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17caratssi · 2 months

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My darling, honey pt 2 ; Jeon Wonwoo

part 1 is here!

You had been married to your teenage crush for three years and it was a wondrous journey added to the fact you just learned that you'd swallowed a watermelon seed.

Wonwoo was still working his ass off during the weekend and after he returned, you began preparing some light breakfast for him.

While he waited at the suffice dining table and stared at your back, he repeatedly expressed his regret as he was unable to spend the weekend together.

"It's fine. We have a lot of time together, don't dwell on it," you reassured albeit knowing he won't feel any better. Wonwoo became one with the silence and you were already used to it. He never spoke unless it was about you or something you asked for his opinion.

You finished with the cooking and he did the plating. Last night, he worked for only four hours but since he was called in the dawn, he felt sleepy quite a bit and you were the opposite.

As you both were eating, he looked at you oddly. You ceased to stop and raised an eyebrow, indicating your curiosity. "Are you done? Just leave the plate and go resume your sleep,"

Wonwoo shook his head and held your hand. Perhaps his palm was radiating so much warmth, you leaned forward in the coziness. "Hun, do you have something to tell me?" you asked.

Presented with ambivalence, Wonwoo took a minute to reply. He thought deeply before saying, "Don't you think I've been resting a lot these days?"

You could tell he was dourly asking. You have read it somewhere that if the husband loves his wife so dearly, he will experience early pregnancy fatigue rather than the wife. Thinking about how it related to his situation, you grinned.

Wonwoo smiled as if he was entranced by your reaction. He gave a gentle rub on your cheek and patted the back of your hand. He then told you to go upstairs and rest as he helped with the dishes.

You didn't refuse and went as he directed. There was nothing in your brain than the thought of how you should tell Wonwoo about your pregnancy.

While you pondered, he already completed the chore and got himself ready for the shower. Wonwoo looked bushed and you pitied him. After he came out from the wet, you beckoned him to the bed. Since he had changed his clothes inside, he didn't waste any time and ambled to you.

"I have something to tell you,"

Wonwoo hauled your whole body and answered. "Yes?" he was feeling cold and decreased the gap between your bodies. Seeing how comfy he appeared, on impulse, you straddled him and laid on top.

He took a different hint and whispered. "You want it?" Wonwoo asked with apparent lust. You let his hands explore your back but when he was getting dangerously near to your sensitive area, you grabbed his wrist and put a halt to it.

"We can't. Someone will see," you said. Attentively, Wonwoo kissed your neck and mumbled. "The outside? I'll draw the curtain," he sounded titillated and you honestly underestimated your own self-control. It was such a turn-on to see him inflamed but your conscience rushed in.

"No. Not outside but here," you brought his hand to your belly and reposed. Wonwoo didn't quite catch the periphrastic way you were telling but once he realized, the sparkling bright eyes shone even more brilliantly.

"Is it what I think it is?" he asked softly, almost audible. His palm smoothed around your belly and he looked at it. Wonwoo didn't need to ask twice as you clarified his question in a single nod.

You and Wonwoo had waited for 3 years and were confronted with many thrown doubts regarding your fertility. It wasn't something anyone can forget and take it lightly and so you began seeing specialists every few months to check on your body.

At first, Wonwoo did argue with you about it and at one point, you gave him a cold shoulder for a week. He wasn't easy to be persuaded but one day, he followed you for your regular check-up. On the way back, you requested to ride the bus instead. You two came by taxi and Wonwoo has no problem granting your wish.

After you picked your seat, Wonwoo got to his and sat quietly. You were having mixed feelings about today and leaned against your husband. "Are you alright?"

Wonwoo's response was fast but did not answer the question. He kissed your temple and said. "Let me know if you're going to your appointment next time. We'll go together," his mellow voice sang sorrow. You looked up to see his face and there hidden a hint of sadness in his beautiful eyes.

The journey home was blue that day, he knew his love for you was deep but not as much as the worries within.

Wonwoo was used to your prank and all but this news would never be one of them. After many attempts and tears, you two were gifted with a sunny revelation. He let out a light-hearted laugh and announced. "You're pregnant,"

"Y/N, you're pregnant!"

Wonwoo continued to have couvade episodes until the second trimester came by. Your belly swelled later than most women you knew. They told you it was normal for your bump to be small and even your husband assured you there was nothing to fret about.

Once it got bigger, you felt shy to stand bare naked in front of Wonwoo. You even made a fuss when he wanted to shower with you. "No, it's ugly. You will hate it,"

You only earned his grimace and a company for the bath. Wonwoo hissed as he smeared the shower gel over your body. His dissatisfaction was then voiced out, "How can you say this hideous? I'm the hideous one,"

You glared at him and covered his mouth. "Don't say that. It'll make it sound like I don't have a taste for marrying an ugly man," and that had Wonwoo cracked, you followed suit.

Out of blue, you felt something poking behind you. You flicked his head and pinched his waist. Flustered, you sheepishly exposed him. "Why are you getting hard?"

"Ignore that. You're just too sexy and I'm a pervert,"

"Yeah, a pervert," you chuckled with your hands fondling him already.

You and Wonwoo didn't have extensive exercise the whole pregnancy, fear if you'll get hurt. However, one night, you woke him up wanting to do it. He did it so gently that you squirmed around and begged him.

"Go harder.."

"No, honey. You're near due,"

Wonwoo had a hard time practicing abstinence in your later weeks. He hadn't done it for almost a month and he thank God for not testing him too much. Seeing how seductive you acted that night, he went out of his principle and pleased you.

He was feeling bliss all over but you were his priority. He felt the familiar sensation inside you and he smiled. "Come for me," he knew it won't take him long to bring you an orgasm. He kissed your neck and thrust a few times more before he had you ended.

Panting, you loosened your arms around his torso and asked. "Did you come? Don't lie to me,"

Wonwoo was about to tell a lie when you added. He didn't dare to ejaculate inside after he learned that semen can cause contractions. He then flashed an apologetic smile at you. "I can use my hand,"

Wonwoo never used his hands and you've long known. That hurt your heart even more. You pushed him off and got up to wash.

Whether you were pregnant or not, Wonwoo wasn't close to tranquil if you were in the bathroom for a long period. He knocked on the door for the third time and asked if you needed any help but you chose to not answer.

After a while, you finished and silently left the bathroom. The sky was still dark and your husband wasn't in the bed. "Wonwoo?" you called him, slow-voiced.

Where did he go? Is he mad when I threw tantrum just now? You felt conflicted. He rarely let you sleep alone when he's home and now he did. Rather than furious, you wanted to see him.

But even after the nth time of calling him from the room, he still didn't reply. The after-sex effect kicked in and you began to yawn. No sign of Wonwoo getting into bed and you retired soon.

As soon as you hit the pillow, you couldn't open your eyes anymore. Having no desire to resist the sleepiness, you fell asleep and Wonwoo returned home to a sleeping wife.

He put the bag of condoms in the cabinet and properly snuggled against you on the bed. He had taken a shower downstairs before going out but he was afraid you'd wake up to his smell. It happened before and you had him slept on the floor the entire week.

Wonwoo stared at you as you fell deeper into slumber and fixed your position. Your round belly looked adorable and he recalled the moments when you cried because your swollen feet hurt.

He had hurried home that evening and massaged your legs with his uniform on. "Hubby," you sniffed, wanting his attention.

"Yes?"

Your face poker and you stayed silent for a good five minutes until you broke out of character. "I love you," you confessed out of nowhere.

With your nose running with a snort, Wonwoo laughed and hugged you. "Honey, if you keep being like this, I don't know how to survive,"

Wonwoo had lost count of how many times had he rushed home because you called him crying. He was always worried even though he may have an idea of what was happening.

Little things that you do to gain his attention basked him in elation. His love for you has grown impassioned and somehow anticipates the baby to come into this world of his and yours.

Before it reached dawn, Wonwoo was first to feel the wet bed and woke up. In a daze, he didn't quickly stir you but rather checked the ceiling.

However, it was your moaning had his head turned to you, full attention. "The baby- I think the baby's coming," you winced as you spoke. He can tell from your labored breathing that it must hurt.

Fortunately, you had been reminding him to get the maternity bag ready in his car. You were around his arms as he carried your weight to the car and placed you gently in the backseat.

As he drove to the emergency department, you told him you can bear the pain but he wasn't buying. Wonwoo got out and called for a team to attend to you. They instantly brought all the necessary equipment to the vehicle and performed the procedure.

Wonwoo was guided to the registration counter and while you were pushed into the waiting hall, the only thing that kept you conscious at the moment was his arrival.

You wanted him to be by your side so badly and if you suddenly had an emergency labor without him, you honestly would cry.

Perhaps, the baby wished to see his parents immediately, you were out into labor just several hours after that, and Wonwoo was permitted into the room.

The entire process was both scary and exciting for you. On one hand, you fret if you are drained out of energy while pushing the baby out but on the other, your husband was very collected about the whole situation.

"Honey, we can see the head already. Just a little push and we're going to meet our child,"

"I know you can. Grip my hand tighter as you push,"

You didn't know what was along his sentence that moved you but tears ran down your face and you made your last exertion in his presence.

The loud wailing was an end to your suffering. Wonwoo stayed with you and only when the midwives called to cut the umbilical cord he came about.

Days after you had the little one downright changed but Wonwoo never stopped giving his unreserved attention to both of you. He would promptly take care of the child in the middle of the night since you'd had it in the morning when he was out to work.

It was a challenging period as it was Wonwoo's first experience as a father. He took a lot of advice from his parents and other people and in the blink of an eye, the child is now two years old.

At first, many said that the baby took your features but he seemed to be the carbon copy of his father. His first word was 'mummy' but all he called now was 'daddy'.

"Daddy, pick me,"

"Daddy, toys,"

Daddy here, daddy there. You couldn't help but feel bitter inside. You and Wonwoo did spend equal time with your son but his blatant preference made you green. But maybe part of him inherited from how clingy you were to your husband. “He’s just like you, Y/N,”

He gifted a peck on your jaw and smiled softly. Suddenly, a voice from the little one chimed in. “Mummy, no!” and cause a rupture of laughter from the adults. You teased him by giving his favorite person more kisses. “Daddy’s mine,”

Wonwoo will never have this memory faded. He’s glad that you confessed to him that day.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

If you like this story, you might as well check out the others here !

#wonwoo #jeon wonwoo #wonwoo fluff #wonwoo seventeen #wonwoo scenario #wonwoo smut #wonwoo imagine #wonwoo oneshot #seventeen #seventeen fluff #seventeen imagine #seventeen oneshot #seventeen smut #wonwoo husband au #wonwoo first love #kpop #kpop fluff #kpop imagine

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the-kaedageist · 7 months

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congrats on hitting your follower milestone!! for a CR short fic prompt, how about shadowgast where essek is learning to coexist with caleb's cats? :)

I'm emerging from the abyss to answer this prompt 11 months later, but I hope you enjoy! I also believe someone else had Caleb having a cat named Gretchen before me and my brain borrowed it from someone; apologies, it just fit so well.

“Ah,” says Caleb when Essek arrives for their weekly meeting. “Since you were here last, I have acquired another housemate.”

This feels like a somewhat alarming statement. Thankfully, the suspense is not held for long - a moment later, a calico cat makes her way daintily into the room with them, stares up at Essek, and hisses.

“Gretchen,” Caleb scolds, along with a long string of Zemnian that Essek’s rudimentary skills can’t hope to follow. He’s just about mastered ‘please’, ‘thank you’, and some of the major foods; nowhere near native-speaker-speaking-to-his-cat level.

Essek tries not to be offended at being hissed at, even as he can feel his own ears flicking back behind his head in annoyance. “I have done nothing to you,” he says to the cat.

“She is scared,” says Caleb, reaching down to scritch the calico’s ears. She glares at Essek but submits happily to the pets. “She will get used to you.”

The cat eyes him like a particularly unpleasant thing that has been dropped on the floor. Well, Essek thinks, he has certainly had nemeses before. What is one more?

The situation does not improve from there. Every week, Essek Teleports to Caleb’s house, and every week, Gretchen acts as though Essek has offended her to the very depths of her being. (It probably doesn’t help that the third time this happened, Essek hissed back.)

By the end of the first month, Essek despairs that he will ever have a good relationship with Caleb’s animal companion.

At night, when he’s downstairs studying and Caleb is asleep, Essek sneaks back upstairs to find Gretchen curled up at Caleb’s side, purring happily. When Caleb is reading on the couch and Essek is attempting to cook in the kitchen, he peeks in to find Gretchen stubbornly attempting to seat herself in the middle of Caleb’s book, to Caleb’s laughter.

It seems that although they loathe one another, he and Gretchen share a love of the same man. Surely there is common ground they can find.

One night, Yasha and Beau come over for dinner. Gretchen is ambivalent about Beau (although no hissing is involved), but she waltzes right up to Yasha and starts headbutting her ankle.

“Oooh, hello, little beauty,” Yasha says, reaching down to scratch her cheek. Gretchen stares up at her adoringly. Essek also stares at her, aghast and betrayed.

“What is this?” he asks like a spurned lover.

“What is what?” Beau asked. She glanced over at Yasha. “Oh, the cat? She loves Yasha. For obvious reasons, of course.”

Essek rolls his eyes. “I thought she did not like strangers.”

Beau blinks. Her eyes narrow and her mouth stretches into a smirk. “Does the cat not like you, Essek?”

“No,” Essek denies quickly. “I don’t know what you are talking about.” He quickly makes an exit to the kitchen, making excuses about checking the soup, before he can be pestered further.

