#or replaying his death over and over again
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♕ No Matter What - Part 4 | Lena Luthor ♕
Pairing: Lena Luthor x reader
Warnings: mentions of death, minor injuries and anxiety attacks
Summary: Following the fight, you run away, your mind spiraling…
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 5 | Part 6
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In my blind haste to get away, I bump into people which results in them spilling their drinks and shouting at me.
It’s muffled though because my ears are ringing and I have to blink rapidly to prevent the room from drifting out of focus.
I can’t faint now. Not here.
I push through my dizziness and finally make it outside where I stumble to my car. I fumble with the keys, trying to unlock it so I can at least lay down in the backseat, but my hands are shaking too much.
With a whimper I give up, my knees buckling beneath me. I have just enough sense left in me to slide down the side of the car and lean against the tire, rather than letting myself fall forward.
Coward.
The man’s voice keeps replaying in my head until it slowly but surely turns into my dad’s.
I wince and hug my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth with my eyes squeezed shut. “No, no, no, no, no.”
Numb. It’s the only way I can describe how I’m feeling. It’s the only thing I felt for the last couple of days and now I’m at my parents’ front door.
My uniform feels tight and suffocating, and I have to clench my fist to prevent myself from tugging at my collar.
Harper is next to me and she isn’t looking to be doing much better. Her face is void of any emotion and she has the sunken eyes of someone who hasn’t slept all week.
Her blonde hair is slicked back beneath her cap and tied together in a regulatory braid and her uniform, not unlike mine, is crisp and clean.
“Good evening, Sir,” Sergeant Lane says once the door opens. The way he’s standing is shielding Harper and I from view, but when he steps aside, taking off his cap, my dad’s eyes land on us.
He freezes and his face falls. My mom appears a second later, taking in the scene with furrowed eyebrows.
“Y/N, Harper?” she says, her gaze—whether it’s consciously or not—darting to the empty space next to Heather. “What’s going on? Why are you home? Where’s Noah?”
The first tear rolls down my cheek and I wipe it away aggressively, but it’s only the first of many and a second later I’m sobbing. I clasp my hands over my mouth to muffle the sound and lean my head back against the tire.
“How could this happen?” my dad hollers, his voice cracking.
Harper and my mom are huddled up on the couch, crying.
I’m standing in front of the coffee table, my cap in hand, while my dad paces through the room.
“Dad, we did everything we could,” I choke out. I haven’t cried yet. I haven’t cried since I begged Noah to keep his eyes open. “I did everything I could.”
“No you didn’t!” My dad spins around and stares me down with so much hatred, I have to avert my tear-filled eyes. “You didn’t go after him, you—!“
“I couldn’t!” I interrupt with a pained cry. “We were under direct fire.”
My mom lets out a sob and buries her face in Harper’s shoulder.
“But you let him run off!” My dad fires back.
“I didn’t let him do anything,” I cry, “He disobeyed direct orders!”
“You were his superior officer!” My breath catches in my throat when I’m suddenly yanked forward by the collar of my uniform. “It was your job to keep him safe!”
I look up to find my dad baring his teeth, the vein in his forehead throbbing dangerously. When he speaks again, his voice is low and shaky. “He enlisted because he looked up to you. He did everything to impress you and get your approval, and now he’s dead because you did nothing.”
“Dad…” I whisper, the tears I’ve been holding back now dripping down my face.
My dad’s lip twitches and his grip on my collar tightens for a moment before he shoves me away. “Leave.”
Eyes widening, I straighten out my uniform and look at my mom for help, but she’s still crying into Harper’s shoulder. “Dad, please…”
“LEAVE! I DON’T EVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN,” he shouts, shoving me again.
I don’t fight back. I can’t. I look at my mom again and this time I can tell she’s purposefully not looking at me. Neither is Heather, I realize, which shatters my already broken heart.
They think it’s my fault, too.
I choke out a sob and run out of the room.
“You’re a coward, you hear me?” My dad shouts after me when I open the front door. “Coward!”
“Hey,” a soft voice rips me from the memory. My eyes snap open, and I scramble to get away, but then familiar green eyes find mine and I stop.
“It’s okay,” Lena says. She’s crouched down in front of me in her heels, a position I’m sure isn’t exactly comfortable. She reaches for my hand and I let her take it. “You’re okay.”
I gulp and clench my jaw, not attempting to hide the tears that are still running down my face. My heart is pounding in my chest and everything’s still a bit muffled, but I’m no longer on the brink of passing out.
Lena stays with me for what feels like hours, holding my hand in silence and running her thumb over my knuckles until the ringing in my ear finally stops and I feel like I can breathe normally again.
“Ms. Luthor,” I croak, my voice hoarse from crying. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier. I shouldn’t have—“
Lena squeezes my hand and shakes her head. “Don’t apologize. Let’s just go. I’m taking you back to my place. I can’t in good conscience leave you alone after what happened tonight.”
I want to protest, but the headache that is starting to form has me agreeing with a dejected sigh.
I pull myself up, my knees still a little weak, before helping Lena who’s struggling to get up herself because of her heels and her dress.
Without saying anything, she reaches forward and roams around in the pockets of my jacket until she finds my keys.
The proximity makes my ears tingle, but I ignore it as best as I can because it’s super inappropriate. Not only because of what just happened but because she’s my boss. My very attractive boss…Of course I’ve noticed, I’m not blind, but she’s off limits.
It’s clear that she intends on driving, so I get in the passenger seat, my body slumping against the door as soon as I’m done putting my seatbelt on.
“Wait, what about the others?” I ask when Lena starts driving. I lift my head off the window and look at her.
She glances at me for a second before focusing back on the road. “We split up to look for you when you ran off. I texted them as soon as I found you. They’re probably on their own way home.”
Relieved and, admittedly a little touched that they all went looking for me, I lean my head back against the window. My eyes however stay on Lena whose profile is on full display since her hair is in a high ponytail.
She really is beautiful, especially now because her guard is down. Her face is relaxed and so are her shoulders. Gone is the raised eyebrow and the clenched jaw.
She looks younger like this and it makes me realize just how much stress she’s under all the time.
When we come to a stop in front of her building she looks over, slightly startled that I’m already watching her.
“Are you alright?” she asks, a barely noticeable flush making its way to her cheeks.
I send her a tired smile and nod, too exhausted to respond verbally.
“Okay,” she mumbles, ducking her head shyly and opening her door.
I get out myself while she hands the keys to the building’s valet. She also slips him some money and says something which I don’t catch because I’m waiting by the door.
The elevator ride up to the apartment is silent and when we get inside I’m unsure what to do. Lena’s by my side though and leads me through her bedroom and into the bathroom where she guides me to sit on the edge of the bathtub.
I raise an eyebrow, not quite sure what she’s planning on doing but then she wets a small towel and gestures at my face. “May I?”
I look past her to see my reflection in the mirror and grimace. The blood that ran from my nose earlier is now dried and all over my mouth and chin. Some of it also got onto my shirt and jacket alongside the beer and liquor stains I acquired when I was bumping into people.
My eyes find Lena’s again and I nod, showing her that I’m okay with her cleaning my face.
She starts a little hesitant at first, but soon the hand that is not holding the towel is on my chin, directing my head every which way.
Again, the proximity is making me nervous, but I can’t help but watch her while she works. Her brows are furrowed in concentration and she bites her bottom lip every now and then.
I gulp when she wipes the last of the blood away, her face now merely a couple inches from mine because she leaned in to get a better look.
Her eyes dart up to mine and when she realized how close she is, she freezes. Her breath is shallow and her hand drops from my chin to my chest.
I don’t move. I can’t. Not when her eyes are taking in every detail of my face.
Then, as if on cue, there’s a knock at the front door.
Lena snaps out of her daze, panicking slightly, and rushes out of the room.
My shoulders fall and I take a deep breath. This has never happened before. Yes, we’ve shared some small talk and coffee here and there, but we’ve never been alone like this. We’ve never been this close.
Before my mind can go down a rabbit hole and dissect every interaction I’ve had with the young CEO, Lena returns with a plastic bag.
“What’s this?” I ask to break the tension that her return has inadvertently created.
Lena pulls what looks to be a plain grey sweatshirt and some sweatpants from the bag and hands them to me.
“I figured you wouldn’t want to be sleeping like this,” she gestured at my stained shirt which now that I’m thinking about it smells like booze.
I get up and shake my head, attempting to give the clothes back. “I really can’t take this, Ms. Luthor. You’ve done more than enough and I— I should probably go home.”
Lena looks almost disappointed, but it’s quickly replaced by determination. “No, I’m not letting you leave. I—“ she hesitates— “know what it’s like to be alone after something like tonight, so I’m not letting you go home. You can stay in my guest bedroom. ”
I really want to say no and just go home, but the pleading look she’s giving me convinces me to give in with a sigh. “Alright, thank you.”
Lena smiles softly and pushes the clothes back into my arms. “Don’t thank me. It’s the least I can do after the way you defended me tonight.”
This time it’s my turn to get all shy and squirmy. I feel my ears tingle and tighten my grip on the clothes. I could have just told the guy to keep it moving, but I did defend her to him and let’s just say that that is not something that falls within my job description.
“It was nothing,” I reply honestly.
“No,” Lena says lowly. “It was everything.”
I look up to meet her eyes again to find her already watching me with something I can’t quite place.
She takes a careful step forward, her eyes not leaving mine, and ends up placing her hand on my forearm after hesitating and not really knowing where to put it. My heartbeat soars at the contact and the skin on my arm where she’s touching me is heating up.
She squeezes softly and sends me one last smile before leaving me to change. “Good night, Y/N.”
“Good night, Ms. Luthor.”
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Again, not proofread yet but I wanted to get it out sooner rather than later.
I have an exam coming up, so I won’t be able to write as much, but I’ll try my best to keep updating this story.
Also, here you go @nuianced-tck-enby :)
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I Don't Know Which Way's Home
Chapter 17: Repair
ao3 link, Part 1, Part 16
March 1986
The news has been replaying the same story all day. It should be shocking, sort of is, but Julie’s kind of numb to it at this point. Each year, like clockwork, something big happens. Something this small town hasn’t faced in decades. A kid missing, turned up dead, just to be found alive again. A government laboratory had a gas leak that caused the death of many more people. The mall catches on fire causing a mass casualty. Now this.
She was awoken by sirens this morning. Ruined what was supposed to be a day where she slept till noon. It was spring break; she was allowed to be lazy. But instead, the spring break was wrapped up by police tape. The cause of a whole new type of stress.
Beloved student of Hawkins High School, Crissy Cunningham, found dead in the Munson’s trailer. Eddie Munson, the prime suspect, still at large. The body, found by Wayne Munson, a hard-working man of the community, is disfigured beyond belief. The police don’t have enough evidence to make a statement. But are advising the public to be aware and alert the police of any suspicious behavior.
Julie doesn’t know Eddie that well. They’ve only been neighbors, acquaintances. Sure, he drove her to school a few times. Made sure that she got there safely and was an ear when she needed to rant. But that didn’t make them friends. That didn’t make them close.
It didn’t take an idiot to see that Eddie wasn’t as big as scary as he was chalked up to see. Unfortunately, this town was full of idiots. Ready to point their fingers to the person the papers blame. Since they were already so influenced that metal music was from the devil and all dungeons and dragon’s players were Satan worshippers. It only took one headline for them to believe that. What’s stopping them from believing it now?
The evidence is damning. Wayne worked last night so it can’t be him. Multiple witnesses saw Chrissy leave with Eddie after the game last night. He is a known drug dealer, which most people would say is a step away from murder. His van was heard by the entire trailer park at both their entrance and his exit.
But there was one thing that Julie’s not sure anyone really heard. His screams.
Trailer parks are a hive for nosy neighbors fueled by the powers of thin walls. Lots of open air for noise to travel. It was nice outside last night, so Julie sat out on their little porch with a book. Peacefully reading.
Until Eddie pulled up with music blaring out the windows. Slamming on the breaks before he crashes straight into his own trailer. Right before the queen herself gets out of the car and walks right through his front door.
Julie says she’s better than gossip, but this she just had to know. Had to witness. Two people who never interact, going into an empty trailer. A recipe for disaster.
And disaster it was. Not long after, Julie can hear some yelling from the trailer. Something about waking up. Chrissy not being able to hear Eddie. It just increasing in volume until it devolves into a terrified scream. Then Eddie runs out of his trailer, gets into his van, and speeds away.
Julie doesn’t know a lot about how murderers act, but she can guess they don’t normally scream while killing their victims. That’s a pretty obvious sign that something’s wrong. But the police just brush her off when she tells them. The arrest has already written itself.
. . .
Present Day, April 1987
It’s been almost two full weeks since Steve and Julie moved into the new house, and Steve still feels off about it all. About taking the next step in the case. Passing the point of no return.
Steve doesn’t know what to do. It’s like he’s being backing into a corner. On the one hand, he could drop this and make himself a fool to his parents, to his friends, probably a good bit of the town. Or he can go through with it just to drag up his baggage all over again. Feel like shit all over again.
He doesn’t know what to do.
Then there’s all the other stuff. The looming piles of bills in his future, the fact that they still don’t have a couch. That Steve still doesn’t have a proper mattress. And the fridge is getting kind of empty, so he needs to go shopping soon.
These are new worries for him. Making a strict budget and making sure it’s enforced. Saying no to the kids when they want something, forcing Robin and Eddie to pay their share of the meals when they go out. Even though it was really always him ensuring he was alright paying the bill. Making small stacks of coupons and waiting deals to show up in the paper. It’s a lot.
Steve’s never been poor before. Not to say that he is now. Well, he kind of is. He has a good bit of debt because of this loan and lost a large chunk, most, of his savings to buying this house and the initial furniture. Paychecks are split between bills, food, Julie, savings, and then him. He’s the last on his list of priorities.
It’s all bringing up more issues, as if it already wasn’t enough. He’s always been the friend that picks up everyone’s tab. Pays for the check, the parties, the supplies, the fancy gifts. It’s all been from his money. His dad’s money. Which he doesn’t have anymore.
He knows it’s stupid to think that the friends he has now would care about that. Just because his old friends definitely would have. But these guys, they care more about the money. About the name. What Steve can give them.
Sometimes, it just doesn’t feel like it.
Steve’s always been a giver. It felt wrong to keep what he had just to himself. He never took, just gave. What would he be when there was nothing left to give?
Julie shuts the door just a hair away from a slam when she gets home. Giving her bedroom door a harsher treatment. It squeaks all the way shut. He’s been meaning to fix that, hasn’t gotten around to it yet.
She’s been like this ever since they moved. Her demeanor shifting almost immediately. At first, he chalked it up to the stress, having a new place that didn’t feel right. The change uncomfortably itching beneath the skin.
But after a week went by and it was the same thing every day, he knew something was up.
He walks over to her door, knocking lightly.
“What,” Julie yells through the door.
Steve’s taken aback. “How was school?” he asks calmly.
She whips the door open. “Fine,” she huffs. “That all?”
“You ok?” he asks as if the question didn’t answer itself already.
“Yeah,” Julie rolls her eyes. “I’m fine.”
Steve crosses his arms. “You sure? Cause to me it seems like you’re upset about something. You know you can talk to me about this stuff.”
“Whatever.” Julie slams the door in his face.
It takes all Steve has to not rip the door open and give a whole lecture on how rude that was. To restrain himself from stepping into old shoes. To react differently than his father would have. Come back when the moment dies down and the anger stops bubbling. To be better. To be him.
Whatever he is at the moment.
. . .
Julie tears another piece of paper out of her notebook. Crumpling it in her hands and throwing it across the room, watching it miss the trashcan. Landing next to the other balls of paper. Each one being more wrong than the last.
She should be doing homework. There’s an essay due for her English class in a few days and she hasn’t gotten around to writing it. Too busy with the move, then the adjusting. Now this. The same thoughts over and over again in her mind. All of them screaming that this can’t be happening right now.
Every time Julie thinks she can have any sort of break, another thing comes along just to punch her down again. Her mom died, then she moved, then she moved again, then she started getting better but that’s this whole other thing, then she gets kicked out, moves again. Now she has a crush on one of her best friends. What a great fucking life this is.
Julie tugs at the roots of her hair, pushing her fingers under the tightness of her braid. Hoping if she squeezes long enough, the unwanted thoughts will just leave. She’ll be able to think of a theme in the Catcher in the Rye that speaks to her enough to get five pages out of. Be able to write enough in her stupid notebook that makes sense. Get her grades back to where they were before and her life back together again.
Falling apart is a tune run dry and Julie’s tired of playing it. All she wants to do is go back to being normal. Like she was a year ago. Happy, kinda pissed at the world in different ways, but happy. Where there was something that didn’t quite make sense with the way she felt about girls, but it was easy to brush it all off. And her mom came home smelling like syrup and bacon grease instead of alcohol. Her knew sobriety chip kept proudly in the pocket of her apron. Constantly reminding her what the tips really needed to be spent on.
Life was good. It was normal. It was everything. Julie misses everything.
She misses the way the house always smelled a little stale and like mildew. The flowery candle her mom burned doing nothing to cover it up. She misses the way she would trip on the pile of shoes by the door. And how the singular hook on the wall would always drop her coat so much she started to throw it over a chair. How the kitchen would always be a little bit messy, and there would be dishes in the sink and pots on the stove. The couch that had it’s built in divot made by someone else with cushions that were squished beyond compare. Doors that fell off hinges every year or so and the sounds of the radio flowing through the walls.
All of it aches in her heart the more she moves on. The more she grows away from the place she called home. Having to keep retracing it all in her mind so she won’t forget it. Hold her mom’s sweatshirt close to her nose and pray to smell her cheap perfume again. But all that’s there is Julie. All there is left is Julie.
Julie is the only thing left of her mom other than the picture sitting on her desk. Which sucks for so many reasons she can’t find the words to explain. Mainly because looking in the mirror gets harder. Each time looking a little less like herself than the day before. Not quite knowing who she is anymore.
Reflections almost heighten to the imperfections on Julie’s face. The darkness underneath her eyes, the red dots forming on her chin and forehead. The fakeness of her smile, the way it can’t seem to reach her eyes quite right. Growing into a face that lost its childhood. Fighting to keep all she can of what’s left.
Growing up was always going to be hard. Slowly seeing herself morph away from childhood dreams and expectations. Having them crushed by the cruel realities of the world. Having memories trapped in confines of the mind that can’t seem to be open again. Becoming someone is hard in a normal life, let alone one with as many hurdles as Julie’s.
Julie can’t even begin to fathom what she would say to herself half a year ago, five years ago. How could she crush that little girl’s dreams right before her eyes. Witnessing the pain from the outside rather than the in. Tell her that there would be no princess wedding, or even one at all. That her mom wouldn’t even be there if she could. Gone far too soon. She left Julie far too soon.
Childhood isn’t missed until it’s stripped away. Until it can never return. For what its worst, Julie’s mom made sure she had it for as long as possible. Before the inevitable kicked in and took it away for her.
Now Julie’s filled with hate again. At herself. At Steve for trying. At him for not being who she wants on the other side of the door. A constant reminder that this good thing could only come once her mom was gone. Finally, a house, but without the mother to make it a home.
It’s not fair to blame him, she knows that. Can hear the upcoming words of her therapist as she relays this all to him in the next session. How she’s placing Steve in a box that he was never meant to fill. Just because the emptiness was too crushing to face in whole.
Giving up on the homework, Julie lies on her bed. The new mattress smell still seeping through the covers. She takes her Walkman and presses play on whatever’s in there. Noise blasting through her ears, loud enough to hopefully cover these thoughts. She grabs a pillow, wanting to squeeze something close to her chest. All of her childhood stuffed animals gone with the first move. Another piece of her that is forever lost.
The tears start to form, and Julie lets them fall.
. . .
The next day doesn’t seem to be any better. She insists on biking to school today. Doesn’t really make it a choice as she hoes straight from her room to the door. Without saying as much as a goodbye.
Steve doesn’t push. Thinks it would be best after the outburst yesterday.
The last time Julie acted like this was her mom’s birthday. Where she was hurting so bad that she decided to hit at the closest target. If that’s what she needs to do again, he’d be happy to take it all. Hold some of the hurt so she didn’t have too anymore. Distract him from his own hurt at the moment.
It’s so bad that she forgets her lunch on the counter. Even though it would probably have ended in the garbage. Like how last night’s dinner landed right into a container to be revisited later. Still sitting in the fridge when Steve went to make breakfast this morning.
He’s not quite sure the last time she’s eaten more than half her plate. Too busy with his own stuff to notice her dip back in her progress. Kicking himself that he didn’t see it all sooner. That it took for her slamming a door in his face to understand how bad it had really gotten. Not like he could have stopped it. But it might have helped.
“That conversation you had with Julie while me and Eddie were out getting the pizza,” Steve says while explaining the situation to Robin. “Was that about her mom? About the move?”
Robin takes a second to think. Physically stopping and starting her movements a few times before speaking. “No, it was about something else.”
Something else. Steve didn’t know about a something else. “Was it because of me?”
“No, no. It was just something really private that she wanted to talk to me about. I would tell you but it’s really not my place to.”
