catches the swift switch up and wants to know if you’ll dodge him when he asks.

“Where’d you go just now?”

A lie sits on the tip of your tongue but you realize that you can’t keep him or yourself from the truth anymore. You can’t keep shielding yourselves from the inevitable reality.

“You made me think of Bruce.” You say honestly.

The man who’d gone to the ends of the Earth for vengeance. The man who was about to break his “no kill” rule.

Jason has yet to extend a helping hand in mending their fractured relationship. One person at a time he thinks.

“We got engaged young. I was nineteen.” You twist the ring around your finger.

“Was I romantic enough?”

His eyes are filled with mirth when your cheeks pull back and reveal your teeth.

Your smile is so beautiful. He takes a mental picture of it every time you show a variation.

The creases at the corners, the dimples, and lines all make your smile only that much better.

He wants to make you smile more. He’s so lost in the way your lips move that he forgets the original question.

“You proposed over a candlelit dinner at my favorite restaurant.”

He grows shy at the sentiment, hanging his head down and covering his face with a hand while his body shakes with mirth.

“Wow.” He muses.

You laugh at him, in the mood for some light teasing. “What, you getting shy Todd?”

His head snaps up at the fondness dripping from your tone at his last name. He’d never heard someone say his name like that before.

“No.”

He can deny it all he wants but the faint hue of red creeping up on his face says otherwise.

“You had the band play a song, too.”

You want to see if he can get this. It’s an incredibly important detail, one of which encompasses a very loving memory.

He racks his head around for this. A song. A song? There’s so many, which one could set the atmosphere for a promise of lifelong commitment?

Then, it’s like the whole room changes. An oil spill mirage of the restaurant paints the room.

You’re in a black dress, your hair’s done nice.

He closes his eyes and he can almost feel the air all those years ago.

The familiar melody of the tune rings in his ears and he knows he’s got it for sure.

Jason opens his eyes and is brought back to the present.

“The Flamingos.” He says.

It’s like he can still hear the song playing softly over conversation.

“I only have eyes…”

“For you.” You finish the lyric.

You two giggle, feeling silly and slightly awkward but it’s fulfilling. It’s like how it used to be.

He clicks his tongue, content with the shared experience.

“What about you?” He wonders.

“What about me?”

“Your life.”

Oh. Right.

Your eyelids flutter in a half-blink and suddenly the carpet is the most interesting thing in the world.

“My whole life fell apart. I didn’t know how to get through the day.”

I forgot how is left unsaid.

Jason eyes your mask slipping away.

“I was twenty when you were murdered.”

Murdered, he was murdered. That’s the truth.

The Joker was put away in jail for his crimes against humanity while Jason— your Jason— was lying the cold, hard ground. Barely breathing yet still alive

“I, uhh… quit college for a year. Couldn’t do it.” You pitifully chuckle at yourself.

You sharply inhale when your emotions come bubbling up to the surface again. “I eventually went back and finished my degree. Graduated cum laude at twenty-four.”

His eyes crease as his pride and joy defied the odds for her life. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you.” You shyly grin.

He drums his fingers along his knees.

It occurs to you that despite your life’s lost momentum, the momentum on Jason’s life picked up faster than it ever had.

“And you?”

He doesn’t expect to be interviewed. “What about me?”

“What were you doing for the past four and a half years?”

Sweat forms under his palms and he subconsciously rubs them along his pajama pant clad thighs. Jason feels his face turn warm, he prays the redness doesn’t bloom along his cheeks.

“…I’d rather not talk about that.”

You give him a knowing look. “Jason.”

He winces, an eye closing while he sucks in air from his teeth. “Why do you sound like an upset mother?”

An incredulous laugh bubbles in your throat. “I'm not upset, just don't want you pulling a me."

He relents. “Okay, okay, alright. Fine, you win.”

He deeply sighs, rubbing his eyes and you turn your body to fully face him. You're legs are crossed and you sit up straight.

“You know Talia al Ghul.”

You nod, Damien’s mother isn’t exactly a popular subject but he is.

“She resurrected me using the pit and brought me back to train under the League of Assassins and the All-Caste.”

He was training for all those years?

“Training… for what?”

A grim expression overtakes his features. “I wanted to kill Bruce because I thought he left me to die.”

Pity is the last thing he wants but you can’t help but feel bad for him. He was tortured for so long, in the worst ways possible only to be mislead like that in the end.

“And now?” You hope he’s changed his mind.

“I’ve changed my mind.”

You unknowingly smile. “Okay. Yeah, that’s good.”

“I spent the last six months focusing solely on being a vigilante.”

“A vigilante.” You repeat.

Yes, you know there's more than what he's letting on but you want to hear his story from him. Isn't that what people who care for the other do?

“Yeah, I took care of the bad guys and started a little side hustle of my own.” He says it like it's no big deal

“I wouldn't call being a drug slash crime lord a ‘little’ side hustle.”

Jason's face blanks, he pales as you reveal the overall tone behind his cryptic message.

“You know.”

“Dick told me after he showed up with you.”

His eyes seemed to look right through you.

For the first time, you couldn't tell what was going on with him. You could no longer discern the distinction between his feelings and thoughts.

“Don't be mad. Please.” Your bargain comes rushing out.

“I'm not mad,” He voices in a hushed manner. “...’m just thinking.”

“Tell me.” You hesitantly put a hand on his. "I want to know what you're thinking."

A deep breath is sucked into his lungs. “I'm thinking about how much I want you.”

You dart back and forth between his eyes. He watches as your irises move between his slightly changed ones but contunues.

“I'm thinking about how someone like you can be with someone like me.”

He shifts his body slightly in your direction, wanting to close this space.

“I’m thinking about how despite everything, I've changed in more ways than one and you've still remained the same.”

“That's not true.” You shake your slightly.

“But it is, Y/n. My senses are heightened, my body isn't the same. I-I’m constantly feeling like I’m missing something and yet you're still here.”

Why wouldn't you be?

“Why, Y/n? Why haven't you given up on me?”

The answer to his questions are simple because it's the same answer. Yet, you're finding it difficult to say it it this moment.

“Why did you stop me from shutting you out?” You ask instead.

He stares at you, contemplating blurting out the thoughts and feelings that have plagued him since epiphany.

“Because I...”

You lean into him. “Because you?”

Jason looks away and shuts his eyes, trying to contain his brain running on a hundred thoughts per second.

“I… care about you, okay? And I’m not the same man I was before but I care.”

Your hands slide on top of his and the coldness of his knuckles diminish as your warmth spreads. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

Tears fill your eyes and he melts. His eyebrows furrow and forms a wrinkle.

“I hate it when you cry.” He says as his palm encompasses the back of your neck and he pushes you into his shoulder.

You hold his arms as you sniffle lightly into his bicep as his other hand rubs your back up and down.

“I know you’re different but he still lives inside you. I can see it.”

Jason thinks about that. Is it possible?

If you didn’t change so much then could it be that there’s a chance for him to connect to that version of himself?

It was never about going back. It was never about denying his existence now and stick who he was onto his back.

It’s always been about adapting to change. Learning to let go what doesn’t serve you and accepting that with time, you must change, too.

Jason may recover the lost pieces of who he used to be but he still has to learn who he is.

“We can make new memories.” Your watery voice croaks.

You sit back and look at him, really take your time to absorb this moment. Him. Us.

“It doesn’t matter how long it takes for everything to come back. We can still make the best of what we have now.”

He stares at you and knows you’re on the same plane as him. You always were.

He cups your face and tilts your head towards him, pressing a kiss to your head. You close your eyes at his touch.

“We will.”

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bladespromotedpawn · 5 months ago

Text

"There you are."

Mareeta rises like a shadow behind the blue-haired ally, eyes glistening.

"Got you."

She reaches forwards, hands outstretched, and...

Ties the bandage tied around his waist.

"I was looking for you. I think all of our group made it, but I couldn't find you. There's too much at stake to just..."

She looks over the horizon... wow.

Yeah, there wasn't much left there, now. What the fuc-

"We're in this together. You said you saw what we can do. I wanna see what you can, once you heal. I think there's a space down below for a good spar. Fancy that when you're better?"

Of course, not too hard a spar.

Medical work was stripped tight as is.

She needed to be smart.

But still... a compliment like that can get a girl's mind racing on implications.

I Really Wish I Had My Feh Pass Subscription Right Now!

There was little Alfonse could stand less than defeat. Fleeing with his tail between his legs felt like far too cowardly an action for a prince to take. He ought to remain in Garreg Mach and defend it until his last breath... but he couldn't allow himself to. Interference on that scale was exactly what he had sworn not to do.

When Alfonse came to this Fódlan, he had promised himself he would stay neutral to anything that occurred. He wanted no part in the political turmoil that plagued every Fódlan he had witnessed. This one seemed a fair bit more peaceful, at least when he had arrived, but how long would that last? Clearly, the answer was not very. War had come to this Fódlan the same as all the others.

Alfonse was ever bound by the need to help others. People before him were in trouble. How could he just abandon them? Helping every world he could see was impossible, but this one-- it was more than within his reach. Some of the people here could be considered his friends. Abandoning them to return to Askr now would be callous at best, if not outright cruel.

Alfonse sighed, hand outstretched as he gazed off towards the distant monastery. He could so easily call forth a gateway home and depart. Would that be cowardice? No. It would be smart. It would be safe. He could return here with support from Askr or the Order of Heroes, and he could save these people. He could stop the invasion. He could end this.

...But what then? What would come after? Would he just leave this Fódlan with full knowledge of Askr's might lurking just on the horizon? What if they decided they did not want their world tied to Zenith? What if they decided to turn their aggressive tendencies on Alfonse's home? What if knowledge of other versions of Fódlan, of the people within it, made things all the worse here?

Alfonse's arm dropped to his side. He was too weary to keep it outstretched this long while he deliberated on whether he ought to act or not. A wound in his side was screaming in agony just from that little action. He needed to limp away while he still could. As much as he wanted to go back in there, he couldn't allow himself to die here. Sharena would never forgive him.