That is when he begins to wonder what he’s doing wrong.

First, he tries dressing more comfortably for his trips to Caleb’s. Perhaps, Gretchen is intimidated by the points on his mantle and the finery of his robes – is that a thing cats care about? The only cats Essek has ever encountered have been moorbounders, and usually they care more about the quality of their meal.

Unfortunately, even in loose pants and a soft shirt, Gretchen still glares and hides from him on his next visit. Caleb seems to appreciate the change though, pulling Essek into his arms and cuddling with him more than normal, and Essek makes a mental note that perhaps more comfortable clothing was in order regardless of the cat’s opinion.

Next, he attempts to determine if Yasha has bribed the cat for her love. He does research and discovers that cats are known to love meat and fish. The next week, when he Teleports into Caleb’s house, he pulls out a handkerchief with some pieces of fish stashed inside and lays it out on the floor. Gretchen does her usual routine of glaring at him while growling before she slowly approaches to sniff the food.

Caleb looks amused. “You brought a present?”

Essek shrugs, feeling heat on the back of his neck. “She is part of your family.”

Gretchen eats up every morsel of fish, to Essek’s relief. However, once her meal is complete, she goes back to hissing and glowering as though no offering had ever been made.

Essek is starting to feel a bit offended. This feels personal.

One night, he cuddles up with Caleb, dejected, as Caleb strokes his hands through Essek’s hair and coils a curl around his finger. “You are quieter than usual,” says Caleb. “Is something wrong?”

Essek glances up at him through his lashes. “Gretchen does not like me.”

Caleb says, “hmm” and continues to stroke Essek’s hair. “I have thought much about this, and I think she sees you as another cat.”

This is not something Essek has ever considered. “Another cat?” he echoes, surprised.

Caleb presses a kiss to his hairline. “You have cat-like mannerisms. You are prickly and picky and beautiful. Does it surprise you at all?”

Essek thinks for a moment; perhaps it does make some sort of strange sense. “So if I am another cat, how do I win her affection?” he asks at last.

“Well,” says Caleb, “ideally I would have put you both in adjoining rooms and let you sniff each other under the door.”

Essek gives him an unamused look. “Caleb Widogast, I am not actually a cat.”

Caleb tousles his hair with a small chuckle. “Ja, of course. Then I would say…be around her. In, ah, her orbit, so to speak. Give her space, but be present and let her get used to you.”

“I have been present,” says Essek petulantly. “She does not like me.”

Caleb shakes his head. “You either approach her head-on or you give her a wide berth – understandable, but I do not think it helps.” He lays his forehead against Essek’s curls. “You are stubborn. You will find a way.”

And slowly, Essek does.

He continues to bring Gretchen fish, but retreats beyond arm’s reach so that she can eat without feeling threatened. He is careful to seat himself within her watchful gaze when she is near, so that she will know his location. He stops trying to befriend and starts letting her be, and Caleb had been right – once he gives her the space to get to know him on her own terms, Gretchen finally, finally begins to thaw.

The first day she approaches him after her fish treat and lets him tentatively reach down to scratch her ears, Essek feels as though he’d been rewarded with a monumental gift. He meets Caleb’s gaze – and Caleb smiles sappily at him, as though all he’d ever wanted for his life was Essek and a cat, in this little house, with everyone getting along.

“You see?” Essek says to Gretchen. “I am not so bad.”

She turns around to show him her butthole and trots away with her tail held high. Essek laughs. “Perhaps we still have some ways to go.”

Caleb wraps an arm around his shoulders. “It takes time,” he says sagely, and Essek can do nothing more than laugh exasperatedly and press a kiss to his cheek.

#shadowgast #essek thelyss #caleb widogast #critical role #critical role fanfiction #ficlets #my fics #also just for the record the follower milestone in question was hit in JANUARY

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amorous-apothipl · 3 months

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i wont lie to ya, i think we're goin' too hard on the aros.

i am a culprit of this, don't get me wrong. i understand the rationale behind it. aplatonicism is heavily related and in proximity to aromanticism (and other aspec communities). it also is a great example of a culture who (most often) puts friendship above any other sort of relationship; one, too, that advocates for the normalization of friendship being an important part of anyone's life--regardless of whether they're in a romantic relationship or not.

i've noticed that we, as aplatonics, are pushing for the normalization of platonicism and friendship as optional. that, as well as pointing out how prevalent it is in our societies, sometimes causing stress or harm to an individual's wellbeing with us wanting to challenge how much it is brought upon people.

and i think we're toxic with how we approach the aromantic's ideas. we see them as doing bad unto us. i think it's because they're so concentrated and readily available, easy to point out as something aplatonics might be against or averse to.

aromantics are not our enemies. they are not trying to go against us. they are not trying to stamp us out.

they are just trying to exist in a world where romantic desire and relationships are the end-all be-all of *life*. an example: if you aren't married by the time your deathbed arrives, you're seen as pitiful, unfulfilled, wasted, among other things.

they're trying to find a place where they can explore their aromanticism and relationships and their feelings regarding that. for many, that's going to involve reevaluating how they were taught to think about friendship: as second to having a partner. that's not something we should take away from or denounce, for we are doing the same.

aplatonics are trying to find a place where we can explore our aplatonicism and relationships and our feelings regarding that. for many, that's going to involve reevaluating how we were taught to think about friendship: as something everyone wants, does have, and should have.

i think we should work to understand their ideas, how aromanticism and it's culture work within someone and their life, and how we can accept their viewpoints without tearing them down just because it doesn't explicitly disclaim that they're alloplatonic and aren't against aplatonicism.

our ideas play together. both romanticism and platonicism are major heads within the social world, both having their strangleholds over the population.

please keep this in mind going forward. be nuanced when talking about the aromantic's ideas. be nuanced when talking about the aplatonic's ideas. understand how we are both communities of which highlight the domination of the two forces and use that to your advantage.

TL;DR (Please still read though!)--------------------------------------

aros point out how romanticism works against us

apls point out how platonicism works against us

these ideas are both valid, and work together

apls rag on aros too much just because they're easy to point to as a perpetuation of platonormativity

aros's "platonormativity" is most often just a deconstruction of how they've been taught to see relationship, them getting more in tune with how they wanna do their shit (just like we are)

don't denounce aro ideas and lives on the basis of it not being congruent with your own ideals and how you may think it goes against apl ideas

critically assess aro ideas with an understanding that it might not be for you and you're allowed to interpret the work as you wish, perhaps even trying to understand it from your own apl perspective

Thanks for reading! Feel free to add you own ideas for or against any/all of my points; I feel this is important to how we go forth as a communities.

I come at this from the perspective of a romance ambivalent aromantic and platonic repulsed aplatonic.

#aplatonic #aplspec #apothiplatonic #aspec #apl #aromantic #arospec #aro #aroace #platonormativity #amatonormativity

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lxmelle · 7 days

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I think it’s safe to say both Gojo and Geto had a problem opening their hearts after they separated. Like an emotional scar they never resolved.

It’s kinda Husband & Wife-coded imho. (Husband&Husband, Wife&Wife, whatever - you get my drift).

Geto at his death asked about his family. He wasn’t concerned about how they’d mourn for him or considered if they’d want him saved, etc. Like the scrolls adorning the back of the temple, he didn’t view himself to be much if he couldn’t be strong - punishment to the weak and foolish.

Gojo upon the lead up to the battle seemed to believe he would win either way (aligned with what he told Megumi) and that wasn’t bothered with his body - but he admittedly did feel annoyed that his longest living friend, Shoko, wasn’t upset on his behalf. (I HC that I think he understood that there was no other person who had love for him like with Geto.)

Spoilers for 261:

Given the circumstances, Shoko also had to do what was necessary to support him, regardless of her feelings towards the request. She has always been respectful of boundaries I think. More avoidant with her feelings (remaining stoic) rather than ambivalent. She is a medic after all... you have to put aside your personal feelings.

To some extent both Gojo and Geto it difficult to regard themselves as worthy of loving and genuine care. People may have cared like Geto’s family etc. but the problem lies in their ability to recognise and reciprocate it. He felt alone and couldn’t smile sincerely in his life. It was easier for him to give love than to receive it.

Gojo had a few students who did, but they perhaps came at a time too late (it was mere months after Geto died?) where he didn’t have the time to actually open up his heart too much in the end... before he was sealed, and then had to make the decision to enter the battle. Fortunately, by that time, he didn’t feel lonely anymore as he said in ch236 after death, but there was certainly a line where he didn’t feel he could be understood by others. He was born too different, perhaps? His pragmatic and callous facade made it difficult for others to get close enough to see the real Gojo Satoru. A part of it was about unparalleled strength. The magnitude of it. It wasn’t something Sukuna understood either, since he never knew love and lost it.

We can see that Gojo held different standards for Geto than he did himself though. In the anime many speculated that he was bringing the bouquet for Geto’s grave (or something similar). He must’ve given his body back to Mikiko and Nanako (or hidden it) because he didn’t have it processed & cremated by Shoko, (which would’ve been completely adhering to the orders of the institution). He also wanted to reclaim it for a proper burial from Kenjaku.

This feels so much like a husband & wife thing.

Widowed Husband goes: “Ah, just toss my ashes in the river.” But will get his wife flowers for her grave, ensure she has a clean gravestone, no weeds growing on her plot, leaves a plate out during anniversaries, etc.

Gojo’s love for Geto is also very Yang-coded (which is inherently more male) where he will cling on unwaveringly and there is something about reverence in how he patiently accepts Geto and tried to fulfil everything he wanted. In this sense, where he is portrayed as a loyal widower, he may surround himself with friends, activities, look after the kids, etc. but he will always honour and cherish his wife until his dying day.

Geto who is Yin-coded loves maternally, self-sacrificially. She will be willing to make sacrifices for the sake of her kin. Even if separated from her husband, she will nurture and build a family around her, uncomplaining. She may appear to cope on the surface, as she is used to her emotional needs being unmet without her partner/Husband, until her own dying day.

This is totally anecdotal of course, but to give myself some credit, I’ve talked intimately with more than my fair share of people in grief to see a pattern (and understand it in a personal level too)... we all grieve differently, love differently, value different things...

This is just my two cents. Any thoughts?

Feel free to comment or reblog with your own take.

#just some thoughts #of course they’re not really afforded the time to grieve #all characters in jjk probably have ptsd #or they will have ptsd by the end of it #satosugu #satosugu brainrot #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #geto suguru #stsg #goge gego #satosugu yin and yang coded #jjk grief #gojo analysis #geto analysis #jjk brainrot

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katakaluptastrophy · 28 days

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This may be something you have already covered, or considered and discarded, but. Thoughts on Jod being trans?

Because it seemed slightly odd to me, that a AMAB kid going to his grandmother’s house would be allowed to play with his mum’s toys. Especially if they’re “traditionally girly” toys, as opposed to being told to run around or given a ball to do sports.

Whereas a little AFAB kid would gladly be given his mum’s dolls by a traditional grandma and told to play nicely and quietly. Not identifying with the Barbies so much as finding them so pretty (especially compared to the Ken dolls that look nothing like him, which he feeds to Ulysses the dog).

And then, two or three decades later and finding that he is now God. He has consumed the Earth and her siblings and made her anew.

How easy is it to change the bits about himself he never felt were right? To remake himself as God in the flesh? To look upon himself and say, it is good?

"When I was seven, you know, all Nana had to play with in her house was some of Mum's old toys. And my favouite out of all of them..." He gave a long, shuddering sigh. "My favourite was her old Hollywood Hair Barbie," he murmured. "I loved her little gold outfit and her long yellow hair. She was the best. She got to have all the adventures. There was also a Bride's Dream Midge, but Mum had cut Midge's hair into this weird mullet. It was Barbie for me." She looked at him. He looked at her. He added, "Not Hollywood Hair Ken. Mum had him too, but he was a creep. I gave him to Nana's dog to eat."

This is what we get when John is describing the "scraps of id" that lead him to make Alecto look like some kind of nightmarish Barbie. The 'id' is, psychoanalytically, the most instinctual, basic part of the self. If John is being truthful here, then he's expressing something very basic about himself and his motivations in making Alecto.

I'm not convinced that we can infer anything about his Nana's attitude towards what toys a child should be allowed to play with. John is probably born somewhere between the mid 90s to the mid 20s, so it's just as possible that John playing with his mum's old Barbies is evidence that his family was fairly progressive. Or too poor to afford new toys. Or just ambivalent about the toys he played with.

In terms of John and gender, or at least John and masculinity, this interview has an interesting insight into what Tamsyn might be doing with that:

the God of the Locked Tomb IS a man; he IS the Father and the Teacher; it’s an inherently masc role played by someone who has an uneasy relationship himself to playing a Biblical patriarch. John falls back on hierarchies and roles because they’re familiar even when he’s struggling not to. Even he identifies himself as the God who became man and the man who became God.

Though of course, to quote a different interview, this is a series where "readers will end up STICKY and GREASY with GENDER and BIBLE" and where Lyctorhood is "a huge genderfuck".

So I think there's certainly scope for trans readings of John, which shift the framework for the way that John is positioning himself in relation to his masc roleplaying of god. There's a number of elements that would have a very different resonance in such readings, not least putting Alecto into such a specific version of a woman's body, and the tension between his own exercise of bodily autonomy and his utter restriction and violation of others' bodily autonomy.