Steve ignores the alarm bell ringing in his head. She’ll tell him about it, whatever it is, when she’s ready. “But you would if you thought it had anything to do with the way she’s acting.”
Robin shrugs. “It depends. If I thought, it would help. But honestly,” she takes a deep breath. “I think telling you about it might make it a million times worse.”
“Make what a million times worse?” Eddie asks after walking in. Sliding into his designated spot at Steve’s side and placing a kiss to the side of his head.
Robin rolls her eyes. “You guys can’t be this happy while Nancy’s away at school.”
“Oh boohoo.” Eddie sticks out his tongue.
“I thought you had work today?” Steve asks Eddie.
He shrugs. “I’m sick.”
“You’re going to be jobless if you keep calling out for no damn reason,” Robin chastises.
“Well clearly, I was needed elsewhere because there is a situation that needs dealing with. Make what worse? By a million times?”
Robin rolls her eyes again, gesturing Steve to fill Eddie in on the situation.
“Julie’s hitting a low point again, she slammed a door in my face yesterday.”
“Do you think it’s about her mom?” Eddie gets a soda out of the fridge and sits on the countertop.
It could be. One of the first things Julie said when she saw the house was how it reminded her or her mom. How a place like this was all her mom ever wanted for the two of them. That had to drag up some feelings. Especially since they were now living here.
Steve shrugs. “It could be. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was.”
But there was something else. Either the thing she talked about with Robin or him pushing yesterday. Something going on in school. Anything.
There were so many places to mess up. For Steve to fuck up something that didn’t just involve him. He’s bad at dealing with things. Pretending his problems don’t exist so he doesn’t have to think about them. Or lashing out just to feel more powerful than them.
Steve just didn’t want Julie to feel like she had to keep it in. That she had to keep the war in her mind because no one cared enough to listen. Or that she would burden him just for talking to him about it. He wanted her to be better than himself. Maybe that was too high of an expectation to have.
“Just talk to her about it,” Robin says softly. “She’s always come around to telling you how she feels. She just needed to blow off a little steam, that’s all.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Maybe was a lot of things right now. None of them made Steve feel any better.
“Hey,” Eddie kicks Steve gently. “What’s really going on? Other than the Julie thing?”
“It’d be easier to say what isn’t going on than what is?” Steve pulls out one of the metal folding chairs from their makeshift kitchen/dining table and sits down. It squeaks under his weight, proving his point for him. “Maybe I bit off more than I can chew.”
Robin pulls out the chair next to him. “You did what you had to. It just happened to be very overwhelming.”
“I’m not talking about that. Well, I am but not really. It’s just,” Steve takes a deep breath. “This case. If I’m still going through with it. It’s just adding more to the pile and I’m now realizing I didn’t really think it through as much as I should’ve.”
“What do you mean,” Eddie interrupts. “You seemed liked you thought it over a lot, actually. Had evidence all laid out, contacted people, got witness statements. People to testify. Had multiple people who know their shit tell you that this was a good case. You checked off all the boxes.”
“Yeah, sure. But I don’t think I’d realized at the time that I might be going to court twice in a short amount of time.”
Steve asked Sarah a few weeks ago what it would take to make him the permanent guardian for Julie. Maybe even adopting her. If that’s what she wanted, he hasn’t brought that specifically up yet. Sarah mentioned something about permanent guardianship, since Julie’s only a year away from becoming an adult.
But no matter what, it probably leads to presenting his case before a judge. Having them make the final decision. With all the things that have happened in the past few weeks, and Sarah pulling some strings she shouldn’t have, the risk of relocation raised a bit. Making this permanent would get rid of the risk. Neither of them would have to worry about this anymore.
“Wait, twice,” Robin questions.
“Yeah, once for this case against my parents, twice to get permanent custody of Julie.”
“Is that something you guys have talked about?”
Steve shrugs. “A bit. She definitely wants to stay with me long term, and I said I’d start asking about the options. I just haven’t talked to her about which one she would prefer, since she’s got less than a year before she turns eighteen. Most of them involve at least going in front of a judge to prove that I have the means to care for her until she’s an adult.”
“And if this case falls through, it might look bad on you,” Eddie connects the dots.
“Exactly. And I’ll have to pay all the legal fees out of my own pocket where I would have gotten that back from the money I won.”
Then there was the reason for doing this all in the first place, getting them to understand what they did to him. How he was affected because of their neglect. Would they even listen? Would this change anything? Would this all just become another story to tell their friends?
They would go around telling their friends how much of a disappointment he is. How he is ungrateful of everything they’ve done for him. How he wouldn’t even be here without them. As if that makes up for the fact that they were never around.
Creating someone doesn’t immediately garner respect. It still has to be earned. Each time he was left, his respect, his love for his parents shrunk. Now all that is left is a sliver so small, yet it still feels like a mountain. Still crushing him.
He doesn’t want to be crushed by it anymore.
Steve gets up, goes to his room and pulls out all of the evidence he’s built. The entire case against his parents laid in a binder. Copies of bank and credit card statements. Highlighted lines of hotel stays and flights books. Lined up with dates that Steve could recall they missed. Birthdays and holidays lost. Memories begged to be made. Years gone.
Statements of the many nannies that he had. Each confirming their own payments, the lengths of their stays. Empty cards filled with not even the signature of their names. Cursive congratulations and happy birthdays printed instead. Hospital records that show his own signature on the discharge form. Mrs. Henderson’s name on the contact form since his parents couldn’t care to show up.
It was enough, it had to be.
He brings it out to the kitchen, laying it all out on the table. Asking Robin and Eddie to go through it. Tell him if they think it would be enough.
Witnesses, one of them asks. Steve could think of a few. One of the nannies had offered when he asked. She would still do it. Hopper said he would not only be a character witness, but also get the records for that one house party he broke up where Steve was caught underage drinking. How he had to drive him home, his parents nowhere to be seen. Nancy probably would too. She could tell the courts how she knew his parents were never home, even if he was seventeen.
It is enough.
Eddie grabs Steve’s hand. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”
Robin grabs his other hand. “If this would be too much, no one would blame you for walking away.”
Here in this small kitchen with old cabinets with squeaky hinges and tile that he absolutely hates. In a house that he bought on his own, for the family that he made, it’s finally starting to feel like a home.
The walls were never what made it empty. The unopened rooms and unused furniture. It was the energy that never flowed through the doors that made it devoid of all life. Sucking what it could from the person in it to make up for the loss. Now, as people come and go, as Steve and Julie live here, the house feels full.
With these people by his side that showed up by surprise. Chose him for whatever reason that he might never understand. But circumstances led them to each other, and they don’t leave. Even when he tried. Gave them the opportunity to. Yet, they stayed. Every. Single. Time. They helped him learn what home should feel like.
Steve is enough. He always was.
“I want to do this,” Steve says without a doubt in his voice. “Even if they still won’t believe it, or be pissed at me for the rest of their life. I want to show up to the court with rows of people behind me, while their side is empty. Show them the real thing they lost was me.”
. . .
When Julie gets home, she goes right to her room. Ignoring the happy mood Steve is in. Ignores the fact that she saw Eddie’s van drive down the street as she was biking home from school. Ignores the slight rumbles in her stomach and the ache in her legs. Lets her body fall limp onto her bed after her bag slips off her shoulder. Filled with work that won’t get done. Marked with a big red “F” when she turns them in blank.
Just adding on to how Julie is already feeling.
What would her mom say to her? Her daughter’s grade dipping. Another new home. Not eating. Slamming doors in the face of the one person who was beside her during all of this.
Liking girls.
She would pull some of her mom wisdom out of her ass for some of it. Not really helping or making much sense, but it worked out in the end. Julie always ended up figuring out something. Got better after some time and picked herself up again. Kept moving.
Time just keeps moving. It’s endless and doesn’t stop. Forcing all to move along with it. Whether they want to or not. Even when life gets in the way and forces them to stop. To become stuck. Julie feels stuck again. Did for a long time. It was easy to become stuck when there was security blanketed around her.
Julie doesn’t really feel like time moved as fast as it did. How it was six months, almost seven since her mom died. And Julie still feels like it was yesterday sometimes. Especially right now. Transported back to the day the police officers knocked on her door. Took her away. When she was frozen, but kept moving. Had to keep moving.
She doesn’t have to keep moving anymore. There’s no goal anymore. No checkmark in her progress or hurdle she has to jump over. Just a pile of tasks that are too overwhelming to acknowledge or unpack. So she lets them pile up. They aren’t important right now.
Julie winces when she tugs off a scab on her thumb. Starting the bleeding all over again. With a deep breath, she forces herself off the bed and to the bathroom. Digging for the first aid kit under the sink for another band aid. Ignoring her reflection in the mirror. The greasy strands of hair pulled back into a French braid. The dark circles around her eyes. That person isn’t her anymore.
Julie isn’t Julie right now. She’s something else. Unrecognizable. To herself. To her mom. To anyone.
“Hey, Julie,” Steve says before she can escape back to her room.
She takes another deep breath, ready to push him away again. Not ready for a talk. “What?” she asks, too tired to even sound pissed.
Steve holds out the phone. “Phone for you.”
Julie presses her lips together, taking the phone and holding it closer to her ear. Curling around herself. “Hello.”
“Julie, it is me, El.”
Great. “Hey, El. What’s up?” Julie tries to feign excitement. Terrified at the brief flutter of her heart that spawned by the sound of El’s voice.
“I realized I never got around to asking you this at lunch, but are you free next Friday?”
“Uh, I think so. I’ll have to double check.” No, she won’t. She doesn’t have anything going on, just wants to seem like she does.
“Would you like to come over for a sleepover? I know we just kind of had one, but I want a better one. And then Max can be there too.”
Julie doesn’t want a sleepover. Well, she does, but not one with Max. Because it would be Max and El on the bed. Because why would they make the girl in the wheelchair with chronic pain sleep on the air mattress on the floor. That’s rude and stupid. And it’s El’s room, so she would also be in the bed.
Meaning that Julie would be alone on the floor while her two friends share a bed. Which normally wouldn’t be a problem. Normally she wouldn’t care. But now she does. Because she knows what it’s like to sleep in the same bed as El and the midnight talks that are kind of really serious but also really nice. The nervousness that creeps under her skin every time El’s eyes meet hers. The pounding of her heart as she tries to get a singular word out.
But she can’t say no. Can’t see the disappointment in El’s face or hear it in her voice. Would rather be there, suffering in silence, than miss out on time with her friends. Which she would enjoy for a majority of it, and could kind of need right now.
“Sure,” Julie says. “If I’m free and everything.”
She wishes she sounded more excited, but she can’t.
“Yay. Let me know as soon as possible if you are free. I will see you at school tomorrow.”
Julie’s slight smile drops. “Yeah, tomorrow. Talk to you later.”
The phone clicks onto the receiver as tears start to spring to Julie’s eyes. For reasons she doesn’t really know why but feels deep inside her chest. A pain she’s never felt. Crushing. Terrifying. A tear rolls down her cheek as she runs to her room, wiping it away quickly so Steve doesn’t see.
But he sees.
“Hey, are you ok?” he asks as Julie crosses into her bedroom.
“Just leave me alone,” she yells with a sob, slamming her door. Right in his worried face.
She can’t even make it to her bed before she falls. Slamming her back into the door and pulling her knees close to her chest. Wet patches forming on her knees. Breathing in stutter breaths just to let them out as broken sobs. Trying to pull herself together. Trying to keep it quiet. Knowing Steve is right behind the door, wondering what he can do.
What Julie’s feeling can’t be fixed. No matter what she tries. No matter how hard she tries. She can’t be normal anymore.
A slip of paper gets slid under the door next to her. After the sobs start to slow and Julie can see things again. She picks it up, unfolding it.
When you’re ready to talk about it, I’m here.
All it does is start Julie’s sobs again. How could she have been so lucky to have someone so understanding waiting for her outside the door? When her life went to shit. When things just keep going to shit. He’s still there. Even when she slams doors in his face and uprooted his entire life.
Without even blinking, he’s still there.
“Steve,” she says to her empty room when the tears slow. Hoping he can hear.
“Yeah,” the answer comes from the other side of the door.
Julie lets out a wet laugh. “When you said you were waiting, I didn’t think it’d be right outside the door.”
“Well, technically, it’s right next to your door. Only since I slid the note, though. I gave you space for a bit.”
Her knees fall to the ground, hands falling in her lap. Resuming the picking of her unbandaged thumb. “I appreciate that.”
A beat of silence. “You’re talking to me again. Does that mean you want to talk about it?”
“Maybe, I’m not sure.” She takes a shaky breath. “I’m not sure how to talk about it.”
“That’s ok. Do you want to wait to talk about it, see if you can find the words later?”
Her head gently bangs against the door. Mind racing to find the words. To say something so he can find the solution for her and the pain can go away. But it all leads to a question so unfathomable that she can’t even bear to ask it. Gets mad at herself for even thinking about it.
She does though. Over and over again. Her mind finding answers she doesn’t like. Doesn’t want to believe were a possibility. Truth is, she will never have an answer to that question. No matter how hard she searches for one. The one person who can give it isn’t here anymore. Leaving an uncertainty that would weigh over her head forever.
“I’m sorry,” Julie says instead. Apologizing for the things she can instead of searching for what she can’t. “For slamming the door in your face.”
“You can slam the door in my face as many times as you need to. Just as long as you agree to talk to me about it, when you’re ready to. I may not always follow my own rules, but it’s better to talk about things before they start to build up.”
Julie wipes away the stray tear rolling down her cheek. Moving to pick at the strands of her jeans so she doesn’t need another band aid. “I think this has been building up for a while now. I just didn’t know it was there.”
There’s silence across the door for a minute or two.
“You know what I kind of really want right now, chocolate chip cookies,” Steve says suddenly.
It’s so random that is makes Julie laugh. “What?”
“Yeah, you know, freshly made, warm chocolate chip cookies. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
Julie smiles. “That actually does sound kind of nice.”
“Great. I’m going to go make some, you can join me if you want.”
She does kind of want to. After taking a deep breath, Julie picks herself off the floor. Wincing at the soreness of her legs from sitting on rough carpet for so long. Opens the door and heads to the kitchen. Steve is pulling out one of the many cookbooks he stole from his parents and turning to a recipe. Starting to grab the different ingredients.
He smiles when Julie searches their cabinets, searching for the mixing bowl they also stole from his parents. Probably thinking he’s had some sort of victory over this. Maybe he has. She’s out of the room, and probably about to eat something. It’s a small victory for the both of them.
The oven takes an eternity to preheat. Leaving the rolled-out cookies on the stovetop. Some of them mysteriously gone missing. Well, not mysteriously, she had a few more than she should. But so did Steve, so it was fine.
When the cookies are finally baked, Steve waits a few minutes before placing some on a plate and bringing them over to the blanket pile that is still acting as a couch. But instead, some of the chairs hold up the blankets, making a small fort.
It reminds her of the ones her mom and her made during thunderstorms. When the trailer would shake with each boom, but not the fort. With soft pillows and flashlight shadow puppet stories. Falling asleep when the thunder was far enough away that it became calming. Paired with the patter of rain on the roof. They were always safe in the fort.
Julie was safe in the fort.
She breaks the cookie in her hand, the warm chocolate smearing across her fingertips. Melting in her mouth as soon as they hit. Giving her the energy to say what she needs to say. What she wants to say.
“You know it was El that called, right.” Julie breaks the cookie again. “Well, of course you know. You’re the one who gave me the phone.”
Steve sits straighter, giving Julie his full attention. “Yeah, I know.”
“She was asking if I was free next Friday, for a sleepover.” Her heart starts racing as the words still stay unsaid. Trapped in her throat, even though she knows he wouldn’t care about them.
“That sounds fun. Did you want to go?”
Julie continues to stare at her hands, unable to look up. “Yeah, I do. It’s just. It’s harder now. Because I think, no, I know that I.” She takes a deep breath. She can do this. “I have a crush. On El.”
Steve takes a second to respond. Keeping the moment tense. Julie can only hear the sound of her own heart beating.
“That would make it harder,” he finally says.
“Yeah,” Julie chokes as the tears start to form again. “Yeah, it really does.”
Steve moves the plate of cookies out from in between them before scooting closer. Reaching out to place a hand on Julie’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s ok.”
“No, it’s not,” Julie stops him before he can try to comfort her. “I hate that I’m like this. It’s terrifying. I don’t want like this to be but I am. And I’m going to screw everything up.”
She pulls her legs up to her chest again, the tears retracing their tracks down her cheeks. Even when she thought the wells had dried, it keeps flowing.
“I know exactly how you feel,” Steve exhales. “I felt the same way when I figured out I liked guys. So much so, that I pushed it down and forgot it for years. Kept pretending that this part of me wasn’t a part of me. Hated myself for it. Pushed that hatred outward toward people who didn’t deserve it. Just because I was so angry with myself that I couldn’t be normal.”
Julie clenches her eyes shut, trying to force the tears to stop flowing. Wanting this hurt to stop.
“There were a lot of factors that made me want to hide who I was, I think. My parents, mostly. My reputation. I was the kid that threw parties and had all the nicknames. Hawkins High School’s poster boy. A Harrington. Any wrong move and I was done for. I didn’t need that wrong move to be dangerous.”
She pulls herself more inward. Wondering if she becomes small enough, the problems will just go away. No longer hunting the prey hiding in the bushes.
“It took a lot for me to realize that I wasn’t-. That I wasn’t broken.” Steve takes a deep breath, clears his throat. “That this part of me was normal. Is normal. Just doesn’t always feel like it in a small town. It took meeting other people like me to realize that this was something I could be and still be happy. And believe me, there’s so much happiness waiting for you.”
“Doesn’t feel like it,” Julie mutters into her knees. “It feels like everything keeps breaking apart over and over again.”
“Yeah, yeah it does.”
Julie lifts her head up, finally turning to look at Steve. “I just don’t want to mess up one of the first friendships I’ve had in years because I can’t stop acting weird around her. I can hate myself all I want, I can’t make her hate me too.”
Steve takes a deep breath, turning himself so he’s facing Julie completely. “And you won’t. El is one of the most loving and forgiving people I have ever met. Well, when she cares about someone. She can be pretty brutal to the people who she doesn’t like, but that’s not the point. El cares about you, she won’t judge you for this.”
“I can get not judging me for the liking girls bit. But liking her?” Julie doesn’t know how that could ever work out in her favor.
“Ok, so this next part doesn’t directly apply to your problem. And I’m not sure if any of this is even helping, but it just feels like it needs to be said and I know he won’t care if I share this for him.” He takes another breath. “But Eddie and I were kind of going through this same problem with each other. Only difference is I knew he was gay, and he didn’t know I was.”
“And the only difference between that situation and this one is that yours was a success story,” Julie says before he can continue. Shocking him. “You two aren’t as good as hiding it as you think you are. I picked it up a while ago.”
Steve snorts. “Yeah, kinda figured. I’m more just trying to say that this thing you’re going through isn’t unique. Hell, half of the people in our group have had that feeling some way or another. And we’re still friends. You’re going to be just fine, trust me.”
Just fine doesn’t exactly sound like anything she wants to be. She’s been just fine for months. It’s kind of shitty. Not feeling like anything important, knowing she should be feeling more but can’t. Moving without really moving through life. Just going from one day to the next, them all blending together. Right up until fine becomes a lie again.
Until something unearths itself in the mind and can no longer be ignored. Brings all of its own problems and piles on top of all the others. Dragging up old baggage with it, only adding to the problem.
Leaving Julie with one more question she’s too afraid to ask.
So much in her life has changed. So much is different now. She’s a new person, one her mom wouldn’t recognize. Overwhelmed by grief. Brought into this large group of people, a giant family. Surrounded by people who are like her. Who show her that this is a life she could have. If she just put enough trust in herself.
If she put enough trust in her mom. And stopped wondering if she would still love Julie the same knowing that she will never marry a man. An answer Julie will never actually get.
Steve reaches out and pulls Julie into a hug. Comforts her the way a brother can, but it doesn’t bring the same comfort that Julie craves.
It’s things like this that makes Julie’s heart ache the most. How she will go through these big life events and never hear the same words of comfort again. Never have her mother’s weight sit on the foot of her bed, telling her it will all be ok. That no matter what, she will always love Julie. Never will stop as long as she lives. And even then, the love will transcend death and continue for infinity.
Nothing can stop infinity. Julie hopes that means nothing will stop her mother’s love either. Even this.
“Sorry for taking your coming out moment away from you,” Julie says after she calmed down. “I know you were waiting to tell me about it.”
Steve shrugs it off. “That’s ok. I was really dragging my feet with telling you, I’ve been ready for a while now, just didn’t know how to bring it up.”
“For what it’s worth, it kind of helped. Made me feel a little better knowing that I’m not alone in this.”
“You’re not alone in anything, Julie. No matter what, there will be people behind you. Whether that’s me, your friends, anyone else lucky enough to meet you.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, whatever. Thanks, though.”
“It’s what I’m here for.”
. . .
The notice from the courthouse comes a week later. Alerting Steve that it’s time to approve the court date. One’s been selected for him, but can be pushed back if he needs it to. But it’s there. It’s real. This is actually happening.