He needed to live on and see an end to this gruesome battle. Alfonse could scarcely begin to move his legs, but he needed to force himself to move. He needed to leave. He would follow the trail he had seen others take, find out where they had gone. Perhaps he ought to cover their footprints as he went, try and ensure nobody else followed him. Anyone else who had made it out would likely try and regroup and return. If he wasn't among them, would they even notice? Would they remember him? Would they assume he fell and died during the battle?

Would anyone here miss him?

...No, best not to worry on that now. Fighting back these invaders was simply self-defense. He had been attacked too, after all. Besides, if he returned to Askr until this all ended and came back later, he would never be trusted here again. No doubt they would assume him involved in the attack. He had to stay and fight. His conscience wouldn't allow anything else.

Each step was agony, and he knew it would not get any easier as he went. Still, between the surrounding lands and the still-burning monastery, he'd rather take his chances wherever the others had headed. Death was less certain out there.

#ic #ic: heart and blade #threading: never stop improving #thread: i really wish i had my feh pass #supports: a never dulling heart #support: alfonse #princeofopenness

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nightscythe · 29 days ago

Note

Hellooo

May i ask what do you think would make the primarchs SEETHINGLY jealous when it come to their partner?? Like some probably feel less jealousy than the other (like dorn for example) but some are also incredibly territorial and possessive. But like how would they react to someone tryna make a move on their partner or maybe someone admiring/checking out their partner in a noticeable way??

Cant have him if aint obsessed 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

happy easter, and sorry this took a while. i wrote half of it then changed my idea on what i wanted to include, so had to rewrite like 10 primarchs. it was for the better; improved content for you all.

nsfw, 18+, pre-heresy, aggression, possession, and love sick space men, you could say dub-con in a way but it’s not non-con // oh no! someone has made the mistake of trying to claim what is theirs. you may not have done anything wrong but… they may need to lock you in a cage and never let you out again. because they love you so much.

lion: he’s deadly still. you’re peering up at him through your lashes, wet with the tears he’s already brought on when he fucked you with his fingers in the hallway and pulled away just before you reached the egde, telling you don’t you dare come, or i’ll see to it you never do again. your eyes never leave his as he strokes his cock, red and leaking and so hard, his chest heaving and jaw clenched. still think about them? he questions, moving closer to you slowly, still think they’d do better than me? still think you have a chance with them? when he’s in front of you, he uses his other hand to caress your cheek, his index and middle finger smoothing over your cheek and then your lips until he slips them into the warmth of your mouth. he huffs as you instinctively suck. i was waiting for an excuse to have you falling apart at my fingertips. he opens your mouth with the same two fingers. uses your drool to coat his aching cock before teasing the tip between your lips. no one else can have you, kitten. you should realise that.

fulgrim: he already has his hands beneath the thin material of your top, his unnaturally warm hands gripping into your until you’re sure there’s a bruise left in his wake. he pushes you backwards down a dark corridor, face buried in the crook of your neck with plush lips pressed against the curve of your throat, your jaw, all the way to your ear. i saw the way you smiled, he teases, hand slipping down to the curve of your ass. he pulls back, nose brushing yours as he stops moving. was it nice to think of someone else for just a moment? his smirk turns to a scowl as his other hand moves to the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair. remember what it felt like darling, that’s the last time anyone else will ever be in that pretty little head of yours. he pulls your hair, just enough to make you whine and grasp at him, so he stops, a delighted hum his initial response. careful, darling, i may just take you back in front of everyone and show them what it looks like when my love is dripping down your legs, hmm?

perty: he doesn’t need to hold you, no, he tied your hands to each bed post to make sure you couldn’t move without his permission. he’s standing at the end of the bed, admiring every piece of you, like your body possessed an innocence that the rest of you didn’t. when he finally reaches your eyes, he hums. no frown, no anger, yet he almost spits his words as he speaks. i worry that i need to remind you so often who you belong to. he kneels to the left of you, hand on your thigh that twitches beneath his touch despite how gentle he is. do you think i enjoy it? he asks, genuinely, do you think i want to have this feeling inside of me? do you think i wish to see you like this? he runs his fingers over your inner thigh, a shiver running down your spine as he draws closer to your core. i don’t enjoy it at all, pet. he almost seems sympathetic, but there’s a darkness behind his eyes when he hears your moan from his first, aching touch. i love the way you look and how you sound when you come for me, but tonight, you’ll have to beg for it.

khan: he pulls you into his lap and you feel it immediately. how hard he is beneath, how he’s been thinking of you, what he’d do to you, since the moment he found you. his arms wrap around you, holding you still in his lap so you can’t squirm at the feeling of his cock so close to you. do you want to run? he whispers into your ear, breath hot on your skin. you can if you want, little one. you can see if someone else could love you the way i do, make you feel the way i do. i have no worries that you’ll realise no one can best me. he chuckles to himself as he shifts his hips forward slightly, revelling in the way you whimper over him, letting one of his hands fall towards your clothed crotch as his fingers caress the area. he didn’t care who saw, who chose to pay attention. the only thing on his mind was you. but if you do run, know i’ll always catch you.

leman: your cheeks are wet, your lips are cracked. you can’t tell how much time has passed, your sense of reality evading you more with each time he has you come for him. a reminder, he’d told you earlier, for every time they’d looked at you and wondered what you might look like laid out for them. he’d done as promised, you’d lost count of how many times leman had you crying out in pleasure, pain, overstimulation from everything he did. i want to hear how much you need me every time my cock stuffs you full, he groans, hands spread over your thighs and hips as he slams into you again. your eyes are rolling back, you don’t have the strength to hold yourself up anymore, but you try to get the words out, just so you can feel him again. he’s amused by your babbled words, but still lets his anger sit between you. remember how you feel now whenever you’re tempted by someone else, he chides, snarling as he feels his cock pulsating, hips stuttering as he thrusts again. don’t… don’t ever fucking think another could make such a mess of you. i wouldn’t even let them try.

dorn: he’d walked beside you in silence all the way back to his chambers, not even looking at you when the doors were locked shut. before you can speak, ask him what was wrong, he turns you around, taking a hand in each of his as he drives you towards the door. he holds both of your hands flat against the surface, your back pressed against him and your front melded into the door. i don’t believe you were trying to make me jealous. his breath is ragged, his fingers curling around of much of your hands as they can. he grinds against you, muscles tightening as he feels your heat. but the thought of someone else being with you hasn’t left my mind since. now i’m conflicted. he turns you back to face him, lips skimming your own as though he won't allow himself to kiss you. not yet. i want to bury my face in you and listen to you beg me for more. his breath stops for the smallest moment. but i also want you to use me until you’re certain i’m the only one you’d ever need again.

curze: he has you bent over the first surface he sees after pulling you from the room he’d found you in. he sinks his fingers into the flesh of your hips and ass from where he stands behind you. when you try to look back at him, he pushes the small of your back down and holds you in place, not allowing you to move again. you do it to hurt me, he states, fingers teasing an entrance, wet with his own drool. you do it because you want me to hate you and leave you. as he fucks you with his fingers, he strokes his own cock, abandoning holding you down in favour of how good you made him feel. are you still thinking about them now, little bird? or have you finally thought of everything i can do to you? he’s not thinking clearly, obsessed with the feeling of your walls clenched around his cock, forgetting that he was meant to make you whine and cry for him. when he’s slid his tip in, groaning from the feeling, he rakes his hand through your hair and pulls you to the side so he can see more of you as he fucks you. one day you’ll realise i’ll never leave you. one day you’ll realise you’re stuck with me until the end of time.

sanguinius: he’s above you on the bed, leaning down with his forehead pressed against yours. his hands are everywhere, feverish in their begging touch to have more of you and be reminded that you still love him. tell me, he starts to beg, wide eyes boring into you as he ruts against you without even thinking. tell me that no one else can have this, that no one else can see you like this or hear how you praise them or hold your love like i do. a shaking pant leaves him before his demeanour shifts, eyes darker when he meets yours again. i need to hear it. he doesn’t give you the opportunity to speak as he retreats down your body, taking your clothes with him where he can. he carefully spreads your legs, your scent stopping him for a moment as his eyes fall shut. the stars made us for each other, he tells you, dipping his head down. his lips kiss your thighs before you feel his hot breath on your most sensitive spots, your body curving into the presence of him. let me prove it to you, for once and all, so you never have to doubt again.

ferrus: his hand grips your hair as he sinks his cock down your throat, grunting each time he feels the softness of your throat, gummy against his head. he doesn’t look at you, he wouldn’t look at you, not until he hears you moan. his head snaps towards you, darkened gaze never fading as drops of tears fall down your cheeks. he was so big – having him fuck the very back of your throat would never have been easy, but his fingers control your movements so precisely. did you think i would be gentle? he asks, hearing the first signs of you choking on his cock. he scoffs, pulling you down further on him and groaning at the feeling. when he feels your hands grasp his thighs, he finally pulls back. you hurt me, and this is payment. i know your limits, i know what you can take. all you need to do is sit back and show me that you didn’t mean it. he uses his other hand to stroke your cheek as his cock disappears into your mouth again. then i’ll show you why you’re mine, if you’re good and obey me.

angron: you’re beneath him, a rug on the floor his substitute for something softer so he could feel what he needed before he fucked you on the table in the strategy room in front of everyone else. his seething rage hadn’t quelled by the time he’d got you alone, instead channelled into each thrust of his cock into you. scream for them, he commands, reaching his hands around your body so he can find a better angle, holding your back against his sweating chest. scream my name, scream whatever the fuck you want to, just make sure everyone can hear you and knows who’s doing this to you. every time he sinks his length into you, he gabbles more words. let them think about it…throne…let them wonder what i’m doing to you…how i’m ruining every part of your innocence…no one else exists...let them want you. when he hears you moan, feels you start to clench around him, he stops and leaves you whining for more. you don’t come until i say you can. not today.