Personally, my take is that John is meant to be a type of cis man I'm sure many of us have met - one who is at pains to demonstrate his feminism, who perhaps finds the boundaries of masculinity confining to some extent, but who is ultimately unwilling to examine how deeply those boundaries are part of the way he views the world and interacts with others. And with John, this is writ large, quite literally: endowed with godlike power, he falls back on the patriarchal image of god. John may go out of his way to tell us that the maternity problem was important to him, that he played with Barbies, that he *cares*, but at the end of the day that introspection doesn't translate into his actions.

Regardless of how John came to his relationship with masculinity, he's stuck with - or perhaps in context we could say haunted by - a very particular conception of patriarchal masculinity.

#the locked tomb #tlt meta #john gaius

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beevean · 4 months

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So I'm putting some thoughts about how I see Charlastor in order, just in case I'll need them in the future lmao

Alastor craves power, control, and freedom. These are his main drive forces. The reason Lucifer's presence in the hotel rattles him so much is because he is both more powerful than him, a mere demon... and because he is a more important person in Charlie's life, and she asked for his help rather than Alastor's. While most of his taunting Lucifer about being a better dad than him comes from a place of wanting to hit the King of Hell where it hurts, he's also clearly consolidating his hold on Charlie's heart... who doesn't protest the fact that this consummate liar is calling her "his daughter".

(related to this, Charlie beams when Alastor calls her "good girl", which is completely normal I'm sure 🙂)

Alastor is implied to have been forced by whoever is holding him on a leash to protect the Hotel, going by his wording in Dad Bead Dad. By the end of S1 he is sick of it and wants a way out... but it's also implied he was growing a little fond of the hotel.

Charlie's feelings for Alastor seem to be ambivalent. By Hello Rosie, she's still fully aware that Alastor is a sadistic jerk who delights in people's suffering, and she is extremely reluctant to make a deal with him, putting every stipulation she can think of. However, she has also defended him against Lucifer by saying that he trusts what she's doing, and she's comfortable enough to talk to him about her personal problems with Vaggie even as it's clear that he couldn't care less lmao

Alastor giving his beloved mic to Charlie could be seen as a sign of genuine trust as well: by that point, he doesn't need to go the extra mile to manipulate her, since she owes him "a favor".

Alastor's touchy tendencies have been downplayed since the pilot, when he even slapped Vaggie's ass to annoy her. But he still enjoys touching Charlie a lot 👀 Both in a creepy, possessive way (bro really laid on the bed next to her...), and in a genuinely cute, friendly way. Charlie clearly doesn't mind the latter.

In short: related to the fact that Alastor enjoys being at the center of everyone's attention and is pissy when he gets ignored, Alastor wants to be important to Charlie for reasons yet to be disclosed, and he's willing to charm her in any way he can to make her trust him above others. He keeps his cards close to his chest, but he has been a real help to her, making his possessiveness and manipulation more disturbing.

Charlie is, as of now, in an in-between state where she still doesn't fully trust Alastor but she is growing fond of him and perhaps sees him as an odd friend of sorts - look at her wide grin when he comes back in the finale and she hugs him! She is not stupid, but she does see the good in everyone, and Alastor is no exception.

Alastor might also be eager to use the power of the Princess of Hell for his own purposes... namely, gaining back his full freedom. He might actually need her, perhaps even more than she, as of now, needs him.

In a general sense, both of them might be corrupting each other. Alastor is inherently a corrupting force in a Faustian way, manipulating others to gain more and more power, and so far he seems to be succeeding in getting Charlie to his side by playing the part of the helpful, resourceful hotelier. But Charlie is also an extremely positive force, and as I said before, Alastor seems to like her a little in his own cryptic way. I doubt that this would be enough to "redeem" Alastor... but it would be interesting to see him fight with himself against his newfound affection :)

(bonus: really curious to see where Husk would fit into all of this. I doubt he'd be happy to know that Charlie made a deal with his owner...)

#hazbin hotel #charlastor #charlie morningstar #alastor hazbin hotel #food for thought #really enjoying what they did with these two lol #as i said: i wasn't particularly impressed by alastor in the pilot so i never paid attention to the ship #but oh boy i've been eating what he had to offer in the show proper #so yeah. i'll rotate this in mind :)

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myhairpintrigger · 5 months

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Grieving for the Living (Aleksander Morozova x fem!reader) Part 5

The entirety of a capricious and treacherous marriage between the Darkling and the Lantsov princess.

read previous parts here!! part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

hi just popping in to say i love u guys always and longer. thank u for 400 followers, i could just kiss all of you!

word count: 8.5k

warnings: everything is cannon typical. unhealthy relationship dynamics are ahead, too.

taglist: @il0vebeingdelulu @mellowarcadefun @budugu @eir964 @arwensloanebarnes @marytvirgin @chaoticcoffeequeen @claire-loves-music

“I had a dress made for you.”

This was the first time your mother had directly spoken to you since you left Os Alta. She stood in the doorway of your room holding a large white box and she smiled at you.

It wasn’t a pleasant smile by any means. It was one of ambivalence and nervousness. You had half a mind to hiss at her like a cat to see her go running down the hall, but you didn’t.

Instead, you mirrored her smile and you set your book down upon your lap. You sat in the far corner of your room on an overly cushioned chair, legs crossed stiffly in front of you.

“I didn’t expect that. I just planned on wearing one of my old ones to the party.” You hummed and folded your arms over your chest.

Your mother, as vain as ever, had insisted on an engagement party for Nikolai and Alina, even whilst you were in hiding. You thought it to be in poor taste that a social outing was all she could think of in a time like this, but you truthfully didn’t expect much else of her, either.

“Yes, well, we have to look our best, don’t we? It’s really a lovely dress. It’s lilac, with lots of pearls. You love pearls.” Your mother said with a proud smile.

You eyed her and sent her back a half smile of your own. In the months she’d spent without Genya Safin tailoring her, it seemed she had aged years and years. Her skin was thin and wrinkled like old parchment and there were little spots on the backs of her hands. Her eyes seemed to have sunken in a bit, as well, and her hair was greying rapidly, losing the blonde that Genya had so often given her.

“You’re right. I do love pearls.” You replied emptily and slowly rose from the chair.

You strode towards your mother and you noticed that when you were within a few feet of her, she took a couple steps back as if you were going to attack her. You fought the urge to roll your eyes.

You reached out and lifted the lid from the box on your bed and you dropped it aside so that you could pull out the dress. It was a big, heavy piece of clothing, and just when you thought you’d gotten it all out of the box, it kept coming. Finally once you’d pulled the entire gown out of the box, you pushed the box aside and it clattered on your floor. You laid the dress out on your bed and examined it.

It really was a lovely dress. It was nearly as big as your wedding gown, which had been ridiculously large. The skirt was a lovely shade of lilac with swirls and designs embroidered into the shimmering fabric, embellished with little pearls. The bodice must have been what weighed the dress down so drastically, because it was an intricate piece of work. Pearls and other beads were sewn into the fabric so densely that you could hardly see the purple fabric underneath it, and the sleeves were two dainty little cuffs that would surely rest just off of your shoulders.

You turned to look at your mother and you blinked a few times.

“You had this made for me?” You asked incredulously, gaping over at her, “I’m shocked you would give me the time of day.”

Your mother looked a bit guilty and then she shrugged, “Well, it was not my idea, to be honest. It was Nikolai’s. But I was the one that told them which color to use. And to use pearls! Because you love them.”

You gave her a weak smile and then you turned towards her completely. Perhaps this was an olive branch. The beginnings of a bridge that would bring you back into your family’s good graces.

“Thank you, Mother. Why don’t we go have some tea? Or take a small walk? We still have almost an hour before we have to get ready for the party, and I-“

Your mother’s face became pinched, as if she’d eaten a sour fruit and she held her hand up to silence you.

“I’m afraid I must decline, and it’s for the best. I’m sure I’ll see you at the party and have my fill of you for the day there.” She said primly and then nodded to the dress, “Anyway, thank Nikolai for that.” She said airily before she gave you a nod and quickly scurried out of your bedroom.

You pursed your lips at the interaction and you moved to close the door behind her. Once it was closed, you turned back to look at the dress on your bed. You stared down at it with an apoplectic sneer and you let out a little scoff.

You had half a mind to wear one of your black dresses, just to see what she’d do about it. She’d probably faint and claim that your mind had been completely possessed by the Darkling. You snorted humorlessly and then shook the idea from your head- no matter how appealing.

A knock sounded at your door and you almost groaned, the desire to be alone consuming you rapidly. You shuffled over to the door listlessly and opened it up to see Nikolai standing in your doorway with a big grin on his lips. He shouldered past you and walked into your bedroom and he let out a low whistle.

“I see Mother has brought your dress to you. Isn’t it nice?” He asked and looked down at it, examining the gown with an approving nod.

“It’s pretty. I didn’t expect it.” You answered and watched your brother while he studied the dress.

“Well, I had her have her seamstress throw something nice together for you. Honestly, with any luck, you’ll completely upstage her. I’d like to see that.” He said and turned towards you, the same grin still on his lips.

You stared back at him and then shrugged, “She might behead me if I did that.”

Nikolai waved his hand dismissively and then he clicked his tongue.

“Try as she might, I do believe you’ve always upstaged her. Even when you were much younger.” He replied and sat down on the edge of your bed.

“Don’t tell her that.” You mumbled and sat down on the edge of the bed right next to Nikolai.

Nikolai reached over and gently patted your shoulder and he let out a long sigh.

“Listen, I know you’ve not been very happy these last few weeks. I won’t pretend to know exactly why but I have theorized a bit,” he began and then he folded his hands in his lap, “I worry about you often. I know things have been difficult for you, but I’m here for you. And you know, if there’s anything I can do for you, I’m always willing to do it. You’re my little sister, you’ve been my best friend since you could walk. I’ll protect you at any cost.” Nikolai finished and then he turned to look at you with a small smile.

You looked up at him and you let out a little sigh, giving him a slight nod.

“Yeah. I know. And I appreciate it. I appreciate you. Everything is just so… loud, right now. Can’t have a moment of peace, not even when it’s silent.” You murmured, sounding distant in your own ears.

“Peace isn’t really obtainable. At least, in my experience. But finding comfort in the midst of unrest may be the closest thing to it.”

You wondered what your brother meant by that. Nikolai spoke two languages; one being charming sarcasm, and the other being riddles. It was always one or the other. This seemed to be another one of his metaphor ridden riddles.

“Nothing in life is really easy. Happiness doesn’t come easily and neither does comfort. You’re going to lose things, you’re going to get hurt, you’re going to have to make hard decisions and even harder sacrifices, but no matter how hard it gets, you must keep writing your story. You might be miserable doing it and you might feel like you’re fighting a losing war, but whatever. Life goes on.” He finished and then he gave you another smile. A soft, genuine smile.

You returned his smile, even if you didn’t really mean it.

“Life goes on.” You repeated and he beamed, patting your knee a couple of times.

“Indeed it does, little sister.” He said and rose from the edge of your bed.

“Why don’t you start getting ready for the party?” He suggested and then strode towards your door. He stopped in the doorway though and looked over his shoulder at you.

“I mean it, y/n. Life goes on.”

As he left your room, you felt a frown cover your face.

You weren’t so sure he was right.

When you strode into the party, you were already nearly an hour late. Your dress was heavy and it took you and one of your mother’s servants nearly twenty minutes to get it on. Every moment you were late after that was your own fault. You didn’t relish the idea of a party and you didn’t want to be seen by people.

But of course, eyes would wander and they did.

When you walked into the large room, chatter seemed to quiet. Not entirely, but enough to make an indication that something was happening, causing heads to turn towards you.

You squared your shoulders and walked straight into the crowded room, not sparing any of the staring guests a second- or first- glance. You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of your curiosity.

The very small train of your gown dragged rhythmically behind you as you walked through the crowd and shoulders past a few bystanders who didn’t have the mind to move out of the way for you. You set your sights on Nikolai who stood with Vasily and your mother and you walked towards them. You pressed your lips together and did your best to make your expression as stoic and impassive as possible.

Nikolai was the first to look up at you, and a warm smile covered his face. Vasily looked up at you next and then finally, so did your mother. She regarded you the same way you would regard a particularly sour piece of fruit- with a pinched expression and a particular distaste.

As you approached them, your eyes traveled over your mother. She looked… aged. Life without a Tailor hadn’t been treating her well. You’d remembered her being so beautiful when you were a child. None of that beauty remained. You wondered if it was simply age that had made her seem so displeasing to look at or if it was the way she had been acting towards you. Whatever it was, it hardly bothered you.

“There she is! I was wondering when you’d come down!” Nikolai beamed and he plucked a glass of champagne off of a tray carried by a passing waiter and he passed the dainty cup to you.

You took the glass from his hands gratefully and you took a small sip before you cleared your throat and glanced at your mother through your periphery. She was still staring you down.

“I was under the impression this was to be a small affair.” You remarked airily.

Nikolai seemed to think the same thing as you because he nodded and looked around the room with a small bit of disdain on his face.

“Yes, my thoughts exactly. How many guests did you invite?” He asked, his fingers tapping at his palms.

Your mother gave a passive, smug smile and she shrugged, “Vasily got a little overzealous with the invites,” she started and then glanced at your eldest brother, “Now, I don’t entirely agree with your Caryeva set, but I admit, that sort lends a certain air of festivity.” She praised idly, giving Vasily an approving smile.

You scoffed, and you swore you heard Nikolai do the same, but much quieter.