He goes over the evidence again, confirms with Hopper that he can actually witness. Get the files all ready on his end. Then contacts his old nanny and gets talked into coming over for brunch. To catch up and see how he’s doing. Make sure she is what he needs for this case. Which she is. She was the longest one he ever had and was extremely meticulous. Most likely still has her pay stubs after all these years.
The last person he has to call is Nancy. Who doesn’t even know that he’s moved yet. Or that his parents are home.
It’s been a while since he’s called her, obviously, and he’s been avoiding it. Not wanting an earful of her again. But he needs to know when she’s back and if she’ll testify for him. She he dials her number.
“Nancy speaking.”
“Hey, Nance, it’s Steve. I have some things to catch you up on.”
She sighs. “Oh, I know. Robin refused to tell me anything about whatever’s going on. I think it was to force you to call me.”
“Yeah probably.”
After a long conversation and a lecture from Nancy on the importance of phone calls, she agrees to testify on his behalf. As both a character witness and also to back up some of the evidence he has.
Everything’s starting to get put together. Now all there is to do is wait.
Tag list(let me know if you want to be added or removed): @homoerotictangerine, @mugloversonly, @thesuninyaface, @imyelenasexual, @anaibis,
@ilovecupcakesandtea, @brainsteddielyrotted, @jackiemonroe5512, @eddie-munsons-missing-nipple, @goodolefashionedloverboi,
@cinnamon-mushroomabomination, @lolawonsstuff, @writingandmushroomdragons, @stevesbipanic, @sierra-violet,
@steddie-as-they-go, @dauntlessdiva, @mousedetective, @the-daydreamer-in-the-corner, @zombiethingy,
@connected-dots-st-reblogger, @that-agender-from-pluto, @allyricas, @cheddartreets, @devondespresso,
@crypticcorvidinacottage, @queenie-ofthe-void @chronicpainstevetruther, @melonmochi
#stranger things#stranger things fanfic#steve harrington#eddie munson#robin buckley#julie lawson#nancy wheeler#el hopper#steddie#long lost/secret sibling#sibling au#i don't know which way's home fic#coming out#internalized homophobia
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ok so now i'm just thinking about how, like, lu guang has to feign nonchalance this whole time. he has to pretend to banter with cxs, to get absorbed in a book, to clean the studio. to live a life, knowing the whole time anything could change, knowing the whole time that cxs will die, knowing when that is, and just
god
#link click#i lost this post along the way but just#the idea of him like#sitting in the sunroom#reading a book#but like#he's not reading a book#he's thinking of what he can do to save cxs#or replaying his death over and over again#or berating himself for breaking his own rule#LIKEEEEEEE#text post
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@ your tags on my post, i am shaking you like a maraca and yelling "YESSSSS"
i wanna see how kh3 tackles that whole thing because it's so eerily similar to what happens in the manga. and in the manga, he is in so much pain and agony, AND HE'S STILL FIGHTING. ROXAS IS THERE WITH HIM, HIS ONLY COMPANION, and then kh3 just tripped and fell on the glass table.
also, i think about this constantly, i want them to do something with it so bad.
YEA i cant wait to see the rest of kh3 manga chapters and how they handle everything, i especially loved the manga versions for days and kh2 and the way their stories were told - even tho kh3 has a Lot going on that might be hard to show well.. amano's been good at it so far tho so i have faith :]
but yeah that whole thing with Roxas is just . oughh. im not gonna lie even i forgot that Roxas was like. still there with Sora when he perishes until i thought abt it writing those tags but now that ive realized that. why the hell did they not take advantage of that!!!! like ok i get that it was more focused on the destiny trio in the ways i talked abt in the tags but yknow. what happened to "he makes up the difference"?? that wouldve been a great moment for it to shine!! ik they already make an example of it during the Xemnas n Saïx fight but still!!
part of me wishes Roxas couldve have more outward influence on Sora the way Ven did. granted, he arguably had an affect on Sora back in kh2, and while i dont remember if it was canon or even intended, that could be applied to both his appearance (his lighter hair, mostly) and his behavior (his hostility towards the organization members; ive seen this argued both as smth Roxas had influence over and purely based on Soras experiences thus far, and i believe in both personally) but Ven in kh3 was literally able to speak and somewhat act through him. im pretty sure this was meant to show that Ven was fully ready to awaken or smth like that, and that wasnt sonething that was needed for Roxas; hes alright, just needed a body/vessel for himself. but i still think itd be a cool way to express the earlier sentiment. and it wouldnt necessarily have to be Roxas "taking over" either, the manga shows very well how Roxas gives Sora strength from within and that he definitely does make a difference
to be fair tho...... whether that wouldve helped Sora in the moment that he gives in to his despair, im not sure. in kh2, both manga and game, hes in a very different mindset than kh3. in that part of the manga especially, despite thinking everyone (except Roxas) is gone for good, he still has the belief that they can live on within him. and that, plus the literal strength hes getting from Roxas, is keeping him going despite it all. in kh3 his self confidence is beyond fucked, and he truly believes in that moment that hes lost Everything, not just his friends. thats hard to come back from
i wonder if he were to remember that Roxas were still there, if that wouldve helped. whether for comfort in the way that hes not really alone then, or for motive to keep living bc if he dies then Roxas is gone too, or whatever reason, i think it couldve changed something, even if its just a little bit. hell, itd have been great if something like that happened afterwards in the final world. id like to think Roxas had a hand in Sora surviving ..... not sure how but its a nice thought. either way i do wish Sora n Roxas' connection and that moment they have in san fransokyo had more....... More. in kh3. it was a great opportunity that they didnt use/forgot about n im now sad abt it forever
#while writing this im now realizing that Sora rly just keeps going thru the 'the real answer was within u all along' thing over n over .#Kairi. Roxas. then Ventus and still Roxas#ANYWAY BACK TO MY MAIN POINT its part of why i love love love the manga i love how they handle Roxas especially#not that i dont like his game stuff tho dont get me wrong. hes one of the most beloved characters for a Reason#its possible that they didnt do anything bc they wanted Roxas' big moment to be when he comes back as himself once n for all#n didnt wanna take away from that maybe ? idk thats pure theorizing here#but also theres that mention of how Jiminy is still with him after death..... and how Naminé appears in the final world n all that.....#thats not related to the previous thing i mentioned it just. feels connected in a way i cant articulate rn#ok my ability to think is going down now thats all i got rn. ty for enabling me again i havent thought abt these guys like this in a While#god. i need to replay kh2 again sometime#kh#ask#storm-driver#as an add on purely for myself - the thing i said at the very beginning of the tags abt the people within being the answer#or important in some way...... he himself is included in that. bc of remind
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it's been years since I played Rdr2 but I saw your gifset and I nearly started crying again. I THOUGHT I WAS OVER HIS DEATH 😭😭😭
you're welcome :)
#AGSHKAJGHSKJ i'm kidding#i know the feeling#i replayed rdr1 last month and lemme tell ya#i was In Pain#i still need to finish my rdr2 second playthrough tho#but i'm not ready to Suffer again#and i mean#we'll never get over his death i just know that.....#😭😭😭#ask#jynesro#and sorry taking so long to reply#i completely forgot about the ask :(((
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Pushing aside the fact that I am, quite possibly, a Kendrick fan—disregarding my biases, I think Drake needs to stop. Push Ups was a good diss. Surface level, vapid, but it possessed that mean, petty spirit that carries a diss track all the way. Even bringing up accusations that are, realistically speaking, unlikely still works because a diss is supposed to show just how much you hate a person and how cleverly you can bring it.
Taylor Made was weird. I get that it was a strategy. Drop the main diss first and then drop this one to really prod at Kendrick. Using Pac and Snoop AI voices sucks though. Distilling Kendrick as Taylor's underling also doesn't work because Kendrick only collaborated with her once (twice when they remade Bad Blood) and that's it. Meanwhile Drake is out here always looking for new, up and coming artists to pounce on their trends or cling to established artists. Then it got taken down, because of course it would have been. You used 2Pac's voice. Did you really think his estate, his family, wouldn't do anything?
So he bought Pac's ring and used his voice without permission. More and more we see just how much of a vulture Drake is.
And then Euphoria drops.
Your first diss was met with solid reactions. Your second got taken down. Kendrick drops on a random hot Tuesday, and in a matter of hours surpasses your numbers that took weeks to accumulate. Kendrick did that. Euphoria was also harsh, clever, and sounded so good that people kept replaying it over and over again. Once more, Kendrick schools you.
A few insiders then say that Drake will drop that night. Right after. But he then allegedly gets cold feet. A few hours later from when Drake was supposedly ready to drop but backs out, Kendrick drops 6:16 in LA.
In your previous disses, you begged Kendrick to drop something with quintuple entendres. Euphoria did that. But he took it a step further by naming his second diss 6:16 in LA.
June 16: Father's day. Referencing the fact that Drake has been proven to be a deadbeat father.
June 16, 1971: Tupac's Birthday. Kendrick idolizes him. Drake steals from him.
June 16, 2019: First episode of Euphoria drops. A show Drake is listed as a producer on. A show about underage girls entering a life of sex, substance abuse, and more. Things that Drake has been accused of repeatedly in the past.
June 16, 2011: in June 2, 2011, Kendrick posted on his twitter that there will be a concert at Toronto on 6/16. Allegedly this is where Drake and Kendrick first met.
6:16 AM: The time of release for this track.
6:16: Multiple possible Bible verses, given Kendrick's Christian background.
Other claims felt like reaches though, so I'll stick to that.
The final two lines of 6:16 also reference the Michael Jackson, R. Kelly, and their song "You Are Not Alone". Drake, who has always claimed he is Michael Jackson or at the very least his equal/successor, is now tied to him in a way he does not want. Because we know all of the dirt that came out after MJ's death. We all know what R. Kelly was sent to prison for. And we all know what Drake has been accused of multiple times.
Kendrick also alludes to the fact that you have a leak in your circle, Drake.
So Drake drops Family Matters. A scathing 7 minute song that makes fun of the GKMC van. Saying that Kendrick's daughter isn't his. Saying that his wife cheats on him with security. Saying that he beats his wife.
Now, these are enormous accusations levied. But Kendrick has responded before, years ago, that the DV accusations were false. He has also always been open about his faults. Adultery. Sex addiction. Insecurity. God complex. Kendrick, for better or worse, has always laid out nearly every aspect of his younger life on his songs. This also helped by the fact that in both Euphoria and 6:16, Kendrick says that Drake has spent millions on finding dirt on him but came up with nothing. Again, these accusations can still be proven true and if so, Kendrick needs to be held accountable for them.
But if not? Then Drake just adds another to the pile of "He's a liar and a master manipulator."
Drake also posts a Parody on his Insta that gains little to no attention because 30 minutes after dropping Family Matters and supposedly going on his victory lap, Kendrick drops meet the grahams.
Another thing. 6:16's cover was a glove. That meant nothing to us, the audience. meet the grahams makes it make sense by zooming out of the glove and showing off a shirt and drugs that Drake supposedly uses. Drake has not had any receipts with his accusations against Kendrick. Kendrick puts Drake's supposed prescription, his full name, on a bottle of Ozempic. Kendrick, for now, seems to make good on his threat. OvO, Drake's company, is full of leaks. And they're leaking it straight to Kendrick Lamar.
Nearly 24 hours later, Kendrick drops Not Like Us.
Euphoria was a general character dissection and assassination of Drake: Insecure about his identity as a biracial man. Culture Vulture. Blaccent user. Code switcher. Fake abs. Womanizer. Misogynist. Using black features just to feel black enough. A deadbeat dad that knows nothing of raising a child. And even revokes Drake's ability to use the N-Word (I have no stake in that I am Asian so I will keep my brown mouth shut for that).
6:16 in LA was an ominous threat that slowly reveals that Kendrick has insider information on Drake. That he is ready to leak so much more should Drake continue.
meet the grahams is a brutal open letter to Drake, his parents, and even to Adonis, Drake's son. Saying that Kendrick could be a better mentor to Adonis. Saying that Drake abandoned you and that's not your fault. Don't be like your father—whatever anyone says, for better or worse, you are a black man and don't code switch just to make yourself feel better. He says that Drake failed his mother for what he did to women. Saying that Drake's father is the cause of his gambling issues. Drake is a body shamer. Leaving the mother of his children to rot. And of course, the reveal that Drake has a secret daughter, the same way Pusha T revealed Drake has a son. Adonis.
And of course, now. Not Like Us. Where Kendrick goes all in on one topic that he has alluded to in every diss track before. Drake is a groomer. A pedophile.
I am sick. I should not be tuning into this beef. But my fever can go ahead and end me, I need to know how this ends.
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A New Beginning || Miguel O'hara
Pairing: Miguel O'hara x F!reader
Summary: You tell Miguel that you're ready to have a child with him.
Tags: SMUT, NOT BETA READ, breeding kink, unprotected sex, big dick Miguel, creampie, vaginal fingering, brief blowjob scene, soft sex that turned rough later on, Miguel kinda whimpered lol.
Period is gone and came the asexual lil shit who can't write smut anymore lmaooo. I have two other plots just waiting to be finished (something about being paralyzed by his venom and needy sex after a death scare) but aaaaaaaaaaa. This is so shit, I apologize lmao.
mi vida - my life || cariño - honey || mi cielo- my sky (correct me on this please)
“I think I’m ready.”
Miguel didn’t respond for the longest time, focused on frying the vegetables. Clearing your throat you tried again.
“Miguel? I think I’m ready.”
“For what exactly? What trouble are you brewing up again?”
Sensing his dedication towards completing his task, you grew doubtful of your decision of dropping the news to him.
Miguel, always tuned in to your moods even without seeing you, immediately turned off the stove and turned to face you with crossed arms at your prolonged silence.
“Alright, what is it?”
Now seeing the permanent frown in his face, you wondered if he’s even as ready as you are. Being the leader of the inter-dimensional spider society and a chronic over-worker, you could see him putting his job first as the protector of spider people since he sometimes does it with you.
But you’ve seen how his eyes lingered a little too long on Mayday and Peter B whenever they visited. You’ve seen him replay clips of a future that doesn’t belong to him and watched him mourn over a child that never existed in this universe.
Having a kid with both of your features…
It doesn't seem like that bad of an idea.
“I’m just… thinking about kids you know?”
The twitch in his eyebrow betrayed his uninterested expression. “Oh? What about them?”
“I think I’m ready for one.”
Tensed silence immediately filled the room, locking your throat close as you waited for a change in his stance with bated breath. You saw the surprise flash in his eyes but he made no move to indicate his interest in the subject.
If it wasn’t for Mayday, you wouldn’t have thought about bringing a child into a world where she'd have parents from two separate dimensions, both superhuman and known as saviors of the world. Not to mention, while being an active crime fighter in your own universes which is not an ideal occupation for a pregnant woman.
Even then, you had your IUD removed a few days ago when you returned to your world for a visit and only today did you guys had the time to bond.
As you linger in the silence, regret starts to crawl up your throat. Maybe it's a stupid decision after all...
His sigh sliced through the thick atmosphere before his voice did. “Are you sure?”
Miguel, no matter how unsure his voice sounded, had a hungry look in his eyes.
“I’ve been thinking about it for so long and... I think I’m ready now.”
You swear you could hear the clock from the living room tick beside you as you wait in anticipation.
tik!
tok!
tik!
tok!
tik!
Miguel reached behind to remove his apron, crumpling them like a paper ball and tossing them to the side before crossing the distance between the two of you with one large step, hands surging to cup your cheeks to pull you in for a deep kiss.
You melted in the soft plushies of his lips, hands rising to tangle themselves into his hair.
His hands wandered down to your rear, tapping it rapidly and you jumped up to wrap your legs around his waist before proceeding to walk blindly to the bedroom, relying solely on muscle memory.
Miguel’s lips melded with yours smoothly with years of experience, his taste familiar in your tongue. Your fingers combed through his hair, tugging him closer as the door opened behind you.
It didn't take long before you hit the softness of your bed. His body dwarfs yours in every way and the realization never fails to send jolts of pleasure down your spine.
There's greed and desperation in Miguel's hands as he tore through your shirt and bra, freeing your breasts that pebbled with goosebumps from the cold air. Despite the hunger and rush in his movements, his touch is the softest it has been in a long, long time since the needy sex from months ago after a death scare.
His fingers found your stiff nubs and pinched them, sending sparks crawling over your body, stirring your nerve endings awake. Miguel's lips parts from yours to pepper kisses down your skin, leaving warmth in its wake.
You quickly made work of his top, pushing it over his head before he latched onto your skin once more like a bloodsucker.
"You're so pretty, mi cielo." He groaned, kneading your mounds together. "I lose my mind just thinking about your tits growing full with milk for our kid."
You couldn't suppress the shudder racking your body at the mention of having your own child, together. A low moan left your lips and Miguel's hand wandered lower to tug on the bands of your shorts and underwear.
"You don't mind this one, yeah?"
"Rip it off."
He didn't need to hear it twice, the sound of fabrics tearing off into two echoed in the room and plant both your legs on either side of him, leaving you bare for him to see. Sitting back on his heels, he admired his work as he caressed your inner thighs with small circles, a promise of what to come.
"As much as I want to eat you up, I want to see you falling apart my dick more."
You nod feverishly, sighing as deft fingers found your clit to roll in tight circles, occasionally scooping down to spread your wetness around your folds. Heat explodes from your abdomen, spreading across your body as pleasure slowly ricochets inside you.
His finger enters you, curling up to caress the spongy part of your walls and you moan. Miguel spared no time adding another digit inside you, picking up a fast pace and your body arched, hips twisting to follow his ministrations.
But before the pressure in your abdomen builds up, he pulls away to your distaste.
"Fuck…" You whined.
"Stop whining and get on top of me. I wanna see you bounce."
He slipped off of his pants and boxers, tossing it to the side before switching positions with you. You reached down to his hardened length, pumping him leisurely while he ran his calloused hands up and down the meat of your thighs.
You eyed the clear pre-cum erupting from his tip with every pump with fascination. Miguel's hands tensed on your thighs as a warning yet you bent down to lick off it off. A salty taste explodes in your mouth and Miguel grunts, nails digging into your flesh.
"Mi vida..."
"You're such a mood killer." You said, earning yourself a pinch in your thigh and you giggled.
You positioned his intimidatingly huge dick directly under you and with a deep breath, you let the tip sink into you. It's barely in and you're struggling with his girth stretching you wide open. Seeing the struggle in your face, Miguel rubbed circles on your hips.
"You can do it, baby. You know you can take me in."
With the slight pushing from Miguel, you eased him in with a mewl. He feels deeper and fuller this way and you gasped at him, nudging more of him inside.
"Fuck..! You're so deep..! I c-can't—"
"You can and you will. I'll make sure you do."
"P-please... Ah!"
Surrendering your control to him momentarily, he gladly took up the mantle. Your mind grew fuzzy at how full he makes you feel and it pleased Miguel to no end to see you drunk on his cock. Reaching up to your neck, he pulls you down for a dizzying kiss.
You whimpered into his mouth as he gained some speed, nudging the roof of your uterus, keeping your mouth hang ajar, spouting gibberish and noises of absolute ecstasy. His hands roamed your body with the greed of an explorer in a new land yet tender as if handling a feather whilst you tugged hard on his locks.
"You feel so tight around me. God, you feel heavenly." He grunts as he drives himself in your heat.
Your body grew feverish as your heart grew fuller from the softness of his touches and kisses. The knots in your abdomen twisted tighter, your impending climax arriving a little early.
"I-I'm close…"
"Give it to me, come all over my dick. I want it all."
Picking up speed, you cried onto his shoulders as he plummets into you hard. Your hips grew erratic as you followed the intensity of his thrusts, his hands grabbing the globes of your ass to guide your heat onto his.
"Come for me, cariño."
Your whimpered whispers of his name filled the room as you tip closer to the edge.
The knots in your abdomen unfurl and you come, trembling on top of him with a shout. He grunts as the tightness brought by your end, hugged his girth firmly. His hot pants fanned your ears as your climax encouraged him closer, the sound of his pleasure sent sparks throughout your body and swells your chest with pride.
"Take all of me, baby. You want it yeah? Want me to fill you up real bad? Want me to breed and knock you up?"
"Yes yes yes…! I want it please please please!"
Miguel protectively wrapped his arms around you as he came, exploding and painting your insides white with a deep groan. His arms only tightened around you, forbidding you from leaving.
Flipping you both, he sits up to stare at where you both connected with lust clouded eyes. Pulling out, you groaned at the feeling of his seed pulse out of you and Miguel clicked his tongue.
"You're wasting them."
Scooping them up, he plunged them into you and your thighs twitched from the intrusion. You let your eye close as your soul slowly settles back into your body, exhaustion weighing your eyelids shut.
The sound of wet squelch of his fluids mixed with yours burned your cheeks and you forced yourself to focus on the feeling of his fingers plunging his seed back in, pleasurable albeit a little painful.
Miguel halts, only to bring your legs up to your shoulders, stirring you awake from your momentary rest to meet the wicked gleam in his dilated eyes as he pinned your thighs down and loomed over you.