rob: your hips are wrapped around his waist, one of his hands holding the underside of your thigh to keep your position just right, the other over your mouth to stop any unnecessary sound. he’s so composed, but his eyes are dark, his brows furrowed as he only concentrates on you. do you want me to make this worse for you? he exhales slowly, pressing his hand further over your mouth when you start to whine. shall i see how many times i can make you fall apart but never let you come? make you feel everything and nothing at the same time? his fingers grip your thigh as he pushes his hips upwards to hit deeper into you, stifling his own noises on your shoulder between a bite and a kiss. i need to know that you want me, that no one is going to replace me. he kisses you roughly in a heartbeat, moaning into your mouth as he feels an ache in his core. i don’t think… i could ever let us be apart again. not now.

morty: he’s behind you, holding onto you so tightly you can barely breathe. everyone is still around; he’s not bothered trying to find somewhere private. his breaths are too heavy, too cold for any of that. shall i act like it doesn’t bother me? he questions, clawing you back against him so you can feel the bulge beginning to grow. shall i act like it doesn’t make me want to bend you over and fuck you here in front of everyone so they can understand your devotion to me, and me alone? shall i do that? he sees your teeth pulled between your lips and snickers. everyone here will know. they’ll smell me all over you, they’ll see how you can’t walk because of me, watch as you stumble over words because the only thing you can think of is how good i make you feel. when you look back at him, pupils blown wide, his gaze softens just a touch, pulling you back against him to feel a little more. i want you to make me come so hard i forget this even happened.

magnus: he seems so small when he’s lying on the bed. even in the depths of his anger, how he’d thought of fucking you against every wall until you were completely mindless and drunk on the feeling of his cock pounding you, he’d still felt his hands shake and mind break when he looked you in the eyes. he’d laid down on the bed, pulled you onto him, and begged you to ride him so he could be better for you and make you realise that he was all you needed. i don’t need anyone else, he tells you through breaths, head thrown back into the soft covers as his hands grip any part of your thighs or hips he could get a hold of. you see it, don’t you. how much i need you. you need me too. no one else, no one other than me. he can’t help the smirk on his lips as you fall down onto him, unable to support yourself without his help from how good he felt inside of you. that’s right, my love. only me. no one else can ever compare to me.

horus: he’s got you cornered against the door with nowhere to run, the look of amusement never present on his face. he’d been watching you the entire evening waiting for the moment he could have you on his own, his cock aching to feel you. pound his importance into you. you wanted my attention, now you have it. he guides your hand to his clothed cock and helps you palm him slowly. do you think there’s no punishment for acting like you’re not mine? you can feel his grumbled laugh in your chest, his lips coming to rest on your collarbone as he sinks his teeth in, suckles, listens to your whimpers until a perfect purple mark appears on your skin. or, is that what you wanted, sweetheart? he chuckles again, lifting your chin with his thumb and index finger so you look him dead in the eyes. guides your hand up and down his cock to the thought of what he’s going to do to you. you wanted me to remind you who commands you, who lets you feel good and come, hmm?

lorgar: he noticed before you did, as always, but he never did anything about it. not until you started to notice the devotion others had towards you and suddenly he felt like he had competition, even if that wasn’t the case. it started with a kiss, right in front of everyone, your pouted lips irresistible to him. not a peck; it was submission, a kiss you’d feel in your darkest hours, when you thought possession had evaded you. but it would never have ended there. i wonder if another has thought of this, he considers, hands so soft when they touch you despite the intent. he bends you over, holds your hips in place as he ruts himself into the curve of your thighs, clothed, eyes shut and a whimper leaving his lips. no one else… can have you. no one. he didn’t feel worthy of having his cock buried inside you, not until he proved his devotion to you once more. never look at another, he whines, stripping the clothes for your lower half, drool across his lips at the thought of tasting you, i’ll prove it to you… you only need to see me.

vulkan: he holds you like it’s the first time he ever had his hands on you, kisses you like he’d never had a taste of love before. you’ll never doubt me again, he promises, eyes searching for yours. he places you down on the bed, movements slow as he parts your legs and crawls between them. i’ll make sure you know i’m not easy to replace, my love. he can work wonders with his mouth normally, but when he’s spurred on by the weight of seeing you with another, choosing them over him for even the smallest of things, it’s like he was made only to worship you. no one will ever be as good to you as me, he says as you feel his lips, his tongue, on your most sensitive spots, but first you need to prove to me that you only love me too. he’d have you edging for hours before he ever gives you more, and by the time he sinks his length into you and allows you what you keep begging for, the stretch alone would have you coming.

corvus: he had made it worse in his head. he hated someone touching what was his, and after watching you be so close with another all evening, your fingers grazing them in return, he wasn’t in any mood to talk things through. did you think i wouldn’t notice? he pushes you down onto the bed, his composure taut but his fingers twitching as he reaches to remove his own clothes. did you think that i’d let you slip from my grasp for even a second? my little dove, i’ll make you scream until you can’t make another sound. how does that sound? he straddles you, knees on either side of your body. he leans down until his lips ghost yours and his fingertips graze the soft skin of your abdomen, hand finding its was under your clothes. he runs the tips of his fingers over every part of you that mattered, every part that would cause you to whimper and whine because of him. the night was going to be long – he’d worship every part of your body before he did more than just touch. when you understand you’re mine, and no one else can have even a sliver of you, that’s when i’ll allow you to come.

alpharius: he was playing a dangerous game, watching you so closely without any intention. he couldn’t let go of anything, especially not when you had others around you. i can see it. i know the way you look, how you feel when you do things. his hands trace down your body as he inhales deeply, dousing his senses in your scent and feeling. would you like them to fuck you like i do? he questions, almost a growl in your eye as he finds your obvious arousal. no, they never could. you’d never enjoy it the same way as you do with me. he turns you around, hand around your jaw to keep your innocent eyes focused on him. kisses you so gently as he dips his fingers into you, smiling when he feels you tense, then moan, into his touch. he wonders whether he can restrain himself for long enough, not watch you come undone on his fingers, the any other part of him. it would be a good punishment, but oh, so hard for him to resist. no one can ruin you like i can. no one can make you fall apart like i do.

#primarch x reader #x reader #lua.blrb

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moonsaver · 1 year ago

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thinking about yan!sunday trying to improve things with his darling who almost completely shut off from him after being "taken away". trying to get them to communicate with him again, to lower their walls a little; even when they refuse to say a word while he's around, when they avoid meeting his gaze, when they recoil from his touch. in his mind, if he just makes enough of an "effort", his darling will come around and their dynamic can go back to the way it was before… but unfortunately, that "effort" will never extend as far as him giving them their freedom - the one thing they want and need more than anything

Honestly yes. Ive only briefly touched on this subject in a few of my works like the bathing with sunday one, but thats it. Im ashamed i never write the more affectionate parts of him as a yandere because i love those parts the most about yanderes.

Sunday is still such a deeply caring man. He hates having your freedom taken away, but it's safer. Your golden cage is a cage but he makes sure you don't even see the bars. He whispers sweet nothings into your ear when you wake up beside him. His hands are almost revering when he bathes you, touching your skin like it's precious golden thread in a weaver's skilled hands, feather light kisses trace your nape. He combs out your wet hair so lovingly, gently taking apart knots and drying it with a thick towel, asking you if you like the new shampoo. He tries so hard to make it more of a normal relationship than what it really is, because in the end he truly does love you so much.

And when you flinch, when you recoil, when you spit retorts back at him – he's not angry, or disappointed. He's hurt. His wings lower when you yell at him, he doesn't know what to do with his hands – you've denied them the sacrilege of your skin. What good are they now? And he's so heartbroken in a sense. You don't look at him, you stop talking to him, and he swears he'll go insane. The tremor in his voice is inaudible to you, but he's restraining himself from buckling down to his knees at your feet and begging you to let him love you and be loved. He doesn't want to force this. He wants normalcy. But it's extremely hypocritical of him to want that. He knows it.

He won't let you go, not after everything he's done to have you right where he wants you. And you know that. You know despite how hard he makes it for you to hate him, he won't ever truly love you unless he sets you free. He's afraid this dilemma is often one that parts relationships of all kind. That Charmony dove was beautiful. And so are you.

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ghostlynightpanda · 21 days ago

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Could you write something for Ranpo Edogawa x ADA member, where reader gets threateningly letters from a stalker and maybe the stalker kills someone at one point because that person got too close to reader? And the other ADA members protect reader, but especially Ranpo?

Closer Than You Think

English is not my first language, so if you find mistakes, feel free to contact me!

synopsis: After receiving a series of threatening letters from a stalker, you find yourself under the Agency's watchful protection — but it's Ranpo Edogawa who notices your hidden fear the most. As the danger escalates, Ranpo's fierce determination to keep you safe reveals feelings between you that neither of you can ignore.

content/warnings: Ranpo Edogawa x reader, angst and fluff, stalking, -5.605 words

The morning light spilled across the Armed Detective Agency office in warm, golden stripes, and for once, things were almost peaceful.

You leaned back in your chair, spinning a small letter opener between your fingers with practiced ease, while the faint, near-invisible threads of your ability danced around your desk. They coiled lightly around your coffee cup, your stack of case files, the clock on the wall — little anchors, subconscious habits you'd developed after years of wielding your power without thinking. Hidden strings, fine as spider silk and strong as steel, were an extension of yourself now.

Across the room, Atsushi was arguing — politely — with Kunikida about paperwork, Kenji was cheerfully building a precarious tower of staplers, and Dazai… well, Dazai was pretending to nap on the couch, no doubt scheming something.

Normal. Comfortable.

Until he spoke.

"You're slouching," came Ranpo's obnoxiously bright voice from behind you. "Terrible posture. Terrible detective instincts. Very amateur."

You didn't even turn around. "Good morning, Edogawa-san," you said dryly, emphasizing the formal address you knew he hated. "And thank you so much for your unsolicited opinion."

Ranpo strolled into view, lollipop between his teeth, grinning like he’d already solved a case you didn’t know existed.

"You know," he said, hopping up to sit cross-legged on the edge of your desk — ignoring your obvious scowl — "if you asked nicely, I could teach you a few things. Improve your skills. Help you out."