There was a moment of silence amongst the four of you, and you looked around at each member of your family. Your mother looked at ease, Vasily seemed a bit drunk, and Nikolai’s brow creased with worry. You frowned.

“Nik, what’s the matter?” you asked, taking a step closer to him.

“He’s revealed our location to the gamblers and freeloaders he calls friends.” He snapped and then looked at Vasily with an incredulous annoyance.

Vasily looked at Nikolai through his drunkenly heavy eyes and he sneered a bit.

“That’s rich coming from a pirate.” He remarked, his words slurring ever so slightly, “you make yourself ridicul-“

“The Darkling lives!” Nikolai shot back, cutting Vasily off.

Your mother placed a dramatic hand over her chest and then she eyed you suspiciously. You rolled your eyes.

“We are at great risk if our location is compromised! You’d sacrifice us all for your pride and stupidity.” Nikolai continued, his eyes meeting yours.

“You overreach, you little bastard.” Vasily slurred back, and he clapped a clumsy hand on Nikolai’s shoulder before he turned to face the majority of the crowd, “A toast!” He announced, cockily, before marching off to the front of the room.

Your mother placed her hand on Nikolai’s arm and gave him a small, apologetic smile before she caught your eye. When your gaze met hers, her smile melted away and all that was left on her face was a resonant disgust.

You brushed off her glare. You were done feeling sorry for yourself over things you couldn’t possibly control, your mother’s disdain being one of those things. What were you trying to prove anymore? And to whom were you trying to prove anything to? If your mother wanted to scorn you, then you could scorn her right back. You smoothed down your dress and gave her a saccharine smile.

“Mother, isn’t it too bad that Genya Safin isn’t here? You are in dire need of refreshment.” You cooed. Her brows furrowed together, but you would never know what she would have said, because Vasily boisterously began his toast.

“I’d like to share some words about my brother,” he began and motioned towards the three of you, “Nikolai!” He crooned and then took a sip of his wine, “Yes, yes, we all know he’s pretentious… condescending… a man of the people. But!” Vasily remarked and you glanced at Nikolai who rolled his eyes warily.

He glanced at the table of drinks in the corner and then back at you, giving you a small nod towards the table, mouthing ‘let’s go’. You took a few steps towards him while Vasily droned on.

“He has some hidden qualities, too. His intended should-“

Just as you took your final step towards Nikolai, the sound of shattering glass turned your attention up to the ceiling. The entire domed skylight had collapsed, and thick, smoky tendrils of shadow invaded the room at a rapid pace. As soon as they crashed into the ground, they shifted into humanoid forms. They had no eyes, but mouths with rows of serrated, crooked teeth, and they rushed forth and began to attack everyone in their path.

Glass fell from the crumbling remains of the skylight above your head and bits of it rained down into your hair. You shook your head rapidly and looked at Nikolai, bewildered. Nikolai looked back at you and he grabbed your arm and pulled you behind him, along with your mother. Gunfire and screams were the only things you could hear besides the occasional snarl from the shadow creatures. Guards were attempting to shoot at the creatures, but the bullets went right through them. The creatures knocked over tables and sent partygoers flying through the air as they moved around the room. Across the room, you saw Vasily dive behind an overturned table and you grasped onto Nikolai’s shoulder.

“What is this?” You asked, in a panic. You feared you already knew the answer.

“They must be the nichevo'ya David spoke of. Which means the Darkling must be close by.” Nikolai said sharply, keeping his hand on your arm protectively. You felt faint and you grasped his shoulder tightly to keep from stumbling.

“Nikolai-“

“We have to get out of here. Most importantly- we have to get you and Alina out of here.” He stated and you looked to the opposite side of the room. Alina and a few of her Grisha all stood behind a table that rested on its side, and all of them were doing what they could to fend off the nichevo'ya.

Gunfire still rang out around you and Nikolai spun around to look at you, his face pale.

“Run. Go. Right now. Get out of here. Grab a horse if you must but get out of here. I will find you, I swear it, but get out now. Before the Darkling comes.” Nikolai ordered and you gave him a clumsy nod before you grabbed the skirts of your gown and darted out from behind your brother. You ran along the wall, away from the creatures and the crowd and you had nearly made it to the door when a nichevo'ya materialized in front of you.

Your eyes widened and before you could scream, the creature lunged at you. You held your arms up defensively and waited for a blow that never came. You wondered if you had died for a split second, but you still heard screams around you. You slowly lowered your arms to see the creature standing in front of you, unmoving. If it had eyes, they would have been fixed on you as you stood before it. You took one step away from it, to gauge whether or not it would stop you, and when it didn’t, you turned on your heel and ran straight out into the hall. You dashed down corridors and around corners before you came to the front doors. You pushed them open ferociously and you barreled out the door, only to come to a skidding halt.

The grounds were surrounded by Grisha in their brightly colored keftas. You looked at them cautiously, only to realize that you didn’t recognize a single one of them.

Confused, you watched them all take slow steps closer and closer. They all looked fierce and determined as they moved in on the building you stood in front of, and it took you longer than you cared to admit to realize that these were Aleksander’s Grisha.

Before you could even turn to run back inside, they parted down the middle and through the crowd strode the man who had played on your mind every single day for the past months on end.

You stood, frozen in place. You wanted to run, but where could you run to? If you ran inside, you risked death by nichevo'ya, but if you ran anywhere out here, one of the surrounding Grisha would easily stop you. You were trapped.

He walked towards you with determination and as he got closer you could make out his facial features. His hair was the same; dark and gracefully pushed away from his face. His eyes were the same, too, so dark that they could pass for black. But there was something different about his face now. On the flawless pale skin of his lovely face sat three, thin, ink black scars that ran down his face at an angle.

From the volcra, you realized, and took a step back as he approached you.

You tried to stand tall and strong against him, but the second he came within three feet of you, you scurried backwards and held your hand out to stop him.

“Don’t come any closer.” You forced out, not pleased with how shaky your voice had become.

He didn’t listen.

He stepped closer and grabbed your wrist, moving your hand back down to your side. A beautiful, longing smile grew upon his face, as if he had just returned home from the longest of wars and he dropped your wrist, instead taking your chin in his hand.

“My beautiful wife.” He breathed, staring down at you. You pulled away from him and you shook your head.

“No. I am no longer your wife.” You spat, backing up against the closed doors behind you.

For every step you took away from Aleksander, he took one towards you, until you were trapped between him and the door.

“How curious, then, that you still wear your ring.” He murmured and looked down at your hand.

You swallowed hard and looked up at him, fear seizing you with a thousand hands.

“Don’t look at me like that. I am not here to hurt you, my love. I’m here to collect what’s been taken from me.” He cooed and reached out to brush his fingertips across your jaw.

His touch was so gentle; so loving, and you nearly found yourself instinctively leaning into it. It took all of your willpower to keep your head straight.

“And what might that be?” You demanded, clasping your hands behind your back.

He gave you another smile, but this smile was akin to one that you’d give a child after they said something completely outlandish and silly.

“You, of course. And the Sun Summoner.” He answered, moving his hand away from your face, reluctantly.

You snorted and stared up into his eyes challengingly, “I’m not an object to be collected.” You retorted and grasped the door handles behind your back. Perhaps if you could get back inside, you could find another way out. Another way away from him.

As if he expected this from you, he reached out and grabbed onto your wrists and pulled them in front of you, holding them in a tight grip.

“No, of course not. But I have so missed you, and despite what you may say, I think you’ve missed me as well, little Princess.” He murmured and then leaned down to kiss your forehead, keeping your wrists in his grip.

“I will not go. I will never follow you again.” You stated, shaking your head a few times.

His hands were freezing cold against your skin and the even colder metal of his own wedding ring made you want to shiver.

“I was afraid you’d say something like that.” He sighed, shaking his head as if he were dealing with a petulant child.

He turned around and nodded to one of the Grisha behind him, and a man quickly made his way up to the two of you. He wore a bright red kefta and a stony expression. Aleksander looked at you with regret in his dark eyes and then he shook his head once.

“Let me go, at once.” You whispered and tried to pull away from him.

“You can come with me willingly or my Heartrender can put you to sleep and make you come with me. I would prefer willingly, my love.” He said softly, brushing his thumbs back and forth across your wrists as he held them.

You shook your head.

“I already told you I won’t be coming with you.” You said sternly, staring back into his eyes challengingly.

He let out a sigh and leaned forward to kiss your cheek once before he dropped your wrists and nodded at his Heartrender.

“Then I suppose you’ll make me do this the hard way. I’ll see you when you wake, my dear.” He said, as if it pained him so.

You moved to grab the door again, but before you could, the Heartrender at your husband’s side raised his hands and suddenly you could only see black.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed. You had been slipping in and out of consciousness, though. Unless you had been dreaming. Sometimes you’d see people over you, other times you’d hear muffled conversations, but nothing was clear.

When you were finally awoken, it was slow. You felt your body waking up first, and your muscles felt stiff and unused. You became vaguely aware of the feeling of fingertips, brushing comfortingly across your face, over your cheekbones, across your jaw, along the bridge of your nose. The action was calming, and you felt blissful, as if you were waking from a peaceful nap.

Only when you opened your eyes, did reality strike you, hard and fast. There was hardly any light in the room you were in. It was dark and it was a bit cold, but you noticed there was a blanket covering you to your shoulders. You laid upon a bed that felt like it had hardly been slept in, and you flickered your gaze over to the side. There Aleksander sat, on the edge of the bed. His calloused fingers were still moving affectionately over your face and a small smile formed on his scarred face. You stared up at him, unable to find words to express your newfound disgust.

“There she is. There’s my lovely girl.” He purred and he brushed his thumb across your bottom lip before pulling his hand away from your face with a reluctance that you had never seen him use, “I’ve so missed your voice, little love.”

You stared up at him, silent. There was the faint sound of conversation out in the hallway and there were hurried footsteps, and it was the only noise that floated around the two of you for a long time. Your eyes traveled his face. His once perfect skin was now marred with three, black scars. If it wasn’t for the skin that was raised around them, you would’ve thought them to be drawn on. His hair was swept back as always, and he, of course, was dressed in all black. You examined his scars once more and told yourself you were glad he had to suffer, but you were ashamed to feel little aches of sympathy in your chest at the sight of where he had been wounded.

“Feeling shy, I see.” He commented and then reached down to brush a bit of hair away from your forehead.

“Not shy,” You found your voice, staring up at him, “I have nothing to say to you.”

He clicked his tongue with a sharp tsk, “I saved you from certain death and persecution and you’re angry with me? Oh, my love, see sense.” He breathed.

You slowly sat up, your joints popping and cracking as if you hadn’t moved in years. As much as you hated it, he was still absolutely breathtaking. You’d secretly hoped that the volcra would’ve mauled him beyond repair, but you had no such luck. He still stared at you with those beautiful, dark eyes, and you shifted uncomfortably.

“I do see sense, and that’s why I have nothing to say to you.” You whispered, shaking your head.

“Perhaps you’re just a bit embarrassed.”

You scoffed.

“Embarrassed by what, Aleksander?”

He smiled. He seemed to relish his name leaving your mouth and you made a mental note not to use it further to deprive him of such satisfaction.

“Embarrassed that I was right and you were wrong. What did I tell you, little love? I warned you that you would return home to hatred. Did I not?” He asked and gazed over at you, his hands resting on his thighs.

You looked down at his hands. There was a large, black crater of a scar on the back of his hand and you wondered what had happened there. The veins around this scar were all black, looking poisonous under the skin. You fought back a chill.

You never answered him, but he let out a soft sigh and he reached out to gently take your chin in his hand. You pulled away and turned your head away from him entirely.

“Poor girl. You’ve finally had your first taste of persecution. Tell me, how does it feel?” He asked and reached out to grab your chin again. He turned your head towards him carefully and he stared into your eyes, “How lonely has it been? To lose everyone you thought loved you because of their fear? Their judgment?“ he asked.

You dared to look him in the eyes finally and you wished you hadn’t. Despite his words, his eyes were uncharacteristically soft. He looked at you as if you were something he cherished, something he loved endlessly. You wondered if he was capable of faking that. There was a desperate trace of longing in his gaze and you watched his lips twitch downwards just slightly, a change so subtle that if you were anyone else, you may have missed it.

“It doesn’t matter.” You finally answered, dropping your gaze away from his.

He let out a sigh and let go of your chin before he reached out and grasped your hands. His skin was just as cold as you had remembered it to be, if not colder now. You wondered if he felt the icy chill that was his skin.

“If you had just stayed by my side, you would’ve never felt lonely. I wouldn’t have let you. Not a single day would have gone by where you felt anything less than loved. Adored. Worshiped, even.” He whispered, looking down at your joined hands. Of course you knew that.

You looked down at your hands, too.

There was such a stark contrast when you looked down. His hands were scarred and they were strong, with traces of black swimming in the veins just beneath his fair skin. He wore his wedding ring on his finger still, but on the correct finger, whereas you wore yours on your middle finger where it was ill fitting. Your hands were smaller than his, and your skin was unmarked by scars; smooth. You had the hands of someone whose life had been easy. He dropped your hands and he plucked your ring right off of your middle finger before sliding it onto the correct finger, and although you felt you should have, you didn’t stop him and made no move to correct it once he let go.

You kept your eyes on your hands and he slowly stood up from the bed and let out a small sigh.

“You can live in denial, but not forever. You’ll find it’ll be far easier if you let me in rather than fight me.” He leaned down and placed a kiss on top of your head, “For what it’s worth, I’ve missed you, in every way a person can be missed. I’ve missed your presence in the mornings, I’ve missed your smile, your laugh, even your attitude I’ve found myself missing. I know that deep down, you’ve missed me too. Otherwise you would have rid yourself of that ring long ago.” He observed and then he placed his hand on top of your head, smoothing your hair back.