"Don't even think of sleeping tonight or tomorrow. We haven't even started."
#miguel o'hara smut#miguel o'hara imagine#miguel o'hara x reader one shot#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o'hara#spiderman fics#spiderman smut#marvel fics#marvel smut
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and btw, grian's last stand against gem and the scotts? Insane. I cant help but replay the scene where he tells Cleo to get away over and over again, "You need to move out of the way, there's no trigger. I'm manually triggering it." because like. there's no way he really thought he was gonna get out of this. He had to be there in order for the trap to go off, the escape hatch was a pipe dream. What he was really saying to Cleo was, "Save yourself, I'll hold them back." He knows he's not going to get away from Gem and the Scotts, but he just wants to give Cleo a fighting chance.
And then I cant help but remember Grian's last words in Last Life, "Not like this! Not like this!". Ever since Last Life, his deaths have been... a little sad. Stabbed in the back while running away from Scott, killed by a warden through a wall, falling onto the very corner of a cobblestone block after falling off his tower -- right next to the water, too.
I think, in this season, grian wanted to die for a reason. he didn't want it to be an accident, a preventable goof, and more importantly he wanted it to mean something. He wanted to die protecting someone else. Outlive his teammates for a change.
Cleo still dies before he does, but he doesn't have any confirmation of that, just the distant sound of thunder, and he's too busy fighting to really process it. When he dies, he doesn't have any complaints. No 'I don't feel good"s, no "Not like this"s, no "I'm so sorry, Scar"s, no "Don't tell Tim"s. This time all he says is, "I did a lot of damage." He's satisfied with his death, proud of it, even.
And I think, even if he died, even if his sacrifice didn't mean too much, he felt his death was a lot more honorable than his other ones. He died on his own terms, he died protecting someone, he died fighting, and, just like Grian always aims to go, he went out with a bang.
#an mcr reference in MY traffic life post?? Its more likely than you'd think!#secret life#secret life spoilers#grian#zombie Cleo#astro liveblogs
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The Widow's Keeper
(help me find the Higuruma artist in the banner, for crediting and thanks/permission!)
Marrying again after losing your husband in Shibuya was never part of your plan. Then, Higuruma Hiromi came along.
Warnings: Character death, grief, angst, fluff
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A hysterical shriek-- a frantic cry for a man long dead-- rang through the bedroom, enveloped in the dark warmth of night, and broke down into anguished sobs. A soft shout of alarm, and hurried reassurances, sobs muffled, hands stroking, soothing, kisses on foreheads.
Hiromi held you to his chest, his pyjama top damp with your tears, his eyes gritty from sudden wakefulness. You cried away your grief, still so raw, replaying over and over in your dreams-- taunting you with 'what if's and 'if only's. Hiromi's nose nuzzled into your hair, both arms tightly holding you lest you fall apart against him, mumbling his sweet love in humid little breaths to your head.
It had been a while since you had dreamed of Nanami Kento, he pondered, rocking you gently from side-to-side. Dead and buried for almost 4 years now, Hiromi had married you and your trauma, your loss, your fallen love. He had taken you as the package you were, a complex parcel, and the mother of the second love of his life.
Little footsteps approached the door; little hands, cautious against the cool wood, pushed it open with a squeak.
"Mummy? Daddy? Is it a bad dream? You woke me up," grumbled your little girl, blonde and brown-eyed, with sharp delicate features. You sat up hurriedly, wiping your eyes and plastering on a damp smile. As you began moving to get out of bed, Hiromi laid a gentle hand on your thigh, kissing you on the temple.
"I'll take it from here," he hushed, and you sniffled, threatening tears again, "go back to sleep. I love you."
Planting a watery kiss to Hiromi's lips, you laid down in bed, burrowing your nose into his pillow, his smell, always feeling your adoration for him with the sting of guilt.
Hiromi scooted to the door, his loud shuffling footsteps pretending to be sneaky as he scooped his daughter up in his arms, nosing at her with deliberate snuffles. She giggled, batting him away, capturing his face in her little hands, slanted eyes narrow and delighted.
"Back to bed, little one. Your teddies can't sleep without you." Hiromi's playful bargaining wasn't needed, his daughter half-asleep in his arms already, while her arms wound around his neck to snuggle her head under his chin. By the time he had tucked her back into bed, she breathed soft snores, her bed still warm from the nest she had made.
Hiromi crouched by your daughter's bed, watching her, committing all of her features to memory; never this small, ever again, he thought, bittersweet as she grew, blooming. He stroked her hair, nursing the stale guilt of feeling he had stolen this life from another man, and feeling so deeply undeserving, so ashamed because of it.
While Hiromi knew his daughter-- your daughter, Kento's daughter-- more than Kento ever would, there felt to be an impenetrable wall to his love, an absence of a blood bond, stolen away from a man who did not want to leave his wife, and had not even known he was to become a father. Hiromi felt responsible, as if he had spirited you both away himself. He did not deserve to hold you through your grief; he did not deserve to be daddy.
Planting a last kiss to his daughter's forehead, a long-fingered hand stroking blond flicks out of her eyes, Hiromi tiptoed to the door. He hesitated for a moment, then tiptoed back. A brown teddy with its familiar, well-fiddled-with and far-too-large-for-teddies yellow leopard-spotted tie, belonged in his daughters' arms, and not on the floor.
Padding back to your bedroom, a thief in the night, the sheets played a gentle susurrus over your bodies as Hiromi tangled his legs through yours, lying on his back so you could tuck across his chest. You slipped a hand under his t-shirt, travelling up to his chest to stroke its patch of downy black hair. Hiromi's fingers tangled through your hair, examining the whorls of your ear, rolling your earlobe in thought.
"I'm so sorry," you hiccuped into Hiromi's chest, and you heaved with sobs when his reassurance began before you had even finished apologising, his arms tightening around you. He cupped your face in his hands, tilting it, look at me, come on darling, please, look at me.
Hiromi held your face, your cheeks squashed and blotchy with tears in his palms. He felt a trickle of disgust with himself run down his throat, as he stole his role as your hero from Kento, "None of that. You know you don't have to apologise for anything--"
"But I love him," you sobbed, voice cracking with devastated guilt, feeling like a filthy liar, a cheater, a bigamist, "I love him so much and I want him back, but I want you, Hiro, I-- I--" Hiromi nodded, still gazing into you, hooded dark eyes like little embers in the night. You felt a surge of appreciative, grateful love as he drank down your proclamations of love for another man, and wanted you anyway.
"If it were the other way round," Hiromi started, slow and deliberate, "if it were me who had died, and Kento loved you after...I would trust him completely to carry the torch for me. To give you two everything that I wouldn't be able to give."
You wept again, your face and chest aching, loss heavy in your soul. Hiromi kept you close, tethering you, repeating in a tender mantra; "You can love us both. You can love us both, because we both love you. You can love us both."
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"I...I'm not very good at this sort of thing."
Hiromi's words fell weakly, unanswered by the dead. Nanami Kento's grave was pristine under the hands of his many friends, his lover, his students, those he had saved. He was popular in death as he had been in life; not inundated with true friends, but awash with bannermen and admirers, those who aspired to be like him, and those who aspired to be liked by him. An admission of guilt writhed in Hiromi's chest, bursting out in one strained cry.
"I can't feel sad that you died," Hiromi spat, disgusted not with Kento, but with himself, "because if you hadn't died, I wouldn't have them, and I'm a real piece of shit--"
"No you're not," a friendly voice drawled to Hiromi's left. Hiromi froze, eyes wide and paralyzed, dread creeping through him that someone had heard his biggest shame--
"-- and Nanami wouldn't have thought so, either. I bet she was the last thing he thought about-- worrying about her, who would look after her. He'd be happy. For her to have a good man. Like you."
Ino Takuma leaned down beside Hiromi, speaking a brief prayer above Kento, a wrapped, spotted blunt blade harnessed onto his back. Placing some fresh flowers down, he stood up again.
Hiromi and Ino were silent together amongst the rustling willows, the smooth dappling sunlight, the whispering babble of the shallow river. Ino rocked on his heels, smiling, hands pocketed. Hiromi hung his head in shame.
"You can...you can feel both, Higuruma. Regret for him dying and leaving her, and...and loving her, I guess. You're not a bad person. I bet she beats herself up for marrying again, right?"
Hiromi swallowed, nodding quickly after a breath's pause. Images flitted across his mind-- you, resplendent in your gown. Your daughter, so solemn on her big day, scattering petals down the aisle. Your earnest kiss, your joyful dancing, your gracious speech. Your wedding night breakdown, holding you in a hot bath in innocent intimacy, folding your lingerie away in favour of a soft nightdress, nothing expected, nothing lost, in life and in death, in sickness and in health.
"You've just...you've just got to be his wingman, y'know?" Ino stated, arms crossed up behind his balaclava'd head, "You and Nanami...you're both her husband. You're both my niece's dad. So big him up a bit for us, huh?"
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"Hey, dad?"
Hiromi leaned round the fridge door, crows feet crinkling around his eyes as he popped a cube of cheese into his mouth, busted.
His daughter smirked at him, fine eyebrows raised under a smooth honey-blonde fringe. As tall as Hiromi, leggy and sarcastic, Hiromi didn't so much tell this young woman off now, as get savagely roasted by her dry wit. Hiromi took it with all of the frustrated joy of a father trying to parent a young woman with unparentably excellent traits.
"Cheese?" Hiromi offered, flicking a cube deftly at his daughter. She caught it, seamlessly, eyes narrowing at him. For all the bravado she was putting on, Hiromi knew she was putting it on. He headed over, pulling her to him with one arm, blonde head against black-grey head.
"Penny for them?"
She sighed, and began: "Did you...meet him?"
Him. Ah.
"I did not," Hiromi admitted, "but I know he was exceptional. Your mother has wonderful taste." He accepted the slap to his arm, well-deserved.
"I can never...I don't think I'll ever be as good as him." Hiromi's heart swelled and ached for his daughter; he felt an odd kinship, one of them in such a powerful shadow, one of them in such enormous shoes. Hiromi nodded, his throat thick.
"You're right," he said, his daughter's lips puckering up in grim acceptance, looking at the floor, "your dad was a hero. He protected the weak when nobody else wanted to. He took on the messy jobs with nothing more than a glass of whiskey and your mum's love behind him. He was funny, kind, patient, empathetic... he was the best of the best. The best sort of man. He's a legend even now."
"So, no, sweetheart, you're never going to be as good as him," Hiromi turned to his daughter, cupping her high-cheeked face in his hands, pressing her to look at him, "you're going to be better. You have all three of us in you, and you carry it so well."
Hiromi's daughter let out a dry sob, refusing to let tears fall. She sniffled, pulling close to Hiromi, letting herself be held. Rubbing her nose and pulling her hair behind one ear, she reached behind her onto a chair, revealing a black, rectangular handled case.
"Uncle Ino gave me something, today," she started, unclipping the case, "he said it was dad's. I thought I...I want to use it. Like he did."
Hiromi gazed fondly down at the blade of legends, white wrapping yellowed at the edges with age, but still just as deadly. He smiled, and your daughter relaxed into his wordless reassurance.
"Yes. Absolutely. It's the only...you're the only one who could do this old thing justice, now," Hiromi pressed, eager to hold Kento and his child together across the impenetrable veil of death, "but I have to warn you."
His daughter glanced to Hiromi, anxious. He took a deep breath, and continued;
"Your mother will cry when she sees this."
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A few tears slipped out while I wrote this.
#jjk#kento nanami#jjk nanami#kento nanami x you#nanami fluff#jujustu kaisen#kento nanami x y/n#kento nanami x reader#jjk fluff#higuruma hiromi x reader#jjk hiromi#hiromi x reader#hiromi hiromi hiromi#higuruma hiromi#higuruma x reader#jujutsu kaisen higuruma#jjk higuruma#higuruma#higuruma angst#higuruma fluff
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I’m always a fan of actors embodying their characters, but there’s something so special about watching the Critical Role cast and their deep love and connection to the characters they created.
It’s Liam saying he has synthetic memories of falling in love with Will. It’s Taliesin knowing the library and gardens in Whitestone by heart because he walks them in his mind so often. It’s Laura getting a nose bleed when Laudna dies. It’s Marisha crying as Beau offers the hag her happiness. It’s the cast not sleeping well for days after an intense episode because they can’t stop replaying it in their heads. It’s Dani and Taliesin tearing up together as they talk about Ashton’s chronic pain mirroring their own. Its Liam working through the death of his mother through Vax. It’s the intimate and unmistakable ways that this game of pretend affects their lives and the deep love they have for each other and the game.
It’s falling in love with your friends over and over again in every universe. Roleplaying really is a language of love and I feel so lucky to witness it.
#critical role#CR spoilers#liam o'brien#ashley johnson#Marisha Ray#taliesin jaffe#Laura Bailey#sam riegal#travis willingham#matthew mercer
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05. sharing a bed series ; skz ; han
masterlist.
sharing a bed series part 5/8. because it’s the cheesiest most classic trope and it’s FUN.
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pairing: han jisung/reader
content info: dom!reader. sub!jisung. sexual content. enemies2lovers, sharing a bed trope. past misunderstandings, grudges, bickering. femdom feat: face slapping, face sitting, hair pulling, choking, riding, denial-n-cumming-anyway, kneeling, more pussy eating. this one is a little longer. teehee :)
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“Hey, I hope you had a good flight…”
Chan’s voice message crackles through your phone speaker but you can barely hear him over the bustling airport. You wait until you are outside in the pick-up zone to try listening again. It is marginally quieter out here, cars coming and going, light snowfall brightening the winter night. With your luggage at your feet, you replay his voice mail.
“Hey, I hope you had a good flight. Something came up at work and I’m not gonna be able to pick you up. I’m really sorry ‘bout it, mate. Jisung is on his way to get you. I know, I know, but he’ll get you home, yeah? If you’re still mad tomorrow, I’ll take you to lunch and you can kill me there. Buh-byyeeeee!”
Oh, that son of a bitch.
The message ends just as a pair of headlights flash over you. You can see through the front window but despite the direct eye contact Jisung still feels the need the honk the horn not once, not twice, but three times.
You stand there with your arms hanging helplessly at your sides. Snow falls on your head and a frown darkens your whole face. Jisung just smiles and waves like an idiot, honking the horn again.
I am going to kill Chan, you think to yourself.
Jisung loves putting you in situations where you are the unrepentant supervillain of his life, so ignoring him and getting in a cab would just play into his horrible little hands. He might look unassuming in his puffy coat and backwards cap, might look soft and friendly with his fair hair and plushy pink smile, might look innocent with his big brown eyes peering at you with cartoonishly saccharine enthusiasm, but in reality none of that is true.
Han Jisung is the worst.
Han Jisung is your nemesis.
Han Jisung honks the horn again.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” you shout. You roll your eyes and heft your luggage over your shoulder, stomping with an incredible degree of petulance for a woman of your age. You toss your bag in the trunk then slide into the passenger seat.
Jisung honks again.
“Hello, hello, welcome to Flight H.A.N with Jisung airlines, this is your pilot speaking—”
You turn on the radio to shut him up. You are not in the mood for his shenanigans.
Jisung cringes with theatrical chagrin.
“Yikes,” he says with a bubbly laugh. “Tough crowd.”
“Just drive.”
“Yes, mistress, right away, mistress, Jisung lives to serve his mistress, please don’t hurt Jisung or leave him out in the cold tonight—”
You thunk your head against the headrest, glaring ahead as Jisung smoothly joins the traffic flow despite his nonsensical rambling.
You vaguely remember a time when Jisung was shy, back before he made it his life mission to send you hurtling into an annoyance-induced death. You also vaguely remember a time you liked him, him and his quietness, him and his quirky humour, him and his big, stupid, brown eyes.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Jisung sings along with the radio so you flip the station to one with talking. He strums his fingers on the steering wheel, lips pursed and eyebrows lifted. He casts you a few side glances that you pointedly ignore. When you see him open his mouth, you hold up a finger.
“Do not even think about it,” you say. “Whatever you were about to say or do… Don’t.”
He presses his lips together and makes an obnoxiously loud pop.
��Kk,” he says. “This should be a fun half hour.”
The airport is outside of the city, a half-hour drive to your downtown apartment. Usually. The weather has traffic horrifically backed up. Half an hour comes and goes and you are barely out of view of the airport.
“We could play a game,” Jisung says, looking at you sideways. “I spy with my little—”
“Nope.”
“Okay, cool. Cool, cool, cool.” He nods, strumming the steering wheel again.
The radio blathers on, you barely listening. You scroll through your phone until there are zero notifications, then you scroll through your photo album just for something to look at. Jisung hums to himself and you try not to get annoyed all over again. You exploding at something so inconsequential would give him way too much satisfaction.
The snow comes down harder. It pulls your attention from your phone to the blustery world outside. Everything is a harsh grey, the dark night foggily illuminated by the white snow. Even Jisung is concentrating now, his brow furrowed as he stares through the front window.
“Shit,” he says.
He changes stations to catch a road update. Your jaws drop in unison when the reporter mentions a thirteen hour delay on the main bridge into the city.
“Thirteen fucking hours?” you say. It comes out wheezy. “It’s winter! Why are they always so surprised by the fucking snow! God! What the hell are we gonna do?”
“We’re not going anywhere near the bridge, that’s what we’re gonna do,” Jisung says, flipping the car into reverse and immediately changing course.
“How else are we getting downtown?”
He looks at you like you’re so stupid that he can’t believe it, his eyebrows jumping up his face.
“Uh, hello, welcome back to town, it’s snowing here,” Jisung says. “We’re going downtown tomorrow when it won’t kill us or trap us in a car—”
“I want to go home—”
“Do you want to spend thirteen hours in a car with me?” Jisung asks. “Because that’s what going home will involve right now, k?”
He sounds terse. You feel a little better when he acts short with you too, more justified in your own rudeness.
“Fine,” you say. “What are we doing then?”
A ten minute trip turns into an hour long drive with traffic delays, but eventually you are rolling into the snow-covered parking lot of the only motel with a vacancy sign. You and Jisung do not speak, stepping out of the car and crunching along the snow in silence. The motel parking lot is washed a golden colour, the yellow balcony lights beaming over the white snow. It holds the promise of warmth. You hurry inside.
You shake yourself off in the tiny entryway while Jisung dings the desk bell. Someone appears to check you in.
“You’re a lucky couple,” she says. “Lots of folks have stopped because of the weather. We have exactly one room left available. It’s a nice cozy double bed. Sounds good?”
“Ummm…” You join Jisung at the desk, a million frantic thoughts running through your brain. “Hold on, we’re not—”
“Did you hear that, baby?” Jisung says with exaggerated fondness, because he can’t help but taunt you. “We’re a lucky couple. Isn’t that just our luck the only room available has one bed?”
You step on his foot deliberately and he yelps.
“Is there really no other option?” you ask the attendant with some degree of desperation.
“No, sorry.” She gives you a funny look but shakes her head. “I doubt you’ll have better luck finding a room anywhere else tonight. You can have this one or enjoy a car nap.”
“My beautiful wife and I are happy with a double,” Jisung says, already holding out his credit card. “Right, baby?”
You smack his ass, hard and swift. His eyes widen. You smirk.
“Right, baby,” you say with a snarl.
-
Tonight’s only saving grace is the hot water; you enjoy a long shower before changing into sleep shorts and a camisole. You join Jisung in the room, finding him sprawled on the double bed with air pods in his ears. He tossed his hat somewhere and is laying there in jeans and a t-shirt – remarkable, as you thought he might strip to his underwear just to be annoying. But no, he lays there peacefully. His fair hair is darker at the root, neatly framing his unfortunately handsome face. He has one arm flexed under his head, the muscle more pronounced than you remember it being. His eyes are closed as he nods along to the music.
You grab a pillow and thwack him in the gut. It startles him to attention, a strangled sound leaving his throat.
“You stay on that side of the bed and you do not move, got it?” you say.
He sticks his tongue out at you.
“Very mature,” you say.
You lay down with your back to him. After twenty minutes, he still has his bedside light on so you snap at him. He whines like a little baby but turns it off, leaving just his phone beaming at his face. You can hear his music but say nothing.
You can’t sleep. You want to roll over but you absolutely refuse to face him.
His phone screen finally goes dark after god knows how long and he puts it aside. There is a long stretch of silence in the dark. You swear you have never been so uncomfortable laying on this side in all your life. Knowing you will not be able to sleep without turning at least once, you decide to roll over. You figure Jisung laid down with his back to you anyway.
He didn’t. He is staring right at you, his big eyes making him look like a pathetic little lemur gawping at a human in the dark.
“Why don’t you like me?” Jisung says.
“Oh no,” you say, immediately rolling onto your back. “Absolutely not. We are not having a heart to heart.”
“Oh come oooon, please,” he whines. “This is the time and place—”
“It really isn’t—”
“It’s a classic story, a boy, and a girl—”
“I don’t like stories—”
“Forced to share a bed and share their secret feelings—”
“Those feelings are disgust, hatred, and revulsion—”
“Opening their hearts and—whoa, wait, what? Hatred? You hate me?” Jisung pushes himself up on one elbow, staring down at you with a completely horrified look on his face.