You twitched one finger; a single hidden thread snapped taut between your hand and the mug on your desk. It shot into the air — and thwacked Ranpo in the forehead with a satisfying thunk.

He yelped and nearly toppled off the desk.

Kenji giggled from across the room. Dazai opened one eye lazily, smirked, and closed it again.

"You're so violent," Ranpo muttered, rubbing his forehead, looking genuinely wounded. "No respect for your elders. For the greatest detective of our generation."

You leaned back in your chair and propped your boots up on a file cabinet. "Maybe if the 'greatest detective' would stop treating me like his personal audience, I'd be more civil."

Ranpo grinned wider. If anything, he seemed delighted by your irritation.

You sighed internally. This was your daily reality at the ADA.

You were respected, sure. They trusted you with the tough missions, the dangerous assignments. Your ability made you lethal in close combat, and your mind was sharp enough to navigate the darker corners of the criminal world they often worked in.

But Ranpo — Ranpo was a different kind of challenge.

He wasn’t cruel, or mean. Just... endlessly infuriating.

He never missed a chance to show off when you were around, tossing around impossible deductions and stealing your victories right out from under your nose. He wasn't content with your polite acknowledgment, either — no, he wanted you awed, like the others were.

And you? You weren't about to give him the satisfaction.

"Hey," Ranpo said suddenly, plucking another lollipop from his pocket and holding it out to you, his voice lighter. "You want one? It's grape. Your favorite, right?"

You blinked.

You'd never told him that.

Still, you shook your head. "I'll pass."

Ranpo shrugged, popping it into his own mouth with a wink. "Suit yourself. More genius fuel for me."

You fought the urge to smile — and fought harder against the strange flutter in your chest.

God, he wasso annoying.

And yet... somehow, your mornings felt incomplete without these ridiculous battles.

You didn't notice the envelope at first.

Morning slipped into afternoon in a familiar blur of case reports and coffee runs. A client dropped off a simple theft investigation; Atsushi and Junichiro ran off after a suspicious lead; Kenji accidentally knocked over a filing cabinet; Yosano was off shopping.

The usual chaos.

It wasn't until you returned from the break room — coffee in one hand, a fresh stack of papers in the other — that you saw it.

Sitting there. Right in the center of your desk. A white envelope. Stark. Ordinary. Except for the dark red smudge staining the corner.

Your steps faltered.

The chatter around the office continued unabated — Dazai teasing Kunikida about his strict schedules, Kenji laughing about something you couldn't quite hear — but for you, everything seemed to narrow in on that single, misplaced object.

Blood.

You set your coffee down slowly. The envelope wasn’t addressed. No name, no markings. Just the sticky, ugly stain seeping into the paper.

For a long second, you simply stared at it.

Then, with a muttered curse under your breath, you plucked it off the desk, careful not to touch the blood. A few threads snaked out instinctively from your fingertips, ready to snap tight at the first hint of a trap — but nothing happened.

The envelope was heavy. Something inside it shifted slightly when you tilted it.

You broke the seal, and a thin, folded letter slid out onto your desk.

Blocky, uneven handwriting sprawled across the page.

I see you. I see how they look at you. But you're mine. Talk to them again, and they’ll die for it. One by one. Starting with the boy who smiled at you yesterday.

Your mouth tightened.

The boy yesterday…

Your mind flashed back to a minor incident on the street — a civilian you'd saved two days ago. He'd recognized you yesterday when you passed by the coffee shop, waved at you brightly, thanked you again.

Harmless.

At the time.

A slow, cold crawl worked its way up your spine.

"Yo," Ranpo's voice chirped from somewhere to your left. "You reading love letters now?"

You hastily folded the letter in half, stuffing it back into the envelope.

"Nope," you said, too casually. "Just junk mail."

Ranpo tilted his head, eyeing you in that way he did when he was about to rattle off some uncomfortable truth.

But for once, he stayed silent. Just frowned faintly around the edges of his candy.

You tossed the envelope into your bottom drawer without another glance and slammed it shut.

Out of sight. Out of mind.

You’d dealt with worse threats before. Some creep trying to scare you with anonymous notes wasn’t worth losing sleep over.

Besides — you had a mission report to finish, groceries to buy, and Kenji to stop from stacking three more chairs on top of the filing cabinet.

Life moved on.

You made sure it did.

Later that night, when the Agency closed and the others headed out into the neon-lit streets, Ranpo lingered behind.

He perched casually on the arm of the couch, watching you pack your things with a thoughtful expression.

"You're acting weird," he said, not bothering to hide the statement behind a joke this time.

You shrugged, pulling your bag onto your shoulder. "Maybe I'm just sick of your voice."

Ranpo smirked, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Yeah," he said slowly, lollipop stick flicking between his teeth. "Maybe."

You left without another word, weaving through the familiar streets toward home, telling yourself it was nothing. That you were fine. That the uneasiness sitting in your gut was just paranoia.

You didn't notice the shadow following you from a rooftop above. Or the flash of silver as something reflective caught the moonlight. Or the figure that melted into the alley behind you, silent as a whisper.

But someone did.

Someone who stepped out of the Agency a minute after you. Who narrowed sharp green eyes in the direction you'd walked. Who sucked thoughtfully on a piece of candy, then crumpled the wrapper between his fingers with slow, deliberate care.

Ranpo Edogawa wasn’t the type to worry.

But tonight?

Tonight, something told him he'd better start.

The next letter arrived two days later.

This time, it came with the regular morning post — buried between an electric bill and a new case file — and dropped unceremoniously onto your desk by the mail carrier.

You spotted it immediately.

Same plain white envelope. Same dark, sticky red mark. This time, it had your name scrawled across the front in that same jagged, uneven handwriting.

A chill licked up your spine despite yourself.

You snatched it up quickly before anyone else could see.

From across the room, Ranpo’s eyes flicked up from his candy stash — casual, almost bored — but you caught the glint of attention there. Watching.

You turned your body slightly away from him as you opened the letter, scanning it quickly.

They don't deserve you. They don't know what you are. But I do. You're perfect. You're mine. Talk to them again, and I'll make them bleed for you. I'll show you.

The skin at the back of your neck prickled. You folded the letter neatly and slipped it into your jacket.

No big deal.

It was just a scare tactic. Empty threats.

You'd dealt with actual assassins before. Professional killers. Supernatural freaks who could level city blocks. One obsessed lunatic scribbling notes wasn't going to throw you off balance.

Still, you were careful to erase your expression before turning back to the others.

Kunikida caught your movement out of the corner of his eye. "Something wrong?" he asked, setting down his pen.

You forced a shrug. "Just junk mail again. Wrong address, probably."

He frowned slightly — Kunikida’s natural state — but let it drop.

For now.

The third letter came the next morning.

Then the fourth.

Then the fifth.

Always the same: hidden among the regular mail, faint traces of blood smudging the paper, and darker words inside — promises of violence, obsession, possession.

You hid them all.

Not because you were scared — at least, that’s what you told yourself — but because the others already had enough to worry about.

You were strong. You could handle this. You had your strings, your skills, your instincts. You didn't need anyone babysitting you.

At least, that was the plan.

Until the morning Dazai caught you.

You were sitting at your desk, carefully unfolding the latest letter — red thumbprint pressed messily into the paper — when a shadow fell over you.

"What's that?" Dazai asked, peering over your shoulder.

You startled, quickly folding the letter again. "Nothing."

"That didn't look like nothing," he said, smiling lazily but with a glint of something sharper underneath.

Ranpo, from his seat near the window, lifted his head just slightly — subtle, but enough to let you know he'd heard, too.

"It's fine," you said quickly. "Probably just some prank. Nothing serious."

Atsushi, standing nearby with an armful of case files, frowned in concern. "Prank? Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," you said firmly.

Kenji popped up from behind a filing cabinet, bright-eyed as ever. "If someone's bothering you, we can all help! Right, Kunikida-san?"

Kunikida adjusted his glasses, eyeing you with an unreadable expression. "It's probably nothing," he said eventually, though his voice was tight. "But just in case... keep an eye out. Don't take unnecessary risks."

You gave them your best confident smile.

"I'm fine," you said again.

They didn’t look fully convinced.

Dazai tilted his head, watching you far too closely. "You know," he mused, tapping a finger against his chin, "it's usually the ones who say 'I'm fine' who are secretly the most not-fine."

You rolled your eyes, but Ranpo’s gaze stayed pinned to you even after the others drifted back to their work.

He didn't say anything.

Not yet.

But you could feel it — like the tension in the air before a storm. Like one of your hidden strings, stretched too tight across a battlefield.

Something was pulling.

And you had the creeping feeling you wouldn't be able to brush it off much longer.

Later that night, you walked home alone again, your bag slung over your shoulder, the letters weighing heavier than you wanted to admit.

You told yourself you were imagining it — the feeling of eyes on your back, the flicker of motion just out of sight.

Still, without thinking, you extended a thread behind you, connecting it to a lamppost. A second thread wrapped around a trash bin.

A third threaded quietly through the air, like a spider laying down warning lines.

Nothing triggered them.

No attackers.

No visible threats.

And yet…

A block behind you, pressed flat into the darkness of a storefront awning, a figure waited.

Watching.

Waiting.

And higher up, from a rooftop bathed in silver moonlight, another figure stood — silent, green eyes sharp, arms crossed.

Ranpo Edogawa's mouth twisted into a small, grim smile.

He didn't need his ability to know something was wrong.

He could see it plain as day:

You were lying. You were scared.

And someone — someone stupid enough to think they could hurt you — was about to find out exactly why the Armed Detective Agency was feared by enemies far and wide.

Especially when it came to one of their own.

The morning started like any other.

Light filtered in through the wide windows of the Agency, the dust motes dancing lazily in the beams. You sat at your desk, boots crossed at the ankles, pretending to skim through a report while your mind wandered elsewhere.

The others were moving around the office like usual.

Almost normal.

Almost.

Until the delivery came.

"Package for Y/N L/N!" the mail carrier called, cheerful and oblivious, setting a small, neatly wrapped box on your desk.

