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The Lamb & The Serpent

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Pairing: Lucifer Morningstar x sinner fem!reader

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Lucifer being a chaotic mess, mentions of sex, swearing, awkwardness, angst, Lucifers past relationship with Lilith, misunderstandings, all the angst, Lilith being a bit of a bitch, mistakes are made, heartbreak, jealous Lilith, or is she just manipulative, who knows, I do I know.

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Lucifer was a mess.

It had been days since Lilith had shown up on his doorstep, acting like it wasn’t a huge deal she was back and looking just as perfect as she had when she had walked out on him all those years ago. Things had gone badly. Admittedly Lucifer hadn’t handled the situation very well, probably making it ten times worse than it should have been. He had never been all that good at dealing with strong emotions though, neither his own nor other peoples. Nor was he any good with highly stressful situations and unfortunately for him, Lilith’s return covered both those things. It probably wouldn’t have gone so badly if you had been at his side keeping him grounded and calm, but he had managed to mess that up as well, potentially ruining one of the two good things he had going in his life.

Lucifer had still been struck dumb, staring at Lilith like the world was ending when you had come down the stairs, all sleep soft and wearing nothing but your matching duck slippers and the shirt he had been wearing the day before. He hadn’t noticed at first, seemingly frozen to the spot but he had seen Lilith’s eyes flick up to something behind him, her smile falling into a frown as she narrowed her eyes. It had been your confused call of “Lucifer?” that finally had him moving, slowly turning his head to look over his shoulder at you. Your eyes franticly moved between the two of them, searching for some kind of explanation and clearly growing more worried when you didn’t get one.

Hindsight was a beautiful thing and as Lucifer looked back on what had happened that day, he wished that he had gone to you then. He wished that he had wrapped you in his arms and sworn he hadn’t known she was coming back. He should have told you then and there that he loved you, that he wanted to spend the rest of forever with you and that there was nothing left between him and Lilith for you to be worried about. He should have done a lot of things, things that would have saved you and him a lot of pain and heartbreak, but he hadn’t and instead Lucifer had gotten to watch as hurt and embarrassment flashed across your face, Lilith’s voice loud and clear as she asked, “really Luci, a sinner?”

You had tugged down the hem of his shirt, your embarrassed blush deepening as you tried to hide the fact you were naked underneath. His shirt wasn’t quite long enough though and all you did was flash them a glimpse of the teeth marks he had left on your neck the night before; still angry and red despite having been done hours ago. Lucifer didn’t know what Lilith had done but your eyes had snapped to her, going wide as you pressed a hand over the marks on your neck. Tears welled up, clinging to your lashes and threatening to fall but you had been quicker, hurriedly insisting that you “should go,” before you had turned away from them, disappearing up the stairs as quickly as you could whilst pulling the back of his shirt down.

He had just stood there, staring at the spot you had been and failing to understand what was going on. This wasn’t how the day was supposed to go. Lucifer had plans, had wanted to spend the day wrapped within your arms and basking in the love and happiness that you inspired within him. Everything was wrong though, that happiness having vanished the moment he opened the door. It was like the last eight years hadn’t happened, Lucifer right back at the beginning of the end for his and Lilith’s relationship. He felt like a hollowed-out shell, mind numb and empty as he continued to exist who no purpose or direction in his life, alone and unwanted. Lucifer knew that wasn’t true though. Things had changed so much since Lilith had left; he had changed. He wasn’t the same sad and broken man he had been, having found a new lease of life with Charlie, the hotel and you. He knew all this and yet that didn’t change a thing, Lucifer was still adrift within the darkness of his mind, trapped in the past and watching his future slip away.

Delicate fingers curled around his wrist, a thumb gently rubbing circles against the delicate skin. Wordlessly Lucifer turned back toward Lilith, eyes fixed on where they were touching. Her fingers were cool, her pail lilac skin in stark contrast against the dark black of his own. Before, when they had still been happy and in love this had meant everything to him. He had craved her touch, lighting up like a star when she so much as brushed a finger against his. After she had left Lucifer had longed for it, dreamed about feeling it one last time and crying when the memory of it had started to fade. He had been a mess to start with, missing her like he had lost a limb, but as the years had passed he had come to terms with it, missing the closeness of another more than her specifically. Now it felt like a band of ice around his wrist, a chain that weighed him down and dragged him back to the past where he desperately didn’t want to be.

It hadn’t felt like they had been stood there that long but the sound of hurried steps on the stairs said otherwise, Lucifer so caught up in his head that you had enough time to get dressed and pack the small bag you had slung over your shoulder. He had turned to look at you, Lilith’s icy cold grip still in place and chasing away his natural heat. Lucifer didn’t feel right, all out of sorts and halfway between loosing control and shutting down completely. Maybe if he had a better grip on his mental state, he would have shaken Lilith off, dropped down to his knees in front of you and begged for you to stay. He didn’t though and when he turned to look at you all he found was resignation and loss, your gaze focused on where he and Lilith touched.

You didn’t even look at him as you walked past, head down and eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Not even when he said your name, sounding just as desperate and lost as he felt. You did stop though, head turned ever so slightly in his direction so you could tell him that “its ok Lucifer, just, we’ll talk later yeah?” You don’t stick around long enough for him to answer, pressing yourself against the wall just to be as far away from Lilith as you can. Without even a glance backwards you disappeared down the street, pulling your hood up as you went to hide your ears. It wasn’t until after you had gone that Lucifer realised that you had still had his shirt on, the slightly rumbled fabric only just visible under your jacket.

It cracked his heart to watch you go, the feeling that he had just lost something important sinking into him like a weight. It’s to much like watching Lilith walk out all those years ago, except this time Lucifer doesn’t want to let you go. Doesn’t want to just stand there and let this happen because he doesn’t want to lose you. Doesn’t want to wake up seven years from now alone and depressed, hating himself for not doing something to keep you by his side. He can’t go through that again, he won’t. Lucifer loves you, more than he thought he would ever be able to love another again. If he could tell you that, if he could make you understand the depths of his devotion to you than maybe you wouldn’t look at him like he had ripped your heart out and trodden on it. Maybe you would say it back to him and Lucifer would get to hold you in his arms again.

He doesn’t even realise his halfway out the door until Lilith’s grip tightens, your name dying on his lips as he snapped his head back to glare at her. He had been halfway through demanding she let go when Lilith had cut him off, her voice gentle and calming as she urged him to “let her go Lucifer. You’ll only make things worse for her if you make a scene out on the street, especially looking like that.” It’s only then that Lucifer really notices his state of dress. Feeling exposed and embarrassed Lucifer had curled in slightly on himself, wrapping his arms around his chest in an attempt to hide his half-undressed state. It was stupid, Lilith had seen him with far less on before but now he felt vulnerable, ashamed of the state he was in. Not because of what he had obviously been doing with you to get in this state but because of Lilith herself. She looked immaculate, not a hair out of place or a single smudge to her makeup. She looked every bit the queen of Hell, stood tall and proud like everyone was beneath her and in that moment Lucifer felt just that, his fears and inadequacies come rushing forward and swallow him whole.

Lilith was right. If he went after you now, he would only make things worse for you. He was good at that, making things worse despite his best intentions. You were clearly hurt, thinking Heaven knows what about him and why Lilith was at his door. You had needed him to reassure you of your place in his life and his feelings towards you, but he had done nothing like the pathetic coward he was. He didn’t deserve you, had known it all along yet he had still pursued you, somehow managing to convince you to give him your time and affection but all it had gotten you was hurt, and it was all his fault. He never wanted to hurt you, never wanted to be the reason you looked so lost and broken and yet here he was. The very reason you had fled his home with tears in your eyes after having given him one of the best nights of his life. Why was he like this? Everything he loved always got twisted around and turned into shit, like his very touch was a plague on all of creation.

So lost in his darkening thoughts, Lucifer didn’t even realise he had been moved away from the door and led into the parlour until Lilith was gently pushing him down onto the couch, her ice-cold hands pressing down on his shoulders until he slumped back into the plush seat. She sunk down next to him, close and yet somehow miles away. They sat in silence for a while, Lucifer trying to keep his tears at bay so he didn’t seem even more pathetic than he already did. He was the first to speak, unable to stand the silence a moment longer. His voice sounded as small and broken as he felt, it nothing more than a whisper as he asked her “why are you here Lilith? Why now?”

As it turned out Charlie was the reason she had come back, having heard about the hotel and the fight with Heaven that their daughter had led. Lilith had been worried and impressed, proud of Charlie for standing up for what she believed was right whilst afraid of how Heaven would retaliate with Adam dead at the hands of a sinner. Lucifer had sat there, listening to Lilith talk about Charlie, the hotel and Hell like she hadn’t been gone for almost eight years, not really paying attention as his mind began to fill with static. It was all just pointless noise to him, Lucifer mindlessly humming and nodding along at what he hoped were all the right points. He felt numb, hollowed out and empty. This morning he had been so happy, full of hope and excitement for the future but now it was all gone, Lucifer unable to drag those feelings back up despite how badly he wanted to.

He wanted to go back to this morning, to the very moment he had opened his eyes and realised you were in his arms. He would do things so much differently. He would have woken you up there and then to tell you how much he loved you, told you of his intentions to make you his queen one day and asked for your permission to scream his devotion to you from his window for all of Hell to hear. He wouldn’t have gone downstairs, definitely wouldn’t have answered the door no matter how loudly or persistently Lilith had knocked. Lucifer would have stayed wrapped up in you, safe in your embrace and completely ignorant of the world beyond his bedroom walls. Maybe then you would still be here with him. Maybe then Lucifer wouldn’t feel like he was already losing you before he even had the chance to truly have you.

Charlie had turned up at the door not even an hour after you had left, eyes wide and full of disbelief as she stared at Lilith like she wasn’t sure if her mother was real or not. Apparently when you had arrived back at the hotel you had run straight into Charlie, barely managing to get out that “your mums back in town,” before you practically ran off in the direction of your room. Charlie hadn’t stopped to think things through, running all the way to Lucifers home to find out if you had been telling the truth.

Not wanting Charlie to see him in such a state, Lucifer had simply waved his hand and he had been stood there in his suit, his hair perfectly quaffed and not a single trace of flour to be found. It hadn’t been till later that Lucifer had realised his rushed gesture had also gotten rid of the melted candles and flower petals from the night before, his heart clenching painfully at the fact that it was all gone. His night of love and passion with you swept away like it was nothing. Like it was something shameful to be hidden away from those closest to him.

It had been easy enough for Lucifer to fake a smile, greeting Charlie with a level of enthusiasm he really couldn’t muster. She had given him a confused and worried look, but it had been easy enough to direct her attention onto Lilith, Charlie eager to fill her mother in on everything she had missed. For hours Lucifer had listened to Charlie talk about everything and anything that had happened in her life since Lilith had left, skipping no detail though she often got ahead of herself and had to backtrack so what she was saying made sense. The whole time Lucifer had said nothing, fake smile still in place as he summoned cake and tea periodically throughout the day. Charlie tried to get him involved but his short one-word answers didn’t really open up the conversation. The only thing that got any sort of reaction from him was the mention of you, Charlie excitedly telling Lilith about how nice you were and how helpful you had been with the hotel, completely oblivious to the fact Lucifer had gone rigid at the mention of your name.

Lilith had seemed worryingly interested in you, shooting Lucifer knowing looks that had him wanting to sink into the sofa and disappear. He felt judged, like Lilith was pulling apart every little thing about him and inspecting it for flaws, weaknesses that could be exploited. He didn’t want her attention on you, didn’t want you to feel the same level of uneasiness he did so he tried to move the conversation on, his laugh clearly fake and not hiding his nerves in the slightest as he insisted that Lilith didn’t want to hear about his personal life. Lilith had easily brushed off his attempts, asking if the “helpful little lamb at the hotel is the same one I found half naked on your stairs this morning? I must say Lucifer she looked quite, ravished. Do you take all the hotel staff home or just this one in particular?” Charlie had blushed at that, falling uncomfortably silent as Lucifer had covered his face with a hand, his cheeks burning red with embarrassment.

He knew what he should say, that he should tell Lilith that it was none of her business because she had been the one to leave him eight years ago and disappear from Hell, even though she insisted she had been down in Gluttony the whole time, witch was one of the biggest lies Lucifer had ever heard and that was saying something. He should tell her that he had moved on, that he loved you and that what she was implying was so wrong it wasn’t in the same universe. Lucifer knew exactly what he should tell Lilith but just like every other time his words failed him and all he could get out was a meek pathetic sounding “she’s nice.” Even Charlie was looking at him like he had gone mad, probably not understanding why he wasn’t gushing about yours and his relationship like he tended to, and Lucifer did want to do that. Wanted to scream his devotion to you from the rooftops but Lilith’s knowing gaze over her teacup had him faltering, not wanting to share any more of his relationship with his ex-wife than already had been.

By the time Charlie was getting ready to leave it was late and Lucifer was exhausted, wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed and hide under his duvet as he finally got the chance to talk to you. That was if you were still awake and if you accepted his call. His plans to grovel for forgiveness were quickly brought to an abrupt end though when Charlie had asked Lilith where she was planning on staying. When Lilith had said she would just go to a hotel Charlie had obviously offered her own, excited to show Lilith everything she had been working on. Lucifer though had panicked at the suggestion, frantically blurting out that she could stay “here! Lilith can uh stay here. In the house. With me. Here’s fine. Yes, it is. No need to go all the way to the hotel when there’s a perfectly fine bed upstairs. NOT my bed. A different one. At the other end of the house. But still here, and not the hotel.” He was rambling, he knew that, but he couldn’t have Lilith going to the hotel. Not when you were there.

Charlie had been reluctant about it all, but Lilith had agreed and soon enough it had just been Lucifer and Lilith stood in the hallway, Charlie having headed back to the hotel with a promise that they would come visit so she could give Lilith the grand tour. It had been awkward, Lucifer feeling like he was trapped in a cage with a wild animal that was sure to attack at just the slightest movement. Lilith had been the one to break the silence, asking about her room and reluctantly Lucifer had led her up the stairs, feeling very much like a man on the way to the gallows as he went straight to her old suites. She had thanked him for letting her stay, even going as far as to tell him that it had been “nice to see you again Luci.” He had mumbled out some sort of reply along the same lines, bidding her good night before quickly heading to his own room.

It looked exactly the same as it had when he had left it that morning, except instead of you in his bed it was just the blanket he had conjured for you, haphazardly thrown across the wrinkled sheets. Lucifer didn’t even bother to get undressed, crawling onto his bed and cuddling the plush blanket to his chest. It still smelt of you, of the night before and the morning after, of all his hopes and dreams for the future he so desperately wanted with you.

He had tried to call you, laying on his back and staring up at the ceiling as he listened to the phone ringing and ringing. It wasn’t until the third time he tried calling that you picked up except it hadn’t been you. Well, not just you. Angel Dusts voice had been the loudest, loudly proclaiming that “I don’t care if he’s the king of this shit hole, I’ll tell him exactly where he can shove his... HEY! Watch where your grabbing,” before the line went dead. Lucifer tries calling back, but it doesn’t connect, and he’s left feeling defeated, the phone falling from his grip as he rolls back over. He could go to the hotel, but he doubts that would end well. He doesn’t want to upset you any more than you clearly already are and there’s always the chance that Angel will try and shoot him on sight. Not that it would do anything more than tickle, but he highly doubted you or Charlie would appreciate him dropping Angel Dust through a portal to the other side of Pentagram City.

Sighing Lucifer curled tighter around the blanket, burying his face into the plush fabric and breathing in the slowly fading smell of you. He clings to it like somehow that will stop you from slipping through his fingers, like if he holds on tight enough you wouldn’t possibly be able to leave him. What if it’s not enough though? He’s hurt you, his failure to act causing you to flee like there was already nothing to keep you here. By giving you time to think is he just making it easier for you to walk away, thinking that he doesn’t care? But if he showed up at the hotel, desperate and close to breaking would you finally see that he just isn’t worth it? Feeling like nothing he could do would be right Lucifer pressed his face deep into the blanket and silently he cried out his frustration and pain, his whole body shaking with every sob and sharp breath.

The next day didn’t go any better, but it didn’t get any worse. He feels exhausted, not having been able to get any sleep the night before as his guilt and self-loathing had gotten the better of him. He truly hated himself for how he had delt with things the day before, feeling that he had not only let you down but himself as well. He needed to fix things, make sure you understood that his behaviour yesterday didn’t have anything to do with any feelings you thought he still might harbour for his ex-wife and everything to do with his delicate mental state and eons worth of feeling like he was incapable of doing anything right. Lilith’s unexpected arrival had taken him back to that and instead of standing his ground Lucifer had crumbled, taking you with him.

He does try and call you again, several times but just like the night before they don’t connect, and Lucifer begins to sink further into himself. He lets his wings drape across him, blocking off the world along with most of the light. He wallows in the darkness, self-pity getting the better of him as he lets every mistake he had ever made since the dawn of time replay in his mind like a greatest hits reel. He spends the day like that, still clinging to the blanket and making himself feel a thousand times worse. No one bothers him, not even Lilith and though he hopes that by some miracle you will come through the door he knows it won’t happen, halfway convinced that this is just another level to his punishment for defying Gods wishes. It seemed fitting that he would be sent someone so perfect he couldn’t help but falling madly in love with them only for them to be snatched from his grasp when he was at his happiness, and it be all his fault.

At some point Lucifer does manage to get some sleep, having cried himself to sleep, to exhausted to keep going. He’s woken up only a few hours later by someone knocking on his door, Lilith’s voice slightly muffled as she calls through the thick wood that she was “going out. Charlote wants to introduce me to her friends and show me this hotel of hers.” Lucifer is up and out of the bed in seconds, practically tripping over his feet and blankets in his desperation to get to the door. He yanks it open, frantically calling out that he’s “coming! To the hotel. I’m coming to the hotel as well.” Lilith’s only a couple of steps down the hall, her surprise quickly morphing into a wicked smile that has Lucifer thinking that he might have made a mistake by being so franticly insistent that he come with her. It’s just, you're at the hotel.

Lucifer missed you, probably an unhealthy amount considering it had only been two days since he had last seen you but that didn’t make it any less true. He wanted to see you and the easiest way to do that would be to go with Lilith to the hotel and if he could function as some sort of buffer between the two of you then that was even better. Lilith’s interest in you had worried him and Lucifer didn’t want her to start interrogating you like you had committed some sort of crime by being with him. More than anything though Lucifer doesn’t want you feeling uncomfortable in your own home, and Lilith being there was sure to leave you feeling uneasy.

It wasn’t just to act as your knight in a white suit though, Lucifer was hopeful that by going to the hotel he would be able to fix whatever damage his actions or lack there of had caused. He wanted to get you alone, preferably before tea and whilst Lilith was off with Charlie having her tour of the hotel. Lucifer would probably be able to bribe Nifty to chase off Angel Dust as well, insuring he would have the time to talk to you and hopefully be able to convince you to give him a second chance. He was terrified that he had already messed things up beyond repair though and that cornering you in the hotel would just get him a slap and a demand to leave you alone. If you did say it was over Lucifer would accept that. Sure, he would be heartbroken, but he didn’t want to cause any more problems for you. But if there was even a glimmer of hope that things weren’t over for the two of you than Lucifer would grasp it with both hands, determined to prove himself to you.

Lilith had made a comment about his dishevelled state, but Lucifer had been to focused on his plan to really register any ill intent behind her words, agreeing that he was “a bit of a mess.” All it took was a snap of his fingers and Lucifer was ready to go, not a single hair out of place and his suit and shirt wrinkle free. Lilith had been watching him, brows furrowed as Lucifer practically bounced down the stairs. He couldn’t help it; he was excited to see you and full of hope once more.

He had opened a portal to the hotel, trying to put as much distance between himself and Lilith as he possibly could just to emphasise that they weren’t actually together even if they arrived together. Lucifer had not been expecting to find the parlour already full, seemingly everyone currently staying at the hotel filling the space. Lucifer had frozen, eyes wide and unsure what to do with the sudden attention, his happy smile faltering. Lilith though had just breezed through the portal, all smiles and kind words as she greeted the sinners excited to see their Queen like she knew them all personally. Lucifer had shuffled in behind her, uncertain and awkward as the portal closed behind him and suddenly feeling out of his depth, having avoided any sort of large gatherings since before Lilith had left.

He had forgotten how much the residents of Hell had flocked to her, hypnotised by her voice and desire to raise Hell up from the cesspit of sin that it was. She truly was beautiful when in her element, glowing with a confidence that Lucifer had always been in awe of. She had always been a magnificent performer though, able to turn a crowd with just a smile and now was no different. Now that he wasn’t so blinded by his infatuation for her, Lucifer could see Lilith’s interactions with the sinners for what they were, a performance designed to draw people in and win them over. That wasn’t to say that she didn’t genuinely care or believe in what she was saying but she just kept a part of herself back, her true self hidden from the masses. No one else seemed to notice, not even Charlie as she excitedly introduced Lilith to Vaggie and the others, practically vibrating as she jumped from one introduction to another, pulling Lilith along behind her as she went.