You try to ignore him and his stupid expressions, glaring at the ceiling as if it can do anything to save you. Your heart is beating fast but it doesn’t feel good. The pounding is coupled with a nauseous turn in your gut.
It is open knowledge that you do not like Han Jisung one bit, but you seldom vocalize it so explicitly. Certainly not to his face. Certainly not beside him in bed.
“That can’t possibly surprise you,” you say.
“Well, it does actually!” Jisung says. “I knew you didn’t like me but hate me? How could you hate me? I’m delightful.”
Even now, the clown is trying to joke. Because that’s all it is to him, isn’t it? Everything is just a joke all the time. Everything and everyone is a punchline waiting to happen. But you aren’t laughing. Your hands close into fists and you dig your nails into your palms to keep your frustration in check. Your neck feels hot and your stomach is still turning. You feel embarrassed about things you haven’t even said yet. Your tongue feels swollen somehow, your throat lined thickly. It takes several deep breaths before you can speak.
“Well,” you say bitterly, “I guess I just can’t help being a massive bitch. The worst you’ve ever met, right?”
There is a beat of silence, then Jisung flips on the bedside light.
You slap your fists down on the bedcovers and glare at him.
“Turn off the light,” you say.
“No way, you were just talking in a voice. What did you mean? Why do you--”
“Jisung, I swear to god, if you don’t turn off that light—”
“Look, can we just—”
You shove the covers down and climb on top of him without thinking, trying to reach the light yourself. He grabs you by the arms and pushes you back. You end up tussling ungracefully, you wriggling around like a worm and Jisung clearly in control but just as clearly trying to go easy on you. It puts you at an impasse. With an angry huff, you push away from him.
“If I said something—” he starts.
You laugh, a joyless cackle.
“If,” you repeat. “You’ve said a lot of somethings over the years, Jisung.”
“I—I didn’t mean it if I—I don’t even know what I—”
You look at him. He seems to be genuinely confounded and more than a little miserable, his eyes darting around as he racks his brain, his brow furrowed with obvious upset. His hand is frozen on his head, a clump of hair feathering through his fingers.
He meets your gaze and you roll your eyes. You feel hot and uncomfortable again, the source of your nausea climbing up and up and up until it is clawing its way past your lips and—
“The day we met,” you say, finally, after years of stamping down the humiliating memory, “you said I was a massive bitch, the worst you had ever met. And it—”
You are not sad. You refuse to be sad. This pain is years old now and it does not hurt you anymore. But you are angry – with him, with yourself, with this whole shitty circumstance, and the angrier you get, the more tears stab at your eyes.
You swallow down a lump in your throat and take a steadying breath. You stare at the wall because his attentive, earnest gaze is too much to bear.
“I know I’m a little awkward when I first meet people,” you say. “I’m shy and weird and sometimes… sometimes people think I’m a bitch when really I’m just quiet. Chan introduced me to you because he said that you were kinda the same, and that we had lots in common, and he thought we would get along. And then we met and—”
“We did,” Jisung says softly.
Your vision is blurry now. You sniff hard, wiping your arm under your nose.
“Yes,” you say. “We did. We got along amazing. We were quiet for a second and then it was like… like we were already friends. As if we always knew each other. I’ve never spoken like that to someone so quickly. It’s like I just forgot to be shy. I was so happy and then—”
“I remember all this,” Jisung says, still sounding confused. “I don’t get it. It was Changbin’s birthday, right? We were talking all night and it was great but then you just left without saying bye. Then the next time we met you already hated me—”
You finally look at him, hitting him with the full force of your emotional expression. He clearly was not expecting the tears because he literally jumps at the sight of you.
“I left after overhearing you talk about me in the kitchen to one of your stupid friends,” you snap. “’That woman is without doubt a totally massive bitch. The worst I’ve ever met.’ And you were laughing. Just… just standing there laughing about it, about me. And I had no idea why. Why? What had I said or done? It was humiliating. And it hurt, and the reason it hurt so bad was because it came from you.” You jab him in the chest, trying to sound angry because your tears are falling now and it just makes you feel pathetic. “It hurt, Jisung,” you say, “because it was you. From anyone else I wouldn’t care. But you were the one person I expected to understand me. The one person who got what it was like. So to hear you saying those things—god. I never wanted to see you again, but then you and Chan started your stupid projects together and I couldn’t get away from you. And you just got more and more in my face no matter what I did—”
“Oh my god.” Jisung slaps both hands to his head. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, as if he can’t believe what he is hearing. “Hold on,” he says, abruptly getting out of bed. “Just… just hold on.”
He runs away. You sit there more confused than anything, your face wet, your breathing uneven. He is gone long enough for you to get angry again, glaring at him when he gets back in the bed.
“Here,” he says, giving you the tissue box he evidently retrieved from the bathroom. “Just… here.”
He takes a tissue and awkwardly dabs at your cheek. You snatch it away from him, frowning.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says. He gets off the bed again, hovering awkwardly at the side while you wipe your face clean. He waits until you are composed, swaying where he stands, clasping and unclasping his hands. When you stop sniffling, he lets out a huge exhale. “Okay,” he says. “Look. I’m sorry. I’m… I’m really, really fucking sorry. And I want to explain, I really do, but… but if I explain, I think it’s only gonna make you upset.”
You give him a very sarcastic look.
“I’m already upset, you stupid jerk,” you say. “Just spit it out so I can go to sleep.”
“Right.” He runs his hand through his hair again. It falls softly down and flutters when he exhales. “God. Okay. This is gonna sound so stupid. But, yeah, okay, I do remember saying that actually. I didn’t know you heard me but… but that’s not an excuse. I know. I shouldn’t have said it at all. I totally do know that. But also… I said it, but I didn’t. What I mean is, what you heard me saying, I was not actually saying.”
You stare at him for a long moment.
“What,” you say, “the fuck?”
He waves his hands around defensively.
“What I mean is,” he says, “and stay with me… but… I actually meant it as a compliment.”
“A compliment,” you say. “A compliment? You called me a massive bitch as a compliment?”
“Yes.”
“Do you seriously expect me to believe that?” you shout, grabbing a pillow and hurling it at him.
His reflexes are fast. He ducks and the pillow sails over his head, whacking the blinds with a clatter. He looks there then looks at you, just in time for you to throw the tissue box. He dodges that too, ducking down again. The box hits the radiator and thunks to the ground.
“Okay, listen—” he says.
He is not fast enough when you chuck the second pillow.
“Okay, okay, I deserved that,” he says, holding the offending pillow up in surrender. He tentatively approaches the bed with it, eying you as he gently lays it back down.
You glare.
“I promise I can explain,” he says. “And you’re gonna love this explanation, because it is going to completely and totally humiliate me and you will have something to hold over my head for the rest of your life.”
“I’m listening,” you say. You feel embarrassed about crying so the least he can do is embarrass himself too.
“Thank you,” he says. He gets back on the bed, kneeling and tipping his head back. It looks like he’s praying, gathering the strength to admit whatever he is about to admit.
You cross your arms. You are annoyed he is taking so long and also annoyed that you genuinely want to know. Han Jisung has no problem blurting every stupid thought that crosses his mind, at least when it comes to you, so you cannot begin to imagine what dark secret he can’t bring himself to speak out loud.
You are halfway convinced he is trying to come up with a lie when he finally throws his arms out as if in supplication.
“I’m a fucking freak!” he says, with all the verve and jubilation of hallelujah. He closes his eyes and nods his head. “I’m a pervert and I think with my dick like ninety-eight per cent of the time. The other two per cent of the time I am honestly probably thinking with my prostate, though I haven’t really worked that one out yet completely—”
“What?” Your whole face screws tight with bewilderment. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I love bitches. No wait.” He shakes his head. “That came out wrong. Hold on. I love… well, yeah, no, bitches. Mean girls. Bullies. Catwoman.”
“Catwoman.”
“That whip… t-cha.”
“Jisung—”
“Look I was telling my friend about you because Minho’s an even bigger freak than me. He’s the only one who knows my secret and—”
“Your secret,” you say slowly. “That you… like bitches?”
“That I love bitches,” he says. “When I told him that you were the biggest bitch I ever met, it was because we both knew that what I meant was: holy shit dude, I just found my soulmate, she’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever met, I’m getting married tonight, and if she asked me to tattoo her face on my butt right now I would do it.”
You hate that you laugh, but the comment is so unexpected that it sputters out of you.
Jisung smiles, releasing a pent-up breath of relief.
“You were… are… funny, and smart, and yeah a bit quiet but you still don’t let it stop you from defending yourself or someone else when something is wrong. Remember when you told off that creep at the party? The one who was bugging Felix? You don’t take anyone’s shit and then you just move on quietly like it was nothing. I was obsessed with you from the second we started talking. Then I was a stupid horny pervert and opened my big stupid mouth and now you hate me.”
“I’m still not sure I really get it,” you say, admittedly flustered at his admission. You had no idea Jisung saw you that way. The woman he’s describing does sound pretty amazing, and he sounds sincerely infatuated. When your heart starts skipping beats again, it feels different than before. “Explain,” you say.
He slaps his thighs in a motion of surrender.
“Yup,” he says. “Okay. Fine. Cool. I like when women boss me around. I like when they are mean to me. I like when they hurt me and make me cry. It… it gets my dick hard, okay? I love bitches. I LOVE BITCHES—”
You reach out to slap a hand over his mouth, remembering it’s a motel in the middle of the night.
Jisung’s shoulders jump and he laughs into your hand, clearly embarrassed as he remembers where he is. You laugh in spite of yourself, lowering your hand.
“Oops,” he says.
“Oops,” you reply.
Oops, you misunderstood your eavesdropping.
Oops, Jisung never hated you.
Oops, you find yourself staring into his eyes for way too long.
“So just to clarify,” you say. “You’re into, like, female domination stuff, and you called me a bitch as the highest form of compliment in your crazy brain, and then you spent the next two years being as annoying as possible because…”
“I thought you were just, like, crazy edging me or something,” Jisung says, making you laugh helplessly into your hands. He laughs too, even while looking a little pained. “I did! I was like shit, she’s so nasty, she’s really taking me for a fucking ride. I would have kept doing this for the rest of our lives if this conversation didn’t happen. I would’ve been at your wedding like damn, she’s really got me going this time—”
“You’re so stupid,” you say, pushing at his chest without any real animosity.
“I know, I really am,” he says. He draws an X over his chest. “But cross my heart and hope to die, everything I have told you is the complete truth. I’d tell you to slap me because you definitely deserve it but honestly, it would give me a boner and I don’t think either of us wants that since we’re stuck in the same bed all night.”
He says it jokingly, of course. But you can hear the twinge of flirtation and truth under his just kidding.
And maybe you’re still on an adrenaline kick. Maybe your emotions are right at the surface. Maybe you hated him so much because deep down you liked him, and you hated that you liked him because of a misunderstanding.
And maybe, just maybe, those big brown eyes have drawn you in from the second you first saw him.
“Slap you,” you say, as if in deep contemplation. “Slap you where? Your face?”
This clearly catches him off guard. He opens his mouth and a garbled sound comes out. He thumps a fist on his chest.
“Uh, yeah,” he says. “Sure. Whatever, you know. You know.”
“Mhm.” You move so you are kneeling too, facing each other. You watch as he swallows hard, the gulp going down his throat. All the adrenaline you built up earlier is suffusing into the race of your bloodstream. Heat simmers below the surface of your skin. “And you like that? Getting slapped when you’ve been bad?”
“Oh my god,” he says. “Are you.. are we… is something happening right now? Oh my god. Hold on.” He says that but then all he does is stand up and sit back down again, rekneeling in the exact same position. “Right, okay,” he says. “Slap away.”
You snort, rolling your eyes but smiling. You lift your hand but he is staring at you so expectantly that it just feels weird, not sexy, and you laugh giddily with amusement.
“Aww, come oooon,” he whines, but laughingly too. “Don’t get shy. You were so good at it.”
“I’ve had years of bitchy practice, I guess,” you say with a quirked eyebrow, making him grin. You shake your head. “I dunno. Just. Do something to earn a slap I guess. It’s too weird to just smack you out of nowhere.”
“Do something?” he asks. “Uh, I dunno. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve never done anything in my life to earn a slap. I’m seriously the most charming and funny and perfect guy ever and I—”
Your slap him across the face. The sound startles you because it sounds harder than it felt, ringing out loud with only the faintest sting on your palm.
Jisung looks genuinely surprised. His head turned with the impact of the slap, his jaw falling open. He blinks himself back into focus and you are about to ask if he’s all right, then he looks at you in a way he has never looked at you before. The desire and desperation of his gaze moves right through you, gathering hot in every intimate place.
“Did you like that?” he asks, his voice a little gravelly as it drops low.
“I don’t know,” you say softly. You reach out to touch his chin, a delicate touch that makes him shiver. You turn his face to look at the faint redness on his cheek. “Can I try again to be sure?”
He nods and swallows again.
You don’t ask for build-up this time. You pull your hand back and bring it down sharply on his cheek.
This time it makes him whimper. It flushes you with heat.
“Oh my god,” you say. “What else?”
“Uh, oh, fuck, um.” He touches his cheek and sucks in a breath. He pushes his hair only for it flop back in place. “Um,” he says. “Choking. F-fingers? Fingers in my mouth... Um, haha, I can’t think. Bondage? Yeah. Erm, denial. Overstimulation. Puuussy… yes, um, pussy. On my face please. Uhh… Punishment. Pulling my hair… Oh, hello.”
You take hold of his shoulders and push, guiding him to lay on his back. He is already panting when you straddle him, his eyes wide when you lean down.
“Do you still hate me?” he asks when you are millimetres away from his mouth.
You pretend to think about it.
“Hm,” you say with obvious theatricality, stealing a page from his book. “Yeah. I hate you so much. You’re my worst enemy. Sorry, baby.”
“That’s hot,” he says with a nervous little giggle. “You’re hot. You know I think—mmmf.”
You interrupt whatever long-winded joke was incoming. He does not protest this interruption as it involves a kiss, a good kiss, a deep kiss, one that pushes his head into the plushness of his pillow, one that has him moaning into your mouth. He lifts his hands to touch you, fingertips barely grazing your bare thighs when you seize his wrists. You shove them into the bed, pinned on either side of his head. He bucks under you, his mouth opening under your kiss. You bite at his bottom lip and drag your teeth, making his hips move even more.
You break away quickly and just as quickly slap him. It knocks a surprised breath out of him, his eyes a bit watery when he looks up at you.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, baby,” you say. “I’m just getting started.”
“Oh my god.”
You try not to smile but Jisung makes it hard. You feel flushed with excitement, hot with power and anticipation. You squeeze his hips between your thighs and push the hem of his shirt up and over his chest. He whimpers again but doesn’t move, his eyes closing when you hold down his wrists and duck your head.
“Fuck, oh god,” he murmurs, a constant stream of mumbled expletives as your mouth runs over his chest, kissing and licking and biting, teasing him until he can’t help but buck his hips for friction. When you feel him fully hard in his jeans you lean back, smirk, then climb off him. “Oh god, you’re too good at this,” he says, keeping his hands where you left them and gazing at you with wanting eyes.
You blow him a kiss and shimmy out of your shorts and underwear. Thoughtlessly he swings a hand down to touch himself, squeezing his dick through his jeans and groaning.
“Did I tell you that you could—” you start, but he puts his hand back beside his head before you can finish. His smile is far too innocent. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” you say.
“Am I?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.
“Shut up,” you reply, getting back on top of him. “I still hate you.”
“Oh god, yes,” he says. His hips buck into the air as you scoot over his chest. “More.”
“I hate you,” you say, moving until your legs are on either side of his head. “ I hate you so much, Han Jisung. I’m going to ruin you.”
“Fuck.”
He already has his mouth open when you lower onto his face. You grip the headboard and rock yourself over his tongue, back and forth until he finds your rhythm and takes over. What he lacks in precision he compensates with eagerness, licking at you without any care for the mess it makes of him, wet and sloppy and hot as his tongue moves inside you then up and down your pussy, circling your clit, sucking, flicking, back and forth, around and around—
“Oh my god,” you say, looking down at where you can see the top of his face, his eyes closed as he works, as he moans, as he squeezes your thighs in his hands and drags his tongue all over you. You grip the headboard tight when you come, throwing your head back and grinding down against him.
You lift your hips off his face, hovering above him on shaky thighs. You shuffle back and sit on his abdomen so you can see him, his eyes wide and wet mouth open as he pants. He licks his lips and murmurs please, please, please in a hoarse voice.
“Please?” you repeat, a little out of breath as well.
You swirl your fingers over his bare chest and fiddle with the t-shirt still bunched under his chin. He moves his face wherever you push it, tipping his head back, tilting it to the side. He goes cross-eyed when your fingers dance in front of him, touching his lips. His mouth falls open and his eyes close when you slide two fingers inside his mouth.
“Please what, Jisung?” you ask, slowly finger-fucking his mouth. “What do you want?”
He can’t speak around your fingers so he just whines, digging his fingers into the meat of your thighs.
“Oh,” you say. Your giggle is filled with genuine delight, even while your voice is rough. “I see. You want to put your dick inside me, baby? Hmm? You wanna say you’re sorry and that you’ll be good and let me ride you?”
“Good, so good,” he says, drooling around your fingers when you slide them out. He swallows hard, choking on nothing, then nods his head. “Please, please. Yes.”
You lean down and kiss his wet mouth, a chaste peck. You rub the corner of his lips, smiling at his closed eyes and wrecked expression.
“Okay,” you say. “Get ready for me then.”
You have a string of condoms in your luggage, always tucked in the pocket in case of emergency. Emergencies like a snow storm trapping you in bed with your former worst enemy turned lover.
When you get back to him, Jisung is laying there completely naked, flushed and stroking himself as he watches you. He lets you take his hand off his dick, holds you obediently when you guide his hands to your waist. He kisses you when you lean down, a hot and heavy kiss as you straddle him again. It ends when you push him flat and sit back, already grinning because you know you are about to short-circuit his brain.
“Wanna see a trick?” you say, and proceed to put the condom on him with your mouth. You laugh when you see his face after, his mouth hanging open as he blinks at you.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he says, but laughs a little.
His head thunks back into the pillows when you guide him inside you. You put your hands over his, holding them to your hips as you rock over him. His chest lifts and falls and his eyes close as he concentrates on not rushing your pace. He keeps holding your waist firmly when you slide your hands over his chest.
“Look at me,” you say.
He blinks his eyes open. You smile.
“Good boy.”
He makes a noise that sounds more pained than when you slapped him. It lights up inside you like fire and you move faster, take him deeper. You get a bit dizzy with how good it feels, his dick curving up to drive against the softest, most sensitive part of you, sending you hurtling towards another orgasm. You rub yourself at the same time, looking down at him as he gasps and moans, as he holds your hips and fucks you back.
You bring your hand to his neck and gently circle it, rubbing yourself harder when he whines with chest-deep desperation.
“I—I’m gonna—oh god—” he says, squeezing your hips so tightly that you think it might bruise.
It feels so good, his rough hands coupled with his dick hitting perfectly inside you. Your whole body draws taut for its crest.
“Don’t,” you say, laughing a little, not even to be mean but because it feels so good that you feel giddy. You squeeze his throat and his hips get erratic under you. “Not yet,” you say. “Me first.”
“Oh my god,” he says, looking up at you with frantic eyes. “I—I can’t—I’m gonna—”
“Jisung,” you say, squeezing his throat harder so he makes a choked-up sound that goes straight to your pussy. “Are you gonna be good or bad?”
“I’m—I’m—oh god.”
You stop touching yourself because you know he doesn’t stand a chance outlasting you. You ride him through his orgasm, choking him as he spasms and moans and cries out. His head lifts for a second, his eyes closed and brows furrowed, then he flops back down with an exhausted heave.
His eyes open again, watery and huge.
“Oh fuck,” he says, voice like gravel as you release his throat. A deep breath shudders out of him. “Oh… fuck,” he says, dreamily, smiling, then pouting. “Oh! Fuck!”
You giggle at him managing to say the same thing in three different voices.
You slip your fingers into his hair and tug, yanking his head up. He follows with a gasp.
“I should hit you again for that,” you say.
You slide off him, carefully. He sucks in a ragged, tearful breath when you touch his dick to deal with the condom. After, you rub your palm on the oversensitive head of it, making him grab at you and cry out. It squeezes a tear out of him and you kiss it away.
“Come on,” you say, grabbing him by the hair again. You get off the bed and drag him to follow. “I’m not done with you.”
He is a little shaky and boneless from coming. His footing is unsteady from the moment he touches the ground, moving with thoughtless obedience. He thumps down heavily onto his knees. When he sways, you straighten him. He blinks up at you, on his knees, already nodding.
You put your leg over his shoulder and draw him in. For the second time, he gets you off with his mouth, his hands on your ass and his face buried in your pussy. You sink your fingers in his hair and let it wash over you, humming happily when you are finished.
You lower your leg off his shoulder. Jisung slumps backwards, leaning against the bed and breathing hard, his face and hair a mess.
“Wow,” he says. He looks up at you. “That was the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.”