You frowned immediately.

You weren't expecting anything. No one had mentioned sending a package. No return address.

The others looked up too, curiosity piqued. Atsushi started to approach, Kenji peeking around the corner.

Ranpo, sitting nearby munching on a fresh pack of candies, narrowed his eyes sharply the moment he saw the box.

You hesitated.

Your instincts screamed.

A thin thread slithered invisibly from your fingertips, wrapping around the box, feeling for traps — pressure plates, explosives, the taut sensation of a wire rigged to blow.

Nothing.

Just a box. Heavy. Cold.

Slowly, carefully, you pulled the tape loose with your ability, keeping your body tense, ready to react.

The lid slid open.

The smell hit you first.

Heavy, coppery, wrong.

Atsushi recoiled. Kenji made a small, shocked noise.

Inside the box — resting on a bed of pristine white cloth — was a human heart. Still glistening wet.

Pinned to it with a bloodstained needle was a folded scrap of paper.

You stared.

Your mind felt blank for a moment — a buzzing silence flooding through you, loud and smothering — before the words on the paper burned themselves into your vision:

See? I told you I'd do it. No one touches what's mine. You smiled at him. He smiled back. He won't smile at anyone again.

The world tilted slightly.

Atsushi swore under his breath. Kenji backed away, pale. Even Kunikida dropped his pen, the sharp clatter echoing like a gunshot across the room.

Dazai pushed off the wall where he’d been lounging, face suddenly serious.

Ranpo stood up slowly, candy forgotten between his fingers, the rare weight of true anger settling into his frame.

"Y/N," Kunikida said tightly, striding over to you. "What the hell is going on?"

You swallowed hard, forcing air into your lungs. Your hands — steady from years of combat — shook slightly as you pulled open the bottom drawer of your desk.

One by one, you laid the letters out.

Five in total. All marked by blood. All increasingly unhinged.

A sick trail leading to this moment.

"I didn't think—" you started, voice rougher than you wanted. "I thought it was just... someone messing around. A prank. I didn't want to bother anyone."

"Bother—?" Kunikida’s voice cracked with fury. He jabbed a finger at the gruesome package. "This is not a prank, Y/N. This is a threat. A clear, violent threat against you and anyone around you!"

Kenji looked like he might be sick.

Atsushi hovered near you like he wasn't sure whether to shield you or tackle you into protective custody.

Even Dazai, master of easygoing detachment, looked grim.

And Ranpo —

Ranpo was still.

Not the usual lounging, lazy stillness he wore like a second skin.

No, this was something coiled. Tense. Sharp.

His green eyes — usually full of lazy amusement — were hard and glinting like shattered glass.

"No more walking alone," Kunikida snapped, already pulling out his planner and phone at the same time. "Effective immediately, you're assigned an escort at all times. Grocery trips, coffee runs, everything. Someone will be with you."

You opened your mouth to argue, but the look on Kunikida’s face made you snap it shut again.

Dazai smiled faintly. "Don’t think of it as babysitting," he said. "Think of it as... enthusiastic friendship."

Kenji nodded vigorously. "We'll protect you, Y/N-san! No matter what!"

You exhaled shakily, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes for a moment.

This wasn’t just annoying anymore. This was serious. Someone had killed — had murdered — a man because he smiled at you.

And you’d been so damn sure you could handle it yourself.

When you finally lifted your head again, Ranpo was right there.

Closer than before.

He didn't say anything — just reached out, almost awkwardly, and brushed a crumb off your jacket. His hand lingered for half a second longer than necessary, hovering near your shoulder, before he tucked it back into his pocket.

"You should’ve told me," he said quietly, voice stripped of his usual teasing tone.

You looked away.

"I didn’t think you’d care."

Ranpo let out a soft, breathless laugh — not mocking, not smug. Almost… wounded.

"You idiot," he said, shaking his head slowly. "I care more than you think."

The words were light. Easy to miss. Like he was offering you an escape hatch if you wanted it — the ability to pretend he was joking, if it hurt too much to believe otherwise.

But when you dared to glance back at him, his expression was deadly serious.

You didn't know what to say.

Luckily, you didn’t have to.

Because at that exact moment, Kunikida barked an order: "Everyone. Meeting. Now."

The Agency pulled together fast — Dazai, Kunikida, Atsushi, Kenji, Junichiro and Yosano forming a protective wall around you as they strategized.

Plans. Schedules. Rotating escorts.

And at the heart of it all, Ranpo standing just a little closer than necessary, sharp eyes never leaving you.

Watching. Guarding. Waiting.

Because if this stalker thought they could terrify you, isolate you, break you —

They clearly hadn’t counted on the full weight of the Armed Detective Agency crashing down on them.

And they definitely hadn’t counted on Ranpo Edogawa’s anger.

The Agency transformed overnight.

Where once your days had been filled with quiet missions and easy camaraderie, now every breath you took felt like it was being monitored.

Not in a cruel way. Not because they didn't trust you.

Because they cared.

And that — somehow — made it worse.

You couldn’t go anywhere alone.

Not even to the damn vending machine downstairs.

Kunikida accompanied you on coffee runs, armed with a notebook and a gun hidden in his jacket.

Dazai draped himself dramatically over your desk whenever you stood up, whining that it was too dangerous for you to even fetch your own documents.

Kenji insisted on carrying your groceries, proudly swinging your shopping bags over his shoulder like war trophies.

Junichiro trailed behind you during evening walks, his steps too quiet, his hand twitching toward his hidden blade whenever someone so much as looked at you wrong.

Atsushi hovered like an anxious guard dog, jumping at shadows and offering to "help" with anything that involved you leaving your chair.

It would’ve been almost funny — if it wasn’t so exhausting.

The final blow came when Yosano showed up at your doorstep that night, suitcase in hand, smirking like she was doing you a massive favor.

"I’m moving in temporarily," she announced without preamble, brushing past you into your apartment. "Doctor’s orders."

"Whose doctor’s orders?" you grumbled, glaring at her.

"Mine," she said sweetly. "And Kunikida's. And Fukuzawa’s."

You blinked.

"Wait, Fukuzawa agreed to this?"

Yosano dropped her bag with a heavy thud. "He insisted."

You sat there for a long moment, slumped against the doorframe, feeling like the last tiny threads of normalcy in your life had finally snapped.

When you'd first joined the Armed Detective Agency, you'd marveled at how fiercely they protected their own. How stubbornly they fought for the people they cared about.

You just never thought you'd be on the receiving end of it.

It was... overwhelming. And kind of beautiful. And absolutely driving you insane.

The next morning, Fukuzawa himself called you into his office.

He didn't waste time with pleasantries.

"You are one of us," he said simply, his quiet voice carrying more weight than a shout. "The Agency protects its own. Until this threat is eliminated, you will accept the help offered to you. No arguments."

You opened your mouth to argue anyway — a reflex — but Fukuzawa’s sharp look pinned you in place.

He set a hand gently on your shoulder.

"We will find whoever is behind this," he said. "I promise you."

The simple certainty in his voice — no grand speeches, no hollow comforts — made something in your chest tighten painfully.

You nodded, unable to find words.

And through it all —

Ranpo watched.

Always a few steps away. Always half-distracted by candy or a case file. Always pretending to be bored out of his mind.

But never far.

He never said anything about the way you flinched sometimes when the mail came. Or the way you checked the windows twice before leaving the Agency. Or how your hand sometimes twitched toward your hidden strings when a stranger got too close.

He just... stayed.

Silent. Constant. A shadow you could rely on even when you didn’t want to admit you needed anyone.

You didn't realize until much later — when the weight of everything almost crushed you — how much that silent support mattered.

One night, a few days into the full-blown protection campaign, you found yourself sitting on your tiny apartment balcony, knees pulled up to your chest.

Yosano was inside, noisily rearranging your kitchen for some reason only she understood.

The city lights blurred into smudges in the night air.

You heard the balcony door creak softly, but you didn’t turn.

You already knew who it was.

Ranpo.

He sat down next to you without a word, his jacket brushing yours lightly.

For a long while, the two of you just sat there.

The night was cold, but you didn’t feel it.

"You hate it," he said eventually, voice soft and wry.

"Hate what?"

"This," he gestured vaguely at the Agency’s newfound babysitting project. "Everyone fussing over you. Smothering you."

You shrugged, resting your chin on your knees. "It’s not... bad. I know why they’re doing it. I just... I don’t want them to see me like this. Like I’m weak."

Ranpo was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, very quietly: "You’re the strongest one here, you know."

You snorted. "Yeah, right."

"I’m serious," Ranpo said, almost sharply. "You kept it together. You didn’t break. Even when you should’ve. Even when anyone else would have."

You turned your head slightly, surprised by the intensity in his voice.

Ranpo wasn’t looking at you.

He was looking out over the city, jaw clenched, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. "But you’re not invincible," he added, softer now. "You shouldn’t have to be."

The words settled between you like fresh snowfall — quiet, heavy, undeniable.

You swallowed hard, throat tight. "...Thanks," you muttered finally.

Ranpo just shrugged.

"No big deal," he said — but his shoulders relaxed slightly, like you’d lifted some unseen weight off them too.

Neither of you said anything else after that.

You just sat there — two silent shadows against the growing darkness — watching the city lights blink like distant stars.

Waiting for the storm that was coming.

Waiting for the moment when the hidden enemy would finally make their move.

And when they did...

They would find out the hard way: You were never alone. Not anymore.

The letters had gotten worse.

Sharper. Hateful.

They shifted from desperate admiration to barely-contained rage.

The last one — delivered just two days ago — was almost a scrawl, ink smeared and heavy, words pressed so hard into the paper they tore through:

They're always around you. They won't let you breathe. I see it. I hate it. But don't worry. I'll fix it. I'll get you all to myself soon.

You hadn’t shown the others that one.

You didn’t have to.

Ranpo had looked at you that afternoon — really looked at you — and his mouth had tightened into a thin, grim line. You knew he understood. Even without words.

That night was the first time you were alone.