As the crowd moved Lucifer finally got a glimpse of you, sat at the bar with Angel Dust and looking down at the drink in your hand like your whole world had fallen apart. You had dark circles under your red rimmed eyes, a clear sign that you had been crying. His heart tightened painfully at that, knowing he was the cause and wanting to punch himself for it. Angel leant in, whispering something that had your head snapping up and eyes going wide as you locked your gaze with him.

It was like everything else around him vanished, Lucifers entire world narrowing down to you. It had only been a couple of days, but Lucifer felt like he hadn’t seen you in forever, his heart swelling with longing whilst it cracked with regret and shame. You seemed just as trapped by his gaze as he was yours, his own feelings of longing reflected back at him but instead of regret he found only resignation and acceptance. You offered him a sad shaky smile before looking away and turning your back on him. It felt like an end, like everything Lucifer had wanted was slipping through his fingers like sand. No. That couldn’t happen, he wouldn’t allow it. You couldn’t just give up like that, like what you had shared hadn’t meant enough to you to even try and fight for it. Lucifer was halfway across the still crowded room before he even realised he was moving, trying not to be too aggressive as he pushed sinners out of his way in his haste to get to you.

Lucifer wasn’t quite quick enough though, Charlie making it to you before Lucifer could. She smiled brightly as she introduced you to Lilith, spinning you round and into her side so she could sling her arm over your shoulders in an awkward hug. Your initial shock didn’t last long and in the blink of an eye you were offering Lilith a bright smile, bowing your head slightly as you greeted her with surprisingly genuine politeness. Lucifer got there just in time for Lilith to answer your greeting, her violet eyes dragging over you in obvious appraisal as she told you that “Charlie has told me so much about you.” You and Lucifer both flinch slightly when Lilith says that, making it blindingly obvious that Lucifer hadn’t been the one to bring you up.

You recover from the metaphorical blow first, eyes dull and smile forced as you spoke about how happy you were to be helping Charlie with the hotel and all the hard work she had been putting in to making it work. It’s awkward, and uncomfortable for everyone involved apart from Lilith who doesn’t seem to notice you are looking at something over her shoulder instead of at her, nor that Charlie’s eyes are darting between the three of you or that Lucifer has tugged his hat down slightly, looking pained and embarrassed as he tried to catch your eye to no avail.

He can’t take it anymore, wanting to get you as far away from this train wreck of a situation before it gets any worse. His nervous laughter is loud and awkward when he cuts Lilith off before she has a chance to speak again, franticly trying to turn her in the opposite direction as he asks Charlie “how about that tour huh? Lots to see before Lilly’s got to head home.” He doesn’t realise the mistake he’s made until he sees the gleam in Lilith’s eyes and his stomach drops like the floor has just disappeared out from under him and he’s plummeting down into the unknown darkness below.

Lucifer hadn’t meant to use the old nickname; it just having slipped out in his desperation to get her away from you, but it was worse than just that. So much worse because Lilith had said “It’s lovely to be home again. I really had missed it up here in Pride and being back at the manor with Lucifer again, it’s just like old times.” With every word Lilith said Lucifer could see the light dimming in your eyes, your ears twitching downwards and smile clearly starting to strain. Lucifer tries to tell you that it’s not how it sounds but he can’t even get your name out before Lilith is looping her arm through his and pulling him along as she starts her tour of the hotel, Charlie quick to catch up with Vaggie not far behind. Craning his neck round Lucifer hoped to catch your attention but what he sees is you downing the drink you had been holding before practically slamming the glass down on the bar and quickly making your escape in the opposite direction they were going. Angel Dust is the one that catches Lucifer looking, shooting him a mean glare and using all four hands to flip him off before he goes after you.

Lucifer doesn’t pay attention on the tour, letting Charlie talk and Lilith lead him along by the arm. He’s too busy berating himself to listen to what’s going on let alone take part, mind firmly stuck on you and the dull emptiness you had looked at him with. How could he have been so stupid? He should have realised what him letting Lilith stay at the manor would look like to everyone else and especially you. He had been so desperate to keep her away from you that he hadn’t even stopped to think about the damage it would cause letting her stay with him for Heaven knows how long. Of course it would upset you. He would be angry too if you had an ex-partner move in next door to you at the hotel out of the blue. He really was an idiot. An idiot that was making everything worse just by existing. He really needed to talk to you, get all these mistakes and misunderstandings sorted out before they became too big to fix. He just needed to go find you, hopefully somewhere private where the two of you could be alone and just talk it out though if you wanted to scream, he didn’t think he would begrudge you that, not after how he had acted.

Lucifer had tried to slip away when Charlie had started talking about how she was planning on filling all the empty rooms. He had tried to be as discreet as possible, gently slipping his arm out from under Lilith’s and taking a small half step backwards. That was as far as he had gotten though before Lilith was grabbing hold of his hand and quite literally pulling him into the conversation, turning everyone’s attention on to him as she had asked about his role within the hotel. He had tried to laugh it off, insisting that he was just the financier but then Charlie had started insisting he was more than that, tugging him free of Lilith’s hold and having him lead the tour with her.

Any other time Lucifer would be ecstatic, proud of his little girl and everything she had achieved. Not that he wasn’t proud of her, but he couldn’t help but feel that with every step he took further into the hotel he was losing his chance to make things right with you. She looked so happy though, arm looped through his and smiling brightly as she told Lilith some of the tamer stories she had of the current guests. He couldn’t ruin that by running off, no matter how badly he wanted to. So, Lucifer had stayed, enjoying the time spent with his daughter and trying not to think how every second he spent casually touring the hotel was another second you had to convince yourself that Lucifer wasn’t worth the time you had given him.

It was late once the tour was over, it having taken a lot longer this time round compared to when Lucifer had been the one being shown around. He couldn’t blame Charlie for being excited and wanting to show the place of, but they hadn’t needed to look at every floor, over half of them just the same generic corridor with rows of identical empty rooms. Feeling frustrated and desperate Lucifer had been quick to usher Lilith through the portal, practically shoving her the last few steps before calling out that “I’m going out. Don’t wait up. Bye,” and letting the thing snap closed before she could say anything. Charlie and Vaggie had been shocked at his behaviour, but Lucifer had waved them off as he took off running towards your room. He was a man on a mission, and he wasn’t about to let anyone get in his way. He was going to your room, and he was going to explain everything to you, grovel on his knees for forgiveness if he had to and make it 1000% clear that he was not interested in starting anything with Lilith again. You were the one he wanted, not her.

The problem was you weren’t in your room, Lucifers insistent knocking either going unnoticed or ignored. He had panicked a little then, worry creeping up on him as he tried to think of where else you could be. He had seen you with the spider earlier so maybe you were still with him? It was a bit of a long shot considering how long ago he had seen the two of you together, but Lucifer didn’t really stop to think about that, spinning on his heals and heading down to the bar in search of Angel Dust and hopefully you.

That hope is short lived because when Lucifer skids round the corner he finds the bar practically empty, the only person inside being Husk who was slumped over the bar, halfway through a bottle of presumably cheap booze. Lucifer startled him when he slams down his cane on the bar top, demanding to know if he knew where you were. He wasn’t being very polite, but Lucifer was desperate, feeling like every second that went by was a second he was closer to loosing you entirely. Husk had given him a look that Lucifer could only describe as disappointed, sighing heavily as he told Lucifer that you were “out. Angel Dust and Cherrie decided she needed to let loose after that shit show this morning.” That hurts, Lucifer wincing at the reminder of how awkward things were when he and Lilith had arrived at the hotel that morning. He sinks down onto a barstool, arms wrapping around his head and crushing his hat as he let his head smack against the wooden bar top.

Out. You were out with Angel Dust and that cyclops women doing Heaven knows what and all because he was too much of a wreck to stand up for himself and deal with things the correct way. He could go after you, could demand that Husk tell him exactly what bar or club you had gone to but in the end what would that accomplish? He would make a scene, probably make a fool of himself for all of Hell to see and make things worse for you in the long run. But what other choice did he have? To just sit around at the bar and wallow in self-pity like the pathetic idiot he is, waiting for you to return to the hotel just so he could ambush you as soon as you came through the door? Angel Dust probably wouldn’t let him get within ten feet of you, uncaring that Lucifer was the king of Hell and knowing that he would never hurt the sinner because that would upset Charlie.

He could just leave. Go back home and wait till the morning before trying again. The thought of going back to the manor with Lilith made his stomach turn slightly, not wanting to be trapped in there with her and all the painful memories her presence pulled up from the dark recesses of his mind. It wasn’t just that though. Lucifer got the horrible feeling that if he left without doing anything at all that would be it. There would be no chance to talk and fix things in the morning. These last few months of happiness gone in a flash, leaving Lucifer all alone once more.

Husk doesn’t let him wallow for long, practically slamming a glass of some deep amber looking liquid down in front of him. He doesn’t look happy but that’s normal for him and Lucifer accepts the drink with a mumbled “thank you,” before taking a tentative sip of the smoky liquid. He promptly almost chokes on it when Husk speaks, eyes going wide as he tells Lucifer that he isn’t “one of those bar tenders that listens to your problems and dishes out advice. They're your hang ups and fuck ups not mine, deal with them yourself. That being said, that girl cares a lot about you, and she deserves a helluva lot better than being dumped like hot trash as soon as your ex come back around after up and leaving your sorry ass. So how about you ditch the pity party and actually fix your fuck up whilst you still can because, taking a girls virginity then moving your ex-wife back in the morning after? That’s fucked up even for the King of this shit hole.” Lucifer sits there, eyes wide and grip tight enough on his glass that it starts to crack. Little fractures that spread across the glass like spiderwebs.

Was that really what people thought? That he had been using you as a stand in and that as soon as Lilith had shown up again, he had just abandoned you for her? Was that what you thought? He sees you then, that resigned and accepting look in your eyes as you stare back at him. It’s like you had been expecting this to happen and had come to terms with it long before you had needed to. This whole time had you always been waiting for him to break your heart, expecting him to want nothing else from you other than to be a stand in for his estranged wife? His wedding ring glints in the light, a cruel reminder of his painful past and rapidly disappearing future. He suddenly understands why you had never brought it up, had never asked him to take it off. You had never been expecting him to, accepting that when it came to Lilith she would always be his greatest love and that you would never come close to holding a place like that in his heart.

The glass shatters in Lucifers hand, liquid spilling across the bar top as shards dig painfully into his palm. Vaguely he hears Husk cursing but Lucifers to preoccupied to really hear it. You had it all wrong. Yes, Lucifer had loved Lilith and despite everything they had been through and how her very presence reminded Lucifer of all his short comings a part of him would always care for her. She was the mother of his child, his first love, his first everything and they had eons of happiness together, but it hadn’t been enough to survive the worst of times. Lucifer had moved on, his feelings for Lilith now more like that of a dear old friend then a lover.

Lucifer loved you. Was madly, deeply and irrevocably in love with you. He would bring paradise to Hell just to see you smile. He would pull the very stars from the sky to show you that they paled in comparison to your eyes. He would build you a grand palace if you asked, would fill every room with rare jewels and riches. He would have the very streets of Hell scrubbed and cleaned so you didn’t have to walk amongst the filth and bloodshed. Lucifer would grant your every wish and desire. He would let you sit upon his throne whilst he curled at your feet, head in your lap and content to have your fingers in his hair. He would give you anything including himself, would even cut out his heart and offer it to you on a silver platter if that was what you need from him to truly even begin to understand what you meant to him.

He’s actions had been rash and desperate, clouded over by the past and his own failings. He would make it right though, would fix his fuck up as Husk had so eloquently put it. He was right after all, you deserved better than thinking you were anything less than everything to him. Shaking the glass from his hand Lucifer had stood, nodding his head and thanking him for “the advice,” before turning and heading towards the hotel doors. He ignored the other mans shout from behind him, his mind preoccupied with his forming plan as he started on his walk back to the manor.

That night Lucifer moved out of the manor and into his rooms at the hotel.

Lilith had been waiting for him when he returned to the manor. Though she made it look like she had just been enjoying a glass of wine and a book in the parlour, Lucifer knew she had been just passing time till he came back, probably expecting him to be heartbroken and so in need of comfort that he would just walk back into her arms. Well, she was wrong. Lucifer wasn’t heartbroken, not yet anyway. Clearing his throat Lucifer had stood in the hallway with his head held high and determined gaze fixed on Lilith who had turned slightly to look at him over the back of the sofa. His voice had been clear and steady as he told her that he was “moving out, tonight. I’m going to stay at the hotel for now until another permanent living arrangement can be made. The manor is yours, do with it what you will.”

Lilith had looked a little taken-a-back at his statement, gracefully rising to her feet and trying to dissuade him from his decision as she came round the back of the sofa. Lucifer had stayed firm though, holding a hand up and cutting her off before she could even get close to convincing him to stay. Instead, he was honest with her, his stern determination softening slightly as he explained that he “should have moved out years ago. This place holds to many memories, not all of them good and I have been keeping myself locked away in her for too long. It’s time I let go of the past and moved on with my life and I can’t do that here.” The with you goes unspoken but Lucifer can see the flash of understanding that lights up Lilith’s eyes. She leans back against the sofa, her hands curling around the edge and nails digging in slightly. Neither of them says anything, don’t really even look at each other as they both process what Lucifer had just said.

He hadn’t been planning on saying it but that didn’t make it any less true. Lucifer had been holding onto the past in many ways he hadn’t even realised, not just the ring but the house as well, it still being the exact same as it had been when Lilith had left. Nothing had changed for so long, Lucifers life stagnant even as he clung onto a time long since passed. But things were changing now and for the better. His relationship with Charlie was getting better every day and he was finally starting to take more of an active role as King of Hell, and then there was you. His sweet little lamb who had been the first person in a long time to make him feel like he was enough just as he was. Lucifers life had been good, or at least it had been right up until a couple of days ago, but Lucifer was going to fix it, and this was the first step to doing so.

Lilith was the one to break the silence, finally looking at Lucifer as she asks, “she isn’t just a fling, is she?” He’s not expecting that, eyes wide in his surprise but it fades quickly, Lucifer smiling his first genuine smile in two days. He doesn’t hesitate this time, his voice found as he admits that “no, she isn’t.” Lilith takes it all surprising well, telling him that she’s glad he had found someone who makes him happy and admitting that she had been “rather jealous when I first saw her. You will apologise to her for me won’t you Luci? I wasn’t particularly welcoming, and I would hate for my behaviour to come between the two of you.” Of course, Lucifer assures her that he will, smiling brightly and trying to hide the small thrill he gets at knowing that how happy and in love he had been had made Lilith jealous. Lucifer does laugh though when Lilith asks him if you realise how lucky you are to have Lucifers love and devotion, insisting that he was the lucky one. You could have anyone you wanted but you had chosen Lucifer and that made him the luckiest person in all of Hell.

He and Lilith spend almost an hour talking after that, Lucifer telling her how you two had met and how he had gone about courting you. Lilith seems genuinely interested, laughing at his failed attempts at flirting and even teasing him about his incapability to realise when someone what flirting with him. It’s nice, reminiscent of eons ago when they had still told each other everything, open and honest in a way that they hadn’t been towards the end. It changes nothing about his decision though and before the hour can pass fully Lucifer is excusing himself to go pack, politely declining Lilith’s offer to help. They don’t say goodbye, Lilith offering him a hopeful “see you soon?” that he finds himself repeating back to her. Maybe not tomorrow or the day after but at some point? That would be nice. Maybe even a family dinner, especially considering it would now involve you and Vaggie. He didn’t doubt that it would be awkward to start with, but he had his own hopes that somehow it would all work out in the end.

It doesn’t take him all that long to pack, everything important boxed up and moved to the hotel with a snap of his fingers. It’s not like he had much of importance to take with him anyway. A few trinkets he had picked up over the centuries and things from Charlie’s childhood that had sentimental value. There were photos and paintings that he wanted to keep, like the one of Charlie in her strange gothic phase or the one of her as a baby sat on top of a large rubber duck and smiling brightly as she laughed. There were so many of her at different stages in her life, ones of him and the other sins as well as the few friends he had made down here but there were also ones of him, Lilith and Charlie that he couldn’t bear to part with, the three of them smiling and laughing together that were important and precious memories from his past. He didn’t think you would begrudge him those, but he didn’t want you to think his memories with you were any less important to him. He hoped that one day soon he would be able to place photos of you amongst them, your bright smile and infectious laughter lighting up his walls just like they did to his life.

Eventually all that’s left for him to take are the pyjamas you had gifted him along with his duck slippers and the blanket he had conjured for you. They’re all folded neatly, stacked in a little pile on his bed that he scooped up into his arms and holds close to his chest. He gives the room a once over, eyes lingering on the bed as he recalls how peaceful and content you had looked curled up on the sheets. He’s half tempted to take it with him, the memory of your first time together such a bright spot in his life that he doesn’t want to leave a single piece of it behind. It wasn’t the bed that had made your night together so perfect though and taking it with him would just be impractical. With his mind still full of you he had opened a portal and stepped through into his rooms at the hotel, not feeling even a speck of regret at his decision.

Once the portal is closed Lucifer places the pyjamas and slippers on his bed, fully intending to wear them when he got into it later. For now, he keeps hold of the blanket and makes his way out into the halls, heading towards your room once more. His nock is gentle and steady this time, but his heart is beating just as rapidly as he waits for you to answer. You don’t, clearly not yet back from wherever Angel Dust and Cherrie had taken you. That should worry him slightly, but he trusts you, knows that even angry and hurt the most you will do is have one to many drinks and he trusts Angel to look after you, his own reforming conscience preventing him from letting anything bad happen to you.

He should go but he had come here for a reason, and he didn’t see the harm in leaving the blanket in your room to find when you got back. Maybe you would even find comfort in it, curling up in the plush fabric like he had the night before. Lucifer tried the handle on a whim, not expecting the door to actually open and yet it does, the soft click sounding far too loud in the otherwise quiet corridor. He steps inside quickly, shutting the door behind him and grumbling about you being far too trusting for living in Hell. Lucifer fumbles for the light switch, eventually just giving up when all his fingers find are wall and door frame. Instead, he clicks his fingers, the lights coming on instantly and filling the space in a warm glow.

Lucifer has been in your room before but never alone and never without your permission to be there. He feels like he’s trespassing. Like at any second alarm bells are going to start going off and metal bars will spring up to cover the windows and door, trapping him inside until you finally come back and find him huddled in a corner. He knows that’s not going to happen but that doesn’t stop him from feeling like he’s doing something wrong by being here without you or your permission. Deciding that he had already messed up by coming in here Lucifer quickly marches across the room and places the blanket down on the end of your bed, a quick wave of his hand summoning a white and red rose that smells like candy apples that he gently placed on top of the folded fabric.

He's back out the door within minutes, lights off once more and hiding what he had done. He feel’s giddy and nervous as he makes his way back to his rooms, like a teenager leaving a love note in a crush’s locker. Lucifer is hopeful though, that somehow his offering will have you at his door before the night is over. Either to talk or to throw the blanket in his face, but still at his door none the less. All he needed was that chance. The chance to reach out and hold your hand and tell you he was sorry for the hurt he had caused. The chance to promise you that his heart was yours and offering to give it to you on a silver platter if that was what you needed to know his feelings were true. Whatever you needed from him Lucifer would give it to you willingly, would offer you the universe if it would offer him just a glimpse of your smile once more. Whatever it takes, Lucifer would show you where his love resided and hopefully start to build a future with you at his side. Together again and stronger for it.

So lost in his thoughts Lucifer did not see the violet eyes that watched him from withing the darkest shadows. As he disappeared around the corner the shadows shifted, taking form as they moved closer to the door he had come from. Pail lilac fingers curled around the handle, the door opening just enough for the shadow cloaked figure to slip through into the darkened room, the door closing silently behind it.

@viannasthings @loquacious-libra @misfitgirlwrites @nanamunath @cherry-cola-100 @a-okay-rj

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jebetwo · 3 days

Text

mend my heart.

IN WHICH, you lie to keep his peace.

PAIRING ‧₊˚ boyfriend!jake x reader

GENRE ‧₊˚ angst, hurt no comfort, l2s, drabble

WORD COUNT ‧₊˚ 430

reblogs are always appreciated 🤎

“I think I’m falling out of love with you.”

What prepares you for a sentence like that?

Nothing. Nothing does.

It's a whisper of betrayal, a dagger concealed within the velvet folds of affection. Each syllable drips with the bitter taste of disillusionment, a venom that seeps into the cracks of your heart, poisoning every beat with the ache of loss.