You laugh, feeling hot and flushed but satisfied.
“Me too,” you say, making him smile.
You help him back into the bed because his legs seem a little numb. You lay beside him, rubbing the inside of his thigh as he kisses all over your face. You giggle then fall into a proper kiss, winding around each other affectionately.
“I’m gonna send Chan a gift basket,” Jisung says, making you snort. “I am! Thank you for having a family emergency, your timing couldn’t be better.”
You tip your head and look at him with confusion.
“Family emergency?” you say. “He told me he was working?”
“Working?” Jisung furrows his brow. “Huh? We don’t have anything coming up at work. He phoned me from the road and said he was heading out to visit family? He said he wouldn’t be back all week-end.”
“He told me he was stuck working and would see me tomorrow,” you say, your eyes narrowing as you slowly put two-and-two and together.
“I didn’t even know why he was asking me and not Changbin or something,” Jisung continues to muse aloud. “He said you were wanting to talk to me, though, so I figured—”
“I never said that! I mean, I’m glad we did but…” You sit up, glaring at the wall.
Jisung bursts into laughter, covering his mouth as he looks at you.
“Did Chan hustle us?” he asks.
“He threw us together in a snow storm so we’d be forced to reconcile!”
“I don’t think Chan can control the weather—”
“Oh, he definitely can. I bet he delayed the bridge himself—”
Jisung laughs some more, kissing the side of your face lovingly while you continue to glare contemptuously at the wall.
“Well,” you say, looking at him. You kiss him sweetly on the nose and he smiles at you. “That’s fine,” you say. “A vacancy for my sworn enemy just opened up. Looks like I found a replacement.”
“I’m good with that,” Jisung says. “But… you’re not allowed to enemy-fuck him like that. That’s just for me, right?”
You settle in his arms, forgetting about Chan for the time being, forgetting to glare, forgetting about everything that happened before tonight. You smile at him, brushing a bit of hair off his sweaty forehead. He is still flushed and beautiful, his hopeful eyes locked on yours. He smiles back.
“Yeah,” you say. “It’s only ever been just you, Jisung.”
He visibly melts, his laugh a breathless thing. He leans in and kisses you and you hold his face, kissing him back. You can feel him smiling against your lips and you smile too.
#skz smut#stray kids smut#han jisung x reader#han jisung smut#han jisung x dom!reader#sub!jisung x dom!reader#skz x reader#sub!skz x dom!reader
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ᡣ𐭩 DEATH BY A THOUSAND CUTS.
ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָsimon riley + fem!reader
summary: in which simon riley decides to message you after a year of no contact!
tags: angst, romance-ish, talk of abusive parents, simon's an asshole, slight age gap (27 - 30!), cursing, very slight body image issues, simon is a wreck, not proofread oopsie!
talia talks: this is my first post!! this account is inspired by @audisive, much love to this blog! if this does well a part two will be out soon!
One year. Today officially marks one year since Simon left without any warning. He didn't even leave a note. You were a wreck. No one was able to get in contact with you for a month. Simon was your first everything. You questioned yourself over and over. You often find yourself looking in the mirror. You studied your appearance in the mirror. Was it the way you looked? Was it your age?
It took almost two months for you to even begin working again. It wasn't as if Simon was your world, but he was a very important part of it. After you got yourself back on your feet life was beginning to get better. You moved to a new city, got a new job, found new friends, and left your old self behind. A change of pass, at least that's what you wanted.
No matter how much you wanted to forget the day he left you couldn't. He was always there in the back of your mind. The sound of his voice replaying over and over again. You would catch yourself staring into space, thinking of what life would be like if he was here now. How would he touch you? Simon left a large wound, and you felt as if it wouldn't heal anytime soon. You wondered if would you be engaged or married. Simon left like you were nothing to him, but it was quite the opposite.
Leaving you was the hardest thing Simon had ever done. Simon wasn't one for crying, he despised it. Yet as he took one last look at your once-shared home he felt a singular tear slip down his cheek. The salty liquid traced the curve of his face and slipped into his mouth. The taste of his tears brought him back to himself. Crying? Pathetic.
Simon Riley grew up in a rough house. His father was either absent or drunk. His mother died when Simon was young. He grew up hardened by abuse and war, but when he saw you it all went away. You were the light of his life. He often got lost in the darkness, thoughts of trauma and PTSD clouding his thoughts. You, you were the one thing that stopped him from destroying himself. Now that he didn't have you, he told himself he had nothing to lose.
Simon had stopped going to work, he had stopped eating, and he had stopped speaking. It was as if he wasn't living anymore, like his heart stopped. Simon was staying with his godmother, she was the only constant thing in his life now. He stayed in his room, only coming out once a week to eat. His godmother, Delena worried about him. She had known Simon since he was a child. She watched him grow up, and this was not like him.
Today was the day that marked a year, and you and Simon were both a mess. You wanted nothing more than a warm embrace from Simon. You imagine the creaking in the floorboards was his large boots trudging up the stairs. You imagined he had just come back from deployment, you would smile as he walked into your once-shared room. The sound of your phone “ding!” brought you out of your daydream.
Simon.
As Delena knocked softly on Simon's door she heard the sound of Simon's heavy breathing. Delena didn't wait for confirmation to walk in. She found Simon on his bathroom floor. A bottle of Disaronno lay by his side. His phone was cracked and his balaclava was nowhere to be found. His eyes were red, his lips were chapped, and his hands were shaking. He looked up at Delena with tired glossy eyes. He stayed away for a reason, he was going to ruin you. He wasn't healthy, no part of him was healthy. He was toxic, the only good part about him was you. But he didn't have you anymore.
Simon looked at Delena as she sat down next to him, her back sliding against the wall until she hit the ground. She chuckles softly and his lips curl into a tight grin. “I texted her,” Simon says, he picks up his cracked phone and shows it to his godmother. She gives him a sympathetic look and rubs his back. She knew that you were going to text back. She wished deep down you wouldn't. He had left you, who's to say he won't do it again? But she could never say that to her godson.
“Well, that was very brave of you, Si.” The older woman says. Her hair was a gorgeous silver color. Her nails were painted a dark red. Simon liked the way she carried herself, with class and elegance. Simon, on the other hand, was a mess. She sighed as she realized there was a slight chance he might never get better. Delena wasn't sure if she was okay with that. She was getting too old.
Your breath hitched as you read the text. Simon had texted you? Why? You didn't want to respond, you hated him. He left you, he never called or texted. Not even a letter, so why should you respond to his text? Yet as you open the message, your heart drops.
Simon.
I miss you, love.
talia talks: this was fun to write!! part two will be on it's way soon! xoxo!
#° ᡣ𐭩 . ° .𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐘’𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐒!#simon riley#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#ghost x reader#ghost smut#simon riley smut#cod#cod smut#tf141#task force 141#simon riley x younger!reader#call of duty#simon ghost riley#cod mwii#ghost call of duty#simon riley x female reader#simon riley x f!reader#simon riley x you angst#simon riley x you smut#simon riley x y/n#simon riley x reader angst#simon riley x reader smut#simon ghost riley angst#simon ghost riley smut#writers on tumblr#sunshine!reader#cod links#barbie#ghost
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princess of daydreams
knight!megumi x princess!reader
Warning: heavy pining, masturbation, corruption kink, implied virginity loss, implied unprotected sex (pull out method used).
An: this was only supposed to be a drabble ._. got carried away.
minors do not interact/ 18+ only
He’s always been stoic. A true rule follower to his core. He luckily hasn’t had to go out and risk his life for a pointless war that brings nothing but death for months only for the two kingdoms to come to a stupid truce. That’s the one thing he doesn’t see himself doing. Fighting to keep up with a king’s inflated ego. That’s why he was happy to be assigned under the royal guard. But that wasn’t the only reason he was content with his position.
Sapphire orbs drink up layers of ribbon and silks every time he sees you. He hated those huge puffy dresses on you, obscuring him from seeing your true frame. Makes him feel perverted when he thinks any of those thoughts and they’re so often. He sits up straighter every time you pass him. When your eyes meet he feels his throat dry and his hands clam up. Then there’s that sweet smile you always greet him with.
That moment always feels like sunshine beaming on his face. Like the air was sucked from his lungs and he has to take a gulp of fresh air. It gets to him so bad. That smile replays in his daydreams when his mind isn’t occupied with anything else. It’s even worse at night when his imagination really takes over.
Alone in his own chambers, he imagines what you look like in your night clothes or maybe even nothing at all. He feels so ashamed when he becomes aroused from the thought. Megumi always imagines what you would whisper to him if he had you here with him. He wonders if you would be hesitant in the case of keeping your innocence because of your status.
He thinks about corrupting you, convincing you to give him your first time under the idea that he’s helping you, showing you how to please your future husband. And you, so sweet and naive, give it to him willingly so you can be a good future wife.
Megumi shudders thinking about your pretty lips wrapped around his cock, instructing you not to use your teeth. Your mouth would be so warm and he wants to cum in it so bad and tell you to swallow it. He feels sick for thinking about kissing you afterwards.
Then he gets you under him, preps you so sweetly since it’s your first time and you need lubrication. Instead he just wanted to taste you. He thinks about how good you probably taste and how you would squirm from his tongue. He would make sure you finish on his mouth before trying out his fingers. He starts with one and soothes you when you cry, kissing away your tears. He would admire your beauty here and silently wish you were his. Then the second finger. By then you’re moving your hips in tandem with his fingers and you come undone again.
It’s so warm, with your bodies pressed together and nothing but the moonlight illuminating your guys’ features. With a couple sloppy kisses shared Megumi lines himself up with your purity. This is the part of the imagination where Megumi starts to touch himself.
Rough, calloused hands, used to holding a sword, grasps his hard cock. He sighs out, jaw slacking a bit and sapphire eyes closing. He smears the pre dribbling from his slit onto his cock. His hips rock to fuck up into his fist and he moans softly from the slight relief. He knows you would feel so much better wrapped around him.
His imagination runs wild with the thought of finally easing himself into you. He would shush you when you cry out to him that it hurts. “You want to be a noble wife, right? Then we can’t get caught. Quiet my lady.” He gets halfway before pulling out and pushing back in even farther. It starts to get easier for you to take him, your cunt opening up for him with every slight push of his hips.
Your nails dig into his strong forearms as you whine and keen for him. His lips mold with yours to shush you and he changes the position slightly to spread you even more open for him. The back of your knees rest in the crooks of his elbows and the pain returns again as he digs himself deeper into you. He wants to curse aloud and moan out your name so you know what you do to him.
“S- sir it’s deep,” you whisper to him as he keeps his pace slow.
“That’s the point,” he speaks in the dark. “Your husband is going to want to impregnate you the first night of your marriage. He needs to be close to your womb. Therefore this position is very common.” You don’t even question him because Megumi makes you feel safe. He’s supposed to. He’s a knight of the royal guard.
His hand speeds up and a hiss sounds from his lips as he imagines his balls clapping against against your ass every time he thrusts back in. He thinks about how well you would take it despite being a sweet little virgin. And all because you want to please your future husband, whoever he shall be. But in that moment you’re Megumi’s and Megumi’s alone.
You two try to stay quiet but it feels too good. Each other’s names whispered against your lips as you shared sweet kisses. A groan and a curse from Megumi and a shaky moan and whimpers from you. The bed creaks a bit from all the movement and Megumi can feel himself getting close. “I’m almost there,” he moans softly. You pull him in for another kiss, this one a bit messier and needier than the others.
It has him flinging to the edge and it disappoints him that he has to pull out. But he does, stroking his pretty cock over your body, cumming with a low, “fuck”.
He spills into his hand, some of it getting onto his lower abdomen. In his daydream though, he finishes on your bosom that he still wishes he could see with his own eyes.
Here comes the shame that approaches with these nightly thoughts. He shouldn’t be thinking about even doing that to you. But he always wonders if you would take him up on the offer if he ever asked. With a sigh he cleans himself up and takes himself back to bed, absolutely angry at himself for wanting to corrupt the princess.
Meanwhile he doesn’t know that you think of him, the pretty knight that fights with the fierceness of fire, when playing in your pretty cunt. Your nightly routine also included a made up scenario of him accompanying you to his chamber and filling you to the brim. Maybe one day you’ll order him to your room so you can enact your fantasy. But for now you two rely on your imagination to get you through these lonely nights.
______
tags: @luxekeyah @chosovixen @noritopia
#i’m so distraught over him#missing my bf megumi#smiley’s works <3#megumi x reader#megumi smut#fushiguro x reader#megumi fushiguro smut#megumi fushiguro x reader#jjk smut
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VERDICT - NEUVILLETTE
warnings: mentions of murder. mentions of minor character death. reader has a brother. 3k+ words
a/n: happy angstober people
angstober event
you’ve heard a lot of stories about the fortress of meropide growing up in fontaine.
a prison, not just underground, but underwater, hidden from everybody. a place to lock away the criminals, with barely anybody ever returning after they served their time. personally, you’ve never encountered anybody that actually went there, only a couple of imposters, posing for the media with some wild stories. and while most of these stories sounded like they were trying too hard to get people’s attention with some wild preposterous claims and grotesque details, no one could ever really disprove whatever was said.
an aura of mystery surrounded the fortress and its so-called ‘duke’, like a thick fog, and everybody who dared to enter it to find out what was on the other side would never come back to tell the tale.
who knows, you probably wouldn’t either.
because there was nothing left for you on the surface anymore. just like it was the case for so many people that you had briefly seen when you were given a small part of the fortress – your new home.
refusing to look at the man who was arguably the sole reason why you were in here in the first place, you kept looking up at the dirty ceiling above you.
could you really spend the rest of your life here? the label ‘criminal’ forever stamped on your forehead for a crime you didn’t commit?
tears welled up in your eyes as you remembered why you were in here, your chest tightening.
brother.
he seemed to notice your distress while sitting next to you, leaning his body slightly forward. “i’m afraid there’s nothing i can do,” neuvillette said, his voice sounding as apathetic as it did when he had sentenced you.
blinking rapidly to clear your vision, you shook your head. “there must be,” you answered, turning your head a little. he couldn’t just leave you here, there had to be something he can do, anything, even if it was using his position of power as a literal ‘get-out-of-jail-card’. he couldn’t just turn his back on you, could he? “i swear, i didn’t do it. i’m innocent”
the man sighed, you don’t know if it was in defeat or annoyance. “you were proclaimed guilty”
proclaimed guilty by him.
you clenched your jaw, pulling yourself up to sit upright on the bed, directly facing neuvillette now. “i thought you said you believed me”
for a long time, his belief in you was the only thing that kept you going. frankly, it was the only thing that helped you stay sane during your trial, the thing that kept you from bursting in tears as the prosecutor told some dramatic story to frame you for the heinous crime you were in for now.
crossing his arms in front of his chest, he looked down for a second, as if to gather his thoughts, carefully weighing his words in his mind. “this isn’t about what i believe in”
you had to stop your jaw from falling slack, replaying his words over and over again in your mind. not about what he believed in? was this supposed to be a bad joke? a shocked laugh escaped you. he couldn’t be serious. “you’re the chief of justice! of course it’s about what you believe in!” you tried you best to keep your voice calm, but couldn’t help but get a little heated.
“it’s about what’s factual,” he replied immediately, his tone clearly not allowing any kind of protests. his eyes narrowed as he looked at you coldly, clenching his jaw for a second. he took a breath before continuing, his voice back to a regular volume. “and all the evidence is stacked against you”
as he was talking you already shook your head in disbelief. “i’m innocent! why would i do such a horrible thing?” you reached out to him, grabbing his arm as he turned away, seemingly not wanting to see your outburst. was ist shame that was written all over his face? regret?
“tell me!” you demanded loudly, digging your fingers a little deeper into his arm in desperation. you had to stop yourself from shaking him as your voice grew unsteady and your breather grew a little flatter. “why would i kill my own family, my brother, when he’s the only person i had left?!”
it seemed like he didn‘t have an answer to that, not facing you while you looked at him, waiting for any kind of explanation.
he promised you that he believed you when you came to him with shaky knees and teary eyes, recounting the horrible accusations thrown your way.
he comforted you when you broke down crying, embracing you in one of his rare hugs unprompted while he muttered soft words into your ear, reminding you to breathe regularly.
he held you when you lashed out, angry at your brother for leaving you alone in this scary world and he held you when you fell apart later, feeling guilty for being the only one left and guilty for being angry at your brother in the first place. it wasn‘t his fault — and he certainly never wanted to leave you, you knew that.
the world was cruel and unjust.
but until now you believed that there was some sort of justice and fairness and neuvillette was the only reason you believed that.
even before you had met him you knew about him. his reputation was practically flawless — the people of fontaine spoke about him in a highly manner, a few maybe even more highly than they spoke of their archon: neuvillette was moral, just, fair, his verdicts always being the same ones that the oratrice mecanique d‘analyse cardinale would give, which made him seem infallible.
and you believed it too. until he became the reason why you believed that the kind of justice served in fontaine wasn’t true, proper justice.
until you lost hope in the only thing that helped you stay sane after you came across the cold body of your own brother.
a shiver ran over neuvillette‘s back when he heard you laugh after his long silence. quickly you let go of his arm, dropping it like it was replaced by hot coals. “i can’t believe it,” you scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief again. this had to be a joke. would he really lie to you like that when you were the most vulnerable? “you never believed me when i said i didn’t do it, did you?”
much to your dismay, he stayed quiet, only pursing his lips slightly before pressing them together into a thin line. would he really betray you like that? was he ever on your side? “answer me!”
only when hearing your desperate pleas did he look at you again with his determined eyes. “i did. i thought you had no motive” he cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his seat before crossing his legs like he always did. “as you said, i didn’t think you’d gain anything from murdering your brother”
you recognized this neutral look on his face — the very same look he always took on whenever he was in court, listening to the defender and the prosecutor and finally also delivering his verdict.
“what changed?” you clenched your jaw, anxious about his answer.
what would it be? did he let himself be swayed by the public opinion, listening to the voices booing your story out? did he trust the prosecutor's fabricated and seemingly flawless story? or were you simply not convincing enough?
“the facts changed,” he calmly stated, making you huff in disagreement.
“bullshit,” you spat, “you just found another story to believe in”
not waiting a second to retort, he leaned back slightly. “i told you, it's not about what i want to believe in, delusions aren’t what makes our justice. it’s fairness, facts,” he sighed. you don‘t know if it was in defeat or in a disappointed manner. his voice became sharper again its him putting his chin higher. “and that is what i represent”
“you‘ve convicted an innocent person,” you declared, mirroring his expression and posture.
he would leave you here to rot, by now you were sure of it. and yet to you it seemed like he didn‘t really grasp the gravity of this.
neuvillette convicted you of murder. and if this wasn‘t bad enough, he truly believed that you had it in yourself to kill your own brother, your flesh and blood.
the only person you had left.
“i don’t give the final verdict. that is out of my hands,” he claimed, clearly referring to the oratrice — the huge scale behind himself in the court‘s opera epiclese.
was he really pinning the blame on a machine, denying any kind of involvement in your current situation? like he had nothing to do with this?
wasn‘t he supposed to be independent and just? wasn‘t this why he prided himself in his position and why the people of fontaine trusted him? because their beliefs aligned?
“yet your decisions are always the same. how could you do this to me?”
instead of answering, neuvillette stood up, turning his back on you and taking a few steps towards the exit of your cell, well, dormitory.
could he really just leave like this and leave you behind? did he not feel any kind of remorse, pity, pain?
the echoing steps came to a halt a few moments after. you looked up at him again, only to realize he had already reached the exit. he had his hand on the dark wall, looking at you over his shoulder.
he couldn‘t even properly turn around to talk to you and face you after dooming you?
“i’m afraid there’s nothing i can do,” neuvillette stated in a matter-of-factly tone, “your sentence will be carried out accordingly, unless you wish to evoke your right to challenge a duelist”
so this was it? he would just go and leave you here?
“if there is nothing you wish to say to me, i’ll take my leave”
you knew neuvillette didn‘t exactly feel the way you did. he had troubles with emotions, often lacking the proper words to fully express himself and describing what was going on inside of him. and you used to pride yourself in being able to understand him regardless, possessing the ability to read him almost like an open book. you helped him navigate through the complicated world of feelings, taking your time and going at your speed.
but right now, you were second-guessing everything. was he even capable of any kind of emotion? did he just fool you all this time?
did he truly not feel any kind of remorse for what he did, for what he was doing?
you shook your head in disbelief. this had to be a joke, a sick prank someone played on you and somehow got not just the entire nation of fontaine, but also somehow managed to get neuvillette to play along. at least that‘s what you wanted to believe. “so that’s supposed ‘justice’”
neuvillette turned around, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “it is justice,” he stated, “it’s about facts, not fiction”
you almost burst out laughing as he said that, so convinced of the system he served in.
and truly, you once were too.
but you couldn‘t, not anymore. not after seeing how the trial against you turned into some sort of drama, like it was straight out of a book. journalists were publishing articles with grotesque headlines, bombarding you with horrendous questions that left you cringing uncomfortably.
you watched as the story the prosecutor told got more and more dramatic, pointing at you accusatory as he recounted the ‘true events‘ of the fateful night, completely ignoring whatever you said to dispute his claims. “it’s not about facts, it’s about convenience! it’s just theatrics and entertainment!” you yelled as you jumped on your feet, not being able to contain your voice any longer.