Yosano had been called away for an urgent assignment — a mission outside the city that needed her healing ability immediately.

She'd been furious about it, but Fukuzawa had assured her — and you — that the Agency would keep an extra eye on you tonight.

Still, you felt exposed.

The apartment was too quiet without Yosano’s sarcastic commentary echoing from the kitchen.

You locked every door. Checked every window. Threaded your invisible strings along every entrance like razor-thin tripwires.

Just in case.

And then you tried to sleep.

You woke to the sound of glass shattering.

Your body moved on instinct — rolling out of bed, crouching low, pulling a blade from under the mattress.

The darkness was thick and heavy, but you caught the shift of a shadow moving in your living room.

Too fast. Too bold.

Whoever it was — they knew the layout.

They weren't afraid.

You reached out with your ability, invisible threads spinning into the air, connecting silently to the floor, the doorframe, the walls. Anchoring yourself.

Waiting.

Listening.

The floor creaked again — and this time you heard it:

The rough, excited breathing. The low murmur of your name.

"Y/N..." the voice rasped. "So beautiful... so much better without them around…"

Your heart hammered against your ribs.

The stalker.

He was here.

He thought he had you.

You slipped silently to the door of your bedroom, strings already attaching themselves to the nearest heavy object — a chair — and the knife at your hip.

You could fight.

You would fight.

You waited for him to step into the doorway — the faint silhouette of a man, knife glinting faintly in the dark.

He was mumbling under his breath, eyes wide and crazed, swinging a blade loosely at his side.

You tightened the strings between your fingers — ready to launch the chair at him, disarm him, end this —

But you didn't get the chance.

Because before you could move, the front door exploded inward.

Two figures surged through the door:

Dazai, with a disturbingly cheerful smile, and Kunikida, already barking orders like a sergeant.

"You’re under arrest," Kunikida snapped, gun drawn and steady. "Put the weapon down!"

The stalker whirled, shocked and wild-eyed — but he didn’t drop the knife.

Instead, he lunged forward, straight for the broken window.

Trying to escape.

You moved to intercept him — your strings lashing out like a whip — but once again, someone beat you to it.

Ranpo.

He was already inside, moving faster than you'd ever seen him move, his expression stripped of its usual lazy amusement.

There was nothing playful in his face now — only cold, sharp focus.

In a single, almost casual movement, he tripped the stalker — sweeping his legs out from under him — and slammed him face-first into the floor with a vicious crack of impact.

The knife clattered out of the man's hand, spinning harmlessly across the floor.

Blood smeared against your hardwood floorboards.

The stalker howled — but it was a pitiful, broken sound.

Ranpo stood over him, breathing hard, his foot pressing firmly into the small of the man’s back.

"You thought you could hurt her," Ranpo said, his voice terrifyingly soft. "You thought we wouldn’t see this coming.“ He leaned down, green eyes gleaming with cold fury. "You’re dumber than I thought."

The stalker whimpered something unintelligible — and then Dazai was there, expertly cuffing him with casual efficiency, whistling under his breath.

"Honestly," Dazai said lightly, "if you're going to stalk someone from the Armed Detective Agency, at least try to be good at it."

Kunikida was already on his phone, calling it in.

You sank back against the wall, heart pounding.

The adrenaline was burning through you, leaving you shaky and cold.

Ranpo straightened and turned to you.

For a long moment, he just looked at you — really looked — like he was checking for injuries, counting every breath you took.

Then he stepped closer.

And without asking, without warning —

He wrapped his arms around you.

Not tight. Not possessive. Just there — a solid, steady weight anchoring you back to earth.

"You’re okay," he said quietly into your hair. "You’re safe."

You didn’t realize you were shaking until he said it.

You buried your face in his jacket for a second, letting yourself breathe him in — sugar, paper, the faint crispness of rain outside.

Alive. Safe. Protected.

By the time the police arrived, you were composed again — standing tall, weapon still in hand, as they dragged the stalker away.

But Ranpo never left your side.

Not for a second.

And when the others finally relaxed, giving you soft smiles and congratulations, Ranpo caught your hand under the cover of his jacket — a small, secret squeeze.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered so only you could hear.

You squeezed back.

Neither were you.

The apartment was quiet again. But this time, it wasn't an oppressive silence. It was peaceful.

The broken window had been boarded up temporarily, the glass swept away, the blood cleaned. Dazai, Kunikida, and the police had finally left after triple-checking every lock and securing the building.

Yosano had already called twice, furious she wasn’t here for the action.

You promised her you were fine. You didn’t know if she believed you, but you meant it.

For the first time in what felt like weeks — you were breathing easy again.

You stepped out onto the balcony, the cool night air brushing against your skin like a balm. The stars were dim under the city lights, but you didn’t care.

You leaned against the railing, closing your eyes, feeling the tension bleed out of your bones.

The door behind you creaked.

Ranpo’s presence was as familiar now as your own heartbeat.

He stepped outside, two lollipops dangling from his hand. Without a word, he offered you on, before he settled beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

You just… existed together, in the quiet. In the safety you had fought so hard to reclaim.

The lollipop tasted like cheap cherry flavoring.

Ranpo shifted, leaning his elbows on the railing, gazing out at the city.

"You did good, you know," he said after a while, his voice lighter than it had been all night. "Kept your head. Stayed smart. Didn't panic."

You smiled faintly around the candy. "I had good teachers," you said, nudging him gently with your elbow.

He grinned — that cocky, lopsided grin you usually wanted to smack off his face — but tonight it was softer.

Grateful.

But then his smile faded a little, eyes turning more serious.

He fiddled with the stick of his lollipop, twisting it between his fingers. "You know," he said, almost too casually, "it... it scared me. More than it should have."

You blinked, glancing at him.

Ranpo never admitted fear. Not even on the worst days.

"You?" you said lightly, trying to tease him out of whatever heavy mood was clouding him. "The great Ranpo Edogawa? Scared?"

He didn’t laugh. Instead, he tilted his head back, letting the city lights paint faint shadows across his sharp features.

"I’m not good with... people," he said quietly. "Not really. I don't notice when people are upset. I don't know what to say when someone’s hurting."

He paused, the lollipop stick stilling between his fingers.

"But when you…" He swallowed. "When you started getting those letters, when you started acting like everything was fine even though you were shaking inside —"

His hands curled into fists against the railing. "I noticed."

You stared at him, heart thudding.

Ranpo turned his head, meeting your gaze — and for once, there was no smirk, no clever mask, no teasing glint in his eyes. Only honesty.

"I noticed everything," he said softly. "Because it was you."

The breath caught in your throat.

Ranpo looked down, a little sheepish now, scuffing his shoe against the concrete.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is…" He huffed a frustrated sound, like the words didn’t fit right in his mouth. "... I care. More than I should. More than makes sense."

Your heart twisted painfully in your chest.

You reached out before you could stop yourself, fingers brushing against his hand resting on the railing.

He froze at the contact, wide green eyes flicking up to meet yours.

You smiled — small, real, a little shaky.

"It makes perfect sense," you whispered.

Ranpo let out a breath — a short, disbelieving laugh, like he hadn’t dared hope you'd say that.

Slowly, carefully, he turned his hand under yours, lacing your fingers together.

His palm was warm. Solid. Steadying.

You squeezed his hand, feeling the last of the fear, the anxiety, the isolation drain away.

You weren’t alone. You never had been.

And now — you never would be again.

The two of you sat there until the stars disappeared into the dawn light, hands entwined, silent and safe.

For the first time in a long time, you didn’t have to watch the shadows. You had someone who would do it for you.

Someone who would always notice — even when you tried to hide.

And somehow, that made all the difference.

Masterlist

#bungo stray dogs #bsd #ranpo edogawa #bsd ranpo #ranpo x reader #ranpo edogawa x reader #ranpo edogawa fluff #ranpo fluff

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bladespromotedpawn · 1 month ago

Text

"Heh, gotcha!"

Mareeta knew quite a few of her colleagues were not a fan of whatever was happening.

Did she care all too much?

Not really.

This was nostalgic.

Before mercenary work, before sword possessions, before losing it all and before she earned it all back again.

Back when it just her and Nanna giggling as the two hosted Eyvel's sword overhead and stashed it in one of the cupboards.

Back when she could do whatever she wanted and laugh it off, and the other would let her.

It was empowering.

Super empowering.

"Tell your boss to provide some incentives if they want this blade getting your foe's sides instead~"

How many factions were there in the prank war?

No clue.

She would serve the highest bidder in this thing. She racked up some nice IOUs she planned to cash in when this all wound up done, and she got to get some fun stuff done. Win-win!

"Now then..."

OK, what next...

Could she snatch up the training weapons and replace them with painted sticks?

Barely anything would change.

Eh, that means no harm.

Her 'perfect mercenary' status was probably being heavily undermined through this, but... fuck it. She already did this sort of stuff to her apprentices for practice in 'unexpected circumstances,' not too much different here, and this lets her keep an eye to make sure no one is injured doing this.

"...I can feel your gaze, you know. Need something from the Blade of Fiana?"

This could be a student seeking her out for actual school stuff, but there wasn't jack she was doing right now, and most of her students held it in an open secret.

She was having fun. Let her have this.

"If you're here for... current events, I suggest you make it worth my while. I was offered a week's worth of first dibs on dinner from the kitchen staff, so you're going to need to do better than that~"

...She was having way too much fun with this. But hey - getting in character was fun.

@silviapirouette

Fun Fun Fun

#ic #ic: heart and blade #threading: never stop improving #thread: fun fun fun #supports: a never dulling heart #support: silvia #silviapirouette #// she gets to have some fun for once!

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astrofhobia · 6 months ago

Text

I tried to help you.

We were never brothers. Pretending our relationship worked was what ended it. You never cared about me, I was aware of that to a certain extent. I pretended to care about you even if you knew better.

You got angry because of that, no, you didn't get angry because I pretended to care about you, you got angry because I wasn't honest with you, because I didn't tell you absolutely everything that was going on in my head.