When those words tumbled from Jake’s lips, they shatter the fragile illusion of security you've built around your love. They unravel the carefully woven tapestry of your shared memories, leaving behind a tangled mess of broken promises and shattered dreams.

You remember the way Jake’s laughter filled the air, warm and infectious, melting away the worries of the world. You recall the softness of his touch, the way his fingers traced patterns across your skin, leaving behind a trail of sparks that ignited a fire within you. Every time you were with him it felt like the first time you fell in love with each other; it was like reliving your first memory three years ago, for every day, every moment of your life.

But now? Now, as you replay those memories in your mind, they feel like distant memories of a love that once burned bright but now flickers in the shadows.

“I think I’m falling out of love with you.”

It's a tidal wave of emotion, crashing over you with a force that leaves you gasping for breath. It drags you under, pulling you into the depths of despair, where every breath is a struggle and every heartbeat a reminder of the love you can no longer hold onto.

As those words echo in the caverns of your soul, they leave behind a hollow emptiness, a gaping void where his love used to reside. You reach out, grasping for something, anything, to anchor you to the reality of what he's saying, but there's nothing there, just the cold reminder of his confession ringing in your ears.

You remember the whispered promises exchanged under the moonlight, the stolen glances across crowded rooms that spoke volumes without a single word.

But now? Now, as you cling to those memories like a lifeline, they feel like shards of glass cutting deep into your wounded heart.

“I think I’m falling out of love with you.”

It's a symphony of heartbreak, each note a dagger to your soul, tearing through the delicate fabric of your happiness until there's nothing left but the raw, jagged edges of your pain. And as you stand there, drowning in the wreckage of your love, you can't help but wonder how something so beautiful could end in such agony.

"I think I'm falling out of love with you, too.”

It’s a whisper just above your breath.

And what prepares you for this?

Nothing. Nothing does.

The admission is a dagger to your own heart.

A deception born out of love and desperation.

A love so deep for him that you’re willing to endure the agony in silence even when it’s devouring you from within.

It’s funny to think that you’re still protecting him after the betrayal your heart feels, the cracks deepening with each second of defeating silence. You know Jake wouldn’t be able to live with himself knowing you’re hurt. He may not be in love with you, yeah, but he still loves you, right? Right.

Jake’s expression softens at your words, a flicker of relief passing across his features before he pulls you into a tight embrace. As you cling to him, you can’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, you held onto him tight enough you would feel the shattered pieces of your heart mend together.

You would do anything to keep his heart still beating, even if it wasn’t for you.

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slushiepizza · 3 days

Text

Marie and Mother Mary

Relationship : Marie & Milo Greer

Tags : Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Post-Partum Depression, Gender Roles, Catholicism, Motherhood, Italian American Marie Greer

Word Count : 1,510

ao3

Notes and Warnings:

this fic kind of surprised me because I'm not super into the Shaw Pack. But I do find Marie Greer's presence and bits and pieces we know of her character fascinating. I wanted to explore Marie's mind and feelings about being a mother when she's dealing with a gambling husband; and for her to raise someone like Milo Greer- she must've done a great job as a parent.

I took inspiration from my own experiences growing up with Catholicism and specifically in relation to the biblical Mary as a religious figure; and how mothers often find comfort in the thought of a figure who related in their struggles of motherhood and womanhood. It also has a theme of gender roles/ alluding to rigid gender identities because of the circumstances that Marie grew up in.

This fic isn't really... religious per se, and it takes more of a neutral standing while still criticizing how religion could be used to provoke feelings of personal guilt and trauma in someone who grew up in it, while also giving comfort to anyone that needed the universe to say that everything will be okay. If any of the themes may cause distress in you, I do implore you not read this fic, as consuming writing is a vulnerable activity.

The year was 1993. Marie Greer walked into the empty church lot with her baby in her arms. It had been decades since she last stepped on its stone floors. The security guard stationed outside looked at her strangely, but let her in once she asserted that she was there to pray.

She passed the main building for a small garden in the back. There were rows of wooden benches but nobody to be found. Good. Marie didn’t want company at the moment. To call it a garden was an overstatement- it was tiny and cramped, overgrown with vines. In front of the benches, the centerpiece of all the foliage was a statue of the Virgin Mary. Mother Mary, she thought, the double entendre not escaping her.

As soon as she sat down right in front of the statue- Milo wailed inconsolably like he always did.

The baby’s loud cries echoed disturbing whatever peace that was left from the place. Marie sighed, tired and weary, of this. He was an especially sensitive child, smaller than other babies his age. Marie was used to catering to people who’d fuss over the littlest things, Colm had a particular affinity for order and cleanliness whenever he came back from blowing his month’s earnings in a night, after all. The addition of Milo to the family just added more on her plate- she had to catalog every single one of his many allergies, and make sure that the room was never dusty because he’d have a coughing fit otherwise. The replacement of their popcorned ceiling had not been cheap, either, not with Colm leaving barely anything left after his trips to Vegas.

She did this all for love. For him. For her husband. But oftentimes, she felt like there was nothing left of her to give. Dry. Hollow.

She shushed Milo and lightly rocked him in hopes that he’d calm down but to no avail. He thrashed and turned, his nails accidentally scratched her in the arm. Marie winced and tried to soothe him, lightly patting his back. It took thirty minutes of rocking and soothing Milo until the baby went back to sleep.

St. Mary’s weathered ivory-colored face looked down at her, her expression blank and unmoving. Her lips were sculpted into a serene smile. Her pupil-less eyes gazed back at Marie.

Just like any other Italian-American family at the time, church was a routine for Marie growing up. Her mother would dress them in their Sunday’s best and wrangled her and her seven unruly siblings into the building. “Quit fussin’ your pigtails, Marie. I did that real pretty for you,” she’d chide. They’d sit in the back of the church because tardiness ran in that family’s blood like a curse.

Past the twelfth and thirteenth pews, God felt distant.

Marie would follow everything diligently. She stood up when everyone else stood up as the priest lifted the circular white wafer, the body of Christ, above the altar. As a child, her height wouldn’t allow her to catch a single glimpse of it. She’d comfort her younger siblings whenever they’d make a ruckus. But the whole thing- it went one ear out of the other.

She could’ve sworn she tried her best to listen and followed whatever the adults did.

I have greatly sinned, escaped past her lips as she did the same thing she had now, rocking her baby sister in her arms. At the time, she hadn’t even lost her milk teeth.

She stopped going when she married Colm. He was the opposite of the man her mother wanted her to marry, and in retrospect, she felt that it was one of the many reasons she liked him. His mind was raucous, his eyes wild and unmoored. Like nothing was holding him back. Colm used to be an ambitious man- the thrill of being an Investigator for DUMP perfect for his unrested soul.

Marie loved that part of him, the fact that he’d question everything, unbelieving in anything unproven.

He said that he wanted to purge the world of assholes- the unjust, those who hurt others for their own sake. As he turned in empowered criminals in the pursuit of it, he became one himself.

Marie met St.Mary’s gaze- almost challenging her hollow stare. Something surged through her, from the ache in her back settling to her tight diaphragm.

After the birth of her boy, Mary couldn’t cook or clean. All she did was stay in bed. Her sister came by to help take care of the house while Colm stepped outside as usual. She said that it was normal, her body had been through hell, after all. But the heavy feeling, the heaviness that settled in her chest persisted for the next two months.

Marie hated feeling helpless- her house a mess, and her baby cried constantly. She was a woman of action, and stagnation shackled her, leaving her trapped. Her visit to the psychiatrist- and the fourth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual- had told her that it was depression with a postpartum onset. She told the doctor that she refused to accept that she was a ‘bozo who was sick in the head’ and that she will cure herself with a margarita and a sorely needed hair perm alongside a fresh coat of manicure.

And look where that got her. Crying in front of a statue in church.

She still stared at the other Mary, the statue’s size and height caused her to look like she was looking down on whoever prayed in the confined space, guiding them iin a time of need. With that, for once, Marie realized that she was angry.

She wasn’t stuck to her mattress, fatigued, and lacked energy because of sorrow- she was so angry, the weight of her job description as wife, mother, woman, wolf, dog, bitch- Marie weighed down on her like anchors. She was angry, at the fact that Colm was nowhere to be found throughout all this, angry at her mother- for making her a mother to her own siblings when she was barely a child, angry at the fact that she couldn’t even love her child properly because she no longer had any love left in the hollow of her heart.

The emotions had clawed the insides of her ribs and caused her to let out heavy breaths- she was a dog panting for air when there was none.

“When does it get easier,” she demanded to the Mother of all Mothers through gritted teeth. “Tell me, Mary,” she begged, desperate, as tears started to roll down her face. “Tell me!”

“When does being a mother ever get any easier?”

Her voice was a whisper, barely audible, as she started to sob and heave quietly.

A soft breeze blew past the branches of the trees that surrounded her. It moved the leaves and allowed them to move gently back and forth. The statue still looked down at her, hand slightly outstretched in a supposed kind, helpful gesture. Ants crawled from the crack in the marble, they moved past Mary’s dress down to the hem, circling around her exposed foot, past the head of the sneak that was crushed triumphantly under her toes.

Marie sank into her seat, tired. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, sniffling. Unbecoming of her, she thought. She’d rather die than let anyone see her like this. But there was a comfort between women, she supposed. Damage from rain stained Mary’s cheek like tears- not unlike the thick mascara that currently ran down her own. The air was comfortable, easy, and Marie felt light. It reminded her of the 80s. Of girls in the bathroom of the disco, talking someone out of calling their past lovers as they applied lipstick and passed cigarettes between one another.

“I guess,” she sniffed. “I guess you know better, right?” she stared into a picture that hung on a distant wall. In it, St. Mary cried as she held Jesus' dying body. “He didn’t give you a hell of a good time either,” her voice cracked pathetically.

Girl, tell me about it, Marie imagined the statue said. The Virgin Mary had the voice of her best friend in college. Is that not what being a mother is? The pain so bad, it feels like you’re splitting in two? Going through all seven hells for your baby’s sake?

“Why do we even put ourselves through this,” she chuckled sardonically. “If I wanted to go through pain, I’d rather just listen to Colm talk about whatever fish he caught on the weekend.”

Mary didn’t answer, and Marie understood. Milo opened his big eyes in her arms and reached up to her with tiny hands. He giggled, light and oblivious to the puffiness of Mary’s face and the swell of her eyes. She cooed at him and held up a finger. Milo wrapped his hand around it, gentle.

St. Mary’s serene smile was still plastered on her face, her hand outstretched in the air between them.

#redacted audio #redacted asmr #marie greer #milo greer #redacted milo #redacted marie

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108garys · 2 days

Text

Forever

Because I wanted to see if I could pull it off and because I still think MoM should have had an ending like this, I wrote a short "Alex does a canabalism" or at least that's what I first dropped in the note when I decided to write this so this is very much everyone dies territory, hope you enjoy how it's written

@kassiekole22 @delurkr @tatjana-fantasy @qusok @unhingedlesbear @ctrvpani @kindheartedgummybears @blubary @tinynightmarewoman @mybrainrotforreal

Terror fills every fibre of Alex's being as that familiar feeling claws inside…

He'd made it go away, for a little while… His own face stared back in disapproval as he quietened that desperate need… Shattered glasses and twisted metalic taste… He was not ready when the curtain fell and could not return… What would their mother say? Seeing him now… Scavenger… Little more than a carrion creature… Haunting unending halls until all sense flees from him…

He sees her. face flushed prettily, tear stained as her grief echos over and over… Alone together, promises made bellow, reaffirmed above, entwined in the light of the sun. Faith. Tested in the dark as the hollow feeling sets in…

Relentless in their nature, those that came before follow…

The scent of decay cloying, clawing, crawling within him. Tearing at him… Engulfed in primal desperation. Contorted. Twisted painfully turned around as they blame him, denounce him and degrade him.

He sees her, holds her as she melts into him. Delicate fingers adorned as soft orange hues wash over her, rocked by the waves. Sunset caught in her golden hair, fading light in her eyes as she smiles brightly…

But in darkness he is tempted, temporary, tensions taut before he breaks… He shouts at the apparitions that trouble him, kicks and screams and fights for some sense of self to return… To before… She fled from his sight for what he must do to settle his emptiness. Quite. Alone. A thing in the darkness… He was a person once. Just as those who stalk his every step were once more than faded names on crumbling pages… So far removed from themselves… From himself as they damn him…

…but it is different this time…

Warmth spreads throughout him, under and within, a familiar scent soothes his troubled soul… flesh torn asunder as limbs fall silent, waves wash over him, gentle heat fades away in the stillness… Golden sunlit sky painted red as dusk settles apon him… He cherishes the dying rays, taking the last heat of dimming embers into himself… Holding onto this last good thing for as long as he is able…

He lay on his back as the cool night air fills his lungs… Stars stretch out endlessly above, drifting away from the rest of the world… He reaches out to the moon shining brightly apon the deck, pure silver light as the sun gives him this last gift in absence of day… Tainted hands, hazy memory… A glimmer of something apon his finger tugs dully at something far away. Peace. He sinks into warm darkness… So little left as he's engulfed in this last flicker of recognition… Her name was Julia and she was everything to him, eternal companion, forever with him and within him…

Old bones of young lovers, bleached in the blazing sun, cracked and scattered in the darkness… Blurring one into another, joined in flesh, wed in spirit… Condemnation… Completion…Catharsis… A single glittering jewel remains amongst the rust and decay… Vows unspoken… Forever.

#Man of Medan #the dark pictures anthology #the dark pictures man of medan #Alex Smith #oneshot #julia man of medan #supermassive games #Canabalism

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one4sorrow · 2 months

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So I tried to go out on a walk and I regret it.

Its always nice when i first get out of the house. Even as foggy as I've been the sun still feels nice on my skin. But its late, and I really should have known better then to think it would stay good

Charlotte stopped by on my the foggy walk. i twas nice to be able to talk to her again. i hate how the whole thing makes me feel though

i always feel a little cold when she stops by. it feels like a little piece of me gets leached away when the fog rolls in. its that cold feeling that reminds me just how fucked up ia m as a person. charlotte seems so...peaceful, i guess

why can i be that?

she isnt stressed out or anxious anymore, she just seems peaceful. content.

i wish i could do that, that when the fog rolls back out and she fades away i could do the same and go with her to wherever she goes.

im so tired of feeling like this. of having to wake up every day and hear my brothers talk about the latest problem or think about how my own mother thinks im just as bad as my oldest brother because of all this custody shit

i wish i could make it stop, the feeling of my skin crawling when i go outside by myself too close to dark.

i hate how till she was there i just couldnt be alone without wondering if every shadow was going to grow hands and claws and hurt me agian

i want this to be over, i want to learn to fly and leavce all this behind

#i hate how easy it is to cry myself into a headache #you ever feel so tired you physically cant make yourself cry anymore?#theres no tears left its just empty and hollow and cold in my chest #i want to go home but home isnt there anymore #mom wont even look at me anymore and anytime she does its 'are you sure you want to wear that out of the house Osa? I wouldnt if i were you #or that ugly expressino she used t only use for him #i woudl go wake up yuuma but hes been working and jova doesnt get back till late and he'll wanna spend time with Jonah #i just wanna go light a fireput outside and feel something warm for once #im so tired of everything crumbling around me and nobody can hear me screaming for help #was it my fault that everything ended up changing?#please make it stop

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morgana-ren · 7 months

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i love angst, and i love your writing, but please, PLEASE, i beg you, could you write some hope of tav ever returning now that the imbecile, has realised the error of his ways 🥺😭 (either way, thank you so much, for all your astarion writtings, it has made me feel things, the angst is real and my masochistic heart loves it🥲)

First part of the story HERE

Common complaint I got on that one! So I fixed it just for y'all. This ending is much less sad and much more sappy, so here is the comfort you need after all that angst!

"Darling, will you smile for me? Just once more. Please--"

He feels her cheeks in his palms, the soft skin against his battle-hardened callouses. Desperation cradles his unbeating heart, and for a moment, the emotion is far too much. A searing flame after centuries of frost. A bonfire in a blizzard. It hurts-- it burns--

"My love, I just need you to--"

"Anything my lord, anything at all for you. Simply command me and I will do anything you ask."

"No, I can't-- I-- I won't do it. I won't. I won't!"

"My lord?"

Her head cocks, turning slowly to look upon him, but her eyes-- they are empty; beetle-black and hollow. Her smile is uncanny as a painted doll, her movements disjointed and inhuman. Her teeth are stained crimson with blood, dripping, dripping, ever dripping down, never swallowed, only pooling.

She is light as a feather as she slips away from him, her skin marbling into a sickly gray before ash spreads across her body as a disease, smearing her form into nothingness. Only her face is left untouched, pretty as porcelain, unflinching and unfalling save a small crack that splinters down from her forehead down to her eyes, revealing inky black abyss beneath.

"My lord-- Oh, my tender, vicious lord. I can feel your anguish-- your hunger. Devour me to be whole once more--"

Her blood smells of rot and she--

She is too far gone to save. Too far gone to ever be saved.

"I won't!"

Whirlwind. Pain. Confusion and dread and seeping anguish. A maelstrom of rage and all-consuming despair swelling from within his soul—

—his soul?

The world around him falls away, a wicked tornado thrashing him about, his mind howling in the eternal winds--

And suddenly he is in a chair.

Not a throne. A chair— and a rather uncomfortable one at that.

"What in the hells—"

His vision spins, nausea curling his gut into a wicked tide of sickness barely restrained by his teeth. He tastes stale blood crawling up his throat, threatening to overturn onto the faded rug beneath him.

"Did you see what you wished for, little spawn?"

The voice takes him by surprise. It is not hers, but another, less familiar voice. The wailing animal in his head retreats to a dull roar as his memory creeps back. A brightly colored tent assaults his vision, piecemeal rugs and odd, foreign trinkets abound on makeshift shelves, and before him sits a strange old woman, hood pulled heavy over her straggling gray hair.

"I-- What was that?"

He sees her cracked, aging lips upturn, gnarled hands placed protectively over a strange orb on the table touching his knees. "I have shown you your future, vampling. Was it to your liking?" Panic rises within his stomach again, and though he does not breathe, he clutches his chest. The smell of incense clogs his nostrils and again, the wave of sick threatens to spill forth. Wretched taste of metallic, aged blood sits heavy on his tongue, all sensation too much-- all of it too much.

"No-- No, that cannot be it!"

"This is your path, Pale Elf. The road you walk. The power you seek is well within your grasp, but as I told you before, it will cost you everything."

He vehemently shakes his head, denying it. Denying it before her and all the Gods.

"You told me upon entry that no price was too great for your reward. Do you still agree with this sentiment?"

"No! Not-- not her. Not her. Not that! I couldn't--"

"You can and you shall, sure as the moon follows the sun. You will have everything you ever wanted, but cost of this ritual is plain before you. You cared not for the many souls left to your mercy that are crushed beneath your tyrannical fist in your ascension, but what of the sole one that resides in your heart?"

Her. The light of his life. The air he breathes. The sun on his frigid flesh, the warmth that melts his icy heart.

"No," He hisses, trying to stand, but ultimately unable to muster the strength. "I won't! There-- There must be another way. Show me!"

"There is no other way," She says, solemnly. "It is inevitable."

He swallows down the information like a boulder lodged in his gullet. Her words echo endlessly in his mind, bouncing off the walls and lodging shards of ice directly in his soul.

"What if I-- What if I don't ascend? Tell me, what if I don't?"

She smiles again, teeth flashing through her thin lips. "That is another path, little elf." "I need to know. I-- I need certainty. I won't do this to her, but I--" He pauses, grappling with everything in his mind, desperately flitting about to absorb it all. "If I am going to forgo this, I need to be certain. I need to know that I can protect her, that she will be safe--"

But the woman simply shakes her head.

"Everyone must choose. For some, the path is dark, but for you, you see more than most will ever have the comfort of knowing. I can offer you nothing more. Should you initiate the Rite, you know this will come to pass. I can tell you nothing more if you choose to not. The future is yet unwritten, and the quill resides in your hands." "Then why can I not have both!" He slams a fist on the table, clawing at the soft wood. For the first time in ages, tears prick at his pale lashes and frustration wells a knot in his throat. "Why--" "Because one path is wholly your own, while the other is a tangled web, such is the nature of deals with the Hells. You will get everything you ever wanted and lose everything that made it worth having."

His head slumps, defeated and miserable. Silvery tears slide down the curves of his cheeks, even as he attempts to bite them back. He thought he would find comfort in knowing the future, but all it has given him is utter horror.

"Despair not," She continues. "Yes, you will wither under the sun, an eternally cursed dweller of the night, but all is not lost, is it? The one you love, will she stray from your side?" "I wanted her to have better than that," He sniffles, needling his lip with a fang. "I cannot brave the sun, but her-- She deserves better than that-- better than me."