“whoever presents the story that convinces the most people will win. and the people of fontaine are so easy to be swayed,” you continued, not letting the man in front of you get a single word in, “so thirsty for some juicy drama that lets them forget about their boring lives”
you couldn‘t stop yourself from scoffing again before letting a condescending laugh escape you. “and they don’t even have the critical thinking to reflect on everything”
your trial simply proved what you just told him. your point of view, your truth, simply didn‘t matter to the prosecutor or to the public. their story seemed to convenient, something that could be right out of a criminal novel that they loved to devour so much. the headlines in the newspaper were too sensational to be considered factual, too virulent to make any person doubt it.
“the public’s opinion does not sway the sentence,” neuvillette claimed with a clenched jaw, starting to look agitated.
and it seemed like they managed to get neuvillette on their side too.
a sad smile appeared on your face. “then i guess you’re stupid too” stupid for not listening to your side, stupid to believe the prosecutor, stupid to not make a rational judgment.
too stupid to realize that your supposed motive wasn’t a motive at all.
money. why would you kill your own brother for money when the two of you never had anything to begin with? you couldn’t steal something when there wasn‘t anything in the first place. neuvillette knew that. he knew you came from nothing, he knew the two of you had nothing.
and even if it was a motive — no amount of money would ever be able to heal the wound you had sustained from losing your brother.
how could he be so stupid?
“you’re acting childish,” he stated calmly.
you were in jail and possibly would never see the light of day again. you were locked in an underwater fortress for a crime you didn‘t commit and nobody believed you.
and his worry was that you were acting childish?
“oh, i’m sorry for not being calm and collected like you after being unjustly sentenced for murdering my own brother!” you raised your voice at him again, angrily stepping closer to him. “and that by the one person that i thought actually believed me”
you had to swallow down the lump in your throat again, blinking rapidly before looking into his eyes again.
how could he do this to you? was he truly so heartless?
would he really leave you here, alone and heartbroken?
a familiar warm hand slightly caressed your cheek. “i love you,” he whispered to you, in the same loving voice he had always used with you. “but i cannot make any exceptions” he stepped back, the warmth leaving your cheek again, letting the cold creep up to you again. he looked almost hurt himself and you were almost willing to feel pity for him — maybe if he wasn’t the chief of justice. maybe if he couldn’t put a stop to all of this, “not even for you”
maybe if he had kept his promise to you.
your fingertips grazed over your cheek, longing for the warmth that neuvillette’s hand provided just a few seconds earlier. your chest tightened as you dug your teeth into your lower lip, feeling your eyes well up again. “so that’s it? you love me, but not enough to believe me? not enough to keep me safe? free?”
you clenched your fists at your sides, not noticing that he was doing exactly the same.
“this is about so much more than just you!” he exclaimed angrily, his voice practically booming off the walls, “you’re too self-centered to understand this!”
did not wanting to rot in prison after being framed for a crime really make you self-centered? was that all he thought of you now?
“it’s my duty! my promise to the people from fontaine, my promise to our archon and my promise to myself to uphold justice,” he continued his rant, his voice growing uncharacteristically theatrical.
was he really just a part of the theatrics of fontaine‘s supposed just court? was his equitable self just a ruse, an act he put on to fit in?
did you ever really know him?
“what about your promise to me?” your voice wasn‘t much more than a whisper as you spoke, looking up at him. not that you‘d be able to actually see him with how blurry your vision got from the tears in your eyes.
as childish and naive as it was, you couldn‘t help but wish for him to remember.
it was a late summer night, the first evening where you could finally go out. the past days it had rained with seemingly no end in sight and now you felt like you could finally breathe again.
you had been strolling around the city without any real goal, simply admiring how many people enjoyed the summer warmth after so many cold and wet days.
neuvillette‘s hand was entangled with yours, the two of you walking in silence, simply enjoying each other‘s company. you had been seeing each other for a while now and yet it was still early enough for you to feel slightly nervous whenever you were near him, stomach turning and feeling butterflies when you held hands, hugged or kissed.
it was on that day when he pulled you close to the fountain of lucine, wrapping his arms around you as the two of you spend some time listening to the ambience — the water running, the pigeons and other birds chirping and the few people talking around you, some whispering wishes to the fountain, some gleefully joking with each other.
most people had already left when he turned you around to face him, letting go of your waist to grab your hands, pressing a kiss on your knuckles before he spoke.
it was the first time that he told you that he loved you, finally revealing just how much he cared for you and cherished you. how he would do everything in his power to protect you, how he would always believe you and how he would always stay by your side.
how even when everybody turned their back on you, you would always have him.
and yet here you were now.
you didn’t know what you would prefer — him forgetting about that day or him remembering, but simply not caring enough to act on it.
like everything he had told you — promised you — has been a lie.
clenching his jaw, neuvillette turned around again.
no.
blinking away your tears you weakly called out his name, a part of you still expecting him to turn around.
don‘t go.
you hoped for a miracle, a change of heart. you wanted him to rush to you, to comfort you, to love you again.
maybe then everything would turn out to be okay again.
you stumbled, the back of your knees hitting the chair he had been sitting earlier, falling onto it.
don‘t leave me.
you still hoped that everything was just a big mistake.
you called out to him again, fighting against the tears that kept welling up in your eyes, leaving neuvillette‘s figure in front of you all blurred again. “what about that? why can you betray me like that, but not them?”
“i’m sorry” and with that he left, not even sparing you a single glance on his way out, as you pulled your knees up, hugging them while the tears began to roll over your cheek again.
reblogs are appreciated !
#₊❏❜ ⋮angstober ‘23#₊❏❜ ⋮genshin#neuvillette x reader#neuvillette x you#neuvillette angst#neuvillette imagine#genshin angst#genshin impact x reader#genshin impact x you#genshin imagines#genshin x you#genshin x reader#neuvillette#neuvillete x reader#neuvilette x you#neuvilette genshin#neuvillette genshin
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I heard you were sad about the lack of Luke asks, so l've decided to try and help! Bare with me bc this might not be the best considering I'm think on the spot and its late over here so feel free to delete!
So, reader was with Luke when he was running away with Annie and Thalia so they're really close. Then, when her and Luke were like 16 or smth reader left on a quest and its been like 2 years so its assumed that she just failed and died on her quest. This ruined Luke bc he loved her and one night, maybe at the bonfire, he hears reader screaming his name somewhere in the foresty part of camp, just absolutely terrified. He finds her and shes hurt, I'm talkin reallyyy messed up like a massive gash across her eye, (matching scar awww) leavin her like half blind, huge claw marks, teeth marks, and other wounds. He carries her to the infirmary, shes prob passed out at this point from like blood loss. Anyways, she finally wakes up in the infirmary and a bunch of fluff ensues, yk the usual "Don't ever leave me again" "I thought you were dead" the fun stuff and obv they confess to each other! (also, is 🖤 taken?)
whoever made this request, it was so good, you’re evil and brilliant; thank you 🖤
MDNI. luke castellan x fem!reader
warnings: wounds, injuries, blood mention, presumed death, luke being heartbroken (sorry), crying
reminder: english's not my first language so l apologize for any spelling mistakes
₊˚⊹♡
Every morning, Luke woke with the same dull ache in his chest, a constant reminder of the gaping hole your absence had left in him. It was a hollow ache, a physical manifestation of the loneliness that had become his unwelcome company. Nine years old when he ran away, the world had been a harsh teacher, but three years later, when he found you, that harshness had softened, replaced by a fierce protectiveness. You, a scared, twelve-year-old with defiance blazing in your eyes and a meager weapon in hand, had become his anchor in the storm.
The streets had been a cruel way of living, but together, you and Luke had forged a bond stronger than steel. You were the same age, yet he was older by a few months, a difference that somehow granted him a silent responsibility for your safety. Thalia and Annabeth, two more lost souls swept up in the world of their demigod destinies, completed their unbalanced family. But it was you and Luke, the two eldest, who shared a silent language of understanding that went beyond words. You fought together, scavenged together, your backs against the world.
The arrival of Grover, a satyr reeking of panic, brought relief and a terrifying truth— you weren't alone. The hunt for demigods was real, and you were all in danger.
Fourteen. A year etched in his memory with the sharp point of a spear. The monsters, the desperate fight, Thalias selfless sacrifice, the agonizing transformation into the pine tree — the events played on a loop in his mind. Camp Half-Blood, once a beacon of hope, now felt like a bittersweet prison. He had you by his side then, a hand to grip in the darkness, a silent understanding in your shared gaze.
It wasn't supposed to be this way. You were supposed to be there, by his side, facing challenges and forging a future together. He replayed the memory of your first quest announcement on a loop. The fear in his gut, a slap in the face of his fierce protectiveness. He wasn't supposed to lose you.
It wasn't fair. It shouldn't have been you, alone, facing whatever monstrous fate had befallen you. A bitter taste filled his mouth as he replayed the day you left. The forced cheer, the worry that gnawed at him, all a blur now. Training became a way to numb the ache, each swing of his sword carrying a silent plea for your sate return. But as days turned into months, the hope that had fueled him began to fade away.
News traveled slow in the demigod world, but eventually, rumors reached Camp Half-Blood. Whispers of a monstrous encounter, a lost trail, a silence that stretched too long. A year after your departure, the whispers solidified into a grim reality - you were missing, presumed dead.
Luke felt the world tilt on its axis. Denial battled with a cold, horrifying truth. You were gone.
A quest, a single solitary mission, had stolen you from him. Stolen your laughter, your warmth, your presence that had become an essential part of his world. It wasn't fair.
The quest for the Golden Apple had been a cruel twist of fate. A desperate attempt to appease his father, to offer a sliver of hope to a camp drowning in sadness, it had backfired spectacularly. Luke returned empty-handed, his body wracked with exhaustion and his spirit battered. But the most visible reminder of his failure was the jagged scar that ran from beneath his eye down to his chin, a pale testament to the dragon's fury.
He'd needed your presence then more than ever. Needed your steady gaze and the quiet strength you possessed. Needed the spark of defiance in your eyes that mirrored his own growing anger towards a world that had seemed so determined to tear them apart. He needed your touch, your hugs, he needed you.
He stood stiffly before your burial shroud, an image carved in his memory forever. Tears streamed down his face, hot and unchecked. He ignored the concerned glances of his friends, focusing only on the phantom warmth of your hand in his, a memory more vivid than anything else.
In that moment, ravaged by grief, a single truth burned bright — he loved you. And he had lost you. The world felt a little emptier, a little colder, without you by his side.
And the first nights after you left were the worst.
At first, they were hopeful visions. He'd see you, alone on a dusty road, tending to a nasty gash on your arm with a makeshift bandage. A surge of worry would course through him, a familiar anxiety honed by years on the streets. But then, a wry smile would tug at his lips as he remembered the countless times he'd taught you how to create a tourniquet, how to patch a wound and survive on the bare minimum. A flicker of confidence, a belief in your resourcefulness, would chase away the initial fear. He just knew you'd find a way back to him.
He'd wake with a jolt, his hand instinctively reaching for the empty space beside him. The sheets were cold, the air thick with the silence of your absence. But then, a flicker of hope would ignite— you were alive, you were out there.
Finally, the dreams turned into nightmares. You'd appear, but not the way he remembered you. Pale and gaunt, your eyes hollow and vacant. Sometimes, you'd be chased by monstrous shadows, their grotesque forms dissolving into a chilling whisper of your name. These dreams left him gasping for breath, his heart hammering against his ribs.
It had been a little over a year since the agonizing ceremony, the image of your burial shroud seared into his memory. But time, a supposed healer, offered no solace. In reality, it had stretched the fact of your absence even wider. Two years. Two years since he'd last seen your smile, heard your voice, felt the warmth of your hand in his.
"Luke!"
Ah, yes. He heard you sometimes. At first, it happened while he was alone; he believed it could be you, trying to contact him in some way, but it never was that way. He never found you. Then he started hearing your voice in crowded places, mistaking your voice for the ones of other campers, and his heart ached every time he realized it wasn't you.
He felt like he was going insane. Hearing you, even after years. He must be going mad. But then, it became clearer.
"Luke!"
The voice, barely audible above the crackling flames, cut through his thoughts like a knife. He froze, his hand tightening around the thin stick that held his burned marshmallow. Was it-? No. It couldn't be. He must be imagining things again.
The grief, the pain, he knew, could play tricks on the mind.
He brushed it off, attempting to rejoin the conversation, forcing a lightness to his voice that felt hollow. But then, it came again. Clearer this time, tinged with a desperate urgency.
"Luke!? Luke!"
The single word, laden with a desperate urgency, pierced through his defenses. He froze, his blood turning to ice. It was your voice. The same voice that filled his dreams and haunted his waking hours. He whipped his head around, searching the darkened forest beyond the fire's reach.
But the trees stood silent, their branches swaying gently in the night breeze. Nothing. Yet, the echo of your voice lingered in the air, a chilling reminder of the impossible. His heart pounded in his chest, a frantic drum against his ribs.
He glanced around the fire, catching the bewildered expressions of a few campers who had clearly heard the voice too. Their eyes mirrored the confusion and fear that clawed at him. If he said anything, they'd think he'd cracked, that the pain had finally driven him mad.
"Luke!"
But it was you.
Your voice, unmistakable and undeniably real. A wave of disbelief washed over him, followed by a surge of hope so intense it threatened to suffocate him.
He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the surprised yelps of his friends as he knocked over a tray of steaming hot cocoa cups. Stumbling over his own feet, he charged towards the edge of the forest, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
He skidded to a halt just inside the treeline, his eyes scanning the darkness. "yn!?" he called out, his voice hoarse with a mixture of fear and desperate hope. The only reply was the rustling of leaves in the night breeze.
It was cloaked in darkness, making it impossible to discern any details. But there was a smallness, a fragility to its silhouette that resonated with his memory of you.
Just as doubt began to creep back in, another call pierced the silence. "Luke!" This time, the desperation in your voice was unmistakable.
He didn't hesitate any longer. "yn!" he roared, his voice raw with emotion as he launched himself into a run.
Several campers, roused by the commotion, scrambled to their feet, their eyes wide with confusion and trepidation. They watched, mouths agape, as Luke bolted towards the treeline, his long strides eating away at the distance.
"Luke!" Your voice came again, closer this time, tinged with a note of panic.
"yn!" He didn't dare slow down, his heart making its way up to his mouth. He could hear the sound of others following him, their footsteps pounding on the soft earth behind him.
Through the dense foliage, he caught a glimpse of your figure — small, hunched over, moving with a limp. Hope flared bright within him, battling the tide of fear that threatened to drown him.
Then, you stumbled, nearly falling. He redoubled his efforts, pushing himself to the limit. As he broke through the last line of trees, he saw you standing there, bathed in the pale moonlight.
And his breath hitched in his throat.
The sight of you, once vibrant and full of life, was a punch to the gut. Dirt and grime smeared your face, your clothes were ripped and tattered, and a sheen of sweat covered your brow. But it was the wounds that stole his breath away. Deep claw marks raked across your arms, a bloody gash marred your leg, and the most horrifying of all — a massive scar stretched across your eye, a brutal reminder of some unseen battle. The campers behind him gasped in unison, their faces etched with shock and horror.
Chiron, alerted by the commotion, pushed his way through the crowd, his brow furrowed in concern.
But your focus was solely on Luke. With a desperate cry of his name, you lurched towards him, your injured leg buckling beneath you. Without hesitation, Luke launched himself forward, catching you in his arms just before you hit the ground.
"Luke..." you whispered, your voice barely a breath. Your eyes, the one that wasn't obscured by the wound, flickered with a spark of relief and a hint of something else - a deep, unspoken emotion that mirrored his own.
Then, your eyelids fluttered closed, and your body went limp in his arms. Panic surged through him as he cradled you closer, his voice hoarse with a mixture of fear and relief. " yn? No, no, no, no, yn?" he slightly slapped your cheek, no response. He looked back to to the campers that decided to follow him, his voice cracking with desperation. "Get the Apollo cabin, now!"
The days that followed your arrival were shrouded in a suffocating silence. The once vibrant camp seemed to echo with a collective held breath. No one dared to talk to Luke.
His eyes, once playful and sparkly, now held a deep, smoldering anger. He snapped at anyone who dared to approach. Only Chiron, with his patient wisdom, Annabeth, with her loyalty, and the healers of Apollo cabin, sworn to secrecy about your condition, were able to pierce the storm raging within him.
Each day, a relentless routine unfolded. Luke would rise with the first rays of dawn, his body heavy with the weight of his own despair. He'd force down a meager breakfast, the taste turning to ash in his mouth. Then, with a heart that felt like a lead weight in his chest, he'd make the agonizing trek to the Big House, the temporary haven where you resided. He would do it multiple times a day, actually.
Lee, the son of Apollo with a mop of messy blonde hair and eyes that held a touch of empathy, would greet him at the door, a practiced neutrality masking his concern. The answer was always the same. You were alive. The healers had managed to stabilize you. But your recovery was a slow, painful journey. The wounds you bore were a testament to a harrowing pain, and the care they had taken on your body was immense.
As soon as you had fainted in his arms, you had slipped into unconsciousness. No amount of coaxing, no whispered pleas from the healers, or songs in Ancient Greek, could bring you back. Luke was devastated. The relief of having you back, a physical presence after two agonizing years, was a fragile flame quickly extinguished by the reality of your condition. Your life hung by a thread, and he was kept at arm's length.
One particularly bleak afternoon, Luke found himself face-to-face with Chiron. The old centaur, his kind eyes reflecting the turmoil swirling within Luke, gestured for him to sit.
"Luke," Chiron began, his voice soft yet firm, "I understand your pain. Your worry for yn is valid and understandable. But you must also understand, her condition is delicate"
Luke clenched his fists, his jaw tightening with suppressed anger. "Why can't I see her? Annabeth's younger than me and yet, she gets to see her. Why not me?" The words tumbled out, laced with a raw desperation.
Chiron sighed, a weary sound. "Because, Luke," he said, his voice heavy with empathy, "we fear the emotional toll it might take on you if-, if the worst were to happen."
He slumped in his chair, defeated. Grief, anger, and a gnawing helplessness battled within him.
"How long then?" he rasped, his voice barely a whisper. "How long will it be before I can see her again?"
Chiron reached out, placing a comforting hand on Luke's shoulder. "We don't know, Luke" he said honestly. "But the healers are doing their best And you need to find your strength. She will need it when she wakes up”
He nodded dumbly, understanding Chiron's concern for him. But that didn't make the gnawing ache in his chest any less agonizing. He missed you. Missed the warmth of your hand in his, the light that sparkled in your eyes, the way your laughter could chase away even the darkest shadows.
A few days later, he walked by the Big House again. Lee greeted him again, just as every other day.
"How is she?" Luke asked.
Lee sighed, a gust of exasperation tinged with sympathy. He looked tired himself, dark circles under his eye and a large cup of coffee in his hand. "Little change. But she's stable. Stronger than she looks. We had some healers fainting because of how much singing they've done to her"
A muscle ticked in Luke's jaw. "Can't I at least see her?" The words came out harsher than he intended, dripping with frustration.
Lee studied him for a long moment, his own blue eyes reflecting the turmoil within Luke. Finally, he spoke. "Look, I get it. You're scared, you're angry. But you have to understand, seeing her likes this... we can't let you"
Luke clenched his fists. "I can handle it" he growled, the beast within him straining against its leash.
Lee took a step closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Can you, Luke? Can you handle the possibility that maybe she doesn't get to wake up?"
The question hung in the air, a brutal truth that stripped away Luke's bravado. He stared at Lee, the anger draining away, replaced by a raw vulnerability that surprised even him. He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat suddenly making it hard to breathe.
"No" he whispered, the single word a confession of his deepest fear.
Lee nodded, a flicker of understanding softening his features. "Then trust us, Luke. Trust the healers. We're doing everything we can."
And then he remember Chiron's words. He knew he was right. He couldn't bear the thought of the last image of you being one of unconsciousness, a pale specter in a sterile infirmary bed.
The days that followed settled into a grim routine. Luke stopped asking the relentless question, 'Did she wake up?' The answer, etched into his weary soul, was a constant ache that no words could soothe. He had stopped arguing, the initial burst of rebellion replaced by a quiet desperation. He started asking more specific questions, focusing on the details of your injuries. Your eye, the massive gash that mirrored his own scar in a way that made his stomach churn, became a particular point of morbid fascination.
He couldn't bear to look at the jagged mark on his face, couldn't imagine how it felt on yours.
Not because he thought you wouldn't be beautiful —he knew you would be. But the thought of you facing the same constant reminder of pain, of vulnerability, filled him with a protective rage that simmered beneath the surtace.
But then, a shift began to occur. He noticed stolen glances exchanged between the Apollo campers, hushed whispers that died down as soon as he entered their vicinity. An unspoken secret they guarded fiercely. He tried to ignore it, burying himself in training, seeking solace in the familiar sting of sweat and exertion. Chiron's words were a constant drumbeat in his head - seeing you too soon, on the precipice of death, was a burden he might not bear.