“You don’t hate me, you’ve just had your mind filled with the lies of martyrs. You weren’t meant to be a martyr, y/n. You weren’t meant to sacrifice your happiness just because it was the ‘righteous’ thing to do. You were meant to be a queen. Deny that as you may, but I know it to be true, and perhaps somewhere in that pretty little head of yours, you do too.”

He knelt down at the side of the bed and looked up at you with a soft, understanding smile. He seemed so pleased to be looking at you.

“I do love you. I will never turn you away. When you’re ready to accept that, I will be here with open arms.” He murmured and placed his hands on his knees as he looked up at you.

You stared down at him and you shook your head slowly.

“And what if I never do?”

He smiled, but didn’t say anything. He rose up from his knees and he wandered across the room towards the door. He opened it up and paused before walking out into the hall.

“I’m a patient man. The word ‘never’ is so wasted on such a mortal girl. You’ll change your mind, and when you do, I’ll be there.” He said softly before exiting the room, leaving you alone in the dark, his words sending a chill through you that you couldn’t get rid of, no matter how far under the blankets you slid.

You had been given free rein of the strange little sanctuary that the Grisha siding with Aleksander had thrown together. It wasn’t very interesting, by any means, and your days passed slowly. Very, very slowly.

You had yet to see anyone that you knew, though. You recognized a few faces from the Little Palace, but beyond that, it seemed like everyone you knew had either died or taken to the other side. With no David or Genya, or even Ivan around to entertain you, you’d taken to making the acquaintance of an Alkemi boy named Vladim.

Vladim couldn’t have been very old, perhaps nineteen at the most. He was always tirelessly working on little things in his makeshift laboratory, but when you asked about them, he always answered you the same.

“I don’t think you’d have much understanding of the subject matter, and alas, I don’t think the Darkling would be very pleased if I discussed it with you.” He would say, almost word for word, every time.

He wasn’t overly friendly, but you could tell that he appreciated the company in one way or another.

You had done your best to avoid Aleksander during the day, and you were usually quite successful in that endeavor, but you couldn’t avoid him at night. He didn’t give you your own room, he simply told you that you’d share his and left it at that. Arguing with him would’ve been futile. His skirmish with the Fold and with his newfound shadow warriors left him with a certain roughness that you’d never known him to have before. There was a certain ruggedness to him now, a certain edge that made the hair at the back of your neck stand up. He had always been hungry for power, but now he was ruthless. He had always commanded respect, but now he forced it. He seemed to be slipping into madness, slowly. He used to be a sharp, shining sword, cutting fast and without much pain. Now he was like a worn, serrated knife. It worried you, but you tried to push that down as far as you could. You shouldn’t worry about him. Let him destroy himself, it wasn’t your problem.

So why did it feel like it was your problem?

You tried to remind yourself daily that his destruction wasn’t your responsibility and that he was bringing it upon himself, but it became increasingly harder and harder to remember that.

Every night ended the same, though.

You’d lay in his bed, as far onto your side as you could possibly get, and you’d always pretend to be asleep when he finally came in. He’d shuffle around the room silently for a while, getting himself ready for bed, and then he’d lay down on his side of the bed. Like clockwork, ten minutes later, he would move towards you as if he were being pulled by strings like a puppet and he’d wrap you in his arms. He would whisper promises to keep you safe in your ear and he would run his fingers through your hair. Murmurs of proclamations of love would also be uttered into your ear, and he would whisper your name as if it were scripture.

You wondered if he knew that you weren’t really asleep, which led you to wonder if he even cared.

He would oftentimes press his lips to your temple and stay there for a long time before pulling away. Some nights you would really end up falling asleep in his arms, and other nights you would stay awake and he would eventually let you go and he’d tuck the blankets around your body, just as you liked them. It took you by surprise the first time he did that, because you didn’t expect him to remember such small details.

Tonight was seemingly not much different than the other nights. His arms were circled around your waist and he had his chin resting on top of your head. He had fallen completely silent and had been for quite a while now, his tender whispers ceasing quite some time ago. You knew better than to believe he had fallen asleep, though. You could see it in his face daily- he didn’t get much sleep. Not anymore. You frowned slightly at the thought and you nearly shook your head, catching yourself at the last second.

“I’m not a fool enough to believe that you are asleep right now, my love.” His voice was low and you felt his arms tighten around you ever so slightly.

You didn’t say anything, but you opened your eyes and pursed your lips, biting anxiously at the inside of your cheek.

“I know perhaps you take me for a fool, though. Maybe you’re right to. I’ve been foolish with you. Lied to you. Treated you like you were a pawn. If I’m being honest with myself and you, though, I should admit that earning your love was my greatest achievement. I don’t think I’ve lost it, not fully, at least, but perhaps my greatest loss has been making you question that love that you had so graciously given me.” He spoke, his voice taking on a strange and sentimental tone. He seemed to think for a moment before he tapped your waist with his thumb, “Have I?”

You blinked a few times, not bothering to look up at his face. You doubted you would’ve seen it, anyway. The room was pitch black.

“Have you, what?” You finally replied, hands balling into fists as you pressed your nails into your palms.

“Lost your love?”

Your brows knitted together and you frowned, “Yes,” you answered immediately, but you were immediately struck with the pain of guilt in your chest and you suddenly shook your head, “I mean, no. No, I don’t think so.” You choked out, “I don’t think you could. Not entirely, and I hate you for that.”

The second the words left your mouth, you regretted them, though you weren’t sure what you regretted more; admitting that you still loved him or admitting that you held contempt towards him for the way you felt. The admission left a sour taste in your mouth, yet you felt as if a hundred weights had been lifted off of your chest. The relief juxtaposed with the sour taste of shame on your tongue was jarring and you pressed your lips together as tightly as you could, as if to create some kind of seal that would prevent you from speaking further.

He seemed to mull this answer over for a while, staying silent for more than just a few moments. You could picture his eyes, even though you weren’t actively looking into them. When he was lost in thought, they seemed even deeper than they already were, and oftentimes you felt that was an impossible feat.

Finally, he spoke.

“I can understand your hatred for the inner conflict you must be faced with. I haven’t exactly made this easy for you.” He replied, his voice calm and completely even, “If I could stop this all right now, I would. But I can’t, y/n. No one is going to look out for the Grisha except for me. Not even Alina Starkov.”

“You don’t know that if you never give her the opportunity to try, Aleksander.” You insisted, voice barely above a whisper.

“No, but I do. I do know that. She’s too young. She knows nothing of the power she wields and she knows not how to use it, she couldn’t even begin to grasp the importance of power. It’s simply a new toy to her. Something to play with until she tires of the novelty,” his hand traveled along your back as he held you and you felt him take a silent inhale, “I find myself wishing so often that it was you.” He murmured, lips finding your ear.

You didn’t understand what he meant, so you furrowed your brow together and you shook your head.

“What do you mean?”

His lips hovered over your ear and you felt the tip of his nose in your hair, sending unwanted shivers down your arms and over the back of your neck.

“I would give anything, anything, if it meant you could’ve been my Sun Summoner.” He whispered, his arms tightening around you frantically, as if he were afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t keep you close. And perhaps you might.

You weren’t sure what to say. You weren’t even sure how to feel. You had always compared yourself to Alina in one way or another during her time at the Little Palace, though you’d never wished her gift upon yourself. You had never even thought to. His words made you feel cold in the very pit of your stomach and you bit down on the inside of your cheek sharply. Alina and Aleksander would go on to make history. They would make legends. The Sun Summoner and the Shadow Summoner. The Sun Saint and the Darkling. In a hundred years, people would pray to beautiful statues of Sankta Alina, Aleksander would be written into Grisha history and Ravkan legend. But in a hundred years for you? You’d be a name on the Lantsov family tree. Always royal, never reigning. Perhaps someone distantly related to you a hundred years from now would make a pitied remark about how Queen Tatiana and King Pyotr the Third married their poor daughter off to some wicked man, but no one could ever confirm it. It was simply oral history. You would be lost to time, whereas time would be lost on them. They’d be living their second lifetime and you would be nothing but bone buried deep in the dirt. You squeezed your eyes shut at the thought and instead of speaking, you shook your head.

You felt his hand slide up your back and over the back of your neck until it was nestled in the hair at the back of your head, holding you securely against his chest.

“Not because I wish you were Alina, no. I could never wish for such a thing. I wish it was you that could stand by my side, that it was you that would be my equipollent partner. I wish I didn’t wake at night in a cold sweat at the thought of you being so… mortal. I couldn’t care less if you had the power of the sun at your disposal, I could only care that you lived a hundred years at my side.” He said quietly, his voice quivering at the end of his sentence.

Of course Aleksander had proclaimed his love for you many times before, but he had never done so in such a manner. You had never even seen him cry, never heard his voice falter.

A shaky breath from his lips drew your eyes upwards. You very slowly pulled your head away from his and you looked up at his face. Though the room was dark and only lit up by the faintest of moonbeams filtering through a crack in the curtains, his eyes were still visible, darker than the dark around you, yet still shining as if they had thousands of stars in them. They sparkled with the threat of unshed tears and before you could stop yourself, you were lifting your hand towards his face. The moment your hand made gentle contact with his cheek, a single tear spilled out over his bottom lash line and rolled down his cheek gracefully. You’d never seen a tear fall gracefully before. He brought his own, scarred hand up and laid it on top of yours, holding your warm palm to his cheek. You could feel the raised skin of his scar on your hand and it was such an odd contrast to the smooth skin surrounding the scars.

His eyes slowly closed, but he didn’t let your hand move from his face. His breathing was erratic as if he were trying to hold back cries and he moved as close as he could to you without ending up on top of you.

“Your brother… Alina Starkov… Your mother… Father… none of them can offer you happiness. I can, darling. I can.” He whispered, his voice trembling, and for a moment, he wasn’t the Darkling. He was just a boy named Aleksander who had slowly lost everyone he could have ever cared for.

“But at what cost, Aleksander?” You asked softly, using all of your strength to enforce an armor around your heart. But you had deployed cracked armor.

“I don’t care what the cost is. I’d let a thousand men burn, I’d let armies fall, I’d ruin kingdoms and countries alike, I would kill countless if it meant that you would just stay. With me.” He breathed, another small tear escaping from the corner of his eye.

The sight was a powerful blow to your futile attempt at an armor.

No. He’s killed so many people for the selfish drive for power, and he hides it underneath the guise of what’s best for Grisha. You couldn’t stay.

“I don’t wish to see anyone burn. I don’t want armies to fall and counties to fall to ruin, I don’t want you to dedicate death to keeping me by your side, Aleksander. You made your choice and you chose power. I made mine and I chose the right thing. I can’t stay.” You weren’t sure who you were trying to convince, though. You or him?

His palm pressed against the back of your hand and he held it tightly against his face.

“You are the only light I’ve ever known, the only salvation I’ve ever been given. I’ve watched lives come and I’ve watched them pass, and I find no grief in it. I’ve spent my fair share of time grieving for those I’ve dared to care for and I’ve condemned it, I’ve sworn to not allow myself the luxury of grief again. So tell me why I’ve spent each day that I’ve loved you grieving for someone who has yet to draw their last breath? I grieve the loss of you that has yet to come. I will choose power day in and day out because I will never stop searching for a way, for a power, that can keep me from losing you.” His voice was weak, but it was determined and it was sincere.

Your mouth fell open just slightly as you listened to him and you very slowly brushed your thumb against the skin underneath his eye.

His eyes slowly flickered open and he stared down at you, his lips set into a frown. The unshed tears in his eyes and the look of terror and sorrow on his face made him seem much more human than you had ever seen him, likely ever.

Right now, he was just a man. A man gifted with too much power and bothered- no, burdened- with the threat of everlasting life. He wasn’t the Darkling and he wasn’t a Shadow Summoner. He was Aleksander, and he was trembling underneath your hand.

“To say that I love you would be so weak and listless, but to find stronger words, I’d have to start making them up. So, at the risk of sounding weak and listless, I love you. To the end of it all, whatever lies beyond that, even.“ he swallowed hard after speaking and you found your own eyes filling with tears. He wasn’t just saying he loved you, he was silently begging you to love him in return.

His actions and his quest for power wasn’t preferable, and you weren’t even sure if it was forgivable. Maybe it wasn’t, you weren’t sure. Could you find it within your heart to forgive him if he had begged you to? You weren’t sure of that, either. You found it strange how many months ago, it was you that was begging him for love, but now he was the one staring into your eyes, pleading without words.

It would hurt a lot to choose him again, because eventually you knew that for whatever high you would be on now, it would be a devastating low one day.

But it would hurt just the same to tear yourself out of your husband’s arms once again, this time after hearing him confess all that he had tonight. How could it be possible to love someone yet despise them all the same? He was always able to make you give in, and you resented him for that, but he also was the only one that understood you now. He understood what a fall from grace felt like, what it was like to have an entire nation turn their backs on you, how it felt to lose the faith of everyone you cared about.

His eyes and his beauty and his soft words always had you making mistakes before now, and you realized that the only way to not make these mistakes was to be far away from him. But you weren’t far away from him right now and you knew that you were bound to make a mistake again, in fact, you were hurtling towards that mistake right now.

A single word rolled off of his lips:

“Stay.”