"And what of what she feels?"

His brows furrow, and he peers up at the woman from tear-beaded lashes.

"You are a night walker; it is in your nature to be selfish. But love is not selfish, little vampling. You must fight your nature, your inherent self-loathing, or your love will always find the fire. What of what she desires?"

"She loves me," He says with absolute certainty. "And I--" "Do you love her?"

"Yes," He hisses, almost insulted that she would ask. "More than anything. I'm here, aren't I?"

"Then the rest matters naught. If you love her, you will allow her the agency to choose-- something you deny her as an ascendent. You must grow past your own follies. To love is to be vulnerable, and you must allow both yourself and her this freedom."

They are hard words to swallow, and yet, he feels the truth resound in them. She would not leave his side, even as he tried to force her to understand. Even as an instrument of his manipulation and schemes came to light, she stood steadfast with him, hand entwined in his, ready to face the fire together.

"I-- I need to know she will be safe."

Again, the woman shakes her head. "You cannot. You must fight fate if you wish to overturn it. You face dire odds, though throwing the dice in your favor now will doom you later should this outcome be the confirmation of your fears."

He sighs, face crinkling as he sniffs once more, summoning the willpower to swallow down the agony of his choice. He finds the strength in his legs to push himself upward from the chair, weak and shaking as a newborn fawn as he does so. "I will do whatever I need to. Anything."

"Then you may yet see this through."

He can hear the fanfare of the circus outside, the bawdy bards strumming away on their lutes and banging on drums, the elated screams of the children and their parents. Facing the light now seems impossible, but he must find his way home to her-- he has to be with her now now now--

"The coin first, boy."

He snaps out of his delirium only long enough to fish his hands into one of his pockets, bringing out a coin. Aged and neglected, the sinister engraving of a skull peers up at him from his palm, ruby eyes gleaming in the light as he tosses it into the woman's knobbily-jointed hands.

"Best of luck to you, night-child," She tucks it away. "We may yet meet again." "No offense, but I hope not."

"Me too, Little Star."

He pays little mind to the bustling streets and bursting taverns of Baldur's Gate, his feet carrying him back to camp as swiftly as his body will allow. It takes him until sundown even as he damn near jobs, ripping through the tree line and into the ruins with the intensity of a man starved.

"Astarion!" Karlach greets him, trying to wave him over. "I've got a bet with Gale about--" "Where is she?" Astarion immediately cuts her off, looking around frantically.

"Who?" Karlach raises a brow.

"Who else?" Wyll crosses his arms, looking intrigued at Astarion's intensity.

"Oh! In her tent, I think. Why? Gotcha a special something' in town for her, eh?" Karlach tries to rib at him, but he pushes past her without a second glance.

"Bet it's a fancy new dress he needs to tear off of her immediately," Karlach rolls her eyes before returning to her business.

He bursts into her tent to find her hunched over a book, tongue poking from between her teeth, as she scans over the page. This only lasts a few seconds before he scrambles onto the bed, squeezing her as tightly as he can manage, burying his nose into her hair, tears brimming in his eyes once more.

"Woah, hey!" She laughs, carefully setting her book aside, trying to discern what in the hells he is mumbling endlessly into her neck.

Need you-- need you-- love you-- can't lose you-- don't ever--

She hushes him, realizing something has gone terribly, terribly wrong, kissing his head and tugging him close. "Hey, what's wrong?"

She tries to cup his cheeks and bring his face up but he adamantly refuses, hard-swallowing the urge to bawl into her shoulder with every ounce of willpower he has. All he can manage is to cling to her, half sobbing, visions of that terrible future swimming in his head. He cannot let it come to pass, he will not--

And she holds him, cradling him in her arms, hushing him gently. Her face creases with worry, running her hands through his silvery hair as he pulls him into her lap.

"Little Star, what's wrong? You seem so upset. What can I do to make you happy, my love?"

"Is it done?" Ulma leans down as she enters the tent, carefully dodging the intricate tassels of the blanket strewn over the entryway.

"It is," The strange old woman replies, still rubbing the coin with her worn thumb.

"And?"

"I showed him nothing but truth," She says quietly. "I did not manipulate his vision. Only channeled it."

"That tells me nothing. I need to know if our children are safe."

"I cannot tell you this, Ulma. You know of the ways of our tribe; our relationship with these magics." Ulma's lips purse, her exasperation evident in her humorless expression. "I need to know--"

"His reaction was genuine. That was not my doing. He knows the price of power. I cannot tell you if he will pay it regardless," The old woman's head lifts, a slight mischievous smile playing on her lips. "But I can tell you what I think."

"And what do you think?"

"I have seen his soul-- the heart of it. I believe you will see our children yet. He will spare our heart to spare his own in kind. It beats in that woman," Her eyes twinkle in the low candlelight, a genuine smile widening across her cheeks. "I believe he can find redemption yet."

#morgana and friends #astarion #astarion spoilers #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #heh that last one messed yall up huh #heres a fix for it #SUPER sappy FYI #SO ENJOY!#I don't usually write sap (or angst) so I am bad at this #sorry its bad fellas #I GENUINELY could not think of a way for him to fix him becoming her cazador so uh #have a retconn #call this a fast fixer upper lmao

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actual-changeling · 4 months

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i am having a time y'all, my brain is chewing on that one fucking sentence like a dog on a bone, so have some hurt/comfort with a nice dose of angst.

They aren't talking.

It isn't impossible, even with Aziraphale back in heaven and Crowley in his lonely flat in Mayfair—nothing is impossible, not when they're together—and yet that is the problem, isn't it?

They aren't together. They aren't talking. They could.

Crowley thought about it, although there is little else he thinks about these days. Maybe if he had said more, chosen better words, kissed him earlier, run after him, pulled him back—

Maybe then he'd still be here. Maybe then he wouldn't be alone.

It is the emptiness weighing him down, the silence ringing in his ears, and how does he admit to himself that he misses his voice? His soft words, the stretch of his smile, the speeches about Hamlet and book restoration, about newly discovered cafés and ancient dishes long gone.

Aziraphale had lulled him to sleep more times than Crowley could count, a warm blanket wrapping around his curled-up body on the sofa, sprawling and moving, then calmed by his voice.

They aren't talking, and Crowley can't sleep.

He hears him in his dreams whenever he does, but it isn't his voice. It is twisted, warped, wrong, tainted by the acrid burn of bleach on his tongue, the meaning lost in the hollows where emotions should sit.

Days blur into each other, viscous and opaque, molasses trickling through an hourglass.

Sometimes he is scared he will forget how he sounds.

Sometimes he begs and pleads with his own mind to erase every memory of it, every 'I forgive you', every 'we're not friends', every endearment, every single time he said his name.

They aren't talking, and maybe that's for the better.

He said too much again, didn't he? Always talking too much, spilling the wrong secrets held tight to his chest, asking questions no one wants to answer.

So, after weeks of uninterrupted quiet, he simply stops. Crowley's mouth stays shut, his words chewed up and swallowed, and—on unpleasant occasions—thrown up. There are a myriad of things he wants to say, but there is no one left who might be willing to listen, not anymore.

Maybe there had never been someone to begin with.

They aren't talking. The world is about to end.

Aziraphale reaches for his hand, and he lets him, his fingertips cold, his pulse too quick.

"Crowley," he breathes, tender, reverent, a name said simply so it has been spoken, so it is real.

Crowley does not want to talk—not now, not yet, not when he can practically taste blood and ash on his tongue. With a gentle tug, he frees his hand from his grasp and pulls him into a hug instead.

They aren't talking, so he buries his face in the crook of his neck and breathes, holding and being held, and the haunting silence dissipates. Words are superfluous when there is the sound of his heartbeat, his trembling breaths, their clothes rustling as the embrace grows tighter and tighter.

They aren't talking, but they don't need to, not when Aziraphale cups his face and presses their foreheads together, not when Crowley slides his palm around the back of his neck and nudges their lips together just so.

They are talking—every gasp a word, every touch a phrase, every tear an apology and a promise at once.

They are talking, they aren't talking, they still love—violently, desperately—and the world does not end.

#alex writes good omens #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #good omens season 2 #go2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable divorce #the final fifteen #good omens 3 #we are BACK #i still cant believe it

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solarmorrigan · 7 months

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TW: Discussion of suicide, suicidal ideation, child neglect. Nothing happens in the fic (all hurt/comfort, I promise), but it's very frankly talked about, so please proceed with care <3

It takes three weeks.

(In reality, it takes longer than that. It takes until after Steve realizes he’s spending more time at Eddie and Wayne’s new place than he is at his own house. It takes until after Eddie has asked Steve to just move in with them already. It takes until after Steve has packed his things up, and carefully cleaned up the house, and set the thermostat, and informed the pool cleaners, and paid a neighbor to check the mail every few days, and – he hadn’t felt right, just leaving, even though Eddie had repeatedly told him he didn’t owe anyone anything. But it had taken until after all of that, and then–)

Steve had left them a note, a new number where he could be reached, and it had taken three weeks before they came looking. Before they even noticed.

It isn’t a fight, in the end.

His parents are angry that he’d just up and left the house, but they’re much less so when he explains everything he’d set in place before he’d gone.

They want to know if he’ll be asking them for anything else after this (not if he’s safe, not if he’s happy, just if he’s going to keep being a burden).

He tells them no.

And that’s– that’s it.

That’s it.

His mom tells him they’ll call him around Christmas, let him know if they’ll be in town, and then his parents just let him go.

They get up and they leave his living room and they leave his home and they leave Steve’s life and they leave and they don’t look back and they– well, they’d left a long time ago, hadn’t they? A long, long time ago.

Steve is sitting at the end of Eddie’s bed (his and Eddie’s bed, now, their bed; Steve’s still getting used to that, but in a good way), feeling the sort of empty he hasn’t felt since he was seventeen. He’s just sort of staring at the carpet, and then he’s staring at Eddie’s ridiculous polka dot socks as Eddie steps in front of him.

“Hey,” Eddie says softly. “You, uh… okay?”

It’s kind of a ridiculous question – the answer is obvious, and Eddie clearly knows that, but it’s a way to start a conversation without shouting, “Your parents are ungrateful pieces of shit who never appreciated you,” like he probably wants to (and has before), and Steve appreciates his restraint.

He nods a little, stops, shrugs.

“I kind of thought I was over this,” he says. “Over feeling… left behind by them. Shouldn’t still hurt, right?”

“It’s– it’s okay if it does. It’s shit, Steve. They’re shit,” Eddie says (yep, Steve called it). “You’re allowed to be hurt.”

Steve shrugs again.

“It’s funny,” he says, even though it isn’t, “but I used to wonder how long it would take them to notice if I died.”

He’d never had an active plan, really, though there had been plenty of ways around the house to accomplish the task. He’d never really even looked at it as being suicidal, just angry and bitter and lonely. He hadn’t felt miserable all the time, hadn’t felt like there was nothing in the world worth living for – it’s not like he’d been depressed, it had just been a wild, almost satisfying thought that occurred from time to time. The ultimate way to prove a point. To make them see.

And if the urge got too strong, and his head got too full, and his chest felt too hollow, and the house felt too empty, he’d just go out and find something to do. Simple as that.

“I wondered if it would only be a day or two, or if they would come home, like, weeks later and find what was left of me just… floating in the pool or rotting in the bathtub or some shit. And I guess I just got my answer.” He laughs, managing to sound completely humorless even in the attempt, and glances up at Eddie. “Three weeks. How decomposed do you think I’d be by now?”

Except Eddie doesn’t pick up the bit. He’s just staring at Steve, wide-eyed, cheeks a little red, eyes a little wet, and – shit.

“Shit, Ed, I didn’t–”

“Don’t,” Eddie cuts in, voice thick with a shaking kind of intensity, “say shit like that. Fucking don’t ever– Steve–”

“No, Eddie, I’m sorry, I haven’t thought about that in years, this whole thing with my parents, it just… it reminded me, that’s all,” Steve says, even if that isn’t strictly true.

He’s thought about it plenty, he just hasn’t really had the urge to follow through since the first time he took a bat to a demogorgon’s head. He’d traded that empty feeling for one of purpose, of knowing he was needed, and had readily put himself between everyone else and the danger they were facing, because at least that way he filled a space.

(Maybe he’d traded it a little too easily. Maybe there isn’t a lot of difference between using yourself as bait to lure in a demodog and thinking about where all the sharp things are in the house. Maybe that’s something Steve doesn’t need to unpack right now.)

Eddie stumbles forwards, reaching out and cupping Steve’s face in his hands, angling him upwards so Eddie fills his field of vision.

“I would notice,” Eddie says firmly. “I would notice.”

“I– I know you would, Eddie. I told you–”

“Robin would notice. Dustin – all those little shits we hang out with, both Wheelers, Wayne, fuckin’ Byers– we would notice right away, Steve, I swear to fuck, we would,” Eddie goes on, and something is suddenly sticking in Steve’s throat.

“I– I know,” Steve manages to choke out, and shit, why are his eyes wet now? He’s never cried over this feeling before, and it should be too fucking late to start now – except with everything happening, with his parents, with the way Eddie is staring at him like he’s about to disappear–

Eddie bends one leg up until he’s got a knee to one side of Steve’s hip, half-kneeling over him without boxing him in because he knows Steve can’t stand that, and he rests his weight there so he can lean in and press his lips to Steve’s forehead, kissing him, murmuring against the skin like he’s praying.

“We see you, baby.”

And that one hurts.

It fucking aches, like Eddie has somehow managed to reach back four years and jam a thumb into the bruise seventeen-year-old Steve had constantly been carrying under his ribs, and Steve of right now reaches out and grabs Eddie’s shirt and thinks for a moment that he wants to shove him away, but his next breath heaves out like a sob and he can only pull Eddie closer.

“We see you,” Eddie says again, soft but unignorable, before he presses another kiss to Steve’s forehead.

Yeah, Steve thinks, you see right through me.

It’s a terrifying feeling, and Steve wants to swallow it up and keep inside of him where he can feel it forever. He nods against Eddie’s lips, sucking in a sharp breath so he can speak again.

“Okay,” Steve says, clutching more tightly to Eddie’s shirt. “Okay.”

He closes his eyes against the unwanted tears and lets himself feel, instead – the warmth of Eddie over and around him, the near bruising grip Eddie still has on his jaw, the softness of his lips against his forehead, and he thinks that this is what he’d been searching for, all those years ago.

He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this wanted, and somehow he doubts he’ll ever have to worry about going without it again.

[Prompt: Forehead kisses]

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #eddiesteve #stranger things #hopeful ending! I swear!#solar wrote

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guacamoleroll · 1 month

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ɪᴛ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴛᴀꜱᴛᴇ · ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴘʟᴇ ʙꜱᴅ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ༉‧₊˚

featured. osamu dazai, chuuya nakahara, fyodor dostoevsky, nikolai gogol, sigma. content. f!reader. based on a request. mentions of alcohol (dazai), mentions of food, nicknames, slavic dishes. (minor) spoilers for stormbringer. translation at the end. not proofread.

author's note. this was an incredibly fun request! these men either shift between being incompetent, or not being reliant on others, so it took a sweet turn.

would you like to see more? join the taglist or comment under this post!

synopsis. the kitchen can be many things. a refuge from the toils of everyday life. a workshop for the creation of exquisite tastes. an assemblage of conversation over collaboration.

but one thing is certain—a well-endeavored meal can warm the coldest of hearts.

𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈 arrived home late one evening, tromping through the doorway with the confidence only a drunken man could muster. It had been one of those nights, ones in which he was all too aware of the hollowness of his own heart. One of those days where everything was too loud, the ones where he picked up every minuscule detail, whether he wanted to or not. So, he had taken to a drink or two to fill a void, only to dip into another—before he knew it, the room was spinning, and he found himself kicked out of the bar.

But he still had you to return to, so he gathered any soberness left within him and clambered to place his trench coat and shoes in the spots you had set out for them. He was glad you didn't hear him walk in. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been granted the opportunity to take in the view. You pranced around the kitchen, a lifted twirl in your heel as you stirred ingredients in a saucepan, the domestic mess of powders against your skin.

You were all his. The reason he had a home to return to. His sanctuary from his own mind. He often fretted—though he pretended not to—about the idea of you being taken away from him, a fact that he had come to accept as his reality. But in these simple moments, he allowed himself to indulge in the fantasy that you encompassed for a moment longer.

His arms fit snug around your waist, his head like a puzzle piece against the curve of your shoulder. "Is that for me?"

You hummed, pressing a peck on his cheek as you leaned into him.

"You'll always have a meal to return home to, Osamu."

Yeah. He'd indulge for just a little longer.

𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀 did not expect to pass out. He had returned home from a weeks-long mission overseas, anxiously awaiting the moment you reunited and ran into his arms—only for him to arrive early to an empty home. You were at work, and it wasn't his fault the couch clung to him like a vice! For a moment, he thought he had been dreaming of the fresh smell of savory pasta sauce and spices.

Wait. He can't dream.

He cracked open his eyes, his vision steadily straightening out, and trudged into the kitchen with a befuddled pout, his sight narrowing in on exactly what you had been up to.

"Babe."

"Chuuya!" you yelled, almost losing your grip on your spoon before you managed to catch it, clutching it close to your chest as you twisted the knob on the stove to place the heat at a simmer. "You scared me!"

His arms crossed as he leaned on the doorway. "What're you doing cooking in here by yourself?" he asked sternly, scanning the contents of the pot along with your face. If you didn't know any better, you'd assume he was mad. But you did know better, catching onto the subtle tilt of his brow, narrowed in simultaneous amusement and disappointment. Cooking was often a partnered endeavor.

You couldn't resist laughter, cupping his cheek as if comforting an upset child. "You've had a long week, and you looked so peaceful lying there. I couldn't bring myself to disturb you."

He would've been quick to argue—you could wake him anytime, no matter the circumstance—but a thought overwhelmed him and kept his mouth at bay. You had done something for him, not with anything to gain, but simply because you cared. He was used to it happening the other way around, but this. . .this felt nice.

So, he relented, his ginger locks tickling your skin as he tucked his face into your neck with a sigh. "Thank you, baby."

𝐅𝐘𝐎𝐃𝐎𝐑 had been busy preparing the next phase of his plans, though you supposed he was always busy—too busy to take care of his own basic needs, that was for sure. He was always sorting through different data, exploring multiple angles to achieve his goals.

With the many tasks flooding his brain, he hardly had time to abandon his screens. The skin of his thumb had worn from his subconscious biting habit as he looked over another spreadsheet of banking information, his hands about to slide over the keys yet again.

The scent of stroganoff stirred him from his trance. His eyes shifted to find a steaming plate of the delectable dish sitting next to him on the desk. And he finally registered the firm hand propped against his shoulder, with you looking upon him from above with a sweet but knowing smile.

"Eat."

He wouldn't have customarily taken kindly to such a harsh demand, but he bent to the stern look of your gaze, one that hid behind it a level of care he ravenously craved. You worried for him, not in the same fashion as his so-called "friends," but with the genuine desire to see him thrive, no matter the circumstance.

So, the demon allowed himself a momentary reprieve, kissing a smile into your hand before taking a bite of the dish.

"Delicious, as always, моя милая."

𝐍𝐈𝐊𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐈 had practically burst through the door, prepared to recount the travesties and trials of his day. That was until he caught onto the unmistakable scent of savory pirozhki filling. He followed his nose like a bloodhound, the smell creating a distinct path into the kitchen, where you stood, unaware of the man behind you as you mixed spices into a pan.

"What'cha cooking, dove?" His breath bristled against your ear as he sprung up next to you, using his ability with a shit-eating grin. Your expression mirrored his own, used to the stint of your lover's sudden appearances.

"I found some old Ukrainian recipes online and wanted to try them out." You held out a spoon, and he bit into the filling without a second thought—a mistake. He clutched his throat as his eyes watered, realizing it was too hot for consumption far too late. He finally managed to choke it down, releasing a loud whew!

"Trying to kill me so soon! How cruel!" he exclaimed.

Your laughter roared throughout your home, a shaking hand rubbing his back as you wiped tears from your eyes with the other. "Is it good?"

He brought a finger up to stroke his non-existent beard, humming a quick tune. "Hmm, perhaps a cup of chili powder."

"Коля," you deadpanned. "That's too much."

He sighed, a pout settled on his lips, but you caught the hand sneaking into the interior of his overcoat, snatching his wrist before he poured something irreversible into your dish. He cackled, attempting to pull away as you chased him around the kitchen island.

For a moment, it felt as if you were the only two people in the world—free of restraint. He could feel the bonds tied around him loosen. He could reach out, taste that sensation of freedom for himself. A freedom he had always found in you.

𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐌𝐀 had arrived back to his section of the Sky Casino earlier than he expected, having a strange lack of paperwork. But he simply decided to take it as a sign that he had been doing good work, and ignored the anxious feelings that always sprung from not having anything to do.

"I'm home—!" he called, but was stopped in the entryway by a sweet aroma. It was intoxicating, and he couldn't resist the temptation to lurk into the kitchen.

"Welcome home, honey!" you called back, your voice echoing down the hallway. He stripped himself of his coat, leaving it folded on one of the benches before he trekked across the threshold, a curious shift in his furrowed brow.

You were baking cookies, fluffy chocolate-chip cookies. He couldn't resist the smile on his face, even if he wanted to, nor could he ignore the bubbling warmth in his heart. But he couldn't help his confusion.

"Cookies?" he asked, dipping his finger into a batch of dough before he popped it into his mouth. "What's the occasion?"

You swiped at him with a flour-coated hand before dusting the rest of it off on a towel. "You've been busy lately, so I wanted to make you something sweet," you stated as if it were the simplest thing. But those few simple words took him aback.

You cooked for him. No one had ever done that before, not without being an employee or attempting to manipulate him—or both. And in a matter of seconds, only enough to let in a sweep of hot air from the oven to warm his skin, he realized something that had long remained empty had been filled. He felt whole.

"Sigma!" you exclaimed, and he realized that he had tears streaming down his face. The look of concern drawn through your strained lips, your furrowed brow, and your shifting eyes only further set in his new reality—he had his family. He had found his home.

"I'm okay, love. Just. . .thank you."

моя милая = my dear коля = kolya

ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ: @lovedazai @osameowdazai @ruru-kiss @ishqani @zyilas @lovesick-fairy @fedyascoffin @squigglewigglewoo @kelperspelt @miloofc @s1eepybunny @dazaisms @deepseafragments @ajaxism @himikoslove @little-miss-chaoss @justcallmesakira @sillyspookycat @aureatchi @mxxny-lupin @emyyy007 @betweensinners

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nariism · 4 months

Text

*ੈ✩ LAST WORDS OF A SHOOTING STAR

pair. itadori yuji x reader

synopsis. in the 3 days following the shibuya incident, itadori yuji emerges as a husk of his former self. with his immediate execution resumed, you both grapple with the feelings you have for each other and come to terms with his impending death.

content. hurt/comfort (lots of comfort, thank art because i was gonna be mean about this and they convinced me not to), slightly canon divergent (taking place between shibuya and the culling games), fluff and minor angst, yuta is the best wingman

wc. ~4.4k

NOVEMBER 1 2018

You imagine that your face was rather ghastly when you received the news.

"Execution?" You repeated, the word tasting bitter on your tongue. No, that was the wrong description. It tasted of death—like iron and the depths of Hell filling your mouth until you were gurgling on it.

Unlike the rest of the Jujutsu Sorcerers from Tokyo, you had been ordered to stay back with Shoko in case of an emergency. You remember your exile from battle had left a similar rotten flavour in your mouth.

You vanished off the face of the earth after the incident was over. Most probably presumed you died in the aftermath. Devoured by a curse, they would say and shake their heads. You were always troublesome. And then they would move on with the rest of the world, all the same.

Lives were only temporary in the world of curses. Focus on who you can save, not who is already gone. They'll only end up a curse in your sleep. What a horrible notion to have.

The truth is that you'd been whisked away with Yuta, who seemed to be scheming a plan of his own. Perhaps as a middle finger to the higher ups he hated so much, or perhaps just for his own selfish reasons. You wouldn't know until he was finished carrying it through—he's too good at keeping secrets.

He wanted your reverse cursed technique, you knew that much for sure, even though he could do it himself. You were useful by his side, fitting into his plot in a way you could not in Shibuya. Feeling some sort of obligation and satisfaction, you followed him like a lost puppy.

And now here you are, seated by a dimming fire in the abandoned part of the city. Yuta was too clever for his own good. You suppose Gojo taught him some things well. This was their plan after all.

Yuji was safe, if only for this moment in time.

"Now with Gojo gone, it would have been easy for the higher ups to send assassins your way."

Ruthless and truthful, you flinch, but Yuji does not. He remains perfectly still in your hold, with your hands rotating his face around to get a better look at his wounds. You pour your cursed energy into him, hoping to breathe life back into his eyes, but they stay dull and empty.

"We'll find a way to stop this," you assure, reaching over to take a sanitizing wipe to clean an open cut. Yuta was too rough on him, but it was at least believable that Yuji was dead. He doesn't even recoil from the alcohol stinging his flesh, too engrossed in his own thoughts.

"Why?" He asks weakly. You gawk at him, but then it melts away into a softness that finally makes him blink up at you. "I'm evil."

"You're not evil, Yuji."

"I am. I killed those people. I did." His voice comes flat and defeated, nothing like the one you used to listen to over dinner while he reenacted shitty western films.

You never realize what you'll miss until it's gone. It's hollow, the ache in your heart.

"You don't understand. How could you? All this blood on my hands—"

"It was Sukuna," you quickly refute.

"And Sukuna only lives because I do!"

His voice raises at you, causing the flames behind you to flicker and crack. It's enough for Yuta to step in, acting as a barrier between your tense bodies. Yuji seems to shrink at this, realizing his emotions have run amok and that he has yelled at you.

You only stare back at him in bewilderment, like a frightened animal. Your upperclassman shakes his head.

"Enough of this. We need to start making plans."

You lay awake that night, alone and anxious. Yuta has taken the first shift of watching and patrolling while the two of you rest, though hesitant to leave you alone. He told you it’s another reason he dragged you along: having three people to rotate shifts instead of just two would be easier on your bodies and minds. The city is not what it used to be, now overrun with curses of all grades.

You reassured him it would be fine, that you would fall asleep quickly and so would Yuji—his body has to run out of steam eventually, right? Oh, what a fool you were.

The tension is so heavy that it's awkward, even though you're sleeping on opposite ends of the tunnel.

"Sleep," you demand as if you were Inumaki, like you have the power to curse him.

His eyes flutter open. Even in the firelight, you don't see any shine in them, seeming as if they had been extinguished of life. "Why don't you?"

"I can't until you do."

"That's stupid," he tells you.

It's not the first time you've argued like this. Back when the world felt right, you would sneak in through his dorm window well into the hours of the night. Platonic, you had convinced yourself. You snuck into his bed seeking companionship as a friend. That's the lie you gorged on.

A piece of you knew, and you're sure he did too, that the way your hands explored his arms was unnatural for two friends, and that friends wouldn't sneak into each other's rooms like this with such severe punishment on the line.

It was safe in his arms, with the dull hum of his television running an old horror film in the background. You didn't have to think about much other than his warmth when you sat between his legs with your back to his chest. Or when his arm was draped over your shoulder and you were pressed into his side—actually, you think you preferred this one though you felt sorry for his sore arm.

You would bicker about dumb, pointless things. Which movie is better, or which character deserved to be mutilated more. It would go on for so long that Megumi would bang his fist on their shared wall to get the two of you to shut up.

There was no curse strong enough to change time itself, so you keep your thoughts and memories to yourself when you respond.

"You'll be too tired to function on your shift," you reason.

"You both will be fine without me." Better off without me, you know he means. You've gotten good at reading between his lines.

You slowly sit up in your sleeping bag, eyes never leaving Yuji. He seems so frail right now, even though he looks more adult than he ever has before.

"Human Earthworm 4 was better than 2," you suddenly say. His eyes peer open again in confusion.

"Huh? 2 was way better."

"I liked the love story in 4," you argue, slowly getting out of your bag to shuffle to his side of the concrete tunnel. He looks at you as if you've said something outlandish, too preoccupied with his thoughts to wonder why you've come so close.

"2 had the best special effects though."

Your body shifts under his blanket.

"But 4 had a happier ending." (As far as 'happy' goes in the Human Earthworm series, at least.)

His arm falls around your waist as it has a hundred times, pulling you into his chest.

"Whatever," he huffs. The next topic comes fast and you're thrown into a full blown conversation with him. If you concentrate enough, you can imagine your bodies being tangled together in his bed, safe and sound.

Concrete and fire and the stench of curses melt away until he's all you can focus on.

"You have weird taste in movies," he concludes with his eyes drifting shut.

NOVEMBER 2 2018

You think you know how to fix broken people until you find that they are more than skin and bones.

You learn one thing after the Shibuya Incident: there are wounds residing within Yuji just as much as there are marking his flesh.

Yuta, you realize, had left the two of you alone to sleep and has protected you all night. You'll make it up to him, you reason. Yuji deserved to sleep.

When you wake up to his sleeping face, you think his cuts are healing nicely. But then his expression twists up in terror—a nightmare, if he even had enough energy left in him to conjure up dreams. He murmurs in his sleep, shakes his head a few times and thrashes around so much you're surprised you slept through the night by his side.

"Sukuna," he's whispering. Sukuna, Sukuna, Sukuna. King of Curses. The second voice tormenting him that lives in his own brain like a parasite. You bury yourself into his chest and hold him as tight as you can. He relaxes, body releasing its rigid form, but the murmurs continue.

He is shattered beyond repair. No amount of cursed energy could fix that, even if you tried.

You had once watched Yuji electrocute himself trying to set up the janky old television in his dorm room.

He fell back onto the floor with a loud crash, head hitting the wood so hard you thought he might have a concussion. It caused such a racket that Megumi came running into the room asking what happened, demon dog ready behind him in case of an ambush.

You rushed to the floor, discarding all the food you had settled in your lap and crumbled beside him to scoop him into your arms.

"Yuji!" You called him. People rarely used his first name. You felt special, like you knew him better than others did and for some reason that was a privilege. "Are you okay?"

He laughed in your arms, seeming unfazed by the fact that electricity had run through every vein in his body. "I'm fine, see? My finger just slipped."

You and Megumi both sighed in relief, though you always thought it was strange when you reflected on it. Yuji was a funny guy, yes. He was equal parts humour and destruction but not a klutz. Mistakes happen, so you let it slide until now, but some part of you was nagging to ask.

"That day," you start while rolling up your sleeping bag. "You electrocuted yourself. Remember?"

He looks at you funny over his shoulder. Yuta has already started cracking open cans of food for breakfast, embers of your dead fire cracking.

"Hmm, yeah. I remember. Why?"

"I just thought..." you trail off. "Well, Sukuna makes you tough to a lot of things. I'm surprised small electric shocks aren't one of them."

Sukuna. A name you'd been avoiding since this morning. Sickening silence settles between you. It's so heavy that you pause in your cleaning to look at him, brow raised.

"Yeah," he coughs. "Well, maybe I exaggerated."

"Huh?" You sound annoyed now. "You scared us half to death!"

Yuji only falters in his own chores. When he looks at you again, there's a longing in his gaze that you don't know how you could have missed. Or perhaps it was never there until now.

"It was nice to have you fawning over me," he admits.

The day goes on and all you feel is a terrible grief.

You become painfully aware of each millimeter the sun glides across the sky, from one horizon to the other. Time slips through your fingers fast as sand.

Horrifically, you can't find anything to talk about to fill the emptiness—Nobara and Megumi feel off the table considering the extent of their injuries. You don't even dare to breathe Gojo's name, let alone speak of him so boldly as Yuta is.

You're afraid that Yuji will spiral again, confused and unwilling to cooperate with his judgement clouded by loss. It's not your fault, you would say. It is, he would argue. It would do neither of you good, so you idle around while he and Yuta devise plans to tiptoe around the higher ups.

A part of you knows that if either of you told him to submit and die, he would. He's already teetering on the edge of self-destruction.

On the outside, he seems perfectly indifferent. Gaze steady, face stone and unchanging as he speaks. He's doomed, ill-fated, someone full of misfortune. He looks so lonely that the air itself parts for him where he stands.

To shoulder so much responsibility, so much death, maybe he truly is alone. Some fraction of him, at least—a piece of himself only he would ever understand.

Your hand snakes into his without a second thought. You don't know why you did it, nor do you have any reasoning that he doesn't yank away from you. His hand trembles, and it's then that you realize his whole body is wracked with tremors that don't match his distant disposition.

The second thing you learn is this: when Yuji self-destructs, he does it from the inside-out.

Itadori Yuji loves chocolate cake.

He loves all food, really, acting like your friend group's personal food dumpster whenever any of you were full. But chocolate cake you knew he had a sweet tooth for.

You used to bring it with you to his dorm, stopping by the convenience stores on the way home to grab a pre-packaged slice from the fridge for him to eat.

"You're making a mess," you would tell him with a frown, using your thumb to wipe up frosting from the corner of his mouth. You would lick the pad of your finger clean after that, and he would watch almost in a trance.

It's the reason why you stop on one of your patrols, poking through the fridge section of a convenience store. The power has been out for a long time in this part of the city, all the food is already room temperature, but you figure this is fine as long as it smells okay.

The way Yuji's face lights up when he sees you is all it takes for the worry to go away.

It briefly feels as though nothing has ever gone wrong—that after this slice of cake the two of you will tumble back onto his mattress and turn on another showing of Titanic. (He groaned about it once, saying he got KO'd too many times during this film. You only laughed in confusion.)

At the end of the day, you know those days will never come back to you, lost forever in the wind.

Fire dances before you and you watch, enchanted by the flames. You remember last night, how not even the firelight could make Yuji look the same as he did before. You turn your head to look at him, to see if it's any different tonight, just for your cheek to be caught in his palm.

His thumb traces your lip, the way you used to do to him. You recognize the pull of his finger against your flesh, the swipe of it to get frosting off, but he still seems dissatisfied.

"What?" You ask.

"It didn't come off," he mutters, leaning in dangerously close to observe. Heat rises all the way to your cheeks and makes your hairs stand on end. His touch is like molten lava. You wonder if it has something to do with the monster living inside of him.

"I can't see it," you whine without a mirror.

He draws a little closer, until he's inches from your face. "Let me..."

You've suddenly been dropped into cold, unknown waters. This is all unfamiliar. He's rushing this, as if making up for all the time the two of you lost pretending you were only friends. As if he can cram all the things he's wanted to tell you into one night.

Recoiling away, you find yourself hesitating. If he kisses you, this all becomes too real. It's an acknowledgment of his impending death. That the thread of his life is finer and further stretched than yours is.

An unpleasant thought rings through your mind. What if I become a curse on him?

"This only ends badly for us," you whisper, but the conviction is missing from your voice.

He doesn't care. At least, it doesn't look like he does. Who knows what he's thinking right now?

"Who cares?" He says. "We're Jujutsu Sorcerers. Everything bad happens to us no matter what."

You don't have any rebuttal to that, no argument that forms in your mind that could challenge his words. He was right. Only disaster befalls Sorcerers. Disaster and grief.

For a while you had forgotten, living these idyllic months watching the days pass by. You feel like you wasted that precious time worrying about stupid things, like what to have for breakfast or what kind of snacks you should pick up for movie night.

(It ended up being popcorn every time. He liked to piss off Sukuna with it, saying the King of Curses would never get to experience the pleasure of picking out kernels from his teeth. You scoffed but bought it anyway.)

Another thought crosses your mind: Yuji is more fit to be in a rom-com, or a television series where the good guys always win. Not this tragedy. Not this massacre.

You wonder if he's ever felt the same way. If he ever wished he could reach into the sky and turn the sun back to a time before he even knew what a curse was.

If you’d met each other under different circumstances, would this have been a different story? The thought makes your heart ache, a part of you so deep that even if you reached into your chest and plucked it, you'd still wail.

"Can I?" He asks you, eager but quiet. Had this been a few months ago, you imagine that he would have had this spark in his eye. That his lips would be crashing into yours with no inhibition.

But Yuji has always been selfless, you think he always will be. He doesn't want to drag you down if you don't want to—an out, they call it. An escape route just before he careens into a ditch.

Hope has drained from every inch of his expression. This is his loneliness talking.

Despite the dread that licks up your spine, you cup his face. You swear he jolts slightly beneath your touch, as if you've reached out to strike him down. A retribution he believes he deserves.

He kisses you like it's his last day on earth.

You learn one last thing: Itadori Yuji tastes familiarly of death.

Yuta decides to leave you alone for a second night in a row. His presence is so crushing that you know he's alive, but he stalks off somewhere else, leaving just you and Yuji huddled by the pitiful fire you've built.

He once claimed himself jokingly to be a love expert, and then ran off to Kenya for so long that you lost track of how much time passed. You wish you'd asked him before he left what he meant, but at the time it seemed irrelevant. Insignificant. The name Itadori Yuji had not yet been impressed into your heart like a seal.

You're busy setting up the sleeping bags, this time pushing them flush together. They're so close you can barely see the seam between them. Yuji stands on the other side of the fire, watching.

It reminds him of all the times you'd ever scolded him for not making his bed in the morning. I'm gonna crawl back in tonight anyway, he said. Who cares if it's messy?

Idiot, you would call him. But there was no malice behind it. He treated it like a pet name, a badge of honour to be your idiot.

Life felt so simple back then. He was full of determination and life and stuck to his morals as best he could. When he wavered he would text you to come over so you could fall asleep on his chest and suffocate any other thoughts out of his head.

"I've never felt so powerful before," he admits quietly. You turn to look at him, curious. "Like I could do anything in the world."

There's a negative connotation to that, you know. He could do anything. The world would crumble at his feet and there he would stand, laughing at it all. It isn't his will, not even slightly, but the demon taking refuge in his body would love to see the blood pool.

"Like I could just... reach out and—"

"Yuji!" You hiss, lurching forward to take his hand into yours and retreat from the flame. The skin is already pink and blistering, scorched by the embers. You twist his wrist around, observing where the fire licked the deepest, and pour your energy into him.

When you look up to see if he's crying, or at least grimacing in pain, you find only his smiling face—warm and adoring. For a second it feels like the world isn't burning around you.

It was nice to have you fawning over me.

You wipe that stupid smirk off his face, leaning in to smear a kiss along the scar on his lip.

"Idiot," you say, and he laughs for the first time in so long that it sounds foreign in your ears.

(He doesn't fall asleep that night. He would rather savour the sound of your soft snores, memorize the form of your body in his hold, and try his hardest to burn this into his brain.

So be it if you come to curse him one day. He would welcome you with open arms.)

NOVEMBER 3 2018

The day comes when Megumi sneaks into your hideout, asking for help.

His sister, he explains. He needs help saving Tsumiki. For some reason, resentment boils in your stomach, but then it's snuffed just as fast.

Two days and two nights you've spent pretending Japan isn't collapsing, content with sitting idly by as curses overran Tokyo. You're sure Megumi thought you to be cowards, that you were all hiding under this bridge to wait out the hellstorm that was raining down on your homes.

It was true to some extent. Once Yuji stepped out into battle again, that was that. You're not sure things would ever be the same again, though you suppose you lost the privilege of routine days ago.

"Let me come too," you urge. Three pairs of eyes land on you.

"No," Yuji pushes. "It's dangerous."

"I can fight!"

"You can't," he pauses, then corrects himself, "You won't."

Awkward silence settles over your encampment. Yuta stirs, standing to hold you steady by the shoulders.

"If we need help... if one of us is hurt, we'll need you unharmed. Do you understand?"

Ah, ever so wise, your upperclassman. So easy to persuade you. There's a reason why he's the chosen one only second to Gojo.

You swallow the bile that fights up your throat. "What if you don't come back?"

Yuji steps in this time, knocking away Yuta to hold you by the face. Get a grip, this means. Pull yourself together, don't you dare fall apart in front of me.

"We will."

You once considered telling him how you felt, letting it eat away at you until Nobara groaned in disgust.

“If Itadori starts dating before I do, I’ll puke.”

You remember that you laughed, thinking she was so dramatic. You loved that about her. “I think you would do worse.”

She glared at you, foot lightly kicking at your shin under the table. Still, she made sure to push equal amounts of rice to your side of the plate. “I might burn a village down,” she huffed, placing her chin on her palm.

“You’re fine. Even if I told him how I feel, I don’t think he’d accept.”

“Huh?” Nobara sounded genuinely confused, raising a brow at you. “What makes you think that?”

You didn't know how to answer that. Maybe you were just afraid that you had misinterpreted everything, that the way he held you was protective in a familial manner and that he would slam his door in your face when you tried.

Looking back on it, you can imagine him in the next room ranting about the same things to Megumi.

“He still has posters of Jennifer Lawrence on his wall,” you argued weakly while shoveling rice into your spoon. She watched you take your bite with her lips parted in disbelief.

You wish you had told him, then. Not that it would have changed where you both ended up.

You watch as they pack up their things.

Megumi's demon dog keeps you quiet company, tail thrashing against the ground as you slick back its fur. They talk around the dying flames, devising plan after plan. None seem safe. None would be.