Maybe things would have been different if they had treated you well, you were alone, trapped in someone else's mind, you felt pain but never showed it.

You were always very proud, Eclipse.

I tried to please you many times, staying extremely still in those analyzes that you did to me all the time. Until now I don't know why you made them. Was something wrong with me? Were you afraid Moon would take control? I guess you'll keep that secret until you actually die.

I was looking for a way to feed your ego and please you because it made me sad that you were alone without anyone congratulating your achievements. You always made me feel sorry for you. You can deceive yourself but you cannot deceive others. You were an artist deceiving others but you never knew how to continue with your lies and people came out of the threads you built around them. You tricked Moon and he tricked you, you tried to bully Sun and he bullied you. You killed me and I killed you.

Don't blame yourself. No one was really nice to you, no wonder you were so cold and empathetic towards me. Until Earth arrived.

She really changed your perception of people, right? You know, I love her, she's my sister. Nothing will make me hate her.

But I'm jealous of her.

She managed to get you out of your bubble without trying, it only took a few soft words for you to stop considering her a threat. You stopped seeing her as a hunting animal, you saw her as a friend.

I tried that many times. But the only thing I received was slaps and insults. You changed with others, but you never did with me.

That's my problem.

I tried to pretend that I didn't care about you. I regretted many times yelling at you, hitting you or disappointing you. I erased those feelings over and over again but they always came back.

I felt like you deserved a hug, a "I'm sorry" many times but I was never able to say it.

I was terrified that you would leave me. All those tests, I was so worried that you would leave me alone like they had left me... But my obsession with the star led me astray.

Maybe if I had been nice to you things would have been different. I mocked you when you betrayed me. But that really hurt me, my own creation stabbed me in the back.

I would have done it too if my creator abused me like that...

I'm not the Eclipse who treated you like that but I don't know how to talk to you without my larynx shutting down. I want to treat you better but our relationship is at the bottom of the sea and I don't know how to start a conversation without sinking further.

At the moment Earth appeared I was so hated by everyone, I was scared when she appeared, she didn't attack me, she didn't ignore me, she tried to be on good terms with me because she didn't know me. He knew what he had done, what he had done to you. But she still approached. She said I could have a second chance if I wanted.

I guess that's when I understood that I could improve.

I moved because I had done so much damage here that trying to walk near daycare or your family became extremely anxious and I hated that feeling.

When I got here I expected everyone to hate me. But apparently, this place is so different and the same at the same time. I feel at home but very far from there.

I try to start something new here, I want to get away from the problems but those problems are still there.

That's my problem.

But I still want to help you.

#tsams #tlaes #teaps #the lunar and earth show #the eclipse and puppet show

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mysticalcrowntyrant · 1 month ago

Note

Do you plan on writing a part 2 of yandere injured soldier? I am hoooked😩

Yandere Injured Soldier x Reader (Part Two)

AN: This has been in my drafts for a while. I'm still not that happy with the results, but I think if I stare at it any longer, I'll go crazy. I hope you enjoy it!!!

Part One

It was two weeks later when it happened.

The trees had turned gold and copper, the air sharp enough in the mornings to sting your lungs. You’d begun mending the fence near the pasture when you noticed the silence—an eerie kind of quiet that wasn’t natural for the farm. The birds had gone still. The wind no longer danced through the trees.

Then you heard it: the heavy crunch of boots against frost-bitten grass.

You stood up straight, eyes narrowing at the line of redcoats emerging through the tree line like ghosts. A dozen men, at least, all uniformed and armed. Their muskets glinted under the wan light of the late afternoon sun. Their leader, a captain with a pale scar running across his temple, dismounted his horse and walked toward the house.

Your heart began to thunder in your chest.

James.

He had been improving—walking, even. He'd kept quiet, mostly, only speaking to you in gentle murmurs and watching you when he thought you wouldn’t notice. There was a softness to him now that unnerved you more than his injury ever had. As if the mask of a dying man had fallen away to reveal something calculated beneath. Something patient.

You hurried back toward the barn, half-running, half-stumbling over the dirt path. You burst through the door, breath ragged, and there he was—sitting on the cot, already dressed in a fresh, pristine uniform.

His uniform.

He looked clean-shaven, composed, and terrifyingly alert.

“You brought them,” you said, your voice strangled with disbelief.

James stood slowly, as though your words had been expected. His posture was different now—no longer hunched from pain, no longer shaking. “I told them,” he said simply. “Told them there was a place. Safe. Hidden. That I’d been taken in by a kind soul.”

You took a step back, hands curling into fists. “You lied to me.”

“I never lied,” he said softly. “I told you I owed you my life. And I do. But I also told them about this place. They needed a rest stop. They needed shelter.” His eyes pinned you. “And I needed to make sure they didn’t hurt you. I made them swear it. No harm to you, your animals, your family.”

“Swear it?” you spat. “They’re soldiers, James. Swearing means nothing in war.”

He stepped closer. “But it means something when I’m the one who gave the orders.”

You faltered. “What?”

He glanced toward the open barn door, where the flicker of red jackets passed between trees like bloodstains. “They think I’m a hero now. For surviving. For coming back. They listen to me.”

Your stomach turned. The room spun around you. “You used me.”

“I protected you.” His voice turned hard. “Do you think you’d have survived this winter on your own? Do you know how many rebel scouts are crawling through these woods? You think they’d spare you just because your hands aren’t bloodied?”

You took another step back, the edge of the stall pressing into your spine. “You brought war to my home. You swore you’d repay me—and this is how?”

James’s expression flickered. Hurt. Genuine hurt. “This is how I keep you safe.”

“I never asked to be kept safe by you.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his jaw clenched. “No,” he said. “But you saved me anyway.”

The quiet between you stretched like a taut thread. Outside, voices barked orders, horses snorted, boots marched across your land like they owned it. James glanced out the door once more and then moved quickly, grabbing your wrist with a grip that was too firm to be gentle.

“I told them this place is mine now,” he said, his voice low, urgent. “I said it was given to me in thanks. And they believed me.”

Your heart dropped.

“You told them I gave it to you?”

“I told them you gave yourself to me,” he said quietly. “That you nursed me, that we—” He hesitated. “That you love me.”

You recoiled. “You’re mad.”

James’s face twisted—not with rage, but something worse: devotion.

“I am mad,” he whispered. “Mad that I could’ve died without ever knowing you. Mad that I found something good in this cursed land, only to realize I’d have to fight to keep it.”

You stared at him, breath stuck in your throat. “You mean me.”

“I mean us,” he corrected, stepping closer, eyes pleading now. “I meant every word I said to you. I don’t want to hurt you. But I will protect you. Even if that means protecting you from yourself.”

“I don’t need your protection,” you said coldly.

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face. You flinched. “But you do,” he murmured. “The world’s crueler than you think. And when the war ends—if it ends—you’ll need someone who’s seen both sides. Someone who owes you their life. Someone who’s already chosen you.”

The door swung open again.

The captain stepped in. “All’s in order,” he said. “Tents set up out front. Your, ah… host is free to stay in the house if you’d rather take the barn.”

James didn’t look away from you. “They’ll stay in the house.”

You opened your mouth, but the captain had already nodded and stepped out.

James looked back at you, then lowered his voice again.

“They’ll follow my lead,” he said. “They think I’m some noble officer who fell for some farmer's kid in the woods. Let them think that. Let them fear me if they have to.”

“You can’t stay here,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I want you gone.”

“I know,” James said gently. “But I can’t go.”

He moved past you, toward the barn door, then paused in the threshold, silhouetted against the gold of the dying light.

“I owe you my life,” he said without turning around. “That means it’s yours. But if you throw it away… I’ll still follow.”

And then he was gone, disappearing into the war camp that now spread across your father's land like a crimson stain.

You stood in the barn, the ghost of his touch still burning on your wrist, your body shaking with cold—and rage—and something else you couldn’t name.

The war had come to your door.

And it had worn the face of a man you saved.

Masterlist

#x reader #male yandere #oc x reader #yandere oc #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere #male yandere x reader #yandere fanfiction #yandere imagines

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perlelune · 1 year ago

Text

Oxytocin | Coriolanus Snow | iv.

One act of kindness from a peacekeeper may be your salvation or your doom. Possibly both.

Warnings: NON-CON, Blackmail, District 8 Reader, Stalking, Kidnapping

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

A smile blooms on your lips as you watch Tilly play hopscotch with her friend near the street. Snow’s melted enough this morning to be able to draw chalk patterns on the cobblestones. The young girl woke up excited to enjoy the day. And while you’re nowhere as thrilled, seeing the joy and life return to her gaze is more than enough for you.

The little girls’ buoyant laughs fill the street and you let yourself bask in the moment. It’s rare that you get time to yourself lately. Your shifts at the factory take up most of your time. And you’ve been spreading yourself thin, hoping to keep concerns at bay by remaining busy. White wisps surround you as you blow a long breath. You readjust your scarf and rub your gloved hands. Cold air seeps through the tiny holes in your gloves. You’ll need to stay after hours on your next shift to mend them. Perhaps you could even purloin enough throwaway remnants of wool to make Tilly a new pair. She’ll soon outgrow hers.

Besides, her health might have improved for now, but you never stop worrying about her catching another cold, one that might be deadlier than the last.

Lost in contemplation, you draw a sharp breath when an object drops from the sky onto your lap. Your eyes widen as you lower them. A pair of knitted gloves rests in your lap. They’re clearly brand new and the wool quality is unlike anything you’ve ever laid eyes on. You can tell from the thickness and vibrancy of the twining threads. You’re tempted to give it a brush with your fingertips, revel in the warmth oozing from the fabric. But you refrain.

“I don’t want that,” you snap, whipping your head up.

A towering, lanky frame clad in the peacekeeper’s signature blue uniform fills your sight.

You toss the gloves at him and he catches them with a deep sigh. He sits near you on the steps. The hairs on the back of your neck bristle with his proximity, his broad shoulder grazing yours as he turns to study you.