The answer that begged to leave your mouth was antithetical to the decision you had made to run away from him in the first place and you felt guilty. Guilty for wanting him, guilty for not wanting him. To give him the affirmation he and you both wanted was to betray your country and your family. But they’d already betrayed you. You could almost hear Nikolai telling you that two wrongs didn’t make a right and that you were stronger than this.

But you didn’t think you were. You couldn’t be.

His fingers slid in between yours as he held your hand to his face and his eyes locked onto yours, daring you to give him the one answer he’d been searching for.

So you let it roll off your lips, no louder than an exhale:

“Okay.”

#grishaverse #shadow and bone imagine #shadow and bone #aleksander morozova imagine #aleksander morozova #aleksander morozova x reader #the darkling imagine #the darkling x you #the darkling imagine #the darkling #the darkling x reader #general kirigan imagine #general kirigan x reader #general kirigan #ben barnes x reader #ben barnes imagine

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thefirst3chapters · 3 months

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When Lorelai calls Rory in "Last Week's Fights, This Week's Tights" and tells her that Jess is in town for the wedding, there isn't really any new information given to the audience. Viewers already know that Jess is in town (and that he still has feelings for Rory to the extent that he is willing to read saccharine advice books from his uncle to help him learn how to communicate), and they already know what happened the last time Rory saw him. (Rory told Lorelai about the "I love you" at some point, so that is notable.) It's arguably similar to the scene with Dean and Jess at Doose's Market in this episode where the audience already has all of the conferred information but a point is being made to show a character learning something.

What is interesting here is that Rory seems okay with Lorelai talking about Jess and invites her to share if anything significant happens. It's difficult to tell because Rory usually tries to deny how strongly Jess affects her, especially when she is talking to Lorelai, but judging from her reaction it seems like maybe Rory would have been alright with seeing him. She was planning to go home the day of the wedding, knowing that Jess would be there, before Emily introduced her to Graham. Avoiding Jess could have been part of Rory's reasoning for deciding to go out with Graham and his friends, but the fact that Rory is questioned about her social life multiple times in this episode could be the more significant motivating factor.

Rory's resolve to be stoic in her heartbreak ends up harming her because she never really grieves losing Jess; she just keeps repressing her feelings until she tries to rewrite history. Talking things out with Jess might have helped both of them process their feelings in a healthier way and given Rory the stability to avoid the Dean nostalgia trap. Jess appears to want to have an actual conversation with Rory both times he sees her in S4 ("Can we sit down?" / "I just wanted to see you, talk to you"), but this is all so fragile for him that any obstacle easily sends him into a tailspin.

Tragic stories so often have numerous little moments that endlessly haunt the audience. If something happened slightly differently, what (if anything) would have changed? It is interesting to think about what would have happened if Rory and Jess saw each other in Stars Hollow at the end of S4. Rory was ambivalent about going out, what if she went home instead? Luke invited Jess to stay for a couple of extra days, what if he did? Being around Luke might have kept Jess more grounded, and Rory wouldn't have been as caught off guard because she knew Jess was in town. Perhaps Jess would still have flown off the handle out of desperation if he saw Dean with Rory, but that is a possibility Jess would have been more prepared for in Stars Hollow than at Yale. The potential for some sort of healing, even if it wasn't a full reconciliation, was there. The "what ifs" of tragic romances are so captivating.

#gilmore girls #gilmore girls meta #rory gilmore #jess mariano #literati #rory x jess #s4 literati is 100% angst

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ikinremu · 9 months

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hi there !

i’ve been absolutely obsessed with all your tommy content lately, you write him so so well !!!

would you consider writing a (smutty) drabble with brat tamer! tommy and reader being cheeky / smart mouthed with him

hope you have a lovely day <3

Hi anonymous! First of all thank you so much for the support, you have no idea how happy it makes me! Thank you so so much for requesting. I know the ask said drabble but I got a little carried away with this idea and ended up just having to make it a whole oneshot.. oops 🙈 But anyway, I hope you like what i’ve done with your request! Enjoy :)

|| Nsfw || Understood? - Tommy Shelby ||

Tommy Shelby x Fem!Reader

Tags: Oral (M Recieving), P in V

! Smut Warning !

Knowing someone well was always a bonus, and perhaps it did mean you should have at least some level of regard for their irritations once you'd been made aware of them - but how could you be held to the unrealistic standard of constantly keeping them in mind? Because truthfully, there was somehow less than a mere trace of Tommy's irks occupying your thoughts in the previous hours. It was only when he requested your arrival that your earlier actions dawned on you, and even then you remained rather negligent.

With a lingering ambivalence, you roamed the path to the office responsible for your calling. Cocking a brow, you stepped inside, sleek door clicking in connection to its frame behind you.

God, labelling it a mess was a weighty understatement. Papers were carelessly scattered and drawers had been yanked open - majority nearly emptied of any previous contents.

"What did you do with the papers on my desk?" Tommy groaned from the chair behind the disorderly table, nostrils ever so slightly flaring as his callous fingers kneaded the skin of his forehead.

"I didn't do anything with them?" You retorted, a certain arrogance to your tone. Tommy disposed of a deep exhale - clearly not as much of a calming exercise as intended.

"Right, so where are they then?"

"I don't know."

"They were here when I left and now they're not, I know you came in here looking for something, sounds pretty fuckin' simple to me." He continued to pry.

"Well I probably just misplaced them while I was in here, it was an accident, fucking hell."

Following your words, Tommy began to ramble a rather exhausting monologue about the importance of these papers - though, for you, his words merely slipped in one ear and out the other.

You certainly were a work-orientated person, though today you simply didn't have the strength, let alone the willpower, to care about some documents you knew nothing about.

"You're not going to apologise for completely fucking up my office.?" His face painted one blatant notion: expectancy.

Eyes flitting over the room, you rather admired the dishevelment - Tommy’s frustration supplying you with a newfound sense of pride that you hadn't felt while concocting the mess not long ago.

Putting things as simply as possible, you'd utterly destroyed Tommy's office while rooting for an item so very simple; a book, a book that you hadn’t even located after all. You hadn’t restored one single thing and were responsible for the loss of some form of document that - judging by his reaction - must've been more than significant.

You knew you owed him an apology - every part of you did - however, manners were the least of your worries considering the way in which you were speaking to one and another.

You scoffed, "It's really not that important, one minor inconvenience and you're acting like a child about it?"

"What did you just say?" Tommy's gaze snapped in your direction, cigarette retracting from the slight crevice between his lips.

"I said you're acting like a child." You echoed, the wall of your chest now accessorised by your folded arms.

"Say that one more fucking time." Tommy huffed, eyes rolling at the same pace as the cigarette in his hand - his tone a clear warning not to test his limits.

"I'm sure that was meant to affect me more than it did." You sneered, unhesitant to deride the man sat solemnly behind his desk. "So, alright, you're acting like a pathetic little child."

The cigarette sputtered as its heat was stubbed away, Tommy taking a rather abrupt stance, his eyes burning through your own like laser beams. Hands firmly stuffed to fill the points of his trouser pockets, Tommy's stance developed into steps.

A look of lust bloomed in his eyes as he stood before you, the border of separation barely existent. Thinning the gap even further, Tommy's hand reached to cup the curve of your jaw, thumb pressing against your fragile skin. The contact spiked you with a sudden excitement, his touch so tender yet rough in the most enticing way.

Everything was silent. Dead silent.

Stomach twisting, you revelled in the rich, musk of Tommy's scent, allowing it to seep into your nostrils as your eyes stared deeply into the pair opposite you. You were still indignant in relation to this whole situation, though your priorities had taken a rather drastic hit the moment your lips gently brushed against his.

As you reached to press your mouth to Tommy's, he suddenly froze, hand redirecting to the lean fronting of your neck with a fierce grip - just enough force to savour your breath, taunting it nonetheless.

"You're not to go through my office, understood?" He raised his brows with a growing likeness of superiority, speaking in what could only be described as a gravelly whisper. "Now if you want to act like a brat, I'll fuck you like one. Get on your knees."

A chill coursed through your body. You were utterly dumbfounded, wishing you were more appalled by his words, though there truly was no use in denying the flame igniting within you - its spark feeding off the rapid development of your arousal.

Utilising the firm hold he'd subjected your neck to, Tommy guided your descent, only retiring the grip once your knees met the sleek planks.

Amongst this thickening fog of desire, you found curiosity weaving it's way into your mind - more so captivation.

Severely lacking the ability to do otherwise, your gaze floated to meet its match above. Your heart palpitated, stabilisation nowhere near possible as you studied Tommy's complacent expression - the artful glint in his eye wholly to blame for the dampened fabric of your underwear.

His thick fingers delivered a brisk sequence to your right cheek, a pair of light taps falling against your skin, "Open."

You immediately loosened the - what used to be - unyielding clench of your jaw, the action much like a bolt unscrewing. You rather surprised yourself with this obedience, though Tommy seemed to have retained more confidence that you'd oblige. He had his way with his dark, costly garments, a gruff heave fleeing his throat as he freed his erection.

"What are you waiting for, eh?" His eyes, less than subtly, motioned towards his unattended length.

These lustful instructions may've only been momentary, however, the raging heat they spread through your body lasted far, far longer.

You assumed a tender hold of Tommy's naked length, nimble fingers surrounding his shaft as you felt him twitch against the soft creases of your palm. Shamelessly, you projected your hunger onto his pulsing cock, sliding your lips over him as if you'd been mercilessly starved. Exercising the depravity of your tongue, you swirled it around his spasming tip, trailing slick stripes up his slit. Your ears overflowed with the familiar vibrations of his low groans, stimulation taunting his grunts as they encouraged you further.

Tommy harshly dug a hand through your hair, tugging it back in a rather sloppy interpretation of a clasp. His leaking tip began slapping against your salivating tongue as you engulfed his erection into the warm chamber of your mouth, shaft having gained enough slick for your hands to stroke it. He rid all that had shielded his torso, a collection of inessential fabrics just contributing to the mess of the office.

He throbbed between your frothing lips, "You like when I use your mouth like this, hm?" His teases were broken by ravenous grunts. Hot flushes clouded over you, body fuelled by such pure, unfiltered desire.

Without warning, Tommy slipped himself out - completely dismissing any provoking as he unleashed your hair from its hold.

He ushered you to a, minorly, abrupt stance, callous thumb swiping the drivel that rather tellingly coated the underside of your lips. With less than a second to adapt, Tommy's bare arms hoisted you so intimately against himself, touch rather bleakly shattered as he laid you atop his desk - your silk blouse brushing the surface.

Your legs curled over the blunt table edge, stomach flipping at the sheer anticipation - you needed to feel him; desperately. Hooking beneath your waistband, Tommy's fingers dragged your skirt downwards, a small few kicks of your feet assisting the removal process, shoes flinging off in synchronisation. You verged on complete nudity as your underwear were the next to be rid, the sodden material easily deemed the least cared for in this moment.

"You wanna make a mess of my desk? That's exactly what we're gonna fuckin' do." Tommy rasped, the deep tones of his voice resulting in your stomach fluttering. He raised your legs, effortlessly draping your calves over his rather chilly shoulders, your bare thighs pressed against his torso.

His leaking tip lined up with your entrance, surpassing your drenched walls before so perfectly filling your hole - replacing what had been mere deprivation. A shaky mewl crept from your throat, a hoarse groan from Tommy's.

Forearms caging your calves, the position allowed Tommy to hit deeper than you thought possible as he planted his first - much anticipated- thrust, utterly intoxicating your every want with just a single buck of his hips.

As his length so angelically tormented your sweet spots, the air between you couldn't resist growing sultry. Body temperature reaching unbearable stakes, you unbuttoned - and shed - your blouse, hastily repeating the same steps with your bra. Your lips dropped a weighty exhale as the air faced a collision with your bare chest, pebbling your now exposed nipples.

Assisted by his hand’s dense hold of your legs, Tommy pulled you against each rhythmic drive of his hips.

Devotion infested the air, not leaving a molecule untouched as the pair of you picked up speed.

Your chest took to a pattern of shallow dips and lifts as Tommy pounded into your sopping cunt, your thighs occasionally striking his torso.

Desperate for something to hold, your fingers curled around the mess of papers atop his desk, crumpling them until smooth sheets became jagged balls.

"Fuck," Tommy panted, "Take it, that’s it."

His encouragement strung a whimper from your throat, though your pleasure travelled far deeper than surface level. Teeth puncturing your lower lip, you melted into the sensations of Tommy’s skilful hips rocking against your own. As he pumped faster, cock burying itself further inside you, your seeping hole began a relentless sequence of clenching around the length that filled it.

“Don’t stop..” A soft moan floated from your tongue.

You wanted nothing more than a release to wash over you, this craving only heightening as you felt the wish inching closer to being granted.

Tommy’s ferocious grip upon your legs somehow intensified, pulling you against him significantly harsher than before.

Your body quivered as your release unwound, orgasm elevating your arousal to its very tallest peak. The purest of euphorias struck your frame from head to toe, eyelids screwing so firmly shut, swollen clit only able to convulse as your climax drew to an unwanted close.

Tommy croaked deeply as his head lolled back, subconsciously loosening his contact with your legs. You observed the bliss that - with no sign of mercy - possessed his features, a shiver running down your spine as you felt a sudden burst of warmth span inside your heavily pulsing cunt.

Your breathing found stabilisation - to the best extent possible - as Tommy slid out, soon easing you into a, far more convenient, sitting position.