Yuta and Megumi leave first, taking the lead in front of the pack. His dog melts into the shadows and disappears, leaving you sitting alone.

"I want to take you back, but..." Yuji glances over his shoulder toward his death sentence. "Will you make it okay on your own?"

You get up slowly, as if to draw out the time he stands before you. A thousand questions run through your head: what if you never see him again? What if this kills him, not by body, but by his already damaged soul?

He must sense the racing of your mind, so he leans in to engulf you in his arms. In an instant, memories of those days spent lounging in his bed, shoveling your food onto his plate, and purposefully talking louder to tease Megumi come flooding.

A year you would never forget. You're sure it'll become a curse if you dwell, so you tell him: "I'll make it. You go on, they need you."

I need you, too. Stay. If only it were so simple.

He smiles at you, warm like the sun that's hidden behind the barrier. Itadori Yuji looks like a ghost of his former self, battle-worn and covered in scars where his skin used to be smooth. He kisses you again for good measure, making sure he remembers the way you sigh into his mouth.

When he pulls away, there's life gleaming in his eyes.

"Let's watch Human Earthworm 5 when I come back."

Your thumb brushes the corner of his lip. You open your mouth to speak, to finally tell him the truth after all this time. You'd rather not die regretting you never said it, after all.

But you stop.

"I prefer Titanic," you confess. He shakes his head and kisses your forehead. Then he’s gone, taking all the warmth with him.

You'll make up for lost time one day. It won’t be today. You can tell him all about your feelings when he comes back to you.

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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 1 year

Text

Trust (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader)

Summary: You and Ghost have been captured for questioning. Loyal to a fault, you'll do anything to avoid seeing his face before he's ready to show you.

AN: I'm not immune to military propaganda. Nor am I immune to the babygirlification. In a slump writing wise so I gave this a go. I might try one with Soap next but no promises since it'll probably end up on the never-ending pile of unfinished fics.

Content warnings: Descriptions of torture, injuries as a result of torture, moments of vulnerability (aka 141 care for each other).

Reader uses they/them pronouns and is part of 141. Fic can be read as platonic or romantic.

Masterlist // AO3

A palm smacked across your cheek; the sting brought you back to consciousness. Screwing your eyes up, you tried to settle them in your skull so that you could take in your surroundings. Your hands and legs tied to a chair was what you noticed first. A fold-out table was a few feet out of reach in front of you.

Then, beyond that, a sliver of light in the roof – a hole, not a light bulb – dropped onto a body, bound like yourself and twenty feet away. The carved mask hiding the face was illuminated.

Your body wrenched against your restraints, “Hey!”

Another slap silenced you. You looked up at the offender you had somehow looked over. A lackey. No one you recognised from any intel or manilla folder or briefing, so you surveyed their appearance for just how much this soldier was trusted with.

Single gun on one hip.

KA-BAR on the other.

Kevlar vest that was more slack on the right shoulder.

More weapons that you had, now that your arsenal had been torn from you.

With the clanging of metal, a rectangle of light broke into the room. Room felt like the wrong word. This was too empty, echoey to be a mere room. A silhouette appeared in that light then vanished as the door closed behind them. Footsteps, slow and steady, approaching you, and the lackey left your side.

Ronin Foster bent at the waist to meet your unwilling gaze. He looked almost identical to the photo you’d been given in your briefing about him. One difference was clear: the burn mark running parallel to the left side of his chin. You couldn’t fathom where or how he’d gotten that injury, nor did you have a lot of time to look at it before Foster turned silently and unrolled a sleeve of weapons onto the table.

You caught Ghost’s eyes, the whites stark against the shadows and black paint. He didn’t avoid your gaze. He held it, and even when Foster stepped in the way, you felt that conflicted comfort you had grown to know in the presence of your Lieutenant and his masks.

The rest of the 141 were possibly being held elsewhere. Or they could’ve made it out. But it would take days to reconvene and organise a rescue mission.

This was your new home.

Your training did not desert you as your captor removed his gloves, tugging at the fingers to free them. One reached behind him and withdrew from his belt a gun.

Following the arc of his arm’s swing, his body wrenched around. A slash of agony struck your forehead against the butt of his gun. Your ears rung around the hollow of your skull like the bells of Notre Dame. The room wobbled as you righted your head. You couldn’t make out the details in Ghost’s mask anymore, not as Foster pulled off the skull plate and tossed it aside. Its clattering on the ground punctuated the air. Your gaze wavered against the dizzying disorientation as Ghost writhed to get away. But Foster was still unrolling the balaclava off his face. The second you saw a hint of Ghost’s chin, your eyes snapped shut.

Boots strode across the concrete. Suddenly your chin was grabbed up, no doubt facing your captor. Ghost’s gruff grunts boomed across the gap between you as he struggled against his restraints – that’s what you presumed, your eyes still closed.

But Foster was ignoring that side of the room blatantly, his grip crushing your cheekbones like he could wrench it off and throw it alongside Ghost’s mask. You narrowed your breaths to control yourself. While you couldn’t see, you couldn’t predict what could happen. But your defiance refused to let this awful man dictate when you saw Ghost’s face for the first time.

“Who told you about this place?” Foster asked quietly.

Nothing was heard from Ghost now, besides his breathing. You tried to match yours to his, pressing your lips together, your nostrils flaring against the throbbing pain.

Sharp pain splintered through your big toe, up your right foot. Your body fought the restraints and channelled your masked yelps into the bindings. Slowly, your chest puffed out all the air before sucking some back in.

“You’ve got at least nine more chances to tell me,” and Foster tapped his weapon – presumably the butt of his gun - against the rest of your toes. “Now tell me, how did you find this place?”

Between internal screams, you prayed that Ghost wouldn’t give up, and that his presence would give you the strength to do the same.

-----------------------------------------------

“Gambit, you still with me?”

You let out a hum, since it was all that your throat would allow. A sigh emitted from your Lieutenant. You couldn’t tell if it was relief or remorse. Sure, Ghost cared for you. You were on his team; it was in his job description to give the bare minimum amount of shits about you. However you could only hope that he gave as many as you did him. Or maybe now you hoped he didn’t, so that the mental barrier holding back the intel didn’t break so soon – or at all.

Your eyebrows raised and scrunched to stretch your face, but your eyes remained shut. Ghost hadn’t said a word about his mask being replaced and you doubted that Foster been kind enough to replace it between sessions.

The sound of the door opening reached you again; you could tell by the pattern of the foot fall that it was Foster. So, you cracked a joke in your head, that you were privileged that a terrorist with a notoriously busy schedule had made way for you and Ghost.

The laughter in your head was cut off when a fist yanked at the roots of your hair, forcing you to face the ceiling. Your eyes winced but still did not-

“Open.”

You waited for Foster’s response to your inaction.

A gloved hand suddenly grappled with your jaw, which was as clenched as your eyelids.

“Your mouth. Open it.”

Eventually, Foster managed to get it open long enough to pour something in. You choked on the first splash but began glugging it down once you realised that it was water and that Foster wasn’t pinching your nose. This wasn’t waterboarding. This was survival – extending your torture to reap its potential benefits. Thus you didn’t savour any of it nor save any to spit back in Foster’s face. Your torturer threw your head aside, strain twinging up your neck. A few seconds later, you could hear similar sounds – Ghost’s turn. That other benefit of not having to see whatever Foster was doing to Ghost. Unfortunately, your shoulders could not reach high enough to shield your ears.

A scrape from the table told you Foster had brought back his tools. Last time he was here, he’d tried to use them on Ghost. However since you weren’t opening your eyes, the effect was not as intended. As a reflex, you attempted to dissociate. One might think the injuries and blood loss might make it easier to fade away from your body. But no, the pain grounded you in your body. So it only made things worse when you found your jaw getting wrenched at again.

“Let them go!” boomed Ghost, causing your heart to ripple against your ribs. Him showing an ounce of care scared you more than Foster did. It meant something worse than before was coming and you were both getting close to breaking.

A bang shattered against your ear drums; the darkness before your eyelids grew a tad bit brighter. Your neck was sharply encircled by Foster’s arm, and your chin struggled against the crook of his elbow. Airway trapped, you were immobilised and drowning on dry land. The grip on you tightened, squeezing your eyes out of their sockets but still you held strong. If this was the last thing you did, you would not betray your friend.

The shouting began, all blended together, overwhelming your fractured mind. It grew and grew into a crescendo of bellows that shrilled with its urgency. Your mind bubbled at the edges a

Then it stopped. A snap. Foster’s weight dropped onto you. Something metal clattered onto the floor. Wet dribbled down your neck.

Thunderous absence of noise surrounded you, your weak attempts to suck in a deep breath barely a prickle in it. You hunched under Foster’s weight. There was no energy left to make a pitiful attempt to dissuade him. You were so encompassed by it that you failed to notice the approaching footsteps right up until you felt the air punctuated into your cheek by this new person’s presence.

A hand wiped at your forehead, lifting gently as it went.

“Gambit, you with me?”

You let out a sigh crossed with a laugh, “Gaz?”

Gaz replied with a chuff of relief, “Let’s get you home.”

The weight on your shoulders was yanked aside; your wrists felt an inch of relief as the plastic bindings were severed. There was din all around again: radio chatter, mumbled remarks about the location, and echoes around the concrete.

You tried raising your head to see “Ghost?”

“I’m here,” and his voice was oh so close now, “I’m here. You’re ok.”

Then you felt the binds on your wrists slacken completely. Your body tipped forwards and your head knocked into someone else’s.

“Gotcha.”

Ghost’s.

“You can open your eyes.”

Your grimy, sweat-stained skin rubbed harshly against his as he instructed you to open your eyes. Your whimper could not be contained as you shook your head:

“No. I don’t want to.”

“You need to open your eyes, Gambit.”

“Your face,” Your arm wavered, preventing you from emphasising your point, “I can’t.” And your body slouched further into him. True darkness took over the edges of your eyelids. The last thing you recalled was being caught by three hands and someone saying your name – not your callsign, but your name.

-----------------------------------------------

Your feet were in bandages, bones reset, though amputation was not out of the questions just yet. Turns out three days with sprains, breaks, and no toenails were not beneficial to you. It was a good thing that you had been carried to the helicopter and not made to walk

Stiff with lack of use, you deduced, and you didn’t try to wiggle them as you opened up your eyes. The bulbs above your bed burnt your sight; you winced away from them. Curtains surrounded your bed. They protected you from the shame you might’ve felt had anyone seen the state you were in. With a sigh, you willed yourself to sink into the mattress a little deeper and return to slumber.

However a set of approaching footsteps caught your ears. Then a gloved hand peeled back one of the curtains to reveal Ghost, his other arm still in a sling that was stark white against his normal gear and the basic black balaclava that was back where it belonged.

“Gambit,” he said, hesitating in the gap between the curtains before drawing them.

You went to say his alias, but you were halted by a sudden coughing fit. Your throat had decided now was a good time to curl up into sandpaper. At your side, Ghost held the cup to your lips. Your weak hands tried to take over holding it; Ghost’s firm ones curled around yours steady. His gloves were worn and rough like the calloused skin beneath, warm against your feeble fingers.

Once the coughing fit had abated, Ghost sat back in the chair adjacent to your bed whilst not quite making eye contact with you. Normally, he had no issues staring you down. Perhaps he had been worried about you.

Sniffing behind his mask, Ghost said, “You did good not giving up that intel.”

A compliment. He must have been really worried about you.

“As did you, sir.”

His eyes wavered towards the passing clogs beneath the dividing curtain as a medic passed by your section. Remaining rigid, he adjusted the inside of his hoodie pocket before speaking again.

“You should’ve opened your eyes. It might’ve helped you with Foster.”

“He’d’ve seen how I reacted to you. Gauged better how to get us to give up.”

How to get me to give up, you thought.

You continued quickly, “It’s better that he just had you. You’re better at controlling yourself than me.”

Ghost was silent for a while, and you were too. It was only a tad uncomfortable; you chalked it up to your injuries, your elbows being the only thing that really felt relief in this hospital bed. Perhaps that was what compelled you to explain him your reasoning further.

“I didn’t want to see you if you didn’t want me to.”

“You’ve seen my face before.”

“Hardly.” That was true for the most part. All you’d allowed yourself to see was one hell of a chin when Ghost lifted his mask up to eat or drink something in a mess hall. You concluded, “Showing your face is your call, Ghost. Not Foster’s or mine or anyone’s.”

His shoulders rose and fell with a deep sigh. Then Ghost grabbed the neck and peeled his mask up in one smooth motion, his chin on his chest. A shock of dirty blond hair – an inch of it pure white at the roots – was flattened against his scalp, until Ghost’s fingers combed through it twice. It matched his dainty eyelashes.

He looked back up at last. Your sight was stuck mainly on his eyes, still surrounded by their superhero mask painted onto his skin where the holes in his mask had been. Then you started making concentric circles around his face. Scars cut from the corners of his lips through his cheeks. Little ones dotted about his prominent nose, eyebrows, forehead, lips. A few bruises highlighted where Foster had gotten him.

You realised that you were staring with your lips parted and eyes wide so that you could commit his face to memory. But you couldn’t help yourself either.

In short, your suspicions were confirmed: he was goddamn gorgeous.

He was just about to hide it away again, his matching skeleton gloves going to pull down his balaclava when you sat up quickly.

“Wait.”

Stilling, Ghost waited for you to speak again.

Your outstretched hand closed into a loose fist, “Just… Can I touch you?”

His reply was staggered with a blink, “Yes.” And he leant forwards with his elbows on his knees.

It struck you then why he was so unlike himself: he wasn’t here as Ghost.

The backs of your knuckles clumsily made contact with his right cheek, dragging down his jaw. Simon closed his eyes. His head tilted a fraction against your touch. Tears sprung free and tracked down your cheeks, contradicted by your smile that was brimming with the delight of being trusted.

“You’re right,” Simon mused when he opened his eyes, “Good thing you kept your eyes closed.”

“Yeah,” You sniffled. “But at least now I can tell Soap you’re not ugly.”

Scoffing, Simon tugged his balaclava back over his face and adjusted it to fit properly, “Fuckin’ hell.”

“How wrong he was,” you almost giggled with glee.

Even as the laughter ceased, your smile remained. And you could tell by the small crinkles at his eyes that Simon was too.

-----------------------------------------------

AN: In my head, Ghost has Marie Antoinette syndrome, but before he had sandy blond hair.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley fanfic #ghost x reader #simon riley imagine #cod x you #cod mwii fanfic #simon ghost riley x reader #cod mwii #cod mwii x reader #r: gn #wc: >2.5k #my writing

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tonythr · 2 months

Text

Quick Slash is even cooler from a narrative perspective, and why I think the Nailsmith's story parallels the Pale King's

Cold take: Quick Slash is the best charm in Hollow Knight.

Slightly Warmer take: Quick Slash is the only S-tier charm that is great from both gameplay and lore perspective (aside from maybe Spell Twister).

The reason for this is that its existence is actually a

metaphor

Here, look at this.

So, Quick Slash is something that was created from a relatively big number of objects that were discarded and deemed imperfect, and that possess a collective will of wanting to fulfill their purpose.

You know what that reminds me of?

A large amount of creations: check.

Discarded as imperfect: check.

Still possessing a will to find closure: check.

Being a part of a larger, more powerful thing: check.

Having a common creator who is responsible for their creation and rejection: check.

So yeah, I think that Quick Slash's lore (or at least its description) is meant to parallel that of the Vessels'.

But I wanna talk about that last point: the creator.

It is heavily implied that the person who created and then later discarded those nails was the Ancient Nailsmith we see in the room where we get Quick Slash.

(Oh by the way I just realized that this stone ring thing on the right of that room is actually the furnace, neat.)

Judging from their Dreamnail dialogue, this Ancient Nailsmith was trying to achieve the same goal as the other, more famous Nailsmith we all know and love: creating a Pure Nail.

And you know who else was trying to create a perfect, Pure thing while discarding many other similar things that later gained a collective will?

That's right - it's the guy who is also responsible for creating those other discarded things we discussed earlier!

Ok, but what I really wanted to talk about here is how all of what I just said ties back to that other, more famous guy - The Nailsmith.

We don't know for sure how the story of the Ancient Nailsmith ended, but it feels like it exists there mainly to put an emphasis on the City's Nailsmith's story; to convey that his struggle is an important theme in this narrative (because ancient means important, ok?) And, I mean, the City's Nailsmith's story also parallels that of the Pale King's in the same manner, right?

The thing is, we already know how PK's story ended.

In trying to achieve perfection, to create an eternal Kingdom by making a Pure Vessel devoid of mind, voice and will, the Pale King doomed himself to be taken over by his regrets, by the vast emptiness of the futility of his struggles. But was it because he failed, or because that was where his story was headed all along?

What if PK succeeded? What if the Radiance was sealed forever? What if his Kingdom actually stood eternal, never to change, never to end? What if he realized he achieved his only goal in life?

And that's the part where we get to a story the ending of which is up to the player's choice.

To quote White Lady, only two obvious outcomes there are from such a thing.

The first is an honorable death by the fruits of his labor.

If we choose to kill the Nailsmith with the Pure Nail, he dies happy, knowing that his life's goal is accomplished and having gained all the satisfaction he could from it.

The second I find preferable, a new passion.

If the Nailsmith doesn't feel the finishing blow of the Pure Nail, he is left unsatisfied. But, while trying to resolve that unsatisfaction, he eventually finds something (and someone) that gives him a new calling, a new thing to create, a new reason to live.

And, while those are both equally valuable, equally canonic outcomes, don't you think the second one is just... better? I mean, not only does it include the achievement of the Nailsmith's goal, but it lets him live AND gives two lonely souls a partner in life! I feel like that's the thing this narrative is trying to convey. What it's trying to say about the meaning of life, about our dreams.

Maybe that was the ultimate folly of the Pale King - the inability to change. His story would've ended in the same way, regardless of whether Hallownest lasted eternally or not. He would be dead, if not by the hands of the Void, but by his own - but ultimately, by the hands of that vast emptiness of realizing that you achieved your only goal and that now all there is for you is this eternal satisfaction that slowly fades away, leaving you with nothing.

TL;DR: Quick Slash is the best because it's a metaphor for discarded vessels; perfection is overrated, try to get laid instead.

#hollow knight #hollow knight lore #hollow knight theory #nailsmith #pale king #hollow knight charms #quick slash #hallownest #pure vessel #hk vessels #sheo

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alrtyhoney · 10 months

Text

The rundown: You looked like someone Miguel terribly misses– his daughter. (FIRST PART)

Content: Miguel x Daughter!Reader (wc: 1359)

“Have you thought about it already?”

The girl remains focused on her drawings, doodling away. “About what?” She mumbles a reply, without turning her gaze, still engrossed in her drawings. She knew what he was going to say anyway.

Miguel reaches forward and tenderly tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Your quinceanera, Gab.” He remarks warmly.

She only laughs in return, shaking her head. It's silly, she thinks to herself. "I'm not even near being fifteen yet!" she protests in between fits of giggles. It occurred to Gabriella that his father had an ulterior motive from the sudden pique of interest in her hobbies and likes; he wasn’t particularly chatty, so the past few weeks had pushed her to finally ask him what he was trying to do.

She didn’t understand at first. Miguel, very patiently, explained that a quinceanera was a special once-in-a-lifetime event for every girl. It was more than just a birthday celebration, it was an important milestone in her life. But she quickly discouraged the idea, not wanting to think about it so early. They had all of the time in the world, she thought, there was no reason to rush.

“I just want it to be special.” He says, “Your mother would’ve wanted that.”

“No te preocupes, papá.” She reassures her with a kiss on the cheek. “We’ll make it special.”

The clip ended, the screen slowly fading until only his reflection remained in the empty frame. All he could see now was a hollow shell of a man looking back at him; his expression blank and unflinching. Miguel closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. That scene had etched itself into his mind, burning– mockingly so.

Nothing could ever fill the hole that his daughter had left in his heart - like when he first held her in his arms so many years ago; her presence still obvious on his chest where her memories had imprinted themselves, a permanent reminder of the loss of a child. He trudged through life with heavy feet and an even heavier heart.

He wonders if things could’ve been different or if he would always be incapable of keeping people in his life, always slipping from his fingers and out of his grasp.

“You’re watching it again,” Lyla appears on his shoulder, sitting there with her legs crossed.

“What about it?”

"That's the fourth time today," She says, her voice laced with a trace of worry that she was quick to try and disguise as part of her normal banter. It had become increasingly clear to her that something was amiss and although she was programmed to know anything, Lyla did not know much about Miguel.

“What do you want?”

“An anomaly is spotted in earth-829, a renaissance-like hawk wreaking havoc in a modern museum– yikes.” Lyla briefs him, “Jessica is already on standby.”