You shiver as his gaze runs along your frame. You don’t look at him. You don’t want to. You’ve done your best to forget about him these last few weeks, even if his ever-lurking presence is hard to ignore. Whatever you do, wherever you are, he’s never hovering too far away.

He seizes your hands, forcefully slipping the gloves on your frostbitten fingers.

“Come on, you’re freezing,” he says. Your lips tighten as you meekly comply. Arguing with the peacekeeper has never worked in your favor. So why even try? You let him put the gloves on you, cursing the comfort you feel when the warm fabric hugs your fingers. An absent thought drifts in your head as you admire the wool. You never owned anything this nice. The quality evokes the clothes that usually head straight to the Capitol.

All the nice things go to them first while District dwellers beg for scraps.

Coriolanus leans back, his large hands spreading over his knees. His stance is far too relaxed for your taste and you shrink further on your side of the narrow stairs.

As his icy blue orbs settle on your cousin and her friend, you tense.

“She seems to be doing well. I’m assuming the medicine helped,” he notes, smugness oozing from his words. His attention scorches your skin as you pointedly evade his stare. You loathe the satisfaction he draws from this. More leverage to use against you. More opportunities to make you feel small, helpless.

“What are you doing here?” you curtly ask.

His small chuckle makes your stomach coil.

“Is this any way to greet a friend?” His tone becomes light, playful. “Especially one that comes bearing gifts?”

Your brows knit. “Friends…”

Hot air tickles your earshell as he bends over you, whispering, “The closest of friends.”

Your heart skips a beat.

He grabs your chin, angling your face towards his. A shuddered breath leaves your lips as stark blue eyes drink you in. “Really birdie, not even a smile? Come now.”

You nudge a tremulous smile onto your lips.

His thumb grazes your trembling bottom lip as his mouth twists skyward. “Better,’ he praises quietly.

A winning glint sways in his eyes and your stomach lurches.

“Hi!”

Tilly’s cheerful voice shatters the moment. Coriolanus releases you and relief billows inside your chest.

He beams at the young girl, replying in a similar tone, “Hi.”

Your young cousin bounces on her feet, excitement rounding her gaze as she admires the peacekeeper. Your frown deepens at the exchange.

“I’m Tilly,” she announces solemnly, offering her hand to shake.

Coriolanus laughs as he takes it, mirth lighting up his handsome face.

“I know. I know all about you.” A mix of shock and awe decorates the young girl’s features with that information, as if the peacekeeper knowing anything about her was the most extraordinary thing in the world. “I’m a friend of your cousin. My name’s Coriolanus.”

“Coriolanus,” she repeats, as if mesmerized by the sound of his name alone.

“Here. I have something for you,” he says.

He reaches inside the pocket of his uniform and pulls out a bag. Your cousin jumps, her eyes sparkling with joy when he hands it to her.

“Candy!” she exclaims.

Your face pinches at the sight of the colorful sweets in the bag. These aren’t easy to acquire.

“Tilly…”

“What?”

The young girl’s expression is dejected as she looks at you, almost like she can sense your disapproval and is preparing to return the gift. Your shoulder sag. You don’t have it in you to refuse her this small sliver of delight.

You shake your head and smile.

“Nothing.” You hunker in front of her. “We should go back inside.”

“But I want to play…” she pouts.

“You have chores. And Coriolanus…” Your eyes lift to him. Amusement hasn’t left his expression. “is very busy.”

He doesn’t say anything as you shove your cousin inside the house. He lingers by the door and you fidget beneath his heavy stare.

“I’m guessing you have…somewhere to be.”

His gaze drags over you as a small smile dances on his lips.

“Yes, I hear I’m very busy,” he teases. Shock fills you when he leans to brush his mouth against your cool cheek. “See you soon, birdie,” he mumbles, his deep voice making your stomach flutter.

You’re relieved when he finally leaves. You chase away the peculiar sensation his closeness sparked as you shut the door.

You don’t get time to collect yourself, your little cousin immediately asking, “Is he your boyfriend?”

The pitch of your voice goes high with shock.

“What? Are you crazy?”

Tilly frowns. “But I saw him kissing you.”

Heat nestles in your cheeks. Maybe from an outsider’s perspective, Coriolanus’ closeness could be misinterpreted, the peacekeeper perpetually crowding your space despite your reluctance. Still, you can’t believe it’s what the little girl thinks from looking at the two of you.

It couldn’t be further from the truth.

Every fiber of your being burns with hatred for him.

“No, we weren’t. It wasn’t…” you sputter, your embarrassment cresting as the excitement in your cousin’s eyes doesn’t dwindle. “He wasn’t kissing me. We were just talking.”

“About girlfriend and boyfriend stuff,” she insists.

You sigh. You approach her and grip her shoulders.

“Tilly, I need you to promise me something.”

She blinks up at you. “Yes?”

You crouch before her so you’re at eye level.

“You need to stay away from peacekeepers.”

She purses her mouth, glancing down at the bag of candy.

“Yes, but Coriolanus…he was nice to me.”

Your stomach sinks.

“Well, Coriolanus isn’t like the others.”

She nods in understanding. You’re glad she doesn’t ask any further questions. You wouldn’t know how to begin to explain your relationship with him.

Not in any way that makes sense at least.

For a fortnight, you don’t see much of him. You bask in the tranquility of your usual routine, going back and forth, from home to work, and preparing to celebrate the end of the year with your cousin. It won’t be lavish, of course, but you’re hoping to save up enough from your wages to get Tilly a teddy and perhaps even a toy this year.

While most of your family has passed away, you want to cherish the things you still have. Perhaps you can even create new memories for your cousin, happier memories. She has been bedridden for months now and it’ll be the first holiday she’ll get to truly enjoy as a healthy, normal child.

He appears again as you’re working your usual shift, casually switching places with another guard. While you pointedly avoid looking in his direction, you feel the weight of his unwavering eyes, watching you as always.

Still, you diligently weave the silk on your loom. Your attention cannot stray. One mistake and the fabric will be ruined.

“Your shadow’s there,” Yara notes from her station right next to yours.

Your eyes flick upward briefly as you nod.

“Yeah.”

Silence hangs in the air a while before your friend speaks again.

“It doesn’t seem to bother you that much.”

You shrug. “I’m getting used to it.”

Her eyes land on the gloves peeking from the pocket of your long skirt.

“By the way, I meant to ask…Is that from him?”

You hesitate a little before begrudgingly admitting, “Yes.”

She moves her head in acknowledgement.

“I see, gifts now.”

Stepping on the treadle to slow down the motion of your loom, you snap your head to Yara.

There was something in her tone just then, an implication you didn’t like.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

She shakes her head and scoffs, “It’s just interesting, is all.”

“My hands were cold,” you defend.

“You could have thrown them away. I made my own. It’s what we do every year. Make our own.” Her gaze locks with yours. Licking her lips, she seems to mull over something before she asks, “Is there something going on between you two? I mean other than what I already know.”

Your face grows hot.

“There is nothing.”

She studies you for a few minutes before turning her focus back to her loom.

“Right,” she says.

Your annoyance mounting, you give the treadle a vigorous push and start weaving faster.

You let your friend’s prickly comments fade somewhere in the back of your mind. You have no desire to explore this dangerous line of thought any further.

There is indeed nothing going on between you and the peacekeeper. You keep repeating it to yourself as your fingers assemble the threads as if your life depended on it.

It helps you ignore the way your blood races in your veins.

Relief fills you when your shift ends. Tension built in your body and firmly remained since Yara began questioning you. You can still feel it in the stiffness in your limbs, the heaviness in your chest. You make haste as you dart across the hallways, eager to return home.

Your escape is halted by a pair of strong arms pulling you in a dark corner of the factory.

You look up at him through wide eyes. That teasing smile you’ve grown all too familiar with decorates his lips.

“Why the rush, sweet bird?”

“Coriolanus…” You step back from him. “Can’t you just leave me be, just once?”

He approaches you, forcing you to shrink against the wall. He cages you, his hands on each side of you as he drinks you in. You dip your head, overwhelmed with the scent of roses washing over you.

“I can’t actually.” Warmth swirls in your belly as his tone lowers. “Look at me.” He puts two fingers below your chin to angle it upward. His eyes narrow. “You’re upset.”

“Just had a long day,” you elude with a shrug.

He scrutinizes you. Your mouth quakes, his silence unnerving you.

After some time, he finally announces, “I’m getting discharged soon.”

“Oh, where?”

“I’m getting sent back to the Capitol.”

You gape at him. That’s not what you expected to hear. Though you surmise it makes sense, with him being around less. A strange mix of feelings surges inside your chest. But mostly, relief, freedom. You’ll be able to breathe properly again, without the uneasy attention of the peacekeeper tailing you everywhere you go.

Though you try not to let your emotions show. You give a tilted smile.

“Isn’t that a good thing? You get to go home, return to your life.”

His knuckles sweep over the apple of your cheek.

“Well…I’ll miss some things about District 8.”

You clear your throat. “I should get back home.”

“Meet me tonight,” he says bluntly.

“What for?”

His eyes darken, running over your trembling frame. His thumb skims over your bottom lip.

“I’m leaving. We should celebrate, just the two of us.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. You truly hoped to avoid…colliding with the peacekeeper again, in any way, but you suppose it was inevitable. One way or another, he’d have asked for more of you, simply because he could. Your fate is in his hands after all. He could easily make your life here hell just by whispering in the right ears.

Still, you can’t help voicing a feeble protest.

“Is that necessary?”

His eyes flare with danger. Your breath snags as he grips your jaw, his fingers digging painfully into your cheeks. Your pulse thrums beneath his palm.

“I don’t want to be mean to you right now, so don’t make me.” Though his tone is soft, his expression is harsh and inflexible. “Just do as I say.”

You give a shaky nod.

“S-See you tonight.”

He releases your face and you take a deep breath. His crooked smile is wide and victorious as he hops away from you.

“I look forward to it, sweet bird.”

You put a hand on your chest as he disappears, willing your thundering heart to slow down. You find comfort in a single thought. At least, after tonight, you will finally be rid of the peacekeeper.

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