But later that day, as the sun dipped below the horizon casting the camp in an orange glow, Chiron sought him out. Luke braced himself, his heart plummeting into his stomach. His mind spun with a thousand morbid possibilities.
He met Chiron's gaze, a storm brewing in his own eyes. "What is it?" he rasped, voice breaking.
Chiron took a deep breath, his eyes locking onto Luke's with a solemn intensity. "Luke," he began, his voice thick with a mix of trepidation and hope, "she's awake."
The world seemed to tilt on its axis again. The air whooshed out of Luke's lungs, leaving him breathless. For a moment, he could only stare, his mind struggling to process the simple, life-altering statement.
Then he ran.
His feet pounded a trantic rhythm against the dusty path, each step fueled by a desperate need to see you. Chiron's protests, if there were any, were lost in the roar of blood rushing in his ears. He wouldn't be denied this. Not now. His legs pumped like pistons, fueled by a desperate hope that threatened to shatter him if it turned out to be false. He burst through the doors of the Big House, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. The interior was deserted, the silence amplifying the frantic pounding of his heart.
He flung open the infirmary door, the sight inside momentarily stealing his breath. Two Apollo campers stood by the window, their hushed whispers abruptly cut short by his arrival.
But his eyes were locked on you, the very image of him defying the cruelty of fate.
You sat on the bed, a fragile silhouette bathed in the pale light, your head bent over your bandaged hands. Your hair, once a fiery mane, had grown longer, a testament to the time that had passed for him in a blur of grief. Your skin, usually kissed by the sun, was a pale canvas.
He took everything in — the fresh cuts marring your arms, the claw marks, the way your shoulders slumped with exhaustion. And you had lifted your head, startled by the sudden noise.
Your eyes, usually sparkling with life, were dull with pain, but when they met his, a spark ignited within them.
"Luke!"
The word ripped from your throat, a cry that echoed with relief and a tremor of something deeper. You lunged off the bed, ignoring the wince that contorted your face as your injured leg protested.
"yn, wait!" Lee sprang forward, concern etched on his face. Your stitches, particularly those on your thigh, were still fresh, and any sudden movement could cause them to tear.
But you didn't listen. You threw yourself at Luke, your arms wrapping around him with a desperation that mirrored his own. He caught you, the impact sending a jolt through his body. His arms tightened around you, a desperate need to hold on, to feel you solid against him.
He held you tight, the fierce possessiveness in his grip both a comfort and a warning. Your body, the way you fit so perfectly against his larger frame, sent a jolt through him. He'd grown, you realized, his broad shoulders feeling wider, his embrace stronger. In contrast, you felt impossibly small, the warrior you remembered replaced by a shell of the person you once were. His hot tears quickly started to wet your hair.
The sudden weakness in your leg, the one that had been screaming in protest since you lunged at him, finally overwhelmed you. A sharp cry escaped your lips as your body gave way beneath you. Instinctively, Luke tightened his grip, his arms morphing into a cradle to catch your fall.
The impact with the floor sent a fresh wave of pain shooting through you, but it was a dull ache compared to the overwhelming joy of finally being in his arms again. You clung to him, your fingers digging into his back, burying your face in the crook of his neck. Luke wouldn't stop sobbing now, his shoulder shaking as his arms held you into his embrace.
The Apollo campers, sensing the intimacy of the moment, mumbled apologies as they slipped out of the infirmary, leaving you and Luke alone.
He cradled you close, the scent of your hair and the warmth of your body a balm to his battered soul. He buried his face in your hair, inhaling the familiar fragrance that had haunted his dreams for so long. It was real. You were real.
"You're alive" he sobbed, the words a broken mantra against your ear. "You're alive" he repeated. Each repetition wasn't just for you, but for him, a desperate attempt to convince himself that this wasn't a cruel dream, that you weren't an illusion.
He pulled back slightly, cupping your face in his hand, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw. The wounds looked clean now, stitched and bandaged, but the raw pain was etched in the lines around your eyes. The gash across your eye, a crimson scar angry and fresh, pulled at the corner of your eye, making it appear swollen and bruised. Yet, to him, you were the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.
It started a finger's width above your eyebrow, then, just as abruptly, it dipped down, catching the outer corner of your eye. The scar tissue pulled the delicate skin, making your eye appear slightly narrowed and bloodshot.
But despite the rawness of the wound, despite the vulnerability etched on your face, there was something undeniably fierce about you. It was a look he hadn't seen before, a look born from surviving the unthinkable.
Tears welled up in your eyes again, blurring your vision. You had always been beautiful, that much was undeniable. But now, even with a scar contrasting against your features, you were breathtaking.
He didn't mean to say it out loud, but the words tumbled from his lips before he could stop them.
"You look beautiful" he breathed, his voice thick with emotion.
His words sent a shiver down your spine. You leaned into his touch, seeking solace in the warmth of his hand. "It hurts" you whispered, a tear tracing a path down your cheek.
"I know" he murmured, his voice filled with empathy. He sniffed uncontrollably at your sight, so broken and fragile, wrapped around his arm. "But you're alive. You're here" his bottom lip started trembling before he could control it. He inhaled sharply and his voice came out shaky; "I thought you were dead" tears rolling down his cheeks.
You laughed, a weak sound that was more like a sob. "You won't get rid of me that easily"
He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm on your skin. In that moment, the infirmary with its sterile smell and harsh light faded away. All that existed was the feel of you in his arms, the warmth of your body against his, and the knowledge that you were alive.
"Don't ever leave me again" he pleaded, his voice thick with a mix of relief and terror. The thought of losing you again, of facing another agonizing day without you, was almost unbearable.
"I wouldn't dream of it" you whispered.
#luke castellan x reader#luke castellan#luke castellan blurb#pjo series#pjo#luke castellan x you#luke x reader#luke castellan one shot#luke castellan fic#luke castellan imagine#pjo x reader#pjo x you#luke castellan x female reader#luke castellan x fem!reader#luke castellan x y/n#luke castellan imagines
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EVERY YOU EVERY ME: Issue #2
Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader
Summary: Your streak of bad luck continues as you find that the universe is not done putting you in harm's way. Luckily, you have grouchy Spider-man to save you.
Word count: 3,500 words.
Content: Slowest of the burn, near death experiences, the emotional whiplash of Miguel O'Hara being a rude bastard and a total softie.
Astroboot’s Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist
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According to an article that ran in the New York Times: one out of every 40 New Yorkers will have a run in with a Superhero in the time they live here.
That might not sound like much, but considering that nearly 8.5 million people live in this city, it adds up to a lot of people. In fact, most in your friends circle have their own anecdotal story to tell.
I ran into Tony Stark at the Brandy Library and he asked me for my phone number. Bit of a sleaze but he bought our whole table a round of drinks.
Captain America landed on my Fiat on Manhattan Bridge. He dented the roof, but he was very polite about it.
Daredevil was hanging out at the fire escape ladder above the Meatball shop. Gave me tips on what to order.
It's nothing short of a miracle that having lived in this city for as many years as you have that this is the first time you've had a Supes encounter.
It'll be a great story to tell at parties. You fell out of the Chrysler building and were rescued mid-air. It blows all the other stories out of the water. Though, you'll probably leave out the part where he wished he'd left you to die.
You stare blindly at your computer screen. There are endless rows of cells on your excel sheet no matter how far you scroll. Uninterrupted numbers and reference codes for insurance claims that are waiting for your attention. But the numbers and letters all blend into an indecipherable sludge soup. All you can focus on is: 'I should've let you fall.'
Heat prickles your cheek, as you replay his words in your head.
What the hell.
That was entirely unnecessary.
You didn't deserve that.
Over the course of the last 24 hours, you've played the scene on an endless loop in your head, until the memory is worn and scratched like a used up VHS tape.
Did you do something wrong? You must've. Who has ever heard of a Superhero treating a civilian in this manner? You’re just a hapless innocent bystander who fell out of a building due to a supervillain battle they started. To blame it on you and then call it a mistake. Isn't that something a supervillain would do?
Gritting your teeth, you feel yourself seething of the memory of the windows next to you breaking and shattering out of nowhere as a bird-person villain with mechanical wings tumbled past you. Next thing you knew you were tumbling out the window.
And then he saved you.
Did he mean to save someone else? Is that why he was so annoyed? But, you didn't see any other people falling from the building on your way down.
You replay the memory. Again.
The looming silhouette of his towering frame over yours as he sneered down at you.
He looked at you like he knew you. Like you had offended him with your mere existence. But you don't understand how. You've never met him before. Never met anyone who looked even remotely like him. You would've remembered a man with red eyes, they're not exactly common. Plus, you don't think you've ever met someone quite so tall. Your neck hurt with the angle you had to crane just to look at his face.
What could you possibly have done in your lifetime to piss off a Superhero you've never met before?
For that matter what Superhero is he anyway? You think back at the dark navy suit clinging onto every inch of skin, embellished by that bright angry red in the emblem of a spider.
Spider-man...
Except Spider-man is known to be a swell guy with a great sense of humor. Not a rude asshole.
Aren't his colors inverted too? You pull up the browser on your screen and google "spiderman outfit". There's over 800 million hits. In all of them Spiderman's suit is primarily red with blue embellishment.
Whoever the guy is, you don't think he's your friendly neighborhood Spiderman that every New Yorker knows and loves.
With a hapless sigh, you click aimlessly on your screen, trying to look busy at work for the next twenty minutes until you can go on your lunch break. You go through the motions of your soul sucking tasks. Tagging each insurance claim into one of the following categories: approved/rejected/further missing information required.
Peering over your cubicle wall to the wall of windows, you spy the section that has been zoned off since yesterday. The broken window you were knocked out of has already been replaced, but there's still shattered glass and debris nearby.
Your stomach drops, the phantom sensation of the ground beneath you giving way. For a brief second you swear you can feel the weightlessness of soaring through the skies without anything catching your fall.
You stand up from your desk, solid ground meeting the soles of your feet to remind you where you are.
The office.
There's a monotone drone of workers all around you grumbling and sighing just as unhappily. The quiet tip-tapping of keyboards of the working masses.
Is this the life you managed to escape death for?
Is this it?
It's kind of sad isn't it? You nearly died and lived to tell the tale, only to return to a life so unremarkable your brain didn't deign it necessary to provide you with any highlights (cause there are none).
The most exciting thing that has happened to you the whole of this year was being insulted by a grumpy superhero. The most you've wanted to live was during that span of ten seconds when you were falling out of a building to your death.
You glance at your clock, still 15 minutes before noon. You log out of your desktop anyway.
You barely make it across the street from your office. The light is green as you cross Lexington Avenue when the screeching noise of tires tears down the street and rips through your eardrums.
A yellow taxi hurtles towards you at full speed. Through the car window separating you, the cab driver is staring up at you with wide-eyed horror. In that fraction of a second before the hard metal is going to collide and shatter every bone in your body, you only have one thought: Oh god, this is going to hurt.
Life doesn't flash before your eyes. All you see is the familiar blur of shiny blue and red.
Go figure that's the only moment extraordinary enough for your brain to think it's worth replaying before you die.
There's a blunt and forceful shove to the side of your ribs. Softer than you would've imagined a two tonne vehicle slamming into you would be. It doesn't hurt. It reminds you of that time you played football with your cousin and he body slammed you to the lawn. You've heard about this phenomena, the brain will try to protect itself by going unconscious if the pain is too extreme.
But there's no bright light, when you open your eyes all you see is the familiar shiny blue fabric.
A firm weight wraps around your shoulders, and you recognize this, the feeling of being held as you're pulled into their solid chest. There's not enough time for you to look up, you're slammed onto the ground, the solid warmth wrapped around you, absorbing the fall.
The pressure wrapped around you shifts then lifts away entirely. When you open your eyes for a second time, there’s no one there holding you.
There's no one else there with you. Just the standstill traffic of cars and pedestrians gawking at you.
A concerned woman runs over to you, bending down to help you up on your feet. "Are you okay? That car came out of nowhere."
Your legs feel unsteady, wobbling as you put weight on it to stand up.
“I’m fine, I think,” you respond, and look down on yourself. There are no scrapes, just a bit of dust on your work-attire from traffic.
"You're so lucky, Spiderman was there to save you."
You blink up at the woman in dazed confusion and it takes your brain a few seconds to process what she's telling you.
Spider-man...
In your mind's eye the flashes of blue and a vivid red invades your vision. It wasn't just your life flashing you by. Not just a figment of your imagination.
He was here. He saved you. (Probably not) Spider-man saved you (again).
A wave of gratitude washes over you. You take back every unflattering thought you had about the man not five minutes ago. Rude? Would a rude man save you, not once but twice in one day? No, of course not, you probably just misunderstood him, or misheard. After all, if he truly regretted saving you, he wouldn't have done it a second time... right?
--
When you get back at your desk, there's a post-it tacked to your computer screen, with an angry scrawl of a handwriting.
'Look BOTH ways before crossing!!!!!'
You stare at the note, and the way the word "both" is capitalized and aggressively underlined.
Rude.
The universe is out to kill you. You're sure of it.
They say that death comes in threes after all. So no one can blame you for being a little bit on the edge after you've gone two for two within the time span of 24 hours.
You stay away from windows in tall buildings. You look both ways, twice, before crossing the street. You try to go straight home from work the minute you clock out from work, turning down any and all initiations with friends to go out after out of precaution. It's just not worth the risk.
And for a while it seems to work. For a while, there are no more incidents. A week goes by and your nerves start to settle and you are lulled into a temporary sense of security before it all goes to shits.
A ceramic flower pot on a windowsill tumbling off the sixth floor of a brown house by Chelsea that would have dropped on your head and split your skull if someone hadn't bumped into you from behind that you weren’t able to catch sight of.
A piece of scaffolding that comes loose and falls from a construction site in West Village as you happened to walk past, and would have been crushed under if you weren’t tackled away at the last second by someone who fled the scene before you could thank them.
A hot dog cart runs amok, hurtling downhill towards you between 184th and 190th street in Manhattan when the cart suddenly out of nowhere, against the very laws of physics like it’s being pulled by an invisible force and changes direction mere inches in front of you, hurtling through the air and crashing into the windows of a bodega instead.
Each and every incident leaves you with an ever growing sense of paranoia that this cannot be explained away by being merely pure bad luck. There are cosmic forces at force that clearly want you dead.
On Thursday, there are leftover cupcakes from a client conference. Mary, the secretary in your team, boxes up four of them for you and tells you to take them with you, because, "you've had a rough week, toots."
It’s not a flattering assessment of you, but when you see your own reflection in the mirrors of the office toilets, you can’t help but think it’s an accurate one. You look rough. Eyes bloodshot with deep furrowed lines underneath. Your face is gaunter than you remember seeing it too.
You take the cupcakes.
It's the first good thing that has happened to you all week, and as small of a comfort it is, you take it as a win.
You eye the box from your desk the rest of the day, squirreled away in your tiny cubicle. You are determined not to eat one while at work. Because you'll be damned if Matt from accounting catches a whiff of your cupcakes and asks you to share one with him. You want to properly savor them in the comfort of your home at the end of the day.
But as often is the case when you have something to look forward to, the seconds, minutes and hours tick away with a reluctant drag as if time itself knew you wanted the day to end faster and decided it'd be fun to flip yet another cosmic middle finger in your direction.
When it's finally time to end work, you get off your chair so forcefully it knocks it to the floor. You are practically jogging through the lanes of cubicles to get to the elevator, and nearly smack the security guard on the other side with how hard you swing open the front door.
It's pouring outside, which, of course it is. You take off your jacket and cover your cupcake box with it, because you're not going to let the universe ruin the one good thing you've got going for you this week, as you run towards the station.
The moment you step into the damp and sticky station any remaining sense of joy in you evaporates. There's a hoard of tourists swarming the subway paying no attention to their surroundings. Tourists wearing their caps and backpacks and wheelies knocking over a 'Caution Wet Floor ' sign as they gather in a throng in front of the subway map, blocking the way as you hear the train approach.
It's not that big of a deal. A train comes every two to five minutes, and if you miss this one, you'll just get on the next one. It's not the end of the world. Logically, you know that. Emotionally and spiritually however, the world around you has just taken a little bit too much from you for you to concede to this minor little loss.
You are going to make this goddamned train.
Taking a determined step forward, you shoulder and push your way through the throng of people to fight your way to the front of the track.
You push a little too hard. Your feet skid across the slippery tiles, leg buckling from your own weight and you lose control, tumbling forward.
In your peripheral view there's a blinding light approaching. There's wind beating the sides of your face, and you can hear the screeching metal of the train right next to you. Your foot drops into empty space and you are falling into the tracks.
Oh god why...
Why?
You just want to live.
The cupcake box flies out of your grip, splattered somewhere across the front pane of the train. There's a hard tug on your shirt as an invisible force you cannot see yanks you back, hard.
Your head whips back and for a fraction of a second, there are crimson eyes staring back down at you, you blink and then it's gone.
You land on your ass with a bruising force to your tailbone with a bone-breaking thud. The subway whizzes by with a demonic roar past you, inches from where you're sprawled on your ass on the dirty tiles of the subway station.
In front of your feet, there's a long streak of white frosting trailing down from your feet to the tracks of what looks like a crime scene.
Maybe it's the stress. Maybe you've just had a bad night of sleep (after many successive bad nights with little to no sleep). But something in you breaks at the sight of the frosting smeared across the dirty subway tiles.
Your eyes sting with exhaustion. Chest drawing in tight with a crumbling ache that makes you want to curl up on the cold tiles. You're just so tired.
There are people around you staring at you. No one in their right mind who lives in New York would sit on the floor of the subway.
But your legs are heavy and numb. You can’t move from the spot. Everything tastes like bile. You try to swallow and force it back down but it's no use, your throat has swollen shut. Your cheeks run wet and you press your palms to your eyes to make it stop but that only seems to make it worse. Snot runs down your nose and drips down your wrist. You're crying and you don't know how to stop.
Is this the rest of your life?
In the morning, you wake in your bed with a sore ache that gnaws at your bones. Swollen eyes and a soreness that scratches the lining of your throat.
Your back hurts, and as you try to turn to your side to get out of bed a sharp pain surges up along your entire spine.
Fuck.
It's too bright. The sunlight is offensive. It stings your eyes and makes you sick to your stomach. You only have vague memories of how you made it back home. Feet shuffling through the subway in a daze like the walking dead.
God is that what you are? A dead man woman walking?
You crane your head and catch a glimpse of your clock on the bedside table. 9.13 You're late for work. But that's mind as well, you don't have it in you to make it in.
What's the point anyhow? You hate that place.
Besides, if the subway on the way over doesn't finish off the job this time around, then eventually a taxi will. Failing that the universe is probably going to send over a ninja assassin rat from the subway to come after your life.
There's a soft breeze coming in from the open window that grazes the back of your neck and you turn your head towards it. All you can see from your window is the brick wall of the neighboring building. Even though your apartment is on the sixth floor, you can't see a speck of the New York skyline.
Still the breeze is nice, though you don't remember opening the window last night. You never usually do. It is silly and paranoid. No human robber could possibly climb up your six storey building just to climb into your window and rob you. If they could, they’d find that there isn’t much to rob in your apartment, the most valuable thing you own is a complete Le Creuset Cookware set.
Your eyes glaze over your work tote bag on the floor next to the window, drifting upwards and spot the pink box sat on the window sill and you stop.
You didn’t put that there.
You sit upright in your bed, setting your feet to the floor and force yourself to leave your bed as you pad over to the open window.
It's a fancy looking thing. Baby pink, and chiffon ribbon on its side. Wrapping your pinkie around it, you tug it loose. You perch your thumb against the corner of the lid when you stop.
It's not another one of the universe's assassination attempts is it? You're not going to open it to find a bomb ticking down are you?
You hesitate for another moment, taking a deep calming breath before you gather the courage to finally lift the lid. Inside, there is a gorgeous display of cupcakes adorned with white and pink frosting, topped with strawberries, chocolate shavings and on two of them there's mini macarons.
Way fancier than the day old Costco cupcakes you'd lost yesterday.
Picking up one, you take a bite. The frosting is light and zesty. The refreshing lemon melts on the tip of your tongue as the buttery cream floods your mouth with the rich flavor. It's the best thing you've ever tasted.
Lifting the box, you check the sides of it to see if there's any note left behind, but there's none.
Gladis Bakery. It's from a bakery you've never heard of before. When you google the name the place is outside of New Jersey, 58 minutes away and you would need to take a subway then switch to a tram.
There's no note attached, but you don't need one. The list of candidates who would be physically able to climb up six floors up the bricks of your apartment building to leave cupcakes on your window isn’t a long one.
Something warm blooms in your chest at the thought, and your fingers linger on the top of the box, savoring the taste of lemon and sugar still lingering on your tongue.
You put your head out the window, not sure what you're expecting to find but find yourself disappointed all the same when there's nothing there. No people in the quiet street below, and nothing unusual above.
"Thank you for uhm... saving me,” you say into the silence with nothing but the traffic noise below to answer you.
“And the cupcakes," you add.
There's no reply.
~ To be continued.
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