Miguel shakes his head, sighing. “Shouldn’t she be on maternity leave already?” He asks, his suit already appearing and opening a file regarding the mission. A hologram opens in front of him, filling in the details. Vulture. “Tell her to go home. I’ll handle this one.”

“I think you shouldn’t,” Lyla squeaks with a nervous smile on her face. “Think you really shouldn’t.”

Miguel taunts with an arrogant tilt of his head, matter-of-factly declaring, "And who's the one taking orders here?" His mask then slides firmly into place, and a portal opens beneath his feet as he steps through. Lyla knows too well by now that there isn't any room for negotiation.

As he stepped into the unfamiliar environment, a chorus of cries and screams greeted him from the running crowd. They pushed each other to safety, a few staying to watch spider-man in action. Miguel sighs, cracking his neck as he prepares himself to step in.

However, he slightly flinches as the said hero narrowly avoids him, crashing into the wall behind him with a loud thud. She quickly scrambled back to her feet, dusting the bits of rubble from her suit. “Hello? Mascot-man? I’m kinda in the middle of something here–”

“I’ll take it from here, kid.” If it wasn’t for the mask covering his face, his nonchalant tone would betray his expression. It was no surprise to him that someone as young as her had been bitten by a spider like so many others before her, but he knows damn well what awaits for her and that is what troubled him every time.

“And who are you exactly?” She shouts, running towards the anomaly again.

Miguel quickly binds the vulture's wings with his webs, allowing you to throw in a few punches before the bird regains its footing and takes off into flight. “I’m from another dimension.”

You audibly gasp, the eyes on your mask widening as you swing around, “I knew dimensions were real!” Completely unfocused, the anomaly narrows his eyes before charging towards you– before you could react to your senses tingling, you were sent tumbling to the ground, near the broken pile of rocks and other rubble.

Miguel loudly groans, getting a hold of the enemy. “Kid, focus!” He barks out, and you immediately snap back to what you were doing, swinging enthusiastically towards him.

“How did you do it? I mean– I tried to prove it all my life!”

“Aren’t you 12?” He scoffs at your statement, clearly not a fan of exaggeration.

“14 – and that’s not the point, mascot-man!”

The fight went on with you chatting and talking his ear off. Miguel had answered in dismissive grunts and his usual ‘it’s classified.’ remark, but he just couldn’t discourage your eagerness in any way. You had tired him out, more than the anomaly did.

Spider-society, magic watch, many more of you– you’ve basically summed up.

“You should definitely let me join,” You offered cheerfully, cocking your head and wiggling your foot. The battle had finally come to a close, thanks in part to the arrival of a couple more spider-men who lent an extra hand. You had caught up to Miguel, basically begging him to let you in. “We made a great team back there old man!”

“Old man?”

“Okay, sensitive,” You muttered under your breath. “But seriously– I could learn more from you!”

“Kid, listen–”

You had cut him off again, seemingly not taking no as an answer as you tried to persuade him again. You continued to babble, not leaving any room for him to interrupt. Miguel rubbed a hand over his face, hidden beneath the fabric of his mask, as he groaned in frustration for what felt like the hundredth time today. His eyebrows furrowed as he listened to you rambling on and on– patience nipping on itself from your lack of understanding with regards to the matter at hand.

“First off, I did most of the work back there. If it weren’t for me calling for back-up, you could’ve been injured badly. This society isn’t some school club you can just sign yourself in,” He explained, already itching to return and leaving you in the dust. A liability is the last thing he needed. “You don’t have what it takes.”

You throw your head back, groaning. You take your mask off, revealing a busted lip and a frown. “Whatever, your club sounds stupid anyway.” You mumble under your breath, suddenly feeling worn out yourself. Of course what he said had stung– it had taken so much effort to learn how to control your powers over the past two months since you were bitten by that spider. It wasn’t like there was a manual or a book written for freaks that happened to have superhero powers under such circumstances. You had to learn on your own.

Turning your back on him, you had fully expected him to disappear as well– but, to your surprise, he was totally motionless; a statue in solidarity unable to shift an inch. His stillness made the atmosphere unbearably tense and although you could not bring yourself to look back at him (well, you did call his club stupid.), you sensed his gaze upon you like a heavy weight pushing down on your shoulders.

“Gabriella?”

#alrighty honey ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚#across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara atsv #miguel o'hara x daughter!reader #miguel o'hara angst

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withleeknow · 5 days

Text

wishful thinking. (06)

chapter six: like lightning

summary: the instruction was plain and simple: no strings attached. but you should’ve known from the beginning that it could never apply to you and him.

pairing: minho x f!reader rating: 18+ (minors dni) genres/warnings: friends to lovers, friends with benefits au, college au; fluff, angst, smut; mentions of sex, swearing, this chapter is also pretty mild in terms of warnings? the angst begins here tho !!! could've been more edited but yk lol word count: 4.9k

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation / series masterpost / taglist

If I never laid eyes on you Would I feel something missing? If you never laid eyes on me Would you know something’s gone?

Happy Accidents - Saint Motel

You don't know if you've ever changed, even once, in your life.

You feel like you're still 8 years old and your best friend is the neighbors' elderly dog that they let you play with every weekend. She's a golden retriever, and she would stand taller than you if she could walk on two legs.

You're still 16 and your happiest memories are of a boy who doesn't love you back. But all of your friends say that he does, and oh, how much you want to believe that their words are true.

And at the same time, you're 22, just a few months shy of 23, sitting in front of a canvas showcasing your own bleeding heart. Your growing pains, laid out by acrylics and gentle brush strokes. You liken yourself to the figure in front of you, the one that's standing in the corner of your painting, overlooking a sea of blues and grays. There's a piece of you that's left behind in everything you create. Sometimes, you leave it there on purpose, a memorabilia for your future self to look back at fondly.

You think of everything in your life that has changed and how you're the only thing that has managed to remain the same. The dog eventually dies and the boy moves on with his life. The passage of time is relentless but you seem to be the only one who can't keep up with the tireless flow. You're always running in place, always stuck behind in the end. There's a past in which you still live, one where you don’t know if you'll ever make it out of.

You think of home and the search comes up empty, like it does every single time. Home isn't here inside of your own body, nor is it within the four walls of your childhood bedroom. You've never felt like you belong anywhere. Everything is always fluctuating, constantly and unabatingly spinning and spinning and spinning when all you're asking for is a minute to stand still and catch your breath.

Home isn't always a place, that much you know. Maybe home isn't even a thing that you build but something that you find, in a person or a touch, in a feeling or a scent. Perhaps that's the problem, isn't it? Home is something you find, and you've spent your whole life searching.

People say your early 20s are supposed to be the best years of your life but that sentiment has never resonated with you. These are the years that you spend in excruciating limbo, where you're not an adult but you're forced to be anyway. The years where loneliness is an invisible friend that shadows you day in and day out, a presence you don’t want around but can't seem to shake off, a haunting that's far too gentle to be considered such. These aren't your best years; these are your saddest years.

None of it helps build character. It just hurts.

It hurts. You accept that it hurts. You keep on living, always accompanied by the hurt. At some point, it stops bothering you as much; you've grown numb to the way it stings, but it doesn't mean that there aren't days where you're pierced with a sudden and debilitating hollowness in your chest.

Here you are, half an adult but still a child, wondering if you know anything more than you did when you were 8.

You just want to go home, but you don't know where home is.

You look at the small pool of yellow acrylic paint that's been sitting on your palette for a while now. It feels so out of place among the other insipid tones, even though that has always been your intention - a burst of life amidst a sea of blues.

You don't think about anything in particular when your fingers pick up a brush and dab it in a generous amount of paint. It doesn't make much sense, but it feels right. You don't think about anything in particular when your hand smears the color on the cavas, on the figure, a startling stroke right in the center of her chest, contrasting all of the dulls and darkness surrounding.

Though, you do think of him afterward. Of him and daffodils and spring.

The rest of your friends are already present when you and Felix show up at Chan and Jess' shared apartment, holding boxes of pizzas and a case of beer.

It's a cute tradition that was started last year, when all of you promised to gather the final Friday of every month to have a cozy little dinner party among yourselves. It usually takes place at Chan's, since his apartment is bigger than the rest of yours, and because him and Jess are practically the parents of the group anyway.

The second you step into the living room, a chorus of groans erupts all around. Hyunjin and Jisung are the most vocal petulant babies, pouting from their seats, complaining that you two took too long and that they've been starving for hours.

You and Felix shrug off your jackets before delegating the tasks to the lot of them, since you were in charge of picking up the food for tonight. Minho and Seungmin grabbing plates and cups from the kitchen for Changbin and Jeongin to set on Chan's large coffee table.

You opt for a seat on the carpeted floor, next to the spot on the cream-colored couch where Minho left his phone, feeling more comfortable this way since the table is a little low for your liking. They come back a few minutes later, and you smile up at Minho when he reclaims his seat on the couch.

"Hi." He smiles back, smoothing a hand over your hair in greeting.

"Hi," you say. Even a touch so simple warms you up from the outside chill you were in mere minutes ago. No one else notices his lingering hand on you, or it's just such a you and Minho thing to be mildly affectionate with each other that the others don't care to comment on anymore.

You all fall into easy conversation soon after everyone starts digging in, chatting amongst yourselves as you always do. You and Hyunjin lament about your respective projects, reiterating the frustration that you've already expressed through your texts for the zillionth time. Chan and Jess nag Jeongin about introducing his girlfriend to the group, to which the younger one responds with an exaggerated groan as one would when their parents ask about grandchildren, though he does placate them by promising to bring her along the next time there's a party.

You don't care enough to tune into Minho's conversation with Changbin and Felix about the new gym they started going to. You do, however, catch Changbin's attempt to tease Minho. A playful scoff, followed by, "Minho lost his abs ages ago."

Your response is automatic and therefore, it doesn't warrant much thought from you before the words are tumbling out of your mouth. "No, he has abs. They're still there."

You don't recognize the weight of your words until you notice all chatter has halted, and you look up to find all eyes on you.

"How do you know that?" Jeongin is the one to voice everyone's collective thought, puzzled, a little surprised.

"Yeah, isn't Minho notoriously weird about that stuff?" Felix adds.

You blink in a daze, and you don't know if your face is reddening because of embarrassment but you sure hope that it isn't. The mouthful you're munching on gives you a reason to stall, your reputation of being a slow eater makes the excuse more believable when you don't answer right away.

As subtly as you can, you nudge Minho's leg with an elbow. He just laughs, though you're pretty certain he can tell that you're internally freaking out.

"I was walking her home from class a few weeks ago and we got caught in the rain. She let me come up to her apartment to change," he says calmly.

You remember that day. He was walking you from campus back to yours, so that part was true. But it didn't start raining until you were both sheltered in the comfort of your apartment, with him on top of you as he fucked you nice and slow on the couch. You didn't know when the rain stopped, but it must've been some time during your shower that you offered him to join with the innocent intention of cleaning yourselves up and saving water, only for him to end up on his knees with his face between your legs and his fingers buried deep inside of you. He'd made you come three times that afternoon, then took you out to udon afterward.

"And you just... changed in the middle of her living room or something?" Changbin asks, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Minho shrugs, completely nonchalant. "Yeah."

The silence in the room persists as you swallow down the bite. Their stare lingers on the pair of you, then they turn to look at each other like they're speaking a secret language that you're unfamiliar with. Why is it such a scandalous thing for you to see Minho without a shirt? You've seen your other guy friends shirtless numerous times before, when all of you are hanging out in someone's apartment on particularly hot summer days.

Though, they aren't wrong. The arrangement between the two of you muddles your memory, but you don't really remember seeing Minho flaunt his bare skin often before.

You're about to squeeze out a weak response to aid Minho's explanation, but your friends just start nodding along in acceptance.

"I guess that makes sense. If there's anyone who would see him naked, it'd be Y/N."

This definitely makes you blush. Minho laughs again.

"What?! I did not see him naked."

Well, look who's a liar now?

"Y/N, and whoever he's banging," Hyunjin supplies, which seriously doesn't help the flush on your cheeks at all.

"Why would it make sense that it was me?" you protest.

"Because you're his favorite." Jess is the one who answers, to which the rest of your friends all hum in agreement. The way they're reacting makes it seem as though it's just a fact of life that you're Minho's favorite, and that whatever boundary he lets you cross or whatever rule he breaks when it comes to you is simply a result of this fact.

Not once has it crossed your mind that everyone might have a favorite person in the group, but now that it's been said, you quickly conclude that Minho would be your favorite too (your secret arrangement notwithstanding.)

You glance up at him, seeking reassurance with a curious blink. "Am I?"

"You're alright," is what he tells you in lieu of a confirmation. "The least annoying one."

And you don't know if it's the way he speaks ever so gently when he looks at you or how his lips curl up in a knowing smile that sends a tingle of warmth down your spine. Or perhaps the culprit is the softness in his sharp eyes that makes you a little dizzy, makes a pair of butterflies go rampant at the pit of your stomach, as though they're prepared to soar when the ardor of spring begins to thaw the winter frost.

Chan laughs, "That's practically a declaration of love from Minho."

At one point, Hyunjin looks around and comments with a mouth stuffed full of pizza, "Wow. We are literally perfectly divided."

All eyes fall onto him, clearly no one is catching his drift.

Hyunjin swallows his food and washes it down with a big sip of beer before gesturing vaguely at the group, "All the singles are on the floor."

You look at the people on the couch while they stare back at you, Hyunjin, Seungmin, Changbin and Felix sitting comfortably on the fluffy rug.

"I'm single," Jisung says, pointing at himself. "Should I get on the floor?"

"No, you're not," Seungmin says flatly.

"What?"

"Didn't you get back together with your ex girlfriend?"

"What?" Jisung practically squeaks out. "Man, what are you talking about?"

"I live with you. We literally share a wall. I heard you last week. The whole two hours."

“You were home?!”

"My shoes were by the door. I had dishes in the sink. I went to the bathroom to pee several times."

Jisung gasps, growing redder and redder as more eyes start diverting their attention to him. He opens his mouth only to promptly close it as he thinks of what to say. Repeats the process a few times. "We didn't hear you. You never said anything," is what he settles on stuttering out. Then, "Why didn't you bring it up? Why do you have to air out my dirty laundry now?"

"It's more entertaining to embarrass you in front of everyone." Seungmin shrugs, and ignores Changbin's subsequent comment calling him a pervert. "And no wonder you didn't hear me. You were going at it like you were rabid."

"Wait," Jeongin says, "when did you even get back together?"

"We didn't. It's complicated! We're just… y'know…"

When Jisung trails off sheepishly with the bright blush still apparent on his cheeks, Minho cuts in, finishing his sentence bluntly, "Boning."

You send him a glare from where you're seated on the floor, to which he just gives you a lopsided grin and nudges you with his knee.

While everyone else is busy bombarding Jisung with questions on potentially getting back together with his ex, Minho quietly slithers down to the floor like a stealthy cat, squeezing himself into the space between you and Felix. Minho rests his arm behind you on the couch, leaving it stretched out comfortably on the cushions, just lightly touching your back. Usually, when you two are alone, he would have his arm wrapped around your shoulders so he could pull you close, until you're safely tucked into his side where you would remain on most of your evenings spent together. But for now, he leaves his arm where it grazes you only slightly as you sit among friends, with the exception of his hand reaching to play with your hair once in a while.

"Hey!" Hyunjin practically screeches, pointing at Minho when he notices. "Why did you get on the floor?"

"What?" Minho asks innocently. "You said the singles are on the floor."

"You're not single. You have a girlfriend."

"I don't have a girlfriend."

Hyunjin scoffs. "You have a sneaky link."

"Hmm, not the same as a girlfriend."

"Why can't you just tell us, man? There's gotta be something else you're hiding."

You stay quiet, still as a statue while they bicker back and forth, like the mere motion of your breathing could give your secret away. You don't doubt that Hyunjin has been hounding Minho about his new discovery ever since the night of Yeonjun's party, but Minho seems unfazed about it, evading Hyunjin's badgering with a calm composure that's distinct to no one else.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom, quickly shuffling away as if your absence at the table would help make things seem less suspicious for Minho. You splash some water on your face, wait for a while until it feels like an appropriate amount of time has passed for them to have already moved onto another topic. You are, quite literally, hiding from your own friends.

Moments later, you re-enter the room with gentle footsteps and a certain tension in your spine, but you soon grow relieved when you find that the conversation has somehow shifted to Seungmin and his on-again off-again not-girlfriend, about which he just seems kinda sad for a few seconds before he's telling everyone to fuck off and mind their own business, always quick to conceal any and all emotions. He's similar to you in that way, you suppose.

You sit back down next to Minho who's still on the floor, though you put a little distance between your bodies that wasn't previously there. You don't know if it's enough to be noticeable, but he does look at you for a brief moment before leaning a bit closer, asking softly so only you could hear, "Walk you home later?"

You embark on the familiar route from Chan and Jess' place back to yours. It's not that late, barely even 10PM on a Friday night, but the streets are almost deserted. Barely anyone tipsily roaming the streets with their friends in tow; just a few cars passing by every now and then. You relish in the peace and quiet, sighing softly to yourself as you walk in the crisp evening air.

Minho takes casual strides next to you, letting his hand brush against your hand for a while until his pinky finds its way around yours. The tranquility of the city is nice, but being with Minho is even nicer.

Just some of the stars have come out to play, though the way they gleam and glimmer is enough to make up for what they lack in numbers. It's easy to get lost tonight, when you're looking up at an infinite sky with little light and only Minho's pinky hooked around yours like an anchor to guide you back home.

In the grand scheme of things, you're just a speck of dust. You're young and confused - 23 is still a child in your mind - and most of all, you're insignificant. Not in a self-disparaging way. Maybe in the literal sense of the word would be more accurate.

You are insignificant, merely a face among billions of faces. In a crowd of hundreds, or maybe only dozens, you're not someone who would stand out and be picked. Sometimes, it's nice to blend right in and hide in plain sight; you don't particularly enjoy being under the spotlight anyway. But sometimes, it's lonely to be just a drop in the ocean. You could sink right to the bottom and no one would even notice.

Maybe that's why you enjoy being around Minho so much. He makes you feel safe, and seen, like you matter in the end. He makes you feel like if you were to disappear one day, there's a person out there who would go to the ends of the earth in search of you.

You hope that he sticks around, that he wants to be in your life for as long as you can have him. You're not sure what it is that makes you sick to your stomach at the mere thought of losing him; perhaps because you know you will never come across another one like Minho in your lifetime. There's nobody else that can make you feel the same way he does.

I don't want to lose you. You're the only good thing I have.

An intersection, two left turns, and your apartment building comes into view all too soon.

"Wanna come up?" you ask bashfully. The streetlights do a good job at masking your light flush.

"I can't tonight," he says, a little apologetic. "I'm going to my parents' house first thing in the morning."

"Oh." You're disappointed for no specific reason. Sure, you were practically glued to Minho's side for most of the evening, but you were also surrounded by the very friends who are unaware that you two have been sneaking around behind their backs. It's been about over a week since you hung out with him alone, which isn't that long ago by any means, but still. "For the weekend?"

"Yeah, just for the weekend."

There's a selfish urge, just a tiny one, to ask him to come for a while anyway, maybe only twenty minutes or so, but you swallow it down and wave it away. "Okay, have fun. Say hi to the cats for me."

"I'll send you pictures," he tells you. "They miss you, y'know."

You smile at that, laughing a little. "They've met me once."

Last fall, you and your friends all took a weekend trip to Minho's childhood home for his birthday. It was fun for you, though you're not sure how much his parents actually enjoyed it, considering they had to house and feed almost a dozen kids that weren't their own. You remember the cats, of course you do, and how Soonie took an immediate liking to you, how he mostly hovered around your personal space whenever you were in the house.

"No, seriously. My mom says Soonie meows your name once a day."

You throw him an eye roll, accompanied by a light punch to his shoulder.

"Goodnight, Min," you say. "Text me when you get home."

"Okay."

Even after that, the two of you still stay rooted to the spot, your pinkies interlocked. Minho's gaze doesn't leave your face, and for a moment there, it feels like most of the stars didn't show up because they all left to gather in his eyes.

"Can't go up if you don't let me,” you quip, glancing at your hands, knowing full well that you can easily retract your finger if you want to.

His eyes stay on you for just a moment longer. "Let me kiss you," he asks softly, releasing your pinky only to take your hand in his, tugging you closer until you’re all up in each other's personal space.

You blink at him, your heart caught somewhere in your throat. You're close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off his body. "Min…" you murmur but you don't actually know what you want to tell him, so the nickname hangs like an idle lantern in the bubble of space between your faces.

"Just a goodnight kiss."

"Friends don't kiss," you say meekly, reminiscent of your conversation over a week ago.

"Friends don't have sex either," he repeats.

"But we’re not having sex."

"You asked me to come upstairs. What do you think we would've done?"