Cheeks flushed, your hazy gaze scanned over his desk, not a single document in the place it used to be, nor any utensils. Crinkled paper balls were scattered over the surface - the already dreadful mess now so blatantly worsened.

Inhaling sharply, you struggled to compress a mischievous smile, “I hope you don’t need this desk for anything too important today..”

Thank you for reading and hope you enjoyed! Please feel free to use the asks feature on my page for requests of oneshots/drabbles/blurbs etc.. would be greatly appreciated! <3

#smut #smutty #peaky blinders #peaky blinders smut #thomas shelby #thomas shelby smut #tommy shelby #tommy shelby smut #oneshot

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nc-vb · 5 months

Text

𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐚 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐨𝐧

pairings -> suguru getou x reader

warnings -> sfw, fem bodied reader w fem pronouns used; mentions of alcohol consumption; main character death; talks of death, depictions of depress & grieving, etc.; non-sexual nudity; satoru x reader if you squint

wc -> 5.8k

notes -> this was repurposed into a reader fic, but if i've missed anything, please let me know. enjoy, and uhhh, here's some tissues...

Death is strange.

As a Jujutsu Sorcerer, you don’t tend to think too hard when it comes to it. Curses aren’t human, after all. They’re barely even ghosts. The only thing human about them is that they’re born from the negative emotions of them. It isn’t like it’s murder. It’s an exorcism.

But it’s when those Curses begin to involve humans that it becomes something ambivalent.

There’s a little less than two gallons of blood within the average human body, and a few over two hundred bones. Sixty thousand miles of blood vessels, six hundred muscles, nearly eighty organs, thirty-two teeth, ten fingers, ten toes— humans are so, so fragile. They die so easily, and even easier if someone or something else happens to be the cause. In their own hands, hesitation at least exists, if just for a moment.

But death caused by a Cursed Spirit is messy. It’s tactless. It’s instinct. Because suddenly there’s human remains everywhere, and now someone has to clean it up. So isn’t it ironic that even though they’ve been “blessed” with higher intelligence, it’s still just mindless killing?

Suguru used to stand above the scenes where this thoughtlessness took place. The body, or sometimes, bodies, had already been recovered, so at least he didn’t have to see them. Most of the time, anyhow. Like staring at a black dot in front of a white background at one of Tokyo’s libraries’ computer labs, and then looking away— the unfortunate times that one of his missions either began or ended with some human dying also ended up with the image of their bodies imprinted behind his eyelids.

For a while, he’d been lucky not to be forced into those chance opportunities too often. But even if only once, it’s one time too many. It’s usually just the investigation, maybe a little “cleanup” if that Cursed Spirit decided to stick around.

Death is strange.

And maybe for the longest time, him not “thinking much about death” was the problem. It’s why it built up like some bomb, finally exploding from within the blood vessels buried beneath his flesh by the end of his second year. It’s why it drove him away from any semblance of a peaceful rationality.

Did Cursed Spirits consider their own deaths? Those with enough of a consciousness did, perhaps, though it wasn’t for a fear of death, itself. Most definitely, they feared powerlessness; Suguru remembers like a recent memory, the amount of Curses who’d scramble to escape him and his power, because they hadn’t been able to face him, because they faced the same mortality they shared with the humans they’d been borne from.

Death is strange.

And it’s odd that he can’t find himself as angry as he thought he would. Shouldn’t he be angry that his plans were never fully fleshed out? Or angry that he’d never gotten his hands on that Special Grade Curse he’d desired? Or angry that he never got the chance to—

As much as a wraith like him can, Suguru freezes. The space around him feels ambiguously full, and yet, he perceives nothing through his eyes. The space is empty, and he free floats within it, eyes open and processing absolutely nothing and everything at once. It’s frustrating not being able to use any of his five senses, nor even detect Cursed energy. Such a loss of control, a loss of power, he’d only experienced it once or twice, and only back when he was still a child. It’d been different. He’d held so much in the palms of his hands, and now, quite literally, he has nothing. All around him— nothing.

The flesh behind his ear suddenly aches. In the nothingness, Suguru jolts, limbs swimming through a peerless black sea. Were his senses returning to him? It wasn’t a painful sensation, but after experiencing a loss of touch, it’d been startlingly foreign.

Raising a hand to where he’d pinpointed the sharp pain, he rubs it, and warmth swims through his fingertips, rippling down through his forearm and past his elbow and into his chest, into his apparently twisting gut and chilled toes. Even without any experience in death, he knows this sensation to be wrong; simply, incorrect. He shouldn’t feel warmth.

Despite the darkness of nothing around him looking to be an infinite space, with his physical sensation returning to him, he learns it’d only been behind his closed eyes, like he’d been asleep. With much difficulty, they flinch a thread’s width open— light from the other side of his skin filters in and sends a pulsing ache through his irises and to the back of his head.

Light? he thinks gratefully, only to wince, suddenly able to “hear” his own thoughts. And so, he tests his voice, too, a murmur escaping past dried lips; the taste of blood follows quickly along, and Suguru grimaces.

The one sensation that has yet to return, the most frustrating of them: his ability to sense Cursed energy. The light around him is mostly white, and blinding enough that Suguru finds his bloodied sleeve curtaining his vision.; it takes time, but eventually, the white fades into familiar scenery. And, if he weren’t already dead, the sight alone would stop his heart.

Death is strange.

Because whether or not the concepts of Heaven and Hell exist in a physical, material sense, it didn’t really matter. Suguru’s first instinct had been to dub that dark, nothing space as Purgatory; whatever gods or higher powers existed, they were busy making a determination on his soul and stuck him there. It didn’t take much to convince him that what scene laid before him was truly of Hell. He’d already been condemned; finally figuring out how to see again was his subconscious acceptance of it.

No, in Hell, there’s a matching living room set, the lacquered coffee table with trash strewn across it; an area rug with crumbs set deep into each space of mesh and yarn; a kitchen with counters full of dirty, moulding dishes, at least a week’s worth; empty liquor bottles; a seven-foot-tall half-decorated plastic pine tree—

Maybe this is my personal Hell, Suguru wonders, head turning slowly to take in the familiarity of the apartment before him. But why is it so familiar?

A choked noise alerts him; Suguru spins one-hundred-and-eighty degree mid-air, feet unable to touch the floor and hovering several inches above it. It’s impossible for him to be winded, but a feeling of trepidation rests heavy atop his lungs. Because this must be his personal Hell— if the grief-shrunken woman were anyone else, he might not have thought so. But it isn’t.

Suguru crouches before you, lips parted and hand outstretched to brush a finger along your cheek— instinct. That’s what it is. His instinct to comfort you begets the truth of his death, and a gasp escapes him when his fingers simply pass through your face.

Calling out your name does nothing, he learns. You suddenly stir, but not for the reason Suguru had hoped. Flexing your fingers, it looks like your arm had gone numb from where it’d been tucked and curled against your chest. He calls for you once more. Nothing.

You let out a soundless breath, and Suguru frowns, desiring nothing more than to hear your voice once more. His teeth grit in sudden determination, and he reaches for you again.

“Get up,” Suguru insists of you. Please. His hand, meant to rouse you as he’d pleaded with a shake to your shoulder, only passes through your bicep; you shiver, and tuck into yourself even further.

This hellish scene makes sense now. The dirty dishes, the garbage everywhere, and even you, sitting before him, with your makeup only partially removed. Black cradles the soft skin beneath your eyes, and even stains the inner corners of them.

They’re open, at least, Suguru thinks, relieved. If he can’t hear you, at least he can look into your eyes.

Even in death, his chest aches. With guilt, with anxiety, with that same frustration from before— he’d accepted defeat so easily, and ended up being put down. Suguru wonders if you know what Satoru did. Knowing him, he wouldn’t have mentioned it.

But Suguru knows you too well. Knew you. With everything that’s gone on, everything that she’s seen in spite of Suguru’s efforts to keep you away from certain truths of the Jujutsu world— you’ve always been a “clever girl”. Even if you don’t have much Cursed energy yourself, even if you can’t see Curses too clearly, the walk of humanity’s ignorance and that of a Jujutsu Sorcerer’s duty is one across a rotting wooden bridge.

You’d insisted. Both he and Satoru knew early on how difficult it would end up being to say no to their friend. You insisted, and so, you learned— perhaps, a little too much. To take in the amount of horror that lay behind a thin, “magical” veil, had been a lot. Once, Suguru thought it a mistake to even bother. But if not you, then who? Who would have been the one to insist on having their arms wrapped around him at nearly all waking moments?

While there’d been an attempt at giving him advice and guidance from those within the Jujutsu community, despite your knowledge of it, you’d yet to experience anything it could throw your way; all along, your Jujutsu Sorcerer friends had done well to ensure that stayed the case— no Curses would touch you, not even a single hair on your body.

And so, as an outsider with an outsider’s perspective, as Suguru began to spiral, you did your damnedest to distract him, to pull him away from the thoughts that filtered into his head. What he would whittle out at you, either absentmindedly or purposefully, quite frankly, frightened you. For humanity’s sake, and, for his.

That was not the Suguru you remember coming to know. Whatever had happened in between your first meeting, and during that escort mission from ten years back of his and Satoru’s, had been enough to send him so askew as to defect from being a simple Jujutsu Sorcerer, and to become a mass murderer. All those thoughts lingered and festered like the curdling inside an abscess until it popped in a most horrifying way.

It… didn’t improve. Ten years had been quick to pass. The contact between you and Suguru and you and Satoru and your other friends made through the college persisted. It’d been difficult not to say anything about the other to them, and you made sure not to let a single word out, no “Suguru said”’s or “Satoru told me”’s whatsoever.

Of course, they knew. They could sense each other’s Cursed energy on you each time. It was a bitter sting, and you, a sweet reminder.

It hurt. For years, it hurt. It hurt when you would, on your bi-annual, month-long visits, spend half of the time with Satoru and those at the college, and the other half with Suguru, minding your steps and your entire being, really, when you’d been under the same roof as his fellow Curse Users (who, if not for the threat of Suguru’s presence, perhaps had half a mind to take care of the “little monkey” that had shown up).

Oh, but the pain, the stress, the fear and the anguish, none of it spent over the past decade, even the past nearly thirty years, could even begin to compare to this. Never to this.

How long had she spent out here? Suguru had been quick to float through the rest of your apartment— some spots remained untouched, while the rest were scathed and scorned by neglect. Upon closer examination, some of those dishes had begun to mold. Your bedroom door was shut, and quite obviously slammed shut by the way the latch piece suddenly overlaps the wooden frame. It hasn’t been budged, not even once, the splinters still in place.

How many days has it been since he’d passed? Suguru recalls the calendar hooked on an up-curved nail next to the desk in your bedroom, and moves to grab the handle, only to sigh when his hand passes through the door entirely. Right.

It’s a strange sensation, to pass through a solid object as a ghost. A ghost? Somehow, it’s even stranger to call himself as such. But he slips in easily; a depressing thought.

Your room is different than how you typically leaves it. The duvet’s been shoved to the foot of the bed as if in a hurry, slippers flung almost six feet from the other; something’s broken near the entrance to your bathroom, where the light had been left on— oh, it’s the toothbrush cup. Something pinches in Suguru’s still heart when he sees his toothbrush lying next to yours.

Suguru suddenly understands why the door had been so aggressively shut from the outside, as if the dozens of photos of the two of you that litter the walls wouldn’t have brought him to a much faster conclusion. Even if he’d noticed how, atop that same skewed duvet, even more photos sat, these ones framed behind glass, some shattered and some having survived being thrown there. The disarray and discord shut tight behind the broken door, out of sight and barely out of mind, was to put him out of your mind. His death out of your mind.

The twenty-fifth of December has been circled almost too enthusiastically, by several circles of red and green; even a couple of glossy, gold adhesive stars had been place around the date. Christmas. As opposed to its box, that of the twenty-fourth, and the rest of the last week of the month, every other day had been crossed out, already lived through. The Night Parade of a Hundred Demons was set for the twenty-fourth, the same date Suguru had been bested by a fifteen-year-old; the same date Satoru ended his life.

Anguished, Suguru is quick to shift back into the hallway, thoughts racing while he raced back to you. You haven’t budged in your settee, no less a part of the furniture surrounding you. How long had she been sitting there? He feared to learn the answer. Assumedly, you’d only gotten up to use the washroom. Unfortunately, by the state of you, it hadn’t looked like you’d managed to make it into the shower for a couple of days, at least.

So then, it’s been at least that long, Suguru decides, swiping a hand down his face. It curls to the back of his neck to massage away the phantom tension built there.

If he had a say in this, in any of it, you’d be sitting in his lap right now. His arms would be wrapped tight around you, or he’d be smoothing a large hand along your muscles, and your favourite blanket would be draped across your body. He’d be speaking softly, you’d be trying to listen without dissociating.

He wouldn’t be deceased, is his point.

There’s few things Suguru can find himself regretting right now. But you, having to leave you, is his biggest regret.

When your cell phone rings, he startles. The ring itself is loud, but the rattling of the vibration against the coffee table is drilling. He turns to see who’s calling, bent and crouched on his haunches, and finds the screen lit up with a photo of yours’ and Satoru’s faces. He’s pinching your cheek between his thumb and forefinger, expression amused by your challenge where your own fingers had sunken into his thick white hair to pull it from its roots.

The quality of the photo isn’t so perfect— if Suguru had to guess, he’d say it might’ve been taken a good almost ten years ago. They look younger, after all. It isn’t difficult to guess that the photographer of the scene had been Shoko, what with the smoke floating past the lens when the shot was taken. And despite the scene captured, they looked happy. You look happy. Happy enough. A stark contrast to your currently sunken visage.