And he's right. If he had agreed to come up, then you would probably be pressed against the door right now, with his hands trailing down your body, removing every article of clothing they find, his lips kissing every exposed patch of skin along the way.

Minho would've been kissing you regardless - anywhere and everywhere, and you wouldn't have had any qualms about it like you do right now, even though you want to kiss him too.

"Maybe I wanted you to come up to make you peel tangerines for me while we watch a movie."

He says nothing to that, only grins amusedly and leans in to nudge his nose against yours. It's so cute that you can't help but mirror the quirk of his lips. You're sure that no one else gets to see this version of him - the one that boops you like an overly affectionate cat and smiles like you're his favorite person not just in your little group, but in the whole wide world.

"I haven't kissed you all week," he murmurs, his voice so gentle in the quietude that surrounds you. "You were right there but I couldn't kiss you all night."

You lose yourself in his brown eyes, the same eyes that hold nothing but sincerity and fondness for you. The stars here are brighter than the ones overhead.

"Let me kiss you," Minho says, "please?"

You cave. Of course you do.

The first glide of his lips over yours has you weak in the knees. Something sinks in as he kisses you deeply. Under the streetlights, not surrounded by your familiar four walls like a long lost secret but out in the open where anyone can see, even though there's not a single soul around.

Again, tears well up behind your eyelids the same way they did that morning you woke up next to him for the first time. You don't know what it is, never felt this way around anyone except for him. It's akin to the feeling of finally coming home after being away for a long time, or at least that's what you think that's how it would feel.

You don't want to be caged in by the walls of your own making. You want to be seen, and you want to be seen by him. You're the remnants of snow and ice stuck between cracks in the sidewalk, and he is warmth. You're a mosaic of a daffodil garden caught in an endless winter, and he is spring. Minho is the brief but wonderful moment when cherry blossoms have yet to fall from their branches, but green leaves are already growing impatiently, resulting in the beautiful coexistence of pinks and greens if only just for a few days.

You let him kiss you until you're both out of breath, let him wrap his strong arms around your body and hold you like he could mend all of your broken pieces. Maybe he could. Maybe you'd like him to make you whole again.

When Minho pulls away, he doesn't stray very far. He puts enough distance between your faces so you can catch your breath. But even then, you have a hard time getting air back into your lungs. He's looking at you like he would pick the moon for you if you asked, like moving mountains is no more difficult than peeling tangerines for you whenever you get a craving.

The streetlights are dim, but the stars in his eyes are bright enough to tell you something that his words don't.

It hits you all at once, in a moment where even the wind is still, as if it's been reduced to a mere spectator, watching the two of you with bated breath on the sidelines. The tipping point can be something as simple as him asking - almost pleading - to kiss you goodnight with no ulterior motive, no other intention than because he wants to. As though it would kill him if he had to go another minute without kissing you.

You realize why he's the yellow to your sea of blues, why you're so happy every time you look at the bracelet on your wrist. You realize why you feel so safe around him, why he makes you experience emotions that no one else can. You realize why you don’t like hearing about Hana, or any other person in the same sentence as his name with the implication that he could be romantically involved with them.

You realize why you kissed him for the first time all those months ago, and it wasn't because you were sad and he just happened to be there and let you cry on his shoulder. The times that your friends would tell you how you and Minho would be perfect together - you wanted it to be true. You knew it was true - that he was someone you could love, the only person who's worth opening up to. You kissed him because you wanted to love him. You realize why it made you soar when he kissed you back, because you wanted him to love you too.

You realize why the thought of losing this friendship terrifies you. You realize why you asked him to stay that night after the party and the club, even though you had never allowed him to sleep over before. You realize why the other week you let him only kiss you and nothing else, and you realize why your heart is hammering in your chest this very second, why your knees are weak, why you can't really breathe here in the middle of an empty street under a moonless sky, just because he's looking at you as if it's not the sun that the earth revolves around but rather, it's a girl who has never learned how to say what she means.

You're good at leaving things alone; it's a skill that you've unintentionally mastered over the years. Nothing has to change if you let it remain the same. And yet, the one exception always seems to be Minho, and you're a mirror of yourself when you're with him. You like the version of you that only he's able to bring out, and he does it effortlessly every time. He pulls happiness out of you so easily that it's hard to ignore what you feel for him, hard to convince yourself that what you harbor for him is still only platonic affection.

It comes bubbling up to the surface without your permission. It strikes you the same way lightning splits open the whole sky on a cloudless night, abrupt and unmistakeable. Love isn't something that you've ever come close to, and you have always been an unbeliever when people answer "You just know," in response to "How do you know when it is love?"

Though as you stand right here, right now, you think maybe this is what love is supposed to look like, personified with starry eyes and shallow dimples when he smiles.

Before he leaves, Minho presses another sweet kiss to your cheek. You're still dazed by the dawning, overwhelmed by the recognition that you can only mutter a stupid "Bye," when he bids you good night.

As you watch him go, there's something else you realize, almost tragically, that you've always been a ruiner. You run away the moment shit starts getting too real, even if it means letting beautiful things slip through your fingers like running water.

Love just isn't something you've ever learned to hold.

261 notes · View notes

serpentandlily · 5 months

Text

Butterfly Fly Away

Butterfly Fly Away - Platonic!Reader x BatBoys

Summary: You’ve been bestfriends with Rhys, Cassian and Azriel since childhood but with the new additions to your Inner Circle, it's starting to feel like you are being replaced. When confronted, your three friends brush off your concerns, leading you to believe it’s time to move on and start a life of your own. But once you’re gone, the three brothers begin to realize just how much they need you in their lives.

Based on this request.

Warnings: A mix of angst and fluff.

❀⊱♡⊰❀

Butterfly Fly Away

❀⊱♡⊰❀

You let out a long shaky breath, sitting on the edge of your bed, looking around your now empty room in the Townhouse. You had packed up everything. Your clothes, your trinkets, the parchments full of scribbles from Nyx, the painting Feyre had gifted you of the whole family together. All of it.

Your chest felt hollow. The silence and emptiness was deafening. So many memories were made in this room, down these halls, in this city. The thought of leaving that all behind made your heart ache but the thought of staying here hurt worse.

You had met Rhysand, Azriel and Cassian during your youth and struck a friendship with them. A friendship that had grown and grown into what felt like an impenetrable bond between the three of you.

And they had always stressed how much importance you had within the family. The peacemaker, the mediator, the one who could end fights between them before they even began. Your magic was able to read the emotions of others, making you adept at talking others through their own feelings—of helping them understand why they felt the way they did.

It was really the only thing you were good for. You weren’t a skilled fighter, or strategist, or politician. All weakness you hated considering your family was made of the most powerful fae.

But when it came to matters of the heart? Well, you were an expert. For everyone else anyways, considering yours was currently being torn apart.

You had been there for each of them during the best and worst of days. Through the war, through Rhysand losing his family, through the forty-nine years without him. The four of you with Mor and Amren included had built a small family together.

A family that was no longer around because they had all found another. And you had been left with none.

Slowly but surely they had completely erased your spot in the family with the Archeron sisters. It wasn’t even that you didn’t like the three sisters. Each of them had a special place in your heart. But they changed the dynamic of the group so drastically.

And you no longer felt like you belonged.

Mor had felt it too, which was why she was more than happy to be sent to the continent to work on alliances there. Amren had found herself a lover and seemed content with keeping him all to herself.

But you…you had nothing without them. Or at least, that’s what it felt like.

You had tried to bring it up with them, had tried to hint that you felt a bit left out and neglected. But they had brushed you off, telling you it was time you “found a life of your own like they had.” You thought you did have a life of your own already. Here. But apparently that was not the case.

You let out another sigh as you stared at the last three things you had to pack. You picked up the first one, a smooth rock—a red creek jasper. You still remembered the day Azriel had given it to you when you both were only eleven.

❀⊱♡⊰❀

“You can do it, Az!” you shouted.

You were standing underneath a very large boulder, holding a hand over your eyes as the sun shone down on you and Rhys. Cassian and Azriel were both on top of the boulder, wings spread wide as Cassian tried to direct Azriel on how to fly.

Azriel’s face was nearly white and you could tell even from where you were standing that his hands were shaking. You took a few steps closer to the rock, holding your little arms out.

“I’ll catch you if you fall,” you yelled up to him. “I promise!”

It was at that moment that Cassian decided he was over waiting for Azriel to jump and pushed the boy off the rock instead. Azriel shrieked, a sound he had never made before, and frantically tried to pump his wings but it was no use. He crashed right into you, sending you both sprawling on the ground.

“Y/n,” he gasped, rolling off of you. “Are you okay?”

His eyes were wide with both shock and concern. They only widen more when you burst out laughing, clutching your stomach. It hurt, a lot. You were both eleven but Azriel was already bigger than you.

“I told you I’d catch you!” The look on his normally unreadable face sent you into another fit of giggles.

Later that day, Azriel had gone to the nearby creek and dug around for hours looking for the perfect rock to give you, knowing you liked collecting the cool ones you found. He had apologized numerous times, even though it had been Cassian’s fault, but he still felt guilty. He finally stumbled on a tiny, smooth rock that was a mixture of dark orange and red swirls.

When he came home that night and offered it to you as another apology, Cassian and Rhys had laughed themselves nearly sick but you had just smiled at the shy boy and squeezed the rock in your hand, holding against your chest.

❀⊱♡⊰❀

It was the first gift Azriel had given you and it had stayed with you all these years.

You wrapped it back in the silk handkerchief you kept it in and placed it in your bag.

Your eyes moved to the next item. A scarf made from various scraps of fabric. Definitely not fashionable, but it had been a special gift from Rhysand.

❀⊱♡⊰❀

“Why do you carry that old blanket around with you still?” The thirteen year-old Rhys was peering at the dirty blanket in your hand with a sneer. “We’re not babies anymore, y/n. You should get rid of it.”

You pulled the blanket closer to you—a blanket made up of random scraps of fabric, the only thing your mother could afford at the time. It was ratty, falling apart at the seams, but it was special to you.

“It’s the only thing I have left of her,” you said, quietly, blinking away the tears that started forming in your eyes.

Your mother had passed away years ago and your father, who had never loved her in the first place, had tossed out all her belongings. You had only managed to get your hands on the blanket before it was taken away.

Rhys had said nothing else about it until winter solstice came around that year. You hadn’t noticed that he had snuck into your room and taken the blanket—bringing it to his mother to make into something a little better for you to carry around with you.

❀⊱♡⊰❀

He had given you the scarf that night and every single snowfall, it was the first one you pulled out. You packed it away with a heavy heart. You were moving to the Day Court, something you had already discussed with the Inner Circle, and you would hardly have use for it there.

The last item sat on your dresser, a white, stuffed pegasus toy—a gift from Cassian.

❀⊱♡⊰❀

A knock sounded on your door but you ignored it, rolling over in your bed and wiping your tears.

Another knock.

“Y/n! Open up! I know you’re in there,” Cassian shouted through the door.

“Go away, Cass,” you managed to croak out through your tears. “I’m not in the mood.”

There was a pause before he shouted through the door again.

“What’s wrong, y/n? I can tell you’re crying!”

“Nothing, just go away!”

The door burst open and you shot up in your bed, cursing at yourself for not making sure it was locked. Cassian walked into your room, his eyes widening as he took in your appearance.

“Y/n?” He asked, quietly, shutting the door behind him. “Why are you crying? What happened?”

A tiny sob broke through your lips and Cassian was at your side instantly, wrapping an arm around you. You both were only sixteen, but Cassian was already starting to look more like a male than a boy with how big he was getting.

“Cyrus b-broke up with me,” you choked out.

“Oh thank the gods!”

You glared up at Cassian, shoving him away from you.

“Get out if you’re going to be like that.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, y/n, I just mean… Well, we all think you’re too good for him, you know. He’s an asshole.”

More tears poured from your eyes and Cassian pulled you to his chest again. “I am really sorry, y/n. I know how much you liked him.”

Cassian had stayed with you that night, holding you until you cried yourself to sleep. When you woke up the next day, a tiny stuffed Pegasus was waiting on your nightstand with a note attached to it.

‘I hope this little guy helps you feel better. But if you need to let off some steam, come find me in the training ring—Cassian.’

❀⊱♡⊰❀

You hugged the pegasus to your chest for a moment before dropping it into your bag with the last of your stuff.

You were supposed to leave in the morning after a goodbye breakfast with the whole family, but the trip down memory lane had you feeling too upset.

You didn’t know if you could handle seeing them all, especially when they seemed to have no qualms about you leaving.

Cassian didn’t need a secondary sparring partner to Azriel anymore now that he had Nesta. Rhys didn’t need help reading through correspondence now that he had Feyre. And those serene walks through the woods with Azriel? Well, those went to Elain now.

You pulled out the copy of keys you had for the Townhouse and River House and set them down on the dresser in the room. You took one last look around, your heart breaking in your chest, before finally winnowing away.

❀⊱♡⊰❀

“This alliance with Vallahan could go two ways,” Rhys said, stroking his jaw. “They fight with us against Koschei and end this whole thing before it becomes a full blown war. Or they’re faking their support and have already sided with Koschei.”

“If they are, the results of that will be devastating,” Mor said with a frown. “Our armies are still so depleted and even with the help of the other courts minus Autumn, Koschei has triple our numbers if Vallahan has already sided with him.”

Cassian let out a low whistle as he stared over the battle plans. “We’d be fucked. Utterly fucked.”

“We can’t win in that scenario,” Azriel piped up from next to Cassian.

“We can’t win without their help either,” Feyre said. “This decision is everything. Everything relies on this decision. You really couldn’t get a read on them, Mor?”

Mor shook her head. “They were careful with their wording and vague. They were certainly speaking the truth, but it meant little.”

“Their mental defenses were too strong to get through without force. But if they are being honest and I break into their minds, we might as well kiss the alliance goodbye,” Rhys sighed. “If only there was another way to get a read on them. I hate going into this blind with only our own faith.”

The room was silent as they all pondered what this meant for the battle against Koschei.

“There is…someone who could help.”

Everyone’s head whipped towards Cassian. Rhysand waved a hand at him to continue. Cassian swallowed audibly.

“Y/n.”

That name had everyone sitting up straight. Rhysand raised an eyebrow at him, not understanding. Not until it clicked in his head.

“She can read people’s emotions,” he breathed out. “I… I never thought about her using it this way. I just thought it was good for—well, you know.”

“Just meddling?”

Rhys nodded, feeling a bit ashamed. The room went quiet again, everyone soaking in what Cassian was suggesting.

“Would she even help? You all basically ran her out of this court,” Mor huffed, causing tensions to rise.

“Not this again,” Cassian groaned.

Mor stood from her seat, bristling at Cassian’s words. “I’m being serious. She has been your guys’ friend since you were kids. And you all left her in the dust even after she tried to tell you guys how she felt!”

When Mor had returned from the continent and learned of you leaving the court, she had been beyond angry at the three males for their treatment of you. She had written you several letters apologizing and you had welcomed her back into your life.

But she was the only one you still talked to.

The room was dead quiet. Each of the three males shared looks of guilt and embarrassment because Mor was right. They had completely taken you for granted and cast you aside once the sisters started having bigger roles in their life. And they had let you go without even trying to convince you to stay.

“I miss her.”

Azriel’s voice was so quiet, like he hadn’t even meant to say those words out loud.

Cassian let out a long sigh. “I miss her too.”

Mor glanced around at the other members of the Inner Circle before gesturing towards the door. “I think the boys need to discuss this amongst themselves.”

Once the door shut behind Feyre, Rhys leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “I hadn’t realized how much of an impact she had. Things haven’t felt right here without her.”

“No, they haven’t,” Cassian agreed. “We really did kind of… forget about her. Not intentionally but still.”

“Have you talked to her?” Azriel asked, looking at his High Lord.

“Have you?”

Azriel looked away in answer, feeling a bit of guilt.

“Do you think she’s still in the Day Court?” Cassian asked.

Rhys nodded. “Yes, Helion is quite fond of her it seems.”

Cassian snickered while a ghost of a grin crossed Azriel’s face. It wasn’t hard to imagine you in Day. You had always been a beacon of light for the group and they knew how easily you made friends wherever you went. It came naturally to you as an empath.

“Do you think…” Cassian trailed off, sounding a bit insecure. “Do you think she’d come home? If we asked?”

“She didn’t even say goodbye before she left,” Azriel murmured.

“We can try but I think we should be honest with her about our feelings,” Rhys said. “I’d hate for her to think we’re just asking her back so she can help us with this.”

“She’s going to know how we’re feeling anyways,” Cassian laughed. “Remember?”

Rhys grinned, thinking of all the times you had caught them in blatant lies because of your abilities, all the times you meddled with their love lives and friendships too.

There really was a you-shaped hole in the group now. The three shared a look of guilt. It was a shame it took this long for them to realize it.

❀⊱♡⊰❀

Three knocks against the door of your small cottage woke you up. You groaned, sitting up and blinking the sleep from your eyes. You had gone to one of Helion’s illustrious parties last night and had not been expecting to be woken up this early.

You shrugged on a silk robe over your nightgown and made your way to your front door.

Your eyes widened in shock as soon as you opened it, staring at the three males you hadn’t seen in a little over a year. You stepped aside, wordlessly, letting them into your new home. The distance had not made the bond between the four of you shrink, even after all this time, it seemed.

They greeted you in their own ways. Azriel with a soft smile, Cassian with a booming hello and hug, and Rhys was a feline grin and pat on the shoulder. You strode to the kitchen as they took a seat in your living room.

“I need coffee,” you announced. “Anyone else?”

“Long night?” Cassian teased.

“Don’t even ask,” you joked back, pulling out four mugs as they all said yes to your offer.

It was silent while the coffee brewed, and their emotions were all over the place. Nervousness, guilt, hope and regret. Your eyebrows furrowed as you grabbed the mugs and set them on the coffee table, taking a seat on an armchair.

“No offense,” you started. “But why are you guys here? I haven’t spoken to any of you in over a year.”

“That’s kind of what we’re here about,” Rhys replied, rubbing the back of his neck.

You raised an eyebrow at them, taking a sip of your coffee.

“I’ll get straight to the point,” he continued. “We…We want you to come home.”

You nearly spit your coffee out. That was not what you were expecting him to say. After all, they didn’t seem very upset when you told them you were leaving the Night Court in the first place.

“Why?” you managed to choke out.

“I’ll be honest. We’re dealing with a situation back home and it made us realize how much of an importance you played, not just in our court but in our lives. We miss you, y/n. We regret how we treated you the past few years.”

“We all just got so caught up in our own problems, we didn’t even realize how much we were neglecting you,” Cassian added with a sincere frown. “You were such a constant in our lives and I guess we sort of took that for granted, assuming you’d always be there.”

“I tried to tell you how I felt,” you murmured, hiding half your face behind your coffee mug.

“I’m sorry for brushing you off,” Azriel said, quietly. “Truly. A lot was happening and like Cassian said, I just figured once we got through it all, things could resume as normal.”

“So why have none of you written to me in the year I’ve been gone?”

“After you left, Mor kind of chewed us out,” Cassian said, sheepishly. “We all just assumed you were mad at us and left because you needed space. I know it’s not a good excuse but well, you know more than anyone that we’ve never been great at communicating.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. That was the reason you meddled so much. To get them to talk about their feelings, express themselves. It was hard staying quiet when you knew how a person truly felt.

“We miss you and we need you, y/n,” Rhys cut in. “Things haven’t been the same since you left. I’m sorry it took so long for us to realize and I’m sorry for how we treated you. You’re our best friend, our sister. I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

“Me either.” Both Azriel and Cassian interjected.

You thought about it, thought of the year you spent without them. While you had started anew, made new friends, had lovers, you did miss them dearly. It made you realize something about the bond you all shared, about your friendship in general. Life changes and sometimes people get preoccupied with other things but that bond you felt hadn’t shrunk, hadn’t grown any weaker. It was still the same as it had been the day you left.

They would always be your best friends, your brothers by name.

And their feelings were genuine. You of all people would know.

“Please come home,” Cassian begged. “I need you--we all need you.”

This house was not a home without the people you cared about. As much as you loved the Day Court, it wasn’t the same. Not without all the memories tied to it. And perhaps this had just made your friendship with them stronger, made you all realize how much you needed each other despite now having more priorities in your lives. You couldn’t fault them for finding love, for building families.

The three of them were nearly holding their breath with anticipation, waiting for your answer. A smile broke out on your face and their shoulders dropped.

“Okay,” you finally said. “I’ll come home. But I’m keeping this as my vacation house and you all owe me a years’ worth of mooncakes when we get home.”

Laughter filled the tiny cottage as they eagerly agreed to your terms. A new warmth spread in your chest. You were finally going home back to your true family.

❀⊱♡⊰❀

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