Either way, seeing it irks him.

You barely look to your phone long enough to register the name on the screen; your blurred, untrained gaze only allows you to see that someone is calling, and leaves it at that. The calling screen fades to your locked screen’s screensaver, and it’s a rather flattering photo of Suguru, himself, despite being one taken candidly. He remembers he’d lightly scolded you for it, and insisted that you take one of the both of them. Suguru’s sneaking suspicion now is that you’d set that photo as your home screen, instead.

It’s only a moment or two later than it begins to rings once again— Satoru, of course.

The noise you make is choked. It’s a mixture of frustration and detest, but you make it, all the way up until you reach through Suguru and grabs it. There’s a moment of hesitation, but you press the button to answer, lifts the phone to your ear, and listens, wordless.

Suguru rises onto a single knee and shifts closer to eavesdrop. Mostly, it’s Satoru speaking. This is the first time in the six days since the event that you’d answered your phone, apparently, meaning that the current date must be the thirtieth, or the thirty-first. He asks if you’d eaten, if you’d bathed, if you’d called any of your family back home (since you hadn’t contacted anyone from the school). He asks why you won’t speak, why you won’t answer his questions. There’s a gentle four-tone knock at the door that pairs with the four sharp sounds that echo from Satoru’s side of the line, and you flinch— somehow, Suguru’s finds relief in your reaction.

His voice calls opposite the front door, and the phone. “Open up.”

You stir, but not enough to satisfy Suguru.

Both he and Satoru chorus your name. He swallows, and watches your expression shift between the phone and the door with a trembling lip. More frustration? Or is she about to cry?

“Go open the door,” Suguru pleads. “Let him help you. Please.”

He reaches for you again, for the hand gripping your phone, and suddenly, you jolt with a gasp, drawing your hand into your chest, tired eyes widened—

“Are you okay?” Satoru calls.

The phone slips through your fingers, sliding off your lap when you go to catch it, only for it to clatter onto the floor.

With a frantic shout of your name, the door suddenly bursts open, making both you and the incorporeal, non-physical man next to you, jump. In the doorway, Satoru huffs, clearly anxious by the downturned lilt of his lips. He’s quick to slip out of his shoes, minding the bags ruffling in his hands when he moves toward the kitchen, pausing to take in the sight of it through the wrappings over his eyes, and whatever words he’d been about to say, dies in his throat at the look on your face.

It’s akin to lividity; your feelings have only been strangling you since hearing Satoru’s voice. Rage fuels your adrenaline. The tears streaming down your flushed cheeks do not accompany the sound of your grief, and instead, drowns it. You’d been avoiding Satoru on purpose; this, of course, neither he nor Suguru knew, and Satoru only thought you were avoiding everyone.

The gangly man crosses into the living room in only few steps. You bristle like a cat, your shoulders rising and arms wrapping around yourself as if shying and shielding away from Satoru. He pauses once more, lips parting as if to speak, but they firmly shut a moment later.

Instead, he sets the bags down — some are filled with easy-made non-perishables, and the others, pre-made bentos and a bag of melon pan — and moves toward the bathroom with a broom in hand. The sound of rushing water fills the apartment, accompanied by the clattering of porcelain into the dustbin. Suguru watches from afar as Satoru then begins his search for a towel and a facecloth, finding it in the hallway cupboard just a door down, and sets them on the counter next to the sink before moving back into the living room. In an attempt to regale you, he tears the blanket covering up to your knees away, draping it across the back of the cushion, but it only worsens your fury.

Suguru presses his chin into his palm, floating midair a few feet away to watch the scene unfold. He should know better than to do something that stupid.

Your attempt at keeping out of Satoru’s hold quickly and easily fails. Once the blanket came off, you’d been an easy target, all four limbs exposed and easy to seize, thanks to your lethargy. His movements are simple, but quick— he’s got an arm around your waist like you weigh nothing, keeping you dangling by your middle on his way back to the washroom. Depositing you on the closed toilet seat, he then crosses his arms.

Nose upturned and crinkled, he regards you from up high. “You stink.”

You stare at him, gaze lidded by fatigue. It doesn’t take you long to realize what he’s just said— nor would you have to speak the same language to understand it. The look on his face says it all, anyway. You smell.

Six days since you’ve left the house, six days since you’ve showered, six days since you’ve eaten anything remotely healthy, if anything at all. The past week’s been such a blur, you can’t even remember when you’d brushed your teeth last, though a quick swipe of your tongue across them becomes an easy tell.

The morning of the twenty-fifth was quite possibly the most terrible day of your life. Not only were you told that Suguru passed away, you had to hear it twice— first from Satoru. Then, from Nanako and Mimiko. You’d only wished the whiplash their very different reactions gave you had been enough to numb your mind, but you felt everything. It wasn’t until you’d been alone in your apartment again, phone battery dead, that you’d been able to register what they’d said.

“He’s gone.” “Master Geto is dead!”

You don’t remember charging your phone. You don’t remember using the bathroom, let alone getting up off of that couch on your own. Sensations only came rushing back midway through this last phone call with Satoru, and then hit you with full-force, as he’d done with your front door. Now, you find yourself in front of your bathroom mirror, regarding your emaciated self, the only thing likely ingested besides alcohol being the bit of water you’d forced yourself to drink each day, but you hadn’t touched any food.

Hand over your abdomen, you wait a moment to tell if it feels properly empty enough to stomach a few bites. Maybe. For now, you’ll brush your teeth until the coating disappears from them, and take care of any matts in your hair. You’ll strip out of the clothing you’d last put on since slamming your bedroom door shut, and avoid Satoru’s gaze amidst all of this until you begin tugging off your flannel pajamas, where he shuts the door behind you.

Sparing Satoru a glance as he passes, Suguru pokes his head through the bathroom door. In spite of your obvious beauty, the longing that he stares at you with is one being the simple desire to stand beside you. To be the one to help undo a particularly nasty knot of hair found at the back of your hair, to have even drawn the bath for you himself and to help you lower yourself down into the water and to sit tub-side to keep you company. Seeing you in such a state has distracted him from the frustrations of not seeing his plans to fruition; that’d stopped being important from the moment he recognized your apartment.

You don’t move once you’ve lowered yourself into the bathtub. Head tilted back, your legs extend as far as the length of the tub allows for, and you shut your eyes. The heaving breath you take through your nose is held for a few extra moments until you release it with a cough and a massage to your throat.

Suguru’s gut twists when you’d yet to turn off the water, and he sticks his head out the bathroom door to find Satoru sat on the floor with his back against it, face pressed into his palms.

“Seeing you like this…” It shocks the man to hear him suddenly chuckle. “And yet I still can’t bring myself to curse you, Suguru,” he murmurs.

When Satoru still hears the bath running after it being few minutes later, he’s glad he doesn’t find himself having to break another one of your doors, and manages to turn off the faucet a few centimetres before it would overflow.

He calls for you again, eyes trained away from you. In your ears, the sound is dull. You opens your eyes, staring at where the bottoms of your feet press up against the end of the tub. “Can you sit up?”

With a little help, you do, Satoru having sat himself down on the toilet lid to push you into a ninety-degree angle. Finding yourself uncomfortable with the position, you gather your legs into your chest and rests your chin on your knees.

Satoru doesn’t ask for permission when he begins sudsing up your hair with vanilla-scented shampoo. At the rate of things, he’d easily suspected not getting a proper response from you, anyway. You’d be in here all night if he hadn’t decided to intervene.

Your feelings are still fresh. It hasn’t been a full week yet, not that there’s a limit on how long one is supposed to grieve. The last thing he wants to do is impose when it’s quite obvious that his presence isn’t entirely welcome. Deep in your subconscious, you know he knows you know that him being here might be the only thing to keep you out of the hole you’re unwittingly digging yourself into. If not him, then maybe Shoko or Nanamin— at the very least, someone would be here.

And certainly, it would’ve been more appropriate for Shoko to do this, to be helping you to bathe, but her time isn’t her own, nor are her hands. Even now, she’s still tending to the wounded. And with Nanamin assisting with the clean up out there, it’d only made sense for Satoru to be the next person to check up on you— it made more sense, considering whose hand it was that turned the restless tides into a tsunami.

Carefully, Satoru cradles the back of your head and carries it into the water, only up to your hairline, and begins to rinse. The process gets repeated for your conditioner, but when it comes time to soap up the face cloth, his body seems to stutter. Mostly dissociated, you still sense the change in Satoru’s rhythm. Glancing slightly over your shoulder, you note the cloth in his hand.

The relief that floods him is overwhelming when you raise your arm to stick your hand out for it. Suddenly a little more self-conscious of your position, Satoru averts his eyes, swivelling himself to face the opposite direction of the bath. Probably the first time in days, if he can recall correctly, but the smile that appears on him is genuine. The relief is knowing his friend still has the will to go on.

You finish quickly. When Satoru asks if you’d want to stay in the bath a little longer, maybe make it into a bubble bath, you supply him with the smallest of shakes of your head.

The water was warm. The soap smelled nice. The sound of rushing water, pleasing. Even hearing Satoru’s voice, despite your obvious reservations, soothes and mends one of the many cracks in your heart. A large part of you had been content to grieve into your couch for a long while more, even with Satoru breaking your door down.

How much… did you know? You became aware of Suguru’s plan thanks to the twins blurting it out, and spent the entirety of the twenty-fourth spun into a panic, no updates, no word from the girls, from Suguru, nothing, until Christmas Day. The build-up, the lack of contact, knowing how dangerous Suguru’s plan would be and what it could result in, even with the little knowledge you had on the Jujutsu world, learning that his plan failed, learned that Suguru was killed, it was just too much, too much, too much, too much—

The water around you sloshes violently against the sides of the tub, spilling over the sides and soaking Satoru’s pant leg. He jerks in place, quick to grab your biceps to keep you from slipping any further.

“Don’t touch me!” you suddenly spit at him, angrily twisting and contorting yourself to get out of his grip. He barely flinches — he’d expected it eventually, anyhow — and pulls you upright onto your feet. Suguru, however, is quick to float between them, instinct carrying his will to intervene.

“You’ll fall,” both he, and Suguru with his hand outstretched, tell you. A large stone settles in his throat when you shudder, his fingertips having already passed through your flesh when he’d caught himself, and he retracts his translucent hand away from her.

This is the second time she’s reacted to me like that, Suguru notes with a frown. He backs away into the corner of the bathroom, floating cross-legged over the sink, and watches as your struggling dies down into protestant whining and trembling. Sorry. I’m sorry.

Satoru waits until you’re calm and still enough before he starts helping dry you with a fluffy green towel, ruffling the ends of your hair and patting down your body with the least amount of jostling, before wrapping it snugly around you. Once more, he sits you on the toilet lid and begins combing tending to your hair. When he’s finished, you surprise him by taking the comb from his hands, to fiddle with the thin, plastic teeth of it on the pads of your fingers, gaze seemingly locked onto the repeated gesture.

Tone hushed, gentle, he speaks your name. You sniffle.

“I… really loved doing his hair,” you whisper. You lowers the comb. “He had… the softest hair.”

Satoru chuckles, and gently takes the comb away from you to return it to the drawer.

“Remember when it was short, that one time?” he asks. You adjust the tightness of the towel wrapped over your chest, nodding.

“I told him I’d never forgive him for letting it get cut off like that,” you answer. “Even… if it wasn’t his fault… I’m glad it grew back.”

“Mhm.” He steps away from you to squeeze a line of toothpaste on your brush before handing it to you. “Here.”

You hum, a dry, single toned note that expresses your disinterest, but you take it from him anyway, and wet the head of it under the tap.

It would be easy for Suguru to deny it, to look at your situation and see you to remain as lost as you’d looked when he’d first appeared in your apartment— he hadn’t been wrong to fear the worst and assume you might not be able to pull yourself out of it, but he had been incorrect to not think that the others wouldn’t try their hardest to keep you out of it, themselves. Knowing Satoru, well, he probably decided he owes it to you. Not just because they’re friends, either.

He doesn’t lead you toward your bed once you’re finally finished, figuring that you seeing all those photos still laying there wouldn’t do you much good, and instead guides you to the larger of your two couches, sitting you down once more and propping your back against a couple of throw pillows.

“I’m going to make you food, okay?” he tells you. The promise of it clearly comes with the fact that he’d have to wash your dishes first, but he doesn’t bother to tell you the obvious. Despite his speediness, you manage to fall asleep in record time, slumped into the back of the couch cushion and the pillows and snoring softly.

Suguru leans away from you, floating upward from where he’d been kneeling at your side. He could, very easily, watch you sleep for hours, has watched you sleep for hours. But the more his conscious and subconscious intermingled with each other, the more the notion of your eventual recovery had turned fact. You would move on. Eventually. More than anyone, Suguru could understand how healing takes time; he’d experienced it for himself, seen it happen for Mimiko and Nanako, and for his allies. You would have help, have your friends with you to help you mend.

“Satoru.” The white haired man lowers a freshly washed ceramic bowl into the dish rack right of the sink. Eyes trained on a bead of water sliding down the neck of the tap, he finally sighs when it drops back into the sink, and braces himself against the counter with his forearms. “Satoru.”

“Suguru.” He flinches. “I’ll take care of her.”

Despite already floating, Suguru suddenly feels much lighter; his body already so translucent, he watches his hands start to fade with his acceptance. You would be alright. You’d survive this. You won’t be alone.

And, dead or alive, he would always be with you.

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